Politics and Reformations:

Histories and Reformations

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Studies in Medieval and

Reformation Traditions

Edited by

Andrew Colin Gow

Edmonton, Alberta

In cooperation with

Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Berkeley, California

Sylvia Brown, Edmonton, Alberta

Berndt Hamm, Erlangen

Johannes Heil, Heidelberg

Susan C. Karant-Nunn, Tucson, Arizona

Martin Kaufhold, Augsburg

Jürgen Miethke, Heidelberg

M.E.H. Nicolette Mout, Leiden

Founded by

Heiko A. Oberman †

VOLUME 127

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Thomas A. Brady, Jr.

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Politics and Reformations:

Histories and Reformations

Essays in Honor of Thomas A. Brady, Jr.

Edited by

Christopher Ocker, Michael Printy

Peter Starenko, and Peter Wallace

LEIDEN • BOSTON

2007

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On the cover: The cover illustration is taken from the Chronique rimée des guerres de Bourgogne (Strasbourg, 1477) and is used with permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Brill has made all reasonable efforts to trace all rights holders to any copyrighted material used in this work. In cases where these efforts have not been successful the publisher welcomes communications from copyrights holders, so that the appropriate acknowledgements can be made in future editions, and to settle other permission matters.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

ISSN 1573-4188

ISBN 978 90 04 16172 6

Copyright 2007 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

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Fees are subject to change.

printed in the netherlands

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations ......................................................................

ix

Preface

.........................................................................................

xi

Bibliography of the Works of Thomas A. Brady, Jr. ................

xv

Tempests and Stürme in Reformation Studies: Some Scholarly

and Personal Observations .........................................................

1

Kaspar von Greyerz

The Reformation in Post-War Historiography: An American

Contribution ................................................................................ 11

Peter Blickle

PART ONE: HISTORIES

Ranke, Lamprecht, and Luther .................................................

23

Roger Chickering

The Reformation and the Early Social Sciences (Marx,

Weber, Durkheim, Freud): Toward a Cultural Epidemiology ...

35

H.C. Erik Midelfort

Ranke Meets Gadamer: The Question of Agency in the

Reformation ................................................................................ 63

Lee Palmer Wandel

Historians without Borders? L’histoire croisée and Early Modern Social History .............................................................................

79

Joel F. Harrington

Recent Studies of the Roman Inquisition .................................

91

Anne Jacobson Schutte

Hermann Conring and the European History of Law ............ 113

Constantin

Fasolt

The Reformation of the Enlightenment: German Histories in

the Eighteenth Century .............................................................. 135

Michael Printy

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vi

contents

Historical Writing and German Identity: Jacob Wimpheling

and Sebastian Franck ................................................................. 155

Julie K. Tanaka

Perfecting the Past: Charles the Bold and Traditional

Historiography in Early Modern Germany ............................... 177

Elaine C. Tennant

PART TWO: REFORMATIONS

The Personal is Political: Convents in the Holy Roman

Empire

......................................................................................... 199

Amy

Leonard

Guerre et paix dans les écrits de Zwingli et de Luther: une

comparaison ................................................................................ 217

Marc Lienhard

Luther and Müntzer See Mary’s MagniÀ cat through Different

Spectacles .................................................................................... 241

Christoph Burger

Beyond the Freedom of the Will: Erasmus’ Struggle for

Grace

........................................................................................... 255

Greta Grace Kroeker

Tolerance and Heresy: Martin Bucer’s Radical New

DeÀ nition of Christian Fellowship ............................................. 269

Berndt

Hamm

Landgrave Philipp’s Dilemma: The Roots of Tolerance and

the Desire for Protestant Unity .................................................. 293

Ellen Yutzy Glebe

Calvin in Germany ..................................................................... 313

Christopher

Ocker

Confessionalization in Early Modern Germany: A Jewish

Perspective

................................................................................... 345

Dean Phillip Bell

Catholic Intensity in Post-Reformation Germany: Preaching

on the Passion and Catholic Identity in the Sixteenth and

Seventeenth Centuries ................................................................ 373

Susan C. Karant-Nunn

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contents

vii

Pietism, Ministry, and Church Discipline: The Tribulations

of Christoph Matthäus Seidel .................................................... 397

Terence

McIntosh

Religious Wars at Home: The Problem of Confessionally

Mixed Families ............................................................................ 425

Craig

Harline

Trouble with Miracles: An Episode in the Culture and

Politics of Wonder in Colonial Mexico ..................................... 441

William B. Taylor

List of Contributors .................................................................... 459

Index of Names of Persons ....................................................... 461

Index of Places ........................................................................... 466

Index of Subjects ........................................................................ 468

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Frontispiece: Thomas A. Brady, Jr.

Elaine C. Tennant, “Perfecting the Past: Charles the Bold and

Traditional Historiography in Early Modern Germany”

Fig. 1. “How the Black King invaded the empire of the

King of Flints and the King of Flints died in battle.”

Woodcut by Hans Burgkmair ........................................ 190

Fig. 2. “How King Greatfame wanted to end his life in a

garden and beforehand named him whom he had

chosen as his daughter’s husband.” Woodcut by

Leonhard Beck ................................................................ 192

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PREFACE

Thomas A. Brady, Jr. joined the History Department of the University

of Oregon in 1967, while completing a dissertation for the University of Chicago on the Strasbourg magistrate Jacob Sturm (d. 1553). At

Oregon, he worked closely with his colleagues Roger Chickering,

Joseph Esherick, Robert Berdahl, and Alan Kimball to build the

History Department’s reputation for scholarship. Brady and Chickering

founded the monograph series, Studies in German Histories. In 1987, in recognition of his scholarly contributions and his commitment to

undergraduate and graduate learning, Brady was designated President’s

Distinguished Professor of the Humanities. He moved to the University of California at Berkeley in 1991. In 2001 he was awarded Berkeley’s

Peder Sather Chair, culminating a distinguished career that has also

included fellowships of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, the

Fulbright Senior Research Program, the National Endowment for the

Humanities, the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, the

Historisches Kolleg in Munich, the National Humanities Center, and

the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. A consummate scholar,

he is also known as a devoted teacher and mentor, a fact acknowledged

by the American Historical Association, which awarded him the Nancy

Lyman Roelker Mentorship Award in January 2004. That same year,

nearly one hundred students, colleagues, and friends came to Berkeley

for a symposium held in his honor. Many of the contributions to this

volume are fruit of that gathering.

To acknowledge Tom’s contribution to scholarship is to recognize

his marriage to Katherine Gingrich Brady, who has been his closest

collaborator in everything since 1964. In both the symposium and this

Festschrift, we could imagine no better way to record the Bradys’ mark on our lives than to show the effect of their continuing example and

inspiration upon us. “The craft of history,” Prof. James Tracy once

noted, “is one that grows from sharing, not just among individuals and across national and ideological boundaries, but also between generations.”1 The Bradys’ intellectual hospitality and generosity have been 1 James D. Tracy, personal correspondence in connection with the Roelker Prize, 30 January 2003.

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boundless to students, colleagues, and peers near and far, to which

the number and diversity of contributions to this collection bear witness. Few scholars of early modern Germany in North America are

untouched by the Bradys, and the same may be said of many, young

and mature alike, in Europe.

Brady’s writings cover a broad range of German history and histo-

riography, as the following bibliography shows. Although to many he is closely associated with detailed archival research and the social history that has dominated the study of Early Modern Europe in his generation, it is hard to miss his preoccupation with the grand transformations of society and culture between the medieval and modern periods. It may

be the impress of his Chicago teachers, Leonard Krieger, Hans Baron,

Eric Cochrane, and Hanna Holborn Gray—intellectual historians, one

and all, of the Renaissance and its legacies—or the medievalists John Mundy, with whom he studied at Columbia University before moving to Chicago, and Lester K. Little at Chicago. Brady’s interests and teaching have ranged wider still, to include global history, Irish history, the history of religion, and many other things. We would be remiss

not to mention the fact that few of his students, friends, or colleagues are likely to have known a greater amateur enthusiast of American,

English, Irish, and German dialectology and Namenkunde. Character-

izing Tom Brady’s work is a daunting task indeed. The À rst two essays in this volume, by his distinguished friends Kaspar von Greyerz and

Peter Blickle, offer personal interpretations and assessments of Brady’s place in the guild of early modernists. We would like to emphasize

how Brady’s trajectory progressed through three monographs, from the

microcosm of Strasbourg’s ruling families during the crises of the 1520’s to 1550’s, through the frustrated political ambitions of south German cities in the early sixteenth century, to the politics of the Holy Roman Empire in the late medieval and early modern periods writ large.2

These monographs are, to date, punctuated by À fty-À ve articles and

book chapters, review essays, and volume introductions, many of which have crystalized and interpreted for English readers the spectacular

blossoming of German social and political histories over the last forty 2 Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520 –1555 (Leiden: Brill, 1978); Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire, 1450–1550 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489 –1553) and the German Reformation (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1995); The Politics of the Reformation in Germany (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1997).

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xiii

years; 3 others of which have reassessed bell-wether historians, from von Ranke to Hans Baron and Otto Brunner;4 and many of which have

shed new light on Strasbourg’s early modern past. His translations of

seminal works by German peers and his own contributions in German

and French have made him a trans-Atlantic liaison in the republic of

letters. Several particular honors testify to the uncommon respect he

has won on both sides of the Atlantic: the German Studies Association Book Prize (in 1987, for Turning Swiss), the Prix d’honneur des Amis de 3 See especially “Phases and Strategies of the Schmalkaldic League: A Perspective after 450 years,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 74 (1983): 162–81; “From the Sacral Community to the Common Man: ReÁ ections on German Reformation Studies,”

Central European History 20 (1987): 229–245; “The Common Man and the Lost Austria in the West: A Contribution to the German Question,” Politics and Society in Reformation Europe: Essays for Sir Geoffrey Elton on his 65th Birthday, ed. E.I. Kouri and Tom Scott, (London: Macmillan, 1987), pp. 142–57; “In Search of the Godly City: The Domestication of Religion in the German Urban Reformation,” The German People and the Reformation, ed. R. Po-Chia Hsia, (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988), pp. 14–32;

“Rites of Autonomy, Rites of Dependence: South German Civic Culture in the Age of Renaissance and Reformation,” Religion and Culture in the Renaissance and Reformation, ed.

Steven Ozment, Sixteenth Century Studies & Essays, vol. 11 (Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1989), pp. 9–24; “Some Peculiarities of German Histories in the Early Modern Era,” Germania Illustrata: Essays on Early Modern Germany Presented to Gerald Strauss, eds. Susan Karant-Nunn and Andrew Fix, Sixteenth Century Studies and Essays, vol. 18 (Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1991), pp. 197–216; “The Holy Roman Empire’s Bishops on the Eve of the Reformation,”

Continuity and Change: The Harvest of Late Medieval and Reformation History. Essays Presented to Heiko A. Oberman on his 70th Birthday, ed. Robert J. Bast and Andrew C. Gow (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. , 20–47; “Zur Einführung: The German Reformation between Late Middle Ages and Early Modernity,” Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Neuzeit, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien, vol.

50 (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 2001), pp. v–xx.

4 For example, “Whose Land? Whose Lordship? The New Translation of Otto Brunner” Central European History 29 (1996): 227–34; “Ranke, Rom und die Reformation: Leopold von Rankes Entdeckung des Katholizismus” Jahrbuch des Historischen Kollegs, 1999: 43–60; “Robert W. Scribner, A Historian of the German Reformation,”

R.W. Scribner, Religion and Culture in Germany (1400–1800), ed. Lyndal Roper, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 81, (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 9–28, and translated in: Robert W. Scribner, Religion und Kultur in Deutschland 1400–1800, ed.

Lyndal Roper, trans. Wolfgang Kaiser, Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, vol. 175 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), pp. 21–40;

“German Imperial Cities, Reformation, and Republicanism—the Legacy of Hans Baron,” Historische Anstöße. Festschrift für Wolfgang Reinhard zum 65. Geburtstag am 10. April 2002, ed. Peter Burschel, et al. (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2002), pp. 40 –54; “Reformation als Rechtsbruch—Territorialisierung der Kirchen im Heiligen Römischen Reich im europäischen Vergleich,” Die Säkularisation im Prozess der Säkularisierung Europas, ed.

Peter Blickle and Rudolf Schlögl, Oberschwaben—Geschichte und Kulture, vol. 13

(Tübingen: bibliotheca academica Verlag, 2005), pp. 141–154.

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Vieux-Strasbourg (in 1998 for Protestant Politics), and the Ph.D. honoris causa granted by the University of Bern (in 1993).

The two volumes of this Festschrift are grouped into overlapping

themes or problem-sets that have occupied Brady since his disserta-

tion: the political quality of social life, social and cultural conÁ ict and change, the speciÀ c communal histories of early modern Germany and

Switzerland, the symbolic and actual politics of nation and empire,

especially the Holy Roman Empire, and historiography in the six-

teenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries. Accordingly, this volume

begins with historiography (Histories) and proceeds to contributions

treating Reformation and religion (Reformations). Politics and Reformations: Communities, Polities, Nations, and Empires (SMRT 128), begins with contributions that fall under a broad umbrella of communal histories

(Communities), then progresses to politics in various manifestations

(Polities), and ends with the Holy Roman Empire and empires of other

kinds (Nations and Empires). If a golden thread runs through these

essays, it would be Thomas A. Brady, Jr. himself, who in his À rst book offered a fresh perspective on early modern social class and the urban politics of reform and who has since taught us the many fascinations

of studying a nation when it had no prevailing state.

The editors wish to acknowledge the hospitality and support of the

Institute for European Studies at the University of California at Berkeley and the support of Chancellor Robert M. Berdahl, the Department of

History, Dr. Ed Robisheaux, and the Graduate Theological Union at

Berkeley. For permission to use images of works in their collections, we thank the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, the Bibliothèque nationale de France, the Bancroft Library of the University of California, the Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, the Kantonsbibliothek Thurgau, the

Ostfriesisches Landschaftsbibliothek, and the Staatsarchiv Nürnberg.

Finally, we extend our gratitude to Prof. Andrew Gow for accepting

these volumes in a series founded by his predecessor and Tom’s close

friend and colleague, the late Heiko Augustinus Oberman.

Christopher Ocker, Michael Printy, Peter Starenko, and Peter Wallace OCKER V1_f1_v-xxi.indd xiv

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BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE WORKS OF THOMAS A. BRADY

TO 1 JANUARY 2007

books

The Protestant Reformation in German History. Washington, D.C.: German Historical Institute, 1998. 47 pp.

Community, Politics, and Reformation in Early Modern Europe. Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 68. Leiden: Brill, 1998. xix + 494 pp.

The Politics of the Reformation in Germany. Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1997. xix + 280 pp.

Zwischen Gott und Mammon. Protestantische Politik und die deutsche Reformation. Translated by Matthias Vogel. Berlin: Siedler Verlag, 1996. 333 pp.

Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489–1553) and the German Reformation. Studies in German Histories. Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1995.

xix + 447 pp.

Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire, 1450–1550. Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

xiii + 299 pp.

Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520–1555. Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 22. Leiden: Brill, 1978. xxi + 458 pp.

editions

Co-edited with James D. Tracy, Susan Karant-Nunn, and Katherine G. Brady.

The Work of Heiko A. Oberman. Leiden: Brill, 2002.

Edited. Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Neuzeit. Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien, vol. 50. Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 2001.

Co-edited with Heiko A. Oberman and James D. Tracy. Handbook of European History, 1400–1600. Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, Reformation. 2 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1994–95. Paperback edition, Grand Rapids: W. Eerdmans, 1996.

Edited with Heiko A. Oberman. Itinerarium Italicum: The ProÀ le of the Italian Renaissance in the Mirror of its European Transformations. Dedicated to Paul Oskar Kristeller on the Occasion of His 70th Birthday. Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 14. Leiden: Brill, 1975. xxviii + 471 pp.

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bibliography of the works of thomas a. brady

translations

Translated. Laurenz Müller, “Revolutionary Moment: Interpreting the Peasants’ War in the Third Reich and in the German Democratic Republic.”

In: Central European History 40 (2007): 1–26.

Translated. Ralf-Peter Fuchs, “The Supreme Court of the Holy Roman

Empire: the State of Research and the Outlook.” In: Sixteenth Century Journal 34 (2003): 3–22.

Translated. Luise Schorn-Schütte, “The Christian Clergy in the Early Modern Holy Roman Empire: A Comparative Social Study.” In: Sixteenth Century Journal 29 (1998): 717–713.

Translated. Peter Blickle. Obedient Germans? A Rebuttal. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1997.

Translated for Handbook of European History, 1400 –1600. Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, Reformation, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman, and James D. Tracy, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1995):

— Berndt Hamm, “Reformed Reformation: Urban Phase,” 193–227;

— Winfried Eberhard, “Settlements: Eastern Europe,” 551–84;

— Hans-Christoph Rublack, “New Patterns of Christian Life,” 585–06;

— Heinz Schilling, “Confessional Europe,” 641–81.

Translated. Volker Press, “The Habsburg Lands: the Holy Roman Empire.”

In: Handbook of European History, 1400 –1600. Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, Reformation, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman, and James D.

Tracy, vol. 1: 437–466. Leiden: Brill, 1994.

Translated. Heinz Schilling, “Between the Territorial State and Urban Liberty: Lutheranism and Calvinism in the County of Lippe.” In: The German People and the Reformation, ed. R. Po-Chia Hsia, 263–284. Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1988.

Translated. Wolfgang Weber, “The Long Reign and the Final Fall of the German Conception of History: A Historical-Sociological View.” In: Central European History 21 (1988): 378–395.

Translated . Karlheinz Blaschke, “The Reformation and the Rise of the Territorial State.” In: Luther and the Modern State in Germany, ed. James D. Tracy, 61–76. Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies, vol. 7. Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1986.

Translated. Peter Blickle, “Communalism, Parliamentarism, Republicanism.”

Parliaments, Estates and Representation 6 (1986): 1–13.

Translated (with Heinz Schilling). Heinz Schilling, “The Reformation and the Rise of the Early Modern State.” In: Luther and the Modern State in Germany, ed. James D. Tracy, 21–30. Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies, vol. 7.

Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1986.

Translated with H. C. Erik Midelfort. The Revolution of 1525: The German Peasants’ War from a New Perspective. By Peter Blickle. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981. xxvii + 293. Paperback edition, 1985.

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articles & chapters

“Fortress Under Siege: A New German History.” In: Central European History 39 (2006): 107–22.

“Limits of Religious Violence in Early Modern Europe.” In: Religion und Gewalt.

KonÁ ikte, Rituale, Deutungen (1500–1800), ed. Kaspar von Greyerz and Kim Siebenhüner, 125–51. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006.

“Introduction.” In: Tom Scott, Town, Country, and Regions in Reformation Germany, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Traditions, vol. 106, xvii–xxv. Leiden: Brill, 2005.

“Reformation als Rechtsbruch—Territorialisierung der Kirchen im Heiligen Römischen Reich im europäischen Vergleich.” In: Die Säkularisation im Prozess der Säkularisierung Europas, ed. Peter Blickle and Rudolf Schlögl, 141–154.

Oberschwaben—Geschichte und Kulture, vol. 13. Tübingen: bibliotheca

academica Verlag, 2005.

“Faith and Politics in the Urban Reformation. Claus Kniebis (1479–1552) of Strasbourg and die gute alte frundschafft with the Swiss.” In: Frömmigkeit—Theologie—Frömmigkeitstheologie. Contributions to European Church History. Festschrift für Berndt Hamm zum 60. Geburtsta g, ed. Gudrun Litz, Heidrun Munzert, and Roland Liebenberg, 411–422. Studies in the History of Christian Traditions, vol. 124. Leiden: Brill, 2005.

“Confessionalization — The Career of a Concept.” In: Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700. Essays in Honor and Memory of Bodo Nischan, ed. John M.

Headley, Hans J. Hillerbrand, and Anthony J. Papalas, 1–20. Aldershot, Hampshire: Ashgate, 2004.

“Luther und die Beseitigung der Reichskirche—Ein versäumter Weg?” In

Luther zwischen den Kulturen, ed. Hans Medick and Peer Schmidt, 89–101.

Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2004.

“One Soul, Two Bodies: Lordship and Faith in the Prince-Bishopric of

Würzburg ca. 1500.” In: Tilman Riemenschneider, c. 1460–1531, ed. Julien Chapuis, 11–27. Studies in the History of Art, vol. 65. Washington, DC: The National Gallery of Art, 2004.

“German Imperial Cities, Reformation, and Republicanism—the Legacy

of Hans Baron.” In: Historische Anstöße. Festschrift für Wolfgang Reinhard zum 65. Geburtstag am 10. April 2002, ed. Peter Burschel, et al., 40–54. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2002.

“Robert W. Scribner, a Historian of the German Reformation.” In: R.W.

Scribner, Religion and Culture in Germany (1400–1800), ed. Lyndal Roper, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 81, 9–28. Leiden: Brill, 2001.

Translated in: Robert W. Scribner, Religion und Kultur in Deutschland 1400–1800, ed. Lyndal Roper, trans. Wolfgang Kaiser, 21–40. Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, vol. 175. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002.

“Zur Einführung: The German Reformation between Late Middle Ages and

Early Modernity.” In: Thomas A. Brady, Jr., ed., Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Neuzeit, v–xx. Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien, vol. 50. Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 2001.

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bibliography of the works of thomas a. brady

“The Holy Roman Empire’s Bishops on the Eve of the Reformation.” In:

Continuity and Change: The Harvest of Late Medieval and Reformation History.

Essays Presented to Heiko A. Oberman on his 70th Birthday, ed. Robert J. Bast and Andrew C. Gow, 20–47. Leiden: Brill, 2000.

“Ranke, Rom und die Reformation: Leopold von Rankes Entdeckung des

Katholizismus.” In: Jahrbuch des Historischen Kollegs, 1999: 43–60.

“New Studies on the Protestant Reformation: A Review Essay.” In: Journal of Modern History 71 (1999): 431–44.

“ ‘There are Two Sturms at Strasbourg’. The History of a Very Long Confusion.” In: Gemeinde, Reformation und Widerstand. Festschrift für Peter Blickle zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Heinrich R. Schmidt, André Holenstein and Andreas Würgler, 233–42. Tübingen: bibliotheca academica, 1998.

“The Urban Belt and the Emerging Modern State.” In: Resistance, Representation and Community, ed. Peter Blickle, 225–28, 236–50, 320–23. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. French: Paris, 1998.

“Early Modern Germany in The Encyclopedia of German History: A Review Essay, Parts 1–3.” In: Central European History 30 (1997): 567–88; 31 (1998): 91–116, 229–56.

“German Civic Humanism? Critique of Monarchy and Refashioning of History in the Shadow of the German Peasants’ War (1525).” In: Querdenken.

Dissens und Toleranz im Wandel der Geschichte. Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Hans R. Guggisberg, ed. Michael Erbe, et. al., 41–56. Mannheim: Palatium Verlag, 1996.

“Whose Land? Whose Lordship? The New Translation of Otto Brunner.” In: Central European History 29 (1996): 227–34.

“Economic and Social Institutions l.” In: Germany: A New Social and Economic History, vol. 1:1450–1630, ed. Bob Scribner, 259–90. London: Edward Arnold, 1996.

“Settlements: The Holy Roman Empire.” In: Handbook of European History, 1400–1600. Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, Reformation, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman, and James D. Tracy, vol. 2, 349–83. Leiden: Brill, 1995.

“Germans with a Difference”? The Holy Roman Empire’s Jews during the

Early Modern Era. In: In and Out of the Ghetto: Jewish-Gentile Relations in Late Medieval and Early Modern Germany, ed. Hartmut Lehmann and R. Po-chia Hsia, 289–92. Publications of the German Historical Institute Washington D.C. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.

“Jacob Sturm and the Seizure of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel by the Schmalkaldic League, 1542–1545.” In: Politics, Religion and Diplomacy in Early Modern Europe. Essays in Honor of De Lamar Jensen, ed. Malcolm R. Thorp and Arthur J. Slavin, 33–51. Sixteenth Century Studies & Essays, vol. 27. Kirksville: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1994.

“ ‘The Earth is the Lord’s and Our Homeland as Well’: Martin Bucer and the Politics of Strasbourg.” In: Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg (28–31 août 1991), ed. Christian Krieger and Marc Lienhard, vol. 1:129–44. Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought,

vol. 52. Leiden: Brill, 1993.

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“You Hate us Priests”: Anticlericalism, Communalism, and the Control of Women at Strasbourg in the Age of the Reformation. In: Anticlericalism in the Late Middle Ages and Reformation, ed. Peter Dykema and Heiko A. Oberman, 167–207. Leiden: Brill, 1993.

(Edited with Katherine G. Brady) “Documents on Anticlericalism and the Control of Women at Strasbourg in the Age of the Reformation.” In:

Anticlericalism in the Late Middle Ages and Reformation, ed. Peter Dykema and Heiko A. Oberman, 209–28. Leiden: Brill, 1993.

“ ‘The Reformation in Germany and Europe’: ReÁ ections.” In: The Reformation in Germany and Europe: Interpretations and Issues. Proceedings of the Joint Conference of the Society for Reformation Research and the Verein für Reformationsgeschichte at the German Historical Institute in Washington, D.C., September 25–30, 1990, ed. Hans R. Guggisberg, Gottfried G. Krodel, and Hans Füglister, 683–91. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1993.

“Continuity in Gerhard Ritter, 1923–1950.” In: Paths of Continuity: Central European Historiography from the 1930s through the 1950s, ed. Hartmut Lehmann and James Van Horn Melton, 109–117. Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1993.

“A Crisis Averted: Jacob Sturm and the Truce of Frankfurt, 1539.” In: Krisen-bewußtsein und Krisenbewältigung in der Frühen Neuzeit. Festschrift für Hans-Christoph Rublack, ed. Monika Hagenmaier and Sabine Holtz, 47–60. Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 1992.

“The Rise of Merchant Empires, 1400–1700: A European Counterpoint.” In: The Political Economy of Merchant Empires, 1450–1750, ed. James D. Tracy, 117–60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991.

“Some Peculiarities of German Histories in the Early Modern Era.” In: Germania Illustrata: Essays on Early Modern Germany Presented to Gerald Strauss, eds. Susan Karant-Nunn and Andrew Fix, 197–216. Sixteenth Century

Studies and Essays, vol. 18. Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1991.

“Peoples’ Religions in Reformation Europe (Review Article).” In: The Historical Journal 34 (1991): 173–182.

“Imperial Destinies: A New Biography of the Emperor Maximilian I.” In: Journal of Modern History 63 (1990): 298–314.

“Rites of Autonomy, Rites of Dependence: South German Civic Culture

in the Age of Renaissance and Reformation.” In: Religion and Culture in the Renaissance and Reformation, ed. Steven Ozment, 9–24. Sixteenth Century Studies and Essays, vol. 11. Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1989.

“Architect of Persecution: Jacob Sturm and the Destruction of the Strasbourg Sects.” In: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 79 (1988): 262–81.

“In Search of the Godly City: The Domestication of Religion in the German Urban Reformation.” In: The German People and the Reformation, ed. R. Po-Chia Hsia, 14–32. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988.

“Der Gemeine Mann und seine Feinde: Betrachtungen zur oberdeutschen

Geschichte im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert.” In: Stände und Gesellschaft im Alten Reich. Beiträge des zweiten deutsch-amerikanischen Kolloquiums zur frühneuzeitlichen OCKER V1_f1_v-xxi.indd xix

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Reichsgeschichte, ed. Georg Schmidt, 223–230. Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz, Beiheft 29. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1988.

“The Reformation’s Fate in America: A ReÁ ection.” In: The Process of Change in Early Modern Europe: Essays in Honor of Miriam Usher Chrisman, ed. Phillip N. Bebb and Sherrin Marshall, 17–31. Athens, OH: Ohio University

Press, 1988.

“The Common Man and the Lost Austria in the West: A Contribution to the German Question.” In: Politics and Society in Reformation Europe: Essays for Sir Geoffrey Elton on his 65th Birthday, ed. E.I. Kouri and Tom Scott, 142–57.

London: Macmillan, 1987.

“From the Sacral Community to the Common Man: ReÁ ections on German

Reformation Studies.” In: Central European History 20 (1987): 229–245.

“Göttliche Republiken: die Domestizierung der Religion in der deutschen Stadtreformation.” In: Zwingli und Europa. Referate und Protokoll des Internationalen Kongresses aus Anlaß des 500. Geburtstages von Huldrych Zwingli vom 26. bis 30.

März 1984, ed. Peter Blickle, Andreas Lindt, and Alfred Schindler, 109–36.

Zurich: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985.

“Two Kingdoms or Three Estates? Tradition and Experience in Luther’s Social Teaching.” In: Lutherjahrbuch 52 (1985) = Martin Luther 1483–1983. Werk und Wirkung/Work and Impact. Referate und Berichte des Sechsten Internationalen Kongresses für Lutherforschung, Erfurt, DDR, 14.–20. August 1983, ed. Helmar Junghans, 197–212. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985.

“Luther’s Social Teaching and the Social Order of His Age.” In: Proceedings of the Martin Luther Quincentennial Conference of the University of Michigan, September 27–29, 1983, ed. Gerhard Dünnhaupt, 270–290. Michigan Germanic Studies vol. 10/1–2. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1984.

“Phases and Strategies of the Schmalkaldic League: A Perspective after 450

years.” In: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 74 (1983): 162–81.

“La famille Sturm aux 15e et 16e siècles.” In: Revue d’Alsace 108 (1982): 29–44.

“Johannes Brenz und Kaiser Karl V. Eine neue Quelle zur kaiserlichen Beset-zung von Schwäbisch Hall im Schmalkaldischen Krieg (Dezember 1546).”

In: Württembergisch Franken 66 (1982): 229–231.

“Social History.” In: Reformation Europe: A Guide to Research, ed. Steven E.

Ozment, 161–81. St. Louis: Center for Reformation Research, 1982.

“Princes’ Reformation vs. Urban Liberty. Strasbourg and the Restoration of Duke Ulrich in Württemberg, 1534.” In: Städtische Gesellschaft und Reformation, ed. Ingrid Bátori, 265–91. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta Verlag, 1980.

“ ‘Sind also zu beiden theilen Christen, des Gott erbarm.’ Le mémoire de Jacques Sturm sur le culte publique à Strasbourg (août 1525).” In: Horizons européens de la Réforme en Alsace. Mélanges offerts à Jean Rott pour son 65e anniversaire, ed. Marijn de Kroon and Marc Lienhard, 69–79. Strasbourg: Librairie Oberlin, 1980.

“Aristocratie et régime politique à Strasbourg à l’époque de la Réforme.” In: Strasbourg au coeur religieux du XVIe siècle, ed. Georges Livet, Marc Lienhard, and Jean Rott, 19–36. Publications de la Société Savante d’Alsace et des Régions de l’Est, vol. 12. Strasbourg: Istra, 1978.

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“Patricians, Nobles, Merchants: Internal Tensions and Solidarities in South German Urban Ruling Classes at the Close of the Middle Ages.” In: Social Groups and Religious Ideas in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Miriam U. Chrisman and Otto Gründler, 38–45, 160–164. Studies in Medieval Culture, vol. 13.

Kalamazoo, Mich.: Medieval Institute, 1978.

“The Social Place of a German Renaissance Artist: Hans Baldung Grien

(1484/5–1545) at Strasbourg.” In: Central European History 8 (1975): 295–315.

German: “Der Gmünder Künstler Hans Baldung Grien (1484/5–1545) in Strassburg, seine gesellschaftliche Stellung und seine Haltung zur Reformation.” In: Gmünder Studien 1 (1976): 103–129.

“The Privy Councils of Strasbourg (XV and XIII): A Supplement to Jacques Hatt, Liste des membres du grand sénat de Strasbourg.” In: Bulletin du cercle généalogique d’Alsace 27 (1974): 73–80.

“Jacob Sturm of Strasbourg and the Lutherans at the Diet of Augsburg, 1530.”

In: Church History 32 (1973): 183–202.

“The Themes of Social Structure, Social ConÁ ict, and Civic Harmony in Jakob Wimpheling’s Germania.” In: Sixteenth Century Journal 3 (1972): 65–76.

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TEMPESTS AND STÜRME IN REFORMATION STUDIES:

SOME SCHOLARLY AND PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

Kaspar von Greyerz

It is customary for speakers to explain their title at the beginning of their address, unless this be self-explanatory.1 I will not do so. At the very end of a thought-provoking conference and in the wake of an

absorbing dinner, I have to employ all sorts of rhetorical tricks to catch your undivided attention and am in no position to divulge what I am

going to speak about right at the start. However, I make no secret of

the fact that I feel greatly honoured to have been invited to present

this keynote address and, what is more, exceptionally pleased at the

same time to be able to speak about Tom and Kathy Brady. All I am

willing to reveal beyond this is, that what follows is divided into three parts, and that I hope, by the last part, which is the most important

of the three, I will have caught your undivided attention. My aim, of course, is to get you all to exclaim unanimously at that point: “Your

tale, sir, would cure deafness.”2

The quotation is from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and it takes us straight to the À rst part of my observations, which is entitled:

Sea Changes

There is no need to tell a Berkeley audience that Shakespeare’s plays

abound with rich, occasionally fascinating and sometimes perplexing

references to patterns of thought, feeling and behaviour, as well as to self-fashioning, particular to the early modern world. In the play called The Tempest, this even encompasses the notion of ‘conscience’, when 1 With the exception of some minor omissions, the text which follows is the keynote address I delivered on 5 September 2004 at the end of the symposium DeÀ ning and RedeÀ ning Early Modern History: Old Paradigms and New Directions in honor of Thomas A.

Brady, Jr. I have consciously made only few editorial changes in order to stay close to the spirit in which the address was given.

2 William Shakespeare, The Tempest, I, ii.

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Sebastian, who is by no means a paragon of virtue, appeals to the

conscience of Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan. Antonio replies:

“Ay, sir, where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper, but I feel not this deity in my bosom.”3 Evidently, Antonio, as most

usurpers, is an unprincipled scoundrel.

The appeal to the conscience of the individual person, as traditional Reformation scholarship has informed us, stood at the very beginning

of the Reformation, epitomised by Martin Luther’s Turmerlebnis, his discovery in Paul’s Letter to the Romans that individual justiÀ cation rests on faith and freely given divine grace, a discovery, which the late Heiko Oberman, ever looking for memorable labels, in conversation would call Luther’s latrine theology, and which is epitomized even more dramatically by Luther’s appearance at the Diet of Worms in 1521.

In a Weberian reading of European history this re-discovery of

the notion of the individual religious conscience, reminiscent of the Pauline letters and St. Augustine’s Confessions, signiÀ ed the beginning of a new era in the history of consciousness and, eventually, especially in the shape of Calvinism and Puritanism, helped to bring about the

enterprising spirit of modernity. In Tom Brady’s thought such notions have always merited scepticism, and he said so long before questioning the validity of such master-narratives of Western history became the order or the day. Although I have not been able to relocate the exact

wording, I think that it was in 1982, in his contribution to a guide to research on Reformation Europe, that Tom qualiÀ ed the thoughtless

application of modernization theory to early modern history as a fruitless cul-de-sac, if ever there was one in historiography.4 And he has remained faithful to this conviction as those of us, who were able to attend Peter Blickle’s major conference on “secularisation” held at Bad Schussenried in May 2003, could witness.5 If, in dealing with “some

shapes of things to come” in Reformation history in his 1982 article, Tom Brady was conscious of the limitations of historical anthropology “particularly in dealing with politics and the state,” he was also concerned that sixteenth-century history should not get hijacked by

3 William Shakespeare, The Tempest, II, i.

4 Neither Tom nor I can locate this.

5 This refers in particular to the conference discussion. But see also Thomas A.

Brady, Jr., “Reformation als Rechtsbruch—Territorialisierung der Kirchen im Heiligen Römischen Reich im europäischen Vergleich,” in: Die Säkularisation im Prozess der Säkularisierung Europas, ed. Peter Blickle and Rudolf Schlögl, Oberschwaben —Geschichte und Kultur, vol. 13 (Epfendorf: bibliotheca academica Verlag, 2005), pp. 141–153.

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scholars interested only in convenient bits and pieces of that history to support their grand narrative schemes, be they Weberian, Marxist,

or narrowly confessionalist.

Another theme, which Tom approached in his contribution of 1982,

was the history of the urban Reformation in Germany as recently

dealt with by Steven Ozment in his Reformation in the Cities (1975). The matter takes us back to the notion of conscience and to Luther’s early theology of justiÀ cation. Tom À nely summarized the point Ozment was trying to make: “He argues for a uniÀ ed view of the early Reformation as a movement of psychological-spiritual liberation of the individual, a kind of replication of Luther’s own experience.”6 Caution was the

order of the day. However, as Bradiologists we have learnt how to

read between the lines. Two years earlier, Tom had in fact published

a review of Reinhard Bendix’s Kings or People (1978) in which he did not mince his words: “Modernists seem to need to be reminded again

and again of what Eugen Genovese has written,” and then he went

on to cite the following passage from Genovese’s Roll Jordan, Roll: “In this secular, not to say cynical, age few tasks present greater difÀ culty than that of compelling the well educated to take religious matters

seriously. Yet, for all except the most recent phase of the history of a minority of the world’s peoples, religion has been embedded in the

core of human life, material as well as spiritual.”7 It would have been naive then, and it would be naive now, to read this simply as a caveat addressed to modernists, that is, to historians of the modern world;

for it implied a crucially important message for early modernists as

well in that Tom agreed with Genovese about what we would today

call the need to contextualise religion. Inevitably, this message was

also addressed directly to the guardians of the grail of Reformation scholarship. These guardians, amongst several others, of course, were Bernd Moeller in Göttingen and Lewis W. Spitz at Stanford, at least

as far as the history of the Reformation in Germany and Switzerland

is concerned, which is the main focus here.

This brings us to the tempests of Reformation history of the late

1970s and 1980s. These occasionally stormy debates bore directly on

6 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., “Social History”, in: Reformation Europe: A Guide to Research, ed. Steven E. Ozment (St. Louis: Center for Reformation Research, 1982), p. 168.

7 The Sixteenth Century Journal XI (no. 4, 1980), p. 118. The Genovese quotation is repeated in Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire, 1450–1550 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 6.

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how the Reformation scholar should account for religion as a crucial

factor in early modern history.

I recently dug up a list of the participants of the conference organised by the Verein für Reformationsgeschichte on “City and church in

the 16th century” (Stadt und Kirche im 16. Jahrhundert), which took

place at Reinhausen near Göttingen at the end of March 1977.8 This

list, as well as the program of the conference, is truly fascinating to anyone interested in the history of the profession. I am relieved that I remembered many of the names; but I did not recall that I actually

offered my own short paper. I do remember vividly, however, that I

was very nervous all the time, as this was the À rst international conference I ever attended. I was still a doctoral student. Of the much more established people Bernd Moeller, Gerhard Müller, Heiko Oberman

and even Erwin Iserloh, not to forget Erich Hassinger, were there.

Among the then younger generation Peter Blickle, already a professor

in Saarbrücken, was there, as well as Privatdozent Gottfried Seebass,

Dr. Heinz Schilling and Dr. Hans-Christoph Rublack, all three still

waiting for their professorships to materialize. From Strasbourg Marc

Lienhard and Jean Rott had come to Reinhausen. There was also Bob

Scribner, still at Portsmouth Polytechnic at the time. And then there

came the American contingent with Eric Midelfort, David Sabean

and Tom Brady. It was in Reinhausen that I met all of the latter for

the À rst time.

But this is no place for any excessive celebration of personal lieux

de mémoire, so let us move on from the roll call to actual business.

However, before I do so, I should add that I did not yet meet Kathy

Brady at that time—I will come to that in a minute. So I was still

unaware in 1977 of just how much Kathy was and is an integral part

of Tom’s scholarship in general and of the exceptional achievement

this scholarship represents, in particular. Look at the bibliography in any one of Tom’s books—the last monograph lists 21 different archives and manuscript divisions of libraries in Strasbourg and Paris, at various places in Germany, in the United States, in Copenhagen and Uppsala

and, last but not least, in Basel—and imagine how Kathy has helped

her friend and partner tirelessly, through several decades, to carry the 8 The conference proceedings are available as Stadt und Kirche im 16. Jahrhundert, ed.

Bernd Moeller, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte, vol. 190 (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1978).

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sheer physical burden, not to mention the mental trial of all those

countless hours of patient transcription of archival documents.

The important role of the Reinhausen conference of 1977 (referred

to above), as well as of an Anglo-American/German conference in

Reformation history held in the following year at the German Histori-

cal Institute in London, was that they offered Bob Scribner and Tom

Brady an opportunity publicly to present their view of how a modern

kind of research should be conducted in Reformation history.9 They

lost no time in sketching out ways in which the histories of religion and theology and social history could be fused in order to produce

new insights. For the next younger academic generation, to which I

belong, they broke a spell. And, in retrospective, it is clear that they did so in a pathbreaking way. But it was also clear, at the time, that Bernd Moeller would not sacriÀ ce or adapt that easily his conception of the urban Reformation in Germany and Switzerland to their criticism.

This conception was widely considered at the time as authoritative. To Bob Scribner’s short contribution at Reinhausen on the urban Reformation and social control, he responded the next day with a lengthy

comment. It was an exercise in the limitation of damage. Moeller is a scholar of considerable repute and not one known for “shooting from

the hip,” as the late Sir Geoffrey Elton called spontaneous polemic

(in which he indulged). However, when Tom’s À rst and seminal book,

Ruling Class, Regime and the Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520–1555 appeared in 1978,10 Moeller considered the time ripe for a systematic counterattack, which he published in the Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen under the breezy title “Urban Reformation as class struggle?” ( Stadtreformation als Klassenkampf ?).11

Bernd Moeller may have nonetheless sensed that he had engaged

in the wrong debate; for, from today’s vantage point, the basic issue

in debate then was (and in German church history, in some extent, it

9 The proceedings of the London conference are available as Stadtbürgertum und Adel in der Reformation: Studien zur Sozialgeschichte der Reformation in England und Deutschland, ed. Wolfgang J. Mommsen, Veröffentlichungen des Deutschen Historischen Instituts London, vol. 5 (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979). Cf. also Kaspar von Greyerz, “Stadt und Reformation: Stand und Aufgaben der Forschung”, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 76

(1985), pp. 6–63, in particular pp. 6–16.

10 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Ruling Class, Regime and the Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520–1555, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, vol. 22 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1978).

11 Bernd Moeller, “Stadtreformation und Klassenkampf ?”, Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen 232 (1980), pp. 103–112.

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still is) how we, as historians, prefer to deal with early modern religion.

Does it constitute a sphere of human experience of its own? Or is it the kind of heart or inner kernel of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century history to which all other factors, social, political, and economic, were

“ankristallisiert,” as Heinz Schilling once put it?12 Or is lived religion of the early modern period, as Bob Scribner never tired of reminding

us, something experienced and À ltered in and through the concerns

of daily life?13 While acknowledging the central role of religion in the early modern world, Tom Brady has always made it clear that to the

social (and today we would add: likewise to the cultural) historian,

religion can only make sense when it is viewed as linked to a web of

other historical factors.

Sea changes can also result from erosion: The opposing view, putting

religion up on a pedestal and condemning all social history of the Reformation, brought him, in a review published in 1985, to deconstruct Lew Spitz’s latest (and as it turned out: last) comprehensive account of the Protestant Reformation.14 The review radically addressed the issues at stake, culminating in that memorable, as well as frequently incriminated, phrase claiming that “Spitz treats all social and economic topics like a child gagging on his spinach, which shows that he stands far outside

that broad spectrum of intellectual and social historians, marxists and nonmarxists, who are engaged in contemporary research on Reformation history, and who insist—whatever else they may argue about—on

the complimentarity of events and structures, ideas and social forces, and theology and popular religion.”15 Opinions were divided. Hans

Rudolf Guggisberg, ever a cautious man, thought that Tom should not

have written that review. Others, mostly younger scholars, acclaimed it, even though they may not all have approved of its iconoclastic style.

The review in question undoubtedly marked a parting of ways. The

position clearly sketched out by Tom Brady then and more recently,

12 Heinz Schilling, KonfessionskonÁ ikt und Staatsbildung. Eine Fallstudie über das Verhältnis von religiösem und sozialem Wandel in der Frühneuzeit am Beispiel der Grafschaft Lippe, Quellen und Forschungen des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte, vol. 47 (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1981), p. 141.

13 Robert W. Scribner, For the Sake of Simple Folk: Popular Propaganda for the German Reformation (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981); Idem, Popular Culture and Popular Movements in Reformation Germany (London: Hambledon Press, 1987).

14 Lewis W. Spitz, The Protestant Reformation, 1517–1559, The Rise of Modern Europe Series (New York: Harper & Row, 1985).

15 The Sixteenth Century Journal 16 (1985), pp. 410–412.

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and by many others after him, has allowed the North American history

of the central European Reformation as social and cultural history to adapt step by step to the de-centering of Western history, which was

already in full swing in the mid-nineties, and to weather this transformation relatively intact, while confessionally committed Reformation

history—a few exceptions considered—has literally run itself into a

cul-de-sac during the last twenty years.

Jacob Sturm

The role of a good friend cannot be that of the hagiographer. I may

reveal, therefore, that I like Tom Brady’s À rst and (so far) last monograph best, on emotional rather than rational grounds, perhaps because I have a kind of soft spot for Alsatian history and its signiÀ cance in the period we are concerned with, perhaps, too, because I am “too American”,

as a German church historian told me not that long ago. The (partly

hidden) focal À gure of the À rst of these volumes, Ruling Class, Regime and the Reformation at Strasbourg, which appeared in 1978, and Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489–1553) and the German Reformation published nine years ago, and of a series of Tom’s articles, is that great urban politician of the À rst half of the sixteenth century, Jacob Sturm. Both volumes represent much more than just local history and offer much

more than just biography.16 Let there be no doubt about it: Protestant Politics. Jacob Sturm (1489–1553) and the German Reformation is one of the truly outstanding contributions to German Reformation history to

appear in decades. Looking far beyond the walls and moats of the major Alsatian imperial city, it does much to clear up some of the cloudier aspects in the history of the Protestant Smalkaldic league during the 1530s and 1540s and, at the same time, skilfully involves the reader

in Sturm’s intricate politics by which he succeeded in the wake of the Protestant defeat to save Strasbourg’s political and religious liberty.

Protestant Politics is dedicated to no less than six persons, one woman, À ve men—certainly no reÁ ection on Tom’s gender politics, much rather a mirror image of the world of academics and archives, as Tom set out 16 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Ruling Class, Regime and the Reformation at Strasbourg (as in note 10); Idem, Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489 –1553) and the German Reformation, Studies in German Histories (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press International, 1995).

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on his career. The woman is Miriam Usher Chrisman, Tom’s senior

in research on sixteenth-century Strasbourg, and a major exponent of

American Reformation history of the next older generation. Then there are François-Joseph Fuchs and Jean Rott, the one still living, the other having passed away since the publication of the book in question, those superb local and regional historians, who so generously shared their

knowledge with scholars of a younger generation. Finally, Tom dedicated his book to three of his teachers who were already dead in 1995: John Patrick Dolan, an outstanding historian of Northern humanism and

the Counter-Reformation, Eric Cochrane, whom we remember as an

unrivalled specialist in the history of the late Italian Renaissance, and Hans Baron, perhaps the most signiÀ cant of Tom’s teachers in terms

of directing him to Strasbourg and in prompting that keen interest in the interplay of the social and the political, which Tom has been able to fuse so masterfully in his work, and which has made him one of the leading North American historians of early modern central Europe.

About the shape of things to come, not least from his own pen, it is

surely best to leave the word to Tom. After listing the four major narratives of the history of the German Reformation from the 1960s onwards (the early bourgeois revolution, the inheritor of late medieval theology and thought, the climax of the communal movement and the origin

of confessionalization) he observes that the four narratives “have two assumptions in common: 1) The Protestant Reformation is to be seen

as a social and religious movement between the late medieval crisis and the early modern consolidation of state and society; 2) the Reformation’s most important context is European rather than merely German. This

is how the history of the Protestant Reformation in Germany is being

written today.”17 Now you know what to expect from the forthcoming

Bradyite production although, as always in Tom’s writing, there will

be much else and many unexpected insights and, not least, a handful

of truly accomplished formulations of which, without doubt, “Turning Swiss,” is still the best.18 The secret of how what was originally called

“Between Commune and Caesar” transmuted into “Turning Swiss”

will perhaps be revealed to us in Tom’s autobiography,—although I

do suspect that that personal document will rather assume the form of

17 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., “The Protestant Reformation in German History”, Occasional Papers of the German Historical Institute, Washington, DC, No. 22 (1998), pp. 9–34.

The quotation is on p. 25.

18 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Turning Swiss (as in note 7).

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tempests and STÜRME in reformation studies

9

a house chronicle than that of a Selbstzeugnis, which brings me to the third and most important part of my observations.

The Two Sturms

Everybody familiar with the history of Southwest Germany in the

sixteenth century knows that there were two Sturms in Strasbourg.

There wasn’t just Jacob, that great statesman of the lively and sometimes stormy À rst half of the sixteenth century. There was also Johann or Jean Sturm, the humanist educator, who not only rose to prominence

as a kind of À gurehead of the Strasbourg Academy but was also a

stalwart defender—for a time, at least—of the Reformed persuasion

against such uncompromising and arrogant Lutheran polemicists as

Johann Marbach and Johann Pappus.

There are two Sturms of Strasbourg, zwei Stürme—just as there are two Bradys in Berkeley. It is beyond question, that this is a very important observation to make on this occasion. However, I do have to

admit that the importance of this observation does not automatically

make it original, for Tom put the two Blickles of Bern at the end of

the same equation six years ago.19 And I was there, when he did so.

Subconsciously, it was quite obvious to me on that memorable occasion

that I would pick up this bait one day. Well, here it is. And, while the formula is now referring to the two Bradys in Berkeley, it doesn’t appear any worse for wearing and hasn’t lost any of its pertinence at all.

Thomas Allan Brady and Katherine Ann Gingrich, both of Colum-

bia, Boone County, Missouri, got married when they were twenty-six,

on September 8th, 1964. Their fortieth wedding anniversary is just

around the corner. I think that I À rst met Tom and Kathy together in London in 1981, three years after encountering Tom at that conference in Reinhausen—and I distinctly remember prowling with them

through the center of London on one of those uneventful English

Sunday mornings, desperately looking for a place to have breakfast,

which we eventually found at Leicester Square.

During the twenty-four years that I have known Kathy and Tom,

they have been a truly exemplary team of companions. It would be

19 On the 26th of November 1998, on the occasion of the presentation of his Festschrift to Peter Blickle at the University of Bern.

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kaspar von greyerz

impossible to think of the professional success Tom has had, especially during the last couple of decades in terms of publications, scholarships and honours bestowed upon him, without taking account of Kathy’s

unfailing support. As I have already made clear, this support is À rst and foremost of a scholarly nature, considering Kathy’s unwavering

support and companionship in Tom’s countless archival escapades. However, although this is of crucial importance when we talk of all that scholarship, which over the last several years has Á own down Euclid

Avenue and conquered the Berkeley history department like a slow tide, Kathy’s support has also been practical, from doing e-mails for Tom

down to itineraries, which in their perfection probably look daunting to the most experienced travel agent. Nor should we overlook her steady

encouragement of Tom and her very conscious care for Tom’s health.

And we should pay great respect to Kathy’s successful creation of a

private environment, in which both of them feel comfortable and can

jointly continue to build their world. What is more, without Kathy’s

unsurpassed organizational talents we all would not be here today.

At the beginning of January 2004, Tom was awarded the Nancy

Roelker prize by the American Historical Association for excellence

in graduate teaching. The laudatio quite rightly highlighted the fact

that Tom and Kathy have made their home on Euclid a special place where countless students have been welcomed over the years en groupe for socialising, or individually for some in-depth counselling. It would indeed be difÀ cult to explain Tom’s success as a teacher were it not for the fact that, thanks to Kathy, that home on Euclid always symbolically strengthened his back, and allowed him to maintain the assurance,

personal warmth, and presence of mind, which are the marks of the

good teacher.

If, during the last couple of days we have been celebrating the

achievement of an outstanding scholar and a magniÀ cent teacher, there has been nobody among us all who would not have done so not thinking

of Tom and Kathy, much in the spirit of Ferdinand in Shakespeare’s The Tempest whose devotion to Miranda keeps him cheerful even while having to bear logs: “The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead

and makes my labours pleasures.”20 What we have been celebrating is

in many ways, perhaps in most ways, their common achievement.

20 William Shakespeare, The Tempest, III, i.

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THE REFORMATION IN POST-WAR HISTORIOGRAPHY:

AN AMERICAN CONTRIBUTION

Peter Blickle

The Reformation was not the object of signiÀ cant research following the Second World War. This has changed since the 1960s, in spite of the

unprecedented de-Christianisation of society and the secularisation of politics. In fact, one could say that the Reformation had never before drawn as much popular interest as in the second part of the twentieth century. The central points of interest and the conceptualisations of the subject ‘Reformation’ can clearly be categorised by decades: the

1970s (1), the 1980s (2), and the 1990s (3), all crucially inÁ uenced by international political circumstances, which were reÁ ected and interpreted in the humanities and social sciences.

Thomas Brady is a central À gure in this discussion. To be exact,

one should say the Bradys, because all of Tom Brady’s books publicly

acknowledge Kathy Brady’s inÁ uence, and in private it quickly becomes obvious how deep this scholarly partnership goes. In what follows here, Kathy Brady is always implied when Tom Brady’s works, accomplishments, innovations, interpretations, and controversies are mentioned.

Brady’s work until now has been centred on the history of the Refor-

mation, and its inner structure is congruent with the above-mentioned

decades. In each decade, he has written a monograph presenting us

with, on the one hand, his answers to the international discourse on

the history of the Reformation and, on the other hand, the evolution

of his own insights into an increasingly comprehensive and profound

interpretation of the Reformation. I would like to describe his historical-theoretical point of orientation as one based on political intention. As this essai will show, the answer to Brady’s recurrent critique of Leopold Ranke is to be found in an interpretation of the Reformation connected to the belief that modernity must be put into the context of religious history, just as Max Weber or Georg Jellinek did. I have speciÀ cally

chosen the term essai to indicate that my subjective judgements as a contemporary, which cannot always be documented, are presented

by this text, must be taken as such, and must, of course, be judged

by others.

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“Ruling Class” in Strasbourg and the Beginnings of the Social

History of the Reformation

In 1978 Tom Brady published Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg with the intention of showing how the inhabitants of cities regarded the Reformation and which motivations underlay their decisions. His answer to these questions is to be found at two levels, the socio-historical level and the level of historical mentality. Since the cities’ leadership was wealthy enough to be able to pay for and beneÀ t from the “expensive” remedies available in the Roman Church, namely

donations of altars and masses, it was less interested as an urban group to introduce the Reformation than those belonging to the middle and

working classes (the “common man,” as they were known), who were

unable to À nance this “economy of souls.” It was due to the desire for securing their own position in the city, by granting concessions to the common man, that Strasbourg’s elite À nally supported the Reformation.

According to Brady, Strasbourg’s elite “had altered as little as possible but as much as necessary and had survived the storms with hegemony

in tact.”1 Nevertheless, there is more to it than just the ambition to preserve their own power. The members of the elite were magistrates

and saw themselves obliged to guarantee the peace and the common

good in the city, both of which were norms easily combined with the

Reformation’s evangelical message of the “pure gospel” and its core

statement of “brotherly love.”

The book has had a profound effect on the writing of the history

of the Reformation, especially for its use of prosopography to show

how social groups and their diverse interests shape historical processes.

Numerous histories of the Reformation in cities have been modelled

on this, and one could even say that they could not be written with-

out Brady. On the other hand, it is precisely the presupposition that

social groups and their diverse interests shape historical processes

that has given rise to the criticism of ‘sociologism,’ and the allegation that “the spiritual and primarily religious component of the event

1 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg 1520 –1550

(Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1978), p. 235.

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13

has been neglected and indeed actually completely ignored.”2 This

critique by Bernd Moeller (which was repeated by Heinz Schilling

more moderately) could possibly be explained—and of course this is

just an assumption—in connection with a radical new interpretation

of the Reformation as part of an early bourgeois revolution, a concept which became the overwhelming paradigm of international Reformation research in the 1970s. “Early bourgeois revolution” applies the

theory of historical materialism to the early sixteenth century, interprets theology as an intellectual way of dealing with economic and social

change, and, by using the term “revolution,” presents the Reformation

as the beginning of a class struggle that leads the way into modernity.

This paradigm shift marked the most distinct break from the idea that

the Reformation embodied social (and also political) change induced

by the application of the Reformers’ theology. Brady, author of Ruling Class, could then be placed among the proponents of the early bourgeois revolution, by labelling his demand that, whenever possible, one examine the interdependence of phenomena, as Marxist.

Without doubt many scholars perceived a kind of intellectual continu-

ation of hegemonic claims of socialism in the Marxist interpretation of the Reformation. The Marxist interpretation was seen as posing a

threat to states shaped by a civil society that had ultimately derived from the Reformation (for example, the Federal Republic of Germany). This

group could be identiÀ ed by their defence mechanisms. They took little note of scholars studying Anabaptism, who depicted the Anabaptists not as paciÀ sts but as ideological and strategic companions of the rebelling peasants of 1525, or of those working on Thomas Müntzer, who in

a staggering number of innovative monographs placed him at almost

the same level as Martin Luther. Likewise, they ignored scholars who

pleaded for open dialogue with the Marxists, which, in contrast with

France, Britain, or Italy, had not taken place in Germany.

The history of the Reformation in the 1970s reÁ ects the Cold War,

the conÁ ict between liberal democracies and communist states, and for good reason. The Reformation had its origin in Germany and greatly

concerned both East and West German historians and theologians

2 Bernd Moeller, “Stadt und Buch. Bemerkungen zur Struktur der reformatorischen Bewegung in Deutschland,” Stadtbürgertum und Adel in der Reformation. Studien zur Sozialgeschichte der Reformation in England und Deutschland, edited by Wolfgang J. Mommsen (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta 1979), pp. 25–39, here 29.

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and, hence, arguments were inevitably affected by national-historical

concerns.

This trend became more pronounced in the 1980s, when Martin

Luther’s 500th anniversary was celebrated as the ultimate cultural event in both German states in 1983. The conÁ ict attained new importance

because Marxist research integrated Martin Luther into the early

bourgeois revolution. The theory’s GDR proponents no longer justiÀ ed

socialism as the history of class struggle but rather as the culmination of humanism. In reaction, West Germans re-theologized the Reformation,

as evidenced by Martin Brecht’s monumental three-volume biography

of Luther or by the revised edition of Bernd Moeller’s Reichsstadt und Reformation, which plays down the À rst edition’s emphasis on both the importance of the guilds and the differences between Zwingli and

Luther.

The national focus of Reformation history led to new conÀ gura-

tions among scholars. In particular, the Amercians were detached. If

one may take Heiko A. Oberman to represent them, he vocally and

programmatically refuted the German “cultural imperialism” that went

hand-in-hand with the Luther-Renaissance, and he proceeded to divide

the Reformation into three equal sequences, which he identiÀ ed as

“devotio moderna,” Martin Luther and the “princely Reformation,”

and Jean Calvin and the “Refugees’ Reformation.” In the meantime,

the subjects investigated contributed to a plurality of views—including Strasbourg. Situated as it is in the cultural no-man’s land between France and Germany and, until the past decade, a veritable mineÀ eld of double nationalism, it became an exercise ground for American Reformation

scholars, who presented Strasbourg as a distinct case fundamentally

distinct from Wittenberg, in terms of its diversity, tolerance, and civil spirit. This was the environment of Tom Brady’s second book.

Turning Swiss —A Lost Dream

Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire 1450 –1550 was published in 1985. Its title stems from the idiom Schweizer werden (turning Swiss), which was common among peasants in southern Germany in the late Middle Ages

and was used to criticise the nobility and clergy as lordly estates; it is the symbol of the feeling of togetherness that originally tied southern German cities to Swiss cities and the rural Swiss cantons, and it was

also used in different ways by Maximilian I and Charles V. Whereas at

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15

À rst it was felt that the Empire could be re-established as an alliance of the Emperor, the cities, and the cities’ hinterlands (with the Emperor proÀ ting from the cities’ À scal capabilities and the cities enjoying imperial privileges), it quickly became obvious that given the strictly Catholic demeanor of Charles V, such a collusion would never be secure. The

alliance of Protestant cities from Strasbourg to Zurich did not prove to be viable enough, and the southern German magistrates could only

save the Reformation and the interests of the commons in their cities by co-operating with the German princes. The civic peace was gained

in this arduous way, brought about by city councils trading loyalty to the Emperor for increased dependence on the princes: precisely the

one thing that the urban upper classes had for over a century tried to avoid. Thus, “turning Swiss—a lost dream.”3

Here, Brady has examined a chapter of Reformation history in a

way that could only be accomplished from his side of the Atlantic, a

way that transcends the national-historical stance of Europeans. In

his interpretation, a “republican” Empire becomes a virtual political

entity, thereby refuting the common and rarely contested paradigm

introduced by Ranke, that Germany’s highway to modernity followed

an evolution from princely state to federalism. In my opinion, Brady’s book contrasts strongly with the lines of cultural demarcation that were previously drawn between Luther and Zwingli and between Germany

and Switzerland. It is certainly no coincidence that, at the same time, Gerhard Oestreich questioned the extent to which the Imperial Diet

could be called a civil representative body based on the committees sent by the cities and civil princely councils, and Heiko Oberman portrayed Calvin’s Reformation as a Reformation of réfugiés, which to a certain degree is a generalisation drawn from the reformed city of the Netherlands, England, and, À nally, North America. The church constitution of Calvin’s city derived the guidelines for all legislation from the Holy Scripture and was ‘free of magistrates’ and, thus, independent of the authorities and favourable to anti-monarchical (or rather anti-princely) sentiment.

American scholarship on both cities established a certain contiguity

between Oberman’s Geneva and Brady’s Strasbourg, and it uncovered

rather different issues of the Reformation than did re-nationalised

3 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Turning Swiss. Cities and Empire, 1450 –1550 (Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 222.

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research on Luther. Based on the increasing success of pamphlet

research, there also emerged a À eld of inquiry into what was labelled

“Reformation publicity” (Rainer Wohlfeil). Another topic was the

comparability of civic life with the Christian ideals revealed by the Reformation; the point of reference for these inquiries were the texts of the city statutes and the gospel. One could say that things widely accepted today (for example Berndt Hamm’s concept of “normative

centering” or Johannes Burkhardt’s explanation of the Reformation’s

success as one based on a “media revolution”) are the belated products of research conducted in the 1980s.

Interest in the early bourgeois revolution ended in the political

upheavals associated with the demise of state socialism. Its fascination had already faded in the 1980s, due largely to the euphoria over Luther that had uniÀ ed opposing camps with surprising ease, and due to the

gradual yielding of historical materialism to theology. Earlier images of Thomas Müntzer intermingled with Müntzer the theologian, whose

appearance, according to Günter Vogler, barely differed from his appearance according to Hans-Jürgen Goertz. Research on the Reformation

seemed exhausted, one could feel it in the parade of international

scholars at the joint meeting of the Verein für Reformationsgeschichte and the American Society of Reformation Research held at Washington

in 1990. It appeared that the Reformation had been completely mined

by social history.

