Fatal Discord

by Michael Massing

  Their first impression was not favorable. With his haggard look and shabby garb, Luther seemed lacking in dignity; gawking at the dignitaries, he had the air of a bumpkin. Charles was struck by his eyes: dark and impenetrable, they seemed aglow with fanaticism. “That fellow will never make a heretic of me,” he said (according to Aleander). Luther, in fact, felt disoriented. He had never before been in such exalted company, and his proximity to the emperor unnerved him. Despite all his brashness and defiance, he remained at heart a provincial.

  After Luther was warned by Pappenheim not to say anything without being asked, Eck, a tall man with a strong voice, informed him that his imperial majesty had summoned him for two reasons: first, to ascertain if all the books published under his name and piled before him were in fact his, and second, to see if he wished to retract anything in them. At that moment, Jerome Schurff, who acted as Luther’s lawyer during the trial, declared that the titles of the works should be read aloud. They were. There were twenty-two in all, including To the Christian Nobility, The Babylonian Captivity, The Freedom of a Christian, the Treatise on Good Works, Why the Books of the Pope and His Disciples Were Burned, and a copy of the Froben edition that had first carried Luther’s views around Europe.

  Luther—wondering how all the volumes had been gathered together—spoke in a voice so low and halting that it was hard for many in the hall to hear him. Yes, he said, he had written all of the books. As to whether he would retract them, Luther—rather than boom out an answer, as most had expected—continued in the same tentative way. Because the question involved matters of faith and salvation, and because it concerned the divine Word, which all are bound to revere, “it would be rash and at the same time dangerous for me to put forth anything without proper consideration.” For that reason, he hoped that the emperor would grant him more time to think about the question so that he could satisfactorily answer it “without violence to the divine Word and danger to my own soul.”

  A ripple of dismay passed through the assembly. More time? Hadn’t Luther had months to prepare for this moment? Luther’s whole manner caused surprise. He seemed anything but the outspoken prophet who had raged so defiantly at the Roman Antichrist. The supporters of the papacy who were present felt a sense of relief at the hesitant figure before them. In requesting a pause, they suspected, he was simply trying to forestall the solemn judgment that inevitably awaited him. But Luther’s desire for more time seems to have been genuine. The demand that he disown all his books had caught him flat-footed. As he later explained, “I thought His Imperial Majesty would have assembled one or fifty scholars and overcome this monk in a straightforward manner.” Instead, they had simply said, “Are these your books?” and “Do you want to renounce them or not?”

  After some consultation among the princes over Luther’s request, Eck again addressed him. Although he had had much time to consider these matters and so did not deserve more, his imperial majesty, in his “innate clemency,” had decided to grant him one more day to formulate his response. Luther was to report back with it at the same hour the next day, on the condition that he present his opinion orally and not in writing.

  Luther was escorted back to his quarters along the same route by which he had come. Again, the flow of visitors did not cease. Several noblemen assured him that he need not worry about his life, for the people were so fervently behind him that they would rise up if anything happened to him. During a few spare moments, he jotted down some notes for the next day’s session. At the urging of one visitor, Luther wrote a brief letter to the man’s brother, Johannes Cuspinian, a prominent humanist in Vienna, in which he reported that he had just appeared before the emperor and members of the diet and had been asked whether he would renounce his books. With Christ’s help, he stated, “I shall not in all eternity recant the least particle.”

  In Worms, however, rumors had spread that Luther was in fact going to recant, and when he appeared at the palace the next afternoon, the crowd on the street was even larger. Because of the intense interest, a larger hall was reserved for the session, and Luther had to wait in it amid the packed bodies for more than an hour while the delegates finished the day’s business in another room. By the time the assembly was seated, it was nearly dark outside and torches had been lit high on the walls to provide illumination. The space was so crammed with electors, princes, prelates, and envoys that hardly anyone but the emperor could sit, and Luther had to push his way to the front through the sweaty crowd.