In the 1990s, scholars turned to the history of the Reformation’s

consequences—what is today called confessionalisation. The inven-

tors of this concept, Wolfgang Reinhard and Heinz Schilling, saw

confessionalisation as an enlisting of religion by the state, with the effect that the state greatly increased its power and enforced discipline among its subjects. Brady, too, contributed to the trend without depending on the heuristic of these works and has thus arrived at his own interpretation of the consequences of the Reformation in the

sixteenth century.

The Reformation: a National Failure but a Local Success

It is possible to see Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489 –1553) and the German Reformation, published in 1995, as the last part of a trilogy that begins with Ruling Class and Regime of 1978. According to one of the main arguments of the book, the success of the Reformation lay in its OCKER V1_f3_11-19.indd 16

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spirited reception in the cities and rural areas, where republican and communal forms of organisation had had the opportunity to develop.

This ‘corporate’ culture was introduced into the Protestant alliances of the sixteenth century by the imperial cities, in particular the League of Schmalkalden, while the princes pursued their own dynastic interests

and their concern over “teutsche Libertaet ” (German liberty), meaning their own political independence. It is on the basis of these differing urban and princely mentalities that Brady explains the evolution of

the Reformation in the Empire. What was the result? The League of

Schmalkalden innovated, by means of a shared Protestant commitment,

a way to overcome mutually opposed economic and political interests,

constituted a new entity, and created solidarity among Protestants. But despite these successes, they lacked a sufÀ cient ‘sense of community’ to suffuse politically their shared commitment. It follows that Protestantism in Germany lacked the dynamic power to transform the Empire into

a modern state as happened in other Western European kingdoms.

On the other hand, it did stabilise the corporate spirit of the cities in places where it was possible to connect theology to civil values. Hence the main conclusion that “protestant politics was an imperial failure, but a local success.”

As far as I can tell from the critical reactions of reviewers, this work has been well-received, and Brady’s ability to impart an understanding of such a large and complicated À eld by means of biography has

received particular commendation. It was certainly on the basis of this book, which has become a fundamental reference after its translation

into German and publication by the Siedler Verlag, that the prestigious German Historische Kolleg (an institution that supports scholarly

research alongside the Wissenschaftskolleg in Berlin) awarded Tom

Brady a research grant for the academic year 1998–1999.

Protestant Politics À ts none of the models that attempt to describe the long-term consequences of the Reformation for Germany. The

extension of a perspective gained from Strasbourg to all of Germany

allows us to compare Brady with Ranke. The book does not proffer

any arguments to support a national-historical interpretation of the

Reformation. On the contrary, it argues that the Reformation did not

alter the political structures of the Empire. Confessionalisation theory did not serve as a basis for this book in any way. The assertion that the Reformation supported both the republican spirit of the cities as well as the princely demand for teutsche Libertaet remains in the air. Obviously Brady sees the cities as republican bridgeheads in the Empire, reinforced OCKER V1_f3_11-19.indd 17

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by a ‘civil religion,’ holding together the community. This interpretation is not too far from the blueprint found in Oberman’s posthumously

published The Two Reformations. The Journey from the Last Days to the New World. Oberman believes that the most prominent element of the deÀ -

nition of Calvinism (Church discipline) today is irrelevant and possibly wrong. Instead, he emphasises the optimistic foundation of Christian

civil society in Calvinism despite all state persecution: God takes the Church under His special protection due to the constant threat posed

to it by Satan. It may be that both Brady and Oberman focussed on

the autonomous citizen made self-conÀ dent through his religious belief.

Support for this comes from Heinrich Richard Schmidt, a vehement

critic of the confessionalisation-social discipline paradigm, and it is based on rural areas: Schmidt argues that it was not the Reformed

Church’s state that was able to enforce its convictions in the villages, but rather the rural communities themselves had extracted from the

theological and ethical supply of the Reformed Church that which

served their notions of a good and Christian way of life. In Schmidt’s words, the Reformation led to a “Christian-inspired self-regulation of village communities.”4

Insofar as the Reformation strengthened or characterised a neigh-

bourly, communal, and republican spirit, it must be seen as a step into modernity; the Reformation thus prefaces the beginning of a civil

society. Insofar as the Reformation may be seen as a process of confessionalisation, the process itself has been relocated to the Middle Ages, as Heinz Schilling argues, and as such, the Reformation means little.

We know that the Bradys will be expanding their trilogy into a

tetralogy. What will be the title of the fourth decade’s book, which, adhering to the magical rhythm of the years of publication, should

become available for purchase and for academic scrutiny in 2006?

Tom is a master of memorable titles, so I will not venture a forecast.

But one may anticipate its main trajectory, if this book should prove to be the fermata of a lifework. It is possible that he will present us with a societas civilis cum imperio which sees the state acting as a convenient but not necessarily essential framework, yet expanding its societas civilis with a religio civilis. Civil spirit is civil religion, and vice versa. It is not 4 Heinrich Richard Schmidt, Dorf und Religion. Reformierte Sittenzucht in Berner Landge-meinden der Frühen Neuzeit (Quellen und Forschungen zur Agrargeschichte 41), (Stuttgart-Jena-New York: G. Fischer, 1995), p. 400.

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the state that is crucial but rather the citizen. This kind of interpretation would be strongly supported by research on the gute Policey (law and order), which has recently shown that their intention was not to

discipline people but, on the contrary, to secure ‘good order’ because this was the desire of the people of Paris or of villages like Woringen near Memmingen, or of Strasbourg.

The Reformation has always been an important point of reference

for the interpretation of modernity and for the self-assurance of a

modern civil society, both in historical scholarship and in all historically oriented social sciences. In this context it sufÀ ces to call to mind Max Weber’s derivation of the capitalist spirit from devout Protestantism, or Georg Jellinek’s successive tracing of the declaration of human rights in the Virginia Bill of Rights through the English Free Churches all

the way back to its ultimate origin: the Reformation. Maybe Thomas

Brady will manage to transcend the image commonly attributed to

him, of the anti-Ranke. Based on my knowledge of Brady’s work, the

result could be an elaboration of a Republic of urban design as the

political and moral framework for the reception of the Reformation’s

theological challenge, to show its mediating power throughout all the

transformations of modernity. Today’s civil society could rediscover a mentality belonging to itself in its Christian tradition that offers more than just an individual realisation of human and civil rights through rational public discourse.5

5 This essay was written for oral presentation at the Brady Symposium in Berkeley in autumn 2004. I am grateful to Steven Parham and Thomas Robisheaux for the translation.

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PART ONE

HISTORIES

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RANKE, LAMPRECHT, AND LUTHER

Roger Chickering

The two historians appear to have met once, in Berlin in May 1886.1

It is intriguing to speculate about their conversation. The elder scholar, who was now blind, frail, and three weeks away from his death at the

age of 91, was notoriously uncomfortable with small talk. His inter-

locutor, who had just turned thirty but had already been appointed

extraordinary professor in Bonn, was beginning to exude the garrulous

energy and self-conÀ dence that sustained him through the professional crisis that awaited him not long after the meeting. The two men evidently talked about social and economic history, the À eld in which the younger scholar had just À nished his habilitation. Their conversation doubtless did not extend to the young man’s extraordinary vision of

this À eld, nor to his ambition to use social and economic history as the fulcrum to revolutionize the German historical profession, to overturn the foundations of the discipline whose intellectual esteem and power the old man, more than any other À gure of the nineteenth century,

embodied.

For all the contrasts in experience and temperament, and for all the

differences in their conceptions of the À eld that they shared, Leopold von Ranke and Karl Lamprecht had a great deal in common. They

were both Saxons. They were born within about 120 kilometers of

one another in arguably the single most Lutheran patch of the earth.

Pastors had dominated the male lines of both their families. Ranke

and Lamprecht were educated in the same places, at the renowned

boarding school at Schulpforta and the university of Leipzig. The two were also children, not to say prisoners, of the same intellectual traditions. They were members of the same “family of the spirit,” to invoke Ernst Simon’s description of Ranke and Schleiermacher.2 Despite the

subsequent protests of Lamprecht, this family resemblance was evident 1 Karl Lamprecht, Alte und neue Richtungen in der Geschichtswissenschaft (Berlin, 1896), 45. During the disputes of the 1890s, Lamprecht’s opponents charged him with fabricating this encounter.

2 Ernst Simon, Ranke und Hegel (Munich and Berlin, 1928), 41.

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in virtually everything the two historians wrote. Perhaps nowhere was

it more clear, however, than in foundational essays that both of them composed as young men. Here they addressed basic questions about

themselves, as they sought to bring order to their intellectual inventories.

They also formulated the methodological ideas that guided them, for

better or worse, for the rest of their careers. The À gure who inspired both these essays was Martin Luther.

Ranke composed his “Luther Fragment” in 1817, toward the end of

his studies at the university of Leipzig. It was a remarkable document.

It represented in part a compilation of quotations from the Reformer

and other prominent À gures, in part historical narrative, in part a

series of painfully self-conscious reÁ ections.3 The last dimension of the essay was the most interesting, for it revealed the way in which

the young student was bringing into synthesis the intellectual impulses that he had encountered in the course of readings in a broad range

of À elds—from biblical criticism and post-Kantian philosophy to the

ethnology and literature of German romanticism. By his own later

reckoning, the principal impulses that occupied him in this phase of

his development were theological, philosophical, and philological.4 Each in its own disciplinary language, these impulses deÀ ned the antinomies that drove the young man’s search for intellectual moorings—his

attempts to balance the claims of reason and dogma, induction and

speculation, the particular and the general, the transient and eternal, the apparent and the real.

The most important impulse was theological. If, as Leonard Krieger

has argued, Ranke underwent a religious crisis during these years in

Leipzig, it only intensiÀ ed his spirituality, his belief in his God-given 3 This document was À rst published in 1926 by Elisabeth Schweitzer in the Deutsche Akademie’s edition of Ranke’s Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitalter der Reformation (ed. Paul Joachimsen, 6 vols., Munich, 1925–6), 6: 311–62. It was republished with corrections in 1974 by Walther Peter Fuchs: Walter Peter Fuchs and Theodor Schieder, eds., Aus Werk und Nachlass (Munich, 1964–75), 3: 329–466. Both editors appended critical introductions. On the copious literature on Ranke and Luther see Fuchs, “Ranke und Luther,” Lutherjahrbuch 45 (1978): 80–1, n. 2.

4 Leopold von Ranke, Sämmtliche Werke (54 vols., Leipzig, 1875–1900), 51/52: 589–90.

Against this testimony (and other evidence), Carl Hinrichs has argued for the importance of Goethe and Neo-Platonism: Hinrichs, “Rankes Lutherfrgment von 1817,” Richard Nürnberger, ed., Festschrift für Gerhard Ritter zu seinem 60. Geburtstag (Tübingen, 1950), 304; cf. Hinrichs, Ranke und die Geschichtstheologie der Goethezeit (Göttingen, 1954), 112–3.

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ranke, lamprecht, and luther

25

vocation to understand the world in the light of the spirit.5 The bed-rock of Ranke’s thinking remained theological. The human drama

was God’s. “I believed unconditionally,” as he recalled of these years.

His belief was not, however, bound by the dogmatic or institutional

constraints of the Lutheranism in which he had been raised. “It would have been difÀ cult for me to say how far [ belief ] actually reached,”

he wrote. On the basis of his readings in Leipzig, he had concluded

principally that “the supernatural, as one refers to it, is but one dimension of the spirit.”6 In this respect, however, he had already read too much. He had learned so much about the other dimensions of the

spirit, the inÀ nite variety of its appearances in the present and past, that the ultimate spiritual unity of existence had presented itself to him as a pressing intellectual problem.

The resolution of this problem Ranke owed to his encounter during

these years with the work of J.G. Fichte, still another Saxon alumnus of Schulpforta and the university in Leipzig. The philosopher’s intellectual roots were no less Lutheran than Ranke’s own, but his liberation from

theology, to say nothing of dogma, had taken him a great deal further aÀ eld. “At the basis of all living phenomena [ allem erscheinenden Leben] is the divine idea; a certain part of this idea is knowable.”7 This passage from Fichte, which Ranke excerpted in connection with his essay on

Luther, contained the seeds of what became the historian’s own theory of ideas, the Ideenlehre. Unlike his source, however, Ranke was never tempted to sever the idea (or the spirit) from the divine. Ranke concluded instead that every human act, every participant in the human drama,

was ultimately a reÁ ection of God’s ideas and that these ideas could be descried, however Á eetingly, in their particular effects.

The question now became how to apprehend these ideas; and at this

epistemological juncture, Ranke parted ways with the philosopher. “All philosophical knowledge,” he continued in the same notes on Fichte’s

position, “is inherently not factual but genetic; it does not grasp an existing being [ stehendes Sein], but creates from within and constructs this being out of the roots of its existence.”8 Ranke could not accept this 5 Leonard Krieger, Ranke: The Meaning of History (Chicago and London, 1977), 44–7.

6 Ranke, “Zur eigenen Lebensgeschichte,” Sämmtliche Werke, 53/54, 29.

7 Joachimsen, 6: 363; cf. Ilse Mayer-Kulenkampff, “Rankes Lutherverhältnis: Dargestellt nach dem Lutherfragment von 1817,” Historische Zeitschrift 172 (1951): 65–99.

8 Joachimsen, 6: 363.

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proposition, which appeared to assert the claim of speculative reason to understand the particular or empirical from the general truths of

philosophy. He had by now located a more congenial alternative. He

found it in the work of the great philologist Berthold Georg Niebuhr.

Niebuhr’s use of original historical evidence in his History of Rome, another of the sources that Ranke read in Leipzig, persuaded the

young man that the keys to the divine ideas lay instead in their speciÀ c manifestations in history. General truths, Ranke was persuaded, could

be known only in the particular.

In this way Ranke established the transition, as the historian A.G.

Dickens once described it (with characteristic English appreciation of German idealism), “from the airy-fairy to the nitty-gritty.”9 Ranke’s early essay on Luther represented a kind of test case for his methodological reÁ ections. Its basic theme was the efÀ cacy of the divine idea in human history. Luther recommended himself as a subject on historical as well as theological grounds, for Ranke composed his thoughts during the

tercentenary year of the Ninety-Five Theses.

Ranke approached the subject much as Niebuhr might have. He

went directly to the sources, primarily the collections of Luther’s work that were available to him in the Altenburg, Jena, and Halle editions.

It was also no coincidence that the Luther of Ranke’s fragmentary

essay resembled both Niebuhr and Ranke himself. In working out

the fundaments of his theology, Ranke’s Luther, too, went directly to the sources—in this case the Biblical texts that contained the original truth of Christ and the Apostles. For Ranke, the Reformer’s historical signiÀ cance lay precisely in this great liberating act. Luther’s “secret”

was his encounter with “the innermost essence of the scripture” ( mit dem Innersten der Schrift). “From there,” as Ranke’s notes continued, “it is immediately out into life, where he is completely and wholly what

he is; nothing human can restrict him, nor stop him. From then on,

he lives always in the idea, a pure, extraordinary, holy human being.”10

Luther’s achievement was to À nd direct access, via the scriptures, to the divine idea; his vocation was to serve as mediator and vehicle of

this idea in the historical world. “He seizes upon the supernatural with a vital power that rests upon the most secure insight; he surrendered

to authority, but did so consciously—as if he stood above it—: (as the 9 A.G. Dickens, Ranke as Reformation Historian (Reading, 1980), 3.

10 Fuchs, “Lutherfragment,” 341–2.

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empirical manifestation of the idea, so to speak).”11 The key to both Luther’s subsequent career and his historical importance was the broad popular resonance of his teachings, which were, Ranke was convinced,

founded on a spiritual element that was common to all humans. “The

Reformation,” Ranke wrote later in the essay on Luther, “is a picture

of the incipient education of humankind. The element that Luther

arrived to awaken slept in human hearts [ Gemütern], but they were prepared to receive it.”12

Much of the Luther fragment gave the impression that Ranke was

engaged in a soliloquy, a dialogue with himself about himself. Its autobiographical signiÀ cance was in all events transparent. The essay was about Ranke’s vocation as well as Luther’s; and in this respect, too, the historian’s reading of Fichte was pivotal. The philosophical lectures from which Ranke’s notes for the essay on Luther were principally drawn

were entitled On the Essence of the Scholar. In them, Fichte had described the scholar’s role in much same terms that Ranke characterized Luther.

After they noted that a certain part of the divine idea was knowable, Ranke’s excerpts from Fichte continued: “To know [this part] and to

communicate this knowledge is the calling of the scholar.”13 Ranke

concluded not only that the divine idea was accessible to historical

reÁ ection, but also that modern history, at the dawn of which stood

Luther, was accessible to the same critical methodologies that Niebuhr had employed in his analysis of the ancient world.

For Ranke’s appreciation of Luther was, in the end, critical. Luther

was a not, like Christ, a transcendent being. He was one of “the few

heroes who had completely seized” the “innermost and most essential”

in life, but he was nonetheless a historical À gure—a man whose under-

standing of himself and the divine idea was historically conditioned.

“How does Luther interpret” the scriptures, asked Ranke. “In that he

does not trouble himself about the historical [conditions of the scriptures], but instead penetrates to belief alone—the ever present, always new, vital.”14 Here lay Ranke’s “criticism” of the Reformer. Luther

was not a historian. He failed to recognize that while the divine idea was manifest in them, the scriptures were historical documents, too,

and had to be understood accordingly. The premises that subsequently

11 Ibid., 341.

12 Ibid., 388.

13 Joachimsen, 6: 363.

14 Fuchs, “Lutherfragment,” 388.

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pervaded Ranke’s immense corpus were already apparent here, as were

the power and distinctiveness of his vision. He could now make these

claims about the historicity of the scriptures without violating either his veneration for Luther or his belief that human history was ultimately in the thrall of the divine.

Decades later, Lamprecht’s confrontation with Luther was also criti-

cal, in large part because it was a veiled confrontation with Ranke.

In Lamprecht’s eyes, in fact, the Reformer and the great historian

frequently conÁ ated into same symbol (as did Lamprecht’s father, a

Lutheran pastor, but that is another problem).15 Lamprecht’s roots

in both Lutheranism and German idealism were as deep as Ranke’s.

They were less obvious, though, because the younger historian spent

the entirety of his career trying to repudiate them. By the time Lam-

precht encountered it at the feet of the philosopher Hermann Lotze

in Göttingen and the economist Wilhelm Roscher in Leipzig, German

idealism itself had modulated signiÀ cantly since Ranke’s days as a

student. Its challenge now was to accommodate the principles of causation and lawful regularity, which had in the meantime been validated

in the breathtaking advances of the natural and social sciences, most pertinently in the new academic À elds of statistics, economics, and psychology. Lamprecht’s assimilation of idealism was complicated further by a religious crisis, which had resulted in his practical abandonment of Christianity by the time he arrived in Leipzig as a student in 1877.

Lamprecht’s training with Roscher not only awakened an interest

in economic history. It also nurtured a grand, synthetic vision of German history—a kind of histoire totale, whose goal was to trace the causal connections among all dimensions of the nation’s past. These connections formed, Lamprecht believed, within the immanent regularities of

history as they progressed through a series of epochs from the tribal era to the present day. Lamprecht’s vision of history encompassed

everything—the material world of economy and society, the ideal realm of thought, morals, and art, and the sphere of politics. Its sources, however, were more difÀ cult to disentangle than Ranke’s. Lamprecht

read avidly and more broadly than Ranke, but he did so with much

15 Roger Chickering, “Young Lamprecht: An Essay in Biography and Historiography,” History and Theory 28 (1989): 198–214. The following account relies on Roger Chickering, Karl Lamprecht: A German Academic Life (1856–1915) (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, 1993). See also Luise Schorn-Schütte, Karl Lamprecht: Kulturgeschichtsschreibung zwischen Wissenschaft und Politik (Göttingen, 1984).

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less system and care. A vast variety of inÁ uences surfaced in his work, many of which he himself refused to recognize. In the last analysis, his project might be described as an effort to marry Comte with Hegel,

the natural and social sciences with the most capacious impulses of

German idealism, which Lamprecht pursued well beyond Hegel and

Fichte back to Herder, Leibniz, and Spinoza. In any case, even as a

student, Lamprecht’s thinking about history involved a direct challenge to the methodology by now associated with Ranke, which not only

had become anchored in political history, but was also, as Lamprecht

recognized early, inextricably indebted to philosophy and theology for its explanatory strategies.

In the summer of 1878, shortly after he completed his doctorate in

Leipzig, Lamprecht composed his own counterpart to Ranke’s “Luther

Fragment.” Like Ranke’s, this essay presented the results of its author’s methodological reÁ ections and the tentative outlines of a synthesis.

Although it did not mention Luther by name, the Reformer stood at

its telos. Lamprecht’s piece bore the pretentious title “On Individuality and the Understanding of It during the German Middle Ages.”16 The

essay’s purpose was to trace the origin and development of individu-

ality—the concept of the individual human being as an autonomous

entity—from the Carolingian era to the eve of the Reformation. Lam-

precht argued that the concept of individuality emerged only in the late Middle Ages, during the transition from a natural to a money economy

and the attendant emergence of the Bürgerstand. During the process, private property became the norm. The urban division of labor bred

the ideas of individual vocation and virtuosity; cities became centers of political autonomy, personal cultivation, and individual patronage of the arts. A growing appreciation of individual personality pervaded cultural life. The popularity of nominalism and Aristotelian ethics gave evidence of a new individualistic orientation in philosophy, while the Á owering of religious mysticism emphasized the direct tie between the individual and God. The new interest in portraiture in art and literature likewise reÁ ected a new understanding of the individual’s unique aptitude. Lamprecht’s essay broke off on the eve of the Reformation, 16 Universitätsbibliothek Bonn, Nachlass Lamprecht (H 2), Über die Individualität und das Verständnis für dieselbe im deutschen Mittelalter (manuscript). Lamprecht published the manuscript with slight modiÀ cations in the À nal volume of his massive Deutsche Geschichte (12 vols., Berlin and Freiburg, 1891–1909), 12: 3–48.

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but it left little doubt about the historical meaning of Luther’s doctrine of justiÀ cation by faith alone.

The essay was a remarkable piece of scholarship. It brought together

an enormous range of material from the history of the economy,

law, politics, art, architecture, literature, philosophy, popular morals, and more. In both its boldness and confusion, it foretold Lamprecht’s

magnum opus, his German History, which brought the profession into turmoil a decade and a half later. Lamprecht’s essay charted the pivotal transition from the medieval to the modern era across the full range of human activity. Yet the work also betrayed the young historian’s continued methodological restlessness. Its analytical priorities were muddled.

It was never clear whether changes in the realm of ideas grew out of

changes in the material realm, the transition to a monetized economy,

or whether they proceeded autonomously, as if on a parallel track,

linked to the material realm not by causation but analogy.

In either case, Lamprecht’s essay set the stage for Luther’s emergence in a way that clashed with Ranke’s understanding of the Reformer. This fact became public in the 1890s, after Lamprecht had accepted a chair

in history in Leipzig. When, in the À fth volume of his German History, he turned his attentions directly to the Reformation, Lamprecht drew

out the implications of his earlier essay. At À rst reading, his portrayal of Luther in the À fth volume seemed almost to have been lifted from

Ranke (in a sense it was, for Lamprecht’s source for much of the account was a text by Georg Winter, who had in fact lifted from Ranke). The

Reformer, wrote Lamprecht, waged a “heroic struggle, within himself

as well as within the abandoned ranks of Christianity, for the truth

and validity of his teachings.”17 Luther brought the fulÀ llment of what Lamprecht now characterized as the Individualistic epoch, the extension of its principles into the deepest spiritual dimension of human life. The Reformation, argued Lamprecht, thus deÀ ned a personal faith in God

as the sole remaining constraint on individuality.

And here lay Luther’s insufÀ ciency—and Ranke’s. “Luther was right

for his century,” Lamprecht commented at the end of the À fth volume.

He represented an “Individualism bridled by authority.”18 As subsequent volumes of his magnum opus revealed, the telos of Lamprecht’s history was no longer the Individualistic age of Luther; it was instead what the 17 Ibid., 5: 150.

18 Ibid., 358.

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historian called the “Subjectivistic” age, of which Karl Lamprecht was himself the great exponent. This epoch, Lamprecht claimed, was to witness the liberation of the individual’s full intellectual powers, unbridled now by any authority whatsoever. FulÀ llment was to accompany the

release of human knowledge from all its bounds—a feat that lay in the triumph of Lamprecht’s own comprehensive vision of the past. It is

difÀ cult, however, to resist the suspicion that the goal of Lamprecht’s history was itself not even historical: it lay instead in a transcendent vision, in which the ultimate secrets of the human drama revealed

themselves to the historian.

The word that Lamprecht used to describe Luther’s “bridled Indi-

vidualism,” “gängeln,” was not Á attering in any case. Nor was the essay that the historian published two years later on Ranke’s Ideenlehre.19 Here Lamprecht cited chapter and verse to show the depths of Ranke’s

metahistorical commitments to Lutheran theology and Fichtean phi-

losophy. “In all his statements [Ranke] proceeds only up to a certain

point,” Lamprecht remarked.20 To Ranke, the truths of history were

ultimately unknowable, a divine secret. The motive forces of history

were ideas that the historian could never analyze; he could only trace them in the direction of God. Ranke’s historiography thus represented a “grand spiritualism based on deep personal conviction.” Lamprecht

was right, but Ranke himself had admitted the truth of these remarks in autobiographical fragments that were by then in print. So Lamprecht’s

À nal verdict on his predecessor was both gratuitous and unfair. “One

should not be deceived,” he concluded. Ranke’s views rested “above all on personal faith and only secondarily on scholarly research.”21

The context of these remarks was the ugly polemic that had begun in

the mid-1890s over the À rst volumes of Lamprecht’s German History. In their apparent privileging of social and economic developments, these volumes invited the charge that their author had fallen prey to ideol-ogy, more speciÀ cally to materialism (and possibly to its most execrable Marxist variant). Lamprecht’s opponents, chief among the so-called

“neo-Rankeans,” Felix Rachfahl and Max Lenz (himself a biographer

of Luther), charged that history must free itself of all metaphysics or prior commitments to a Weltanschauung; and they cited Ranke himself 19 Lamprecht, “Rankes Ideenlehre und die Jungrankianer,” Richtungen, 26–79.

20 Ibid., 31.

21 Ibid., 44.

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as the master who had achieved this goal.22 Lamprecht’s dissection of

the Ideenlehre was an effective retort to their claims, but he was enough troubled by his enemies’ accusations that he quickly began a retreat

into something that no one could characterize as materialistic. As A.G.

Dickens might have put it, Lamprecht backed away from the nitty-gritty into the airy-fairy. He now began to argue that the great forces that

drove the development of history were ideal, not material, that they

were “socio-psychic” in nature, but immanent, not transcendent. They

also operated, Lamprecht insisted, with lawful regularity to guide history through the same patterned succession of epochs that he himself

had earlier identiÀ ed.

Lamprecht’s contorted attempts to explain, defend, and put his new,

revised scheme into practice only intensiÀ ed the confusion and animosity of virtually everyone in the German historical profession. Nor did his efforts allay the suspicion, which several of his opponents raised, that his new doctrine of immanent socio-psychic forces had a familiar ring, that it represented (the words are Rachfahl’s) a “refurbished and adulterated [ erneute und verfälschte] version of Ranke’s Ideenlehre.”23

It is difÀ cult to deal with Lamprecht. For many years it would have

been a sacrilege to speak of him and Ranke in the same breath. But

the comparison is illuminating. Lamprecht’s intellectual ambitions knew no bounds. For all that he set out to do, one can almost forgive him

his colossal failure—his haste and carelessness, the muddy formulations and inconsistencies, even the plagiarism whose discovery sealed not

only his spectacular defeat, but also the broader fate of social history in Germany for much of the twentieth century.24 More frustrating, to the biographer at least, is Lamprecht’s near-obsessive insistence on his own methodological originality. He was troubled by none of the antinomies that had occupied Ranke, for he believed that they all resolved into his unique vision of history. He disdained the sources of his own methodological beliefs. But he could no more than Ranke dispense with faith, and he was profoundly indebted to the same two À gures who most cast

their imprint on Ranke—Luther and Fichte, albeit the younger Fichte,

22 Hans-Heinz Krill, Die Ranke-Renaissance: Max Lenz und Erich Marcks (Berlin, 1962).

23 Rachfahl, “Ueber die Theorie einer ‘kollektivistischen’ Geschichtswissenschaft,”

Jahrbücher für Nationalökonomie und Statistik 68 (1897): 659–89.

24 See Hans-Josef Steinberg, “Karl Lamprecht,” Hans-Ulrich Wehler, ed., Deutsche Historiker (9 vols., Göttingen, 1972–81), 1: 58–68.

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the philosopher of the transcendental ego. Lamprecht is arguably no

less important to the history of German history than Ranke, but he is surely a less attractive À gure.

On the subject of historians, a concluding word is in order about the scholar whom we are honoring. Tom Brady represents, I am tempted

to say, a combination of the best in both Ranke and Lamprecht. To

Lamprecht’s breadth of interest (and brilliance as a pedagogue), Tom

has added Ranke’s scrupulous attention to his sources, his grace with

language, and, perhaps most important, his critical self-awareness,

clarity, and honesty about his epistemological and moral commitments.

These are traits without which great historians, like Ranke (and Tom

Brady), cannot operate.

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THE REFORMATION AND THE EARLY SOCIAL

SCIENCES (MARX, WEBER, DURKHEIM, FREUD):

TOWARD A CULTURAL EPIDEMIOLOGY1

H.C. Erik Midelfort

“So little do those who shoot arrows of the spirit

know where they will light.”

R.H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism 2

One of the hallmarks of modern Reformation research is the aware-

ness that, whatever one may think of the causes, forces, issues, actors, intentions, and outcomes, whatever one’s view of the various Reformation theologies, one cannot ignore the basic fact that the German

lands emerged from forty years of conÁ ict divided. The divisions of

the sixteenth century, in fact, have survived now for almost À ve hundred years and do not seem to be going anywhere. It may not seem

important to state so obvious a fact at the outset of an essay on the Reformation, but we may be surprised to see how commonly this

condition has been slighted, deprecated, regretted, or simply ignored.

In the nineteenth-century Prussian school of history, for example, the story of the German Reformation was repeatedly told as if the German nation as a whole had arisen against the tyranny of Rome. In

the view of Leopold von Ranke and the subsequent Prussian apologists

for Bismarck’s national state, Luther spoke for the German nation,

addressing the hitherto frustrated German “nation’s need to consolidate itself into a certain unity,” deÀ ning itself against Rome by means of a rejuvenated Christian religion.3 As Thomas Brady has observed, for

Ranke, it was Rome and Rome alone who “bore the responsibility for

1 An earlier version of this essay was delivered as the Roland H. Bainton Lecture in the Yale Divinity School on April 1, 2004.

2 R.H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism, p. 205.

3 Ranke, Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitalter der Refomration, ed. Willy Andreas 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Emil Vollmer, 1957) I, 142; as cited by Thomas A. Brady, Jr ., Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489 –1553) and the German Reformation (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press, 1995), p. 3.

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the three-hundred year slumber of the German nation, which . . . only a liberation from that alien inÁ uence could end.”4 One may say that

Ranke and the Prussian historians obviously recognized the continuing

split of Protestant from Catholic parts of Germany, but they neutralized the split by cataloguing it as unnatural and un-German. To be

fully German was to be Protestant. And to be Protestant was to be

progressive, forward looking, literate, scientiÀ cally advanced, cultivated, nationalist, enlightened, as well as religiously benevolent. To a striking degree, German literature was understood as Protestant; the German

Enlightenment, too, was Protestant.

In England, this national viewpoint found parallel expression in the

historiography of Puritanism, in which the hard school of William

Perkins and Richard Baxter has seemed to be an essential part of the

national story, a stage in the history of political revolution, religious liberty, capitalism, natural science, and the advance of reason, or what Max Weber called the disenchantment of the world. Characteristic of

both of these national stories is the tendency, common in nineteenth-

century historiography of the Reformation, to emphasize the intentions of the Reformers and gratifying instances of consequences that seemed to Á ow forth from those vigorous intentions.

In the wake of two world wars and the collapse of the German

Democratic Republic, there is not much that survives explicitly of this national and intentionalist vision, especially in view of vibrant capitalist economies and parliamentary systems in the rest of Western Europe

(including Italy); nor much basis anymore for the English penchant for glorying in their peculiarly Puritan preconditioning for modernity. And yet it is remarkable how often one À nds histories of this or that topic in early modern “Germany” or Britain that turn out on inspection to be

histories only of the Protestant side of things. North Germans continue often to regard the Catholic South as provincial and backward, perhaps precisely because so many people there are “still” Catholic. Such prejudices die hard and point to a common (Protestant or secular) conclu-

sion that while “stalwart” German Lutherans had authentic religious

reasons for their protest, “stubborn” German Catholics had only the

crassest political and economic reasons for their resistance to reform.

In this essay, I intend to probe the ways by which historians may have learned to escape this national, progressive, and intentionalist approach 4 Brady, Protestant Politics, p. 4.

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the reformation and the early social sciences

37

to the Reformation. The key advance, I will argue, was taking up what

I will call the quest for a “cultural epidemiology,” in which historians seek the reasons why certain people in certain situations found certain cultural solutions to their problems persuasive, and by implication why others did not. This move became possible only after scholars came to

recognize that history does not neatly correspond to the intentions of geniuses and world-shakers. Instead, we now believe in what some call

the “law of unintended consequences.”5 I believe that this approach was pioneered by the early social sciences in the nineteenth century, and so in this essay we will have to consider the thinking of the greatest early social scientists of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; but it is not a straight path, as we will see.

In order to make the task at all possible, I will radically curtail my problems by looking only at four great À gures, Marx, Freud, Weber and Durkheim. From them we can perhaps begin to see, at least implicitly,

the means by which modern Reformation studies has partially escaped

the German or British national and progressive interpretation of modernity. I have chosen À gures from the À elds of economics, sociology and psychology, but not from anthropology, and perhaps that needs a bit

of prior explanation. It appears to me that the three À elds I will deal with all viewed themselves as the modern heirs of the Reformation, as somehow the beneÀ ciaries of the early modern religious struggles, and therefore as standing in some kind of debt to the sixteenth century. This seems to me to be much less the case with social and cultural anthropology, whose earliest spokesmen, À gures like James George Frazer,

E.B. Tyler, Lewis Henry Morgan, Henry Sumner Maine, and Franz

Boas were far more inspired and fascinated by the strangeness of the

ancient heathen world than by the shocking or inspiring familiarity of the early modern.6 Although anthropology too had an original sense

5 An emphasis upon the unintended consequences of human action can be found as early as Adam Smith or even John Locke, but found inÁ uential formulation in Robert K. Merton, “The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action,”

American Sociological Review, Vol. 1, Dec., 1936, pp. 894–904; see Rob Norton, “Unintended Consequences” in The Concise Encyclopedia of Economics online as: http://www.

econlib.org/library/Enc/UnintendedConsequences.html. In a general sense, in order to separate intentions from outcomes historians have often, but not universally, adopted an “ironic” trope, to use the inÁ uential formulation of Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-century Europe (Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973).

6 Peter J. Bowler, The Invention of Progress: the Victorians and the Past (Oxford, Basil Blackwell, 1989); George W. Stocking , Delimiting Anthropology: Occasional Essays and OCKER V1_f5_34-61.indd 37

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h.c. erik midelfort

of cultural evolution (famously from magic to religion to science), the main stages did not include any major turning points in the period of

the Reformation.

Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud

The neglect of the Protestant movement by the early anthropologists has its parallels, however, with two of the thinkers I do intend to highlight, even if only brieÁ y. Karl Marx was, as we know, convinced that Luther’s movement had begun a failed revolution, and one that was perhaps

bound to fail because of Luther’s fundamentally religious views.

The Wittenberg professor:

overcame bondage out of devotion by replacing it with bondage out

of conviction. He shattered faith in authority because he restored the authority of faith. He turned priests into laymen because he turned laymen into priests. He freed man from outer religiosity because he made

religiosity the inner man. He freed the body from chains because he

enchained the heart.7

We can glimpse here the Hegelian framework within which Marx tried

to reject or invert Hegel, and so it is no wonder that Marx saw the

Reformation not just as “a layman’s struggle against the priest outside himself but of his struggle against his own priest inside himself, his priestly nature.”8 In the course of his many historical writings Marx showed an awareness of the power of religious forces, but these were in his view the forces of illusion. As a result, Marx’s notion of the Reformation remained curiously stunted, trapped in a concern for

economic transformation. He never seems to have envisioned a question ReÁ ections (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001); George W. Stocking, Jr., After Tylor: British Social Anthropology, 1888–1951 (Madison : University of Wisconsin Press, 1995); George W. Stocking, Jr., Romantic Motives: Essays on Anthropological Sensibil-ity (Madison, Wis.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989); Henrika Kuklick, The Savage Within: The Social History of British Anthropology, 1885–1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).

7 Karl Marx, “Critique of Hegel,” in Reinhold Niebuhr, ed., Marx and Engels on Religion (New York, 1964), p. 51; as quoted in A.G. Dickens, John M. Tonkin, and Kenneth Powell, The Reformation in Historical Thought (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985), pp. 234–243, at p. 236. David McLellan, Karl Marx. His Life and Thought (London: Macmillan, 1973), pp. 92–93.

8 Marx, “Critique of Hegel,” p. 51.

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about why certain persons might have chosen to remain Catholic while

others chose Luther.

In Capital, for example, Marx quoted Luther extensively merely to prove that commercial capital, when dominant, was nothing more than

a “system of plunder.” Citing Ezekiel’s indictment of the “bloody city”

(Ezekiel 22), Luther had predicted that God would “amalgamate princes

and merchants, one thief with another, like lead and iron, as when a

city burns down, leaving neither princes nor merchants.”9 In Luther’s

view, God had arranged things so that evil men punished other evil

men. Similarly, in dealing with interest on capital, Marx quoted Luther’s vehement 1540 attack on usury.10 This might have been instructive,

perhaps, if Marx had intended to document the historic distrust among some prominent German thinkers for lending at interest, but it appears that he intended to quote Luther to bolster his actual or factual case, just as he later sarcastically played with the etymological ambiguities of “credit” and faith, claiming that

It is faith that brings salvation. Faith in money value as the immanent spirit of commodities, faith in the mode of production and its predestined disposition, faith in the individual agents of production as mere personiÀ cations of self-valorizing capital. But the credit system is no more emancipated from the monetary system as its basis than Protestantism is from the foundations of Catholicism.11

In the end, one must conclude that Karl Marx showed no sustained

interest in the Reformation, unlike Friedrich Engels and the host of

Marxist scholars who took up the study of the failed “early bourgeois revolution.”12 The reason is not far to seek. Marx was himself so

relentlessly concerned to isolate the real motors of change, the shifting relations of production, that religious rebellion, even if symbolically a rebellion against the “feudal” and hierarchical authority of church 9 Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, introd. Ernest Mandel, transl.

David Fernbach (New York: Vintage, 1981), vol. 3, pp. 448–49, quoting Luther’s Von Kaufshandlung und Wucher. Wittenberg, 1524, 1527.

10 Marx, Capital, vol. 3, pp. 468, 518–519, 746–47.

11 Marx, Capital, vol. 3, p. 727.

12 On the Marxist view of the Reformation see Abraham Friesen, Reformation and Utopia; the Marxist Interpretation of the Reformation and its Antecedents (Wiesbaden, F. Steiner, 1974); see the sumptuous volume by Adolf Laube, Max Steinmetz, and Günter Vogler, Illustrierte Geschichte der deutschen frühbürgerlichen Revolution (Berlin: Dietz, 1974). Even the most sophisticated Marxist interpreters, however, showed little interest in what I am calling cultural epidemiology.

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and pope, could not hold his attention for long. It also seems clear

enough that Marx himself developed no real interest in the psychology of capitalism even though he insisted upon the ways in which nature

and society impress themselves upon suffering and malleable human

beings.13 As a result, he developed no strong sense of what I’m calling cultural epidemiology, a À ne-tuned understanding of the conditions in which certain cultural forms, including religion, may Á ourish, mutate, or wither; and no profound sense of how intentionally purposive actions may actually achieve results contrary to what one intended.

If we turn to Sigmund Freud, we À nd another thinker who was sure

that the modern world had its origins in the early modern. One recalls his famous remark that he saw psychoanalysis as the culmination of

the process by which human beings discovered that they were not the

center of the universe. The process that began with Copernicus, who

displaced the earth from the cosmic center, and had continued with

Darwin, who set human beings into the world of other animals, had

culminated with Freud himself, who proved (so he said) that human

beings were not even “master in their own house.”14 In this genealogy, Freud ignored any conceivable religious origins of modernity and might have been astonished at the thought that this was even problematic.

In his developing view, psychoanalysis was a scientiÀ c breakthrough

that allowed him to dispel religious and demonological illusions and to reveal the unconscious core of the conscious mind. He was fascinated

with Rome and with Roman Catholicism, but paid little attention to

the Reformation. From the vantage point of a secular Jew in Vienna,

Luther was a distant À gure indeed.15 Freud sometimes played mentally

with the idea that he was imitating the explorations of the witch hunters or the exorcists,16 but even on this accounting he rarely saw himself in any connection with Protestant Christianity.

13 Norman Geras, Marx and Human Nature: Refutation of a Legend (London: NLB, 1983).

14 Sigmund Freud, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, 24 vols. ed. and trans. James Strachey et al. (London, 1953–1974), vol. 16, 284–5.

15 Paul Vitz, Sigmund Freud’s Christian Unconscious (New York, 1988).

16 Peter Swales, “Freud, Johann Weier, and the Status of Seduction: The Role of the Witch in the Conception of Fantasy,” in Laurence Spurling, ed., Sigmund Freud: Critical Assessments, 4 vols., (London, 1989), I:331–58. See Swales’s excellent essay, “A Fascination with Witches,” The Sciences 27 (8), (1982): 221–25; and idem, “Freud, Krafft-Ebing, and the Witches. The Role of Krafft-Ebing in Freud’s Flight into Fantasy,” (privately printed). See also William J., McGrath, Freud’s Discovery of Psychoanalysis: The Politics of OCKER V1_f5_34-61.indd 40

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It is therefore not surprising that even passing references to the Reformation or to its leaders are extremely rare in Freud’s published works.

By means of the concordance to his complete works one may check this

assertion.17 For example it appears that Freud’s only reference to Martin Luther was to his work as a translator (in his essay on Michelangelo

[1914]: v. 10, 195a); he never mentioned Wittenberg and hardly ever

referred to Saxony either (in the Future of an Illusion (1927): v. 14, 363a; v. 14, 363b). Once he referred in passing to the Reformation (in Moses and Monotheism (1937): v. 16. 137b), and once in the same work to the Reformers (v. 16, 119a). Not once did he mention Calvin, or Zwingli,

or the Anabaptists. On the other hand, the word “Protestant” and

“Protestants” occurred nine times in his complete works, but never with any serious concentration on its meaning or signiÀ cance.18 In contrast, Catholic, Catholics, and Catholicism occupied a much larger space in

Freud’s experience and imagination, appearing 19 times across the pages of his writings. The “Church” ( Kirche) appeared as a word 31 times, especially in Freud’s work on mass psychology ( Massenpsychologie, vol. 13) and in the Interpretation of Dreams ( Traumdeutung, vol. 2). But to appreciate how meager these À ndings are, it may be worth noting that the devil

appeared in various verbal forms 140 times while witch and witchcraft

occurred 13 times ( Hexe, Hexen, Hexerei ).19 For Freud, the varieties of Christianity were evidently as hopelessly uninteresting as they had been to Marx. In Freud’s case, however, that fact came not from any lack of interest in psychology, of course, but from the opposite: from a sense that religious persuasions were all variations upon the same narcissistic illusion, the same displaced feelings of guilt and projection. In Marx’s case we may say that social change trumped any psychological changes

in the past. In Freud, psychological constants made historical change

Hysteria (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), p. 79. See my essay, “Charcot, Freud and the Demons” in Werewolves, Witches, and Wandering Spirits. Traditional Belief & Folklore in Early Modern Europe, edited by Kathryn A. Edwards (Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies, vol. 62) (Kirksville, Missouri: 2002), pp. 199–215.

17 Samuel A. Guttman et al., eds., Konkordanz zu den gesammelten Werken von Sigmund Freud 6 vols. (Waterloo, Ont.: North Waterloo Academic Press, 1995). Subsequent references to Freud’s works are to the 18-volume edition of his Gesammelte Werke chronologisch Geordnet, ed. Anna Freud with Marie Bonaparte (Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 1966–1969).

18 In v. 2: 385b ( Traumdeutung, 1900); v. 6: 94a, 97a & 162a (Witz, 1905); v. 10: 449b (PÀ ster); v. 12: 233b ( Unheimlichen); v. 14: 95b ( Selbstdarstellung, 1924), & 293a (twice) ( Laienanalyse).

19 96 mentions of the devil occurred in Freud’s essay on Christoph Haizmann, a case of what he called a “Teufelsneurose im 17. Jahrhundert.”

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more a case of scientiÀ c progress or of enlightenment than of fundamental shift in the mentality or spirit of a time or place.

If one asks whether these two styles of investigation could be joined to produce a more psychologically competent history, several answers

present themselves, but I would suggest concentrating on the historical sociology of Norbert Elias. In his famous work , The Civilizing Process (1939, 1968), Elias conjoined the concern for socioeconomic change

in Marx with a notion of changing psychologies.20 European history

presented a major shift from the simplicity, naïvité, and sheer corpo-

reality of the Middle Ages to the increasingly embarrassed, prudish,

“civilized” behavior of the Renaissance and especially the early modern court, and À nally to the painfully squeamish and disembodied ideals of the Victorians. Here it is noteworthy that Elias marked the great shift in European manners and hence in the European sense of the body

precisely in the early modern period, but that he placed no importance at all on possible religious inÁ uences, and showed no awareness of the Reformation. In this perhaps pejorative sense, Elias seems to have joined Marx and Freud successfully, but he, like his predecessors, failed to see that a properly sociological imagination might pay close attention to

what I suggest we might call the epidemiology of ideas. How and where did the ideas of civility and of reÀ ned manners spread? What were the vectors by which an increasingly pained embarrassment concerning the

body spread, slowly or quickly, throughout European society?21

In Marx and Freud, we have found so little interest in what I am

calling the epidemiology of culture (the social distribution and spread of ideas, manners, and mores) that they were not concerned to observe or comment upon the varieties of spirit in the Europe of their day.

20 Norbert Elias , The Civilizing Process: The History of Manners and State Formation and Civilization, tr. Edmund Jephcott (Oxford: Blackwell, 1978).

21 My critique here accepts for argument’s sake the terms of reference provided by Elias. But one could aim a more fundamental blow at the sociology of Elias by asking whether he has understood his sources effectively at all. See for example Hans-Peter Duerr, Nacktheit und Scham. Der Mythos vom Zivilisationsprozeß. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1988); Intimität: Der Mythos vom Zivilisationsprozeß (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1990); Obszönität und Gewalt: Der Mythos vom Zivilisationsprozeß (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993). Duerr charges that Elias projected the value-laden notions of his own day back onto the processes of civilization, and as a result romantically imagined a history of ever increasing repression, linked to an ever increasing “civilization.” According to Duerr, Elias imagined both “primitive” man and the people of the Middle Ages as living in a state of relatively uninhibited unconsciousness of the body, a view that corresponds to the colonial gaze of self-proclaimedly civilized men.

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They did not seem to realize that much of what we call history is the result of actions that intended to obtain radically different results. But with Weber and Durkheim we do À nd a fully-Á edged fascination with

the religious sociology of pre-War Europe. So it is to them that we

need to turn in the remainder of this essay.

Max Weber

Max Weber’s notions of the connection between an ascetic “Protestant

Ethic” and what he called the “Spirit of Capitalism” are, I think, so well known that one might think there is no need to linger long over

their exposition. And yet his purposes and his methods remain so

controversial, and to some extent so obscure, that we need to be clear on what he offered the world exactly one hundred years ago.22 That

there was a connection, perhaps even a causal connection, between

Protestant culture and economic advancement was, by the time Weber

took up the question, a commonplace. Indeed, writers as early as the

German enlightenment of the mid-eighteenth century had drawn atten-

tion to the successes of Protestant lands, and in the 1780s the Holy

Roman Emperor Joseph II was not alone in hoping to emulate their

successes by eliminating a host of Catholic holidays and pilgrimages

that seemed to encourage idleness and inefÀ ciency.23 Those reforms

ran afoul of bitter anti-Enlightenment reactions, prompted in part by the French Revolution, and so throughout the nineteenth century the

Roman Catholic Church became ever more associated with cultural

and economic backwardness, political conservatism, and suspicions

directed at natural science, secular culture, schemes for social welfare, etc.24 It is also true that Protestant observers were partly just seeing 22 Weber’s original essay on the Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism À rst appeared as two long essays in the Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik vol. 20

(1904), pp. 1–54 and vol. 21 (1905), pp. 1–110.

23 Paul Münch, “The Thesis before Weber: An Archeology,” in Hartmut Lehmann and Günter Roth, Weber’s Protestant Ethic. Origins, Evidence, Contexts (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993), pp. 51–72, esp. pp. 63–67; Paul Münch, ed., Ordnung, Fleiss und Sparsamkeit.

Texte und Dokumente zur Entstehung der “bürgerlichen Tugenden” (Munich, 1984). See also, Urs Altermatt, Katholizismus und Moderne. Zur Sozial- und Mentalitätsgeschichte der Schweizer Katholiken im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Benziger, 1989), pp. 51–57.

24 Thomas Nipperdey, “Max Weber, Protestantism, and the Debate around 1900,” in Lehmann and Roth, Weber’s Protestant Ethic, pp. 73–82. See also Günther Roth, “Introduction,” in Lehmann and Roth, Weber’s Protestant Ethic, pp. 1–24, esp. pp. 5–7.

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what their prejudices had prepared them to see, but by Weber’s day

there seemed little question that Catholicism was directly and causally linked to ignorance, passivity, and laziness. The question behind his

famous thesis, therefore, was not whether a speciÀ cally Protestant ethic had led to capitalist advancement, but how or why. Weber did not

erect an “idealist” construction of capitalism in opposition to Marx-

ist materialism. Instead what he provided was an analysis of the class consciousness and class psychology of a development, whose material

and political roots he never denied.

It is not my purpose to rehearse here the grand arguments that have

swirled around Weber’s famous thesis.25 Many of Weber’s critics seem

to have almost deliberately misunderstood what he intended; others

found the core of Weber’s innovation in his use of “ideal types” or in his understanding of the “spirit of capitalism,” sociologically important arguments that do not concern us here. Instead let us concentrate on a crucial aspect of Weber’s approach that affected Reformation

studies. Recall that for Weber the chief explanandum was how certain Protestants came to understand the certainty of their salvation. In his view both Catholics and Lutherans made certitude of salvation rather

easy by depending upon the sacraments of the Church or upon faith

and grace alone. For neither of those confessions was one’s station or success in worldly life any indicator of one’s eternal home. And Weber argued that Luther, after early embracing the doctrine of predestination, moved progressively away from it toward a sense that salvation could

be lost and regained (while Melanchthon explicitly avoided the doctrine in the Augsburg Confession of 1530).26 Among pietist Lutherans, and

especially in Count Nicholas Ludwig von Zinzendorf, moreover, Weber

diagnosed such an emphasis upon religious feelings that spokesmen for

this branch of Lutheranism effectively opposed striving for certainty, for rational work or organization in one’s life, and for attempts to

notice progress in one’s religious life.27 In Weber’s view, Lutheran piety 25 The literature dealing with Weber’s Protestant Ethic has continued to grow and can perhaps now be best approached, at least for work in English, through the massive bibliographical effort of Peter Kvisto and William H. Swatos, Jr., Max Weber: A Bio-Bibliography (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1988), pp. 130–176.

26 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, tr. and introd. by Stephen Kalberg (Los Angeles: Roxbury, 2002), p. 58 and nn. 17–19, p. 192.

27 Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 86, and nn. 156–167, pp. 214–16. For Zinzendorf, in short, “mysticism replaces asceticism” p. 216.

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therefore developed an appreciation for mysticism and an essentially

“passive character”; the ultimate religious experience for Lutherans was an “unio mystica with the Divine.”28

For Calvin, however, and more especially for the English Calvinists,

certainty of salvation was much harder to obtain. Weber thought that

English Puritans came to emphasize God’s implacable decree well

beyond what Calvin had taught, with the result that believers, trapped in the “grandiose consistency of the doctrine of predestination,” fell into what Weber characterized as a “a feeling of unimaginable inner

loneliness of the solitary individual. The question of eternal salvation constituted people’s primary life concern during the Reformation epoch, yet they were directed to pursue their life’s journey in solitude.”29 In consequence the Reform tradition launched a quest for signs of grace, pointers by which a desperate believer might hope to determine that

God had enrolled him in the Book of Life. Certainty of Salvation

became the acute problem, to which a rational, ascetic, hard-working

life was the almost unavoidable human response. Hence, for Weber,

predestination drove Calvin’s epigones to a life of self-denial, sensual deprivation, and sober discipline: “Restless work in a vocational calling was recommended as the best possible means to acquire the self-conÀ dence that one belonged among the elect.”30

Let us pause to notice what Weber was trying to do. He took the

sharp theological differences, especially the ever sharper differences between Lutherans and the Reformed over predestination, and discovered within them different results for one’s orientation to the world and the direction of one’s life. For Weber, a doctrinal difference made a difference if one could see a consequent psychological difference in believers, in their ethos. The approach was brilliant, for it offered to the modern observer a way of seeing in depth, beyond, over, or through

the apparently arid disputes of acrimonious theologians, the origins

of very different ways of living. In Weber’s hands, religious difference became psychological.31 The Reformation, in this sense, was not mainly 28 Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 66 and n. 59, p. 200, emphasis in the original.

29 Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 59 and nn. 22–23, pp. 192–193.

30 Weber, Protestant Ethic, pp. 65–66, and nn. 50–58, pp. 198–200. Emphasis in the original.

31 Weber, Protestant Ethic, pp. 59, 79, 121, 198. As Gordon Marshall puts it, this is the

“heart of the matter,” In Search of the Spirit of Capitalism. An Essay on Max Weber’s Protestant Ethic Thesis (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), pp. 97–100; “particular OCKER V1_f5_34-61.indd 45

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a dispute over the political and economic power of the papacy, not a

national struggle for liberation or for the creation of a German piety, and certainly much more than a theological or religious dispute over

the means of salvation. Weber offered to recover the depth of the

Reformation in terms that secular men and women around 1900 could

appreciate.32

Reformation historians, by and large, have not appreciated the offer.

In addition to a host of objections to Weber’s understanding of Luther’s and Calvin’s social and economic teachings, of notions of worldly call-ings ( Beruf, vocatio), and of possible or probable links to the emergence of capitalism in speciÀ c parts of Europe and America, Reformation

historians have largely rejected Weber’s insistence upon predestination as the key doctrine that separated Catholics and Lutherans on the

one hand from the Reformed on the other. To take a recent example,

Philip Benedict has conceded that the doctrine of predestination did

prompt several prominent English theologians to “stress the need for

individual believers to make their election sure and to develop a highly rationalized literature of practical piety containing systematic techniques of self-monitoring and moral improvement.”33 But he is quick

to note that this tradition did not spring simply from fears about one’s status before a wrathful and occult God. “[ I ]t was also a response to the distinctive pastoral situation that faced godly English clergymen

in a half-reformed land lacking a full preaching ministry and a settled system of parochial discipline.”34 Thus even when this English literature reached the Reformed congregations on the Continent, achieving

“a wider diffusion, it received a cool reception,” especially in France.

Indeed, the Reformed came increasingly to emphasize right living in

the seventeenth century even as their predestinarian theology began to emphasis is placed upon the ‘psychological sanction’ arising out of, on the one hand, the neo-Calvinist interpretation of the doctrine of predestination and, on the other, the public scrutiny of everyday conduct practiced within the Protestant sects.” p. 99; cf. pp. 72–82. And yet, as Marshall also notes, Weber “provides no evidence whatsoever to substantiate his claim that the orientation towards economic conduct allegedly induced by the belief-systems of ascetic Protestantism was, in fact, subscribed to by the Protestant business community. . . . It is therefore legitimate to claim, as several critics have, that Weber nowhere demonstrates that the average Protestant internalized and acted upon the ideas which he describes in his essays.” p. 95.

32 See John Patrick Diggins, Max Weber. Politics and the Spirit of Tragedy (New York: Basic, 1996), pp. 92–109, a chapter subtitled “The Irony of Unintended Consequences.”

33 Philip Benedict, Christ’s Churches Purely Reformed. A Social History of Calvinsim (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), p. 540.

34 Benedict, Christ’s Churches, p. 540.

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wither.35 It thus appears that predestination was only a strand, and by no means always the strongest strand of Reformed thinking.

It is, however, true that Lutheran theologians of the Age of Ortho-

doxy liked to emphasize their differences from Calvinists by claiming

that the Reformed preached an intolerable decree of “double predesti-

nation” by which God willingly chose to damn some persons arbitrarily

while lovingly electing only some to eternal salvation. The supposed

anxieties of would-be Calvinist Christians, therefore corresponded all too well to the stereotypes broadcast by Lutheran polemicists, especially German polemicists.36 Even for the orthodox Reformed, the doctrine

of predestination was often presented as an enormous relief from the burdens of achieving true, saving faith, of continuing to work in some way for one’s salvation.37

Worse for Weber’s notion of the agonies resulting from the raw,

unÀ ltered doctrine of double predestination has been the discovery

that several of his key À gures reveal something rather different from what he thought he could À nd in them. Chief among them is Richard

Baxter (1615–1691), in whom Weber contrived to see crystallized the

Protestant attitude toward work, poverty, and wealth deriving from an

intense Calvinist spirituality, the desire for “relief from tremendous tension.”38 Unfortunately, although Weber conceded that Baxter “moved

35 Benedict, Christ’s Churches, p. 540.

36 Heinrich Schmid, The Doctrinal Theology of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, 3rd ed, revised, tr. by Charles A. Hay and Henry E. Jacobs (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1961), pp. 270–92. Johann Andreas Quenstedt (1617–1688), for example, pointedly charged that Calvin and the Calvinists taught that “it is not the earnestly intended will of God that all men should be saved unto whom the Gospel is preached, and, accordingly a distinction is made between the manifest will, or that of the sign, and the secret will, or that of the purpose.” citing his Theologia Didactico-Polemica of 1685, ibid., 291. Caspar Brochmann (1585–1682), in his Universae Theologiae Systema of 1633, claimed that “We must avoid considering God the cause of reprobation in the same manner as He is the cause of election. For He is the cause of election, both with regard to His effecting it and with regard to the end; both with regard to the decrees and to all the means leading to the end. But the matter is different in reprobation. For, since reprobation is eternal perdition, to which there is no direct way except through sin, and especially unbelief, every one must see that reprobation cannot be ascribed to God as effecting it, inasmuch as it is either damnation itself or sin, the means leading thither. The true cause of reprobation is in man himself, and is undoubtedly the obstinate contempt of the grace offered in the Gospel.” Ibid., p. 292.

37 Albert Hyma emphasized that Weber had misunderstood the doctrine of predestination among the Calvinists of the Netherlands and hence drew untenable conclusions,

“Calvinism and Capitalism in the Netherlands, 1555–1700,” Journal of Modern History 10 (1938), pp. 321–43.

38 Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 70.

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gradually away from an orthodox Calvinism,”39 he does not seem to

have understood that Baxter had abandoned the very doctrine of double predestination that Weber held responsible for the “Protestant ethic.” In effect, Baxter adopted a “Lutheran” or even Pyrrhonist notion of faith and grace, by which we apparently can be more sure of God’s grace

and love than we can be of ourselves. As William Lamont has put it,

“[w]e have faith, says Baxter, even if we think that we haven’t. Anxieties therefore can now be contained within this Pyrrhonist framework.”40

This is not just an embarrassing subtraction from Weber’s select list

of spokesmen for the Protestant ethic; the Baxter that emerges now

reveals that a perfect exemplar of that ethic did not teach (or personally entertain) the anxieties over salvation that Weber saw as its peculiar ground.

Moreover, Kaspar von Greyerz has found that in England, even

among the zealous Protestants who recorded their religious lives in scrupulous detail, most found their lives suffused with “special providences,”

with palpable signs of God’s good will, so that even if one could not prove to one’s satisfaction that one was among the saved, one might

still obtain relief from doubts by observing God’s benevolence toward the faithful and His wrath against the godless.41 Drawing upon about

one hundred autobiographies and about three hundred diaries, von

Greyerz was peculiarly well equipped to speak at least about the literate Puritan, the self-conscious and self-expressive elite among the Reformed.

Instead of dwelling upon the covenant or their feeble efforts to obtain certitude of salvation, many dwelt upon “God’s presence in their daily 39 Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 103.

40 William Lamont, Puritanism and Historical Controversy (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1996), p. 109. “It is not that Baxter and other puritans do not have prejudices that match well with a “Protestant Ethic”: the poor’s responsibility for their plight, the importance of property, a horror of levelling doctrines, a recognition of the need to use one’s time methodically, and so on. But the point that Weber made was a greater one: the prejudices match so well because they can be related to a particular tension within predestinarian belief. But what Baxter’s À rst section [of the Christian Directory] showed (and he would expand this in his later Catholick theologie) is that there is a way of resolving these tensions, and that way is an anti-Calvinist way. We have faith, says Baxter, even if we think that we haven’t: anxieties therefore can now be contained within this Pyrrhonist framework.”

41 Kaspar von Greyerz, “Biographical Evidence on Predestination, Covenant, and Special Providence,” in Lehmann and Roth, Weber’s Protestant Ethic, pp. 273–284; drawing on his larger study, Vorsehungsglaube und Kosmologie. Studien zu englischen Selbstzeugnissen des 17. Jahrhunderts (= Veröffentlichungen des Deutschen Historicschen Instituts London, vol. 25), (Göttingen and Zurich, 1990).

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lives.” Their God was not “distant and inscrutable” but a kindly “father À gure who intervened in one’s life, much as the saints intervened in

believers’ lives in the eyes of contemporary Catholics.”42

Von Greyerz has not only corrected a point of emphasis in Weber’s

account. Methodologically he also dealt with one of Weber’s chief

weaknesses: the concentration on just a few, supposedly typical À gures, À gures whom Weber regarded as coming close to the “ideal type” of

Protestant, the sort of anxious Christian that perhaps Weber thought

he himself would have been had he only accepted the premises of

their worldview. By distinguishing between what the elite, orthodox

theologians taught and what ordinary Christians heard and believed,

von Greyerz responds as countless other historians have done in recent decades. We no longer accept, as Weber did, that one can choose a

couple of “key” À gures and, by paying close attention to their thoughts, discern what a whole movement felt and believed.43 Assessing the minds and motives of a movement turns out to be an empirical question, which can in principle only be settled by meticulous empirical research.

These corrections to Weber have been substantial, but they do not

diminish the achievement to which I have been trying to draw atten-

tion: he succeeded in presenting a Reformation whose psychological

effects needed serious study. Legions of scholars have plunged into the existential and psychological depths of Reformation thought, inspired or perhaps even more often repelled by Weber’s vision of Luther and

Calvin’s achievement. There is no reason here to spell out such debts

in detail, but the reaction of Karl Holl (1866–1926), the founder of the so-called Luther Renaissance of the early twentieth century, is worth 42 Von Greyerz, “Biographical Evidence,” p. 276.

43 Other apparently archetypical Puritan À gures did not draw the conclusions that Weber thought implicit in English Calvinism. Paul Seaver describes the enthusiastic and troubled Puritan diarist Nehemiah Wallington’s attitude toward work as more medieval than modern: “If these attitudes seem closer to those of the medieval mor-alist than to the work ethic of Weber’s Protestant saint, it may be that the ethics of getting and spending had as yet changed little, and that when change came, it was not at the hands of the Puritan artisans and craftsment.” Paul Seaver, Wallington’s World. A Puritan Artisan in Seventeenth-Century London (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), p. 126; see Paul Seaver, “The Puritan Work Ethic Revisited,” Journal of British Studies 19 (1980), pp. 35–53; C. John Sommerville, “The Anti-Puritan Work Ethic,” Journal of British Studies 20 (1981), pp. 70–81; Timothy Hall Breen, “The Non-Existent Controversy: Puritan and Anglican Attitudes on Work and Wealth, 1600–1640.” Church History 35 (1966), pp. 273–87.

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observing.44 Although his original lecture on “Luther’s Judgments of

Himself ” was delivered at Tübingen in 1903, the full essay was not

published until 1921, when it unfolded as a reaction not only against

the moralizing of Albrecht Ritschl (1822–1889) but especially against the conservative characterization of Lutheranism in Max Weber and

Ernst Troeltsch. For Holl, it was crucial to see that Luther was plagued all his life by Anfechtungen, severe attacks of doubt and despair, of “night wars” and absolute self-rejection. Even when he recovered his conÀ -

dence, he was never safe from falling back into attacks. Indeed Holl

argued that Luther never lost touch with his demons and doubts, that

Johannes Staupitz was right to think that Luther’s Anfechtungen “were as necessary to him as food and drink.”45 No wonder he could not move

on with equanimity to construct a life of steady sanctiÀ cation.

This new picture of Luther the constant self-doubter stood as a sharp rebuke to Weber’s notion of Luther and Lutheranism as authors of a

secure conÀ dence that justiÀ cation was certain. Perhaps Luther taught that justiÀ cation should be certain for those with faith, even for those with little faith, but Luther himself was unable to put this hypothetical certainty into regular practice. We may need to distinguish, therefore, between theological and psychological certainty, but even with this

clariÀ cation it would appear that Weber was more interested in the

psychological uncertainty of Calvinist Christians, supposedly in contrast to more placid and more existentially certain Lutherans and Catholics. Indeed, Weber probably also oversimpliÀ ed Roman Catholicism

when he emphasized that Rome provided a sacramentally guaranteed

certainty of salvation, even though late medieval theologians regularly taught that “homo viator” could never attain true “certitudo salutis.”46

44 On Holl and the Luther Renaissance, see James M. Stayer, Martin Luther, German Saviour. German Evangelical Theological Factions and the Interpretation of Luther, 1917–1933

(Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2000), esp. pp. 18–47.

45 Karl Holl, “Martin Luther on Luther,” [a translation of Luthers Urteile über sich selbst], translated by H.C. Erik Midelfort, in Jaroslav Pelikan, Interpreters of Luther. Essays in Honor of Wilhelm Pauck, (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1968), pp. 9–34 at p. 14, citing Luther, WA TR 1, 62.

46 Oberman, The Harvest of Medieval Theology (Eerdmans, 1967), 167, 181–184, 200, 288, and Steven E. Ozment, “Homo Viator: Luther and Late Medieval Theology,”

Harvard Theological Review 62 (1969), 275–87; reprinted in Ozment, ed., The Reformation in Medieval Perspective (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1971), 142–154. Homo viator always remains without the possibility of certitudo salutis. “For the medieval theologian it [the pilgrim status] could be suspended only in direct proportion to the degree to which man himself was no longer human and sinful. The medieval mystical traditions go further in overcoming man’s pilgrim status precisely because they go further in ‘deifying’

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Anyway, the critical point here is that by directing attention to the psychological attributes of believers, Weber seems to have triggered off a set of reactions in Karl Holl and in the subsequent Luther Renaissance that concentrated increasing attention on Luther’s inner state of mind, his struggle to À nd and retain a gracious God. Existential and dialectical interpretations of Luther also shot off from this new appreciation of the inner Luther, the psychological foundations of which had been adum-brated by Weber.47 From this point of view, the later scholarly concern with determining just when Luther experienced his “Turmerlebnis,” just when he broke through to an entirely new conception of the law and

the gospel, of faith and grace, becomes somewhat clearer.48

Moreover, when Reformation historians turned away from the fascina-

tions of Luther’s elemental breakthrough, they turned toward precisely the epidemiological questions that Weber had asked at the beginning of the century. Here one needs only recall the line of enquiry started by Bernd Moeller, whose little study Imperial Cities and the Reformation (1962) became a stimulus to a whole generation of scholars who now sought

to understand why Lutheran, Reformed, or sectarian ideas spread when

and where they did. This scholarly movement of the 1960s and 1970s

has only begun to wane in the last ten or À fteen years.

man. Luther, on the other hand, overcomes the pilgrim status ‘by faith alone’—a feat theologically impossible for every medieval theologian, since such faith leaves man fully human and sinful in himself.” p. 143. See also Joachim Ringleben, “Heilsgewissheit.

Eine sytstematische Betrachtung,” in Zeitschrift für Theologic und Kirche, Beiheft 10: Zur Rechtfertigungslehre, ed. Eberhard Jüngel (Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 1998), pp. 65–100.

47 See James Luther Adams, “Paul Tillich on Luther,” in Pelikan, ed., Interpreters of Luther, pp. 304–334. For Tillich modern man seeks for meaning in something like the way that Luther sought for a gracious God. “In fact, the sense of the loss of meaning gives contemporary man an acute anxiety and something of that sense of hopeless-ness which Luther experienced.” p. 315. In a 1924 essay entitled “Rechtfertigung und Zweifel,” Tillich remarked that “The justiÀ cation of the doubter is only possible as the breaking of unconditional certainty through the sphere of uncertainties and errors; it is the breaking through of certainty that the truth which the doubter seeks, the meaning of life for which the one in despair struggles, is not the goal but rather the presupposition of all doubt even up to despair.” Cited in Adams, “Paul Tillich on Luther,” fn. 34, p. 333.

48 This was virtually a scholarly obsession in the 1960s and 1970s.

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Emile Durkheim

Just as Weber set forth a range of questions to which scholars over the past century have given divergent answers, so too Emile Durkheim

treated the Reformation, at least implicitly, as one of the features of the modern world. Durkheim did not have the historical curiosity or

sensibilities of Marx or Weber, but he was sure that one of the cardinal features of modernity, perhaps the cardinal feature, was the breakdown of the social solidarity that had once bound together communities. In this analysis he agreed with Ferdinand Tönnies, Henry Sumner Maine,

Lewis Henry Morgan, and other social observers, who thought that

modern problems stemmed from discarding or transcending the guilds,

villages, communes, and church solidarities that once (in the Middle

Ages or even up to the French Revolution) had bound men and women

together in collectivities of meaning and allegiance.49 Like Marx and Weber, Durkheim concerned himself with the increasingly impersonal

and mechanical conditions of life: urbanized, alienated, demoralized, secularized, acquisitive, mercantile and individualized, cut off from traditional values and sources of social cohesion. And like Weber, he noticed the “epidemiological” effects of varying religious allegiances.

He lacked, however, Weber and Marx’s intense historical interest in

tracing the origins and course of modernization, and usually contented himself with observing what he saw as the effects of religious change on social cohesion.50

In looking at Durkheim, therefore, let us concentrate on one of his

most famous observations, that everywhere one looks suicide is “always more common among Protestants than among Roman Catholics.” This

49 Oexle, O.G. (1992). “Medieval Social Groups and the Beginnings of Contemporary Sociology.” Annales: Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations 47(3): 751–65; Bellah, R.N.

(1990). “Morale, Religion et Société dans l’Oeuvre Durkheimienne.” Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions 69: 9–25; Goblet d’Alviella, L.C. (1913). “La Sociologie de M. Durkheim et l’histoire des religions.” Revue de l’histoire des religions 67: 192–221; Preus, J.S. (1987). Explaining Religion: Criticism and Theory from Bodin to Freud. New Haven, CT, Yale University Press; Tole, L.A. (1993). “Durkheim on Religion and Moral Community in Modernity,” Sociological Inquiry 63(1): 1–29.

50 Durkheim did have, however, a striking impact upon the thinking of several important medievalists, who tried in their work to see the social structures that governed the thinking and behavior of medieval men and women. See for example Norman Cantor, Inventing the Middle Ages: The Lives, Works, and Ideas of the Great Medievalists of the Twentieth Century (New York: William Morrow, 1991), pp. 127–28, 142 (Marc Bloch); 334–335 (Etienne Gilson); and esp. 53, 57 (Frederic William Maitland).

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was not his discovery but a commonplace of the late nineteenth century.

While Saxony and Denmark, for example, had suicide rates of 392 and

251 per million inhabitants (for the period 1878–1882), Belgium and

Ireland had suicide rates of only 100 and 17, respectively (for the same period). The reason, Durkheim argued, had nothing directly to do with

differences in theology or in speciÀ c Protestant or Catholic teachings on suicide, and certainly no one had intended to stimulate waves of Protestant suicide. Instead, the emergent pattern had everything to do with

what Durkheim described as the greater emphasis upon the individual

and a consequently diminished social solidarity among Protestants, the lack of tight-knit communities that took care of one another, actively interfered and supported church members. This À nding has been so

remarkably consistent among sociologists that critics have sometimes

sarcastically labeled it “sociology’s one law.” In arguing for the social roots of social phenomena, Durkheim was arguing for the autonomy

of sociology, its independence from psychology and culture, and for

that reason his work lives on as classic, one of the founding documents of an entire discipline.

Roughly stated, Durkheim held that higher rates of suicide were

often prompted by increasing conditions of social isolation, loosening the tight webs of social support that served to protect populations from the effects of urbanization, individualism, migration, and other conditions of modernity.51 It seemed to make sense, from this point of view, 51 Adolf Wagner, Die Gesetzmäßigkeit in den scheinbar willkürlichen menschlichen Handlungen (Hamburg, 1864), p. 185; Hans Rost, Bibliographie des Selbstmords (Augsburg: Haas & Grabherr, 1927), pp. 23–30.

Too loose a social bond resulted in what Durkheim called egoistic suicide. But for Durkheim, too tight a social bond could also lead to suicide if individuals identiÀ ed over-much with the goals of their group and no longer distinguished their own best interests from those of the group. This he labeled “altruisitic” suicide. See Durkheim, Suicide: A Study in Sociology, tr. J. Spaulding and George Siimpson (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1951) , pp. 253, 257, 321ff., 363ff. See also Gianfranco Poggi, Images of Society. Essays on the Sociological Theories of Tocqueville, Marx, and Durkheim (Stanford: Stanford UP, 1972), pp.

190–210; and Gianfranco Poggi, Durkheim (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp.

66–78: “Society may become too little committed to its normal rules, too little assured of their validity, and as a result many social expectations may become destabilized, lose their legitimacy and effectiveness. Under these conditions, too many people too much of the time may be at a loss as to what to think, to expect of themselves and of others. The prevailing condition may become one of ‘anomie’, of normlessness: one where widely agreed, understood, respected standards of conduct no longer exist, or at any rate do not exist for some spheres and phases of social life of considerable general signiÀ cance. . . . People move on, restlessly, in a moral vacuum. One can well imagine that, particularly when an individual in these circumstances encounters a crisis, a serious OCKER V1_f5_34-61.indd 53

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that Protestants (as a “modern,” “secularizing,” and “individualizing”

movement) should always and everywhere have higher rates of suicide

than presumably more traditional and more socially cohesive Catholics.

They were more driven or controlled by their own consciences and less

by tradition; more by a sense of moral independence than by subordination to the parish priest and the family hierarchy. Because Protestants developed a different, more independent, more conscience-driven set

of norms, it made sense to Durkheim that these new norms were also

expressed in the suicide rate. Durkheim did not himself undertake the historical investigations that might have anchored this “law” in European history, but his starting point is otherwise parallel to Weber’s observation that among his contemporaries the “spirit of capitalism” was far more often to be found among Protestants.

Durkheim’s notion of suicide has been criticized from various angles, but that is not my concern here. Instead I wish to call attention to the way in which his great work has, like Weber’s, stimulated fresh research and new answers, even if this work has not always conÀ rmed the great sociologist’s major contentions. A good example is the remarkably

comprehensive history of suicide in the Middle Ages by Alexander

Murray, projected to be published in three volumes, of which two are

now available. Without ofÀ cial statistics, Murray has meticulously resurrected the records of probable suicides from all manner of French, Italian, German, and English sources, and while he has reservations

about whether they can justify the calculation of a suicide rate for any country in the Middle Ages, he seems certain that the century of the

Reformation saw a dramatic escalation of suicide, perhaps especially in England.52 He gathers this certainty largely from the work of Michael MacDonald and Terence Murphy, who published over À fteen years ago

a most extraordinary study of suicide in England from 1500 to 1800.53

Together, MacDonald and Murphy counted thousands and thousands

of suicides before concluding in despair that the calculation of any reliable suicide rate was impossible. Regardless of this unexpected result, it setback, in absolute terms or in relation to what he/she sees happening to others, this situation may induce in him/her a kind of moral giddiness, a ‘taste of ashes’, a disgust for life and its meaninglessness, that lead in turn to suicide.”

52 Alexander Murray, Suicide in the Middle Ages. Volume 1: The Violent Against Themselves (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998); Suicide in the Middle Ages. Volume 2, The Curse on Self-Murder (Oxford: New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).

53 Michael MacDonald and Terence R. Murphy, Sleepless Souls: Suicide in Early Modern England (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990).

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appears that the huge numbers of self-killings they detected completely dwarf the likely À ndings from all the medieval centuries. Instead of merely concluding that the records of early modern England obviously

became far more complete and more completely preserved, Murray

and other observers have found here conÀ rmation of their essentially Durkheimian hunch, that suicide indeed became one of the unfortunate

hallmarks of the early modern, and especially the Protestant world.

This is not a necessary conclusion. One difÀ culty that Durkheim

did not adequately address was his reliance upon the ofÀ cial statistics compiled by the increasingly centralized and bureaucratically efÀ cient states of Europe. In my view he was overly optimistic in thinking that reported rates of suicides at least corresponded in some regular way to the “real” rate of suicide, that they at least had indexical value. One reason this is problematic is that from early on in the Reformation Protestants, and especially Lutherans, began to see depression or despair as an almost unavoidable stage in a healthy religious life. Although such a conclusion may seem bizarre, Luther held, for example, that a certain

despair was necessary to the spiritual life. Without an experience of

one’s own total worthlessness, one might well develop the stony heart

that could question God’s justice. Even Christ himself had despaired, just as every Christian must, believing himself forsaken by God. This was the real meaning of Christ’s descent into hell, a hell that Luther too had experienced when, in his worst Anfechtungen, he wished that he had never been born. But the purpose of such agonies was precisely to awaken slothful and presumptuous man from his sleep of sin, and so

Luther in 1525 could look back and say, “how wholesome that despair

was, and how near to grace.”54

From Luther’s own peculiar point of view, suicide was not necessar-

ily evidence of madness or mental illness, but suicides were not fully culpable either. Being driven or ridden by the devil, they often had no real choice in the matter:

54 Wymer , Suicide and Despair, pp. 6, 65–66; E. Gordon Rupp, The Righteousness of God: Luther Studies (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1953), p. 282; Arieh Sachs, “Religious Despair in Medieval Literature and Art,” Mediaeval Studies 26 (1964), pp. 231–56; Susan Snyder, “The Left Hand of God in Medieval and Renaissance Traditions,” Studies in the Renaissance 12 (l965), pp. 18–59, at p. 27; Luther, “Ego ipse non semel offensus sum usque ad profundum et abyssum desperationis, ut optarem nunquam esse me creatum hominem, antequam scirem quam salutaris illa esset desperatio et quam gratiae pro-pinqua.” De servo arbitrio, WA 18, p. 719.

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I do not agree that those who kill themselves are simply damned, for

this reason, that they do not do it gladly, but are rather overpowered by the power of the devil, like one who is murdered in the woods by a robber.55

If one’s thoughts were not completely one’s own, and if one were not in control of oneself, God was perhaps proving “that the devil is a mighty lord and that one must pray [to God] fervently. If we didn’t have such examples, we wouldn’t fear God, and so He teaches us in this way.”56

The devil was a murderer. In 1532, impressed by the accumulating

signs of the impending apocalypse, Luther complained of the rising

tide of those who became fearful, “and daily we hear of more, whom

the devil rides and torments with temptations and despair, so that they hang themselves or kill themselves some other way in great anxiety.”57

Again and again Luther concluded that there were no true self-mur-

derers, for the devil merely used the bodies of the despondent as his tools. Helpless mankind could only hope that Christ would replace the

devil as the rider of one’s life.58 Of course, traditional Catholic theology also often assigned suicidal temptations to the devil, but generally held that Christians should be strong enough to repulse such assaults or that the Church and her remedies could assist in warding off demonic

despair. Luther accentuated the power of the devil to take charge with or without the cooperation of his victims.

With such a theory Luther created, in effect, a kind of demonic

insanity defense.59 Later Lutherans picked up on just this point.60

55 WATR no. 222; see also no. 2597.

56 WATR no. 222.

57 Sermon of 10 December 1532: WA 34, 2, p. 463; for further references to the devil’s riding a person see WA 10, 2, p. 279; WA 30, p. 170; WA 34, 1, p. 531.

58 Heiko A. Oberman, Luther: Man Between God and the Devil (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), pp. 104–106, 175–179, 218–220.

59 In his great Galatians commentary of 1535, Luther wrote again of the way in which the devil accuses and deludes sinful men: “When he wants to kill troubled consciences with excessive sorrow, he knows how to transform himself into the À gure of Christ so accurately and perfectly that it is impossible for a person in temptation to notice this. Not knowing this, many are driven to the point of despair and commit suicide. For they have been so demented by the devil that they have been convinced that it most certainly true that they are being tempted and accused, not by the devil but by Christ Himself.” LW 26, p. 195; WA 40, p. 319.

60 Nikolaus Paulus, “Der Selbstmord im 16. Jahrhundert,” Wissenschaftliche Beilage zur Germania (Berlin), Jahrgang 1896–1897, no. 1 (Oct. 1, 1896), pp. 5–8, at p. 6. See also Johann M. Neser, Drey christliche Predigten, die zwo ersten auß dem 77. Psalmen Von Melancholia, Schwermütigkeit, hohen innerlichen Anfechtungen, etc. Die dritte Predigt aus dem 88.

Psalmen. Von den schrecklichen Anfechtungen der Verzweiffelung. Und was von der Seligkeit zu halten, OCKER V1_f5_34-61.indd 56

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Suicide was for them no longer the nonstop-ticket to hell that medi-

eval Christian theology had taught.61 In this it appears that Lutherans were possibly more tender-hearted than their Protestant brethren in

England, or possibly more convinced of the direct and physical pow-

ers of the devil.62

The same apocalyptic mood that persuaded Luther to see a swelling

tide of suicide overtook many of Luther’s followers.63 The Lutheran

superintendent of Brandenburg, Andreas Celichius, published in 1578

a fat report “on those who kill themselves out of anxiety and despair.”64

As far as he could see, despair was to be found at every turn, among old and young, rich and poor, the healthy and the sick. The devil attacked anxious Lutherans and made them doubt the universal goodness of

God. The disproportionate preaching of the Law, so necessary to break the stubborn will of the godless, could be carried too far and destroy the faith of the meek. “These people [the suicides] give the gospel a bad name in the world and slap people in the face so that they turn

their backs on true doctrine . . . for they see and hear that some of our people can get no consolation from the evangelical religion.”65 These

self-murderers acted “as if the force and fruit of the gospel were all a fantasy.”66 Just a few years earlier, Celichius had worried in a similar vein that when the devil attacks our faith, he leads us to believe that all the daily misfortunes and evils of life are the fault of Lutheran doctrine, die sich selbsten entleiben (Wittenberg, 1613); and T. Sigfrid, Tractat von der hohen Frage, Ob ein Mensch der sich selbst umb sein Leben bringt selig oder verdempt . . . sey ([Erfurt?] 1590); Erasmus Ungepaur, Disputatio de AYTOXEIPIA , singularis, homicidium suiipsiu jurecivili licitum esse demonstrans ( Jena, 1609).

61 For the development of Christian doctrine on suicide, see S.E. Sprott, The English Debate on Suicide from Donne to Hume (La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1961), pp. 1–28; George Rosen, “History in the Study of Suicide,” Psychological Medicine 1 (1971), pp. 267–85; reprinted in Seymore Perlin, ed., A Handbook for the Study of Suicide (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975), pp. 3–29; Wymer, Suicide and Despair, pp. 10–25.

62 Michael MacDonald notes that English writers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries regularly saw suicide as the devil’s work, but they rarely developed this point into any sort of excuse or defense: “Introduction” to John Sym, Life’s Preservative Against Self Killing, ed. Michael MacDonald (London: Routledge, 1988), pp. xvi–xxiv.

63 I have treated this topic more fully in my essay, “Religious Melancholy and Suicide: On the Reformation Origins of a Sociological Stereotype,” in Madness, Melancholy and the Limits of the Self, ed. Andrew D. Weiner and Leonard V. Kaplan (Madison, 1996) [= vol. 3 of Graven Images: Studies in Culture, Law and the Sacred ], pp. 41–56.

64 Andreas Celichius, Nützlicher und nothwendiger Bericht, Von den Leuten, so sich selbst aus angst, verzweiffelung oder andern ursachen entleiben und hinrichten (Magdeburg, 1578).

65 Celicius, Nützlicher und nothwendiger Bericht, fol. R5 verso.

66 Celicius, Nützlicher und nothwendiger Bericht, fol. R5 verso.

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a belief that seemed to lead some to suicide.67 Lutheran preachers

such as Simon Musaeus in 1569 and Zacharias Bachmann (Rivander)

in 1591 were sure that suicide was reaching epidemic proportions.68

Apocalyptically-minded Lutherans sensed a growing despair that led

almost inexorably to self-destruction.69 The Wittenberg professor Heinrich Moller wrote in 1567, “We see many who are overcome by despair

and take their own lives.”70 Pastor Cyriakus Spangenberg noticed the

same tragic rise of suicidal despair as early as 1556 in Mansfeld.71 All of these deaths proved to faithful Lutherans just how dangerous the devil was, now that he had been unleashed for the turmoils and holocausts

of the Last Days.72

Lutherans would surely not have admitted that a rising tide of

suicide was the natural or necessary result of a gloomy or depressing religion; but that was just the conclusion drawn by Catholic controversialists, who exultantly noted that when Protestants threw away the means of their salvation and consolation, they laid themselves open to suicidal despair. “Ey, we have gotten rid of God’s grace,” mocked the suffragan bishop of Mainz, Michael Helding, in a sermon preached

to the Diet of Augsburg in 1547, in which he scornfully impersonated

the Lutherans: “We no longer want the power of God offered us in the

holy sacraments. So when the devil À nds us naked, he easily overpow-

ers us and drives us at his pleasure into all kinds of sin, scandal, and 67 Andreas Celichius, Evangelion von dem Cananaischen Weib, Matth. 15. Für Angefochtene Schwermütige Hertzen (Magdeburg, 1575), fol. C8 verso.

68 Musaeus, Nützlicher Bericht wider den Melancholischen Teuffel (n.p., 1569), and Rivander (i.e., Zacharias Bachmann), Fest Chronica II (Leipzig, 1602; original edition, 1591), as cited by Paulus, “Der Selbstmord im 16. Jahrhundert,” p. 6.

69 Wenceslaus Sturm and Andreas Hondorff, Promptuarium Exemplorum (Leipzig, 1586), vol. 2, fol. 215 recto; Andreas Lang, “Sorgeteufel,” in Theatrum Diabolorum, ed.

Nicolaus Basseus (Frankfurt, 1587), vol. 2, fol. 361 verso; again as cited by Paulus,

“Selbstmord,” p. 6.

70 Moller, Enarratio concionum Hoseae (Wittenberg, 1567), fol. Z3 verso; cited by Paulus,

“Selbstmord,” p. 6.

71 Paulus, “Selbstmord,” p. 6.

72 Jacob Andreae wrote in a preface to an apocalyptic work: “God’s terrible judgment over many people also appears when they fall into anxiety and despair, in which condition they kill themselves.” Thomas Zelling , Ein Sermon . . . vom letzten Endt der Welt (Tübingen, 1562); Lukas Osiander thought it was a “sign of the Last Judgment” that so many people, “even pious people,” became so terriÀ ed and despondent that they were beyond consolation, “and some of them fell into such a depression [Schwermut]

that they have committed suicide.” Bauren-Postilla (Tübingen, 1599), vol. 4, p. 188; both cited by Paulus, “Selbstmord,” p. 7.

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despair.”73 Johan Oldecop, who had studied with Luther but decided to

remain a Catholic, noted in his well-known Chronicle of Hildesheim

that the many who killed themselves in 1556 “are all Lutheran citizens and no Papists.”74 It became almost as much a commonplace among

Catholic apologists four hundred years ago as it was among sociologists one hundred years ago: Lutherans “fall so much more often into great

despondency and despair . . . that they do themselves in with ropes,

knives, and in other ways; they jump into waters and wells to drown

themselves, and all because their new faith . . . is a dry cistern.”75

All of this goes far to suggest that just as political stereotypes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries preÀ gured the notion of Catholic culture as less entrepreneurial than that of Protestants, so too as early as the sixteenth century there were polemical reasons to think that Lutherans were peculiarly prone to suicide. This conclusion is not, however, a good enough reason to think that it was so. It may be precisely because Lutherans were so willing to recognize their propensity to depression

and to see the dangers in an overly acute sense of spiritual failure, that they were more willing than most to label suspicious deaths as

suicides rather than disguise them as accidents. In any event we must

now ask how well this picture of uncertain Lutherans comports with

Max Weber’s portrait of smug Lutherans basking in the glow of their

Heilsgewissheit—that certainty of salvation that supposedly set them off from their Calvinist rivals.

At least with the Calvinists of Geneva, however, we now have remark-

able evidence that at least until the eighteenth century the suicide rate was low, very low. Jeffrey Watt’s recent study of early modern Geneva shows that suicide remained extremely rare until the end of the seventeenth century and then increased only slowly in the early eighteenth

century.76 After 1750, however, the rate jumped up by a factor of À ve or 73 Helding, Von der Hailigsten Messe (Ingolstadt, 1548), fol. 7 recto; cited by Paulus,

“Selbstmord,” p. 7.

74 Johan Oldecop, Chronik, ed. K. Euling, (Bibliothek des literarischen Vereins in Stuttgart, vol. 190) (Tübingen, 1891), p. 390.

75 Etliche wichtige Ursachen, warumb in Augsburgischer Confession gefährlich zu leben und zu sterben, as cited by Paulus, “Selbstmord,” p. 7.

76 Jeffrey R. Watt, Choosing Death: Suicide and Calvinism in Early Modern Genev a (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2001); see also the recent collection of excellent articles in Jeffrey R. Watt, ed., From Sin to Insanity: Suicide in Early Modern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004); and the collection edited by Gabriela Signori, Trauer, VerzweiÁ ung und Anfechtung: Selbstmord und Selbstmordversuche in mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Gesellschaften (Tübingen: Edition Diskord, 1994).

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more, and went even higher after 1780. Whatever one’s qualms about

calculating a reliable suicide rate in a pre-modern society, Watt’s depiction of a dramatic escalation after 1750 seems unavoidable. And yet

this rising rate can hardly have been due to any increase in Calvinism there.77 Rather, Watt is probably right that Geneva during the Reformation period had promoted just as tight an integration of society as in any Catholic city or principality. Yet by the late eighteenth century, Genevans from top to bottom had grown more secular in their attitudes, abandoning belief in the devil and often in hell as well. These processes may have developed more quickly or more profoundly for men than

for women, which might then also explain why the disproportion of

male suicides became even more pronounced after 1750. Increasingly,

a more secular society relaxed its supportive web of norms and tradi-

tions as well as its sanctions against self-killing. Taking one’s own life became far easier to contemplate.78

What these studies permit us to conclude is that Durkheim set forth

a remarkably fruitful thesis, one which historians have used to provoke their research, but also one which their scholarly labors do not uniformly conÀ rm. It would appear, from the studies of suicide, that the Reformation may well have represented a continuation of the Catholic

world of norms and social values far more than a break-through to

some brave new world of conscience, autonomy, and egoistic suicide.

During the sixteenth century, indeed, Lutherans gained a reputation

for suicide they may not have deserved, but one that needs further

explanation.

77 On the difÀ culties in Watt’s analysis of Genevan suicide, see the paradoxical review by Patrice Higonnet in Journal of Modern History 77 (2005), pp. 472–474, in which Higonnet concludes: “This is an excellent, indeed, in many ways, exemplary work. Its conclusions are wholly plausible. But to my mind, its method is wholly un acceptable.”

78 Watt’s À nding disagrees with a contentious study of suicide in Zurich, in which Markus Schär connects the rapidly escalating numbers of self-inÁ icted deaths in the eighteenth century not with increasingly secular attitudes but with the growth of acute religious despair among people who doubted that they could ever gain God’s mercy: Markus Schär, Seelennöte der Untertanen: Selbstmord, Melancholie und Religion im Alten Zürich, 1500 –1800 (Zürich: Chronos, 1985). As Patrice Hignonnet pointed out, however (see note 75 above), it is quite impossible to tell at this remove what the real motives or reasons were for the observed rise in suicides in the eighteenth century. Even granting that, it is noteworthy that both Watt and Schär agree in emphasizing the importance of religious and cultural changes, rather than social changes (such as demography, economy, and urbanization), as crucial stimulants to suicide. In neither case could it be argued that conversion to Reformed worship brought with it a higher rate of suicide at least until the eighteenth century.

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the reformation and the early social sciences

61

Quite regardless of whether Durkheim “got it right,” however, it

seems undeniable that his line of questioning, like that of Max Weber, has prompted historians to undertake various projects aimed at what

I have called a cultural epidemiology, the careful effort to see not

how “we” (whoever we are) became so modern, but how the modern

Western world became so diverse. What Weber and Durkheim shared

was the ironic conviction that intentions may have had little to do with outcomes and that the religious eruption and dispersion of the sixteenth century had had consequences that could be subjected to study in the

twentieth century, even when the original religious impulses had run

dry. In contrast to Marx and Freud, therefore, for Weber and Durkheim

the Reformation shot up an arrow of the spirit, that may not yet have À nished falling on their unsuspecting or even unimagined targets, leaving the history of the Reformation the vital and surprising À eld that Tom Brady and his students have done so much to enrich.

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RANKE MEETS GADAMER: THE QUESTION OF

AGENCY IN THE REFORMATION

Lee Palmer Wandel

The following is an essai in Montaigne’s sense: a foray, an attempt.

It is not intended to be conclusive. Nor could it be. The question I

wish to explore here is not susceptible of proof, nor is there a single correct answer. It is the question of the relationship we posit between the details and the narrative in the writing of history:1 where do we locate agency in writing the history of the Reformation? Most of us

are no longer comfortable locating the source of religious change, as the earliest chroniclers such as Johannes Kessler did, exclusively in God, to see in the individual human actors God’s instruments and to accord

God sole causality.2 Some, in the wake of the Enlightenment’s attack

on “superstition,” have sought to locate the source of change in purely secular forces, whether “the state” or socially constituted groups.3 As we shall see, these retain something of the same perspective as those earlier histories. Both locate agency at the meta level: both view human beings as from above, the human beings of the past individuated only insofar as they conform or give expression to larger entities; only those larger entities are accorded causal force. One of the oldest of the modern

traditions accords Martin Luther heroic status; in so doing, whether

explicitly in the older polemical histories, or implicitly in more recent histories, this particular construction deÀ nes deviancy, Anabaptism

for example, as well as modernity, which is constructed over against

“traditional” or “medieval” Catholicism.4 We have yet to meld the moral 1 Cf. Konrad H. Jarausch and Michael Geyer, Shattered Past: Reconstructing German Histories (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).

2 Johannes Kesslers Sabbata, edited Emil Egli and Rudolf Schoch [ Historischen Verein des Kantons St. Gallen] (St. Gall: Fehr’sche Buchhandlung, 1902).

3 One of the earliest and still inÁ uential is Friedrich Engels, Der deutsche Bauernkrieg (Leipzig: Verlag der Expedition des Volksstaat, 1870). Although Engels was not explicitly concerned with religious change, his and Marx’s insistence that economic relations are causal and elemental has had resonance in a number of different kinds of history of the Reformation.

4 The pervasiveness of this particular construction—in which Luther is both heroic and normative—is evident in a range of textbook histories of the Reformation and OCKER V1_f6_62-78.indd 63

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commitments of pluralism and liberalism—the dignity, the integrity,

and the agency of each individual human being—to any narrative of

religious change. This essai seeks to suggest a way to do so.

As essai, it is not constructed as an argument, along a single line, but juxtaposes texts and objects normally treated quite apart from one another. As in a museum exhibition, the juxtapositions reveal dimensions of each that might be less visible otherwise—that, within each

one’s normal context, seem self-evident, familiar, assumed. Museums

arrange objects and images that share some quality in the eye of the

curator: the task of the exhibition is to reveal commonalities that

may have been unseen before the juxtaposition. At the core of this

essai is the juxtaposition of two conceptualizations of the relationship between individuals and change, each powerfully inÁ uential, but in

disciplines normally disparate: Leopold von Ranke, whose inÁ uence

on the writing of history is uncontested, and Hans-Georg Gadamer,

whose inÁ uence on hermeneutics is being played out to this day. I

begin, however, not with texts, but with the physical remains of what, in Ranke’s lifetime, was among the most famous schools in Europe.

It serves À rst to remind us of the physicality of the past and of the nonnarrativity of that physicality—the ways in which its own material juxtapositions, of, say, Romanesque and nineteenth century, of clerical and bourgeois, confound any linear construction of history—and thus

of the ways nonverbal past(s) are simultaneously and complexly present for each human being.

Pforte lies to the south of Naumburg in Saxony. Leopold von Ranke

was a student there, 1809–1814. It is not marked on modern maps as

an extraordinary experimental school, where the poets Schlegel and

Klopstock, the philosophers Fichte and Nietzsche, the mathematician

Moebius, or the Egyptologist, Lepsius were students. On modern maps,

it is marked as a Cistercian foundation. Modern tourists, it seems, wish to see the older and rarer structures of an aesthetic and ascetic movement in medieval Christianity, more than the structures of Enlighten-

ment ideals of education.

In order to see the Cistercian church, one passes through a nine-

teenth-century portal, then the grounds now of the school, past a mill, of early modern Europe, in which Luther is singled out as protagonist in the story of the Reformation, and the Reformation marks the watershed between medieval

“Catholicism” and a modern “Protestant” world. See, for example, Kagan, Ozment, and Turner’s The Western Tradition.

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then through a nineteen-century public structure, CDs of the school’s choir singing echoing in the hallways, through the cloister itself, to a structure that once was a Cistercian church. One can still see the nave relatively clearly. The place in the wall where the monks once reserved the Host, in the apse, now houses sound equipment. The altar, now

used for Lutheran service and so, purged of its relics, still stands in the apse. At the heart of a school alternately Lutheran and secular

are the physical remains of a different aesthetic, a different conception of the religious life, a different mimesis of Christ, a different sense of

“the world.”

Let me juxtapose Pforte with another artifact, the 1933 edition of

Ranke’s Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitlalter der Reformation.5 Each in its way serves as an icon of the complex interplay of past and present. Pforte reminds us that Ranke, so often styled the À rst modern historian, came of age among the sedimentation of the past, layers of history that had been translated, appropriated, reinterpreted, turned to self-consciously different, even “modern” purposes. Between the ages of fourteen and

nineteen, Ranke listened to Lutheran sermons, received the Lutheran

Eucharist, in the nave of a Cistercian church, walked to that church

and to classes in the cloister of a Cistercian foundation. Juxtaposing Pforte with the Deutsche Geschichte, we are reminded that Ranke lived among the physical remains of what, twenty-À ve years later in 1839,

he would self-consciously as a “historian” construct as a past divided from him on a line transversed by a cataclysmic event. In the Deutsche Geschichte Ranke would organize into a narrative line divided by a revolution, the Reformation, a past that was experientially and materially still present.

The 1933 edition is an artifact of the many different ways Ranke

has been read. He explicitly intended to move history from an amateur

activity to a scientiÀ c mode of analysis, in which one gathered evidence, through research, evaluated that evidence and then arranged it in the

order that best accommodated that evidence. The edition reminds

us how texts are appropriated by readers the author could not have

foreseen. Reissued in a major edition in the early years of National

Socialism, Ranke’s particular construction of the narrative of German 5 Leopold von Ranke, Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitalter der Reformation, edited Prof. Dr.

Paul Joachimsen, 6 vols. (Meersburg & Leipzig: F.W. Hendel Verlag, 1933). The À rst two volumes of the Deutsche Geschichte appeared in 1839.

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history resonated powerfully in a context antithetical in so many ways to the one he envisioned. In stark contrast to the liberal Lutheran state he hoped for, his Deutsche Geschichte found resonance in an aggressively secular state, which sought to obliterate not local difference, but differences constructed according to categories forged in the years after Ranke wrote, deploying technologies honed in the twentieth century toward

ends that divide the twentieth century from all preceding centuries.

The 1933 edition links materially Ranke’s particular notion of his-

tory that draws upon scientiÀ c methods and the questions that arose

in the wake of the Holocaust about the “objectivity” of science.6 One aftermath of National Socialism might be said to be a wariness about

the relationship between any narrative which claims general applica-

tion or universality or truth and discrete individual units. Across a

range of disciplines, scholars called into question the relationship

between discrete units of information—whether we call them data

or facts—and the broad narratives, whether called conclusions or

scientiÀ c knowledge or theses.7 More concretely, historians of science have revisited Herbert ButterÀ eld’s triumphalist narrative and revealed the political and intellectual concerns that shaped the conclusions

that the early “scientists” such as Galileo published.8 They have challenged the epistemological foundation of older experimental science by rejecting that there is anything necessary or natural or inevitable about the relationship between data and narratives, explicitly and adamantly separating the data or facts as discrete, and also in some ways random, from the narratives. In particular, scholars have pin-pointed as a human activity—an act anchored in the subjectivities of the researcher rather than some purely rational deduction—the ways in which researchers

“interpret” the data and then formulate their conclusions. Narratives, 6 For studies of Nazi science, see, for example, Robert Proctor, Racial Hygiene: Medicine Under the Nazis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988).

7 See, in general, Memory, Identity, Community: The Idea of Narrative in the Human Sciences, edited Lewis P. Hinchman and Sandra K. Hinchman (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001). For a representative sampling of discussions among scientists, see, inter alia, Loren Eiseley, “The Illusion of the Two Cultures,” in The Star Thrower (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1978), pp. 267–79; Alan Lightman, “Nothing but the Truth,” in Dance for Two (New York: Pantheon, 1996), pp. 100–6; Hidden Histories of Science, edited Robert B. Silvers (New York: New York Review, 1995).

8 For the broad challenge to ButterÀ eld and the objectivity of experimental science, see the work of Steven Shapin. On Galileo, see most recently, William R. Shea and Mariano Artigas, Galileo in Rome: the rise and fall of a troublesome genius (Oxford, 2003).

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whether scientiÀ c or humanistic, these scholars argue, are both contingent and human creations.

Juxtaposed with Ranke’s Deutsche Geschichte that scholarship shines a laser focus on the relationship between the narrative and the details, enabling us to see much more precisely where exactly Ranke locates

agency in his foundational history of the Reformation. The Deutsche Geschichte overwhelms with the sheer density of detail: Ranke’s sense of

“eigentlich” resides in those details. And yet, if we follow the pinpoint focus of those questions, we À nd that Ranke does not gather details

together in order to deduce from them general observations. Their relationship to the narrative line of the Deutsche Geschichte is not constitutive or necessary: the narrative line exists in a more attenuated relationship to the details. Let me offer a few examples, À rst from his introduction, where he speaks of the forces that shape history:

Die Nationalität bewegt sich innerhalb ihrer natürlichen, schon durch

die Selbständigkeit der Nachbarn festgesetzten Schranken: die Religion, seit einmal diejenige in der Welt erschienen ist, die den Anspruch und das Recht dazu hat, strebt ewig die allgemeine zu sein.9

In his introduction, Ranke placed abstract ideas—nationality, reli-

gion—as subjects, the protagonists. The details are not the level at

which significant historical action takes place—he did not locate

cause at the level of individual human acts. Nor was it only that ideas were the forces, the causes of historical change. These ideas were not abstracted from individual examples: the individual examples did not

provide patterns from which one discerned those ideas. The ideas were

abstract, but not abstracted: their relationship to the individual details was not derivative in any way. The ideas existed separate, religion,

“since it À rst appeared in the world,” nationality, “naturally,” prior to human act, human choice.

Nor did individual instances provide additional information about

these forces. It was not only that individuals had no effect autonomous of those forces, not in the formulation or promulgation of ideas. Individuals provided no new information whatsoever. Here, from the section,

“Anfänge Luthers,” which takes up the spread of theological ideas:

9 Leopold von Ranke, Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitlalter der Reformation (Vienna: Phaidon, 1957), p. 11.

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. . . Wir dürfen die Tatsache nicht verkennen, daß die wikliÀ tischen Lehren, die sich einst von Oxford über die lateinische Christenheit verbreitet und in Böhmen eine so drohende Entwicklung genommen hatten, allen Hus-sitenkriegen zum Trotz doch auch in Deutschland nicht hatten beseitigt werden können. Noch lange nachher À nden wir weithin ihre Spuren . . .

. . .Und vielleicht noch wichtiger war, daß in dem fünfzehnten Jahr-

hundert die strengeren augustianischen Lehren in einzelnen Theologen

wider erwachten.10

Nach seiner Rückkunft (von Rom) ward [Luther] 1512 Doktor der

Heiligen Schrift, und von Jahr zu Jahr erweiterte sich seine Tätigkeit.11

A way of thinking awoke in individual theologians: they were receptacles for those ideas, vessels which held the ideas, not agents who shaped or formed or generated ideas. There is a center—Wyclif, Luther—from

which ideas spread. Those abstract nouns also signal something about

the way in which ideas travel: intact, bounded, À xed. Wyclif ’s ideas on the continent were, for Ranke, inseparable from the Hussites—

though the contexts were utterly different. Ideas, for Ranke, existed in some ways utterly autonomous of the human beings who articulate

them—they are not contingent, embedded, situational, or subjective.

They “spread.”

That movement was, however, separate from any individual. Hegel

and Ranke both spoke of a “spirit” which moved history, though Ranke

argued explicitly for that spirit’s historical speciÀ city—it was not metahistorical for Ranke in the same ways Hegel held it to be. And yet,

for Ranke as well, “spirit” was autonomous of any individual human

being: unaffected by any particular personality, intelligence, imagination, temperament. Here from the section, “Ausbreitung der Lehre”:

Überlegt man das alles, faßt es zusammen, so sieht man wohl, daß es

hier nicht allein um das Dogma zu tun ist; es bildet sich ein System von Bestrebungen und Gedanken aus, von eigentümlichen Geist und großem,

eine neue Welt in sich tragendem Inhalt, welches mit der theologischen Opposition, in der man sich beÀ ndet, auf das engste vereinigt ist, an ihr und durch sie sich entwickelt, aber sich weder von ihr herschreibt noch jetzt darin aufgeht. Die Opposition ist selber ein Produkt dieses Geistes, der auch außerhalb derselben seine eigene Zukunft hat.12

10 Ranke (1957), p. 137.

11 Ranke (1957), p. 143.

12 Ranke (1957), p. 280.

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Opposition is the product of the spirit: it arises not from human volition or human choice, but is itself produced by forces separate from human agency.

The consequences of such a conceptualization are, ironically, that

individual human beings are viewed in aggregate, not unlike cells; groups are faceless; movements are composed not of individuals but of groups.

From “Fortgang und innerer Zustand des Protestantismus”:

Noch schritt das protestantische Element unaufhörlich fort.13

If we look closely at Ranke’s construction of the historical narrative, we discover, again and again, that ideals, abstractions, hold the place of subject in the syntax, that agency is located not in individual human choices or acts, but in forces that exist apart from any individual human effect. History is dramatic, but it is not, À nally, a human drama.

Thus, the relationship between the narrative line and the individual

details in the Deutsche Geschichte is not only not necessary—in keeping with the critique of experimental science—it does not, in the end, share with experimental science any of the possible relationships between

narrative and detail. In Ranke’s Deutsche Geschichte agency is not located in any way in individual instances: they are not the cause of signiÀ cant historical action, they do not affect the ideas that are the protagonists, they do not even provide illuminating details of those ideas. At best, individuals such as Martin Luther serve as instruments of those forces, a position which gives them historical signiÀ cance and, relative to other individuals, power.

And in this, we begin to discern the character of the relationship

between individual and narrative for Ranke. It is not Luther’s individuality that brings him historical signiÀ cance, but his embodiment—his

Incarnation—of an idea. If we return Ranke for a moment to Pforte,

that move enables us to resituate Ranke, not in any modernity, but in a multi-layered Christian past. That resituation helps us to read Deutsche Geschichte differently, grounded not in the epistemology of modern experimental science, but in an older epistemology, itself the ground of experimental science, in which one looked to the world, not to discover abstract mathematical laws governing that world, but to discern

providence: God’s design, God’s will, God’s intent for humankind:

13 Ranke (1957), p. 1227.

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Wie es überhaupt keine menschliche Tätigkeit von wahrhafter, geistiger Bedeutung gibt, die nicht in einer mehr oder minder bewußten Bezie-hung zu Gott und göttlichen Dingen ihren Ursprung hätte, so läßt sich

eine große, des Namens würdige Nation gar nicht denken, deren poli-

tisches Leben nicht von religiösen Ideen angeregt und erhoben würde,

die sich nicht unaufhörlich damit beschäftigte, dieselbe auszubilden, zu einem allgemein gültigen Ausdruck und einer öffentlichen Darstellung

zu bringen.14

For Ranke, human action acquires its historical signiÀ cance in orientation to God, an eternal truth, or ideas of nation and religion, which, as we have seen, exist apart from individual human action. The relationship

between individual human acts or choices and historical change is not

causal, but revelatory: one studies human history in order to discern its spiritual—both divine and national—intent, purpose, telos. Individual

human acts and choices are meaningful only insofar as any one of

them reveals truths that are in no way contingent or human in origin.

That does not mean, Ranke’s is some fundamentalist history, seeking

to read God’s purpose and design into the sixteenth century. Rather,

Ranke, for all his self-conscious adoption of scientiÀ c methods and his attention to historical details, preserved an older, intimately familiar approach to reading human action: as revelation, rather than as data.

Human action is not causal, determinative, deÀ nitive, or effective.

Human action gives material expression to forces that exist separate

from the realm of human activity, that are realized in history, and are therefore discernible in it, but are not conÀ ned to it or constrained by it. The function of the details is instancing, embodying, giving material form to abstract non-material forces. The purpose of history is not

scientiÀ c—deducing laws from individual instances—but hermeneutic:

discerning which individuals embody the narrative, which are extraneous to the narrative.

Ranke’s inÁ uence on the writing of Reformation history remains pow-

erful, both in his explicit linking of the Reformation to the emergence of the German nation and in the relationship he constructed between

individual human beings and the narrative line of the Reformation.

Insofar as an individual human being embodies those larger forces,

Martin Luther foremost, he is a participant in historical change—his

participation resides in the fullness of his embodiment, not in any

autonomous choice or act. Insofar as a human being seems not to

14 Ranke (1957), p. 11.

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embody those forces—a Zwingli, say, or an Erasmus, or a Müntzer, or

a maid—he or she À gures as a deviant in the narrative: our textbooks

speak eloquently to the pervasiveness of this construction. The most

inÁ uential approaches to Reformation history operating today—con-

fessionalization, the emergence of disciplinary regimes—share with

Ranke a sense that human action gives expression to larger, meta-

historical movements. The narrative line exists autonomous of any

individual human being; even Martin Luther and John Calvin have

been imprisoned as the fathers of modern churches, their historicity, their idiosyncracies themselves a point of historiographical debate.

Human acts and choices are subsumed. Human agency is at best sec-

ondary or tertiary to movements, structures, forces that are themselves in some essential way autonomous of the human beings who enact

them. Characterized this way, these histories share an approach which

itself originates in Reformation hermeneutics, in which God’s agency

works through human actors—Luther as God’s vessel, Zwingli as God’s

instrument—and in which the task of the historian is to discern which among all the human beings embodies those external forces.

Even as Ranke’s approach continues to permeate the writing of Ref-

ormation history in important ways, the subÀ eld of philosophy known

as hermeneutics has been transformed. Juxtaposed with Ranke’s nar-

rative of the Reformation, the work of Hans-Georg Gadamer acquires

important resonances for Reformation historians. Two dimensions of

Gadamer’s work are especially illuminating for questions of agency. The À rst lies in his acute sensitivity to time. Gadamer opens his Selbstdarstellung in 1918, the year he left the Gymnasium zum Heiligen Geist in Breslau and, “noch im letzten Jahre des Ersten Weltkrieges, mich an

der Breslauer Universität umzusehen begann.”15 Gadamer renders a

sense of the singular constellation of any one moment, what historians (but not philosophers) might call “contingency.” There is a sense of

each human being not “fated” or “destined” to any one moment or

constellation of experiences, but freely À nding him- or herself within that constellation that itself is not the product of external forces or

“fate,” but the singular accident of an individual human being’s utterly unique life. As such, he suggests here and elsewhere, we live in an

ongoing state of discovery: the conÁ uence of experiences at any one moment is Á uid.

15 Gadamer Lesebuch, edited Jean Grondin (Tübingen: Mohr, 1997), p. 1.

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As Gadamer argues in “Klassische und philosophische Hermeneu-

tik,” reading itself is time sensitive: a classical text is read differently in the twentieth century than it is in the À fteenth, again differently in the third century B.C. Reading is also time sensitive in another, more intimate way, as he argues in “Text und Interpretation”: as human

beings we change over the course of time, and so, therefore do our

readings. The encounter between a text and a reader is not a constant, either historically or personally. Human beings are changed by what

they read; how they read is changed as they read. Neither text nor

reader is constant, À xed.

The second dimension more directly illuminates a path to an alter-

native conceptualization of agency. In the essay, “Klassische und philosophische Hermeneutik,” Gadamer states: “Das Grundmodell aller

Verständigung is der Dialog, das Gespräch.”16 For Gadamer, the rela-

tionship between text and reader is dialogic. He binds text and reader in a mutually transformative relationship. Thus, in reading a text, the reader is changed, her understanding of the text changing even as she reads. The text itself, therefore, is not À xed, its meaning residing not somehow À xed on the page, but in that dialogue with the reader. Even

as she is reading, the text is becoming part of her experience, even as she is understanding the text, her reading of it is changing. Gadamer, in other words, articulates a deeply liberal and pluralist conceptualization of hermeneutic:17 there is not one reading, but a multitude, even within a single human being; the singularity of each human being’s

experience is inseparable from the meaning of any text for that human being; texts are not À xed abstractions, but integral to human experience, transformative of human beings, even as individual readers discover

multiple meanings for any text, no one of which is normative, no one

of which is exclusively “true.”

Gadamer’s conceptualization of hermeneutic is essentially dynamic,

incorporating both a fundamental attentiveness to time, more precisely to the Á uidity of time, to change, and an acute sensitivity to the reader, not as an abstract, but as an individual, situated, in a particular place and a particular time, within a unique experience. His conceptualiza-16 Gadamer Lesebuch, p. 56.

17 For a succinct introduction to the À eld of hermeneutics within philosophy, see The Hermeneutics Reader: Texts of the German Tradition from the Enlightenment to the Present, edited Kurt Mueller-Vollmer (New York: Continuum, 1985).

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tion of hermeneutic is radically humanistic, positing not one reader, but readers in the multitudes, who are themselves not À xed entities

but dynamic, changing, altered through their encounters with persons,

objects, and texts. Gadamer anchors hermeneutics to time as it is experienced by individual human beings: whether eternal truths exist or not, for Gadamer, the interpretation of those truths is inseparable from the individual human beings who are doing the reading, the discerning, the interpreting, and those human beings exist in a particular moment of

experiential speciÀ city. Gadamer overthrows the traditional construct, within which a text articulates an absolute truth—changeless, À xed—and readers “understand” more or less. In so doing, he severs reading from some metahistorical—above humanly experienced time—truth and

situates text and reader in a momentary present.

Juxtaposed with Ranke, Gadamer’s conceptualization of hermeneutic

can then be seen to situate the locus of change in a dialogic relationship between human understanding and text or experience and construe

change not as linear, but as essentially dialogic—always binding together two parts in a mutually transformative relationship. Juxtaposed with

Ranke, Gadamer’s particular formulation of dialogic understanding

suggests fertile new ways to write the history of the Reformation: not as predetermined, but as contingent; not as linear, but as dialogic; not as marked by persons of singular importance, but as a dynamic among

a multitude of differentiated readers and writers; not as revelatory, but as essentially constituted out of human agency.

If we juxtapose Gadamer’s particular understanding of hermeneutic

as dialogic with the physical artifact of Pforte, we can begin to tease out some of the implications of his thought for considerations of the relationship between narrative and instance—how we tell the story of

the Reformation. What is, as Gadamer asks so insistently, the relationship between the present and what we call “the past”? In the case of

the school, the Cistercian monastery was, like hundreds of others,

“secularized,” that modern term, in Saxony in 1543. The structure

remained, even the altar and the niche for the Host remained, though

the building was put to use as a school. Can we divide “religious” and

“secular” so cleanly? One of the unexplored stories of the Reforma-

tion is the stunning number of buildings and objects whose use was in a moment redeÀ ned, even as they retained their original shape. Can

meaning be legislated? Gadamer suggests a more intimate relation-

ship, between personal experience and interpretation. Did the purpose

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that determined that shape originally continue to resonate among the

people who knew it? Can meaning be so easily redeÀ ned? Or, would

prior signiÀ cance echo in present use?

In a narrative construction, one moves, in a line, from a past,

through a decisive action—such as that so-called “secularization”—to

a present, which is the effect of that action and discrete from the past precisely because of the efÀ cacy of the action. According to the history of the school, published in 2004, the cloister was closed in 1540, and on 23 May 1543, Moritz of Saxony issued a “Neue Landesordnung,”

which called for the endowment of three schools from the “secular-

ized”—their term—monastic properties.18 And yet, the shape of the

cloister—enclosed walls, a square with arcades, a garden in the very

middle of that square, one wall of which was the church—remained,

enclosure remained a physical fact. Was the cloister itself “secular-

ized”? Did it suddenly cease to mark a boundary between “this world”

and “the other world”? Are material structures and objects so easily

reinterpreted? Iconoclasts certainly thought not, and Gadamer’s reader retains an autonomy from norms.

Can we, to pursue Gadamer’s argument further, as historians, posit a

single reaction to that structure, as indeed iconoclasts often did? Would every child view it, either with cold indifference, one possible archetype, or within a geography of devotion, another? Gadamer’s conceptualization of hermeneutic, with its variables of time and individual, shatters any single model of reception. Readers and readings proliferate, texts acquire a vitality, readings, an immediacy as well as a contingency. We cannot speak of ideas “spreading.” We can speak instead of texts, not as À xed entities with transparent or consensual meanings, but as sites for that dialogic relationship. The questions shift, then, from Luther’s own formulation, that most people “misunderstood” his writing, to

the diverse readings those texts engendered, exactly in that contingent and intimate dialogic relationship. These were not ideas taken on

externally—“misunderstood”—but readings that made the text one’s

own, the ideas visceral.

18 Petra Dorfmüller, “Das Kloster St. Marien zur Pforte,” Schulpforte: Zisterzienserabtei Sankt Marien zur Pforte Landesschule Pforta (Munich & Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2004), pp. 58–60.

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Let me take one incident, the Marburg Colloquy of 1529,19 and

apply some of the lessons from Gadamer’s reconceptualization of her-

meneutic to recast the narrative of one of the deÀ ning events of the Reformation. Ranke treats the Marburg Colloquy under the general

rubric, “Spaltungen unter den Protestanten,” in which there are two

parties:

Der Unterrschied ist: auch Zwingli’n ist die Gegenwart Christi an das

Brot geknupft; Luthern dagegen ist das Brot selbst die Gegenwart, und

zwar der gegenwärtige Leib . . .20

Typically, the narrative construction of the story posits Luther as

protagonist—that founder of the modern Lutheran Church—and

largely accepts Luther’s characterization of others as all like-minded, either papists—and therefore endorsing transubstantiation and the

central role of the priest—or spiritualists, who have “emptied”—Luther’s word, to which we shall return below—the Eucharist of Christ’s body.

Contemporaries such as Urbanus Rhegius recognized deep differences

between Huldrych Zwingli and Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt. If

we take Gadamer’s point, individuals—or individual readers—met

at Marburg. They brought to the words very different educations,

encounters with widely different thinkers of different constellations of intellectual discourse, differently trained sensitivities to texts, different allusions and associations.21 The same can be said of Zwingli and

Oecolampad, and of each one and Karlstadt. No two were trained the

same. No two were the same readers: who each was, the experience

each brought to the text differed, and they brought those different

experiences and identities to their dialogue with the text. That training did not determine the reading, but differentiated it—the text was not a À xed thing, the meaning of which, as Luther claimed, transparent,

self-evident, but alive to different readers whose eyes and ears were

differently sensitive and attentive.

They read the text in different languages. Luther said to Zwingli,

“read German or Latin, not Greek”—he preferred to read his Bible

in Latin. Zwingli, on the other hand, had read the Latin only once,

19 Walther Köhler, Das Marburger Religionsgespräch 1529: Versuch einer Rekonstruktion (Leipzig: M. Heinsius Nachfolger Eger & Sievers, 1929).

20 Ranke (1957), p. 522.

21 For the fuller articulation of this approach, see my The Eucharist in the Reformation: Incarnation and Liturgy (Cambridge University Press, 2006).

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and for twelve years had worked exclusively from Erasmus’s Greek

New Testament.22 The words, Latin and Greek, were different. As

Zwingli explained to Luther, the Greek word means both bounded

and unbounded form, “begrenzte und unbegrenzte Gestalt”; Christ,

he said, is bounded, as we are bounded.23 The different words carried

different resonances, within the language, as Zwingli argued, and also for each of the readers.

Zwingli argued at Marburg that the words had been spoken at a

speciÀ c time, within Jesus’ lifetime, and therefore their meaning was historically bounded. He had been formally trained as a humanist,

attentive to philology. It mattered, that he read the text in the language closest to Jesus’ own time. It mattered, what individual words meant

within the time they had been spoken. Luther argued that the words

existed outside of time—eternal and absolute. They brought, in other

words, to those words fundamentally different understandings of the

relationship between the words and the present.24

They brought to the words, “this is my body,” viscerally different

understandings of what it meant for Christ to have a body. While

Zwingli and Oecolampad understood the relationship between “this,”

the bread, and “my body,” differently—for Zwingli, the bread functioned as a sign, for Oecolampad, as a À gure—the two agreed that Christ’s

body was bounded in time and space, in the same way as human beings

experience their own physical selves.25 For Luther, Christ’s body did not link Christ to his person: “whether [Christ’s body] is mortal or capable of suffering, I no longer care, like the clothes he wore at the Supper, these are all side issues.”26 Luther conceived of Christ’s body differently, drawing upon a range of metaphors over the course of years to try to capture by analogy what he understood that relationship to be.

At Marburg, he said, “the body is in the bread as the sword is in the

sheath.”27 God was not governed by the laws of nature or mathemat-

ics: “A room is something mathematical. That a body can be in many

places, obversely many bodies in one place, that God can do this with

22 Köhler, p. 30.

23 “Christus ist begrenzt, wie wir begrenzt sind,” Köhler, p. 30.

24 On this see especially The Eucharist in the Reformation, Chapters 2 and 3.

25 Köhler, pp. 14, 26 –27, 29–30.

26 “Ob er sterblich oder leidensfähig ist, kümmert mich nicht mehr, als mit welchem Kleide Christus im Abendmahl angetan war: das ist nebensächlich,” Köhler, p. 28.

27 “Der Leib ist im Brot, wie das Schwert in der Scheide,” Köhler, p. 28.

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all bodies, not even speaking of Christ’s body . . . this I will not deny.

Who am I to measure God’s power?”28

For Luther, Zwingli and Oecolampad, like Karlstadt, emptied the

Eucharist of Christ’s body, because they all three held that Christ had died and Christ’s human body was at the right hand of the father. Both Zwingli and Oecolampad, on the other hand, brought to Marburg

deeply different conceptualizations of how words themselves functioned in human imagination—Christ was spiritually present but somatically

understood by the human beings who heard, a physical act, the words,

received those words into their bodies which then gave physical form

to the words.

What do we gain by recasting agency in the Reformation along lines

drawn from Gadamer? Taking the instance of Marburg, the center of

gravity shifts to the complexity of the Bible, both as sacred text and as intimately experienced point of access for God’s will. Gadamer’s

approach returns to the text complexity, layers upon layers of resonance, as well as experiential force. And focusing upon the complexity of the text allows for multiple readings: it is possible to construct a narrative line that does not privilege one confession over another, treat one reading as correct, other readings in one way or another inaccurate

or wrong. Indeed, a focus on the text’s complexity holds the possibility of constructing a narrative in which readings which were never legally sanctioned remain nonetheless historically signiÀ cant—not only as

potential readings in and of themselves, but as readings which shaped the readings of those who “founded” modern Churches: it matters

how Karlstadt read the text because that reading shaped Luther’s.

Those readings, in other words, become the locus of agency. And in

locating agency in the readings, we alter Ranke’s construction of the narrative at two levels. First, change takes place at the level of human speaking, human preaching, human writing, human reading—change,

and speciÀ cally, religious change is of its very nature human. Second, we restore to theology its dynamism, its vitality, its lived dimensions.

Theology is not something Á oating above individual human beings in

the sixteenth century, but inseparable from individual experience in

all its speciÀ city. We also recast “agency” itself, from something linear 28 “Ein Raum ist aber etwas Mathematisches. Daß ein Körper an vielen Orten sein kann, umgekehrt viele Körper an einem Ort, daß Gott solches mit allen Leibern machen kann, von Christi Leib gar nicht zu reden . . . das will ich nicht leugnen. Wer bin ich, daß ich Gottes Macht messen wollte?” Köhler, p. 32.

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to something dialogic, in which “change” occurs in the interactions

between human beings—no one person embodies historical forces, and

individuals not claimed by any modern institutions as their “founders”

nonetheless have historical signiÀ cance. It is their speaking and reading that affects the course of history, shaping the understanding of others.

Every human being, man or woman, subject or lord, participates in

the narrative of the Reformation, insofar as his or her speaking affects the understanding of another.

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HISTORIANS WITHOUT BORDERS? L’HISTOIRE CROISÉE

AND EARLY MODERN SOCIAL HISTORY

Joel F. Harrington

All historical scholarship involves certain fundamental choices about

perspective. Some of these spring from the general interests of the

historian—intellectual, political, economic—and the scholarly debates

in which he or she chooses to engage. Others are largely dictated by

the nature of the evidence—eyewitness testimony, interrogation tran-

scripts, personal memoirs, legal protocols, birth and burial records, and so forth. Still other choices about perspective involve the form in which the historian presents and analyzes such evidence—statistical comparisons, biography or a similar narrative model, abstract discourses about ideas. All three decisions are obviously closely related but this essay will focus on the third perspectival choice, the form that a historical investigation takes, how this form shapes the historical argument, and the possibilities that a new methodology known as l’histoire croisée offers to those of us engaged in early modern social history.