  Once he got there, Eck told him that his time was up and the moment had come for him to answer: “Do you wish to defend all your acknowledged books, or to retract some?” Luther now showed no hesitation. Speaking in German, he asked to be pardoned if, through his inexperience, he had not addressed the assembled princes with their proper titles or had committed an offense against court etiquette, for he was a man “accustomed not to courts but to the cells of monks.” After reconfirming that the books in question were in fact his, Luther took up the matter of whether he stood by them. His books were not all of the same kind. In some he had discussed religious faith and morals “simply and evangelically,” so that “even my enemies are compelled to admit that these are useful, harmless, and clearly worthy to be read by Christians.” In disavowing them, he would be condemning truths on which both his friends and his enemies could agree.

  In a second group were books in which he had attacked the papacy and papists who by their doctrines and wicked examples had “laid waste the Christian world.” This was apparent in the innumerable complaints from the faithful, whose consciences had been “most miserably entangled, tortured, and torn to pieces” by the decrees and doctrines of the pope and his see. Much property, especially in Germany, had been devoured by this “unbelievable tyranny.” If he were to retract these writings, he would have done nothing but add strength to that tyranny. “Good God! What a cover for wickedness and tyranny I should have then become.”

  Finally, he had produced a third class of books against private individuals “who strive to preserve the Roman tyranny and to destroy the godliness taught by me.” Luther acknowledged that in these books he had been more violent than was perhaps appropriate for a man of his profession, but he was not a saint, and it was not his manner of living that was at issue but “the teaching of Christ.” If he were to retract these words, the godlessness that had so oppressed the people would rage even more fiercely.

  With the light in the hall fading and the room growing uncomfortably close, Luther went on. When Jesus was questioned about his teaching before Annas, the father-in-law of the high priest Caiaphas, he had asked to be told where he had spoken awry. If Christ himself, who knew he could not err, did not refuse to hear testimony against his teaching, “how much more ought I, who am the lowest scum and able to do nothing except err, desire and expect that somebody should want to offer testimony against my teaching!” He was therefore asking of those present, either high or low, to “expose my errors, overthrowing them by the writings of the prophets and the evangelists.” He added that once he had been thus instructed, “I shall be quite ready to renounce every error, and I shall be the first to cast my books into the fire.” The excitement and dissension raised by his teaching of God’s Word were for him “the most joyful aspect of all in these matters,” since Christ had come to bring not peace but a sword and to set sons against fathers.

  Luther noted his concern that the reign of the young and noble Charles would get off to an unhappy start—that he would suffer the same fate as the pharaoh in Egypt, the king of Babylon, and the kings of Israel, who, seeking to pacify and strengthen their kingdoms, destroyed themselves. “With these words I commend myself to your most serene majesty and to your lordships, humbly asking that I not be allowed through the agitation of my enemies, without cause, to be made hateful to you.”

  In all, Luther spoke for about fifteen minutes. With the heat from the torches and the tightly packed bodies, he was sweating heavily, but he was asked to repeat his rema
rks in Latin, and he somehow found the strength to do so. When he had finished, there was much confusion. His threefold classification of his works was perplexing. His comparison of Charles to the pharaoh was provocative. And his embrace of the sword over peace sounded like an incitement to violence.

  After some consultation among the emperor and the princes about how to proceed, Eck stepped forward. Contrasting the moderation shown by the emperor with Luther’s presumptuousness, he assailed the friar for his specious threefold division of his books. The plain truth was that the works Luther had written after the papal decree against him were far more offensive than his earlier ones, since in them he had held Jan Hus’s heresies—long since rejected—to be Catholic truths and had questioned the authority and prestige of councils. His assertion that some of his books contained teachings that were sound and acceptable to all was specious, for heretical books going back to the Arians had been burned despite containing much that was godly and Catholic. In fact, Eck said, “no doctrine is more effective in deceiving than that which mixes a few false teachings with many that are true.”