Since its inception, the type of scholarship broadly referred to as

“social history” has been in fact deÀ ned by its basic challenge to the perspectives of the prevailing historiography. The decision to focus

inquiries on those parts of the historical population generally ignored by studies of ideas and great politics did not necessarily question the validity of those historiographical perspectives, but it did suggest that they unnecessarily restricted our exploration of the past. The subsequent diversity in approaches to social history during the past half-century has merely underscored the importance of listening to different historical voices and presenting a multiplicity of historical perspectives. Not all social historians considered such plurality desirable and some scholars have even seen in social history a means to transcend the very question of historical perspective. As a young historian from the University of Oregon reminded us nearly three decades ago, though, “the ultimate

objectivity proposed to us as an ideal by positivist historical thought remains as elusive as the unicorn.”1 In the years since then, this same 1 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520–1555, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought 22 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1978), xiii.

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historian has been a pioneer in the exploration of new perspectives on many traditional topics, most notably rescuing the Reformation from

its theological insularity and opening up new avenues for our historical imaginations. Of course, we now conÀ dently proclaim, it is self-evident that one must understand the social backgrounds and perspectives

of urban oligarchs to even begin a discussion of the Reformation’s

progress in imperial cities such as Strasbourg. Naturally, we readily

admit today, the national myth of early modern Germany begins to

look quite spurious once we consider the differing viewpoints behind

imperial politics in the sixteenth century. Even the universally accepted periodizations of “medieval” and “early modern” appear quite fragile

and even misleading after this same scholar is through with them.

Indeed, the scholarship of Tom Brady provides the best evidence that

more perspectives truly are better when it comes to social history and that these can be conveyed in stimulating, comprehensible, and even

entertaining form.2

That said, the perspectival challenges of early modern social history are far from resolved, particularly in two respects. The À rst concerns the scope of analysis. As we all know, almost all recent scholarship in our À eld tends to favor one of two authorial perspectives, either macroscopic or microscopic. The beneÀ ts and drawbacks of each are also

well-known. Microhistories of the past forty years have often succeeded in bringing to vivid life the experiences and in that sense life the perspectives of numerous individuals who would otherwise be forgotten

by history. The re-creation of everyday life at this level, however, also comes at a cost, namely a difÀ culty in moving from the anecdotal to

the general, or otherwise said, in connecting to the big picture. Large scale social changes and trends over time (the diachronic perspective) are particularly challenging for this anthropologically inspired approach.

Addressing such questions is by contrast precisely the strength of a

variety of macro approaches, both those statistically and narrative

based. Here the longue durée and major historical questions are at the forefront, with arguments focusing on groups and societies as a whole

rather than individuals. In this instance what is often sacriÀ ced of course is a tangible sense of individual choices and subjective experiences, the 2 See especially Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire, 1450 –1550 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); The Protestant Reformation in German History (Washington, D.C.: the German Historical Institute, 1998); Communities, Politics, and Reformation in Early Modern Europe (Boston: E.J. Brill, 1998).

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very substance of micro-history. We are not without successful combi-

nations of both approaches, including by authors in this volume, but

the tension between the two perspectives is not always a constructive

one and remains difÀ cult to integrate.

The second perspectival challenge in early modern social history

involves the interaction and comparison of multiple perspectives.

Most scholarship focuses on bilateral encounters and exchanges, such

as between a magistrate or neighbor and an accused witch, or a lord

and a tenant, or between two groups or institutions, such as “the state”

or “the Church” and any segment of the population. There are some

sound reasons for this preference, most notably the tendency of most

surviving documentation to follow this form, especially during the

early modern era. It is also simply more comprehensible for us as both authors and readers to describe social encounters in these terms. Even among those works which describe multi-lateral interactions, combin-ing more than two perspectives at a time often becomes unwieldy and

confusing. The centrifugal force of multilateral voices and perspectives appears simply too strong for an author to sustain a fully integrated

argument on these terms.

These perspectival challenges for early modern social historians seem

irresoluble, but are they really? In a series of publications during the past ten years, Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann have

described the advantages of a new historical methodology they call

l’histoire croisée.3 Related to, but not identical with, “connected history”

and “shared history,” l’histoire croisée represents for Werner and Zimmerman an attempt to construct “a speciÀ c connection between observer

positions, perspective, and object” without reliance on artiÀ cial—and in their view distorting—categories of comparison.4 Their immediate

3 Le travail et la nation. Histoire croisée de la France et de l’Allemagne, ed. Bénédicte Zimmermann, Claude Didry, and Peter Wagner (Paris: Éditions de la MSH, 1999); Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmerman, “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung. Ansatz der Histoire croisée und die Herausforderung Transnationalen, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002), 607–636; Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmerman, “Penser l’histoire croisée: entre empirie et réÁ exivité, Annales: Histoire, Sciences sociales 58/1 ( January/February 2003), 7–36; De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée, ed. Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann, special edition of Le genre humain (April 2004).

4 “. . . eine speziÀ sche Verbindung von Beobachter positionen, Blickwinkel und Object.” “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung,” 609. On connected history, see The Making of the Modern World. Connected Histories, Divergent Paths, 1500 to the Present, ed., Robert W. Strayer (New York: St. Martins Press, 1989); and Serge Gruzinski, “Les mondes mêlés de la Monarchie catholique et autres ‘connected histories,’ ” in Annales Histoire, OCKER V1_f7_79-90.indd 81

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concern is overcoming the difÀ culties inherent in most transnational

or international comparisons, particularly in their own comparative

work in modern German and French social history. They also readily

acknowledge the inÁ uence of post-colonial debates and their own desire to reconcile the post-1989 forces of globalization with “the irreducible character of the local.”5

According to Werner and Zimmerman, the historical comparison

of cultural phenomena along traditional national lines is an exercise fraught with epistemological Á aws, beginning with the very basis of comparison, which they consider an authorially imposed perspective that is

“fundamentally tautological: it can only prove what is already implicitly built into its structure.”6 Both the categories and objects of comparison are similarly derived from abstract, contemporary, ahistorical concepts, such as nation, culture, religion, and family. We force historical ideas, individuals, and their actions into these a priori categories, they argue, because we do not know how else to compare otherwise complex and

disparate phenomena and interactions. Beyond engendering the cardinal

historical sin of anachronism, comparison in these terms necessarily

pushes all differences (which are not always truly signiÀ cant or even relevant) to the foreground and forces diachronic developments into more

easily comparable synchronic categories—again, because of the very

framework chosen for the comparison. Even so-called transfer history,

which stresses the Á uidity and porous nature of national boundaries in the process of acculturation, is guilty of reintroducing national categories through the back door of comparative “cultural reception.”7

Before we “pre-national” early modernists congratulate ourselves

on not succumbing to such modernist foibles, let us reconsider our

own historiographical challenges. Both our difÀ culty in fully integrating micro and macro perspectives and our difÀ culty in integrating and sustaining multiple perspectives within a coherent historical argument reÁ ect our profound and enduring reliance on standard categories

Sciences Sociales 56:1 (2001), 85–117. On shared history, see the example of Ann Laura Stoler and Frederic Cooper, “Between Metropole and Colony. Rethinking a Research Agenda,” in Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World, ed. Stoler and Cooper (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 1–56.

5 “mondalisation . . . le caractère irreducible du local.” “Penser l’histoire croisée,” 7.

6 “. . . der historische Vergleich sei im Grunde tautologisch: er könne nur beweisen, was in seiner Konstruktion bereits implizit angelegt sei.” “Vergleich, Transfer, Ver-

Á echtung,” 610.

7 Ibid . , 612–15.

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of comparison and on unity of perspective in narration, even in

books not considered narrative in the traditional sense. We compare

this and that; we speak of development in terms of this then that or this becomes that. Rarely do we write of this and this and this and this, and if we do we are accused of lacking a coherent argument (often

with justiÀ cation). Our actors, individual or collective, must also serve the narrative needs of our argument and thus often appear as more

À xed, well-deÀ ned, and internally cohesive than we might intend. If for

“modern nations” and “national cultures” we substitute “social estates”

or “religious confessions” and their respective “cultures,” we see how most if not all of our own early modern categories of analysis might be deemed teleological or tautological.

The alternative that Werner and Zimmerman propose is to write

comparative social history from the points of interaction outward, rather than from artiÀ cial categories inward. If deductive reasoning is the problem, then radical inductive analysis is the solution. Of course this is what we all claim to do anyway, working from our evidence towards

our argument, but as in the scientiÀ c method itself, the terms of both our initial hypothesis and À nal conclusion are informed by our professional culture more than anything else. The proponents of l’histoire croisée argue that we must abandon, at least temporarily, our initial historical frame of reference and instead embrace the plurality of perspectives encountered in multiple social interactions, not least because they tend to undermine modern teleological constructions. Plurality of perspectives is in fact a “foundational principle” of l’histoire croisée. 8 Although initially disconcerting, this de-centering of the historian observer will in turn supply its own constellation of points of reference ( la grille comparative), based on those interactions of individuals and groups. The problems and questions that subsequently arise in turn inform the historical agenda, a method sometimes called Problemgeschichte.9 The result is “a kind of network transformed by the collective questioning itself into a new identity.”10 In this way, Werner and Zimmerman argue,

l’histoire croisée is truer to the Á uid nature of all social relations, a key 8 Ibid., 619–620.

9 “Penser l’histoire croisée,” 10. Cf. O.G. Oexle, Geschichtswissenschaft im Zeichen der Historismus. Studien zu Problemgeschichten der Moderne (Göttingen, Vandehoeck & Ruprecht, 1996).

10 “ . . .eine Form von Vernetzung, welche die fraglichen Ensembles selbst umformt, ihre Identität neu schreibt.” “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung,” 614.

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methodological principle they call “interweaving” ( entrecroiser or entrelacer; das VerÁ echtungsprinzip). The À nal advantage they describe is an end to

“the sterile opposition of micro and macro-history” since in l’histoire croisée, the two perspectives “are bound with one another through an endless number of possible intermediate levels ( Zwischenstufen).”11 There is no clear or stable boundary between large and small subjects or

sometimes between subjects themselves. In sum, l’histoire croisée transcends traditional categories of historical comparison by ignoring them and

instead purports to rely on a constellation of questions generated by interactions between individuals and groups.

The organizational key to l’histoire croisée’s effectiveness is this “criss-cross construction of the queries and the problem’s context” that Werner and Zimmermann call its reÁ exivity. Instead of an endless shifting of spatial and chronological perspectives, a major drawback to transfer

history, l’histoire croisée permits us to deal with variable units of measure in interactions through the reference system yielded by such interactions themselves.12 In other words, we do not concern ourselves with

comparing two “historical objects,” such as the French and German

educational systems of the nineteenth century, but rather focus on the points of interaction between elements of these two “systems” and then reintegrate those points back into our “cognitive process”13 Even here, we concentrate on Á uid mixing of individuals and groups—conÁ icts,

negotiations, strategies, and adaptations—rather than À xed entities.14

The result is a multi-dimensional perspective, or collection of perspectives, that is Á exible, instead of À xed, and “profoundly multi-disciplinary” rather than narrowly empirical.”15

How well does this theory work in practice? A recent collection

of essays edited by Werner and Zimmerman applies the techniques

of l’histoire croisée to an imaginative range of historical case studies, 11 “. . . warum eine induktiv verfahrende Pragmatik die sterile Opposition von Mikro-und Makrogeschichte aufzubrechen erlaubt . . .durch eine unendliche Anzahl möglicher Zwischenstufen miteinander verbunden.” “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung,” 622.

For an early consideration of this historiographical conundrum, see K. Knorr-Cetina, The Micro-Sociological Challenge of Macro-Sociology: Toward a Reconstruction of Social Theory and Methodology,” in Advances in Social Theory and Methodology. Towards an Integration of Micro- and Macrosociologies, ed. K. Knorr-Cetina and A.V. Cicourel (Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 1–47.

12 “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung,” 622–24.

13 Ibid . , 623.

14 Ibid . , 618.

15 De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée, ed. Werner and Zimmermann, 7.

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though unfortunately all from the modern era.16 Does this method

offer anything useful to early modern social historians? I propose as a test case the example of child abandonment, one of the topics of my forthcoming monograph The Circulation of Unwanted Children in Early Modern Germany. The past thirty years or so have seen an abundance of articles and books on various aspects of this subject in virtually all regions of Europe and in periods ranging from antiquity to the

twentieth century. Most of these studies involve collective patterns of abandonment, usually studies of one or two localities which are then

related to overall patterns of abandonment in pre-modern or modern

(mainly nineteenth-century) Europe.17 A few, such as John Boswell’s

work on medieval abandonment, actually eschew statistics in favor of

cultural evidence but most of the studies, especially during the 1970s and 80s, are quantitative in nature.18 Almost invariably the framing

perspective is macroscopic, mainly because of the nature of available sources. This choice in authorial perspective in turn shapes the historical arguments, which usually focus on the causes and effects of new state intervention, with an overall assessment of positive or negative impact on the practice of abandonment and the mortality of children. During the past decade or so, more works have addressed bilateral relationships between parents and magistrates and a few have even explored

the thinking of abandoning parents, mainly in terms of “household

16 Ibid .

17 The bibliography on this subject is enormous. Among the most signiÀ cant works are: Paule Bavoux, Les orphelins et les enfants trouvés à la À n du moyen-âge (Paris: Mémoires maîtrise letters, 1967; Jean-Pierre Bardet, “Enfants abandonées et assistés à Rouen dans la seconde moitié du XVIIIe,” in Homages à Marcel Reinhard: Sur la population francaise au XVIIIe et au XIXe siècles (Paris: Société de Demographie Historique, 1947), 19–47; Jean-Claude Peyronnet, “Les enfants abandonnés et leurs nourrices à Limoges au XVIIIe siècle,” in Révue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 23 (1976), 418–441; Claude Delasselle,

“Abandoned Children in Eighteenth-Century Paris,” in Deviants and the Abandoned in French Society, Selections from the Annales, Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations, Volume IV, ed.

Robert Forster and Orest Ranum (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 47–82; Rachel G. Fuchs, Abandoned Children: Foundlings and Child Welfare in Nineteenth-century France (Albany: State University New York Press, 1984); David L. Ransel, Mothers of Misery: Child Abandonment in Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988); Valerie Fildes, “Maternal Feelings Reassessed: Child Abandonment and Neglect in London and Westminster, 1550–1800,” in Women as Mothers in Pre-Industrial England, ed. Valerie Fildes (London: Routledge, 1990), 139–178; David I. Kertzer, SacriÀ ced for Honor: Italian Infant Abandonment and the Politics of Reproductive Control (Boston: Beacon Press, 1993); Isabel Dos Guimarães Sá, “Child Abandonment in Portugal: Legislation and Institutional Care,” Continuity and Change 9 (1994), 69–89.

18 John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988).

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strategies” and relationships with neighbors and other friends.19 Parental experience, however, which is actually quite difÀ cult to capture in archival sources, is rarely explored. Above all, every issue is analyzed in terms of the act of child abandonment, a moral and legal category which we then impose on any historical evidence.

How might we apply the methods of l’histoire croisée to the study of child abandonment during the early modern era? Let us begin with

the categorical term “child abandonment” itself, which stresses some-

thing that parents or substitute parents do to children. There are many grounds for relying on this term, not least because it makes comparisons across time and space possible. It also lends itself to quantitative analysis and in a few instances to a microhistorical approach, though evidence

on the thinking of abandoners themselves is extraordinarily thin for

the most part. Yet because of this underlying premise, historians are from the start forced to frame their inquiries in terms of explaining this action—its motives, its forms, its repercussions. Did the creation of foundling homes and orphanages spur parents to abandon more

frequently? Was abandonment a short-term strategy, with the parent(s)

intending to reclaim the child in the near future or was it more a passive form of infanticide, with parents knowing full well the probable fate of the abandoned child? What role did governmental or religious

institutions play in encouraging, mitigating, or restricting the practice of abandonment? How much of an impact did demographic factors

such as famine and disease have on the rate of abandonment? And so

forth. Whatever the question, the boundaries remain the same, namely

a category of actions which we call child abandonment and which we

proceed to explain in the same self-referential terms.

What would happen if we took the various acts that we characterize

as child abandonment and thought about them in a much broader con-

text, such as what anthropologists and a few historians call the circulation of children?20 To extend one of l’histoire croisée’s favorite metaphors, the star that we have considered the center of our historiographical

galaxy becomes just one point in a large and complex constellation.

More concretely, the parental act of child abandonment as well as

19 See especially the recent Household Strategies for Survival, 1600 –2000: Fission, Faction, and Cooperation, ed. Laurence Fontaine and Jürgen Schlumbohm (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000).

20 See especially Suzanne Lallemand, La circulation des enfants en société traditionelle. Prêt, don, échange (Paris: Editions L’Harmattan, 1993).

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related state intervention would be de-centered from scholarly studies and we would be forced to view them in combinations with other key

intersections, such as informal fosterage of children by relatives and friends (both voluntary and involuntary); the relative frequency of out-of-wedlock pregnancy, as well as of abortion, miscarriage, and infanticide; the parental dependence or independence of street children; other forms of child circulation, etc. We would seek to understand as many different individual perspectives on child circulation as possible, including the diverse experiences of unwed mothers, poor mothers and fathers,

governmental ofÀ cials, religious leaders, and of course the children themselves, including both life on the street and in a foundling home

or orphanage. Our exploration of multiple perspectives would include

the role of emotion as well as rational choice in child circulation and we would especially seek out those situations that best illustrate how individuals negotiate and interact with each other, such as petitions to a foundling home or alms administrator from a parent, relative, godparent, or friend. In short, all of the activities and relationships that we have either ignored or put under the category of child abandonment

would be atomized, to use the term of Werner and Zimmerman. This is why the two historians at times prefer to speak of histoires croisées or regards croisées, stressing the plurality of perspectives that they consider truer to the complexities of human societies.21

The resulting plurality of perspectives would seem to merely exac-

erbate the two problems mentioned at the outset of the essay, namely

the difÀ culty in reconciling individual experiences with a social overview and the challenge of sustaining a scholarly argument in the midst of such multiple perspectives. To the contrary, it is the overlaying or crossing of these diverse perspectives that yields the type of big picture results promised by l’histoire croisée. To take the example of child abandonment or child circulation, it is only when after we have re-created a constellation of involved individuals that such key macro questions as the role of state involvement can be more thoroughly addressed.

Based on evidence from the city and countryside of Nuremberg, for

instance, I have found that a variety of informal arrangements regarding children accounted for much more of child circulation than what

we call abandonment. Godparents and grandparents, neighbors and

co-workers, even strangers in fact played a much larger part in this

21 De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée, 7.

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process than magistrates or pastors, yielding a large number of what

we would call “blended” households. On the whole, state involvement

in child circulation was quite reactive and limited in Nuremberg,

despite a relatively sophisticated government apparatus. And contrary

to many Italian and French examples, governmental involvement did

not necessarily expand over time as one aspect of modernization and

was actually more cyclical than unidirectional. All of these À ndings run counter to conventional scholarly wisdom on the phenomenon of early

modern child abandonment. The overlaying of perspectives also yields

some interesting distinctions in viewpoints and reactions, particularly along gender lines.

No approach is without its drawbacks, of course, and two weaknesses

of l’histoire croisée appear potentially troublesome for early modern social history. The À rst concerns the evidentiary and expository limitations we face in establishing multiple perspectives. Most sources are bilaterally or unilaterally constructed and it requires a great deal of skill and luck to reconstruct and elaborate many points of view from such records.

Modernists face similar constraints of course but not to the same degree as pre-modernists. Yet according to Werner and Zimmermann, any

attempt to circumvent the inadequacies of historical sources and to

create a “balance” in voices is pointless and ultimately futile. Historical narrative forms can be just as distorting as categories of analysis, they argue; we must be willing to accept “inequalities” and “disorders” in our historical investigations and we must resist seduction by the aesthetics of symmetry.22 This argument, while sensible on the surface, strikes me as somewhat disingenuous at heart. All texts, including those written

by post-modernist scholars, contain intentional narratives of various sorts. Unless we revert to a radical nominalist position, we presuppose implicit or explicit connections between the pieces of that text that we present. Writing in a way that acknowledges that plurality of voices and experiences is still an authorial act, imposing a structure and agenda of sorts. Whatever the evidence at hand, there is always some translation of voices involved, including most importantly what to leave in and

what to take out. Pretending otherwise is misleading at best.

Second, it is hard to imagine that any historical argument can be

both comprehensible and convincing without any use whatsoever of

categories of analysis, whether broadly ambiguous or based on the

22 “Vergleich, Transfer, VerÁ echtung,” 619.

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evidence of the constellation. This seems especially inevitable when it comes to relating to larger historiographical debates. Perhaps l’histoire croisée will catch on like wildÀ re with early modernists and become the dominant historiographical methodology, but more likely it will

merely À nd currency as one approach among many (a “toolbox” in its

chief proponents’ words) and thus must be capable of speaking some

kind of common language to be relevant to other historians and their

concerns. In my own work on unwanted children, for instance, I try

to situate “child abandonment” in a much larger social context but I

also continue to use the term itself to describe certain actions as well as to take part in the historiographical discourse. I also believe that categories are acceptable and even indispensable for purposes of read-ability and for this reason I’ve organized my book’s most important

perspectives into another type of categories, traditionally known as

chapters, each focused on the experiences of a different individual, such as the unmarried mother, the magistrate, or the street child. Clearly

this structure privileges certain perspectives but frankly some points of view and personal experiences have greater social resonance than

others. My book’s title category of “the unwanted child” is also an

artiÀ cial construction, but unlike “child abandonment” it is the product of the evidentiary discourse rather than the predeterminer of it—the grille comparative advocated by l’histoire croisée As long as both terms, like each of the chapters, are used in a manner that conveys the complexity,

diversity, and ambiguity of related experiences they are not disÀ guring impositions and at the same time allow participation in many larger

historiographical discussions.

Given these modiÀ cations imposed by the real world (or at least the

academic version of it), I see little danger of l’histoire croisée triggering an endless “relativist spiral.”23 The contrast between the historical

approaches of empiricism and reÁ exivity (which Werner and Zim-

merman play up more in the title of their seminal French article

than its German counterpart) recalls for them “the classic opposition

between culturalism and universalism, or even between culture and

society.24 Without standard points of reference, units of measurement, or accepted categories, the foundation of all empirical studies threatens 23 De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée, 38.

24 “ . . .die klassischen Oppositionen von Kulturalismus und Universalismus oder auch von Kultur und Gesellschaft.” “Vergleich, Transfer, VerfpÁ echtung,” 617.

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to crumble. “Problems” and new questions supposedly arise from the

juxtaposition of historical material itself, reducing the historian to the role of stenographer and putting his or her very presence as an author in jeopardy. 25 In reality, of course, a scholar does not merely channel voices indiscriminately or without interpretation. Historicization of

both the historian and the object of study, as proposed by Werner and Zimmermann, constitutes a useful corrective but not the epistemological weapon of mass destruction they sometimes suggest.26 Relative relativity is a good thing; absolute relativity is not, nor is it even possible give the constraints of human language and thought.

L’histoire croisée is not a magic bullet for the perspectival challenges of social historians nor is it without its own limitations, including those just mentioned. Like any methodology, it is also not without historiographical precedents or afÀ nity to other current approaches. It does

offer, however, some valuable assistance in rethinking our perspectival assumptions, in the same manner that Tom Brady’s imaginative scholarship has challenged us over the course of his historical career. When successfully applied, l’histoire croisée offers speciÀ c and innovative ways to construct comparative studies, whether in the realm of modern nation-states or in the À eld of early modern social history. It shows us ways of comparing apples and oranges, of “comparing the incomparable,”

thus yielding “the shock of the unexpected.”27 Given historians’ cur-

rent appetite for comparative and multi-perspectival analysis, this is no mean contribution.

25 I am grateful to Erik Midelfort for posing this question during the symposium in Berkeley.

26 “L’historicisation engage à la fois le chercheur et son rapport à l’objet.” De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée, 36.

27 Cf. M. Detienne, Comparer l’incomparable (Paris: Seuil, 2000), especially 61–80.

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RECENT STUDIES OF THE ROMAN INQUISITION*

Anne Jacobson Schutte

Pope Paul III’s constitution Licet ab initio, issued on 21 July 1542, established the Roman Inquisition. A belated institutional response to the Protestant challenge, this new-model Inquisition differed in several ways from its predecessor, which had operated since the early thirteenth century. Judges of the faith bearing an old name, inquisitors, reappeared on the scene.1 Like their predecessors in the medieval Inquisition,

holders of this position were Observant Dominican or Conventual

Franciscan friars. From the mid-sixteenth century on, however, they

were nominated by and reported to a committee of cardinals in Rome,

the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce, the À rst of À fteen such central organs eventually put in place. By the early seventeenth century, when all the congregations were in full operation, the papacy was well on

the way to becoming what some historians consider the À rst “modern”

bureaucratic government.2

Except for the Republic of Lucca (which never accepted it) and Sic-

ily and Sardinia (under the jurisdiction of the Spanish Inquisition), the Roman Inquisition operated across Italy, with a presence much thinner

in the south than in the center and north, and on the islands of Corsica

* I am very grateful to Andrea Del Col for furnishing information essential to the completion of this essay.

1 As scholars now recognize, the term “judge of the faith” is more accurate than

“inquisitor,” for other ofÀ cials—above all, ordinaries and their vicars—investigated and prosecuted heresy. Silvana Seidel Menchi “I giudici dell’Inquisizione romana: inquisitori e vescovi, commissari, nunzi, cardinali, papi,” Cromohs: Cyber Review of Modern Historiography 10 (2005) (unpaginated), to be found at http://www.cromohs.uniÀ .it.

2 See Paolo Prodi, Il sovrano pontiÀ ce, un corpo e due anime. La monarchia papale nella prima età moderna (Bologna, 1982); in English, The Papal Prince, One Body and Two Souls: The Papal Monarchy in Early Modern Europe, translated by Susan Haskins (Cambridge, 1988).

The system of governance by congregations supplanted an older model, the papal consistory (cardinals meeting as a committee of the whole). Agostino Borromeo, “Il dissenso religioso tra il clero italiano e la prima attività del Sant’UfÀ cio Romano,” in Per il Cinquecento religioso italiano. Clero cultura società, edited by Maurizio Sangalli (Rome, 2003), 455–85, at 466. For an intelligent assessment of work on this subject, see Moshe Sluhovsky, “Authority and Power in Early Modern Italy: Recent Italian Historiography,”

The Historical Journal 47 (2004): 501–10.

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(until its passage from Genoa to France in 1768) and Malta.3 With a

frequency and modality that have yet not been securely established, it was also present in the papal enclave of Avignon, in Franche-Comté,

and in the cities of Carcassonne, Toulouse, and Cologne.4 In many

procedural respects, it functioned differently from the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions. Most importantly, it did not begin as or become

a department of any secular state. Popes did not unilaterally impose

the Inquisition without obtaining consent from individual rulers, nor

could they have done so. In the Venetian Republic, the only Italian

state not under Habsburg domination, representatives of the secular

government soon came to play a regular, formally recognized role in

its operations.5 Everywhere, inquisitors and their masters in Rome

continually struggled to maintain a cooperative relationship with the

secular authorities, which was absolutely necessary for the Holy OfÀ ce to function. In the second half of the eighteenth century, one Italian state after another abolished the Inquisition,6 but as a Roman tribunal it lived on. Renamed the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith

in 1965,7 it operates out of the headquarters it has occupied since the 1560s: Palazzo del Sant’UfÀ zio, just south of Piazza San Pietro. From 25 November 1981 until 19 April 2005, when he was elected pope, the

3 On Lucca, where heresy was handled by the OfÀ zio sopra la religione, a civic magistracy established in 1545, see Simonetta Adorni-Braccesi, “Una città infetta”. La Repubblica di Lucca nella crisi religiosa del Cinquecento (Florence, 1994), Chap. 5, 319–85. On the conÁ ict-fraught sharing of responsibility for surveillance over heresy in the city of Naples, see Giovanni Romeo, “Una città, due inquisizioni. L’anomalia del Sant’UfÀ cio a Napoli nel tardo ‘500,” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 24 (1988): 42–67. Still valuable is the classic study by Luigi Amabile, Il Santo OfÀ cio della Inquisizione in Napoli, 2

vols. (Città di Castello, 1892; one-volume reprint Soveria Mannelli, 1987). For a region southeast of Naples, see Pierroberto Scaramella, “Con la croce al core”. Inquisizione ed eresia in Terra di Lavoro (1551–1564) (Naples, 1995). On Malta, see Alexander Bonnici, Medieval and Roman Inquisition in Malta (Rabat, Malta, 1988).

4 Andrea Del Col, “Le strutture territoriali e l’attività dell’Inquisizione romana,” in L’Inquisizione. Atti del Simposio internazionale, ed. Agostino Borromeo (Vatican City, 2003

[but 2004]), 345–80, at 351–52. Whether these tribunals in fact depended on and were consistently supervised by the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce in Rome remains to be veriÀ ed in the Decreta Sancti OfÀ cii (see below, pp. 102–3).

5 For a recent brief survey of the Inquisition in Venice, see Anne Jacobson Schutte, Aspiring Saints: Pretense of Holiness, Inquisition, and Gender in the Republic of Venice, 1618–1750

(Baltimore, 2001), Chap. 2, 26–41.

6 On the abolition of the Inquisition, one may begin with a convenient but not completely reliable survey by Romano Canosa, Storia dell’Inquisizione in Italia dalla metà del Cinquecento alla À ne del Settecento, 5 vols. (Rome, 1986–90).

7 Integrae servandae, a motu proprio issued by Paul VI on 7 December 1965.

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“grand inquisitor” (prefect of the Congregation) was Cardinal Joseph

Ratzinger.8

Over the Roman Inquisition’s long lifetime, its image in polemical

and historical writing has changed several times. Its À rst three historiographical incarnations, successive versions of a “black legend” all’italiana, depicted the Holy OfÀ ce as an institution operating in a secret, unprincipled, arbitrary, and bloodthirsty fashion to sniff out deviations from the faith and, relying primarily on torture, to extort confessions from

“heretics”—after which, “reduced to the secular arm,” they were put

to death. To this list of crimes, historians of the nineteenth and early twentieth century added another: that the Church and in particular

the Inquisition deserved most of the blame for Italy’s intellectual, cultural, moral, and political backwardness.9 Here I will concentrate on

the Roman Inquisition’s current image: a much fuller, more nuanced,

quite different, and rapidly evolving portrait that has emerged since

the early 1980s.10

A Rule-Bound Tribunal

From the procedural point of view, the godfather of the current image is John Tedeschi. Born in Italy and educated in the United States,

Tedeschi (now retired but still actively engaged in scholarship) spent his entire working life as a curator of rare books and manuscripts.

Since regular paid leave did not come with his jobs, he was unable to

spend extensive periods of time in Italian archives. Making a virtue

of necessity, he has devoted himself to books, primarily manuals of

inquisitorial procedure, and to two kinds of manuscripts available on 8 Two famous heads of the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce preceded him in donning the triple tiara: Gian Pietro Carafa (Paul IV) and Michele Ghislieri (Pius V).

9 For assessments of earlier interpretations, see Massimo Firpo’s introduction to The Italian Reformation of the Sixteenth Century: A Bibliography of the Secondary Literature (Ca.

1750–1996), compiled by John Tedeschi in association with James M. Lattis (Modena, 1999), 18–59; and Andrea Del Col, “Osservazioni preliminari sulla storiograÀ a dell’Inquisizione romana,” in Identità italiana e cattolicesimo. Una prospettiva storica, edited by Cesare Mozzarelli (Rome, 2003), 75–137.

10 For a thoughtful comparative review of recent work on all early modern inquisitions, see Jean-Pierre Dedieu and René Millar Carvacho, “Entre histoire et mémoire.

L’Inquisition à l’époque moderne: dix ans d’historiographie,” Annales HSS 57 (2002): 349–72. Del Col has recently published a massive general study of the Inquisition in Italy; see n. 18 below.

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microÀ lm: Inquisition trial records which, by a circuitous route he has traced, ended up in the library of Trinity College Dublin; and correspondence between Florentine inquisitors and the Congregation of

the Holy OfÀ ce now held in the Royal Library of Brussels.

Tedeschi deserves credit for delineating the À rst notable feature of the Roman Inquisition’s current face. In a series of articles, many of them reprinted in his collection The Prosecution of Heresy,11 he has shown that contrary to previous assumptions, the Inquisition did not operate in an arbitrary fashion. All aspects of its procedures were laid out in a series of technical manuals and sets of instructions composed by canon lawyers with inquisitorial experience; most were published, and a few others

circulated widely in manuscript. Inquisitorial procedures stipulated

how trials were to be conducted, gave defendants the right to counsel, and carefully circumscribed the admissibility of hearsay evidence. As Giovanni Romeo has also shown, the last-mentioned safeguard, combined with inquisitors’ early and thoroughgoing skepticism about the

reality of diabolical witchcraft, assured that on the Italian peninsula, mass prosecutions of witches occurred very seldom in the late sixteenth century, and never thereafter.12 OfÀ cial policy, furthermore, limited the circumstances under which inquisitors could employ torture, what kinds they could use and on whom, and how long torture sessions could last.

Unless victims subsequently conÀ rmed admissions made under torture,

their statements had no probative value.

As Tedeschi is well aware, it would be naive to assume that prescrip-

tive sources like manuals tell us “what really happened.” Therefore he has used materials from the Dublin and Brussels repositories to show

how carefully the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce monitored the

work of its agents on the periphery. By the early seventeenth century, it required that inquisitors report on and forward the transcripts of all but the most trivial proceedings and obey the Congregation’s instructions

on what to do next. When an inquisitor failed to follow such stipulated requirements as providing relatively full, usually verbatim À rst-person records of interrogations or violated standard procedures in any other way, he received a harsh reprimand, and in extreme instances of malfeasance was removed from ofÀ ce.

11 John Tedeschi, The Prosecution of Heresy: Collected Studies on the Inquisition in Early Modern Italy (Binghamton, N.Y., 1991).

12 Ibid.; Giovanni Romeo, Inquisitori, esorcisti e streghe nell’Italia della Controriforma (Florence, 1990).

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In Tedeschi’s vivid words, the Roman Inquisition “was not a drum-

head court, a chamber of horrors, or a judicial labyrinth from which

escape was impossible.” Indeed, it offered the best criminal justice

available in early modern Europe.13 Because he distinguishes carefully between legal justice, which the Inquisition offered, and moral justice, which it did not provide,14 he cannot be accused of seeing the Holy

OfÀ ce through rose-colored glasses.15 Still, his conclusions remain controversial. When told about them, students and other non-specialists

react with incredulous skepticism: “That’s not the Inquisition I know!,”

they usually retort.

Institutional Aspects of the Roman Inquisition

In an essay À rst published in 1979 and reprinted several times since, Tedeschi called for further investigation of the Roman Inquisition “as a legal system, in its organizational and judicio-procedural aspects.”

He furnished a long list of matters needing attention: composition of central and provincial tribunals; background, training, and compensation of those who staffed them; jurisdictional conÁ icts between inquisition, episcopal, and secular courts “in such cases as witchcraft, sorcery, blasphemy, and bigamy where the heretical implications of the crime

frequently were difÀ cult to establish;” jockeying between the Inquisition and secular rulers; tensions between inquisitors and the orders

to which they belonged; disagreements between the Congregation in

Rome and its employees on the periphery; balances, on paper and in

practice, between procedural disabilities of and safeguards for defendants; standards of proof of guilt; “development and change in the

interpretation of legal procedure;” challenges to due process presented by the fact that “in practice, if not in theory,” . . . the entire system “was 13 Tedeschi, Prosecution of Heresy, ix, 8–9.

14 Ibid., 8.

15 I adapt the phrase from Del Col, who warns that “for the ‘black legend’ of the Inquisition . . . prevailing until the 1970s, there is now the risk of substituting a ‘pink legend,’ based on an irenic vision, but just as contrary to reality” (alla leyenda negra dell’Inquisizione . . . imparante À no agli anni settanta del novecento, c’è ora il rischio che si sostituisca una leyenda rosa, basata su una visione irenica, ma ugualmente falsi-

À cata della realtà). Andrea Del Col, “Strumenti di ricerca per le fonti inquisitoriali in Italia nell’età moderna,” Società e storia 75 (1997): 143–67, 417–24, at 147. Giovanna Paolin has recently spoken of a “gray legend.” Del Col, “Osservazioni preliminari,”

128 n. 412.

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at the mercy of one man, the pope.”16 None of these topics has yet

been fully explored.17

Of the many institutional studies of the Roman Inquisition that

have appeared since Tedeschi À rst issued his call, those of Andrea Del Col stand out in both quantity and quality.18 Del Col has approached

institutional issues from two directions. First, he has reconstructed

in minute detail the early years of the Inquisition’s operation in the patriarchates of Venice and Aquileia. During the 1540s and 1550s,

the Venetian authorities waged a victorious battle with the papacy to

secure a governmental presence more signiÀ cant than any other state

managed to attain. Through the regular participation in all trials of

lay representatives—in Venice, the Tre Savi all’Eresia, elected by the Senate from among its most distinguished, experienced members; in

subject cities, the rector or his designate—the Republic strove to protect its subjects against arbitrary actions by overzealous or unscrupulous

inquisitors and to shield them from extradition. The rulers of Venice did not cede to the Inquisition all responsibility for ferreting out manifestations of unorthodoxy. Via correspondence with rectors throughout the vast territory under the republic’s sway and with ambassadors in

Italy and elsewhere, lay government bodies, notably the Council of

Ten, kept an eye on individuals and groups engaged in what appeared

to be heretical activities.19

Politically subject to the Venetian Republic but under separate eccle-

siastical administration, the patriarchate of Aquileia comprised much of Venetian territory northeast of Venice (now the Regione autonoma

Friuli Venezia Giulia). In a massive volume, Del Col includes tran-

scriptions of all surviving denunciations, trials, other judicial acts, and 16 Tedeschi, Prosecution of Heresy, 9–11.

17 As Seidel Menchi has noted, with the exception of a work in progress on Pius V’s letters, nothing has been done on popes and the Inquisition. “I giudici dell’Inquisizione romana” (n. 1).

18 Many of Del Col’s publications, far too numerous to list here, are cited in the notes to one of his recent articles: Andrea Del Col, “I documenti del Sant’Ufficio come fonti per la storia istituzionale e la storia degli inquisiti,” Cromohs 10 (2005) (web site in n. 1). I provide speciÀ c references at appropriate points. Del Col’s L’Inquisizione in Italia dal XIII al XXI secolo (Milan, 2006), the À rst wide-ranging study of the institution, appeared too late for consideration in this essay.

19 Andrea Del Col, “Organizzazione, composizione e giurisdizione dei tribunali dell’Inquisizione romana nella repubblica di Venezia (1500–1550),” Critica storica 25

(1988): 244–94; idem, “L’Inquisizione romana e il potere politico nella repubblica di Venezia (1540–1560),” Critica storica 28 (1991): 189–250.

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letters regarding heresy in the diocese of Aquileia, one of two in the patriarchate, during a period of three crucial years, 1557–59. These

materials demonstrate that in Aquileia, as elsewhere, inquisitors did not immediately assume all responsibility for heresy. Other judges of the faith—ordinaries and their vicars—played a more prominent role in

receiving denunciations, conducting trials, and pronouncing sentences.

Often they became involved in the prosecution of heresy encountered

while conducting pastoral visitations of the diocese.20

Del Col’s second concern, which arises out of his emphasis on the

institutional history of the Roman Inquisition, may be termed her-

meneutical. Do trial records provide trustworthy insights into the lives and beliefs of those put on trial, or do they offer versions severely and deliberately distorted by inquisitors? Like most either-or formulations, this one is simplistic. In his two most widely known books, published in 1966 and 1976, Carlo Ginzburg presented a way out of the dilemma by

proposing the use of a “À lter.” When a person under interrogation says what the inquisitor expects to hear, we are almost certainly not listening to his or her authentic voice; but when a response takes the interrogator by surprise because of its poor À t with his hegemonic framework of

understanding, then we may actually be hearing from a member of the

“popular classes.”21 More than a decade later, Ginzburg went further

out on a limb by claiming that the methods and objectives of inquisitors could usefully be compared with those of anthropologists.22

Del Col will have none of this. Again and again, he has insisted that records generated by the Holy OfÀ ce are internal legal documents,

primary sources only for what the judges aimed at: repressing hetero-

doxy. They do not reÁ ect directly, faithfully, and fully what suspects, defendants, and witnesses believed. Treating these sources as if they 20 Andrea Del Col, L’Inquisizione nel patriarcato e diocesi di Aquileia, 1557–1559 (Trieste and Montereale Valcellina, 1998).

21 Carlo Ginzburg, I benandanti. Stregoneria e culti agrari tra Cinquecento e Seicento (Turin, 1966); in English, The Night Battles: Witchcraft and Agrarian Cults in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, trans. John and Anne Tedeschi (Baltimore, 1983). Idem, Il formaggio e i vermi. Il cosmo di un mugnaio del ’500 (Turin, 1976); in English, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, translated by John and Anne Tedeschi (Baltimore, 1980).

22 Carlo Ginzburg, “L’inquisitore come antropologo,” in Studi in onore di Armando Saitta dei suoi allievi pisani, edited by Regina Pozzi and Adriano Prosperi (Pisa, 1989), 23–33; in English, “The Inquisitor as Anthropologist,” in Carlo Ginzburg, Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method, translated by John and Anne C. Tedeschi (Baltimore, 1989), 156–64.

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were anthropologists’ À eld notes or literary texts containing dialogues in the modern sense of the word between judges and those who came

before them is a serious mistake. In order to comprehend what such

documents can and cannot tell us, it is essential to understand both the training and outlook of the personnel on the court and the legal and

theological framework in which they operated.23 Of the many types of

documents contained in trial records, only two—writings by and letters addressed to defendants sequestered by the tribunal; memorials they

presented to the tribunal during the trial—may properly be considered

primary sources for those prosecuted.24

This is a hard doctrine. Technically correct as Del Col’s observa-

tions undoubtedly are, they appear at À rst sight to preclude historians’

coming to understand any actors in Inquisition proceedings other

than the judges of the faith. In practice, Del Col is not so categorical.

Quite rightly, he opposes naïve attempts—of which there have been all too many—to tell “true stories,” narratives derived from inquisitorial sources, in which the tellers do not pay close attention to the origin and nature of the documents they use. As we shall see, he prefers fully to contextualize inquisitional encounters, not only by analyzing the

production of sources but also by reproducing them in full.

Published Trial Records

Until the early 1980s, the only substantial edition of a Roman Inquisition trial record was Giacomo Manzoni’s “Estratto del processo di Pietro Carnesecchi,” which appeared in 1870.25 As his title indicates, Manzoni presented a fragment of a much longer dossier that was removed from

the central archives of the Holy OfÀ ce during the turmoil that ensued when the new Italian Republic took possession of Rome and the papal

state. Massimo Firpo took the lead in beginning to remedy that situation 23 Andrea Del Col, “I processi dell’Inquisizione come fonte. Considerazioni dip-lomatiche e storiche,” Annuario dell’Istituto storico italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea 35–36 (1983–83): 31–49, esp. 33–34, 38, 42–49; idem, “Alcune osservazioni sui processi inquisitoriali come fonti storiche,” Metodi e ricerche, n.s., 13 (1994): 85–105, esp. 95–96; idem, L’Inquisizione nel patriarcato e diocesi di Aquileia, clxxvii–ccxxii; idem, “I documenti del Sant’UfÀ cio come fonti” (n. 18).

24 Del Col, L’Inquisizione nel patriarcato e diocesi di Aquileia (n. 20), clxxviii–clxxix.

25 Giacomo Manzoni, “Estratto del processo di Pietro Carnesecchi,” Miscellanea di storia italiana 10 (1870): 187–573.

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in 1981, when he began to publish an edition of documents of Inquisition proceedings against another prominent sixteenth-century Italian,

Cardinal Giovanni Morone. In collaboration with Dario Marcatto,

this six-volume edition was completed in 1995.26 Like the works men-

tioned in the next paragraph, it is a critical edition in the fullest sense of the word. Each volume contains a lengthy introduction providing

historical contextualization, precisely identifying documents located in various repositories, and explaining the editorial principles employed.

Equipped with extensive footnotes (many of them concerning people

mentioned in the records, not only suspected “heretics” but judicial

personnel, including notaries), cross-references, and indexes, it serves among other things as a “who’s who” of Italian philo-Protestantism in the mid-sixteenth century.

Firpo and Marcatto’s edition of the Morone trial record has been

followed by a number of similar endeavors. Del Col’s edition of the

trials of Domenico Scandella known as Menocchio, made famous by

Carlo Ginzburg’s The Cheese and the Worms, appeared in 1990; alone among published Inquisition trial records, it has been issued in English translation.27 Besides providing readers with the full text, Del Col in his introduction presents a hypothesis about the sources of Menocchio’s

ideas different from and more plausible than Ginzburg’s. The template

of Catharism, he suggests, may À t Menocchio’s worldview better than

Ginzburg’s timeless tradition of agrarian materialism.28 In 1992 Mar-

catto published the trial record of the priest Lorenzo Davidico, which appeared simultaneously with Firpo’s monograph on this À gure.29

Between 1998 and 2000, Firpo and Marcatto’s edition of the complete

record of Carnesecchi’s trials came out in four volumes.30 In 2004 the 26 Il processo inquisitoriale del cardinal Giovanni Morone. Edizione critica, edited by Massimo Firpo and (from vol. 2 on) Dario Marcatto, 6 vols. (Rome, 1981–1995).

27 Domenico Scandella detto Menocchio. I processi dell’Inquisizione (1583–1599), edited by Andrea Del Col (Pordenone, 1990); Domenico Scandella Known as Menocchio: His Trials Before the Inquisition, translated by John and Anne C. Tedeschi (Binghamton, N.Y., 1996).

28 Ibid., English edition, lix–lxxxiii. Having surveyed all the trials of benandanti, an anthropologist has demolished Ginzburg’s argument that inquisitors made them over into witches. Franco Nardon, Benandanti e inquisitori nel Friuli del Seicento (Trieste and Montereale Valcellina, 1999).

29 Il processo inquisitoriale di Lorenzo Davidico (1555–1560). Edizione critica, edited by Dario Marcatto (Florence, 1992); Massimo Firpo, Nel labirinto del mondo. Lorenzo Davidico tra santi, eretici, inquisitori (Florence, 1992).

30 I processi inquisitoriali di Pietro Carnesecchi (1557–1567). Edizione critica, edited by Massimo Firpo and Dario Marcatto, 4 vols. (Vatican City, 1998–2000).

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records of the trials of Vittore Soranzo, bishop of Bergamo, appeared in two volumes edited by Firpo and another collaborator, Sergio M.

Pagano, prefect of the Archivio Segreto Vaticano.31

The Opening of the Central Archive

The preceding discussion leaps right over a signiÀ cant development, one that historians of my age did not expect to occur in our lifetime. Until the late 1990s, scholars had perforce to work mainly on the materials

held in what experts call the “peripheral” archives of the Roman Inquisition (that is, those of tribunals outside Rome). Availability of materials depended on the vicissitudes of document preservation after Italian

states abolished the Inquisition. The records of many local tribunals, it seems, were destroyed—or so ecclesiastical archivists have claimed.32

Some huge deposits landed in state archives, notably those of Venice and Modena. Others remained in ecclesiastical hands. Inquisition materials in the Archivio Patriarcale of Udine have long been consultable; those in the Archivio Arcivescovile of Florence became available about twenty years ago. In the Archivio Diocesano of Naples, Holy OfÀ ce records

are accessible to Neapolitans and outsiders with the right connections.

As for other ecclesiastical archives, many of them known or believed to contain Inquisition documents,33 whether researchers can inspect them

31 I processi inquisitoriali di Vittore Soranzo (1550–1558). Edizione critica, edited by Massimo Firpo and Sergio M. Pagano, 2 vols. (Vatican City, 2004). There are many other recent editions of trial records, on which see Del Col, “Osservazioni preliminari”

(n. 9), 126 nn. 23, 25.

32 Here are two examples from my own experience some years ago. Visitors to the Archivio Vescovile of Vicenza reported having overheard staff members murmuring about Inquisition materials, but neither its director nor the bishop responded to my written requests for information. In the Archivio Vescovile of Faenza, after inspecting a À le of materials on the town of Marradi (the product of an unwise dismemberment and recomposition of the original archival series), I asked the assistant archivist whether I might look at the series Processi criminali. With a wry smile on his face, he replied that his superior had declared those materials out of bounds.

33 In 1991 Seidel Menchi and Del Col listed archives of tribunals of the faith known to exist: of the Roman Inquisition, eighteen archives and archival series bearing that name, seven sizeable deposits held in episcopal archives under other rubrics; of the Spanish Inquisition in southern Italy and Sardinia, two archives in Spain and one in Palermo, along with smaller amounts of material in the episcopal archives of Acireale and Cagliari; of lay tribunals, three major collections and numerous smaller deposits. Silvana Seidel Menchi, “I tribunali dell’Inquisizione in Italia: le tappe dell’esplorazione documentaria, Appendice [prepared in collaboration with Andrea Del OCKER V1_f8_91-111.indd 100

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depends on the disposition of archivists, some of whom—operating on

the obsolete assumption that all historians are À re-breathing anticlericals intent on exposing “scandals”—are determined to keep them out.

What of the archives held in the Roman headquarters of the Holy

OfÀ ce? Until recently, only a few scholars were permitted to use these materials.34 The lucky ones include the previously mentioned Sergio

Pagano, who between 1984 and 1991 published three sets of materials

from the central archive.35 To be sure, the inability of others to penetrate the inner sanctum did not constitute an insurmountable obstacle, for

documentation was available elsewhere. Firpo and Marcatto tracked

down pieces of the records of Morone’s trials and other relevant documents in numerous Italian and some Spanish archives and libraries. Del Col, like Ginzburg before him, consulted the transcript of Menocchio’s trial in the Archivio Patriarcale of Udine. Firpo and Marcatto discovered a large portion of Davidico’s trial record in the Archivio di Stato of Perugia. All these transcripts contain abundant references to, and in

some instances letters from, the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce. Still, as those excluded from the archive frequently lamented, conjecture had to substitute at some crucial junctures for inaccessible material needed to tell the whole story.

Beginning in the mid-1990s, a growing stream of scholars gained

access to the Archive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.

Then, at a conference on 22 January 1998, the archive was declared

ofÀ cially opened to all qualiÀ ed scholars.36 Why, and why then? According to Cardinal Ratzinger, John Paul II credited a letter from Carlo

Ginzburg with having inspired him to open the archive.37 That missive

reached the pope in 1979, a year after his election. Perhaps it took him Col], Elenco dei fondi inquisitoriali attualmente noti,” in L’Inquisizione Romana in Italia nell’ età moderna. Archivi, problemi di metodo e nuove ricerche, edited by Andrea Del Col and Giovanna Paolin (Rome, 1991), 80–85. Since then the number has grown, but there is no up-to-date list.

34 For the names of those admitted between the late nineteenth century and 1953

and an unspeciÀ c reference to a growing number of scholars who gained access after Vatican II, consult the web site http://www.lincei.it/convegni/CONVEGNI/

Comunicati%20stampa/COM.SANT’UFFIZIO.html.

35 I documenti del processo di Galileo Galilei, edited by Sergio M. Pagano (Vatican City, 1984); Nuovi documenti su Vittoria Colonna e Reginald Pole, edited by Sergio M. Pagano and Concetta Ranieri (Vatican City, 1989); Sergio M. Pagano, Il processo di Endimio Calandra e l’Inquisizione a Mantova nel 1567–1568 (Vatican City, 1991).

36 See L’apertura degli archivi del Sant’Uffizio Romano, Atti dei convegni Lincei 142

(Rome, 1998).

37 Joseph Ratzinger, “Le ragioni di un’apertura,” in ibid., 185.

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a very long time to reach a decision and persuade his subordinates to

accept it. More likely, the timing was predicated on his desire to enhance the Church’s image in preparation for the forthcoming jubilee and the

third millennium.38

Trial Records, the Decreta Sancti OfÀ cii, and the Archive of the Inquisition of Siena

Sad to say, the Archive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the

Faith (ACDF) does not contain a gold mine of trial records. No one

who had read Tedeschi’s articles on the dispersion of its holdings

expected that it would. In 1810, at Napoleon’s order, three thousand

crates of papal documents, including the entire Holy OfÀ ce archive, were transported to Paris. Five years later, when the papal agent Marino Marini arranged for these materials to be transported back to Rome,

he and his superiors decided—allegedly to economize on transporta-

tion costs, but other motives were surely at play—to sell off great

masses of manuscripts, including most of the Inquisition trial records, as scrap paper.39 What remains today in Palazzo del Sant’UfÀ zio is a

pathetically small fragment, perhaps 10%, of what the archive formerly held.40 Many historians who have gone to the ACDF hoping against

hope to À nd complete dossiers on important individuals have come

up empty-handed. The cupboard, however, is not completely bare.

Firpo and Marcatto’s Carnesecchi and Soranzo editions are based

largely on material they found there. ACDF copies of some other trial records—proceedings against Cecilia Ferrazzi for pretense of holiness (1664–1669), for example—contain signiÀ cant materials not included

in the originals held in peripheral archives.41

Two other signiÀ cant exceptions need to be noted. The ACDF holds

a complete run of the Decreta Sancti OfÀ cii, terse minutes of the Congregation’s meetings. These enable scholars to trace in detail the procedural iter of known prosecutions and discover the existence of others of which 38 Ratzinger explicitly makes the connection: ibid., 181, 189.

39 Tedeschi, Prosecution of Heresy, 35–36.

40 Andrea Del Col makes the estimate of 10%: “I documenti del Sant’UfÀ cio come fonti per la storia istituzionale e la storia degli inquisiti” (n. 18).

41 See Cecilia Ferrazzi, L’autobiograÀ a di una santa mancata, edited by Anne Jacobson Schutte (Bergamo, 1990); in English, Autobiography of an Aspiring Saint, edited and translated by eadem (Chicago, 1996); and eadem, Aspiring Saints (n. 5), ad indicem.

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no trial records are known to exist. They have also proven invaluable

in institutional studies. And for some mysterious reason, all the records of the Inquisition of Siena from 1580 on ended up in the Roman

archive. Using Sienese materials, historians of a quantitative bent can conÀ dently generate statistics of all sorts (shifting balances between types of prosecutions, gender of those prosecuted, urban versus rural offenders, and so forth) from the mid-sixteenth to the late eighteenth century—an operation that cannot properly be performed in peripheral

archives.42 Oscar Di Simplicio has taken the lead in quantitative study of the Sienese Inquisition.43 Among its other merits, his work pays

due attention to the later history of the Inquisition, which contrary to received opinion did go into the doldrums or become uninteresting after the menace of philo-Protestantism had disappeared from the scene and

inquisitors shifted their attention to other matters.44

The Congregation of the Index

Exciting and signiÀ cant as it is, capitalizing on expanded opportunities to study the prosecution of individual “heretics” and post-Protestant

“heretical” movements like Quietism (Tuscan manifestations of which

have recently been explored by Adelisa Malena)45 might, to use Kuhnian terms, be considered “paradigm-À lling”—a necessary and valuable

phase in “normal science,” but one that cannot generate a complete

reorientation.46 That the ACDF holds a virtually complete set of

records of the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce’s younger sibling, the 42 An often-cited statistical study suffers from the authors’ unavoidable reliance on Á awed modern indexes of Inquisition materials. John Tedeschi and E. William Monter,

“Toward a Statistical ProÀ le of the Italian Inquisitions, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries,” in The Inquisition in Early Modern Europe: Studies on Sources and Methods, edited by Gustav Henningsen and John Tedeschi in association with Charles Amiel (DeKalb, Ill., 1986), 130–57.

43 Oscar Di Simplicio, Peccato penitenza perdono: Siena 1575–1800. La formazione della coscienza nell’Italia moderna (Milan, 1994); idem, Inquisizione, stregoneria, medicina. Siena e il suo stato (1580–1721) (Monteriggione, 2000).

44 In Modena, for example, inquisitorial activity peaked in the À rst half of the 1620s; in Siena, the high point occurred in the 1720s. Del Col, “I documenti del Sant’Ufficio come fonti per la storia istituzionale e la storia degli inquisiti,” bar graphs.

45 Adelisa Malena, L’eresia dei perfetti. Inquisizione romana ed esperienze mistiche nel Seicento italiano (Rome, 2003).

46 I refer of course to Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of ScientiÀ c Revolutions (Chicago, 1962).

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Congregation of the Index, on the other hand, opens new horizons.

Except in its À nal volume, that remarkable contribution to the study

of the Church’s controlling printed books, the Index des livres interdits, prepared under the supervision of J.M. De Bujanda, draws entirely on

printed sources.47 It lists the books prohibited in indexes issued in Italy and elsewhere during the sixteenth century, but the compilers lacked

access to the information necessary for trying to explain how and why.

One of the À rst scholars who obtained exceptional permission to work in the ACDF, Gigliola Fragnito, took a giant leap forward in that direction. Her monograph La Bibbia al rogo shows that the Congregation of the Index, established in 1571, fought with the Congregation of the

Holy OfÀ ce to maintain Italian readers’ access to Holy Writ in their

mother tongue. After a protracted struggle, which Fragnito traces in

meticulous detail, the junior congregation lost. From 1605 until the

appearance of an authorized Italian translation, published between

1769 and 1781, the Church permitted neither the whole Bible nor

parts or paraphrases of it to appear in Italian.48

Fragnito pulls no interpretive punches. The À ght over the Bible, she

insists, should not be portrayed solely in terms of individuals: “bad guys” like Paul IV and his protégé Michele Ghislieri (later Pius V) versus

“good guys” who shared Erasmus’s desire to put the Word of God into

the hands and mouths of plowmen and housewives. Instead, it was a

battle between bureaucracies, the Congregations of the Holy OfÀ ce

and the Index. That the Inquisition’s side triumphed had enormous

consequences. It ensured that for the foreseeable future, “illiterate”

Italians—not only those who could not read but those who did not

know Latin, that is, the vast majority of the population—would acquire information about their faith only at second hand, in catechisms and

sermons made available by ecclesiastics.49

47 Index des livres interdits, directed by J.M. De Bujanda, 11 vols. (Sherbrooke and Geneva, 1985–2002).

48 Gigliola Fragnito, La Bibbia al rogo. La censura ecclesiastica e i volgarizzamenti della Scrittura (1471–1605) (Bologna, 1997).

49 See also Peter Godman, The Saint as Censor: Robert Bellarmine between Inquisition and Index (Leiden, 2000), written from a perspective very different from the one I am describing here. Opting for a chronologically limited, allegedly value-neutral, “equal time” approach, he makes Bellarmine a hero and dismisses other members of the Congregation of the Index as idiots. For a long, scathing review of his book, see Gigliola Fragnito, “Gli affanni della censura ecclesiastica,” Rivista storica italiana 114

(2002): 584–600.

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The Congregation of the Index was not the only bureaucratic

organ wrestled to the ground by the Holy OfÀ ce. During the reign

of Julius III (1549–55), the Holy OfÀ ce kept the pope himself in the dark about prosecutions being launched against bishops, archbishops,

and cardinals.50 In subsequent decades, as Miguel Gotor has recently

shown, the Inquisition muscled in on the Congregation of Rites, which was in charge of making saints. By 1615, no case of beatiÀ cation or canonization could go forward without the nihil obstat of the Holy OfÀ ce.51 The Roman Inquisition played a similar role in promotions to the cardinalate. It blocked award of the red hat to two fellow travelers of the spirituali: Pierantonio Di Capua, archbishop of Otranto, and Giovanni Grimani, patriarch of Aquileia.52

The Inquisition, Social Discipline, and Confessionalization

Fragnito does not employ or even refer to the twin paradigms of social discipline and confessionalization. Her conclusions, however, dovetail with those of the many Italian historians who explicitly employ this

approach. As Wietse de Boer observes, “social discipline more italico implies an essentially political perspective”; it “work[s] best when applied to ecclesiastical initiatives to buttress the social order and foster Catholic loyalty and identity.”53 Studies in this mode—entailing the adoption of a more or less explicit modernization theory, and at least in the beginning an intellectual/political reaction against “social history from below” à la 50 Massimo Firpo, “Eresia e Inquisizione in Italia (1542–72),” in his Disputar di cose pertinente alla fede. Studi sulla vita religiosa del Cinquecento italiano (Milan, 2003), 204–206.

Here Firpo summarizes evidence presented fully in his and Marcatto’s edition Il processo inquisitoriale del cardinal Giovanni Morone (n. 26).

51 Miguel Gotor, I beati del papa. Santità, Inquisizione e obbedienza in età moderna (Florence, 2002), esp. 243–253

52 On Di Capua, see Dario Marcatto, “Questo passo dell’heresia”. Pierantonio Di Capua tra valdesiani, ‘spirituali’ e Inquisizione (Naples, 2003). On Grimani, see two older works: Pio Paschini, Tre illustri prelati del Rinascimento. Ermolao Barbaro, Adriano Castellesi, Giovanni Grimani (Rome, 1951); P.J. Laven, “The ‘Causa Grimani’ and Its Political Overtones,”

Journal of Religious History 4 (1966–67):184–205. Grimani’s failed promotion merits renewed attention along the lines sketched out brieÁ y by Adriano Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari (Turin, 1996), 130–32.

53 Wietse de Boer, “Social Discipline in Italy: Peregrinations of a Historical Paradigm,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte/Archive for Reformation History 94 (2003): 294–307, at 298–99.

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Ginzburg54—are legion. Many of them concern what used to be called

“the implementation of the decrees of the Council of Trent,” that is, the activities of Counter-Reformation bishops.55 A notable contribution that focuses instead on the Inquisition is Adriano Prosperi’s monumental Tribunali della coscienza: Inquisitori, confessori, missionari.

Prosperi does not use documents from the ACDF, which had not yet

opened when he was writing his book, nor does he reÁ ect at length on

social discipline and confessionalization, although he is clearly working within their parameters. His study concerns the Church’s striving to

extend hegemony over its current and prospective spiritual subjects in the Old World and the New. On many counts, this effort was strikingly

successful. Yet the Church simply did not possess the manpower and

means necessary to complete the enormous job it had taken on: reduc-

ing all Christians to the status of passive, obedient recipients of orders emanating from above. As his subtitle indicates, Prosperi organizes his presentation around the three groups of functionaries who implemented Rome’s plan. To establish immediately the close connection between

inquisitors’, confessors’, and missionaries’ activities, he opens with an early emblematic episode involving all these players. After the massacre of Waldensians in Calabria in 1561, the problem of how to “reduce”

the survivors to Catholicism arose. Since mass forced baptisms of

Jews and Muslims in Spain and indigenes in America had evidently

not brought about genuine, lasting conversions, the Jesuit missionary

Cristoforo Rodríguez was able to persuade the “grand inquisitor,”

Michele Ghislieri, to try a new approach: changing hearts and minds

by less coercive means.56

For Prosperi, this turn does not point toward the conclusion that the

Inquisition and other institutions of the Counter Reformation Church

operated in a kinder, gentler way than previously supposed. Quite the

opposite: the lenses through which he gazes are tinted dark. In Part 1, he provides a masterful account of the Roman Inquisition’s founding

54 Ibid., 295.

55 A few examples: Vittorio Frajese, Il popolo fanciullo. Silvio Antoniano e il sistema discipli-nare della controriforma (Milan, 1987); Daniele Montanari, Disciplinamento in terra veneta. La diocesi di Brescia nella seconda metà del XVI secolo (Bologna, 1987); Cecilia Nubola, Conoscere per governare. La diocesi di Trento nella visita pastorale di Ludovico Madruzzo (1579–1581) (Bologna, 1993); Wietse de Boer, The Conquest of the Soul: Confession, Discipline, and Public Order in Counter-Reformation Milan (Leiden, 2001).

56 Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza (n. 52), 6–15. On this episode, see now Pierroberto Scaramella, L’Inquisizione romana e i Valdesi di Calabria (1554–1703) (Naples, 1999).

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and early development, paying closer attention than most scholars to

the international and Italian political contexts that shaped decisions on how this institution would work. The Holy OfÀ ce, he maintains, was

“an instrument . . . as traditional in appearance as it was completely unprecedented and new in substance,” for it was premised on the

revolutionary conception of “a central power capable of sweeping

away the impediments of privileges and canonical immunities and

afÀ rming its exclusive authority.” Thus it contributed in a decisive way to making the Church the À rst, and for a long time the only, national institution in Italy.57

Because the Inquisition deÀ ned heresy as both a judicial crime and

a moral sin, a matter of conscience, the tribunal very soon became

not only a court, an external forum, but an internal forum as well.58

Theoretically, the secrecy of inquisitorial proceedings protected accus-ers, those charged with heresy, and witnesses, just as the seal of the confessional protected penitents. In practice, distinctions between court proceedings on the one hand and confessional transactions and pastoral efforts on the other soon blurred. By the end of the sixteenth century, confessors were routinely observing an order issued by Paul IV: refusal to absolve penitents until they informed the Holy OfÀ ce what they

had done or heard of others’ doing that constituted a deviation from

orthodoxy. This requirement, Prosperi observes, “deprived sacramental

confession of any protective value and left the À eld open to inquisitors and their will to know.”59

The Counter-Reformation Church required inquisitors and all other

clerics to perform two complementary tasks: investigating and pros-

ecuting error and socializing the laity into full acceptance of orthodox doctrine and practice. If these ends were to be achieved, the consciences of a popolo fanciullo (a populace of children)60 had to become open books, fully accessible to the scrutiny of their spiritual fathers. Among the latter 57 Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza, xiv, 16–210; quotations at 41, 46.

58 For a thorough, sophisticated, and enlightening treatment of this subject, see Elena Brambilla, A lle origini del Sant’UfÀ zio. Penitenza, confessione e giustizia spirituale dal medioevo al XVI secolo (Bologna, 2000). See also two studies of confession and Inquisition by Giovanni Romeo: Aspettando il boia. Condannati a morte, confortatori e inquisitori nella Napoli della Controriforma (Florence, 1993); Ricerche su confessione dei peccati e Inquisizione nell’Italia del Cinquecento (Naples, 1997).

59 Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza, 213–538; quotation at 235.

60 This term was coined by Silvio Antoniano, a collaborator of Bishop Agostino Valier in Verona, on whom see Frajese, Il popolo fanciullo (n. 55) .

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were Jesuit missionaries.61 In southern Italy and on the Mediterranean islands, members of the new Society mounted an innovative campaign.

They aimed to transform “ignorance” and “superstition” just as daunt-

ing as what missionaries were encountering in America and Asia into

informed acceptance of, or at least acquiescence to, Christianity. The main instrument they employed in rural areas were apostolic preaching, hearing confessions, and catechizing.

In their effort to achieve a “spiritual conquest,” the Jesuits naturally worked hand in glove with the papacy, to the service of which their

founder had dedicated the order. They operated also in urban settings, where they sought to capture the minds of important people through

encouraging them to make frequent communion, hearing their con-

fessions, and if they had erred, sparing them the humiliation of an

Inquisition trial by absolving them in private. Jesuits received more

invitations than they could possibly accept to found schools for the sons of the elite, to teach Christian doctrine to the humble, to assist bishops and inquisitors in visitations, and to preach in “infected” or previously neglected areas. Reports on what they discovered about persons and

places tainted by heresy went straight to their general in Rome, and

from him to the Holy OfÀ ce. Jesuit missionaries’ methods came to bear a very close resemblance to those of inquisitors and confessors. This is hardly surprising, for all were sons of the same Holy Father, who

assiduously monitored their operations. Long before any secular state, the Church “discovered the complexity and importance of cultural

mastery as interiorized control of entire mental universes” and exploited it to the fullest extent possible.62

Future Prospects

Proponents of the paradigm I have outlined are not inattentive to the main focus of earlier interpretations of the Roman Inquisition: the fates of individual “heretics.” Their attention, however, centers more on the 61 Although he focuses mainly on the Society of Jesus, Prosperi mentions in passing other orders’ missionary efforts.

62 Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza, 551–684; quotation at xix. On the Jesuits’ early and assiduous cooperation with the Holy OfÀ ce, see also Giovanni Romeo, “Note sull’Inquisizione romana tra il 1557 e il 1561,” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 36

(2000): 115–41.

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process than on the processed. Not content to peer over the shoulders of individual inquisitors and seek to understand their thoughts and actions, they are concerned with the Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce, together with its subordinates, as a player in a political game of utmost seriousness: the struggle for control of the Church, and ultimately of Catholic society. Co-opting confessors and bishops and enlisting members of

religious orders, especially but not only the Jesuits, the Inquisition soon gained supremacy over rival bureaucracies in the papal administration.

As a body with a lifespan much longer that of a single “papal prince,”

it dominated the Church in the early modern era.

Rooted as it mainly is in the top-down perspective of social disci-

pline,63 the current approach to the Roman Inquisition has one serious shortcoming. Concentrating on bureaucratic evolution, many of its

proponents tend to treat those on the receiving end, the “disciplined,” as an undifferentiated, inert mass.64 Hearing the voices of those subjected to control from above, though never easy, is not impossible.65 The Holy OfÀ ce’s rules about keeping trial records preserve these voices in the À rst person, in a form that appears to be close if not identical to what was originally said—vastly different from the third-person summaries

of testimony produced by other early modern judicial systems.66

Scholars studying the Roman Inquisition are beginning to explore

its operations in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, beyond the 63 Firpo emphatically disassociates himself from this consensus. Quite unfairly in my opinion, he accuses the proponents of social discipline of trying, presumably for confessional purposes, to perpetuate the concept of “Catholic Reform” and the “myth of the Council of Trent.” Massimo Firpo, Dal Sacco di Roma all’Inquisizione. Studi su Juan de Valdés e la Riforma italiana (Turin, 1998), 144–45.

64 Giovanni Romeo’s Aspettando il boia and Ricerche su confessione dei peccati e Inquisizione nell’Italia del Cinquecento (n. 58) constitute signiÀ cant exceptions to this generalization.

In the latter book, he expresses strong opposition to the thesis of Prosperi’s Tribunali della coscienza.

65 For an excellent example, see Silvana Seidel Menchi, Erasmo in Italia, 1520–1580

(Turin, 1987). This book subsequently appeared in German and French translations, each revised: Erasmus als Ketzer. Reformation und Inquisition in Italien des 16. Jahrhunderts (Leiden, 1993); Erasme hérétique. Réforme et Inquisition dans l’Italie du XVIe siècle (Paris, 1996).

The French edition is the deÀ nitive one.

66 Del Col shows that notaries of the Roman Inquisition did not always produce faithful verbatim transcripts of interrogations. L’Inquisizione nel patriarcato e diocesi di Aquileia (n. 20), clxxx–clxxxiii. Still, Roman Inquisition transcripts come much closer to what persons being interrogated actually said than the third-person summaries of testimony produced in other courts. In the interest of immediacy and usually without acknowledging the existence of a problem, scholars too numerous to mention have transformed these into À rst-person discourse.

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“classic” period on which energies have hitherto been employed. As

they look at the sorts of “crimes against the faith” that from the 1580s on came to dominate inquisitors’ caseloads (sorcery, blasphemy, solicitation in the confessional), they are taking advantage of the opportunity to reinsert social history into what has become in the past twenty-À ve years—mainly for the better—a primarily political history.67

Last but not least, the Roman Inquisition is entering the informa-

tion age. After years of discussion about what À elds should be included in electronic databases of trial records, historians and archivists have reached a consensus. Three such projects, employing slightly different but fully compatible systems, have been launched. Furthest along is

a data bank of inquisitorial activity in the dioceses of Aquileia and Concordia, the fruit of collaboration between and funding from four

entities. Having starting by adapting an existing printed inventory of trial records in the Archivio Storico dell’Arcidiocesi di Udine for use on the Internet, workers have now turned to preparing inventories of other Inquisition materials: letters, À nancial documents, and decrees. The

consortium plans to extend its investigations to several other archives containing materials related to these two dioceses.68 That this project has moved ahead speedily is due partly to the commitment and energy

of those directing it, but also to the fact that it is not dependent on the vagaries of funding dispensed directly by the national government.

Collaboration between the Dirizione generale degli archivi (a depart-

ment of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali) and the Centro ricerche informatiche per i beni culturali of the Scuola Normale

Superiore of Pisa has led to the elaboration of the Sistema informativo uniÀ cato delle Soprintenze archivistiche (SIUSA). This model has been applied on an experimental basis to selected data from the Archivio

Storico dell’Arcidiocesi di Udine and the Archivio di Stato of Venice.69

67 Dedieu and Millar Carvacho reach the same conclusion: “Entre histoire et mémoire” (n. 10), 372.

68 Giovanna Paolin and Andrea Del Col, “La banca dati dei processi e la ricostruzi-one completa dell’attività del Sant’UfÀ cio di Aquileia e Concordia,” Cromohs 10 (2005) (web site given in n. 1). The four partners are the Istituto Pio Paschini of Udine; the Centro di ricerca sull’Inquisizione, based at the University of Trieste; the Archivio Storico dell’Arcidiocesi di Udine; and the Centro di catalogazione della Regione Friuli Venezia Giulia. See http://beniculturali.regione.fvg.it/VillaManin/Default.asp; after registering, click successively on the links Catalogazione, Ricerca per tipologia, Processi Inquisizione.

69 Francesca Cavazzana Romanelli, “Il censimento della documentazione inquisitoriale riguardante l’Italia,” Cromohs 10 (2005). See http:/siusa.signum.sns.it/su.

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An accord between the ACDF, the Ministero, and the Trieste center

signed in November 2004 paved the way for putting on-line the analyti-

cal inventory of the central archive of the Roman Inquisition, to which will be added related material from the Archivio Segreto Vaticano,

the Biblioteca Casanatense, and the library of Trinity College Dublin.

Further in the future, inventories of material in diocesan archives may Á ow into this project.70 Whether these latter two projects come to frui-tion depends to a considerable extent on À nancing from the central

government, promised earlier but by no means assured.

“By now, you must be doing all your research on the Internet,” some-

one said to me not long ago. Contrary to the assumptions of people

outside the academy and many university librarians in the United

States, humanists and social scientists focusing on the past cannot, and do not expect that their successors will, spend all their time sitting at the computer. For several reasons, including the technical difÀ culty of scanning manuscripts, those who study the Roman Inquisition in the

foreseeable future will not À nd large quantities of scanned documents on line; they will have to examine them in archives. (On the other hand, the scanning of printed works such as inquisition manuals—to my

knowledge not anticipated in any of the projects I have mentioned—is

feasible and highly desirable.) The availability of analytical inventories and databases, however, will certainly facilitate their research. It will also enable the forming of reliable quantitative statements and enhance the possibility of making systematic comparisons not only among seats of

the Roman Inquisition but also between that institution and its coun-

terparts in the Iberian world. If all goes well, the next generation will witness an exponential expansion of knowledge about tribunals of the faith and those who came before them.

70 Ibid. In 2003 the director of the ACDF, Monsignor Alejandro Cifres, sent a questionnaire to all episcopal archives in Italy requesting information about their Inquisition holdings. How rapidly and fully archivists will respond to his request and whether it will prompt the recalcitrant to make these materials available to scholars (see n. 32) remain to be seen.

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HERMANN CONRING AND THE EUROPEAN

HISTORY OF LAW

Constantin Fasolt

Hermann Conring has sometimes been described as “the founder of

German legal history.” In a superÀ cial sense, that description has some merit. But at a deeper level it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the historical relationship between the modern study of legal history and the medieval interpretation of Roman law. The purpose of this essay is to clarify that relationship by focusing on Hermann Conring’s case as a particularly telling instance of a more general phenomenon. I will proceed in three steps. First, I will outline the history of law in medieval and early modern Europe; second, I will examine the development of legal history; and third, I will describe Hermann Conring as the modern legatee of a tradition deeply embedded in the long course of European history.

The subject of this paper is the place of Hermann Conring in the

history of European law. In order to make sense of this subject, three different matters need to be considered. One is the history of the law that governed Europe during the Middle Ages and the so-called early

modern period. The second is the development of legal history. And

third, of course, is Hermann Conring himself. I shall deal with each

of these in turn.

Let me clarify what I mean by “law,” “history of law,” and “legal

history.” Law is often deÀ ned in relatively narrow terms as the sort of thing aspiring lawyers learn in schools of law. On that understanding law is distinct from custom, manners, ceremonial rules, social conventions, habits of spiritual worship, and so on. DeÀ ning law that way is useful because of the special role that formally enacted laws play in the modern world—a world in which church and state are sharply divided,

laws are generally kept distinct from morals, and custom lacks obligatory force while professional lawyers play a crucial and expanding role. But it can be confusing for earlier periods of history, when law was not so sharply distinguished from other kinds of norms. I shall therefore use

“law” as a generic term for all of the rules and regulations by which the members of a given society distinguish between right and wrong

in order to maintain a certain kind of order and settle their disputes without having to take recourse to unregulated violence. In principle

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it makes no difference whether those rules and regulations consist of

unwritten customs, mores, manners, spiritual beliefs, ecclesiastical canons, or formally enacted statutes. What matters is only whether or not their violation threatens the social order. If it does, they qualify as “law”

as I shall mean it here. It does especially not matter whether they happen to have been written down or not. What is important is only that

they are known and can be veriÀ ed. They may be known from writing

and veriÀ ed by going to the library. But they may also be known from

memory and veriÀ ed by means of turning to elders and experts who

know the ways of society from long experience and memory.1

Let me also distinguish between two different uses of the term

“history of law.” One concerns the history of the law as it happened.

“History of law” in this sense refers to changes that occurred in law over time. The other concerns the knowledge people have of those

changes. “History of law” in this sense refers, neither to the law nor to the changes undergone by law over the course of time, but to a special form of knowledge about law and its changes that is usually academic and founded on an examination of the surviving evidence. In the À rst sense history of law consists of changes in the rules and regulations by which people organize their lives; it is something that happens to the law. In the second sense history of law consists of the study of those changes; it is something done by people with a special interest in the legal past. These are, of course, two very different things. Using the same expression for both is unnecessarily confusing. I shall therefore use the term “history of law” to refer to the changes that happened to law over the course of time, and “legal history” to refer to the study of those changes.

1 For contrasting approaches to the study of law in Europe see Hermann Kantorowicz, The DeÀ nition of Law, ed. A.H. Campbell with an introduction by A.L.

Goodhart (New York: Octagon Books, 1980); Herbert L.A. Hart, The Concept of Law (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961); John Philip Dawson, The Oracles of the Law (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Law School, 1968); Otto Friedrich v. Gierke, Das deutsche Genossenschaftsrecht, 4 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1868–1913); Otto Brunner, Land and Lordship: Structures of Governance in Medieval Austria, trans. with an introduction by Howard Kaminsky and James Van Horn Melton (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992); John Bossy, ed., Disputes and Settlements: Law and Human Relations in the West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); Simon Roberts, Order and Dispute: An Introduction to Legal Anthropology (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979).

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The History of European Law

The most important point to make about the law that governed

medieval and early modern Europe from about 1000 C.E. until about

1600 C.E., and in some ways longer than that, is this: there were two

very different types of law that operated on two very different levels.

One was practiced on the ground in towns and villages; the other was

studied in universities.2

It would be tempting—and it is not at all uncommon—to call the

former the actual legal practice of medieval Europe and the latter a

kind of legal theory. But it would also be misleading. Academic law and local law were not related to each other as theory is related to practice, but rather as two different kinds of practice are related to each other.

Each was a practice of sorts, although the sorts were different. Each also had its own theoretical dimension and the theories differed as

sharply from each other as did the practices. Local law governed the

lives of people far more directly than university law, but its theoretical dimension was not well developed. University law was only practiced

in rather special circumstances—at least in the beginning—but it did

have a very well developed body of theory. Eventually that gave uni-

versity law a decisive advantage. It is not nearly as clear as one might 2 For solid overviews of European legal history as a whole, see Hans Hattenhauer, Europäische Rechtsgeschichte (Heidelberg: Juristischer Verlag C.F. Müller, 1992); Manlio Bellomo, The Common Legal Past of Europe, 1000 –1800, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1995); Franz Wieacker, History of Private Law in Europe with Particular Reference to Germany, trans. Tony Weir (New York: Clarendon Press, 1995); O.F. Robinson, T. David Fergus, and William M. Gordon, European Legal History: Sources and Institutions, 3rd ed. (London: Butterworths, 2000); Harold J.

Berman, Law and Revolution: The Formation of the Western Legal Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983); and Harold J. Berman, Law and Revolution: The Impact of the Protestant Reformations on the Western Legal Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2004). These may be supplemented by legal histories focusing on particular nations or particular kinds of law, such as Hermann Conrad, Deutsche Rechtsgeschichte, 2nd ed., 2

vols. (Karlsruhe: C.F. Müller, 1962–66); François Olivier-Martin, Histoire du droit fran-

çais des origines à la Révolution (Paris: Domat Montchrestien, 1948); Pier Silverio Leicht, Storia del diritto italiano: Il diritto privato, 2nd ed., 3 vols. (Milano: A. Giuffrè, 1941–48); idem, Storia del diritto italiano: Il diritto pubblico, 3rd ed. (Milano: A. Giuffrè, 1950); John Hamilton Baker, An Introduction to English Legal History, 3rd ed. (London: Butterworths, 1990); Barry Nicholas, An Introduction to Roman Law (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962); Paul Koschaker, Europa und das Römische Recht, 4th ed. (München: C.H. Beck, 1966); Hans Erich Feine, Kirchliche Rechtsgeschichte: Die katholische Kirche, 5th ed. (Köln: Böhlau, 1972). For detailed bibliographical information, the single best source is Helmut Coing, ed., Handbuch der Quellen und Literatur der neueren europäischen Privatrechtsgeschichte, 3 vols.

(München: Beck, 1973–).

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think why that should have been the case. But the theoretical power of university law clearly proved to be so great an attraction that over time it spread and managed to transform or displace the local law.3

Let me be more speciÀ c. The law according to which most people

actually organized their relations with each other during the period

in question differed widely from place to place and time to time. In

southern Europe it was more often written, so that it was available for consultation and subject to formal procedures of reconsideration, repeal, amendment, and so on. This is one of the legacies of ancient Rome.

Though the Roman Empire had lost political control over the western

parts of Europe during the early Middle Ages, the legal practices that it had put into effect did not necessarily require the support of central government in order to survive. Of course the various so-called barbaric tribes that moved into the formerly Roman territories from the third

to the sixth centuries and arrogated the exercise of political power to themselves brought their own legal customs. But they lived side by side with people who had long been accustomed to the law of the Roman

Empire. They often allowed them to keep that law and they were not

averse to modifying their own customs during the centuries that followed in light of Roman practices. Some of them were even proud to live

by Roman law. Thus medieval southern Europe came to be covered

by a patchwork of different legal regimes commonly grouped together

under the somewhat condescending heading of Roman vulgar law. But

there was never any guarantee that a particular decision concerning

a particular issue in a particular place—about property, for example,

or liberty, or responsibility for crimes, or inheritance—would be made the same way in other places. There is no way to write a book about

the law of medieval southern Europe without dividing it into as many

chapters as there were different legal localities.4

3 In one way or another, the contrast between local and university law features in virtually all accounts of medieval European law. For a cogent exposition see Bellomo, The Common Legal Past of Europe, 55–111, who refers to local law as ius proprium and to university law as ius commune. For other perspectives on this issue see, e.g. , Erich Genzmer, Mittelalterliches Rechtsdenken (Hamburg: Stiftung Europa-Kolleg, 1961); Ennio Cortese, La norma giuridica: Spunti teorici nel diritto comune classico, 2 vols. (Milano: Giuffrè, 1962–64); Pietro Costa, Iurisdictio: Semantica del potere politico nella pubblicistica medievale, 1100–1433 (Milano: A. Giuffrè, 1969); Paul Koschaker, Europa und das Römische Recht, 4th ed. (München: C.H. Beck, 1966); Sten Gagnér, Studien zur Ideengeschichte der Gesetzgebung (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1960).

4 Max Conrat (Cohn), Geschichte der Quellen und Literatur des Römischen Rechts im frühen Mittelalter (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1891); Ernst Levy, West Roman Vulgar Law: The Law OCKER V1_f9_112-134.indd 116

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A similar patchwork covered northern Europe, but with this differ-

ence: it had not been affected by Roman law to anywhere near the

same degree, and at À rst almost none of it was written. Here, too, there was much greater variance in legal practice than it is easy to imagine for inhabitants of the modern world, used, as they are, to the coherent legal regimes furnished by modern nation states. Salian Franks, Ripuar-ian Franks, Bretons, Alemans, Bavarians, Saxons, Angles, Thuringians,

Northmen, Danes, Swedes, Wends, Poles, and the rest all had their

own ideas of proper social order. Since few of their ideas were written down, the varieties of northern European law are still more difÀ cult to ascertain than is the case for southern Europe. But that does not in any sense reduce their quality as law.5

Medieval Europe can therefore with some justice be divided into two

legal regions: one southern, where Roman traditions were relatively

strong, and one northern, where they were not. But local variations

were far more important than the broad division into southern and

northern, Roman and Germanic. The customs of northern Euro-

pean Germanic tribes were not unaffected by Roman habits, and the

reverse is true as well. The clergy played a particularly important role in guaranteeing a minimum of legal harmony across the whole extent

of Latin Christianity. They furnished the single most important means by which Roman law came to reshape local law in its own image. Long

before the À rst universities were founded in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the clergy had led the advance of Roman law by converting

northern European pagans to Christianity. Conversion did not merely

mean adopting a new faith, a new calendar, and a new liturgy. It also

meant accepting a new kind of authority and some rather fundamen-

tal changes in the law the new authority required. Among the most

important were rules concerning birth, death, and marriage, which is

of Property (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1951); Detlef Liebs, Die Jurisprudenz im spätantiken Italien (260 –640 n. Chr.) (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1987); Georges Chevrier and Georges Pieri, La loi romaine des Burgondes (Milano: Giuffrè, 1969); Jean Gaudemet, Le Bréviaire d’Alaric et les Epitome (Milano: Giuffrè, 1965); Roger Collins, Law, Culture, and Regionalism in Early Medieval Spain (Aldershot: Variorum, 1992).

5 Patrick Wormald, Legal Culture in the Early Medieval West: Law as Text, Image and Experience (Rio Grande, Ohio: Hambledon Press, 1999); Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre, eds., The Settlement of Disputes in Early Medieval Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); Gerhard Köbler, Das Recht im frühen Mittelalter: Untersuchungen zu Herkunft und Inhalt frühmittelalterlicher Rechtsbegriffe im deutschen Sprachgebiet (Köln: Böhlau, 1971); Karl von Amira, Germanisches Recht, ed. Karl August Eckhard, 4th ed. (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1960).

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to say, the most important occasions on which property changed hands

in a society in which buying and selling had none of the signiÀ cance for property exchange they have today while legitimate birth was an

essential precondition for success.

Europe did thus not, as it were, fall into two sharply demarcated

blocks of different legal practice. It rather fell into one huge mosaic, made up of tiny pieces, much smaller than most modern states, with

inÀ nite variegations ranging in many different shades and hues from

Roman and written at one extreme to Germanic and unwritten at

the other, with neither extreme ever existing anywhere in complete

and unadulterated purity, such that the legal differences between one

southern locality and another may well have outweighed the global

difference between South and North.

So much for local law. University law presented an entirely different

picture. On the one hand, it was more or less the same all over Europe.

But on the other hand, it did not even exist until the À rst universities were founded in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. It was invented more or less from scratch when some curious and gifted northern Italian intellectuals began to read and systematically study the single manuscript of the Digest of Justinian that still survived in Western Europe. The Digest was the largest and by far the most important of the four volumes of

laws and jurisprudence collectively known as the Corpus Iuris— the other three being the Code, Institutes, and Novels— that had been compiled mostly from older sources and published in the sixth century C.E. at

the command of Emperor Justinian. The Digest embodied much of the legal wisdom of ancient Rome, albeit in a classicizing form that

stood at a remove from legal practice even at the very time when it

was codiÀ ed. In the Byzantine East, it was soon modiÀ ed or superseded by new imperial legislation. In the European West it fell pretty much

into oblivion—and if that single manuscript of the Digest had not by chance survived, the Corpus Iuris might never have been resuscitated at all. Yet that manuscript did survive, and it served as the focus of an extraordinary explosion of intellectual activity that, together with the study of canon law, occupied one of the three higher faculties into

which European universities were normally divided (the other two being theology and medicine, the lower one being philosophy).6

6 Stephan Kuttner, “The Revival of Jurisprudence,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard OCKER V1_f9_112-134.indd 118

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The study of Roman law thus began as a purely academic enter-

prise in faculties of law, entirely distinct from local legal practice.7 It was conducted by intellectuals enamored of the Corpus Iuris, seduced, almost, by what seemed to them a form of reason transcending mere

human creativity. They thought the Corpus Iuris embodied legal reason itself, and they regarded its interpretation as a sacred responsibility. Of course there always were connections between the study of Roman law

at the universities and actual legal practice. Some of those connections were rooted in the plain fact that some local legal habits had a history that went back to ancient Rome and were accordingly, and unsurprisingly, somehow related to the laws contained in the Corpus Iuris. Others arose from the fact that professors of Roman law were admired and

increasingly consulted on questions of law, so that university law began to have effects outside the universities. Still more ran through the close relationship between Roman law and canon law.8 Not least, all over

southern Europe there were notaries public who played a crucial role

by keeping ofÀ cial registers of documents and whose job required them to have some knowledge of Roman law. But no place in Europe was

actually governed by the Corpus Iuris. At heart, the study of Roman law existed in an intellectual universe entirely its own.9

University Press, 1982), 299–323; Woldemar Engelmann, Die Wiedergeburt der Rechtskultur in Italien durch die wissenschaftliche Lehre (Leipzig: K.F. Koehler, 1938); Harold J. Berman, Law and Revolution: The Impact of the Western Legal Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983); Manlio Bellomo, The Common Legal Past of Europe, 1000–1800, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1995); Paul Vinogradoff, Roman Law in Medieval Europe, ed. F. de Zulueta, 2nd ed.

(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929); James A. Brundage, Medieval Canon Law (London: Longman, 1995).

7 Bellomo, Common Legal Past of Europe, 61, makes this point with special clarity:

“Irnerius was not a jurist acting as a custodian for normative texts that he was lucky enough to have available and perhaps to own; he was a master of the liberal arts who made himself into a jurist in order to shatter the status of tradition, because tradition brought distortion and confusion.”

8 It is worth noting that both Pope Clement V (1305–1314) and Pope John XXII (1316 –1334) taught Roman law before they rose to high ecclesiastical ofÀ ce. For an informative scholarly exchange on the relationship between the church and Roman law see Walter Ullmann, “Honorius III and the Prohibition of Legal Studies,” Juridical Review 60 (1948): 177–86, and Stephan Kuttner, “Papst Honorius III. und das Studium des Zivilrechts,” in Festschrift für Martin Wolff: Beiträge zum Zivilrecht und internationalen Privatrecht, ed. Ernst von Caemmerer, Walter Hallstein, F.A. Mann, et al. (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1952), 79–101.

9 The kingdom of Naples furnishes a particularly striking illustration. Law professors at the university of Naples were expected to teach Roman law, but did not teach the law that actually obtained in the kingdom of Naples (or Sicily), the so-called Constitutions of OCKER V1_f9_112-134.indd 119

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One of the most important trends in the history of European

law—if not the most important one—consists of the way in which

the difference between local law and university law was gradually

resolved. Speaking broadly, it was resolved in favor of university law.

The speed and the depth of the changes that were wrought in legal

practice as a result differed considerably across the various regions of Europe. In southern Europe, there was a larger percentage of urban

and literate laity than in northern Europe, and the difference between local law and university law was smaller to begin with, both in terms

of language and in terms of historical origins. Hence, in Italy, the laity played a more prominent role in bringing local law into conformity

with university law, and reached the goal more quickly. In Italy, the

laity was able to produce a quasi-professional class of experts trained in legal matters from very early on. In northern Europe no such class

existed until much later. In northern Europe the lead was taken by

university-trained clerics who were employed as secretaries, councilors, and diplomats, À rst by ecclesiastical governments, but then increasingly often by temporal governments as well. In those capacities they spread what they had learned in the universities to settings far removed from questions of faith or prohibited degrees of marriage.

Regional variations persist even today, not only between nations, but

also within nations—and never mind the addition of a grand new level

of legal conformity in the body of laws that issue from the European Union. But the scope of the differences was reduced and enough agreement was reached on points of legal substance and procedure to result in a common understanding of the law that was rooted in the study of

the Roman law. By the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries

experts trained in Roman law played a crucial role in helping King

Philip IV of France to govern his state.10 By the later Middle Ages the governments of German princes and towns, particularly in the Southwest of Germany, increasingly relied on the services of ofÀ cials who MelÀ or Liber Augustalis. Yet the Constitutions of MelÀ and the university of Naples were the work of one and the same Emperor Frederick II, the former promulgated in 1231, the latter established in 1224; see Bellomo, Common Legal Past of Europe, 93–5.

10 Joseph R. Strayer, Les gens de justice du Languedoc sous Philippe le Bel (Toulouse: Association Marc Bloch, 1970); Franklin J. Pegues, The Lawyers of the Last Capetians (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1962); André Gouron, Etudes sur la diffusion des doctrines juridiques médiévales (London: Variorum, 1987).

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had studied Roman law in order to “reform” their legal procedures.11

And in 1495 Roman law was ofÀ cially “received” in Germany and the

Reichskammergericht, a kind of newly established Supreme Court for the entire Holy Roman Empire that was required to follow Roman law.12

It came to be taken for granted everywhere that law ought to be writ-

ten, codiÀ ed, formally enacted by the proper authorities, promulgated, known to those to whom it applied, coherent, subject to revision and

repeal, adjudicated in courts with clearly identiÀ ed responsibilities, allowing for appeal to higher courts against contested judgments, following deÀ nite rules of proof and evidence, consistently enforced and equally applied to all—and it was almost entirely forgotten that every single aspect of this understanding of the law conÁ icted with the local law of medieval Europe.

Thus Europe gradually acquired a common legal culture. It is

worth noting that this culture includes not only the Continent, but

also England.13 English common law differs, of course, in basic ways

from continental European law. The most obvious differences are that

common law does not originate in Roman law but in the legal customs

of medieval England, that English law therefore has concepts (such as seisin) and procedures (such as writs) quite different from those found in continental law, and that England developed a class of professional jurists trained at Inns of Court, and not at universities. Thus England presents a special case. But England experienced the same conÁ ict

between local law and university law as the rest of Europe did, and

may well have experienced it particularly sharply. It merely solved the 11 Erich Genzmer, “Kleriker als Berufsjuristen im späten Mittelalter,” in Etudes d’histoire du droit canonique, dédiées à Gabriel Le Bras, doyen honoraire de la Faculté de droit et de sciences économiques de Paris, membre de l’Institut (Paris: Sirey, 1966), 2:1207–36; Sven Stelling-Michaud, L’université de Bologne et la pénétration du droit romain et canonique en Suisse au XIII.

et XIV. siècles (Genève: E. Droz, 1955); Winfried Trusen, Die Anfänge des gelehrten Rechts in Deutschland: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Frührezeption (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1962).

12 Helmut Coing, Römisches Recht in Deutschland (Milano: Giuffrè, 1964); Rudolf Smend, Das Reichskammergericht: Geschichte und Verfassung (Weimar: H. Böhlau, 1911); Filippo Ranieri, Recht und Gesellschaft im Zeitalter der Rezeption: Eine rechts- und sozialge-schichtliche Analyse der Tätigkeit des Reichskammergerichts im 16. Jahrhundert, 2 vols. (Köln: Böhlau, 1985).

13 On England see the classic by Frederick Pollock and Frederic William Maitland, The History of English Law Before the Time of Edward I, 2d ed., 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968); the standard by John Hamilton Baker, An Introduction to English Legal History, 3rd ed. (London: Butterworths, 1990); Patrick Wormald, The Making of English Law: King Alfred to the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999); and R.H. Helmholz, Roman Canon Law in Reformation England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).

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conÁ ict differently: not by following the lead of the universities and university-trained literati; not by adopting Roman law and weeding

out local practices; but by doing the opposite, turning local law into a body of coherent jurisprudence with the same function as Roman law

had on the Continent and leaving Roman law where it had started,

in universities. England and Italy thus are the two European countries in which the conÁ ict between local law and university law was most

effectively resolved: in Italy, because the two were closely enough

related to each other that it proved relatively easy to make the former cohere with the latter; in England, because Roman law was not applied

directly, but taken as a model. The homegrown practice was equipped,

not only with a homegrown theory, but also with a homegrown class

of jurists. It may not be far wrong to say that in this way the English followed the spirit of ancient Roman law more closely than any other

European nation.14

European Legal History

Let this sufÀ ce for a brief sketch of the history of European law. Now let me turn to the development of legal history. Every known society

of human beings, no matter how small or large, how ancient or recent, how simple or how complex, has rules and regulations by which it

organizes its affairs. And those rules change. Thus law has a history at every moment in the history of Europe, just as it does at every moment in the history of any other society. Not so for legal history. Legal history is a recent invention, a rarity among the forms of knowledge human

beings have produced since they began to think.

Certainly no such thing as legal history existed when Irnerius (or

Werner, c. 1055–c. 1130) inaugurated the study of Roman law in Bolo-

gna. That does of course not mean that Irnerius had no knowledge of

changes that affect law over time. He most certainly did. In fact, such knowledge was precisely the foundation on which he turned to the

study of Justinian’s Digest. He knew that the Digest had been forgotten, and he sought to renew attention to its teaching. But his was not the

14 Peter Stein, Roman Law and English Jurisprudence Yesterday and Today: An Inaugural Lecture (London: Cambridge University Press, 1969); Alan Watson, The Spirit of Roman Law (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1995).

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kind of knowledge taught by legal history. So far from studying change as something worth knowing in its own right, as legal historians do,

Irnerius and his followers wished to restore Roman law to the place of honor they believed it ought to occupy by right. They viewed change as a form of corruption and abuse, of deviations from a proper norm.15

They thought that in the Digest they had discovered the golden truth of law. They sought to grasp that truth as best they could in order to share it with their fellows and let it be their guide in furnishing justice to their society.

Nothing surprising about that. What was surprising was rather

something else, namely, that the golden truth Irnerius found in the

Digest conÁ icted with local law. What was unusual was that medieval Europe revered a body of law in its universities that was practiced only in very special circumstances and everywhere else—at least outside the church—practiced a law that differed from the law that it revered. The distance between the legal truths embodied in the Digest and those put into practical effect in legal transactions day in, day out all over Europe created a kind of cognitive dissonance. That dissonance prepared the

À eld for legal history. It opened a door through which knowledge of

change could enter. It seems unlikely that legal history could have

developed otherwise.

Let me mention the stages by which the possibility became reality. At

À rst the dissonance was weak because the conÁ ict was scarcely perceived.

This was in part because there was, as yet, no systematic knowledge of the different practices prevailing in different areas of Europe. It was as well because those different legal practices could be dismissed as mere aberrations from the norm. But above all it was because the Corpus Iuris itself À rst needed to be mastered. It took two centuries and a whole school of jurists commonly known as the glossators before there was

anything like an agreed-upon interpretation of Roman law.16

15 For the lack of any historical dimension in the thought of the glossators and canonists see, e.g. , Bellomo, Common Legal Past, 65–6, 68. For a classic exposition of this theme see Fritz Kern, “Recht und Verfassung im Mittelalter,” Historische Zeitschrift 120

(1919): 1–79. For similar accounts see Fritz Kern, Kingship and Law in the Middle Ages, trans. Stanley B. Chrimes, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1939); Gerd Tellenbach, Church, State and Christian Society at the Time of the Investiture Controversy, trans. Ralph F. Bennett (London: Basil Blackwell & Mott, 1959); Otto Brunner, Land and Lordship: Structures of Governance in Medieval Austria, trans. with an introduction by Howard Kaminsky and James Van Horn Melton (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992).

16 On the glossators see Erich Genzmer, “Die iustinianische KodiÀ kation und die Glossatoren,” in Atti del Congresso internazionale di diritto Romano: Bologna e Roma, xvii–xxvii OCKER V1_f9_112-134.indd 123

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Once that work was À nished, the conÁ ict became more difÀ cult to

ignore. By the middle of the thirteenth century there was a standard

set of glosses compiled by Accursius (ca. 1182–1260) and known as the ordinary gloss. By the late thirteenth century local law itself had been so thoroughly described and codiÀ ed by experts and regional legislators like Ranulf de Glanville (1130–90) and Henry de Bracton (d. 1268) in

England, Philippe de Beaumanoir (ca. 1250–96) in France, King Alfonso

the Wise (1221–84) in Spain, and Eike von Repgow (ca. 1180–ca. 1233)

in Saxony as to leave little doubt about the disparities, not only between each of them, but also between all of them and Roman law.

The À rst attempt to resolve the conÁ ict was made by the so-called

commentators. The commentators rose to prominence in the fourteenth

century. They are called commentators because their writings did not

consist of line-by-line glosses, but of longer and more discursive “commentaries” in which they sought to adapt the meaning of Roman law

to the realities of medieval social and political life. They relied heavily on logical distinctions in order to À nd common ground between local

and university law. Their most famous representative was Bartolus of

Sassoferrato (1313/14–1357). Hence they were sometimes called “Bar-

tolists.” Since their method arose in Italian schools, it is often called

“the Italian manner,” mos italicus, of interpreting the law. Their work was so successful that it dominated legal practice well into the sixteenth century.17 But it came at a price. The price was that Roman law needed to be explicitly adapted to purposes and circumstances that it had never been meant to serve—and the adaptation showed.

By the À fteenth century it was too late for adaptation. Or more

precisely, by the À fteenth century those who knew the law the best

aprile MCMXXXIII (Pavia: F. Fusi, 1934–35), 1:345–430; Hermann Kantorowicz, Studies in the Glossators of the Roman Law: Newly Discovered Writings of the 12th Century (Aalen: Scientia-Verlag, 1969); Ugo Gualazzini, L’insegnamento del diritto in Italia durante l’alto Medioevo (Milano: Giuffrè, 1974); and for an incisive account of a major issue Francesco Calasso, I glossatori e la teoria della sovranità, 3rd ed. (Milan: Giuffrè, 1957).

17 Salvatore Riccobono, “Mos italicus e mos gallicus nella interpretazione del corpus iuris civilis,” in Acta congressus iuridici internationalis VII saeculo a decretalibus Gregorii IX et XIV a codice Iustiniano promulgatis Romae 12–17 Novembris 1934, ed. PontiÀ cium institutum utriusque iuris (Roma: Libraria pontiÀ cii instituti utriusque iuris, 1935), 2:377–98; Ernst Holthöfer, “Literaturtypen des mos italicus in der europäischen Literatur der frühen Neuzeit,” Ius commune 2 (1969): 130–66; Donald R. Kelley, “Civil Science in the Renaissance: Jurisprudence Italian Style,” Historical Journal 22 (1979): 777–94; Hans Erich Troje, Humanistische Jurisprudenz: Studien zur europäischen Rechtswissenschaft unter dem EinÁ uss des Humanismus (Goldbach: Keip Verlag, 1993).

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and who had done the most to persuade themselves and others that

the apparent conÁ icts between the laws could be resolved by logical

analysis were no longer able to believe their own conclusions. The chains of reasoning became too long. And then they snapped. The point at

which they snapped is the point at which legal humanists invented legal history. Legal humanism originated in Italy in the À fteenth century, but its most prominent advocates were French or Italians who taught

in France. Hence legal humanism is commonly distinguished from

the “Italian manner” as the “French manner,” mos gallicus. Among the best known legal humanists are Lorenzo Valla (1406–57), Guillaume

Budé (1468–1540), Andrea Alciato (1492–1550), and Jacques Cujas

(1522–90).18

Legal humanists broke sharply with the glossators and the com-

mentators. From their point of view, Roman law was simply the law

of an ancient people—admittedly an ancient people of particular

importance, but nonetheless essentially no different from any other

ancient or, for that matter, contemporary people. They recognized full well that there were deep historical connections between ancient Rome

and their own society. But they were also certain that the differences were so fundamental as to require a very different approach to Roman

law. They did not believe Roman law could be regarded as valid in the

contemporary world without signiÀ cant adjustments. From their point

of view, the logical distinctions drawn by glossators and commentators concealed a fundamental ignorance of the real meaning of Roman law.

They thought its meaning depended on the speciÀ c conditions that had

obtained during antiquity and that had disappeared since then. Hence

they set about studying the history of ancient Rome and Roman law,

and the discoveries they made led them to reject some of the most

fundamental convictions upheld by glossators and commentators.

Legal history thus made it possible to account in a convincing way

for a tension that threatened to undermine all faith in law by leaving lawyers no alternative but to choose between different kinds of law as they pleased—a choice that was by deÀ nition impossible to justify by

18 Domenico Maffei, Gli inizi dell’ umanesimo giuridico (Milano: Giuffrè, 1956); Guido Kisch, Erasmus und die Jurisprudenz seiner Zeit: Studien zum humanistischen Rechtsdenken (Basel: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1960); Donald R. Kelley, Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship: Language, Law, and History in the French Renaissance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970); Donald R. Kelley, “Civil Science in the Renaissance: Jurisprudence in the French Manner,” History of European Ideas 2 (1981): 261–76.

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law, since law was just what was at issue.19 Legal history pointed a way out of that dilemma. Legal history made it possible to acknowledge

that the conÁ ict between university law and local law was real. But

it offered a reason why they conÁ icted and a new way of explaining

their relationship. The reason was change over time and the way of

explaining it was history. Some laws were old and some were new. Each

law was valid in its own time and place—but only in its own time and place. Roman law was law in the full sense of the term. But it was

ancient law. The law that lawyers practiced was modern and valid for

the present time.

Thus legal humanists adopted change over time as one of the most

basic criteria required to understand the meaning of the law. Needless to say, this could not happen without a great deal of upheaval and

uncertainty. The yardstick of legal respectability that had been used so far suddenly lost credibility. The playing À eld was leveled. Roman law no longer stood head and shoulders above the rest, as though it

alone deserved to be regarded as ratio scripta, reason in writing. It was reduced to the more humble status of just one set of laws among

many, especially important to be sure, for many different reasons, but mostly for reasons that were themselves historical, and not the special sanctity with which Roman law seemed to have been imbued before.

All law, ancient as well as modern, could claim to represent reason in writing now.

The introduction of legal history thus solved one problem only at

the cost of creating another. The problem that it solved was how to

account for the difference between the laws taught at the universities and those practiced in Europe on the ground. The problem that it

created was how to prevent the law from changing with every passing

moment. How could the knowledge that law had a history be stopped

from turning law into mere opinion?

The answer to that question came in the form of the doctrine of

sovereignty as À rst developed by Jean Bodin, not coincidentally a lawyer well-trained in the methods of both the mos italicus and the mos gallicus, and keenly aware of the need to À nd some means with which to resupply the laws that had now been subjected to the winds of time with

19 For a beautiful illustration of the cynicism that could be inspired by that choice see Bartolomeo Scala, “Dialogue on Laws and Judgments,” in The Renaissance, ed. Eric Cochrane and Julius Kirshner, University of Chicago Readings in Western Civilization, 5 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 171–4.

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the obligatory force the law must have in order to fulÀ ll its purpose.

Sovereignty was that means. The sovereign was thought to stand as

far outside of time as Roman law had done in medieval Europe. The

sovereign was exempt from law and for that reason entitled to make

law for his subjects. The matter is more complicated than can be settled here. A fuller consideration would require attention to distinctions

between positive law, fundamental law, natural law, and divine law, not to mention the distinction between laws and contracts. SufÀ ce it to say that sovereignty did manage to reendow the law with however much

authority it had lost to history, and not unlikely more. That made it

possible to accept the truths of legal history without having to sacriÀ ce the legal stability that every society requires.20

The history of law in Europe is therefore marked by a deep irony.

In one sense law never enjoyed greater respect than at the beginning

of this story, the time when the conÁ ict between the laws was at its height. For at that time the conÁ ict was not perceived as such. As time went on, the conÁ ict was reduced. Through canon law, the clergy, and

an increasingly well-trained laity, university law spread its effects. The differences between the legal regions into which Europe might otherwise have been divided were covered by a web of common Romano-canonical jurisprudence, and as the web grew thicker the conÁ ict between the laws was smoothed out. Thanks largely to the work of the commentators, a common European legal culture came into existence above the

local varieties, and it was recognized as such. There cannot be many

examples in the history of the world in which an academic enterprise

that started with the study of a single manuscript played so obvious and easily identiÀ able a role in shaping the destiny of an entire continent.

Yet to the same degree that the jurists succeeded, they destroyed the

foundations of their success. As they clariÀ ed Roman law and spread

their teaching far and wide, they revealed the extent to which Roman

law differed from legal practice on the ground. That cast growing

doubt on the authority of law. In the end, they had to stop claiming

20 On sovereignty in general see Francis Harry Hinsley, Sovereignty, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); Daniel Engster, Divine Sovereignty: The Origins of Modern State Power (Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001), stresses the sovereign’s aspirations to the realm of the eternal. On Bodin see Julian Franklin, Jean Bodin and the Rise of Absolutist Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973); Diego Quaglioni, I limiti della sovranità: Il pensiero di Jean Bodin nella cultura politica e giuridica dell’età moderna (Padova: Cedam, 1992); and Yves Charles Zarka, ed., Jean Bodin: Nature, histoire, droit et politique (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1996).

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that their knowledge of Roman law was identical with knowledge of

the law as such and were compelled to turn themselves from practic-

ing jurisconsults into historians of law, surrender their authority to sovereigns who legislated new laws as they saw À t, and make room for

lawyers who applied a law that was no longer Roman.21

Hermann Conring

Hermann Conring was born in 1606 in the East Frisian town of Norden,

close to the North Sea. He spent most of his adult life as a professor of medicine and politics at the University of Helmstedt, at the time one of the leading universities in northern Europe.22 He died in 1681, widely respected as one of the leading intellectuals in Germany. He is best remembered for his contributions to the study of politics, history, and law. He has therefore been called “the founder of German legal

history.”23

There is a sense in which that is a fair description: Conring played

a crucial role in disentangling the history of German law from that of Roman law. He did so À rst and foremost in a book entitled De origine iuris Germanici commentarius historicus or Historical Commentary on the Origin of German Law, that was published in 1643.24 He made a point that may seem obvious from hindsight, but that had never been made so

well before: Roman law was practiced in Germany because German

21 Roman Schnur, ed., Die Rolle der Juristen bei der Entstehung des modernen Staates (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1986).

22 For detailed information about Conring and further bibliography see Constantin Fasolt, The Limits of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); Michael Stolleis, ed., Hermann Conring (1606–1681): Beiträge zu Leben und Werk (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1983); Patricia Herberger and Michael Stolleis, Hermann Conring, 1606–1681: Ein Gelehrter der Universität Helmstedt (Wolfenbüttel: Herzog August Bibliothek, 1981).

23 Once Otto Stobbe, Hermann Conring, der Begründer der deutschen Rechtsgeschichte (Berlin: W. Hertz, 1870), had made the designation familiar, it percolated through the literature.

Equally important was Ernst von Moeller, Hermann Conring, der Vorkämpfer des deutschen Rechts, 1606–1681 (Hannover: E. Geibel, 1915), whose title makes the same point in a different way.

24 Hermann Conring, De origine iuris Germanici commentarius historicus (Helmestadii: H. Müller, 1643), also in Hermann Conring, Opera, ed. Johann Wilhelm Goebel, 7

vols. (Brunsvigae: Meyer, 1730; reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1973), 6:77–202; cf. Hermann Conring, Der Ursprung des deutschen Rechts, ed. Michael Stolleis, trans. Ilse Hoffmann-Meckenstock (Frankfurt: Insel Verlag, 1994); Klaus Luig, “Conring, das deutsche Recht und die Rechtsgeschichte,” in Hermann Conring (1606 –1681): Beiträge zu Leben und Werk, ed. Michael Stolleis (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1983), 355–95.

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students had gone to Italian universities to study law and when they

came back to Germany, they practiced the law that they had learned

in Italy. That straightforwardly pragmatic explanation for the respect paid to Roman law in Germany destroyed the vestiges of the claim that Roman law was valid universally. It explained the respect for Roman

law as the effect of actions taken by a speciÀ c group of people acting for reasons entirely their own. It thereby made the systematic study of German law and legal history a conceptual possibility. That is what

people mean when they refer to Conring as “founder of German legal

history.”

Yet there are two good reasons why it is nonetheless misleading

to call Hermann Conring “founder of German legal history.” One

is that it focuses attention on only one of many subjects to which

he made path-breaking contributions. His lectures on the states, not

only of Europe, but also the rest of the world, have been regarded as among the founding documents of the systematic study of statistics. He published widely in the À eld of political science and edited works like Machiavelli’s Prince, Aristotle’s Politics, and Tacitus’s Germania.25 Perhaps the most original book he ever wrote (and certainly the book that took him the longest to complete and that confronted him with the greatest

intellectual difÀ culties) was a systematic treatise on the nature of political science entitled De civili prudentia and published in 1662.26 Some of his most important writings dealt with the constitution of the Holy Roman Empire and with the question of religious peace. In fact, the works collected in the six-volume edition of Conring’s Opera that Johann Wilhelm Goebel published in Brunswick in 1730 are so variegated that the list

of titles alone is enough to document how far Conring’s publications

went beyond the limits of legal history strictly speaking.

Moreover, Conring was trained, not as a historian at all, but as a

natural philosopher and a physician. From 1626 to 1631 he studied

medicine at the University of Leiden. In 1632 he was appointed pro-

fessor of natural philosophy at the University of Helmstedt. In 1636

he was promoted to Doctor of Medicine and Doctor of Philosophy on

25 Hermann Conring, ed., Princeps, by Niccolò Machiavelli (Helmestadii: H. Müller, 1660; rpt. in Opera, 2:973–1092); idem, ed., Politicorum libri superstites, by Aristotle (Helmestadii: Typis & Sumptibus Henningi Mulleri, 1656; rpt. in Opera, 3:491–723); idem, ed., De moribus Germanorum, by Tacitus (Helmaestadi: Lucius, 1635; rpt. Opera, 5:253–355).

26 Hermann Conring, De civili prudentia liber unus (Helmestadii: H. Müller, 1662; rpt.

Opera, 3:280–421).

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the same day. In 1637 he resigned from the faculty of philosophy in

order to take up a chair in the faculty of medicine. He continued to

hold that position until his death in 1681, supervising students, treating patients, conducting experiments, and publishing a large number of

writings on medicine, including one of the earliest to endorse William Harvey’s theory of the circulation of the blood, an inÁ uential introduction to the entire À eld of medicine, and a blistering criticism of the work of Paracelsus.27

Medicine has changed so much since the seventeenth century that

the signiÀ cance of Conring’s medical writings is more difÀ cult to reconstruct than is the case with his writings on history and politics. That may help to explain why Goebel decided not to include them in his

edition of Conring’s Opera. But if Conring is to be adequately judged, it must surely be kept in mind that his intellectual formation was that of a physician—like that of Marsiglio of Padua, Marsiglio Ficino, and John Locke—and that during the early stages of his career most of

his intellectual creativity went into the study of natural philosophy and medicine. It was only in 1650 that he was formally appointed to teach

politics—not history, much less law. He never joined the faculty of law and he never stopped acting as physician and professor of medicine.

He was a polymath.

The other reason why it is inappropriate to call Conring the founder

of German legal history is both more important and more difÀ cult to

explain. It consists of the place that Conring occupies in the story I have laid out for you. Roughly speaking, he may be grouped with the

legal humanists and the “French manner” of interpreting Roman law.

Like legal humanists, he was convinced that Roman law ought to be

interpreted as a body of laws with which an ancient people had once

upon a time governed themselves. Like legal humanists, he subjected

the authority of Roman law to the reasons of time and thereby made

room for other kinds of law to step into the place that Roman law had occupied so far. He had nothing but contempt for the glossators and

commentators. Indeed, by his time the authority they had formerly

enjoyed had already receded so far into the distance that Conring

could afford to lampoon them without having to go into the details

27 Hermann Conring, De sanguinis generatione et motu naturali opus novum (Helmestadii: H. Müller, 1643); idem, De hermetica Aegyptiorum vetere et Paracelsicorum nova medicina liber unus (Helmestadii: Typis Henningi Mulleri, sumptibus Martini Richteri, 1648); idem, De hermetica medicina libri duo (Helmestadii: Typis & sumptibus H. Mulleri, 1669).

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of their analysis. It seemed self-evident to him that purely textual or logical interpretations without sound historical knowledge of antiquity could not possibly grasp the real meaning of Roman law. History and

sovereignty occupied the same important place in his thought as it

did in that of legal humanists. History enabled him to demolish the

claims of glossators and commentators that Roman law was valid in

contemporary Europe because it embodied “reason in writing.” And

sovereignty enabled him to insist on the freedom of each state to make laws for itself.

These principles shaped his views on Germany and German law.

Few things, he thought, had done more damage to the well-being of

Germany than the confusion between Roman law and German law

that had infected German minds, and the arrogance of lawyers who

insisted against all better knowledge that German citizens ought to

obey Roman law. From his point of view, unfounded claims like these

were among the most important reasons for the Thirty Years War.

The task at hand, as he deÀ ned it, was to disentangle the history of the Roman Empire from the history of the German state, investigate the

history of German law from its beginnings to the present, and thereby to reconstitute the foundations of the German commonwealth. This

is precisely what he did in one of his earliest published writings, the Discursus novus de imperatore Romano-Germanico or New Discourse on the Roman-German Emperor and he returned to the same issue repeatedly later on.

He gathered whatever evidence he could in libraries and archives in

order to describe the laws that had actually governed German towns

and regions before Roman law arrived. No one had done the same

before, or had at least not done it with the same clarity of conviction, the same depth of erudition, and the same pivotal success.

Those are the reasons why Conring has been called founder of Ger-

man legal history. They are good reasons—but only if we are clear in

our minds exactly what they prove. They prove that Conring created

something identiÀ ably new by continuing something very old. The

founding was real, but it was not from scratch. The founding amounted

to an important point of change in a continuing tradition—and the

continuity matters as much as the new beginning or more. Conring

stands at that point in time at which Roman law had come to be so

deeply embedded in local law that the logical and institutional distinctions on which their peaceful coexistence had so far depended needed

to be replaced by the historical distinctions that legal humanists introduced. That changed the place of Roman law in the organization of

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European society. But so far from eliminating its authority, it rather enhanced that authority by translating it into the new vernacular of

national legislation.

It is no accident that, in the very same book in which he used legal

history to refute the notion that Roman law was binding in Germany,

Conring envisaged the creation of a new code of German law. His

advocacy of codiÀ cation stands in the same relationship to Roman law as did his study of legal history itself. In the obvious sense it amounted to a break. There never had been a code of German law before. And

given that it took until the beginning of the twentieth century before a German code of civil law was actually put into effect, Conring’s

recommendation may be taken as evidence for his farsightedness, the

difÀ culty of the task, and the depth of the break. But in a more fundamental sense his call for codiÀ cation reÁ ected nothing more clearly than the degree to which Roman law had taken root in Europe. It was

the study of Roman law that furnished Europeans with the notion

that law ought to be homogeneous for any given people and that it

ought to be set forth in codes. There had been no “Germany” so far,

much less a body of “German law.” There had been an assemblage of

many different territories and many variegated forms of law peculiar

to each. The very idea that there was such a thing as German law that

had a history and could be codiÀ ed reÁ ects nothing more clearly than the effects of centuries of training in Roman law. Had it not been for those effects, Conring could neither have envisioned the possibility that Germany was a sovereign state, as Rome had been, nor could he have

called for Germany to have a law of its own, as Rome had had, and

to deÀ ne it by means of a code as Rome had done.

Henceforth, German law was going to range side by side with Roman

law. It was going to have its own theory, its own practice, its own history, its own code, its own legislator, and its own jurists, as though German law and Roman law were simply different members of the same species “law,” distinguished from each other not in kind, as theory from

practice, or comprehensive code from variegated custom, or universal

reason from local application, but only by the temporal circumstances

of their making and the source from which they drew their obligatory

force. Roman law was made in ancient Rome and drew its force from

the will of ancient Roman people. German law was made in medieval

and early modern Germany and drew its force from the will of German

people. Apart from that, German law was now entitled to the same

kind of authority as Roman law.

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A charming indication of the new state of affairs is the arrangement adopted by the Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte, one of the most venerable journals in the À eld of legal history. That journal is divided into three separate sections: one Germanistisch (devoted to German law), one Romanistisch (devoted to Roman law), and one Kanonistisch (devoted to canon law). Thus tensions that once upon a time used to

beset the relationship between three different kinds of law were overtaken by a common dedication to legal history allowing Romanisten, Germanisten, and Kanonisten to coexist more or less happily on the pages of one and the same publication.

Without the turn to legal history, that kind of coexistence would have been inconceivable. It was the turn to legal history that allowed Conring to envisage German law and Roman law as different species of one and

the same genus, cast German law in a new mold, and thereby to endow

it with a kind of authority that had previously been strictly reserved to Roman law. Legal history, we may conclude, is nothing other than

the most recent means that Europeans have devised in order to resolve

the conÁ ict between the great respect they paid to Roman law and the

loyalty they felt towards the law they actually practiced. Legal history has done something other than merely to uncover the history of law. It has cast that history in forms inherited from the study of Roman law

and thereby obscured as much history of law as it revealed. Petrarch, a humanist with much knowledge of law, though not a legal humanist

in the technical sense, already understood the link between the study of history and Rome. “What else, then, is all history,” he asked rhetorically speaking, “if not the praise of Rome?”28 Indeed. If Conring’s work

be used as evidence with which to test the truth of Petrarch’s claim, Petrarch would have to be considered right. Legal history is not what

it appears to be. So far from signaling an end to the effects of Roman law on European culture, Conring’s devotion to German legal history

offers ironic proof of Roman law’s abiding signiÀ cance. So far from breaking with the tradition beginning in medieval universities, Conring represents its culmination, the point at which the local law that had

for so long been practiced in distinction from the law taught at the

universities was À nally reshaped to À t the academic model.

28 “Quid est enim aliud omnis historia quam Romana laus?” Opera omnia (Basel, 1554), 1187, quoted from Theodor E. Mommsen, “Petrarch’s Conception of the ‘Dark Ages’,” in Medieval and Renaissance Studies, by Theodor E. Mommsen, ed. Eugene F. Rice (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1959), 122 and n. 64.

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As a result, the stimulus to critical innovation that had character-

ized the history of medieval law—À rst forcing glossators to give way to commentators, and then commentators to legal humanists—was

transformed. In modern Europe it no longer took the form of a conÁ ict between local law and university law—a conÁ ict between two different types of law and thus internal to the sphere of law as such—but

rather of a conÁ ict pitting all forms of law against the principles that govern politics and the relations between states. In the aftermath of

legal humanism and the invention of sovereignty, law was demoted from the supremacy it had enjoyed during the Middle Ages to a subordinate

position and a more narrowly deÀ ned terrain, beneath the sovereign

and between the states. The line that used to divide academic jurists

from local practitioners of law thus came to be redrawn in that strange modern no-man’s land dividing politics from law. It now divided sovereigns, men of state, and political theorists, on the one hand, from lawyers, legal historians, and legal theorists on the other. That was a new distinction. But it was historically related to its predecessor, fulÀ lled similar functions, and led to similar difÀ culties. It arose directly out of the difference between academic law (codiÀ ed, enacted, promulgated

by a sovereign legislator) and local law (often unwritten, not necessarily enacted or promulgated, and highly variable over time and place).

It continued the old conÁ ict between the laws and the stimulus such

conÁ ict gave to innovation and critique, except that henceforth the

innovation and critique would no longer run from academic law to

local legal practice, but from politics to law. As Roman law had for-

merly served as a source of critical reÁ ection on local legal practice, so politics would henceforth serve as a source of critical reÁ ection on law and legislation. As glossators and commentators had once compelled

local practitioners to change their ways, so men of state and theorists of politics were going to force lawyers to bow to sovereignty. The dif-

À culties we now face in striking a proper balance between politics and law are the historical successor to the difÀ culties medieval people faced in trying to strike a balance between university law and local law. In that manner the memory of ancient Rome continues to confuse and

challenge the world today.

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THE REFORMATION OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT:

GERMAN HISTORIES IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

Michael Printy

To us alone among nations has fate ensured that the

sharp blade of ecclesiastical division would continu-

ally cut through us. We are carved into almost equal

parts, but can neither separate from one another, nor

really live properly together.

—Ignaz von Döllinger, 18631

The Meaning of the Reformation

In times of crisis historians of the Reformation, from the sixteenth century to the present, have sought to attribute meaning to it in such a way as to make sense of the event in terms relevant to their own

day. For example, the Reformation’s À rst historian, Johann Sleidan

(1506–1556), sought in his Commentaries on Religion and the Republic in the Reign of Charles V (1555) to place the history of Luther’s reform within a framework of salvation inherited from medieval historical visions.

Sleidan was not just a historian of the Reformation, of course, but

also—as a diplomatic agent for the League of Schmalkalden—a par-

ticipant. His attributions of meaning to the Reformation may therefore certainly be granted a certain irrefutability that latter historians may not claim. Nevertheless, scholars do not necessarily commit the historical sin of anachronism when they explicitly state the relevance of their research to their attempt to understand the world in which they live.

Indeed, Heiko Oberman notes in his posthumous The Two Reformations that his “historically conscious life began” when he saw a German plane falling out of the sky after having À re-bombed Rotterdam in 1940.2 In 1 Quoted in Georg Schwaiger, ed. Zwischen Polemik und Irenik. Untersuchungen zum Verhältniß der Konfessionen im späten 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1977), 5.

2 Heiko Augustinus Oberman, The Two Reformations: the Journey from the Last Days to the New World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), xvii.

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some ways, an overriding concern with the horrors of the twentieth

century may be found in Oberman’s attempt to come to terms with

the sixteenth.

While no one would doubt that either the sixteenth century or the

years of fascism and world war were times of crisis, it may seem a

little odd to declare that there was a similar crisis in eighteenth-century Germany. Before Napoleon, there were few indications that the Holy

Roman Empire would soon come to a dramatic end or that states and

dynasties would be brought into upheaval. What is apparent, how-

ever, is that the meaning of the Reformation underwent signiÀ cant

transformation by both Protestants and Catholics alike. The crisis was more intellectual and social in nature—and not unrelated to the “crisis of conscience” Paul Hazard identiÀ ed at the end of the seventeenth

century. German Protestantism and German Catholicism experienced

their own crises, and an examination of their problems in the eigh-

teenth century may shed light on the way in which the Reformation

as a historical event was evaluated and its supposed lessons brought to bear on the “present.”