  Furthermore, in saying that he was prepared to accept instruction about the Holy Scriptures from anyone high or low, Luther was doing what heretics always do—insisting on their own readings. Many of the teachings he claimed as his own were in fact similar to the heresies of the Beghards and Waldensians, of Wyclif and Hus, and of many others also long since rejected by the synods. Was it proper to dredge up and drag into dispute matters that the Catholic Church had already settled—“matters which have turned upon the usages, rites, and observances, which our fathers held with absolute faith” and for which “they would rather have endured a thousand deaths than to have fallen away from in any way at all? Do you want us to stray from the path which our fathers faithfully trod?”

  Eck—forcefully summarizing the heart of the matter as viewed by the Church—urged Luther not to claim that he was the one and only man who had a genuine understanding of Holy Scriptures, superior to the judgment of so many holy doctors who had toiled night and day to reveal their true meaning. “Do not regard yourself as wiser than all others. Do not cast doubt upon the most holy, orthodox faith which Christ, the perfect lawgiver, instituted; which the apostles spread through the whole world; which the miracles made clear; which the martyrs confirmed with their red blood.” In light of all this, it was futile for Luther to expect a debate on the points he had raised. Rather, he should answer sincerely and candidly, and not in an ambiguous or “horned” (sophistical) manner, “whether or not you wish to recall and retract your books and the errors contained in them.”

  “Since then your serene majesty and your lordships seek a simple answer,” Luther replied in the deepening gloom, “I will give it in this manner, neither horned nor toothed.”

  Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures or by clear reason—for I do not trust either in the pope or in councils alone, since it is well known that they have often erred and contradicted themselves—I am bound by the Scriptures I have quoted, and my conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and I will not retract anything, since it is neither safe nor right to go against conscience. May God help me! Amen.

  According to some accounts, Luther ended with the phrase, “Here I stand—I cannot do otherwise,” but those words do not appear in any of the accounts recorded on the spot; rather, they seem to have been inserted in the earliest printed editions by supporters seeking to highlight the heroic nature of his stand.

  Exasperated, Eck again implored Luther to lay aside his conscience, which was in error, and to recant. He especially challenged Luther’s contention that councils can err. Luther shouted back that they did err and that he could prove it. By now, the torches had burned down to their sockets, throwing the hall into nearly total darkness, and the air in the overcrowded space had turned unbearably foul. After a long day of wrangling and standing, the assembled dignitaries were eager to break for the nighttime meal and the usual carousing. The emperor—agitated and angry and saying that he had had enough of such talk—rose to his feet, and the crowd surged toward the exits, marveling at the remarkable act of defiance they had just witnessed. Was Luther going to get away with it?

  As he passed out of the hall and onto the street, some Spanish courtiers jeered at him: Al fuego, al fuego—“To the fire, to the fire.” Luther’s supporters worried that he would be seized on the spot, but amid the churning multitude such a move would have surely caused a riot. Seeing that he was not going to be taken, Luther thrust forth his arms like a knight who in a tourney has landed a strategic blow and shouted, “I am through! I am through!” A great throng escorted him noisily through the streets to his quarters, where he drank much malmsey wine while receiving a stream of congratulants.

  Luther’s performance at the Diet of Worms has long been considered one of history’s transformative moments. Just as the birth of modern France is often traced back to May 5, 1789 (the day on which the Estates General convened), the dawn of modern Germany is often dated to Luther’s appearance in Worms. Many go further, seeing in Luther’s unflinching stand in the bishop’s palace the start of the modern era, rooted in an individual’s assertion of an inalienable right to his conscience against the unassailable strength of church and state. Standing before the mightiest powers in the land—before an emperor whose domain extended from Mexico to Vienna; before princes who had ordered his books burned; before cardinals who represented the consecrated authority of the Roman See—a lone friar, in a clear and steady voice, had resolutely stood by his convictions. (Luther’s performance, wrote Thomas Carlyle, was “the greatest moment in the Modern History of Men.” English Puritanism, England and all its Parliaments, the Americas, the French Revolution, Europe and its work: “the germ of it all lay there: had Luther in that moment done other, it had all been otherwise.”)