The crises faced by eighteenth-century Germans were of an intel-

lectual and institutional nature. For Protestants, the late seventeenth century witnessed the Á ourishing of a Pietistic movement that threatened to undermine the Orthodox Lutheran establishment from within.

There followed new approaches to biblical scholarship that brought

into question Luther’s canonical translation of Scripture and seemed

to strike at the heart of the concept of sola scriptura.3 By the latter third of the eighteenth century, the German Protestant Enlightenment was in full swing, with Lessing’s publication of Reimarus’ “fragments” raising questions about the extent of deism and Spinozism in Germany. The

crisis besetting the German Catholic Church exploded into the open

in 1763 with the publication of a treatise by the suffragan bishop of Trier, Niklaus Hontheim, calling on the German episcopate to free

itself from Roman authority along Gallican lines, according the pope

only honorary primacy.4 Beyond this canon-law dispute lurked other

major issue of reform and control of the Church as Catholic church-

3 Jonathan Sheehan, The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005).

4 Justini Febronii JCti de Statu Ecclesiae et Legitima Potestate Romani PontiÀ cis Liber Singularis, ad Reuniendos Dissidentes in Religione Christianos (Bullioni, apud Guillelmum Evrardi, 1763).

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men struggled to accommodate traditional religious practices to what

they saw as a new age of Enlightenment. This program Á ourished into

a general movement of liturgical, educational, and institutional reform known as the katholische Aufklärung.

Although diverging interests, programs, and institutions of the Catholic and Protestant Enlightenments in Germany would seem to signal

distinct movements, it is nonetheless true that the religious nature of both of these Enlightenments indicates their points of contact. More so than its companion movements in Europe, the German Enlightenment as

a whole was a theological event: questions of religion and revelation animated the most signiÀ cant of German Enlightenment thinkers from

Leibniz to Kant.5 This is not to say that it was exclusively theological, of course. Publishing statistics show the relative decline of religious works with respect to novels, political commentary and other genres.6

Nevertheless, religious questions were of high priority for eighteenth-century Germans.

This situation was noted by contemporaries as well. Looking back

on a century that had only recently concluded, Karl Friedrich Stäudlin, a professor of Ecclesiastical Statistics at Göttingen, noted in 1804 that Germans of all confessions had started a “revolution” in religious knowledge. These changes were as signiÀ cant as those of the Reformation

era—only this time Germany was spared the bloodshed:

The Germans are still on the whole a very religious nation [ Nation], and true religious formation [ Bildung] and Enlightenment have attained a higher level among them than among any other nation. Just as it was

among the Germans that the Reformation had its beginnings, so too

among them in the eighteenth century there began a new revolution in

religious knowledge and in the theological sciences, only this time without disturbance, violence, and war. They have made Christianity more

moral, and upheld it according to the intentions of its founder [ Jesus Christ]. They did not make it part of their religion to blindly stick with the old forms and deÀ nitions, but at the same time did not go over to 5 For public interest in religious matters, see H.C. Erick Midelfort, Exorcism and Enlightenment: Johann Joseph Gassner and the Demons of Eighteenth-Century Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005). For a recent argument about the centrality of religion to the German (Protestant) Enlightenment, see Thomas. Ahnert, Religion and the Origins of the German Enlightenment: Faith and the Reform of Learning in the Thought of Christian Thomasius (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2006).

6 These statistics are usually derived from the catalogues of the Leipzig book fair, which means that Catholic works, as well as works not traded at the fair, were bound to be underrepresented.

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atheism or a new kind of superstition. They tried to create a purely

moral religion and a religious morality without disregarding the external forms of religion. They established the principles of tolerance without wanting to foster indifference. They advanced religious knowledge and

culture in keeping with the progress of other À elds of knowledge. No nation has explored the theological sciences with as much spirit, taste, and thoroughness as have the Germans. In practical affairs as well, it would be difÀ cult to À nd another nation that has made such strides in creating institutions of education for worthy teachers of religion and in the cultivation and education of the people. What is said here is true of a large portion of the clergy and laity of all religious parties, and can therefore in comparison with other nations be put forth as a general

characteristic of the nation.7

Stäudlin’s observation is signiÀ cant not only because it expresses a typical Enlightenment belief in the moral imperative of religion, but also because of the far-less typical assumption that Catholics and Protestants in Germany shared core cultural values and convictions.

This shared interest in religious questions raises the specter of

the deÀ ning religious event of modern (that is to say, post-medieval) German history, namely the Protestant Reformation. As a “natio”—a people who shared a common birth—Germans were united in what

divided them. Theirs was the country most profoundly affected by the

breakup of western Christianity in the sixteenth century, and yet the political structure of the Empire ensured that they would live in uneasy coexistence. Political, linguistic, and religious diversity meant frequent disruptions, at times worsened by outside intervention (as had especially been the case in the Thirty Years War). Given the tension between

unity and diversity in German history, it would seem opportune to ask

whether—and if so, in what ways—the religious Enlightenment served

as a force of unity in Germany. As Lessing noted, religious movements are like “barrels of cider fermenting in the basement . . . one sets the other in motion; one does not move by itself.”8 This essay examines what the Protestant and Catholic evaluations of the Reformation tell

us about their mutual interests in the age of Enlightenment. Moreover, the ways in which Protestants and Catholics shared this event shed new light on the centrality of the Reformation and the transformation of

its meanings to modern German history.

7 K.F. Stäudlin, Kirchliche Geographie und Statistik, 2 vols. (Tübingen, 1804), 2: 324.

8 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Theologiekritische Schriften I und II, vol. 7, Werke (Munich: Carl Hanser Verlag, 1976), 715.

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The Protestant Account: the Transvaluation of a Narrative

The historical outline of the German Reformation was largely estab-

lished by its À rst historian, Johann Sleidan (1506–1556), who was commissioned by the League of Schmalkalden to write its ofÀ cial history.

Sleidan’s Commentaries on Religion and the Republic in the Reign of Charles V

(À rst published in 1555) provided a masterful account of the course of the Reformation, largely from the perspective of the princes and cities.

Sleidan was given the right to use ofÀ cial documents, and his work provided important access to primary sources until their wider publication in the eighteenth century. More importantly, Sleidan was praised for his

“objectivity” by contemporaries and subsequent historians alike. Claims of this objectivity rested largely on his willingness to include less than Á attering details about the evangelical party in his account and in his relative moderation—by the standard of the day—toward his confessional opponents. Nevertheless, Sleidan’s history is a Lutheran one,

and perhaps more so than scholars committed to a view of Sleidan’s

“objectivity” and even his “modernity” have been willing to admit.

His vision of history was rooted more À rmly in theology than has

been commonly supposed, evidence of which can be found not only

in his short textbook On the Four World Monarchies (1556) but even in the eschatological structure of the Commentaries themselves.

I invoke Sleidan here in order to raise a point about the transfor-

mation of the narrative of the Reformation in the eighteenth century.

Two aspects of that narrative, established with such force by Sleidan’s account, are essential to understanding what happens to it in the Enlightenment. In the À rst place is the eclipse of the concept of Christianity under siege—whether by a papal anti-Christ or an Ottoman menace.

These two threats highlighted, for Sleidan, Germany’s place in world

history as a “bulwark” ( propugnaculum) of Christendom.9 Whereas Sleidan’s apparent coolness to religion and theology has seemed strange to modern observers,10 the overall thrust of his work is to indicate that the Reformation demonstrated the triumph of Christianity against

9 Ioannis Sleidani Commentariorum de statu religionis & Reiublicae Carolo Quinto Caesare, Libri XXVI (Strasbourg, 1577), book 24, 758.

10 E.g. A.G. Dickens, “Johannes Sleidan and Reformation History,” in Reformation Conformity and Dissent. Essays in Honour of Geoffrey Nuttall, ed. R. Buick Knox (London: Epworth Press, 1977); Ingeborg Berlin Vogelstein, Johann Sleidan’s Commentaries: Vantage Point of a Second Generation Lutheran (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1986).

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enemies ranging from a Turkish devil and the papacy to fanatical

sectarians and peasants. The second related major aspect of Sleidan’s narrative, therefore, is his focus on the Reformation as the restoration of true doctrine. He renders historical all those papal and scholastic innovations that had come to characterize the Christian religion at the dawn of the sixteenth century. In the manner of Eusebius—for whom

the truth was eternal whereas heresy had a human history—Sleidan

placed the doctrine of the Gospel as restored by Luther outside of

history.11

The threats that are presupposed in the Sleidanian narrative had

been largely overcome by the dawn of the eighteenth century. With

the conclusion of the Peace of Westphalia, Habsburg ambitions to

form a strong Catholic monarchy in the Empire had been set aside,

and biconfessionalism had been accepted as the basis of imperial law.

The papacy, by removing itself as a party to the peace, ceased to be a formal player in imperial politics.12 Ottoman defeat at Vienna in 1683

heralded the decline of the Turkish menace. Peasants and sectarians

no longer posed any serious threat to the stability of the state and its established confession. If indeed Sleidan’s Germany were to continue

to serve as a “bulwark” of Christendom, then it would have to defend

against entirely different enemies.

However tattered around the edges in the wake of Pietism, the

establishment view of a Reformation more-or-less in conformity with

the historical tradition established by Sleidan was still possible in the eighteenth century. Mosheim’s Institutes of Ecclesiastical History (second edition, 1753), for example, emphasized the way in which true doctrine—rescued by Luther’s Reformation—was still preserved in the

Church, which must resist the onslaughts of all sorts of fanatics, including not just Anabaptists, peasants, and other sectarians, but also, more recently, Quakers and mystics. Mosheim grudgingly acknowledged that

the Roman Church—which since the late middle ages had allowed if

11 Jaroslav Pelikan, The Christian Tradition Volume 1: The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition (100–600). (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1971), 7–8. Pelikan cites Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 1.1.1; 7.30.4; and 31.1. Eusebius announces that he will recount “the names of those who through a passion for innovation have wandered as far as possible from the truth, proclaiming themselves the founts of Knowledge falsely so called while mercilessly, like savage wolves, making havoc of Christ’s Á ock.” Eusebius, The History of the Church, trans. G.A. Williamson (Penguin, 1965), 1.1.b, p. 1.

12 Konrad Repgen, “Der päpstlicher Protest gegen den Westfälischen Frieden und die Friedenspolitik Urbans VIII,” Historisches Jahrbuch 75 (1956): 94–122.

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not encouraged the replacement of true religion with superstition—had made some improvements since the Council of Trent, though this was in large part because of the need to respond to Protestant challenges. The Catholic threat to Protestantism could therefore be downgraded from a

danger to a mere error.13 Mosheim’s Reformation was also one that both recognized the importance of political authorities in protecting religion and sought to insulate the Church from political inÁ uence. It was, as we shall see, a Reformation that could be easily adapted by reformist

Catholics. While Catholics would naturally not accept the point that

Luther had restored true doctrine, partisans of the katholische Aufklärung were in agreement with their Protestant counterparts that some sort

of Church establishment was necessary to hold back superstition and

that the Reformation and ensuing Catholic response had puriÀ ed the

religion of centuries of accrued superstition.

While Mosheim’s Reformation still held onto the essentials put in

place by Sleidan, it had begun to come apart after the middle of the

eighteenth century. Several major changes within German Protestant-

ism came together to effect a new understanding of the role of the

Reformation. Internally, the most signiÀ cant shift was the gradual eclipse of Lutheran Orthodoxy, particularly the increasing challenges to the

centrality of the “symbolic books” to Lutherans, the binding statements of dogma which ofÀ cials and teachers were usually required by oath to uphold.14 The easing of tensions with Catholics rendered the need for Protestant defensive postures less acute. Moreover, a certain growing

together of the confessions among educated Germans brought Catholics

and Protestants into a conversation that—while not entirely free of its 13 Mosheim also pays attention to disputes within Catholicism, for example in characterizing the enthusiasm of the Jansenists as part of a more general threat of fanaticism.

14 According to the Mainz Catholic theologian Felix Anton Blau (later a Jacobin supporter of the French occupation who was imprisoned by the Prussians for his activities), the controversy over the symbolic books in the Protestant Churches began with an English work in the second half of the eighteenth century. Francis Blackburne’s (1705–87) anonymous treatise The Confessional: Or, a Full and Free Inquiry into the Right, Utility, EdiÀ cation, and Success, of Establishing Systematical Confessions of Faith and Doctrine in Protestant Churches was soon picked up by German Protestant scholars like J.S. Semler and F.G. Lüdke, as well as the Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, the organ of the Berlin Enlightenment published by Friedrich Nicolai. See Felix Anton Blau, Kritische Geschichte der kirchlichen Unfehlbarkeit, zur Beförderung einer freiern Prüfung des Katholizismus (Frankfurt am Main, 1791), 524–25, note “f ”.

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polemical heritage—forced Protestants to articulate the signiÀ cance of the Reformation in new ways.

In 1770, the Protestant theologian and geographer Anton Friedrich

Büsching (1724–1793) argued that the Augsburg Confession should

be seen as “nothing other than an apology or a defense” and that the

authors had no intention of delivering a “complete and clear treatise of Christian teachings. Much less did they mean to create a binding

statement of faith, which would limit their own as well as their descendants’ freedom of investigation.”15 Büsching, as well as others, argued that the “papal” remnants in the Protestant confessions were due to

misplaced hopes that some Catholics could be appeased and that unity

could be maintained.16

Along similar lines, the rationalist Lutheran theologian Gotthilf

Samuel Steinbart (1738–1809) excused the early Reformers for failing to completely purify Christianity of centuries of useless speculative accre-tion. The early Reformers did not possess the same modern critical and exegetical tools as did their eighteenth-century descendents, and their knowledge of Church history was weak. Therefore, Steinbart wrote

in 1778, “in their investigations of ecclesiastical doctrines they only went back to the times of the early papacy, and therefore left intact the doctrines of the À rst À ve or six centuries.”17 Steinbart warned that unless the old beliefs were fundamentally re-examined and purged of

speculation, more and more people would leave the Church as the

Enlightenment of the nation progressed.18 In his attacks on orthodoxy, Steinbart argued that theologians should return to Scripture.19 The

early Reformers “did what they could with the exegetical tools and

philosophy available to them. We now stand on their shoulders . . . it 15 Anton Friedrich Büsching, Allgemeine Anmerkungen über die symbolischen Schriften der evangelisch-lutherischen Kirche und besondere Erlauterungen der Augsburger Konfession (Berlin, 1770), 11.

16 Ibid., 13–14.

17 Gotthilf Samuel Steinbart, System der reinen Philosophie oder Glückseligkeitslehre des Christenthums, für die Bedürfnisse seiner aufgeklärte Landesleute und anderer die nach Weisheit fragen (Züllichau, 1778), 3.

18 The danger, according to Steinbart’s treatise, The System of Pure Philosophy, was that many Protestant theologians were constructing a “mishmash of speculative daydreams that have nothing to do with salvation. . . . So it is no surprise that as the Enlightenment of the nation progresses, so too do doubts about the divinity of Christianity increase, and all independent minds and truth seekers slowly leave our Church.” Steinbart, 4.

19 On German biblical scholarship in this period, see Sheehan, The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture.

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is our duty to see farther.”20 Seeing farther, paradoxically, meant to abandon a Protestant historical understanding that strove to À nd its core beliefs outside of history and instead to look to history itself as a source of doctrines that were necessarily contingent.

Coming to Terms with the Reformation: The Catholic Account

Like Sleidan’s Commentaries, the Catholic account of the Reformation was shaped by the exigencies of confessional politics. While most

histories moved beyond the stridently anti-Lutheran tone of Luther’s

À rst Catholic biographer, Johannes Cochlaeus, Catholic historiography nonetheless oriented itself on the fundamental assumption that the

Protestant Reformation was merely a revived form of older heresies.

Catholic history, most notably Baronio’s (1538–1607) Annales Ecclesiastici, set out to show how the Catholic Church held fast to traditions established in the early Church. Baronio’s work was a riposte to the account of Flacius and the “Centuriators” of Magdeburg, whose collaborative

history of the Church (published between 1559 and 1574) sought to

show how the true Church of Christ survived hidden behind centuries

of papal innovation.21 Variants of this fundamental dispute over the status of true doctrine continued to form a centerpiece of Catholic

history up to Bossuet’s History of the Variations of the Protestant Churches, which likewise sought to demonstrate that while Protestant doctrine had changed over the centuries, Catholic teaching had remained faithful to the doctrines of the early Church.22

By the eighteenth century, however, the Protestant Reformation was

no longer held at such distance by German Catholics. An anonymously

published pamphlet proclaimed that “Germany’s Reformation at the

20 Steinbart, 135. The arguments by Büsching, Steinbart, and others certainly met with resistance by conservative Lutherans, for example by the Hamburg pastor J.M.

Goeze (famous for his public controversy with Lessing over the publication of the Reimarus fragments). Goeze took the new theologians to task for their arrogance and insisted that the Augsburg Confession was apostolic and evangelical. See J.M. Goeze, Nothwendige Errinerungen zu des Herrn D. Büschings allgemeinen Anmerkungen über die symbolischen Schriften der evangelisch = lutherischen Kirche (Hamburg, 1770), 67.

21 For the origins of the project, see most recently Gregory B. Lyon, “Baudouin, Flacius, and the Plan for the Magdeburg Centuries,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64, no. 2 (2003): 253–72.

22 See Owen Chadwick, From Bossuet to Newman, Second ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987).

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End of the Eighteenth Century” was evident in Joseph II’s plan to close numerous monasteries and cloisters and to turn the inmates over to

productive work.23 Similar use of the term “Reformation” was in Peter Philipp Wolf ’s pamphlet Vorschlag zu einer Reformation der katholischen Kirche (1800), though his suggestions were so radical that they constituted more a program of abolition than of reform.24 More sophisticated in its use of the historical Reformation for the purpose of propagating a moderate

vision was the history of the Catholic educational reformer and priest Michael Ignaz Schmidt (1736–94). Schmidt suggested that Catholic

rulers could now prudently imitate Protestant rulers of the sixteenth century by transforming vast monastic and ecclesiastical holdings toward educational and charitable foundations. In fact, the Catholics could even turn their late start to an advantage, for “it would not be too hard for a Catholic prince who knows both his rights and the welfare of his

lands to not only make up on what has been neglected, but perhaps

even in some ways to recuperate the capital with interest.”25 Schmidt

certainly did not intend for the Catholic princes of Germany to wholly revise the sacramental system of the Catholic Church; what he had

in mind was a Reformation that would restore the concordia sacerdoti et imperi. This peace had been disturbed in the era of Gregory VII, was brought back to order in the days of the Council of Constance, yet

was once again set off course in Catholic Germany by the excesses of

the Counterreformation. Given the particular sharpness with which

the impact of the Protestant Reformation had formed confessional

identities in Germany, it is somewhat surprising to À nd Catholics in the eighteenth century employing the Protestant Reformation to describe

23 Anon. [ Joseph Kreutzenstein], Die Reformation in Deutschland zu Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Vienna, 1781). On the attack on monasticism see most recently Derek Beales, Prosperity and Plunder: European Catholic Monasteries in the Age of Revolution, 1650–1815

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).

24 Peter Philipp Wolf, Vorschlag zu einer Reformation der katholischen Kirche (Leipzig and Luzern, 1800). In the wake of the French Revolution, Wolf assumed that the “collapse”

of the Roman Church was nigh, writing, for example, that “Pius VI kann vielleicht der letzte römische, aber darum nicht auch zugleich der letzte Papst seyn. Zwar würde eine christliche, und sogar eine katholische Religion ohne Papst bestehen können.

Allein man würde in diesem Falle nur den Namen, und nicht die Sache ändern. . . .

Man ist, in der katholischen Kirche wenigstens, schon allzusehr an die Idee von einem sichtbaren Oberhaupte gewöhnt, als dass man ein solchen so leicht missen könnte.”

Wolf, Vorschlag, 1–2.

25 Michael Ignaz Schmidt, Geschichte der Deutschen, 2 ed., 11 vols. (Ulm, 1778–1793).

Here: 6: 324.

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their own programs for the future. However, it is worth considering

just which Reformation these Catholics had in mind.

What had happened to the Protestant Reformation in the eighteenth

century to make it palatable for Catholic Enlighteners to appropriate

portions of it as a model for change? In short, the katholische Aufklärung’s concern with morals and religious practice led it to downplay the centrality of doctrine. The core disputes of the Reformation era, therefore, receded into the background. The same post-Westphalian conÀ dence

that meant that German Protestants could no longer plausibly fear a

forceful re-Catholicization also provided German Catholics with the

sense that absolute loyalty to papal authority was not necessary for the survival of a German Catholic Church. The result was the burgeoning claim for Gallican-style “liberties.” Their “Reformation,” therefore,

focused on the institutions of the Church and less on matters of faith.

However, as they contemplated the meaning of the Reformation for

their own program of Enlightenment, German Catholics were not

unaware of the changes occurring in Protestant theology.

German Catholic assessments of these changes in Protestantism

can be evaluated by comparing the positions of two representatives

of the katholische Aufklärung, Michael Ignaz Schmidt, and the more radical Mainz theologian Felix Anton Blau (1754–1798). Schmidt’s

multi-volume narrative history, cited above, in many ways embodied

the Gallican longings of Enlightened German Catholics, who sought a

practical reform of the Church, and who favored, if not independence, then certainly more administrative autonomy from Rome. Schmidt

saw the Church since the days of Boniface as leading Germany out

of barbarism, and, more importantly, he implied that religious institutions should still be pillars of society even in the new secular age of the eighteenth century.26

In response to disputes over the symbolic books among Protestant

theologians, Schmidt argues that Luther and the other Reformers have

become problematic À gures for recent German Protestant theologians

and historians. Schmidt contrasts the early Reformers with Erasmus. He indicates that many Catholic reformers of his day were continuing the tradition of Erasmus. Schmidt states that Erasmus and other moderate

26 For a fuller discussion, see Michael Printy, “From Barbarism to Religion: Church History and the Enlightened Narrative in Germany,” German History 23, no. 1 (2005): 172–201.

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spirits were slowly engaging the Church and nudging it to do away

with abuses and to improve the state of religion. Luther and the other Reformers, however, intervened and, on account of their fanaticism,

drove the Catholic Church back in on itself. Schmidt was quite clear

in indicating that the Reformers had valid criticisms of the Church

and of German politics and society. But the effect of their intervention was to further weaken the nation and to prevent the emergence

of a state capable of fostering appropriate economic, cultural, and

political progress. The new Churches created by the Protestants did

not embody, in Schmidt’s view, the freedom of conscience that they so ardently proclaimed. For Schmidt, only the condition of confessional

peace that had À nally taken hold in the eighteenth century enabled the real work of religious Enlightenment to continue.

The later volumes of Schmidt’s History addressed the core problem of Germany’s disunity. To Schmidt, the roots of this situation lay in the Reformation. While this was hardly a novel thesis, what is interesting in Schmidt’s account is that the Reformation represents a break in what

should have been Germany’s normal development as an Enlightened,

cultured nation. It is hardly surprising that Schmidt, a Catholic priest, would lay the blame for Germany’s troubles on the Reformation. Yet

if Schmidt is a critic of Luther and Calvin, he also has little good to say about the Jesuits and frequently adopts an anti-curial tone. Against the common assumption of Protestant historians, Schmidt does not see

the Reformation as an essential stage in the development of German

culture, customs, and government. Instead, it caused a break in the

progress of manners and religion.

Schmidt suggests that any gains made by the Reformers were reversed

by the fervor with which they pursued their goals. “Was mind and heart so improved” as to justify the “hate, streams of blood and misery of

millions?” Moreover, the Reformation only delayed further progress:

“He who has the opportunity to look at the literature from that time

would need to concur that some theologians would have done what

the recent reformers among the Protestants are doing a few centuries

earlier, if only Luther had not intervened.”27

It is in this context that Schmidt questions the Protestant assertion

that Luther had enabled freedom of thought.28 It is true, Schmidt notes, 27 Schmidt, 6: 289.

28 See Stäudlin, Kirchliche Geographie und Statistik, 320f, quoted above.

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that Protestants do not have a pope and his hierarchy to deal with nor need their theologians worry about a Church that could claim the right to issue infallible statements about belief. But he suggests that Catholics were able to work within these constraints and that, even when the

hierarchy was at its strongest, philosophy (even if imperfect) had had an important inÁ uence in the explication of morality and doctrine.

Moreover, the Catholic understanding of dogma and morality had

indeed changed, even when the same expressions and terminology

were retained.29 Schmidt suggests that while the ediÀ ce of Catholic

doctrine seemed immobile, deep changes had occurred beneath the

surface. His historicism is subtle, yet undeniably present. For their part, Schmidt alleges, the Protestants are not as free as they claim. Do they not have to deal “with their own authorities [ Obrigkeiten], with their own half-scholars [ Halb- oder Ganzgelehrten], or, what is even worse, is their crowd [ Pöbel ] not more fearsome than a pope?”30 Schmidt’s language here is hardly Á attering to the papacy, but it reveals his commitment to moderate and careful reform.

Ultimately more radical in his theology than Schmidt was the Mainz

professor Felix Anton Blau. Although he did not directly assess the

history of the Reformation as such, his Critical History of Ecclesiastical Infallibility (1792) touched on many of the same issues his fellow Catholic Aufklärer did, and may be taken as a fair assessment of the ways in which changes in Protestantism affected educated German Catholics’

views of the Reformation. In particular, Blau argued that the trans-

formation of Protestant theology in the eighteenth century was also a challenge to received Catholic positions about the supposedly immutable nature of its doctrine.31 In Blau’s view, the movement away from the

authority of the symbolic books corrected a vital Á aw that had arisen in the Protestant churches. Now that the Protestants have rejected the declaration that the symbolic books are permanent articles of faith, the Catholic position no longer has the upper hand:

So long as both sides agreed that there was a certain unchangeable sum of necessary religious truths, that these truths were secured by a public authority as the center of unity, and that each Christian could be obliged 29 “Wie oft hat sich diese [dogmas and morals] ganz unvermerkt geändert, wenn auch die nähmlichen Ausdrücke, und eben die Terminologie beybehalten worden.”

Schmidt, Geschichte der Deutschen, 6: 294.

30 Ibid.

31 Blau, vii.

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by oath to these truths, then Catholicism was—even as a hypothesis—more attractive, because it avoided all the difÀ culties that were presented by the Á awed symbols of the Protestants. The Catholic had a center of unity in the constitution of his religion, but there was less coercion of conscience in the obligation to accept the Catholic symbols because one assumed

that they were guaranteed by an infallible authority. Now, however, the Protestants deny that unity in doctrine [ Glaubensmeinungen] is a sign or a demand of true religion. And since they put forth the principle that no ecclesiastical teaching can be universally valid and immutable, then the Catholic advantage disappears. The reasons with which the Protestants

contest the authority of their symbolic books touch our Church as well, and we are therefore challenged to examine the principles of Catholicism more robustly.32

Catholic polemic had relied on the supposed contradiction of the

Protestant claims that they were rejecting the teaching authority of

the Church and yet required ministers and ofÀ cials to swear to uphold the symbolic books. They claimed to have the right to examine belief by reading scripture, but could not necessarily make use of that freedom.

With the new Protestant theology, however, Catholics could no longer

rely on that argument and should instead turn toward their own dif-

À culties with determining the basis for authoritative doctrine.33 The old Catholic arguments were no longer “useful.” They had served to “show

the weakness of the Protestants” and therefore “made it necessary for them to abandon the position they had maintained for two hundred

years.” Now, however, the basis for controversy had shifted because

the confessions no longer assumed the same principles.34 As a result of this shift, Blau argues that the Catholic Church should give academic

theologians the freedom to explore dogma and the scriptures. Other-

wise Enlightenment would not be promoted.35 As he had stated at the

beginning of his Critical History, the Church could not judge itself, but needed to be judged by theologians and, even more, by arguments.36

Both Schmidt and Blau saw the course of Enlightenment in the

Catholic Church as part of a process that was related to Protestant

32 Blau, xi–xii.

33 Blau, 512.

34 Blau, 532.

35 Blau, 560. “Man giebt auf den katholischen Universitäten Anleitung zum gründlichern und freimütigern Bibelstudium, zur unpartheiischern Dogmengeschichte.

Man befördere entweder die Aufklärung nicht, oder lasse uns die Früchte derselben geniesen!”

36 Blau, v.

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developments. Yet Schmidt does not abandon the tradition—most

notably represented by Bossuet—that the Church stood for continuity

in its fundamental teachings. Schmidt’s view was that the Church was

progressing slowly toward Enlightenment, but that progress was inter-

rupted by fanaticism. With the active participation of laymen and civil society, the German Church had once again found its bearings and

had corrected many past abuses. Restored to its proper role vis-à-vis

the civil authority, the Church’s teaching function—even when it was

teaching manners—was assured. Blau, however, questioned the very

notion of dogma by grounding it in history, and therefore in change.

This was part of a larger process in the eighteenth century in which

religious orthodoxy as a whole was being most successfully undermined

not by direct attacks that put forth countervailing claims to revealed truth (that is to say, by heresy), but by claims of historical relativity.

This, J.G.A. Pocock has noted, “had the effect of dissolving theology into the history of theology, the history of the human mind engaged

in the formation of opinions, or more simply still the narrative of the history in which orthodoxy had come to be formed.”37

And yet the retreat from orthodoxy was the product of a speciÀ c

Enlightenment mind, one that still sought to assert claims of moral and intellectual leadership—and in Germany especially it sought to do so

through religion. For all their dissimilarities, Blau and Schmidt shared a vision of the role of the Church in educating humanity.38 To these Catholics, the Protestant Reformation was a milestone against which

they measured the process of an incomplete Enlightenment.

Masters of the Enlightenment: The Reformation and the Genealogy of Reason Yet even as these representatives of the Catholic Enlightenment were

looking to reform the Church as part of the general Enlightenment of

society, the Protestantism to which they partially looked for inspiration was itself moving further away from them. As some Catholics skirted

37 J.G.A. Pocock, “Within the Margins: the DeÀ nitions of Orthodoxy,” in The Margins of Orthodoxy: Heterodox Writings and Cultural Response, 1660 –1750, ed. Roger D. Lund (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 51.

38 For Blau’s conviction that the Church should remain independent of the state, see his response to the Civil Constitution of the Clergy: Kritik der seit der Revolution in Frankreich gemachten Religions-verordnungen, auf reine Prinzipien des Staats- und Kirchenrechts gegründet (Strasbourg, 1797).

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core doctrinal questions in favor of practical reform (Blau was the

exception), many thinkers of the Protestant Aufklärung began to treat their religious heritage much more radically. In a direct response to

Schmidt’s volume on the Reformation, Karl Leonhard Reinhold—better

known as a popularizer of Kant’s philosophy—asserted that Schmidt

had confused Luther’s work with the Reformation itself.39 “Wherever

the Reformation took effect,” Reinhold claimed, “it drained the swamps, so to speak. But no matter how important and indispensable this step

was, it nevertheless was only the À rst one, and it prepared the way for the others that must take place.”40 Reinhold was in a unique position

to understand both Catholic and Protestant versions of the Enlighten-

ment. Reinhold converted to Protestantism after having spent ten years as a Barnabite (that is, a Cleric Regular of St. Paul) in Vienna. In a review of Schmidt’s history of the Germans in 1786 Reinhold sought

to rescue the “honor” of the Reformation, and thereby laid out an

evolutionary theory of the freedom of thought. While Reinhold’s ideas are not entirely original—they may be found, for example, in the writings of Johann Salamo Semler—they do provide unique insight into

the way in which German Protestants and Catholics recognized the

new intellectual territory over which they fought.41

According to Reinhold, his Protestant contemporaries split into two

main camps with regard to the relationship of reason to revealed religion. The À rst group, “which at the present is so apparently declining in numbers, believes that external limits must be set upon reason once it is freed from its obedience to the hierarchy. This group remains with the old system, which, nevertheless, has been signiÀ cantly puriÀ ed by 39 K.L. Reinhold, “Ehrenrettung der Reformation, gegen zwei Kapitel in des k.k.

Hofraths und Archivars, Hrn. M.I. Schmidts Geschichte der Teutschen, 6. Band,” in C.M. Wieland, ed., Der Teutsche Merkur (Weimar, 1786), 138. On Reinhold, see Sabine Roehr, A Primer on German Enlightenment: with a Translation of Karl Leonhard Reinhold’s The Fundamental Concepts and Principles of Ethics (Columbia, MO: University of Missouri Press, 1995).

40 Reinhold, “Ehrenrettung,” 120. Reinhold’s desire to defend the Reformation’s

“honor” can certainly be understood, given Schmidt’s attack on Luther’s character (though it was quite mild in comparison to the tradition of Catholic anti-Luther polemic). See also Heinrich Lutz, “Zum Wandel der katholischen Lutherinterpreta-tion,” in Politik, Kultur and Religion im Werdeprozeß der frühen Neuzeit. Aufsätze und Vorträge, aus Anlaß des 60. Geburtstags von Heinrich Lutz, ed. Moritz Csásky, et al. (Klagenfurt: Universitätsverlag Carinthia, 1982).

41 See Ernst Walter Zeeden, The Legacy of the Reformation: Martin Luther and the Reformation in the Estimation of the German Lutherans from Luther’s Death to the Beginning of the Age of Goethe, trans. Ruth Mary Bethel (Westmister, MD: Newman Press, 1954).

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the Reformation.”42 Though not explicitly named, the Lutheran estab-

lishment is clearly intended. The other group of Protestants, however, is convinced that

Reason should not be set any limits outside of its own laws, and that Luther and his assistants do not have the exclusive privilege to improve the system. Instead, we are allowed at all times to continue farther down the path that has been opened by them. The À rst group of contemporary Protestants prizes the Reformation simply on account of the good that it actually accomplished. Among this group the wish quite naturally is to stand by the confessional statements of the symbolic books. . . . The second group however, in its admiration for the Reformation, goes much farther. Like the À rst group, it is grateful for the concrete achievements of the À rst Reformation, but cherishes even more that which it made

possible, and sees the Reformation therefore as a step toward new and

further improvements.43

Reinhold’s statement represents a signiÀ cant redeÀ nition of “Reformation,” which has gone from meaning a restoration and repair to a mean-

ing that implies continual improvement. Not unlike the transformations of “revolution” in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Reformation is now oriented toward the future instead of the past.44

How, then, to reconcile the Luther who gave birth to a new notion of

freedom with the Luther who believed that his conscience was “captive”

to Scripture? Reinhold developed a notion of freedom as a process:

Freedom developed, but that does not mean that it sprung fully formed

from the early days of the Reformation. The reformers had no other

name than freedom for that which they won. Just like a prisoner who

has exited the prison, he can only walk slowly at À rst once the chains are released from his legs. Freedom is therefore not a play on words [as Schmidt had alleged], but a reality, even if the early reformers were not as free as we are today.45

While Reinhold’s expressed concern was to rescue the “honor” of the

Reformation from Schmidt’s attacks on Luther’s character, he was offering more than a critique of Schmidt’s speciÀ c points. Indeed, in placing Luther and the other early Reformers in the genealogy of Enlightened

42 Reinhold, “Ehrenrettung der Reformation,” 195.

43 Reinhold, 195.

44 See the article on “Revolution” in Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, and Reinhart Koselleck, eds., Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe; historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, 8 vols. (Stuttgart: E. Klett, 1972–1997) 5: 653–788.

45 Reinhold, 58.

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reason, Reinhold sought to secure the place of the Reformation in the evolution of modern thought—against not just the Catholic Schmidt,

but also against the anti-religious and anti-clerical Enlightenment of Hume and Voltaire. This strategy became a cornerstone both of liberal Protestant theology and of Kulturprotestantismus.46

The Reformation of the katholische Aufklärung was one that did not want to focus on the matter of dogma, and as such, it was not an

implausible source for both practical reform and—at the least—cul-

tural union with Protestants. Yet this vision was also a product of a Holy Roman Empire in which confessional parity was more-or-less

established, and which had witnessed a certain cooling of confessional conÁ ict after the treaties of 1763. The sense of union, however, was fragile, and seeds of its unraveling can already be seen in Reinhold’s refutation of Schmidt. It would take Napoleon to set things once again on a collision course.

In their quest for the meaning of the Reformation, eighteenth-century Germans looked to questions of politics and church discipline rather

than dogma. In the wake of Napoleon, the ground shifted radically.

Now a political minority everywhere but Bavaria, German Catholics

were thrown on the defensive. Educated heirs of the katholische Aufklärung were divided over loyalty to an increasingly ultramontane Church and

its popular supporters or toward a vision of national unity and a more liberal Catholicism. The beginning of the “second confessional age”47

was therefore also accompanied by a renewed focus on the “dogmatic”

differences that separated Catholics and Protestants, a dispute which

burst into prominence with Möhler’s Symbolik in 1832.48 With the col-46 On the centrality of anti-Catholicism to the liberal imagination in Germany, see most recently Michael Gross, The War against Catholicism: Liberal Identity and the Anti-Catholic Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004).

47 Olaf Blaschke, “Das 19. Jahrhundert.” Ein Zweites Konfessionelles Zeitalter,”

Geschichte und Gesellschaft 26 (2000): 38–75.

48 Möhler’s focus on dogmatic differences led him to declare that the entirety of the Reformation struggle came down to a question of Christian anthropology: “Die abenländische Frage betrifft lediglich die christlichen Anthropologie; denn es wird sich herausstellen, daß alles, was sich noch anderes daran knüpfte, nur notwendige Folgerungen aus der Antwort sind, welche auf die von den Reformatoren aufgeworfene anthropologische Frage gegeben wurde.” The earlier split between Latin and Greek Christianity, on the other hand, dealt with questions of Christology. Johann Adam Möhler, Symbolik, oder Darstellung der dogmantischen Gegensätze der Katholiken und Protestanten OCKER V1_f10_135-153.indd 152

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lapse of the parity and confessional peace of the Holy Roman Empire, the “sharp blade of ecclesiastical division” would serve to separate

German Catholics and Protestants in new ways.

nach ihren öffentlichen Bekenntnisschriften, 2. vols., ed. with introduction by Josef Rupert Geiselmann (Cologne and Olten: Jalob Hegner, 1958), 2: 18–19. See also Joseph Fitzer, Möhler and Bauer in Controversy, 1832–38: Romantic-Idealist Assessment of the Reformation and Counter-Reformation (Tallahassee, FL: American Acadamy of Religion, 1974).

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HISTORICAL WRITING AND GERMAN IDENTITY:

JACOB WIMPHELING AND SEBASTIAN FRANCK

Julie K. Tanaka

By the beginning of the sixteenth century, the German humanists

began composing works that expressed a collective identity for the

many peoples of the German lands. This identity was far from fully

developed, but it promoted, for the À rst time, the Germans’ idea of

a German people. This identity reÁ ected the Germans’ acknowledge-

ment of a distinguished and continuous history traceable to an ancient past, shared values, a respectable intellectual heritage, and a common language and culture. In many respects, the German humanists conceptualized a German people and nation,1 but their conception thereof

was a prototype for, not a clearly-deÀ ned expression of a German

national identity.

During the À rst half of the sixteenth century, the German humanists began to address the many problems plaguing the German lands that

detracted from their idealized visions of Germany’s past. Their studies of Graeco-Roman antiquity, particularly Tacitus’ Germania, informed them, however idealized, of a noble and distinguished German past

and exposed them to the works of both the ancient authors and the

Germans’ contemporaries, particularly the Italian and Byzantine

humanists. Because the German humanists recognized the Germans

were a people who possessed a land, culture, and achievements worthy

of respect, like the Byzantine and Italian humanists had promoted

about their respective societies, they set forth to distinguish the German peoples. They legitimized the Germans’ right to the Roman

imperial tradition and appropriated it to set the Germans on par with

1 For an overview of the idea of a German nation in the early modern period, see Hans Kloft, “Die Idee einer deutschen Nation zu Beginn der frühen Neuzeit.

Überlegungen zur Germania des Tacitus und zum Arminius Ulrichs von Hutten,” in Arminius und die Varusschlacht: Geschichte —Mythos —Literatur, 3rd ed., ed. Rainer Wiegels and Winfried Woesler (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2003), pp. 197–210, and Dieter Langewiesche, “Was heißt ‘ErÀ ndung der Nation’? Nationalgeschichte als Artefakt—oder Geschichtsdeutung als Machtkampf,” Historische Zeitschrift 277 (2003): 593–609, esp. pp. 601–9.

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julie k. tanaka

the Byzantines and Italians. Using this highly-regarded past and their knowledge of historical writings, both ancient and contemporary, the

German humanists conceptualized a German people that expanded the

ideas these works had already identiÀ ed—continuity, German values,

regional and ethnic variety, a glorious past under important rulers—2

but cast them in a new, positive light.

By 1500, the European lands of the former Roman Empire, whose

administration and traditions had uniÀ ed them politically and conceptually under the banner of Christendom for over a millennium, began to

acquire new identities. The lack of an imperial military power together with territorial consolidation, the rise of de facto, semi-autonomous governments, economic revival, and the founding of Europe’s À rst

seaborne empires all contributed to redeÀ ning the lands once uniÀ ed

by the authority and power of the Roman Empire. Pitted against the

political reality was the timeless ideal of a universal, Christian Roman Empire that provided the German rulers and intellectuals with a means

to secure ideas of unity and Roman imperial hegemony. Appropriating

aspects of ancient Rome’s cultural inheritance and Christianity, they promoted, when it served their purposes, a common Christian Roman

identity. This identity transcended contemporary differences and time, establishing a historical memory traceable from mythic times through

the historic Roman Empire to contemporary times.3

The traumatic series of events—the schism of 1054, the crusading

efforts promoted by the papacy in the late-eleventh century, the defeat of the Hohenstaufen dynasty in the 1260s, the growing presence of

French and Angevin rule, the papacy’s departure from Rome and its

relocation to Avignon (1309–77), the ensuing schism (1378–1417), the

last and unsuccessful attempt at the Council of Ferrara-Florence to

restore unity to the Christian Church (1438–39), and the Ottomans’

sack of Constantinople (1453)—challenged every aspect of the medieval conception of a universal Christendom. Thus, Europe, in the mid-À fteenth century, was À lled with peoples who may have descended from

a common tradition but who had long been anything but a uniÀ ed

people. These events may not have been of particular concern for

individuals, but they captured the intellectuals’ attention, particularly 2 See also Kloft, “Die Idee einer deutschen Nation,” p. 206.

3 Julie Tanaka, “The Roman Empire’s Progeny: Greeks, Italians, and Germans. The Conceptualization of Identities, 11th–16th Centuries,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 2006, chs. 6–7.

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that of the Byzantine, Italian, and German humanists. These events

challenged their conceptions of the Roman imperial tradition, which

they believed had provided order, stability, and prestige and to which they all claimed their legitimate right as heirs. Although they attempted to maintain and promote the ideal, their writings demonstrated the

last stage of the transformation of the Roman Empire. The physical

Empire had ceased long before, but, À nally, in the late À fteenth century, the universalism of this time-honored ideal was recast into new self-consciousnesses of individual peoples speciÀ cally for the three groups claiming to be imperial heirs.

Of the three, the German case differed. The Italian humanists argued

direct descent from the ancient Romans, for they resided in the same

land where Rome had and still existed. As the Romans’ descendants,

they connected themselves to the administration of the Roman Empire

and all of the glory associated with it. They were surrounded by the

monuments of Antiquity. They spoke the language of the ancient

Romans. Similarly, the Byzantine humanists based their argument on

the emperor Constantine I transferring the imperial seat to Constan-

tinople and the Roman Empire’s continual existence from that point

in Byzantine hands. They too were surrounded by monuments of the

Roman Empire. They spoke the eastern empire’s language of imperial

administration and culture. Both the Italian and Byzantine humanists

appropriated these pasts to craft identities for their respective societies; however, the German humanists possessed none of this. The Germans

had inherited imperial rule by papal À at when pope Leo III crowned

Charlemagne emperor in 800. They borrowed Roman culture includ-

ing Latin. They had no claim to a single imperial city from which

culture emanated. Yet, the German humanists recognized the Germans

as a people who possessed a land, culture, and achievements worthy

of respect. Thus, they legitimated the Germans’ right to the Roman

imperial tradition and appropriated it to set the Germans on par with

the Byzantines and Italians. They set forth to distinguish the German

peoples as a collective entity they called the Germans.

The conceptualization of the Germans as a people manifested slowly

and can be gleaned from works, including chorographies, topographies,

political documents, and personal correspondence. During the À rst

half of the sixteenth century, the German humanists crafted the fullest expression of a German people in the histories they wrote. Jacob

Wimpheling’s Epitoma Rerum Germanicarum (1505) and Sebastian Franck’s Germaniae chronicon (1538) act as bookends in the quest to identify a OCKER V1_f11_154-175.indd 157

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German people. These authors drew upon the medieval Latin histori-

cal tradition, borrowing sources and highlighting commonplace people

and events such as the coronation of Charlemagne, the translatio imperii, Otto I, Frederick II, and the possibility of the Germans Á ourishing

under Maximilian. Wimpheling’s Epitoma represents an early conceptualization of the Germans as a people deÀ ned by both political and

cultural history. This work offered a new, comprehensive assessment of the Germans based upon a continuous and shared past, but it was still

bound by the standards of Latin historiography. Moreover, because it

was composed in the language of learning, Latin, Wimpheling’s work

remained relegated to the intellectual circles. Franck, on the other

hand, united political and cultural history to deÀ ne a German people

and land, but he abandoned Latin and addressed the German people

in what he identiÀ ed as their language, German.

In the Epitoma Rerum Germanicarum, Wimpheling unites ancient and contemporary Germany in a continuous narrative, recounting the lives

and deeds of great German men. His history does not differ signiÀ cantly in its basic details from the imperial histories in medieval chronicles, but it emphasizes what he recognizes as “the marvelous deeds of the

Germans.”4 Although the German past was noteworthy, Wimpheling

laments “that Roman, Venetian, English, Hungarian and Bohemian,

and French histories were read daily,”5 and he implies that German ones were not because none existed. Thus, Wimpheling undertook his project

“so that all Germans may see in this account Germany’s antiquity, read about the life of [their] emperors, and learn thoroughly the Germans

praiseworthy deeds, character, wars, victories, the capability of invention in the arts, nobility, faithfulness, steadfastness, and truthfulness.”6 He begins in the midst of affairs with the À ve German tribes and surveys ancient times.7 He highlights the Germans’ victories over various foes, including several Roman emperors, and their victory over the Goths.

4 Wimpheling, Epitoma Germanicarum Rerum, in Simon Schard, Schardius redivivus; sive, Rerum germanicarum scriptores varii, vol. 1 (Giesen: Ex ofÀ cina Seileriana, 1673), Pref.:

“rerum a Germanis magniÀ ce gestarum.”

5 Wimpheling, Epitoma, Pref.: “Videns Romanas, Venetas, Anglas, Pannonumque & Bohemorum, ac Francigenum Historias in dies lectum iri.”

6 Wimpheling, Epitoma, Pref.: “ut omnes Germani, in hac Epitome Antiquitates Germaniae videant, vitam nostratium Imperatorum legant, Germanorumques laudes, ingenium, bella, triumphos, Artium inventionem, Nobilitatem, Fidem, Constantiam & Veracitatem ediscant.”

7 Wimpheling, Epitoma, I–II.

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After emphasizing the Germans’ role in aiding the Roman army in

obtaining Italy’s freedom from the Goths,8 he commences his imperial

history. He recounts the lives of the emperors from Charlemagne to

the current emperor, Maximilian I,9 paying special reverence to four

German emperors: Charlemagne, Otto I, Frederick I, and Frederick II.10

Wimpheling then concludes this section with the Germans’ cultural

achievements.11

Of the Germans’ achievements, Wimpheling boasts of the cannon’s

invention, proclaiming that “in 1380, a type of war missile was invented by our Germans.”12 He celebrates this invention: “What type of weapon, what missile À lls the enemy with more fear [and] terror than [both]

bigger and smaller Bombarde which have proven that not only walls can be broken but even heaven can be shaken!”13 Even an Italian, the

Bolognese humanist, Philip Beroald (1452–1504), credits the Germans

for this, stating “nothing could be more ingenious or more frightful than this one thing.”14 Although both Beroald and Wimpheling describe the

cannon’s ability to instill fright, they do not emphasize the Germans’

ability or desire to wreak destruction but rather their character. As

the cannon demonstrated German ingenuity for Beroald, Wimpheling

emphasizes “our Germans appear to be the most astute inventors.”15

8 Wimpheling, Epitoma, II–VIII. The historical event to which Wimpheling refers is the Romans’ defeat of the Gothic king, Totila, at Busta Gallorum in 552, the subsequent defeat of Teja, and the end of Gothic power in Italy. Although this was a Roman onslaught, Wimpheling stresses the role of Langobards, whom he identiÀ es as Germans, in the victory, thereby crediting the Germans with aiding the Italians rid their land of this foe. See also, Herwig Wolfram, The Roman Empire and Its Germanic Peoples, tr. Thomas Dunlap (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), pp. 233–39.

9 The imperial history spans from chapters nine to sixty-three.

10 On the four German emperors: Charlemagne (IX–X; XXI); Otto I (XVIII); Frederick I (XXXII); Frederick II (XXXV–XXXIX). See Paul Joachimsen, Geschichtsauffassung und Geschichtsschreibung in Deutschland unter dem EinÁ uss des Humanismus (Leipzig: Teubner, 1910), p. 67.

11 See also, Herfried Münkler and Hans Grünberger, “Gelehrtenviten als Nachweis zivilisatorisch-kultureller Gleichberechtigung,” in Herfried Münkler, Hans Grünberger, and Kathrin Mayer, Nationenbildung: Die Nationalisierung Europas im Diskurs humanistischer Intellektueller. Italian und Deutschland (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1998), p. 218, and Joachimsen, Geschichtsauffassung und Geschichtsschreibung, p. 67.

12 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXIV: “Anno Domini M.CCC.LXXX. inventum est bellici tormenti genus a Germanis nostris.”

13 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXIV: “Quod enim teli genus, quae tormenta, majorem formidinem, terrorem . . . ipsis hostibus afferunt, quam majores, minoresque, Bombardae, quae, non modo rumpi muros, sed coelum etiam quati posse, docuerunt.”

14 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXIV: “Hac una re nihil solertius, nihil terribilius esse.”

15 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXIV: “Germani nostri inventores subtilissimi videntur.”

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Wimpheling continued his praise of the Germans’ acumen in the

art of book printing, arguing its importance through the extent of its inÁ uence. He states that “in 1440, a certain great and nearly divine

blessing was bestowed on the world by Johann Gutenberg of Stras-

burg who had invented a new method for writing; for he [is] the À rst

[to invent] the art of printing in Strasburg.”16 Although crediting his hometown for this invention, Wimpheling elaborates on its inÁ uence and how it brought the Germans recognition. He states that because “our

Strasburgers not only Á ourished in this art but carrying it elsewhere, both glory and proÀ t followed. Thus in 1471 the Strasburger, Sixtus

RuÀ nger, À rst demonstrated in Naples how books could be printed.”17

Wimpheling also credits Ulrich Han for “[ bringing] moveable type to

Rome, a thing unheard of and not yet seen by the Romans.”18 His inclusion of this event holds dual signiÀ cance. First, it credits the Germans for introducing the Romans to the art of printing. More importantly,

it corrects the “obviously erroneous”19 claims in the existing account in which the Italians and other learned men identify Han as French,20

and, thereby, credit the French for bringing moveable type to Rome.

Moreover, while correcting the record and crediting the Germans,

Wimpheling demonstrates a German’s command of the philological

skills the Italians had traditionally dominated. He used these very skills to reveal the Italians’ error by proving to his satisfaction that Han was German and attributing moveable type to their accomplishments.21

16 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXV: “Anno Christi M.CCCC.XL. . . . magnum quodam ac pene Divinum beneÀ cium collatum est universo terrarum orbi a Joanne Guttenberg Argentinensi, novo scribendi genere reperto. Is enim primus Artem impressoriam . . . in urbe Argentinensi invenit. ”

17 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXV: “Nec solum nostri in hac arte Argentinae Á oruerunt, sed eandem etiam alibi tractantes & decus & emolumentum sunt consecuti. Ita Sextus RuÀ nger Argentinus, Neapoli an. M.CCCC LXXI. libri quomodo imprimi possint, primus monstravit.”

18 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXV: “formas librarias rem inauditam, necunquam Romanis visam, Romam attulit.”

19 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXV: “quod plane falsissimum est.”

20 According to Wimpheling, Campano and several learned men reckoned that Ulrich was French. Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXV: “Campanus & aliquot docti existimaverunt, hunc Udalricum, natione Gallum fuisse.”

21 Wimpheling argues that Ulrich was a German and that his family name was

“Han”. The Latin quivalent was gallum, which some Italians had used to argue that Ulrich was a Gaul, i.e. French. Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXV: “Praeterea Udalricus cognomen Han . . . Fuit is natione Germanus, cui cognomentum (ut dixi) erat Han, id latine gallum gallinacium signiÀ cat. Hoc ideo scribo, quia Campanus & aliquot docti existimaverunt, hunc Udalricum, natione Gallum fuisse, quod plane falsissimum OCKER V1_f11_154-175.indd 160

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Wimpheling argues that the Germans also surpass others in architec-

ture and the À ne arts. He maintains that the Germans are superior, bolstering his claim by citing Aeneas Silvius who said, “In my judgement, the Germans are marvelous mathematicians and surpass all people in

architecture.”22 This had to be true, according to Wimpheling, since

“an Italian testiÀ ed to [such a fact] about the Germans.”23 In painting, the Germans were admired. Wimpheling boasts, “Isaac Alemannus’

paintings were desired throughout Europe,” and Martin Schongauer’s

“paintings have been sent to Italy, Spain, France, England, and other

regions of the world!”24 In fact, he says, “Albrecht Dürer is the most excellent painter of our age, and in Nuremberg, he paints the most

perfect paintings which are taken to Italy by dealers.”25 In Wimpheling’s eyes, foreign demand for German art demonstrated its excellence.

The Germans’ achievements and the Italians’ recognition of them

proved to Wimpheling that the Germans possessed their own Á ourish-

ing culture. Their achievements distinguished them from others, but

these alone did not deÀ ne the Germans. Wimpheling also identiÀ ed

personality traits. He drew upon the most commonly mentioned char-

acteristic in ancient and medieval descriptions, the Germans’ martial

character. Writers had stereotyped the Germans as warlike and bar-

baric. Wimpheling reinterprets this negative stereotype in a positive

light. Selectively recounting Beroald’s account of the ancient historians’

description about German childhood, Wimpheling focuses not on the

savagery and cruelty recorded by the ancient historians but emphasizes how the Germans’ innate qualities and upbringing prepared them not

merely to wage war but to defend the freedom they loved so much as

they had done against the Romans on numerous occasions.26 He also

est. Is tamen error ideo emanavit, quod cognomen familia traductum fuit in latinum, quod Hermalao Barbaro Auctore nunquam À eridebet, nomina enim & cognomina, oppidorum, proprio, sicut hominum, quacunque lingua retineri solent.”

22 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXVII: “Sunt meo, inquit, judicio Theutonici mirabiles Mathematici, omnesque gentes in Architectura superant.”

23 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXVII: “Hoc homo Italus de Germanis testatur.”

24 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXVII: “Icones Israelis Alemanni per universam Europam desiderantur, . . . de Martino Schon . . . depictae tabulae in Italiam, in Hispanias, in Galliam, in Britanniam, & alia mundi loca abductae sint.”

25 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXVII: “Albertus Durer . . . hac tempestate excellentissimus est, & Nurenbergae imagines absolutissimas depingit, quae a mercatoribus in Italiam transportarentur.”

26 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXIX. Cf. Caeser, BG IV.7; Tacitus, Ann. IV.72; Hist.

IV.18.

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casts positively a practice ancient historians would have identiÀ ed as barbaric. He states that “German women also on occasion take up arms

for their native land,”27 to emphasize the Germans’ desire to protect

their freedom. The Germans did not wage war, in his view, because

they were war fanatics, but rather only to defend their freedom and

protect their native land.

Wimpheling also establishes the Germans’ ancient nobility, borrow-

ing from Johannes Teutonicus the assertion that “ ‘Germany derives

its name from germen, for it is indeed the seed of nobility.’ ”28 Because

“[ Johannes] is a German who Á atters his people,”29 Wimpheling offers a counterexample from “a foe and disparager of the Germans, Antonio

Campano,”30 the Italian who had sent letters to his friends degrading

the Germans and every aspect of their land and culture. Campano

had also praised the Germans publicly for being peaceful at home and

resolute in external affairs, for acquiring universal imperium, bringing forth a crowd of famous men, and possessing a lineage more distinguished than those in either France, Italy, or Spain.31 Thus, even an

Italian agrees that “the truth has been told that Germany was a living and perpetual source, or rather, a sea of nobility that Á ooded all lands of Europe with the glory of its nobility.”32 Wimpheling also argues that

“Germany did not receive its nobility from the Romans, but rather Ger-

many brought its nobility, which our ancestors achieved through virtue, 27 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXIX: “foeminas quoque Germanas, sumptis aliquando pro patria armis.”

28 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “Germania . . . a germine dicitur, est enim verum germen Nobilitatis.”

29 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “hunc Teutonem . . . suae genti blanditum.”

30 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “Germanorum . . . hostem, & detractorem Antonium Campanum.” Franz Irenicus expresses similar sentiments in his Exegesis Germania (1518).

31 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “Antonium Campanum, qui de Germanis loquens sic ad verbum ait: Illi domi concordes, foris strenui, & acquisivere Imperium, & tantam illustrium virorum multitudinem pepererunt, ut per reliquum orbem veluti coloniis Nobilitatis usque quaque deductis, familias nobilissimas & Regias propagaverint, nec ulla sit familia in Galliis, ne Regia quidem, nulla in Hispania, aut in Italia paulo illustrior, quae si antiquitatem repetat suam, non statim e Germania esse praedicet,

& veluti e seminario quodam verae Nobiltatis e vobis venisse glorietur.” Wimpheling’s reference here is probably his address to the German princes at the Diet of Regensburg in 1471.

32 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “ut vere dici . . . fontem Nobilitatis vivum & perrenem fuisse Germaniam, aut mare potius, quod omnes Provincias Europae suo splendore . . .

Nobilitatis, inundavit.”

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glory, and marvelous deeds, to the Romans.”33 Finally, he concludes

this section by emphasizing Germany’s greater antiquity than Rome’s,

for “Rome predates Christ by seven hundred À fty-two years, but the

most renowned Trier, which, according to Ammianus Marcellinus, lies

in Germany, existed two thousand years before Christ’s birth.”34 On

a Roman author’s authority, Wimpheling claimed for Germany a past

more distinct, respected, and ancient than Italy’s.

In addition to Germany’s ancient and noble lineage, Wimpheling

asserts that “no one had ever denied that the Germans are kind, cour-

teous, and generous.”35 They “observe [the duties of ] hospitality not only among themselves, but also among strangers and foreigners . . . they also show wanderers paths rather courteously and without aversion.”36

Wimpheling boasts that the divine Athanasius not only enjoyed Ger-

man hospitality for nearly ten years but, because of it, was also able to write his Symbolum and other writings.37 Wimpheling also asserts that although the Germans “love hospitality now after Christ and Saint Paul recommended it so much, . . . [their] ancestors before, when they still did not know Christianity, [and were] only following their natural inclina-tions, were kind and generous to strangers.”38 Wimpheling’s assertion

that generosity was an innate German characteristic implies that the

civilizing efforts of the Roman Church were not responsible for teaching the Germans generosity. Interpreted broadly but in the context of

the tradition of the Italians regarding the Germans as barbarians, this meant that the Italians did not civilize the German barbarians.

33 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXX: “Non ergo a Romanis Germania traxit, sed Romanis potius Germania Nobilitatem immisit, quam majores nostri Virtute, gloria, rebus gestis magniÀ ce pepererunt.”

34 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXX: “Roma enim Christum antecessit annis septingentis

& quinquaginta duobus. At nobilissimam urbem Treverim, quae, Ammiano Marcel-lino Autore, in Germania sita est, constat duobus annorum millibus Christi ortum excedere diuturnitate.”

35 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXXI: “Germanos comes, faciles, & pecuniae liberales esse, nemo unquam negaverit.”

36 Wimpheling, Epitoma, LXXI: “quum non solum inter sese, sed etiam in advenas

& peregrinos hospitalitatem . . . observent . . . sed etiam ipsi errantibus comiter & sine fastidio vias demonstrant.”

37 Wimpheling, Eptioma, LXXI: “Germanorum Humanitate Divus Athanasius . . . ac duobus fere lustris hospitio clam exceptus, apud Germanos À dei Symbolum caeteraque conscripsit.”

38 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXXI: “nos hodie Hospitalitatem diligere, posteaquam Christus & Divinissimus Paulus eam tantopere commendarint, quum majores olim nostri nondum Christianae Religionis conscii, naturalis solum rationis ductu, in advenas beneÀ ci fuerunt, & perliberales.”

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Next, Wimpheling uses Alsace as the example par excellence of

Germany’s fruitfulness.39 He admits that “although [Alsace] is only a

small part of Germany, it, nevertheless, [ possesses] a temperate climate, fertile soil, plentiful water, healthy forests, [and] an abundance [of gifts] from Ceres and Bacchus.”40 Wimpheling then compares Alsace

to “Egypt, Sicily, Italy, [and] Spain, [which] as the most believable

writers passed down, [are] very rich and extremely fruitful regions.”41

In this chapter, he argues that Alsace, a microcosm for the macrocosm, Germany, surpassed these regions due partially to the quality of their grain and wine. In the next chapter, he asserts emphatically that “Alsace alone copiously excels many foreign lands.”42 Additionally, Wimpheling, utilizing his poetic license, attributes the emergence of many learned men to Alsace’s conducive climate.43

Wimpheling concludes his history with a picture of an admirable

land and people:

In the entire world, Germany surpasses other people in the large number of its men, the chastity of its women, the excellence of its commanders and princes and their unadulterated and pure nobility, the strength and the height of its warriors, and its usual generosity, loyalty, honesty, freedom, perseverance, and its distinguished ability in the arts, the greatness of its bishoprics, the number and size of its cities and towns, and the most diligent restoring of churches, its obedience to the Roman throne, the willingness of paying tithes and in giving alms, respectable dress, as well as its wholesome location and most pleasant climate.44

39 Wimpheling’s gloriÀ cation of Alsace owes largely to his pride in being Alsatian and his work in proving that Alsace was German, not French. His debate with Thomas Murner over this issue must not be ignored, but it does not detract from how Wimpheling used Alsace as a microcosm for Germany in the concluding section of the Epitome.

For the Wimpheling-Murner debate, see Emil Borries, Wimpheling und Murner im Kampf um die ältere Geschichte des Elsasses. Ein Beitrag zur Charakteristik des deutschen Frühhumanismus (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1926).

40 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXXII: “ea tametsi Germanie portiuncula est, tamen aeris temperie, soli fertilitate, aquarum copia, nemorum salubritate, Ceris ac Bacchi abundantia.”

41 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXXII: “Ægyptus, Sicilia, Italia, Hispania, sicut receptissimi Autores prodiderunt, sunt quidem Regiones uberimae fertilissimaeque.”

42 Wimpehling, Epitoma, Conclusion: “unica Alsatia, multis exteris abunde praestat.”

43 Wimpehling, Epitoma, LXXII: “Multos protulit patria nostra claros doctrina & eruditione viros.”

44 Wimpehling, Epitoma, Conclusion: “in toto orbe Germaniam caeteris praestare nationibus Virorum multitudine, foeminarum pudicitia, Ducum, Principum excellentia, eorumque sincera ac pura Nobilitate, militum fortitudine & proceritate, atque commune liberalitate, À de integritate, libertate, constantia artiumque praecipuo ingenio, Episco-OCKER V1_f11_154-175.indd 164

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In addition to these qualities, Wimpheling praises Germany’s location, climate, rivers, mountains, and sources of metals. He then ends with a brief tribute that “the Germans certainly are the most devoted to and most respectful of the most holy Christian religion.”45

Devotion to Christianity, innate personality traits—kindness, gen-

erosity, courtesy, the love of freedom, ingenuity—nobility, an ancient, continuous, and distinguished past, cultural achievements, natural

resources, and topography all coalesced in Wimpheling’s Epitoma to identify a German people and land. His work represents the À rst German to reassess the Germans. Yet, Wimpheling’s work remained within

the conÀ nes of the very tradition that had preserved and promoted the barbaric stereotype of the war-loving Germans for more than a millennium. Despite all of the Germans’ achievements and Wimpheling’s

arguments that they surpassed the Italians, he employed his superior

Latin philological skills and still opted to compose his account in Latin and not a German vernacular. For what reason? Perhaps, he was merely

following convention. Perhaps, he viewed German as an inferior lan-

guage. Perhaps, he wanted to address the international, intellectual elite.

Perhaps, a combination of factors. Nonetheless, he identiÀ ed a German people and land at the beginning of the sixteenth century in Latin.

Within a generation of the Epitoma’s publication, the À rst one-volume German history composed intentionally in a German vernacular

appeared. This history is Sebastian Franck’s important, yet understudied chronicle of Germany, the Germaniae chronicon. Sebastian Franck was a sixteenth-century jack-of-all-trades, born in Donauwörth on the Dan-ube in 1499. His early years are obscure, but after he enrolled at the University of Ingolstadt in 1515, Franck became a proliÀ c writer. Most commonly known for his conÁ icts with the secular authorities over his unorthodox religious views, Franck also wrote three important historical patuum mangniÀ centia, urbium & civitatum numerositate, magnitudine, ac studiossima templorum instauratione, Romanae sedis obedentia, decimarum & eleemosynarum largitione, honesto vestium usu, tum situ salubritateque coeli iucundissima.”

45 Wimpehling, Epitoma, Conclusion: “Sunt demum Germani Sacrosancta Christi Religionis deditissimi, ac observantissimi.”

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works: the Chronica,46 the Weltbuch,47 and the Germaniae chronicon.48 The Chronica and Weltbuch were to form a one-volume encyclopedia that dealt with sacred and profane history and geography in which Franck

examined how the word of God or its absence affected events through-

out history.49

The Germaniae chronicon, unlike the universal scope of the Chronica and Weltbuch, focused on things German. Franck elaborates aspects of secular and profane history and pays due service to God’s marvelous work,

but he focuses on history.50 He analyzes the accounts of historians he considered believable,51 and he recounts every aspect imaginable about the Germans, including their “names, actions, good and bad deeds,

speech, advice, wars, victories, defeats . . . lands, religion, laws, policies, speech, people and customs before and after the birth of Christ from

Noah up until Charles V.”52 Similar to Wimpheling’s Epitoma, Franck devotes the majority of his text to the Germans’ imperial history. He surpasses Wimpheling by tracing the Germans to their origins and

establishing the oldest history possible for them. Thus, Franck creates a continuous history that uniÀ es ancient and contemporary Germans as

a single people. He then uses this history to “[introduce] the Germans 46 Sebastian Franck, Chronica, Zeytbuch vnd geschycht bibel von anbegrn biss inn diss gegenwertig M.D.xxxi. iar: Darinn beide Gottes vnd der welt lauff, hendel, art, wort, werck, thuon, lassen, Kriegen, wesen, vnd leben ersehen vn[d] begriffen wirt. Mit vil wunderbarlichen gedechtniss wurdige[n]

worten vnd thaten[n], guten vnd bösen Regimenten[n] Decreten[n] &c. Von allen Romischen Keisern, Bäpsten, Concilien, Ketzern, Ordern vn[d] Secten, beide d[er] Juden vn[d] Christen . . ./durch Seba-stianum Fra[n]cken von Word, vormals in teutscher zungen, nie gehort noch gelesen (Strassburg: Balthassar Beck, 1531).

47 Sebastian Franck, Weltbuch: Spiegel und des gantzen Erdtbodens von Sebastiano Franco Wordensi in vier Bucher/nemlich in Asiam/Aphricam/Europam/vnd Americam/gestelt vnd abteilt . . .

Auch etwas von new gefundenen Welten (Frankfurt a.M.: Christian Egenolff, 1534).

48 Sebastian Franck, Germaniae chronicon. Von des gantzen Teutschlands, aller Teutschen vîlker herkom[m]en, Namen, H‰ndeln, G%ten vnd bîsen Thaten, Reden, R‰then, Kriegen, Sigen, Niderlagen, Stifftungen, Ver‰nderungen der Sitze, Reich, L‰nder, Religion, Gesatze, Policei, Spraach, vîlcker vnd sitten, Vor vn[d] nach Christi geburt, Von Noe biß auf Carolum V . . ./Durch Sebastian Francken zu Wîrd (Frankfurt a.M.: Christian Egenolff, 1538) [henceforth, GC ].

49 Hans J. Hillerbrand, A Fellowship of Discontent (New York: Harper and Row, 1967), pp. 37–40.

50 Franck’s treatment of subjects in the Germaniae chronicon, Chronica, and Weltbuch is not always consistent. For example, he attributes French origins to Charlemagne in the Chronica but German origins to him in the Germaniae chronicon. See Franck, Chronica clxviiiv–clxixr; GC, lxxxr–lxxxir.

51 Franck, GC, aa ir: “Auß glaubwirdigen angenom[m]en/Geschichtschreibern.”

52 Franck, GC, aa ir: “Namen/H‰ndeln/G%ten un[d] bîsen Thaten/Reden/R‰then/

Kriegen/ Sigen/Niderlagen/Stifftungen. Ver‰nderungen der Sitze/Reich/L‰nder/Religion/Gesatze/Policei/Spraach/Vîlker und sitten/Vor un[d] nach Christi geburt/Von Noe biß auff Carolum V.”

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to the Germans in German in order to see themselves as if looking

in a mirror.”53

The Germaniae chronicon is not an apologia directed to the international intellectual community. Franck seeks not to establish the German

humanists’ intellectual equality but rather to identify the main obstacle preventing the Germans from realizing they are a people. He believes

that “if the Germans were aware of their own richness and if they

themselves understood what they had going for them, they would not

yield to any people, and they would not come to anyone and fall to

their feet for a piece of bread or for any favor, advice, deed, wisdom, learning, or knowledge.”54 Thus, he dispels both past and contemporary stereotypes of the German barbarian by correcting the accounts

in “entire volumes and many books about the Germans . . . [that are]

full of fables and superstitions.”55

The Germaniae chronicon’s signiÀ cance lies not in the majority of its content. In two hundred sixty-eight of the three hundred thirty-two

folios, Franck compiles from other sources the lives and deeds of the emperors.56 What distinguishes this chronicle is twofold. First, Franck offers a glimpse of how a German conceived of being German in the

sixteenth century. Second, unlike Wimpheling, Franck unites the vari-

ous aspects that he identiÀ es as deÀ ning a German people and land

and provides, as he explicitly states is his purpose in the Preface, the Germans with the À rst complete account of themselves in German.

53 Franck, GC, aa ir: “die Teutschen den Teutschen zu Teutsch/sich selbs darin/als in einem Spiegel zu ersehen/fürgestelt.”

54 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “Ja wo die Teutschen ire eygen reichthumb wissen/vnnd sich selbs verst‰nden was sie in wappen f$rten/sie würdenn keinem volck zwar weichenn/

vnnd wie umb kein stuck prot/also auch umb keinn gnad/rath/that/weißheyt/leer/

verstandt/zu gnad kommen vnd f$ssen fallen.”

55 Franck, GC, aa iir: “gantze volumina vnnd vil b$cher . . . voller fabel vnd superstition.”

56 Franck provides a list of À fty-two sources, both ancient and contemporary.

Franck, GC, aa iv. On Franck’s sources and his use of Nauclerus, see Willi Prenzel,

“Kritische Untersuchung und Würdigung von Sebastian Francks Chronicon Germaniae”

PhD diss., Universität Marburg, 1908. For a broader understanding of Franck as a historian and his ideas regarding historical writing, see Hermann Oncken, “Sebastian Franck als Historiker,” Historische Zeitschrift 46 (1899): 385–435, and Jan-Dirk Müller,

“Zur Einführung. Sebastian Franck: der Schreiber als Kompilator,” in Sebastian Franck (1499–1542), ed. Jan-Dirk Müller, Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, vol. 56 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1993), pp. 13–38.

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Franck’s own experience of being a German-speaker who had lived

in numerous German towns within the Empire inÁ uenced his project.57

As he observed his surroundings, he identiÀ ed other distinct peoples

including the French, Italians, Spanish, Hungarians, and Bohemians.

He observes that “[a person] knows a Hungarian, Bohemian, French-

man, Italian, [or] Spaniard by his language and dress.”58 He also

distinguished the peoples based upon their actions. He notes that “a

Hungarian would not take a German jacket as a gift,”59 and “a French-

man does not want to walk, talk, etc. like a German.”60 Embodied in

his observations are three fundamental aspects of identity for Franck: a vernacular language, physical appearance, and mannerisms. Moreover,

Franck’s observations about the Hungarian and Frenchman indicate

that these peoples also recognize the differences, and, most importantly, they take pride in these distinctions.

In contrast to others, Franck laments that “the Germans alone deny

their language and [style of ] clothing and go around in weird foreign costume.”61 Because they deny the very characteristics that distinguish peoples from one another, Franck comments sarcastically that “one

cannot recognize them [the Germans] except by [their] drinking and

making war.”62 Here, he invokes the ancient stereotype of the barbaric, warrior-loving Germans. Unlike Wimpheling, who selectively isolated

aspects contained in past descriptions of the Germans and cast them

positively to exalt the Germans, Franck allows it to remain. He uses it to argue that the fundamental problem hindering the Germans from

expressing their own identity was that they have allowed others to

deÀ ne who they are. He observes:

[a German’s] customs, dress, and language are so many and various . . .

you cannot know who he is and must quickly take him for a wonder that

57 Born in Donauwörth, Franck had lived or spent time in Ingolstadt, Heidelberg, Nuremberg, Gustenfelden, Strassburg, Esslingen, Ulm, Basel. See Hans J. Hillebrand, A Fellowship of Discontent (New York: Harper and Row, 1967), pp. 33–36.

58 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “Ein Hunger/Behem/Frantzoß/walhen/Spanier/kent man bei seiner spraach und kleydung.”

59 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “ein Ungar neme ein Teutschen rock nit geschenckt.”

60 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “Ein Frantzoß wünscht im nit das er gieng/redt &c/wie ein Teutscher.”

61 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “Allein die Teutschen verleugnen ire spraach und kleydung/und geen in frembder seltzamer mummerey herein.” Cf. Franck, GC, bb iiv: “Ein Teutscher aber hat diß einn wollust mag weder seiner spraach/sitten noch kleydung.”

62 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “das man sie an nicht kan kennen/dan[n] an saussen unnd kriegen.”

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is made out of an Italian, a Frenchmen, a Turk, and a Pole all pieced together. So many colors and forms do [the Germans’] speech, dress, gait, and language take—[they are] a people who want to ape everything and

every land in deed and word.63

The Germans imitated others so that “Germany is now full of French-

Germans, Italian-Germans, and Spaniards.”64 Franck’s criticism of

the Germans’ habits emphasizes, as he argued at the opening of his

chronicle, that the Germans do not know who they are.

By comparing Germans to contemporary peoples, Franck demon-

strates that Germans deny their Germanness. More importantly, he

reveals how he conceived of a German people. In part, language and

dress characterize them. Franck also argues that the Germans possess

“an equal affability of the people, skill . . . godliness, a fruitful land, numerous successes, honesty in deed, wisdom in advice and speech, and

that which a person in every land can call worthy of glory and can wish and praise on a people.”65 Thus, personality traits and a distinguished history are also essential for deÀ ning the Germans. Franck observes

further that Germany has become “a fruitful land . . . [full] of clever, artistic people” that has acquired, “heart, art, kingdom, and reputation . . . equivalent to those of the Assyrians, Persians, Israelites, Medes, Alexander the Great, the Romans, Huns, Goths, [and] Hungarians.”66

Although the Germans possess the characteristics that rival notable past civilizations, “the deeds and history of the Germans have remained

behind.”67 Without an accurate account of the events that distinguish the Germans and their land, the people neither have learned nor can

63 Franck, GC, bb iiv: “sein sitt/kleyd und spraach ist so vil und mancherley/das du nit kanst wissen wer er ist/un[d] schier für ein wunder achten m%ßt das auß einem Walhen/Frantzosen/T%rken und Polecken gemacht und zusamen gesetzt sei/so vil farb und gestalt hat ir rede/kleyd/gang/spraach/ein volck das ‰fÀ sch alles allen lendern wil nachthon und reden.”

64 Franck, GC, bb iir: “Germania ietz voll Teutscher Frantzosen/Teutscher Walhen und Spanier ist.”

65 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “man sehe gleich an die leutseligkeit deß volcks/künst der Teutschen/gottseligkeit/gelegenheit deß lands/vile der sieg/redlicheit der that/weißheit der r‰th vnd wort/vnd was man in allen landen rhumwirdigs nennen vnd an einem volck wunschen vnd rh$men kan.” Cf. Franck, GC, aa iiv: “Nit das wir anderen vîlckern/ann sterck/sieg/weisen reden/r‰then vnnd thatten/seien nach zogen.”

66 Franck, GC, iiir: “ein fruchtparer land . . . vnd subtiler künstreicher volck sei gwesen hertz/kunst/reich/vnd ansehen. . . . Wie etwa bei den Assirien/Persern/Israel/Meder/

Alexandro magno/Rhîmern/Hunis/Gotthis/Ungern.”

67 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “der Teutschen that vnd histori seind dahinden bliben.”

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know the history that deÀ nes who they have become. Franck blames

this on “the lack of industry of the careless German historians.”68

In order to rectify this problem, Franck set forth to reconstruct an

ancient and continuous history for the Germans to describe to them

who they are. Unlike the earlier German humanists’ attempts to fash-

ion a continuous history for the Germans, Franck’s account is broader

in scope. Wimpheling had begun his account with the À ve tribes and

then plunged into the Germans’ involvement in ancient Rome, but

Franck begins from the earliest point possible, the Germans’ origin.69

He argues that “we [Germans] do not come from a foreign people but

from Tuisco,70 Noah’s son. In this way, we fell in the land, procreated, and gave birth. Therefore, this is the origin of the land of the Germans and of the Germans.”71 He conÀ rms and legitimates this assertion on

the widely-accepted authority of Tacitus.72 Franck also identiÀ es Tuisco as the eponymous founder of the Germans, arguing that “they were

named Germans ( Teutsche) from Tuisco, son of Noah,”73 just as the Romans traced their origins to Romulus and “how the Christians were

68 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “durch unÁ eyß der hinlesigen Teutschen historischreiber.” Cf.

Franck, GC, aa iiv: “die Teutschen ann nichten/dann an schreibern irer wort vnnd that versaumpt.”

69 Franck’s myths regarding the Germans’ origins are not original. He draws heavily on two ancient sources, Tacitus’ Germania and Strabo’s Geography. He also borrows from and continues the work of his contemporaries, including, among other, Irenicus, Naucler, and Aeneas Silvius. They tries to establish the origins of the Germans, their language, and land, while promoting the idea, following Tacitus, that the Germans are indigenous. Scholarship on this subject is extensive. For a current overview along with recent bibliography, see, Herfried Münkler and Hans Grünberger, “Origo et Vetustas. Herkunft und Alter als Topoi nationaler Identität,” in Münkler, Grünberger, and Mayer, Nationenbildung, pp. 235–61, and Peter Hutter, Germanische Stammväter und römisch-deutsches Kaisertum, Historische Texte und Studien, vol. 21 (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 2000), pp. 59–144.

70 The Tuisco mythology that the majority of the German humanists utilized was Berosus’ account. He argued that Noah was the father of the new age. Prior to the Flood, he fathered three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, and after it, he had many more sons, among whom the À rst was Tuisco. For an in-depth explanation of Tuisco and how the German humanists created the Tuisco mythology, see Münkler and Grünberger, “Origo et Vetustas,” in Münkler, Grünberger, and Mayer, Nationenbildung, pp. 246–61 .

71 Franck, GC, aa viv: “das wir nit ein frembd herkommen volck . . . sonder vonn Tuiscone Noe son inn dem land darin[n] wir seind/gefallen/zeugt vnd porn/also das der Teutschen land auch der Teutschen ursprung ist.” Cf. Franck, GC, ir–iir.

72 Franck, GC, aa viv: “Damit stimpt auch Cornelius Tacitus von der Teutschen ursprung.”

73 Franck, GC, aa viv: “Teutschen aber werden sie von Tuisco dem sun Noe genant.”

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named ‘Christian’ from ‘Christ’.”74 Drawing upon myths and historical

events before Christ, Franck connects the Germans to both the biblical and Graeco-Roman traditions. He advances German history, employing

the theory of the four world monarchies, to the establishment of the Fourth Monarchy and the Roman Empire. This enables him to connect

his account of the Germans’ origins to Roman imperial history and

to craft a continuous history of a people who stem from a past more

ancient than that of any of its contemporaries and have blossomed

into a vibrant and prosperous civilization.

Franck aims “to show clearly in this, [ his] chronicle, that Germany

has not been less than the Greeks and Latins in the arts, honest [and]

courageous deeds, and learned counsel.”75 He tells his readers that he has not included every word and deed about the Germans but that he

“intends to write a common chronicle about all of Germany.”76 He,

“therefore, has included in this, [ his] chronicle, only the history most distinguished and most worthy of wonder happening in all lands of

the German natio,”77 in hopes of convincing the Germans that they deserve the recognition that comparable civilizations, speciÀ cally the Greek and Roman, command.

Franck selects one of the stock events in imperial history, the accession of Charlemagne as the À rst German emperor and the subsequent

translatio imperii as one of the key events distinguishing German history.78

Although far from original,79 his account is fundamental to formulating 74 Franck, GC, aa viv: “wie die Christen von Christo Christen heissen/gnent.”

75 Franck, GC, aa viv: “wil ich inn disser meine Chronick deutlich anzeygen/das Teutschland nit weniger dann die Griechen vnnd Latiner ann künsten/redlichen tapferen thaten vnnd weisen r‰then/seind gewesen.”.”

76 Franck, GC, aa iiiv: “ich ein gemeyn Chronick über gantz Teutschland vorhab zu schreibenn.”

77 Franck, GC, aa iiiv: “Derhalb hab ich allein die fürnemsten wunderwirdigsten histori/so sich inn allen landen Teutscher nation haben z%tragen in disse meine Chronick eingeleibt.”

78 Franck refutes claims that Otto I and not Charlemagne was the À rst German emperor by citing various sources that prove, to Franck’s satisfaction, that the Empire came to the Germans through Charlemagne. Franck, GC, lxxxiiiv.

79 Franck, GC, lxxxr–lxxxiv: “Carolus Magnus der erst Teutsch/vnnd inn der orde-nung der siebentzigst Keyser gewelet. Anno hundert acht/weil Carolus noch vor erst erzelter auffr%r wegen zu Rom war/vnnd der Bapst schon mitt den seinen beschlossen hett/Carolum zum Keyser im Occident zu machenn/geschahe es am Weihenachten tag/als der Bapst meß hielte/wandt er sich zum volck vnnd erkl‰ret Carolum zu einem Rhîmischenn Keyser im ganzenn Occident / . . . Darauff krînet inn der Bapst/mit einer darzu gemachtenn kron . . . vnd auff disen tag ward das Rhîmisch reich von Constan-tinopelim Auffgang in Franckreich an Carolum gewendt.” Of note is that Franck views OCKER V1_f11_154-175.indd 171

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a German past. The identiÀ cation of Charlemagne as the À rst German

emperor symbolizes that the Germans had earned the right to wield

the Roman imperium. The western empire’s belief in the translatio imperii conÀ rmed and legitimized this right. German writers used it to cast

Charlemagne as an idealized folk hero much as the Greeks had idealized Alexander the Great and the Romans had idolized Augustus. Moreover,

the mythology of Charlemagne and the translatio imperii secured for the Germans a certain implicit prestige in the German writers’ works over

both former holders of the Imperium, the Byzantines and Italians.

The idea of the translatio imperii acquired greater legitimacy after Innocent III entered it ofÀ cially into Canon Law in his Venerabilem. Franck cites Innocent’s formulation almost word for word, but he enhances it, proclaiming that “the Empire, in the person of Charles, was transferred from the Greeks to the Germans in Germania [my emphasis].”80 The signiÀ cance of this lies in the implications of the two different conceptions. In Innocent’s formulation, the Imperium shifted from Byzantium, the eastern and Greek empire that practiced its own brand of Christianity, to the west or, rather, Latin Christendom. Franck’s assertion that the Imperium was transferred to the Germans in Germania recognizes that it returned to the Latin west, but it also identiÀ es the existence of a distinct German land within the Roman Imperium. Whatever the reality, Franck confers upon Germania the prestige of being the seat

of the Roman Empire.

Franck argues that the Germans are both the descendants of Noah’s

son, Tuisco, and thereby indigenous, and Roman imperial heirs. He

enhances this identity by arguing their culture is as rich and vibrant as that of the Greeks and Romans. He points to the principal marker

of this culture, language. Prior to Franck, other German chronicles,

originally written in Latin, had been translated subsequently into

German, most notably, Hartmann Schedel’s Liber chronicarum. German the Pope with power over the emperor, GC, lxxvr: “der Bapst wirt selbs keyser/vnnd gibt Carolo den Tittel vnnd nammen des reichs.” Consider Franck’s interpretation of Constantine the Great moving the Empire’s seat to Constantinople and of his relationship with the papacy. See, GC, xlvr–v. This, however, does not detract from the fact that Franck identiÀ es Charlemagne as the beginning of the Germans’ imperial role or of the signiÀ cance of the Charlemagne mythology to German history.

80 Franck, GC, lxxxir: “Also ist in der person Caroli das reich vonn Griechen an die Teutschen in Germaniam gewendt.” Cf. Innocent III, Venerabilem: “Romanum imperium in persona magniÀ ci Karoli a Grecis transtulit in Germanos.” See also, Franck, GC, lxxxiiiv.

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humanists had endeavored to provide accounts of every facet of the

Germans and Germany in the language of learning and civilization

but not in their native tongue. Latin implicitly legitimized their work alongside the Graeco-Roman historiographical tradition and their

contemporaries who boasted of their mastery of the Latin language.

More signiÀ cantly, the German humanists considered Latin to be a

more capable and elegant language of expression than German.81

This may have resulted from the lack, until Luther, of a recognized,

German literary language. Whatever the exact reasons were, Sebastian

Franck not only recognized the merits of a German vernacular but

also utilized it as a legitimate and respectable language for historical writing. Franck’s intentional use of a German vernacular, thus, marked a signiÀ cant departure from his predecessors.

Although Franck was well versed in Latin,82 he deviated from tradi-

tional historiographical practices. He argues that the German language was equally capable of conveying knowledge like Greek and Latin, for

when, “a German examines history and law, even words and deeds, he

À nds that there is no wisdom or proverb which the Greeks and Romans

had and celebrated of which the Germans do not have and maintain

one or more of the same in their own language.”83 In fact, Franck was so sure of the German language’s capacity that he boasts, “I would

really like to hear a saying, proverb, or sentence in any language for which the Germans do not [already] have an equivalent in German.”84

Not only did German possess the ability to convey knowledge just

as Greek and Latin did, but it also allowed the Germans to use the

81 Cf. Celtis, Ad Sigismundum Fusilium Vratislaiensem, in Conradus Celtis Protucius Quattuor Libri Amorum secundum quattuor latera Germaniae. Germania Generalis, ed. F. Pindter, Bibliotheca Scriptorum Medii Recentisque Aevorum (Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1934), p. 44; Jacob Wimpheling, Isidoneus Germanicus: Ad R. P. D. Georgium de Gemmyngen Spirensem praepositum (Strasbourg: Johann Grüninger, 1497), ch. 26; Rudolph Agricola, ep. 38.28–29 in Rudolph Agricola. Letters, ed. Andrie van der Laan and Fokke Akkerman, Bibliotheca Latinitatis Novae (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2002).

82 Franck had translated the Chronicle and Description of Turkey into German (1530), and he had also used extensive sections of Latin works for his own writings, such as Schedel’s Liber chronicarum for his Chronica and Naucler’s Memorabilium omnis aetatis et omnium gentium chronici (1516) for the GC.

83 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “Dann so iemant der Teutschen geschicht vnnd richt/rath vnnd that eben ansihet/der À ndt das kein weisse red oder sprichtwort/das die Griechen vnd latini gef$rt vnd celebriert haben/ist/das nit die Teutschen eins oder mehr der gleichen inn irer spraach zu Teutsch f$ren vnd haben.”

84 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “Ich wolt nur gern ein spruch/sprichtwort oder sententz auß allen zungen hîren/da nit der gleichen die Teutschen einen zu teutsch f$rten.” Franck had already published his Paradoxa, a book of proverbs, in 1534.

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language over which they had mastery, and, thereby, to present their

thoughts clearly.85

Franck touts German as if there were a single German language

spoken and esteemed throughout the German lands. He asserts pub-

licly that German is a respectable language that distinguishes a people like Greek had done for the Greeks and Latin for the Italians. In fact, he recognizes that, “the Germans . . . are capable of having, knowing, and expressing everything just as well in their language as the lying

Greeks and others in their own languages.”86 He concludes, therefore,

“that Germany is just as good, if not better, than any other nation,”

specifying that he means, “Latium or Greece.”87 Franck attributes to

the Germans the characteristics historians had used to distinguish other peoples. With an ancient ancestry, a distinguished historical record, and a common language that had the capacity of Greek and Latin, Franck

envisions that “now Germania does not bow to Rome.”88

Franck directed his chronicle speciÀ cally to the German people rather than to the humanists. His use of a German vernacular instead of Latin implies his audience. As the Italian humanists wrote about their Italians in Latin, Franck wrote about the Germans in what he perceived was

their common language. Now able to read a judicious account of their

borders, deeds, and history in their own language, the Germans would

learn about their origin from Noah’s son, Tuisco. Their character and

physical constitution earned them the right to administer the Roman

Empire, an authority they had continuously and legitimately exercised

for eight centuries. Although the Roman imperial tradition and medieval Latin historiography had deÀ ned the Germans according to their role

as defenders of the Empire and the Church, namely as Latin Chris-

tians, Franck attributed to them a foundation myth that predated the

Roman tradition. He demonstrated the development of a people and

their land into a Á ourishing civilization that included Roman imperial 85 This may have been because he believed that the many German writers did not possess a command of Latin to express themselves: Franck, GC, aa iir: “Irenicus zeygt an/das Joannes Scotus/Joannes de Hildenßheym/Hugo Florian/Floriatensis/Eber-win/Segenberg/eittel Teutsch münch/gantze volumina vnnd vil b$cher von Teutschen haben geschriben . . . darzu mit solchem küchin latin.”

86 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “ich schleuß/das die Teutschen . . . alles so wol haben/künden vnnd wissen in irer spraach von Gott/als die lügenhafftigen Griechen/vnnd andere zungen in irer.”

87 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “das Teutschland so wol/wo nit mit vorteyl/als iendert einn nation/laß gleich Latium oder Greciam seinn.”

88 Franck, GC, aa iiv: “das ietzt Germania auch den Rîmern kaum weicht.”

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history but that was also separate. The Germans may have donned

foreign fashion, but they were, in the eyes of a sixteenth-century German, a people deÀ ned by ancestry, language, and, most importantly,

an ancient, continuous, and distinguished history.

Two sixteenth-century German writers’ perspectives demonstrate

their recognition of a German people. Despite the territorialism of the German lands, the cosmopolitanism of the German peoples, and an

array of dialects and local customs, Jacob Wimpheling and Sebastian

Franck recognized that the diverse German peoples constituted a single people. They shared a common history that conferred upon them a

prestige that rivaled and even surpassed their neighbors, especially

the arrogant Italians. They reassessed the German identity that had

persisted since Graeco-Roman antiquity and brought to the Germans’

attention the fact that they had allowed others to deÀ ne who they were.

By crafting a history for the German people, both Wimpheling and

Franck reconciled the ancient German past with contemporary times.

Their works represented the efforts their contemporaries had made to

present the Germans on the international intellectual stage, showing the Byzantines, and especially the Italians, that the Germans were worthy

of respect. Sebastian Franck, however, surpassed his colleagues and

provided the German people with a fully-developed conception of a

people, land, and culture, written by a German, in German, and for

Germans; he was the À rst to elaborate the fullest vision of a German nation.

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PERFECTING THE PAST: CHARLES THE BOLD AND

TRADITIONAL HISTORIOGRAPHY IN

EARLY MODERN GERMANY

Elaine C. Tennant

This uprooting of memory, its eradication by the

conquering force of history, has had the effect of

a revelation, as if an ancient bond of identity had

been broken, calling into question something once

taken for granted: the close À t between history and

memory.

—Pierre Nora, Realms of Memory

In his trail-blazing essay on “The Task of Cultural History” (1929),

Johan Huizinga emphasized the essential historical quality of many

traditional textual genres, listing myth, saga, legend, chronicle, geste, and historical folk-song among the forms in which cultures record “what

really happened.” He explained that these forms, which function as

“history” within the cultures that produce them, are separated by a

“deep abyss” from forms like romances or pastoral poems in which

the same cultures present what he called their “consciously À ctional

imagination.” But however fundamentally historical Huizinga knew

legends, chronicles, and gestes to be, he was quick to emphasize their poetic qualities and proclaim their insufÀ ciency to meet the historiographic requirements of modern civilization. “When we pretend,” he

wrote, “to believe in historical constructions that we know are poetic license we are, at best, like the father . . . playing with his son’s toy train.

Critical scholarship’s the only form for understanding the past which is appropriate to our culture, the only form that is natural to it and is its mature product.”1 Huizinga’s view of the relationship between modern

1 Johan Huizinga, “The Task of Cultural History,” in Men and Ideas: Essays by Johan Huizinga, trans. James S. Holmes and Hans van Marle (New York: Meridian Books, 1959), 17–76; here 41.

Every culture, for its part, has a certain degree of immersion in the past as a precondition for life. In every civilization there are certain concepts of earlier reality which the society sustaining that civilization takes to heart. Though such OCKER V1_f12_176-196.indd 177

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scientiÀ c historiography (what he called “critical scholarship”) and the earlier interested, programmatic, and overtly non-objective form of history-telling that preceded it characterizes that other historiography (what I will call “traditional historiography”) as immature in its conception.

This view is very similar to that of many professional historians today,2

among whom some more recent scholars have gone even further to

suggest that unsuspecting audiences should be warned when they are

being presented with “well meaning pseudo-history.”3

concepts assume essentially divergent forms, they do so without abrogating their common characteristic of serving as ‘history’ for the culture that produces them.

Depending on the nature of the civilization that has a need for images of its past, and the intellectual focus from which those images are created, they take on the form of myth, saga, legend, chronicle, geste, historical folk-song. For the culture in which such forms develop, the culture they serve, they all signify to a certain extent

‘what really happened.’ They À ll not only a vital need but also a need for truth.

If the belief in the truth of what is recounted dies, then the productive period of the form is past, though it can prolong its life for centuries as a pastiche, or even seemingly make a comeback. Forms of consciously À ctional imagination such as the pastoral poem and the romance are separated from the forms mentioned above by a deep abyss. Between the matière de France of the chansons de geste and the matière de Bretagne of the genuine romance, culture took a stride as great as Trivikrama, who measured heaven and earth in three steps. The less the development of the culture in which those forms are realized, the more clearly they betray their links with the cult. All of them are in their turn morale en action. For the culture concerned they are ‘history’ to the extent that the picture presented answers to the form of perception natural to that culture. The myth is at all times to a much greater extent primitive scholarship than primitive literature.

2 Consider, for example, the range of views included in Mark Carnes’s Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies (New York: Henry Holt, 1995), a volume published under the aegis of the Society of American Historians, in which more than sixty novelists, journalists, and academic historians assess individual Hollywood “historical”

À lms. Similarly, the generally negative response of professional historians to Edmund Morris’s authorized biography of Ronald Reagan exempliÀ es this attitude toward traditional historiography. In Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan (New York: Random House, 1999), the Pulitzer-Prize-winning historian Morris writes a character named Edmund Morris into the Reagan story as its À rst-person narrator and an eyewitness to many of the events reported. The character who shares the author’s name does not, however, share his personal history and is instead presented as a longtime associate of Ronald Reagan. This technique of inventing an eyewitness who is not veriÀ able to report historical events that are is a common convention of traditional history-telling but not of contemporary academic historiography.

3 John Huston’s treatment of psychoanalysis in the 1962 À lm, Freud: The Secret Passion, did not satisfy Peter Gay’s standards of historiography. In his critique of the À lm he writes: “It is not pedantry to object to the inaccuracies that Huston and his crew have introduced into their history of psychoanalysis; rather it is an attempt to warn audiences that what they are seeing is well-meaning pseudo-history. A few instances may give the sense of the wreck that the makers of Freud have left behind,” (Carnes, note 2 above, 172).

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The presumed naiveté of the audience is a stock element of the

caricature that academic historians sketch of that other, traditional historiographic enterprise, which they distinguish sharply from their own.

And they generally trace the beginnings of their more “scientiÀ c” way of telling history to some point in the early modern period when various factors (including new standards in textual criticism, developments in the natural sciences, the rise of printing, the discovery of the Americas, etc.) combine to produce a new emphasis on empiricism, authenticity,

and narrative objectivity. For Germany one might accordingly see as

a harbinger of modern scientiÀ c historians Johannes Sleidan, whose

history of the Reformation from 1517 to 1555 (rather than his popu-

lar history of the four monarchies) reÁ ects the emerging emphasis on empiricism and primary data in history-telling.4 My concern, however,

is not with the beginnings of scientiÀ c German historiography in the sixteenth century, but rather with its effect on that other, older mode of historical narration in early modern Germany. What happened to

those forms of history-telling that unabashedly perfected the past when they began to have to compete with a model of historiography that was differently conceived? And what has happened to the scholarly study of the past since professional historians have banished traditional history-telling from their wing of the academy in favor of empirically-oriented historiography along the lines of Huizinga’s “critical scholarship”?

In order to track what happened to the perfected history of earlier

times—a history consciously embellished according to the interpretive

agendas and rhetorical practices of its composers—we must À rst understand how it functioned. In that regard the basis on which traditional historiography claimed its authority and the fate of that authority in a climate of increasing empiricism are of particular interest. Before turning to these issues, however, let me offer a rough a deÀ nition of traditional premodern historiography and explain how I distinguish

such “histories” from other narratives composed for programmatic

purposes in premodern Germany. I deÀ ne as “history” (1) narratives

that the history-teller claims to have developed on the basis of events that happened and (2) narratives that he has composed in response to

4 That is, Johannes Sleidan, De statv religionis et reipvblicae, Carolo Qvinto, caesare, com-mentarij (Strassburg: Wendelin Rihelius, 1555) and De qvatvor svmmis imperiis ([Strassburg]

1556).

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the demand, either from himself or from his audience, to “Tell me a

history!”

By these standards all the genres that Huizinga identiÀ ed as “poeti-

cized history” are in my terms “histories” indeed, as are a number of

premodern German Volksbücher and Heldenbücher. “Histories” deÀ ned this way are distinguished from other narrative genres primarily in terms

of the narrative stuff from which they are fashioned and the implicit demand that they attempt to satisfy. Thus a late medieval German

romance and a historical narrative from the same period may make

precisely the same programmatic statement, but the texts neverthe-

less remain distinguished from each other both by the fact that one is composed on the basis of events that are supposed to have happened

while the other is not, and by the consideration that both the history-teller and the audience understand the two texts to belong to different genres, reÁ ecting different conventions. According to the latter generic consideration, the two narratives then, while equivalent in their programmatic statements, may well serve different cultural functions.

It is common for earlier German narrative composers to assign

their texts to either the historical genre ( historia) or to one of the non-historical genres ( fabula or argumentum)5 and within the particular genre to distinguish between authentic and inauthentic sources.6 As a single early example of the way that premodern German history-tellers distinguished their projects from those of other composers, consider the terms used in these lines from the opening of the Kaiserchronik (1140–50), the most widely distributed German vernacular historical text of the

High Middle Ages.7

5 See Carl Lofmark, The Authority of the Source in Middle High German Narrative Poetry, vol. 5, Bithell Series of Dissertations [ The Institute of Germanic Studies of the University of London] (Leeds: W.S. Maney & Sons), 1981, 35–36. Lofmark uses the deÀ nitions of John of Garland (1180–1260) to distinguish these narrative kinds: fabula

“nec res verae nec verisimiles”; argumentum “res À cta quae tamen À eri potuit”; and historia “res gestae ab aetatis nostrae rebus remotae.” He adds, however, that where a poet “might confuse fabula and argumentum . . . historia is always distinct.”

6 For a full discussion of these designations and the concepts they imply, see Joachim Knape, › Historie‹ in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit: Begriffs- und gattungsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen im interdisziplinären Kontext, Saecula spiritalia 10 (Baden-Baden: Valentin Koerner, 1984).

7 Die Kaiserchronik eines Regensburger Geistlichen, ed. Edward Schröder, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Deutsche Chroniken und andere Geschichtsbücher des Mittelalters, vol. 1 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1895), 79. Also see E. Nellmann, “Kaiserchronik,”

Lexikon Literatur des Mittelalters, vol. 2 (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 2002), 263. The translations throughout are my own.

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15 Ein buoch ist ze diute getihtet,

There is a book composed in German

daz uns Rômisces rîches wol berihtet,

that tells us well of the Roman

gehaizzen ist iz crônicâ.

Empire; it is called chronicle.

iz chundet uns dâ

There it tells us

von den bâbesen unt von den chunigen,

of the popes and of the kings,

20 baidiu guoten unt ubelen,

both good ones and bad ones,

die vor uns wâren

who lived before us

unt Rômisces rîches phlâgen

and have kept the Roman Empire

unze an disen hiutegen tac.

until this very day.

sô ich aller beste mac

I will recite it for you

25 sô wil ich iz iu vor zellen.

as well as ever I can.

iz verneme swer der welle.

Let anyone hear it who would.

Nu ist leider in disen zîten

Now these days there is, alas,

ein gewoneheit wîten:

a widespread custom:

manege erdenchent in lugene

many think up lies

30 unt vuogen si zesamene

and À t them together

mit scophelîchen worten.

with made-up words.

In this loosely worded introduction, the poet speciÀ es the genre of the narrative from which his tale derives (a “chronicle”); the kind of material that he will retell (the deeds of those kings and emperors “who lived before us”); and the standard of evidence that he requires of himself (a narrative that does not include lies, lying constructions, or invented words). It is not uncommon in these earlier medieval German narratives, for the narrator to describe rather than name the other genre (or its

creator), the one in which he is not composing, and simply characterize it as a fabrication of “lies,” as the chronicler does here.8 This opposition, already evident in the twelfth-century Kaiserchronik, between chronicles of those “who lived before us” and narratives made up of “lies,” raises the most interesting and vexing question of traditional historiography.

Namely, in what did its authority consist for those who composed and

received it, and in what sense did the history-teller and his audience understand these narratives to be true? The last two or three decades

produced a quantity of work on this question from the literary side, and more recently (partly in response to the provocation of Hayden White

and his disciples), some historians also took the so-called linguistic turn 8 Gottfried von Strassburg’s refusal to name Wolfram von Eschenbach after thoroughly deprecating his style in the literary excursus from Tristan is a notable example of this practice. See lines 4638–90.

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toward narratology in order to address such questions.9 In the inter-

est of brevity I adopt here the distinctions that Joachim Knape used

in his 1984 study of the notion of “Historie” in premodern German

textual culture as a convenient way of approaching some early modern developments in traditional history-telling. For the À fteenth through the seventeenth centuries in Germany, Knape distinguishes three aspects

of the literary concept of truth: factual truth ( Faktenwahrheit); the truth of presentation ( Darstellungswahrheit); and higher truth ( höhere Wahrheit).10

The notion of factual truth in Knape’s analysis includes not only the accuracy with which a narrative reports events external to the world

of the text but also the claims that it makes of À delity to its sources (i.e., auctoritas topoi). This gives events that happened in the past and events that happened in past texts equivalent evidentiary status. Truth in presentation, on the other hand, has to do not primarily with the

material presented in the narrative but rather with the manner or

form of its presentation. Under this aspect of literary truth fall all the considerations of narrative embellishment, including a wide variety of permissible adjustments to the narrative material. Knape notes that in the early modern period, debates were developing among writers in

Germany over the amounts and varieties of embellishment that were

suited to the narration of various kinds of history. He cites chronographic histories ( chronographische Historie[ n]) and prose-novel histories ( Prosaroman-Historien) as two different idioms, distinguished from each other by, among other things, the kinds of narrative embellishment

that characterized each; the latter contained more fabulous poetic

elaboration than the former. The third aspect of literary truth that

Knape explains is the “higher truth” implied by the totality of the history-teller’s composition, that religious, philosophical, or moral meaning which is tangentially dependent on the narrative’s embellished factual statement but which also reaches beyond that statement.11 In traditional 9 See, for example, Gerhild Scholz Williams’s “Geschichte und die literarische Dimension. Narrativik und Historiographie in der anglo-amerikanischen Forschung der letzten Jahrzehnte. Ein Bericht,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 63 (1989): 315–92; and Gabrielle M. Spiegel’s “History, Historicism, and the Social Logic of the Text in the Middle Ages,” Speculum 65 (1990): 59–86; and The Past as Text: The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography, Parallax: Re-Visions of Culture and Society (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997).

10 See note 6 above, 355–65.

11 See note 6 above, 356, 360, 365–70.

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premodern German historiographic narratives, then, “truth” can be

tracked in various channels. But the authority of these traditional histories is to be found only in their appeals to higher truth. It is on that level that the history-teller claims authority for his narrative, and that the audiences who accept these narratives as representations of history concede authority to them.

To understand what this “higher truth” may amount to, let us consider

four of the many early modern treatments of the same momentous

contemporary event: the defeat of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, at Nancy on Epiphany of 1477. Each of the following examples is presented from the standpoint of one of the victors of the battle and in a genre that the composer considers in some sense to be historical.

The À rst excerpt is from the so-called Chronique scandaleuse (1460–83)

of Jean de Roye, secretary to the Duke of Bourbon, one of the French allies.12

Et, après qu’il ot esté interrogué, fut icel-

After having been interrogated, the

lui page mené à grant compaignie de gens

page led a great company of soldiers

de guerre au lieu où ledit de Bourgongne

to the place where the Duke of Bur-

gisoit mort et tout nu. Et, en icellui lieu,

gundy was lying dead and utterly

le mardi ensuivant de ladicte bataille, au

naked. And in that place on the

matin, ledit page monstra clerement ledit de Tuesday morning following the bat-Bourgongne mort et tout nu, et environ lui

tle, the page pointed Burgundy out

XIIII [cens] hommes tous nuz, les ungs

clearly, dead and utterly naked, and

assez loings des autres. Et avoit ledit duc

around him fourteen [hundred] men

de Bourgongne ung cop d’un baston nommé utterly naked, some of them quite halebarde à ung costé du milleu de la teste

far from the others. And the Duke

par dessus l’oreille jusques aux dens, ung

of Burgundy had [taken] a blow

cop de pique au travers des cuisses et ung

from a pike called a halberd from

autre cop de pique par le fondement. Et, fut one side to the middle of the head, congneu manifestement que c’estoit ledit de

below the ear down to the teeth; a

Bourgongne à six choses: la premiere de la

pike-thrust across the thighs; and

principale fut aux dens de dessus, lesquelles another pike-thrust in the backside.

il avoit autrefois perdues par une cheute; la It was established positively that seconde fut d’une cicatrice à cause de la

this was Burgundy by six indica-

12 Bernard de Mandrot, ed., Journal de Jean de Roye connu sous le nom de Chronique scandaleuse 1460–1483, vol. 2 (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1896), 40–42. I am indebted for the reference to this passage in Mandrot’s edition to Claude Thiry’s À ne chapter on the accounts in French of the death of Charles the Bold (“La mort du Téméraire: Témoignages de chroniqueurs écrits aux XV–XVIe siècles”) in Splendeurs de la cour de Bourgogne. Récits et chroniques, ed. Danielle Régnier-Bohler (Paris: Robert Laffont, 1995), 953–1025.

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plaie qu’il eut à la rencontre de Montlehery tions: the À rst and principal one was en la gorge, en la partie dextre; la tierce, à

the lower teeth, which had been

ses grans ongles qu’il portoit plus que nul

lost at another time as the result

autre homme de sa court ne autre personne; of a fall; the second was a scar on la quarte fut d’une plaie qu’il avoit en une the right side of the throat result-espaule à cause d’une escharboucle que

ing from a wound received in the

autrefoiz y avoit eue; la cinquiesme fut à

encounter at Montlhéry; the third,

une À stule qu’il avoit au bas du ventre en la his grand À ngernails, which he wore penillere du costé dextre; et la sixiesme fut

longer than any other man at his

d’un ongle qu’il avoit retrait en l’orteil du

court or any other person; the fourth

pié senestre. Et, ausdictes enseignes donna

was a sore that he had on one shoul-

son jugement pour tout vray ung sien mede-

der from a carbuncle that he had

cin portugalois nommé maistre Mathieu, que had at another time; the À fth was c’estoit ledit de Bourgongne son maistre; et

a À stula that he had at the base of

aussi le dirent pareillement ses varletz de

his abdomen in the right side of the

chamber, le grant bastard, messire Olivier

groin; and the sixth was an ingrown

de la Marche, son chappellain, et plusieurs nail on the toe of his left foot. And autres de ses gens prisonniers dudit Monsei- on the basis of these indications, gneur de Lorraine.

one of his physicians, a Portuguese

named Master Matthew, rendered

his utterly truthful judgment that

this was Burgundy, his master. And

his chamberlains, the Great Bastard,

Lord Olivier de la Marche, his chap-

lain, and several others of the pris-

oners of the Lord of Lorraine said

the same.

The second description is from the Große Burgunder Chronik that the elder Diebold Schilling (“Zürcher Schilling”) wrote between 1481 and 1484.

The Swiss were in the vanguard of the allied army that defeated the

Burgundians.13

Vnd als man am morgen die waltstatt

And when they rode out on the bat-

beritten vnd besechen/vnd man die toten

tleÀ eld in the morning, they saw that

abgezogen/do hatt man überslachen/das

they had stripped the dead who had

ob sechs tusent mannen der vienden vmbko- been defeated, that more than six men/vnd von gottes gnaden erslagen sind/

thousand of the enemies’ men

13 Die Große Burgunder Chronik des Diebold Schilling von Bern: « Zürcher Schilling », ed. Alfred A. Schmid (Lucerne: Faksimile-Verlag Luzern, 1985), fol. 773r–v. The last lines of the passage echo Psalm 7:15: “He made a pit, and digged it, and is fallen into the ditch which he made.”

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Darunder ist durch die grund/lose barm-

had perished and had by the grace

hertzikeit gottes des almechtigen/der gros

of God been struck down. Among

bl%t vergiesser der hertzog von Burgunnen

them, by the fathomless mercy of

selber bliben/vnd annder die rechtschuldigen God the Almighty, remained that mit im/des man gott dem almechtigen vnd

great spiller of blood, the Duke of

allem himelschen here/billich lob/ere und

Burgundy himself, and along with

danck sagen/vnd des in gantzer danckber-

him others deserving justice. For this

keit niemer/mere vergessen sol/dann er das we should rightly praise, honor, and durch sin gîtliche barm/hertzikeit selber

thank God the Almighty and all the

getan/vnd den grossen mechtigen wütrich

heavenly host, and in utter grati-

nider geslagen/vnd vallen lassen in die

tude nevermore forget this. For He

gr%ben die er anndern gemacht hatt/

Himself has done this by His divine

mercy and has caused the great rag-

ing malefactor to be struck down and

fall into the ditch that he made for

others.

The same event also turns up in the Weißkunig, the one of Maximilian I’s embellished autobiographies that he envisioned as some sort

of chronicle or history.14 In it Charles the Bold is called the “King of Flints” ( der kunig vom fewreysen) after the heraldic device of the Burgundian arms, and Frederick III is called variously the “Old White King” and

the “Old Wise King” ( der alt weis kunig). The other proper names and titles in the chapter, except those of the three great battles in which the Burgundians were defeated, are lightly disguised by being written

backwards (e.g., lorit for “Tirol,” hierknarf for “Frankreich,” gozrehzre for “Erzherzog”). By the time Maximilian’s longtime secretary Marx

Treytzsaurwein composed this account of the Battle of Nancy in

1514, Maximilian had been married to Charles of Burgundy’s surviv-

ing daughter, Mary, in August 1477 and had lost her only a few years

later after a hunting accident in 1482. She was the mother of his only legitimate children.

14 This text appears as chapter 54 of Weißkunig MS A (Codex 3032, fols. 203r–204r), a preliminary fair copy of the narrative that Marx Treytzsaurwein penned for Maximilian’s corrections. In the manuscript, which is part of the collection of the Austrian National Library Vienna, the chapter is entitled, Wie der künig von Hierknarf/Auch etlich fursten/vnd herren/ein pundtnüs wider/den kunig vom fewreÿßen machten/Vnnd Ime in sein reich zügen/vnd der kunig vom fewreyßen/in ainem streit todt belibe/ The names of the three battles were added by a second hand, presumably at Maximilian’s direction, to À ll in blanks in the manuscript left by Treytzsaurwein.

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Als der kunig vom fewreysen/mit krieg gegen

While the King of Flints was at war

dem alten weisen kunig lag/dieweil vnnderstundt with the Old White King, the King of sich/der kunig von hierknarf [Frankreih]/der

Hierknarf [ France], who was mighty

dann grosmechtig was/an kriegsfolckh vnd

in men at arms and in coin, under-

parem gelt/vnd machet mit etlichen fursten/vnd

took—with various princes, lords, and

herren/auch Comun/die dem alten weisen kunig also free cities that belonged to the zugehorten/ain pundtnus wider den kunig vom

Old White King—to form an alliance

fewreÿsen/dieselben/teten demselben kunig vom

against the King of Flints. They wreaked

fewreysen/in seinem kunigreich grossen wider-

great havoc on the same King of Flints

drieß/vnnd als Er mit den alten weißen kunig

within his own realm. Now while he

veraint was/wie Ich dann dieselb verainigung

was allied with the Old White King, as

vor beschriben hab/vnd derselb kunig vom few-

I have previously described the alliance,

reysen/widerumb zu Ruckh zoch/vnderstundt Er the same King of Flints withdrew again sich/an dem kunig von hierknarff zurechen/Als and undertook to avenge himself on Er dann gegen Ime grossen Sig het/vnd in

the King of Hierknarf. He won a great

dem grif Er auch etliche lannd vnd gepirg der

victory over him and in the process he

Nehstuet [Teutshen] an/Nun was ain mechtiger [ Flints] also attacked various territories kunig in Lorit [Tirol]/der hieß Gozrehzre

and mountains of the Nehstuet [Ger-

Ednumgis [Erzherzog Sigmunde] von Hierretsö

mans]. Now there was a mighty king in

[Österreih]/der was des alten weißen kunigs von Lorit [ Tirol] who was called Gozrehzre Mannlichen stamen/der nechst gesipt frundt/

Ednumgis von Hierretsö [Archduke

derselb kunig in lorit/het in der prouintz/da der Sigmund of Austria], who was the Old kunig vom fewreÿsen krieget/schöne Lannd/mit-White King’s closest relative in the male

namen Sasle [Elsas]/Vegnus [Sungeu]/vegsierb line. This same King in Lorit had beauti-

[Breisgeu]/vnd Treihp [Phiert]/vnd darÿnnen

ful territories in the province where the

ain streitper volckh/zu Roß und fueß/vnd mocht King of Flints was making war—namely den Krieg/so der Kunig vom fewreysn/auf etlich Sasle [Alsace], Vegnus [Sundgau], Veg-Nehstuet tet/nit leiden/vnd thet dem volckh

sierb [ Breisgau], and Treihp [ Ferrette],

genant die Retziebs [Sbeitzer]/die sein Erb

and within them he had an army of

waren/mit ainem grossen kriegsfolckh zu Roß

cavalry and infantry. And [ he] could not

und fueß/mitsampt andern seinen pundtgeno-

tolerate the war that the King of Flints

sen/ain merkliche hilf. Dasselb kriegsfolckh/das was waging against various Nehstuet zug mitsampt dem volckh retziebs/gegen dem

[German territories], and he gave the

kunig vom fewreÿsen/vnd theten mit demselben

people called the Retziebs [Swiss], who

kunig drey grosse streit/vnd behielten albegen

were his heirs, along with others of

den Sig. der Erst streit beschach zu Granson/der his allies notable help [in the form] of ander streit zu Morta der drit streit zu Nansee

a great army of cavalry and infantry.

vnd in dem driten letsten streit/wurde der kunig That same army along with the Retziebs vom fewreÿsn zu todt erschlagen/Ain Ieder mag army moved against the King of Flints selbs ermessen/was grossen volckhs/in den drey and met him in three great battles and grossen veldtstreiten erschlagen worden ist/diser

won the victory in each. The À rst battle

kunig vom fewreysen/ließ hinder sein/sein

occurred at Grandson, the second battle

hawsfraw vnnd ain ainige Eeliche tochter/vnd

at Murten, the third battle at Nancy; and

sonst kain kindt/dauon Ich hernach schreib/

in the third, last battle the King of Flints

was killed. Each person can reckon for

himself what a great number were killed

in the three great battles. This King of

Flints left behind him his wife and a sin-

gle marriageable daughter and no other

child. About this I will write later.

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The death of Charles the Bold is also the subject of the third chapter of Maximilian’s Theuerdank. This lightly allegorized autobiographical romance presents Maximilian’s journey from Austria to Ghent in the

summer of 1477, more or less as a medieval bridal quest. In the work, which is generally taken to be the À rst roman à clef in German, Charles of Burgundy is called Kunig Romreich (“King Greatfame” below) and his daughter Mary, Künigin Ernreich (“Queen Honorbright”).15 Since many of the copies of the À rst (1517) printing of the work included a key to the actual historical identities of the principal characters and the geographic locations where individual events took place, it is proper to situate this curious work among the traditional histories of the period despite a number of its formal features that are reminiscent of medieval romance compositions and manuscripts (rhymed verse, allegorical

embellishment, folio layout, etc.).

Wie der Künnig Romreich sin leben in How King Greatfame wanted to end einem garten enden wolt vnnd z%uor

his life in a garden and beforehand

den benent/so Er seinner tochter z%

named him whom he had chosen as

Man erwîlt hat.

his daughter’s husband.

Eins mals der Kung an seim pet lag

One day as the King lay on his bed,

Gedacht nun ist khomen der tag

‘Now is come the day,’ he said,

Das Ich sol ordenen mein sach

‘that I shall order my affairs,

Dann Ich bin worden alt vnd schwach for I am old and weak with cares.

Das empÀ ndt Ich an mir ganntz wol

In truth I feel no longer spry,

Doch hoff Ich nicht ersterben sol

and yet I hope I shall not die

Auff federen in einem pet

while on a featherbed I lie.

Dann wenig wurd als dann geredt

For little then would be the praise

von meinem todt in kunfftig Zeit

of my À ne death in future days.

Ich ways ein schîngarten nit weit

Close by I know a lovely place;

Von hynn. der ist lustig vmbfangen

a pleasant fosse does it embrace,

mit eim graben. dainn verlangen

and in that garden I would spend

Hab Ich z% schliessen mein letzt teg

my À nal days until they end.’

In solhen dannckhen reyt Er weg

Deep in thought he rode away.

15 Die geuerlicheiten vnd einsteils der geschichten des loblichen streÿtparen vnd hochberumbten helds vnd Ritters herr Tewrdannckhs ([Augsburg]: Schönsperger, 1517), ch. 3, fols. a7v–a8v. Cited here according to the facsimile edition, Der Theuerdank, ed. Simon Laschitzer, Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses 8 (Vienna: Adolf Holzhausen, 1888). The privately printed text of 1517 is referred to elsewhere in this essay as “Theuerdank. ”

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Als Er nun in den garten kam

But as he reached that garden gay

Empfand vnd das Er seer ab nam

he sensed that he was sinking fast,

An seinem leib vnnd auch leben

that life and limb could not long last.

Darumb wolt Er z%uersteen geben

So he desired to make quite clear

Zuuor sein R‰tten wen Er wolt

who should wed his daughter dear.

Den sein kÿnd z%man haben solt

He told the councilors his intent

Macht ordenlich sein Testament

and then prepared his testament.

Berueffet etlich R‰t behenndt

He called the council handily,

Sprach in dem Testament Ir werdt

saying, ‘In my will you’ll see

Finden. welchen Ich auf der erdt

who it is in all the land

Hab meim kynd z% man ausserkorn

I choose to take my daughter’s hand.

Darumb sagt Ir: wîl sy gotes zorn

And if she would avoid God’s wrath—

EmpÁ ichen das sy halt mein gebot

advise her to obey my oath.

So wirdt Sy behüet vor allem spot

This will keep her from all blame.

Den selben sol Sy allein han

Him alone shall she then claim

Vor andern fur Iren Eeman

before all others as her lord.’

Das hîrten alle seine R‰t

All his councilors heard this word.

Damit der Künig khein wort mer redt

The king thereafter no more said

Sonnder gab also auf sein geist

but breathed his last and so was dead.

Darab sich alls volck trawrig beweist

The people mourned throughout the land.

Vnder In was ein fromer man

Among them was an upright man

Der name das Testament an

who took the testament in hand.

Z%bringen hin für die künigin

He thought to take it to the queen,

Ir auch anz%zeigen den syn

explaining to her what had been

Vnd das so Im beuolhen het

the sense of all the old King said,

Der alt Künig an seinem todtpet

as he lay dying on his bed.

Rust sich. den weg Er darauf für nam He armed himself and sallied forth, Reyt als lanng bis Er an hof kam

and rode until he reached the court.

From even these brief excerpts, it is clear that all but the À rst of these narratives are, in the terms that I have been using, examples of traditional premodern German historiography. Only the passage by Jean

de Roye might interest a modern professional historian as a step in the direction of scientiÀ c historiography. With its emphasis on standards of proof, witnesses, and virtually unembellished narrative detail, Jean’s text looks much more like modern historical narratives in the ostensibly objective style than do the German texts. These, on the other hand,

demonstrate nicely the programmatic concerns of their composers and

the subordination of truth of fact and presentation to the “higher”

message of the texts. In the Burgunder Chronik the defeat of Charles is presented as an example of divine intervention on behalf of the

righteous Swiss confederates. Alluding directly to the Psalms, Schilling makes God Himself the slayer of Charles, thus writing God into Swiss OCKER V1_f12_176-196.indd 188

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history, and Swiss history into salvation history ( Heilsgeschichte). He also reckons the number of the dead three times higher than does Jean

le Roye.

The Weißkunig passage falls somewhere between the À rst two accounts in the amount and style of its narrative embellishment and its attention to “factual truth.” The scarcely disguised names of some of the actual places and persons represented in this passage might alert an audience to the possibility that other adjustments may also have been made to

the authenticating facts of this narrative in order to accommodate its

“higher truth.” The style of the narration seems otherwise fairly circumstantial. But this sequence of apparently disinterested statements leads the audience gently to the conclusion that the King of Flints

was—objectively seen—an aggressive trouble maker, an unreliable ally,

and no friend of the Germans, whether of the Swiss confederates or

the Habsburg princes. Hence the Old White King has been obliged

to support a war against the aggressor. It is in this representation of the Habsburg role in Central European affairs that the history-teller

of the Weißkunig locates his higher truth.

This narrative is an elaborate piece of Habsburg propaganda pre-

sented roughly in the style of a contemporary German vernacular

chronicle. The history that it offers has been perfected to make the

desirability and inevitability of Habsburg preeminence unambiguous

to its audience. Many of the independently veriÀ able aspects of the Battle of Nancy are reported accurately. The alliances, the sequence

of the battles leading up to Nancy, and even the death of the Duke

are factually accurate. But in the text of this chapter, as in the illustrations that were created to accompany it in the chronicle, critical details of the factual truth of the event have been improved to support the

higher truth of the Habsburgs. Consider, for example, the woodcut of

the Battle of Nancy that Hans Burgkmair created to complement this

chapter of the Weißkunig text (À g. 1).16 Notice how decorously the fallen lie, fully clothed, as if they had been injured in a tournament. This is particularly true of the À gure of Charles himself, which lies crowned at the lower center right of the image. Nowhere in the woodcut is

16 This image is preserved on fol. 56v of Austrian National Library Vienna Codex 3034 ( Weißkunig MS H), the so-called Fragbuch that includes Maximilian’s explanations to events presented in the text of Treytzsaurwein’s fair copy (Codex 3032) from the OCKER V1_f12_176-196.indd 189

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elaine c. tennant

Fig. 1. “How the Black King invaded the empire of the King of Flints and the King of Flints died in battle.” Woodcut by Hans Burgkmair. Codex 3034, fol.

56v. Courtesy of the Austrian National Library Vienna, Picture Archive.

previous year. The caption below the woodcut reads, Wie der schwartz kunig dem kunig vom fewreyßen mit krieg in sein Reich zoch vnd der kunig vom Fewreyßen im streit todt bleib. The Black King ( der schwartz kunig), in later versions of the text the Blue King, is the King of France.

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there a hint of the mutilation reported by Jean le Roye. Indeed the

King of Flints lies crowned in death as he was crowned in life. There is no indication that the Swiss confederates were less than chivalrous in their victory.

If the history-teller and the illustrator of the Weißkunig beautify and politically sanitize the Battle of Nancy for a greater Habsburg end, the Theuerdank poet renders it utterly unrecognizable in the service of that same principle of a higher truth. Returning now to the À nal example

above, the idyllic death of King Greatfame (the Charles À gure), we

À nd that both the poem and Leonhard Beck’s accompanying woodcut

(À g. 2)17 present the peaceful death of the king, who retires to a locus amœnus, having secured his posterity through the betrothal of his daughter to the right prince and assured his lasting renown by staging a good death for himself. Since these preoccupations with progeny and eternal fame are recurrent themes in both the political and publicistic efforts of Maximilian I and his father Frederick III, it comes as no particular surprise that in Theuerdank, the most poeticized of Maximilian’s personal histories, factual truth has in places like this one been manipulated

beyond all recognition. Nothing could be more different, for example,

from the image of Charles the Bold’s naked and mutilated body, as

reported by Jean de Roye, than this pleasant picture of the patriarch of Burgundy who, having put his house in order, effectively gathers up his feet and gives up the ghost.