  This view is vividly captured in a picture of the occasion by the German painter Anton von Werner. It shows a black-robed Luther standing upright in the center of a spotless, brightly lit hall, facing the emperor, who is seated on a throne-like chair. The assembled notables in their richly embroidered robes lean intently forward as the friar, his right hand on his heart, fearlessly proclaims his position. But this painting (now hanging in the Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart) was not executed until 1877, and, because no visual records of the event survived, it was drawn entirely from Werner’s imagination. It seems a highly idealized version, purged of all late-medieval grime, gloom, and disorder. The dramatic after-the-fact addendum to Luther’s climactic statement at the diet represents a similar embellishment. “Here I stand—I cannot do otherwise” has become a central motif of the Luther story and a watchword of the Protestant tradition, yet Luther almost surely never uttered it. As one historian has noted, it is the most memorable thing Luther never said.

  Moreover, Luther was basing his appeal to his conscience not on the general right of individuals to express their opinions but rather on a sense of certainty about his own readings of Scripture. It was the Word of God he was defending, not any human opinion. Luther’s ideas about freedom of conscience were thus founded on a perception of divine endorsement. This differed fundamentally from a general principle of free expression of the sort that Erasmus and other humanists espoused, based on the idea that people could draw different meanings from the Bible and discuss them civilly. Feeling answerable only to God, Luther rejected the opinions of all who disagreed with him. He thus eschewed any modern conception of religious or intellectual tolerance.

  All that aside, Luther’s performance was by any measure extraordinary. Facing the imminent prospect of execution at the joint behest of the Holy Roman Empire and the Roman Catholic Church, he stood resolute behind the views that he had developed during his long, solitary struggle with the Psalms and Paul. From the moment he had posted the Ninety-Five Theses, the conflict between Luther and Rome had essentially been one of authority—of who has the right to interpret the Bible and define the tenets of th
e faith. In Rome’s view, only the Church, represented by popes and councils and drawing on centuries of carefully sifted commentary, had that authority. Luther, drawing on his idea that every Christian is a priest, insisted on his right as a faithful Christian to read the Bible and determine its meaning for himself.

  Luther, of course, was not the first Christian to so contend. Peter Abelard had inflamed the ecclesiastical authorities in Paris and Rome with the heterodox opinions he developed by applying the dialectical method. Peter Waldus, John Wyclif, Jan Hus, and Girolamo Savonarola had all claimed the right to interpret Scripture on their own. Slightly more than a century earlier, Hus had stood before Emperor Sigismund and the Council of Constance and refused to recant positions similar to those that Luther defended at Worms.

  In each of these cases, however, the Church had succeeded in suppressing the dissenter and the movement he had inspired. Hus’s immolation had sparked a bloody uprising that had raged for decades, but the pope and emperor had, through a series of crusades, prevented it from spreading. Now those same authorities were trying to silence Luther and his supporters. If Aleander had had his way, the heretic would have been seized and executed on the spot or bound and delivered to Rome. Many years later, Charles himself, when authorizing the burning of some heretics in Spain, observed, “I did wrong in not killing Luther at the time. I was under no obligation to keep my word,” for he had sinned against a greater power than himself—he had sinned against God. “I did not kill him, and as a result this mistake of mine assumed gigantic proportions. I could have prevented this.”

  In so maintaining, however, Charles was overlooking some fundamental realities. By the time Luther had appeared at Worms, he had a large popular movement behind him. His support came not only from Christians seeking a new form of transcendent piety but also from Germans longing for liberation from Roman tyranny. Luther’s religious rebellion was being carried forward by the surging sense of German nationalism. “The movement is now quite independent of Luther,” observed Aleander, who went on to quote Hutten: “If Luther were put to death a thousand times, a hundred new Luthers would rise up.” That nationalist sentiment, in turn, was being stirred and amplified by the printing press. In addition to enabling Luther to gain a large following for his views, printing also created the sense of an unstoppable tide of opinion in his favor. It was no coincidence that the diet was taking place in the Rhineland, not far from Mainz, the birthplace of printing, and Frankfurt, the site of Europe’s largest book fair. Without the tracts, sermons, pamphlets, and broadsides cascading from the presses, Luther might well have suffered the same fate as Hus.