This last example takes us to an extreme point in the kind of nar-

rative embellishment that characterized some varieties of traditional German historiography in the early modern period. Here a well-known

public event is completely redeÀ ned in the context of an ambitious

dynastic claim that Maximilian is making for the status of his house

and his position within it. By the time Theuerdank was À rst printed in 1517, forty years after the death of Charles the Bold, the Burgundian’s status in the Habsburgs’ early sixteenth-century histories of themselves had become multivalent; he was a convenient signiÀ er that generated

multiple signiÀ cations. The events preceding his death as they are

presented in Weißkunig emphasize the disruption that Burgundy caused in the Empire and the challenge that it presented to the Habsburgs.

17 Die geuerlicheiten vnd einsteils der geschichten des loblichen streÿtparen vnd hochberumbten helds vnd Ritters herr Tewrdannckhs, 3rd ed. (Augsburg: Schönsperger, 1519), fol. a7v. The illustrations for the second and third editions of the work were made from the blocks used for the À rst printing in 1517.

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Fig. 2. “How King Greatfame wanted to end his life in a garden and beforehand named him whom he had chosen as his daughter’s husband.” Woodcut by

Leonhard Beck. From Die geuerlicheiten vnd einsteils der geschichten des loblichen streÿtparen vnd hochberumbten helds vnd Ritters herr Tewrdannckhs, 1519, fol. a7v.

Courtesy of The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

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But in Theuerdank, Charles of Burgundy is portrayed positively as an estimable progenitor of the current of Habsburg princes, Charles and Ferdinand.18 These different representations are reconcilable both with each other and with the higher truths of the individual narratives in which they occur. They are also well within the conventions of traditional historiography.

It would be easy to multiply the number of the examples of each of

the narrative idioms of traditional early modern German historiogra-

phy sampled above, texts that range in style from nearly disinterested reportage to elaborately manipulated, poeticized constructions in which the factual truth of even the best-known past events is boldly changed to enhance the higher meaning that the history-teller assigns to his

account. The abundance and variety of forms in which this kind of

programmatic history-telling Á ourished in sixteenth-century Germany

is notable. The rise of empiricism and scientiÀ c historiography in the early modern period did not sound the death knell for the writing of

histories in the traditional idiom. Instead it provided history-tellers of the old kind with what amounted to a new narrative “special effect.”

In the same way that some visual artists of the period used mimetic

or naturalistic representation to claim not verisimilitude but verity for the preternatural phenomena that they presented (both Burgkmair and

Dürer did this),19 some contemporary history-tellers, who insisted on

the authenticity of their factual data and the extent of their primary research (Aventinus comes to mind in this regard), also used accumulated circumstantial evidence to authenticate the highest programmatic claims of their histories. Nor was this interested application of disinterested information a naive technique employed by history-tellers who had imperfectly mastered the lessons of textual criticism that Italian humanism had provided them. Arguably these examples of perfected

18 Melchior PÀ nzing’s foreword to the 1517 printing of Theuerdank is dedicated to

“the most serene prince and lord, Lord Charles, King of Spain, etc. Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy etc., my most gracious lord” ( Dem durchleüchtigisten fürsten vnnd herren hern Carlen Künigen z% Hispanien etc. Ertzhertzogen z% Osterreych hertzogen z% Burgundi etc. meinem allergnedigisten herrn). See note 15 above, fol. a2v.

19 On the use in the visual arts of naturalistic or mimetic representation to enhance the impact of the miraculous or supernatural, see Erwin Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer, 1955, 4th ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971) 55–56; on its use in the memorial program of Maximilian, see Elaine C. Tennant, “ ‘Understanding with the Eyes’: The Visual Gloss to Maximilian’s Theuerdank,” Entzauberung der Welt. Deutsche Literatur 1200–1500, ed. James F. Poag and Thomas C. Fox (Tübingen: Francke, 1989), 241–49.

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history from early modern Germany are such audacious and sophisti-

cated elaborations of a À ne old technique that they deserve to be seen as something different from the medieval historiography on which they

build.20

The history-tellers not only continue to perfect the past in this period, but they do so by authenticating their narratives with unimpeachable

empirical data—eyewitness testimony, rediscovered charters, ancient

inscriptions, portraits and the like. This appeal to concrete or veriÀ able evidence gives a new luster to the old assertion of higher truth that is still the basis of the authority that these narratives claim. Indeed, Theuerdank, the least factual of the accounts considered above, is preceded by Melchior PÀ nzing’s solemn assurance that he himself has “witnessed

or heard from credible persons who were present” most of what he

relates.21 And when Burkard Waldis reworks the text thirty-six years later in 1553, he strips it of much of its allegorical possibility by specifying the identities of all the historical personages who are represented in the poem.22 But having so enhanced the factual claim of the narrative, he then goes on to complete the tale by having Theuerdank lead a

successful crusade in which he not only makes war on the inÀ del, but

he even manages to drive the unbelievers back across the sea. In the

history that Waldis tells, Theuerdank succeeds where Maximilian failed.

If the data are good enough, then, and the higher truth claimed by the narrative sufÀ ciently important, the teller of traditional history can even rewrite the ending. At that point, however, where the narrative stuff

itself becomes counterfactual, the narrative ceases to be either traditional 20 John D’Amico characterizes many features typical of late medieval German historiography as “impediments” to the advent of “an accurate German Renaissance historiography.” See his Theory and Practice in Renaissance Textual Criticism: Beatus Rhenanus Between Conjecture and History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 174. This fairly standard modern view of premodern German historiography overlooks the distinctive effect that was produced when increasing amounts of empirical information were included in histories told otherwise in the traditional way during the early modern period. This empirical “special effect” enhanced the suasory impact of these works and distinguished them qualitatively from many of their medieval predecessors.

21 Eines loblichen Teüern vnnd hoch ber$mbten Helds vnnd Ritters mit Namen herr Teuerdannckh geschicht history vnd getatten (die Ich den maysten tayl gesehen/vnd von glaubhafften personen die ingegenwertigkait gewesen sein gehîrt hab) . . . , note 15 above, fol. a2r.

22 Burcardus Waldis, [ed.], Die Ehr vnd man n liche Thaten/Geschichten vnnd Gefehrlichai-tenn des Streitbaren Ritters/vnnd Edlen Helden Tewerdanck. Z% Ehren dem Hochloblichen Hause z% Osterreich/vnd Burgundien/etc. Zum Exempel aber vnnd Vorbilde allen Fürstlichenn Bl%t vnd Adels genossen Teutscher Nation. New z%gericht/Mit schînen Figuren vnnd lustigen Reimen volendet (Frankfurt: Christian Egenolff, 1553).

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history or scientiÀ c history; it rather jumps Huizinga’s “deep abyss” and enters the realm of the “consciously À ctional imagination.”

But what became of that robust older tradition of history-telling, which was not after all supplanted by the scientiÀ c historiography that emerged in the early modern period? The simple answer is that nothing has

happened to it. Traditional historiography is alive and well today, just as it has been throughout the intervening centuries. The most signiÀ -

cant difference is that for some time now traditional historiography has lived at a different address in the academy. Academic historians have

not practiced traditional historiography or addressed it very seriously for two or three centuries. Instead they have consigned the analysis of this way of telling history to the literary (and more recently À lm) critics, the folklorists, and the cultural anthropologists; and the production of it to writers of historical À ction and À lm scripts.23 But in the wake of a number of critical turns—the historical, the linguistic, the performative, and the cultural, among others—the scientiÀ c historians and the literary custodians of traditional historiography may be converging once again on the corpus and project of this other, older way of telling history.

In closing, I return to my point of departure, Pierre Nora’s provoca-

tive observation about the bond between history and memory.24 Liter-

ary scholars have for decades now been lamenting publicly that they

deprived themselves of major aspects of their natural subject when,

years ago, they abandoned authors, texts, intention, and also history.25

23 In fact when Edmund Morris (see note 2 above) ventured to rehabilitate some of the venerable techniques of traditional history-telling in his Reagan biography, most of the academic historians who reviewed it had difÀ culty assigning Morris’s work to a canonical textual genre (or genres) in terms of whose conventions they might assess it.

For the most part they found it unsatisfactory as either “history” or “biography.”

24 Pierre Nora, “General Introduction: Between Memory and History,” in Realms of Memory: Rethinking the French Past, vol. 1, ed. Pierre Nora, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (New York: Columbia University Press, [1992] 1996), 1–20; in the epigraph above, 2.

25 Consider, e.g. , Geoffrey H. Hartman, “A Short History of Practical Criticism,”

New Literary History 10 (1979): 495–509; here 500:

Our own purity has conÀ ned us. The mysterious quiddity, the je ne sais quoi that separated our À eld of study from others into which language enters importantly, reduced us to being either negative theologians or pompously modest keepers of

‘the words of the tribe,’ their purity and correctness. We gave up one province after the other, especially to the social scientists, and then stood back to mock them, importantly, for writing inÁ uential books based (in our view) on a couple of clever and well-marketed ideas, formulations that might have served us for a witty digression or a sustained metaphor. . . . When I say we have given up too much, I include History.

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Interestingly some academic historians have sounded a similar note

of longing for territory voluntarily surrendered. I am fascinated by

what appears to be their nostalgia for history “in the other species,”

for memorialized history, history with an overt agenda, for history with palpable rather than quantiÀ able dimensions. The call for a reconsideration of this other, older kind of history has come in part from the historians of memory. In his introduction to the 1992 collection, Realms of Memory, Nora compared what he calls “memory-history” to standard modern scientiÀ c historiography as follows:

Memory is always a phenomenon of the present, a bond tying us to the

eternal present; history is a representation of the past. Memory, being a phenomenon of emotion and magic, accommodates only those facts that

suit it. It thrives on vague, telescoping reminiscences, on hazy general impressions or speciÀ c symbolic details. It is vulnerable to transferences, screen memories, censorings, and projections of all kinds. History, being an intellectual, nonreligious activity, calls for analysis and critical discourse.

Memory situates remembrance in a sacred context. History ferrets it

out; it turns whatever it touches into prose. … Memory is rooted in the concrete: in space, gesture, image and object. History dwells exclusively on temporal continuities, on changes in things and in the relations among things. Memory is absolute, while history is always relative. (3)

While memory-history and traditional history as I have been discussing it are not identical, they have some features in common. There is nothing unself-conscious or vague about any of the examples of traditional history-telling considered above, and Maximilian’s great memorial

project, the Gedechtnus, is certainly not evidence of a culture that has in Nora’s words, “recently [been] roused from its ethnological slumbers.”

On the other hand early modern German traditional historiography

and memory-history are alike in many of the ways in which they rep-

resent past events. Both show the present to be in unbroken connection with the past; both rely heavily on mnemonic and memorial artifacts;

both embrace the magical, the preternatural, and the religious; and

both consciously adjust past events to accommodate enduring truths.

But apart from all that, the thing that is most alike about perfected

history and memory-history is that each of these modes of narrating

the past reÁ ects the unambiguous intention of its creators to tell “what really happened.” This intention, which unites Ranke, Jean le Roye,

and Maximilian on the same side of Huizinga’s “abyss,” requires us to treat both the past perfected in the old medieval style and the past imperfect in the new early modern style as serious history deserving

our full analytical energies.

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PART TWO

REFORMATIONS

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THE PERSONAL IS POLITICAL:

CONVENTS IN THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE1

Amy Leonard

In 1524 Martin Luther damned monastic institutions as “devilish”

creations that endangered the very souls of their residents. Empty the religious houses, he demanded, and liberate the monks and nuns within

from such tyranny.2 But how was one to go about such an undertaking?

For all of Luther’s proclamations on the subject (and his active participation in at least one situation which garnered him his wife, Katharina von Bora), the bulk of responsibility for closing these houses fell on local authorities. While the dissolution of the monasteries spread with remarkable speed throughout evangelical areas, its form and impact

varied widely. Especially within the cities, local concerns, personal motivations, and individual relationships were often the determining factors for how dissolution would progress. Far from being an automatic death

knell for the convents and monasteries, Protestantism and secularization often found room for these religious institutions.

Studying monasteries and convents takes us into one of the main

arenas of the Reformation. The religious institutions were at the forefront of both spreading the new gospel and offering some of the most vigorous opposition to it. Luther, of course, began his career in an

Augustinian priory and many of the early evangelicals were former

friars. Strasbourg’s reformer, Martin Bucer (d. 1551), left the Dominican order to preach the new word (a fact the city’s Dominican nuns frequently reminded him of, with deep regret), while Nuremberg’s religious leader, Andreas Osiander (d. 1552), taught Hebrew to the Augustinians, 1 Abbreviations: AMS: Archives Municipales de Strasbourg; AST: Archives du Chapî-

tre de St.-Thomas de Strasbourg; BSCMHA: Bulletin de la Société pour la conservation des monuments historique d’Alsace; StadtAN: Stadtarchiv Nürnberg; StAN: Staatsarchiv Nürnberg; WA: D. Martin Luthers Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Abteilung Werke.

2 In the introduction for Florentina von Oberweimar, Ein Geschicht, wie Gott einer ehrbarn Klosterjungfrauen ausgeholfen hat ([ Nuremberg], 1524), Aiii (reprinted in WA 15, 79–94). See further Luther, De votis monasticus M. Lutheri iudicium in WA 8: 573–669

and Luther, Ursach und Antwort, dass Jungfrauen Klöster göttlich verlassen mögen (Wittenberg, 1523) in WA 11: 394–95.

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amy leonard

who were already preaching the Lutheran theology by 1521 with great

success.3 Not everyone was swept up by the evangelical cause, however.

The Franciscan Thomas Murner in Strasbourg was an early critic,

and the Dominicans, Franciscans, and Carmelites in Nuremberg were

members of the anti-Luther camp. Their opposition was not enough,

however, to prevent secularization within their cities.

There are still many misconceptions about monastic dissolution.

These include the assumption that all houses were dissolved during the Reformation; that the reformers and newly converted city magistrates

were categorically opposed to all forms of monasticism; and that the

monks and nuns were dealt with uniformly harshly by political regimes.

Much of this arises from the propaganda on both sides. Catholics saw

secularization as a clear case of religious persecution, while Protestants viewed it as the cut-and-dried eradication of a corrupt and useless system. But whereas Henry VIII in England was able to close his monastic

institutions houses fairly easily,4 and there were certainly examples of violence against nuns and monks in Germany, the story is also characterized by the remarkable sensitivity and patience with which the

city councils dealt with the houses, especially the female convents. For political, social, and religious reasons the city magistrates let personal associations inÁ uence their public actions.

The local nature of this story should come as no surprise to the early modern German historian. One of the hardships (and joys) of studying the Holy Roman Empire is its infamous political “particularism.”

Scholars have long bemoaned the decentralized nature of the empire

and lamented that the Germans did not emerge from the Middle Ages

with a centralized national state, as had Spain, France, or England. The empire, the “largest and most varied country in late medieval Latin

Christendom,”5 by contrast evolved into a system of dispersed sover-

eignty and government. Authority was shared between the monarchs

3 Gerald Strauss, Nuremberg in the Sixteenth Century: City Politics and Life between Middle Ages and Modern Times, 2d ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), 162.

4 Kathleen Cooke, “The English Nuns and the Dissolution,” in The Cloister and the World: Essays in Medieval History in Honour of Barbara Harvey, ed. John Blair and Brian Golding (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 287–301.

5 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., The Politics of the Reformation in Germany: Jacob Sturm (1489 –

1553) of Strasbourg (Atlantic Highlands NJ: Humanities Press, 1997), 7. For a general timeline of the early modern empire, see Brady, “Settlements: The Holy Roman Empire,” in Handbook of European History, 1400 –1600: Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, and Reformation, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman and James D. Tracy (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing, 1995), 2: 349–84.

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and the imperial estates, that is, the princes, bishops, other nobles, and the free cities, which were subject immediately to the emperor’s jurisdiction. The empire was a dizzying amalgam of overlapping authorities,

local privileges and rights, and competing jurisdictions. The average

resident might look to the emperor, a territorial prince, imperial knight, abbess, prince-bishop or city magistrate as his or her liege-lord. There was no real comprehensive or uniÀ ed reform of the empire or church

in medieval times, and decentralization had been written into its con-

stitution with Charles IV’s Golden Bull of 1356/57.

The empire had tried to centralize in a failed reform effort of the

À fteenth century, but each group wanted different things: the electors wanted unity, the territorial princes wanted to increase their authority in their territories, the cities wanted continued independence. For his part, the emperor desperately needed a way to ensure a steady income, and

stave off the increasing power of the territorial rulers, a situation that often led to an alliance of necessity between emperor and city. Shifting sides, conÁ icting motivations, and deep-seated traditions doomed

the reform to failure.6 For the free imperial cities, which had generally wrested away control from the territorial princes in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, this decentralization meant that the city council was supposedly an independent entity, answering theoretically only to

the emperor. The cities paid an imperial tax, but were exempt from

duties to the territorial rulers surrounding them. The reality was more complicated and city magistrates were always painfully aware of the

powerful forces right outside their walls. During the Reformation, they could independently decide to convert, reform, and secularize their city, but they could never afford to completely alienate those bishops, princes, noble families, and other political forces living in the region.

These competing jurisdictions were confusing, but not without certain

advantages. Historians are kinder now to the old empire, their descriptions sometimes tinged with a sense of nostalgia. Rather than a monster, the empire embodied an “elastic system” which was able to absorb the

many crises visited upon this central territory of Europe. As Volker

Press put it, it was “not at all an inappropriate” form of government.7

6 Fritz Hartung, “Imperial Reform, 1485–1495: Its Course and its Character,” in Pre-Reformation Germany, ed. Gerald Strauss (London: Macmillan, 1972), 73–136.

7 Volker Press, “The Holy Roman Empire in German History,” in Politics and Society in Reformation Europe: Essays for Sir Geoffrey Elton on his Sixty-À fth Birthday, ed. E.I. Kouri and Tom Scott (London: Macmillan, 1987), 51.

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Peter Blickle, Thomas Brady, and Gerald Strauss have all shown the

beneÀ ts this form of governance could offer and argue that it was not so anti-modern after all.8 Not only was the empire durable but it was

relatively workable. The system was clumsy and inefÀ cient, but it was tough, and it lasted longer than many other states in Europe. There

are limits to this romanticization, but particularism did allow for some opportunity during the Reformation for groups that might not necessarily have survived in a more centralized territory, such as the Catholic convents. While England could liquidate its monastic institutions with relative ease, authorities in the empire had to tread more carefully. The

“local centeredness”9 of Germany would be the driving force behind

monastic survival in many Protestant areas.

For all its particularism there is one striking consistency about the

monastic dissolutions within the empire: many more female houses both

opposed and survived it than male.10 It is not difÀ cult to understand why nuns might have more easily opposed Protestantism, since the new

religion afforded little place for them. Monks and friars could convert and continue a religious life as pastor and reformer, but women were

expected to retreat into the home and preach the word more privately.

Some contend that the new role that appeared—preacher’s wife—was

a powerful counterpart to the nun, but there were many fewer of

them and one could certainly argue that the relative independence and

autonomy of the nun was not to be found anywhere outside the cloister walls. Thus, while many women voluntarily gave up their habits, just

as many refused to go.

Looking speciÀ cally at Strasbourg and Nuremberg, we initially see

many similarities. Both were two of the most important free imperial

cities ( Reichstädte) in the empire, with commensurate populations (roughly 20,000 in Strasbourg, 25,000 in Nuremberg).11 The cities had gained

8 Peter Blickle, The Revolution of 1525: The German Peasants’ War from a New Perspective, translated by Thomas A. Brady, Jr. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981); Gerald Strauss, “The Holy Roman Empire Revisited,” Central European History 11 (1978): 290–301.

9 Brady, The Politics of the Reformation in Germany, 63.

10 It is difÀ cult for any single estimate, but local evidence indicates up to a 50 percent survival rate for convents in some areas versus at most 20 percent for monasteries. Amy E. Leonard, “Female Religious Orders,” in A Companion to the Reformation World, ed. R.

Po-Chia Hsia (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 220–37.

11 General background works include Georges Livet and Francis Rapp, Histoire de Strasbourg des origines à nos jours, in Collection Histoire des villes d’Alsace (Strasbourg: Editions OCKER V1_f13_197-215.indd 202

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their independence during the Middle Ages and were subsequently

ruled by councils, comprised of close-knit families from the elite strata.

Strasbourg’s magistrates were a mix of guild and patrician families that, after years of intermarriage and association, made up one homogenous

oligarchy.12 Nuremberg, in contrast, had banned all guild and corporate associations in the Middle Ages after a failed rebellion by craftsmen

intent on gaining more representation. Its ruling class were patricians who created their own aristocracy through their membership in different clubs and governance was limited to less than À fty families.13

Both cities had a rich monastic tradition, although Strasbourg held

more female convents. Nuremberg had two within the city (the Fran-

ciscan house St. Clara and the Dominican St. Katherine), although the

city also oversaw three others in the area (Engelthal, Pillenreuth, and Himmelthron).14 Strasbourg had seven (down from ten in the fourteenth

century), À ve from the Dominican order (SS. Margaret and Agnes, St.

Katherine, St. Mary Magdalene, St. Nicholas-in-Undis, and St. Marx)

and two Franciscan (St. Clara an dem Rossmarkt and St. Clara auf dem

Wörd).15 All the convents were full of high-born elite women who had

deep connections to the ruling class. Entrance to the houses required

a dowry and was reserved (theoretically) for daughters of citizens, by both religious and lay laws, binding the institutions ever tighter to the ruling elite.16 In Strasbourg nuns hailed from the Böcklin, Armbruster, Sturm, and Mieg families, all members of the council for generations.17

The sixteenth-century prioress of the Dominican house in Nuremberg

was Felicitas Tucher, from one of the most prominent families in the

des Dernières nouvelles de Strasbourg, 1980) and Gerhard Pfeiffer, Nürnberg-Geschichte einer europäischen Stadt (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1982).

12 Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520–1550, in Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought, 22 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1978).

13 Strauss, Nuremberg, 61.

14 Die Chroniken der fränkischen Städte vom 14. bis in’s 16. Jahrhundert: Nürnberg (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1862–1874), 3: 74–75. Engelthal: StAN 42a 190; Pillenreuth: StAN 9a 22.

15 Amy Leonard, Nails in the Wall: Catholic Nuns in Reformation Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 12–13.

16 StAN 5a, Nr. 4 (Totenbüchelin der Anna Ketzel); Johannes Müllner, Die Annalen der Reichsstadt Nürnberg von 1623, ed. Gerhard Hirschmann (Nuremberg: Stadtrats zu Nürnberg, 2003), 30–31; AST 87/50, #44, fol. 1r–v. This is in marked contrast to the male houses, where there were an increasing number of outsiders making their vows.

Francis Rapp, Réformes et reformation à Strasbourg: Église et société dans le diocése de Strasbourg (1450–1525), Collection de l’Institut des Hautes études Alsaciennes, 23 (Paris: Éditions Ophrys, 1974), Book Five.

17 Leonard, Nails in the Wall, 157–60.

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city, while the abbess of the Poor Clares was Caritas Pirckheimer, one of Germany’s most famous nuns.18 Her brother, the humanist Willibald, had seven sisters and three daughters in area convents. These houses

had storied pasts as centers of spirituality and mysticism, as well as intellectual and scholarly activities.

The connections between convent and council created some juris-

dictional problems. As already mentioned, the empire was a mass of

overlapping authorities, none more so than over the convent. Just who

was responsible for these houses became one of the main issue of the Reformation. The cities felt they had control, since their citizens had established them and the magistrates’ daughters and relatives inhabited them. But numerous other groups claimed the nuns—religious orders,

emperor, families, territorial rulers, and bishops. Navigating these competing jurisdictions became one of the primary occupations of both

convent and city council before and during the Reformation.

The convents had so many authorities claiming them because of

how they were founded centuries before.19 Most convents in the cities

were established individually by pious citizens and later incorporated into a religious order. Before incorporation, the bishop usually had

authority, something he often did not like to give up. Looking at one

typical example, the Dominican convent of Engelthal demonstrates

these shifting jurisdictions.20 The house was À rst established within the city of Nuremberg (probably taking over a Beguine community)

by a local family of patricians and by 1240 it was associated with the Penitents (the order of St. Mary Magdalene). The nuns left the city

that same year and settled on some donated land roughly twenty-À ve

miles outside of Nuremberg. By 1244 the nuns petitioned to join the

Dominican order and Bishop Friedrich of Eichstatt transferred them to the Augustinian rule and the Order of Preachers. In 1248 this transfer was conÀ rmed by Innocent IV, who guaranteed the nuns’ freedoms

and privileges and removed any obligation they might have had to

the patrician families who helped establish them. The next century

18 Die “Denkwürdigkeiten” der Abtissin Caritas Pirckheimer (aus den Jahren 1524–1528), in Caritas Pirckheimer—Quellensammlung 2, ed. Josef Pfanner (Landshut: Solanus, 1962); Georg Deichstetter, Caritas Pirckheimer. Ordensfrau und Humanistin—Vorbild für die Ökumene Festschrift zum 450. Todestag (Cologne, 1982).

19 Max Heimbucher, Die Orden und Kongregation der katholischen Kirche, 2d ed. (Munich: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1965), 2 vols., 1: 528. See also Herbert Grundmann, Religiöse Bewegungen im Mittelalter (Berlin: E. Ebering, 1935).

20 StAN 42a 190; StAN 9a 22; Müllner, Die Annalen, 354–56.

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witnessed various reafÀ rmations of their privileges by both pope and emperor, including exemption from the city’s tax (the Losung). Despite the emperor’s promise of protection and oversight, the city was still actively involved, since the edicts were frequently repeated. By the mid-

À fteenth century the council had inÀ ltrated itself into primary control of the houses and had introduced its own lay administrator ( PÁ eger) into each convent, but competition continued. In 1462 the Margrave

Albrecht attempted to take Engelthal into his care, having the nuns wear his colors so as not to be attacked during the Bavarian Wars.21 After

the wars ended the city once again took control. The tug-of-war over

Engelthal is typical for all the convents in this study. As the Reformation approached, these houses remained contested space, a fact the nuns

were well aware of and could use to try to improve their situation. The councils held the ultimate destiny of the convents in their hands, but others could be called on for help. As the cities began to move closer to the evangelical cause, control of the convents would play a large

part in the unfolding drama.

Reform came swiftly in both Strasbourg and Nuremberg as Luther’s

words spread from the monasteries into the streets.22 Magistrates con-

verted and began the process of secularizing all religious institutions by 1524/25. This entailed taking churches and monasteries into their

own control (if they had not already done that previously), liquidating their assets, and À nally, emptying the monasteries and convents of all residents. The city offered the nuns and monks pensions, sent preachers into the cloister to help convert the religious, and when all else failed, it relied on families and other zealous converts to forcibly extricate the men and women.23

The evangelicals effectively used pointed propaganda about the sup-

posed rampant sexual debauchery within the convents to turn public

sentiment against the houses and motivate people to demand their dis-

solution.24 These charges of sexual misconduct, however, were not the 21 Die Chroniken Nürnberg, 2: 341n3; Müllner, Die Annalen, 56–57: 354–56. Albrecht was also responsible in 1481 for sending a phalanx of nuns from St. Clara to reform another convent in Munich. Müllner, Die Annalen, 56–57.

22 Strauss, Nuremberg, 40–44; Miriam Usher Chrisman, Strasbourg and the Reform: A Study in the Process of Change (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967).

23 Müllner, Die Annalen, 520–51, 572; StadtAN A1, various dates; Sebald Büheler, La chronique strasbourgeoise, in BSCMHA, 2d ser. 13, ed. Léon Dacheux (1888), no. 215.

24 Examples abound from Strasbourg and Nuremberg: “Unsittlichkeit der Klosterfrauen zu Gründlach,” Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Nürnberg 26 (1506): OCKER V1_f13_197-215.indd 205

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only, or even the main reason that families marched on the houses and

dragged their daughters out. Corruption in the convents was a common

charge throughout the Middle Ages, but it had not resulted in the full-scale closure of the houses until now. Now the urban population clearly felt that the convents had outlived their usefulness.25 There was no need anymore for spiritual centers devoted to praying for the souls of the community, relieving lay society of that burden. Times had changed

and a new yardstick of civic utility appeared that had its basis more in pragmatic rather than spiritual beneÀ ts. The individual was perfectly capable of praying for him or herself, and contributing something solid to the city—as printer, farmer, mother, or milk maid—was the true mark of a Christian; the nuns were just shirking their civic responsibility by ignoring the needs of the population. The Nuremberg preacher Johann

Schwanhauser summed up the prevailing opinion: “The husband does

his work, the wife takes care of the children and the household and

they serve each other with their bodies. That is a true Christian life.

Such a life . . . cannot be in the cloister.”26 Although cries of indecency were certainly useful to motivate the people they were never the core

reason the convents came under attack.

Secularization entailed severing the nuns’ ties to the religious orders and their male counterparts. This proved particularly distressing for the women, since the friars administered their sacramental life. In Strasbourg the nuns literally swooned when told the Dominican order was

no longer allowed in the convent, while the Poor Clares of Nuremberg

sent numerous letter to the council begging to keep their Franciscan

father confessor.27 The abbess Pirckheimer even referred to the rumors of lewdness in the convent to plead her case. She acknowledged the

frequent sexual charges involving nuns and priests and warned that if

the people saw the friars expelled they would assume that it was for

indecent reasons. She tried to convince the council to allow the priests to stay, since it would also embarrass the magistrates (their relatives) if such dishonorable rumors were spread around the city. The council

was not fooled by this argument and continued with its plan to replace 319–20; AMS X 386 (1454); Daniel Specklin, Les Collectanées, BSCMHA, 2d ser. 13, ed. Rodolphe Reuss (1888), no. 2165 (1492).

25 Leonard, Nails in the Wall, 46–49.

26 Johannes, Schwanhauser, Ein christenliche kurze Unterrichtung aus Grund heiliger got-tlicher Schrift gezogen, ob das Klosterleben christenlich sei oder nit [ Nuremberg: T. Gutknecht], 1526.

27 AST 35/10, fol. 2r (4 March 1525); Die “Denkwürdigkeiten.”

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the friars with evangelical preachers. Along with ordering frequent

Protestant sermons the council also banned all “popish” rituals and

Catholic celebrations in the convents, trying thus to convert the nuns and turn the convents into Protestant houses.

This preaching and propaganda had its intended effect and many

women decided to leave the convent of their own free will. One former nun, Katherine Schwartz, explained to the Nuremberg council that she

had left St. Katherine’s “for the good of her soul” (and now they would not give her money back), while the Strasbourg council proclaimed that Otilia Rotweiler had also seen the light and “through the blessed word of God, she no longer wishes to remain in the religious life. She wants to get married.”28 Many others left during the upheavals of the Peasants’ War (1525). Convents were often targets of marauding soldiers,

which the councils could use to further their own goal of getting the nuns out.29

Through these and other methods the magistrates of Nuremberg and

Strasbourg successfully closed À ve convents. But from their very À rst efforts to get the nuns to leave the councils also met with stiff resistance.

SS. Margaret and Agnes, St. Mary Magdalene, and St. Nicholas-in-

Undis in Strasbourg and St. Clara and St. Katherine in Nuremberg

all refused to submit to the new evangelical regime.30 These houses

had all participated in their orders’ strict observance reform a century earlier and one can see a clear correlation between the lack of spiritual rigor in a house and how easily it submitted to the Reformation.31 For example, the four convents in Strasbourg that did close (St. Marx, St.

Katherine, and the two Poor Clares), refused to reform in the À fteenth century or reformed only incompletely. Decades later the nuns there

quickly accepted the new reform and eagerly told the magistrates they

28 StadtAN A1 16 February 1526; AST 35/8, fol. 2v.

29 Leonard, Nails in the Wall, 44. Müllner, Die Annalen, 324. This continues a trend of the magistrates using outside turmoil to strengthen their own control of the convents.

During the À fteenth century Strasbourg used the Burgundian Wars and Nuremberg the Bavarian ones to draw the nuns, especially those outside the city walls, closer into their protection.

30 Pillenreuth and Engelthal also resisted and survived, while Himmelthron was dissolved in 1525. Edgar Krausen, “Die Klöster des Zisterzienserordens in Bayern,”

in Bayerische Heimatforschung (Munich: 1950–1962), 7.

31 Cf. Annette Barthelmé, La réforme dominicaine au XV e siècle en Alsace et dans l’ensemble de la province de Teutonie (Strasbourg: Heitz & Co., 1931); Johannes Meyer, Das Buch der Reformacio Prediger Ordens, Quellen und Forschungen zur Geschichte des Dominikaner-ordens in Deutschland, 2–3, ed. B. M. Reichert (Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1908).

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were ready to leave their habits and get married.32 For the À ve houses that chose to stay and À ght, however, the battle was only beginning.

The nuns used a variety of methods of resistance. They refused

to leave, wrote to powerful supporters for assistance, and had actual

physical confrontations with reformers, with varying degrees of suc-

cess. The nuns adroitly used their familial connections and close ties to the political sphere, including the emperor.33 The nuns were well

aware of their history and close connections to their cities and used that to play on the sympathies of the authorities. Pirckheimer wrote

to the magistrates on behalf of “your poor miserable children” in the convent and tried to shame the city council by reminding the convent

administrator, Hieronymus Ebner, that it was his very ancestor, Friedrich Ebner, who had À rst established the house in Nuremberg in 1232.34

What would he think of his descendants now? Another nun wrote her

brother scorning his attempts to get her to leave, claiming they stood united against Luther, “who is no angel.”35 In Strasbourg the prioress of St. Nicholas-in-Undis, Ursula Mörßmünster, emphasized again their

family connections (“we are your poor sisters, cousins and children”)

as she tried to get the council to leave them alone.36

The more the nuns resisted, the more frustrated the councils and

families became. In Nuremberg in 1525 the battle to bring home these

women reached epic proportions, as mothers in particular waged war

against the convents. Three nuns, Margaret Tetzel, Katherine Ebner,

and Clara Nützel (all from important patrician families) repeatedly

rejected their parents’ request to come home.37 These women were all

professed nuns and had been in the convent for years. Ignoring their

daughters’ desire to keep their perpetual vows, the mothers marched

on the convent to forcibly extract them. Pirckheimer described how the nuns cried out and begged their mothers to let them stay, but “they

got less mercy there than they would have in Hell.” We even hear

32 AMS II 41–42a/2, p. 116; Annales de Sébastien Brant, in BSCMHA, 2d ser. 15, ed.

Léon Dacheux (1892), no. 4523.

33 AMS II 41–42a/2, fol. 65ff; StadtAN, Rep. 6, I, 3.

34 Die “Denkwürdigkeiten, ” 8.

35 Antwort auf den Sendbrief einer vermeinten geistlichen Klosterfrauen ([Augsburg: Melchior Ramminger], 1524). The pamphlet is by an evangelical who relates her position and then critcizes her sister for not leaving the convent and for misunderstanding the Bible.

36 AMS II 7/20, fol. 30r.

37 Die “Denkwürdigkeiten, ” 83; StAN 5a 6 (1525).

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some echoes of Martin Luther as one of the besieged nuns declared

“Here I stand, and I will not be moved. No person can drive me out.”

Unfortunately for Katherine, her mother was not convinced. Infuri-

ated by her daughter’s deÀ ance and continued wails, Margaret Ebner

À nally resorted to brute force and slapped her so hard she bled all the way home.38

No less dramatic was the confrontation in Strasbourg between

Martin Bucer and the prioress of SS. Margaret and Agnes, Ursula

Bock. Bucer preached frequently in the city’s Dominican convents,

but with little success. Bock and the older nuns continually thwarted

his efforts to convert the nuns by À rst refusing to attend and then later coming up with an ingenious plan to fool the reformer. They dressed

up some mannequins in habits and placed them behind the convent

grille (where the nuns sat) so no one would be tainted by his sermons.

A few older nuns sat with the decoys, to rustle around a bit to make it look as though everyone was there. When Bucer eventually discovered

the deception he was so enraged he physically attacked Bock and had

to be pulled off of her. He left in a rage, claiming he would return to drown her in the convent well.39

Despite the many examples of families and authorities agitating to

close the convents, what is most remarkable about both cities is the

degree to which the councils allowed the nuns to stay. While other

convents were quickly closed and the nuns dowried off, the À ve con-

vents that most vigorously resisted the Reformation were eventually

allowed to stay open. After the initial strong efforts to completely

empty the houses failed, the magistrates just gave up. The nuns had

successfully manipulated the council to get what they wanted and the

magistrates were sympathetic to the argument that many of the women

had nowhere else to go. The nuns begged “to be allowed to remain . . .

because some have no friends, others are sick, old, and unÀ t [to live] in 38 Die “Denkwürdigkeiten, ” 83. The council’s own description of this event differs wildly from Pirckheimer’s. It reports that the the nuns became “sick and tired” ( mued und uberdrussig) of the cloistered life and thus these three noble daughters ladies chose to remove their habits and come home. Müllner, Die Annalen, 526.

39 Verfolgung der Closterfrawen in dem Lutherthum, St. Margarethen in Strassburg (Strasbourg, n.d.). This story comes from one of the convent chronicles and is clearly biased. Whether Bucer actually did this is unknown, but the nuns clearly felt physically assaulted by the Reformation.

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the world.”40 In both Nuremberg and Strasbourg, the councils allowed

the nuns to stay, but they demanded that they wear lay clothing, continue to listen to evangelical sermons, and give up their Latin prayers and

divine ofÀ ce to sing and pray instead in German. Most importantly,

they banned the acceptance of any new novices, thus ensuring the

houses would die out.

For all the similarities between Nuremberg and Strasbourg, there

is one signiÀ cant difference. While convents survived secularization in both cities, only in Strasbourg were the nuns able to avoid dying out

by secretly replenishing their numbers with illegal novices. In Nurem-

berg the council successfully closed off the houses and denied every

request from the nuns to allow new entrants. Families were still placing daughters in the houses in 1526, but the council then begins denying

all requests for new novices.41 Despite repeated efforts to convince the council otherwise, the magistrates consistently refused. There was thus no way to avoid the inevitable; when the last nun died, so too did the convent. The Dominican houses of Engelthal and St. Katherine closed

for good in 1565 and 1596, respectively, and the last Poor Clare died

in 1590.42

The story was very different in Strasbourg. After the council decreed

that the few remaining nuns who wished to stay, could (because they

were too old or sick to leave, or had no homes to go to), the nuns

immediately began to push for more.43 Not only did the old nuns

stay, but many who had already left during the Peasants’ War or had

been convinced to leave by the sermons regretted their decision and

began petitioning the council to come back. The magistrates, loath to

alienate their inÁ uential families (many of whom served with them on the council) allowed the women to reenter. After the return of more

than half the nuns, these same families began agitating to send their younger daughters to the convents as well, bolstering the numbers

within the cloister. As the century progressed, the nuns continued to

bring in novices, often against the express prohibitions of the council, and successfully manipulated, lied, and exploited the sympathies of the 40 AST 35/9, fol. 3r (18 May 1525).

41 StadtAN A 1 1526; Müllner, Die Annalen, 701.

42 Pillenreuth was destroyed by À re in 1552 and the nuns moved into St. Clara Adolf Engelhardt, “Die Reformation in Nürnberg,” Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Nürnberg, 33 (1936): 222.

43 AST 35/9, fol. 3v.

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city magistrates to increase their numbers. In this way, two of the three remaining Dominican convents survived until the French Revolution.44

The council clearly knew what was happening (every time they did an

inventory of the convents, new nuns appeared) and yet they allowed

it to continue.

Why did this happen in Strasbourg and not in Nuremberg? It cer-

tainly was not because the Strasbourg nuns were more powerful or

inÁ uential. As already mentioned, the nuns of Nuremberg also came

from the ruling elite, and the Abbess Pirckheimer could be considered

one of the real stars of convent life. Pirckheimer’s fame as an intellectual was so well-known that Philip Melanchthon made a point of

visiting her when he came to the city in 1525.45 She was friends with

Conrad Celtis and Sixtus Tucher, yet she was unable to use her inÁ u-

ence to sway the city.46 The reasons for the difference in survival must be found elsewhere.

One explanation is the extent of the cities’ involvement in the reli-

gious houses. Both councils had gradually expropriated control of the convents from the traditional authorities of the bishop and religious order, but Nuremberg’s engagement went beyond Strasbourg’s to interfere in more religious aspects of the houses. For example, even before the Reformation the council demanded that the nuns clear all novices

through it.47 The council was also more involved in attempts to reform the houses before the sixteenth century. In Strasbourg, the magistrates usually intervened only after the order or the nuns themselves asked

for help, but in Nuremberg we see the city council itself often taking the initiative. In 1428 they called for the reform of St. Katherine

and wrote to the nuns of Schönensteinbach to come and help. Both

councils were certainly involved, but the extent always appears more

in Nuremberg.48 The magistrates there were more aware of the daily

44 St. Nicholas-in-Undis closed in 1592 after a sex scandal but St. Mary Magdalene and SS. Margaret and Agnes closed only in 1792. Claude Muller, “La À n d’un monde: La fermeture des couvents de dominicaines en Alsace en 1792,” in Dominicains et Dominicaines en Alsace XIIIe–XXe S. , ed. Jean-Luc Eichenlaub (Colmar: Editions d’Alsace, 1994), 95–108.

45 Engelhardt, “Die Reformation in Nürnberg,” 222.

46 Paula S. Datsko Barker, “Caritas Pirckheimer: A Female Humanist Confronts the Reformation,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 26, no. 2 (1995): 259–72.

47 Irmgard Höss, “Das religiöse Leben vor der Reformation,” in Nürnberg-Geschichte einer europäischen Stadt, ed. Gerhard Pfeiffer (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1982), 141.

48 Die Chroniken Nürnberg, 1: 375.

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activities within the convents, making it more difÀ cult for the nuns to keep any inside machinations secret.

There is one practical reason for the nuns survival connected to

where the new novices originated. Although the Strasbourg nuns still

drew on the local population, they had other options.49 Strasbourg

was a Protestant city in a sea of Catholics. With its close proximity to France (as well as other cities which remained Catholic) the nuns

could À nd many willing recruits. The nuns also maintained closer ties to a wide-reaching Catholic network, including other female convents,

different religious orders, and their bishop, which made it easier for them not only to replenish their numbers but also to smuggle in priests to perform the Mass and other Sacraments. Their strong ties to the

Dominican order, which had an impressive presence in the city (at one

point there were eight Dominican convents, as compared to just one in

Nuremberg) also helped to bolster the nuns in their clandestine activities. The Nuremberg council, by contrast, more successfully isolated

the nuns from their bishop, order, and wider Catholic community. The

city controlled a relatively large territory outside the city walls, which created a larger Protestant buffer zone.

The level of religious orthodoxy within the cities also affected the

treatment of the convents. Bucer was a more independent theologian

than Osiander (at least initially), and Nuremberg’s reformation was

always closer to Wittenberg than Strasbourg’s. Strasbourg Á irted with different reform ideologies throughout the sixteenth century —Luther,

Bucer, Zwingli and Calvin—which often brought confessional battles

to the front lines and distracted the magistrates from other concerns.

The city was also renowned for its toleration of even more non-tra-

ditional creeds, namely the Anabaptist’s.50 In Nuremberg, Zwingli’s

writings were banned and the Anabaptist leader Hans Denck expelled

by 1525.51 This openness should not be overstated (a Lutheran clergy

was À rmly ensconced in Strasbourg for most of the period and the

49 Although many of the novices came from self-professed converts, there is also evidence of a large crypto-Catholic population remaining in the city. François-Joseph Fuchs, “Les catholiques strasbourgeois de 1529 à 1681,” Archiv für Elsässische Kirchengeschichte/Archives de l’Eglise d’Alsace n.s. 22 (1975): 142–69.

50 John D. Derksen, From Radicals to Survivors: Strasbourg’s Religious Nonconformists over Two Generations 1525 –1570, Bibliotheca Humanistica and Reformatorica 61 (Utrecht: Hes and de Graaf, 2002).

51 Strauss, Nuremberg, 180–81.

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Anabaptists were gone by the 1530s), but it does suggest more Á exibility for religious diversity than the À rmly Lutheran Nuremberg. There is

every indication that the Strasbourg magistrates believed the convents still played an important role and could be transformed into institutions that À t the religious needs of the city. Their vision of a Christian society still allowed for communities of celibate women, something the Nuremberg ruling class did not see. The nuns of Strasbourg compromised on certain issues (lay clothing and German prayers) but the city also accommodated them by turning a blind eye to their continuing

Catholic practices and illegal novices.

One signiÀ cant explanation for the council’s Á exibility on this issue relates to the needs of the city. As stated earlier, a main criticism of monasticism was its irrelevance for urban life. The nuns of Strasbourg, however, managed to create a useful role for themselves in the new

evangelical community: as teachers. The convents had always been

schools as well as spiritual centers, but now the nuns emphasized that aspect of their duties above and beyond all else. They promised to

teach Christian doctrine, reading, writing and all “female duties.” Once the girls reached marriageable age, they would be sent home to their

parents.52 Nuns had been teaching children of the city, often both girls and boys, for centuries and this was an important social utility of the houses. Although the religious orders sometimes complained about the

education of lay children in religious houses, it went on unabated in the cities.53 The necessity of maintaining these convents for that purpose after the Reformation, however, differed from city to city. Both

Strasbourg and Nuremberg used the considerable assets they accrued

from secularization to bolster their social welfare systems and established 52 AMS II 41–42a/2, fols. 77–78; AST 170/36, fols. 285r–286r.

53 Bruno Hamann, “Der Unterricht in den Frauenklöstern,” in Handbuch der Geschichte des bayerischen Bildungswesens. Bd. 1: Geschichte der Schule in Bayern von den Anfängen bis 1800, ed. Max Liedtke, vol. 1 (Bad Heilbrunn/Obb.: Julius Klinkhardt, 1991), 135–40; Anne Conrad, “ ‘Jungfraw Schule’ und Christenlehre: Lutherische und Katholische Elementarbildung für Mädchen,” in Geschichte der Mädchen und Frauenbildung, Band 1: Vom Mittelalter bis zur Aufklärung, ed. Elke Kleinau and Claudia Opitz (Frankfurt: Campus, 1996), 175–88; Monika Fink-Lang, “Die schulgeschichtlichen EinÁ üsse der nachbene-diktinischen Orden,” in Handbuch der Geschichte des bayerischen Bildungswesens.

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orphanages, hospitals, and schools.54 But although Strasbourg invested a great deal of money and resources in setting up schools, and touted the beneÀ ts of education for both sexes, the city was relatively unsuccessful in establishing girls’ schools.55 Parents were reluctant to send their daughters to lay schools, where co-education usually took place. They

preferred the traditional safe haven of the convents, and petitioned the council to that effect.

Reformers, including Luther, had already suggested turning the

convents into schools, with the nuns as teachers and the idea gained

some momentum in Nuremberg. In May 1525 Osiander and the city

magistrates discussed options for the convents under their jurisdiction.

The majority agreed that schools would beneÀ t the city. The nuns would wear lay clothing, attend Protestant services, and teach the Lutheran

religion to the city’s children.56 Kaspar Nützel, a convent administrator and city magistrate, laid out in great detail how these schools would run, from singing in German to daily readings of Martin Luther.57 For all the discussion, though, the city does not appear to have followed through.

Before secularization Nuremberg had already developed alternate ways

of educating girls, often through boarding schools and tutors, and by 1613 there were 48 German schools for both boys and girls.58 Although

there were always fewer girls in school than boys, the magistrates in

Nuremberg, in stark contrast to Strasbourg, did not want to take the

risk of using the Catholic convents as extra classrooms.

The fact that the decision of whether to allow the convents to remain came down to such local issues once again shows the importance of

the political system within the Holy Roman Empire. The particular-

54 Anton Schindling, “Die Reformation in den Reichsstädten und die Kirchengüter.

Strassburg, Nürnberg und Frankfurt im Vergleich,” in Bürgerschaft und Kirche, ed. Jürgen Sydow (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke, 1980), 67–88.

55 Joseph Knepper, Das Schul- und Unterrichtswesen im Elsass von den Anfängen bis gegen das Jahr 1530 (Strasbourg: J.H. Ed. Heitz (Heitz & Mündel), 1905), 299–300; Ernst-Wilhelm Kohls, Die Schule bei Martin Bucer, Pädagogische Forschungen: Veröffentlichen des Comenius-Instituts, 22 (Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer 1963).

56 Andreas Osiander, “Ratschlag über die Klöster,” in Gesamtausgabe, ed. Joachim Funk, (Gutersloh, 1994), 2: 145ff.

57 Kaspar Nützel, Wie alle Klöster in ein christlichs Wesen möchten gebracht werden [Augsburg: Philipp Ulhart d. Ä.], 1524.

58 StadtAN A1/UR 24/V; See further Ralph Mehlhorn, Die Nürnberger Lateinschulen, die Pöetenschule und die Deutschen Schulen (Nuremberg, 1998), 14; Peter May, “Schulen und Unterricht der Schreib- und Rechenmeister. Beispiel: Nürnberg,” in Handbuch der Geschichte des bayerischen Bildungswesens. 1:292.

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ized nature of government left power in the hands of the city council, which often focused on practical matters. Protestant magistrates and

Catholic nuns could come to some sort of agreement, based on utility, personal association, and sympathy, that allowed for their joint survival.

Without this dispersed governance, focused on the common good and

all citizens, the nuns would have been lost.

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GUERRE ET PAIX DANS LES ÉCRITS DE ZWINGLI

ET DE LUTHER : UNE COMPARAISON1

Marc Lienhard

D’entrée de jeu, il convient de relever les différences de situation entre Zwingli et Luther. Le premier, ordonné prêtre en 1506, fut curé de

paroisse à Glaris jusqu’en 1516 puis prédicateur (pléban) à Einsiedeln de 1516 à 1518, enÀ n pléban et pasteur de la cathédrale de Zurich

jusqu’à sa mort en 1531. Luther par contre était moine augustin et, à

partir de 1513, professeur de théologie. Occasionnellement il fut engagé dans la pastorale, pour entendre la confession ou pour prêcher.

Evoquons une seconde différence. Zwingli fut, dès le début, confronté

à la question de la guerre, alors que ce problème était plus secondaire pour Luther. Tout en étant l’un des plus petits cantons de la Suisse,

Glaris avait néanmoins le droit d’opter pour des positions politiques

propres. Or, au début du 16e siècle, la Suisse était déchirée entre la papauté, la France et les Habsbourg. C’est l’époque où la France et la papauté se disputaient le duché de Milan, situé dans la sphère d’in-

Á uence de la Confédération Helvétique. Les Suisses fournissaient des

mercenaires aux belligérants, en particulier pour des raisons économi-

ques : surpeuplé, le pays était tributaire de ces rentrées d’argent. Mais quelle puissance devait bénéÀ cier de ce mercenariat ? Dans un poème

de 1510, l’ Ochsengedicht (« Le Bœuf »),2 Zwingli s’est exprimé à ce sujet.

1 Pour Zwingli le sujet a été abordé par Walter Köhler, « Ulrich Zwingli und der Krieg », Die Christliche Welt 29 (1915), n° 34, col. 675–682 ; Gottfried Locher, Die Zwinglische Reformation im Rahmen der europäischen Kirchengeschichte, Göttingen-Zurich, 1979 ; Olivier Bangerter, La pensée militaire de Zwingli, Berne, Berlin etc., 2003. Pour Luther voir : Helmut Lamparter, Luthers Stellung zum Türkenkrieg, München, 1940 ; Hermann Kunst, Martin Luther und der Krieg, Stuttgart, 1968 ; Ulrich Duchrow, Christenheit und Weltverantwortung. Traditionsgeschichte und systematische Struktur der Zweireichelehre, Stuttgart, 1970 ; Eike Wolgast, Die Wittenberger Theologie und die Politik der evangelischen Stände. Studien zu Luthers Gutachten in politischen Fragen, Gütersloh, 1977 ; Fabrice Malkani, Luther et le problème de la violence, in : Luther et la Réforme 1519 –1526, publ. par J.P. Cahn et G. Schneilin, Paris, 2000, p. 132–154 ; Matthieu Arnold, Guerre et paix dans les écrits de Luther relatifs aux autorités civiles, in : Martin Luther (1517–1526), publ. par Frédéric Hartweg, Strasbourg, 2001, p. 253–276.

2 Z (= Huldreich Zwinglis sämtliche Werke, Edition Corpus Reformatorum), tome 1, p. 10–22.

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Il y met en garde ses compatriotes : qu’ils ne se laissent pas acheter par l’argent et les cadeaux de la France ou de l’empereur, qu’ils restent comme par le passé À dèles au pape et se mettent à son service. Dans

les années suivantes, Zwingli n’a cessé de prendre position sur le pro-blème, qui le concernait personnellement puisqu’il avait participé aux combats entre les Français et les Suisses en tant qu’aumônier militaire, assistant en particulier aux batailles de Novara (1513) et de Marignan (1515). Peu à peu, sous l’inÁ uence notamment d’Erasme, les points de

vue de Zwingli changèrent. Pendant quelques années, il rejeta la guerre comme telle. Mais ce qui est certain, c’est que la question de la guerre et de la paix a préoccupé Zwingli depuis le début, et jusqu’à sa mort sur le champ de bataille de Kappel.

Toute autre était l’approche de Luther. Certes, lui aussi s’est rendu en Italie, en 1510, mais comme moine, et pour régler des affaires concernant son ordre des augustins. Jusqu’en 1523, il est peu question dans

ses écrits de guerre et de paix. Le sujet est absent dans ses premiers commentaires (1513–1517). Dans les Explications des 95 thèses, il s’élève contre un appel à la guerre contre les Turcs qui ne soit pas accompagné d’une attitude de pénitence.3 Dans sa Brève explication des Dix Commandements,4 il plaide pour la préservation de la paix et accuse Satan de semer la discorde et de générer des conÁ its armés. Dans son traité Des Bonnes Œuvres (1520),5 il s’élève contre les guerres et fait l’éloge de la paix. Dans son Commentaire sur le MagniÀ cat,6 il vante l’intelligence des gouvernants qui n’agissent pas nécessairement par la force, en évitant la guerre dans la mesure du possible, et il exclut les guerres menées

au nom de l’Evangile.

C’est seulement au cours des années suivantes, en réponse le plus

souvent à des questions posées par des individus ou en réaction à des

événements précis, que Luther prendra position plus longuement sur

la question de la guerre et de la paix.

3 Resolutiones disputationum de indulgentiarum virtute, 1518, Edition de Weimar (= WA), t. 1, p. 535, ligne 35–39.

4 WA 7, p. 204–229, en particulier p. 210, 10–12, p. 223, 5–6 et p. 229, 14 ; Luther, Œuvres I, Paris, La Pléiade, 1999, p. 401–434, en particulier p. 411, 426 et 434.

5 WA 6, 202–276, en particulier p. 258ss ; Luther, Œuvres I, p. 435–534, en particulier p. 510ss.

6 WA 7, p. 544–604, en particulier p. 583, l. 9, p. 584, l. 34 ; Martin Luther, Œuvres, t. III, Genève, 1963 (= MLO), p. 13–77, en particulier p. 55–57.

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Zwingli 1512 –1523

Au cours de cette période, l’homme qui, vers 1515–1516, est sans

conteste un érasmien, va évoluer vers des positions plus évangéliques, voire réformatrices.7 Mais, quels que soient les facteurs ayant conduit à ce changement, les conceptions réformatrices n’émergent que vers 1522, date à laquelle débutent les controverses publiques à Zurich. En ce qui concerne la question de la guerre et de la paix, on peut relever à la fois une certaine continuité et deux étapes. En 1512 Zwingli célèbre l’entrée victorieuse des troupes suisses en Italie. A partir de 1515 il s’éloigne du mercenariat et prend à son compte le paciÀ sme d’Erasme, tout en

maintenant une approche patriotique qui limitera ce paciÀ sme.

L’entrée victorieuse des Suisses en Lombardie et la prise de Pavie

suscitent chez Zwingli un récit historique, De Gestis inter Gallos et Helvetios relatio (récit des hauts faits entre les Français et les Suisses)8 dans lequel il présente les Suisses comme des libérateurs de l’Eglise (en fait de la papauté) et comme instruments du Christ pour châtier les ennemis de

l’épouse du Christ. Ils sont le peuple de Dieu au service de l’Eglise.

Cette guerre prolonge les guerres de libération des Confédérés suisses.

C’est un combat pour l’Eglise, voire pour la liberté en général. A ce titre elle est légitime. Nous retrouverons ce point de vue à la À n de la vie de Zwingli, mais alors « Zurich » aura pris la place des Confédérés !

Dans les années 1515–1516, un changement s’opère. Il s’exprime

par un poème, Der Labyrinth (Le Labyrinthe).9 Entre temps, Zwingli aura vécu la défaite de Marignan et ses massacres—environ 10.000

morts. C’est l’époque où il s’ouvre au paciÀ sme d’Erasme. Il souligne dans son exemplaire des Adages ce passage : « La guerre est agréable seulement pour ceux qui ne l’ont pas expérimentée ».10 Il lit la Querela pacis d’Erasme. Il a des échanges avec les cercles humanistes de Bâle, de Lucerne, de Zurich et de Paris, qui cherchaient à inÁ uencer l’opinion publique en faveur de la paix. Comment les chrétiens peuvent-ils aller communier ou prier le Notre Père s’ils font la guerre à d’autres chré-

tiens ? Parler de « guerre sainte » n’a pas de sens, il faut plutôt s’unir 7 Voir Marc Lienhard, L’action et la doctrine de Huldrych Zwingli, in : Histoire du Christianisme, t. VII, éd. par Marc Venard, Paris, 1994, p. 771–787.

8 De Gestis inter Gallos et Helveticos relatio, Z I, p. 23–37.

9 Z I, p. 31–60.

10 Adages 3001, Opera Omnia Desiderii Erasmi Roterdami . . . , II, 7, Amsterdam, 1999, p. 11–44.

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au service de la paix. Si on n’arrive pas à éviter la guerre, il faut du moins s’abstenir d’y participer. Tel était le point de vue d’Erasme, fondé en particulier sur le Sermon sur la Montagne. Zwingli lui fait écho en écrivant à Myconius en 1519 : « Enseigne aux pasteurs qu’ils sont des

amis de la paix en prêchant continuellement la paix et le calme, et en invitant à rester dans le pays ».11 Zwingli s’élève désormais contre le mercenariat.

Mais, à côté de l’inÁ uence humaniste, il faut relever chez Zwingli les considérations patriotiques. Il a vu de près la détresse de ses compatriotes sur le champ de bataille. Le peuple n’allait-il pas à sa perte si ses forces vives se faisaient tuer sur des terres étrangères ? L’opposition de Zwingli au mercenariat se maintient après sa venue à Zurich. Est-ce

son inÁ uence qui a conduit au printemps 1521 à ne pas participer à

l’alliance contractée par les autres cantons avec la France ? Dans un écrit de 1522, la Göttliche Vermahnung ( Exhortation divine aux Confédérés [rassemblés]

à Schwyz pour qu’ils se gardent et se libèrent des seigneurs étrangers),12 il écrit :

« Nos ancêtres n’ont vaincu leurs ennemis par rien d’autre que par la

puissance divine ». « C’est par elle qu’ils ont conquis la liberté [. . .].

Ils n’ont pas tué des chrétiens pour un salaire, ils se sont uniquement battus pour la liberté, aÀ n que leurs personnes, leurs femmes, leurs

enfants ne soient pas soumis aux caprices d’une noblesse orgueilleuse ».13

Mais, « comme nous avons oublié Dieu, le diable a fait apparaître des

seigneurs étrangers qui nous ont pris à leur service ».14 Ainsi le mercenariat est en rapport avec l’incroyance et avec le diable. Il nuit au bien-être de la Confédération. Il comporte des dangers que Zwingli

dénonce. Il suscite la colère de Dieu. A travers l’action des seigneurs et leurs guerres, le droit et la justice sont opprimés. Après leur retour, les mercenaires pervertissent les mœurs (habillement, consommation

immodérée, jurons). Les cadeaux et les pensions des seigneurs provo-

quent de la jalousie. Le dernier danger est la À n de la Confédération.

En s’opposant au mercenariat, Zwingli s’exprime en pasteur soucieux

de son peuple et en patriote. Mais il ne semble pas exclure totalement la guerre comme telle, tant qu’elle est menée selon les règles et qu’elle ne se fait pas par volonté de puissance. Quant aux guerres de l’Ancien 11 Z VII, p. 233.

12 Z I, p. 165–188. Pour une présentation détaillée voir O. Bangerter (cf. note 1), p. 38–63.

13 Z I, p. 170, l. 26–171, l. 7.

14 Ibid., p. 173, l. 15–18.

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Testament, Zwingli les interprète de diverses manières : elle sont le fait des peuples cananéens, pour Israël ce sont des guerres pour la liberté.

Mais Zwingli peut aussi dire qu’il ne faut pas prendre exemple sur ces guerres. Il n’hésite pas à spiritualiser ces guerres, qui préÀ gurent, selon lui, le combat spirituel des chrétiens. Il importe avant tout de connaître Dieu et de reconnaître qu’il n’aime pas la guerre. Dans la conclusion, il appelle les Confédérés à revenir à Dieu et à rejeter le mercenariat.

« Garde-toi, Schwyz, des seigneurs étrangers. Qu’ils ne te mènent pas

au déshonneur ».15 Il demande au peuple de faire conÀ ance à Dieu

seul, au lieu de s’en remettre à l’argent étranger. L’aide de Dieu était à l’origine de la Confédération comme à l’origine du peuple d’Israël. On a pu souligner à juste titre, à propos de cette Exhortation, « un enchevêtrement politico-militaro-religieux difÀ cile à démêler ».16 Zwingli s’exprime toujours, mais pas seulement, en prédicateur de l’Evangile, et raisonne en termes bibliques et théologiques, mais des considérations sociales et politiques ne cessent d’interférer sur cette démarche. L’ Exhortation eut un effet passager. Le 14 mai 1522 il fut décidé à Schwyz de ne pas

autoriser le mercenariat pendant vingt-cinq ans, mais l’année suivante, cette décision fut annulée.

La guerre et la paix dans les écrits de Luther

Luther n’a pas établi de théorie sur la guerre, mais il a pris position dans des situations concrètes pour instruire les consciences, interpré-

ter la Bible et réÁ échir en perspective théologique sur la fonction de l’autorité temporelle.

Il nous faut considérer surtout deux écrits : Von weltlicher Obrigkeit ( De l’autorité temporelle et des limites de l’obéissance qu’on leur doit, 1523)17 et Ob Kriegsleute in seligem Stande sein können ( Les soldats peuvent-ils être en état de grâce ? , 1526).18 On a pu souligner combien les réÁ exions de Luther s’inscrivent dans une longue tradition, qui s’exprime aussi bien dans

l’Antiquité classique, avec Cicéron et d’autres, que chez des théologiens tels qu’Augustin et Thomas d’Aquin.19

15 Ibid., p. 188, l. 12–13.

16 Bangerter (voir note 1), p. 57.

17 WA 11, p. 245–281 ; MLO 4, p. 13–50.

18 WA 19, p. 623–662 ; MLO 4, p. 227–262.

19 Arnold (voir note 1), p. 274.

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1. En été 1522 le juriste Johann von Schwarzenberg, qui s’efforçait

de réviser le droit à la Fehde, avait écrit à Luther pour l’interroger sur la compatibilité entre l’usage du glaive et les exigences de l’Evangile.

Luther se voyait confronté à « la tension entre l’éthique du Sermon

sur la Montagne (Matthieu 5–7) qui semble exclure le recours à la

contrainte exercée par l’autorité civile, et les appréciations positives portées par l’apôtre Paul sur les détenteurs du ‘pouvoir du glaive’ en Romains 13 ».20 La tradition médiévale avait établi la distinction entre le « commandement » et le « conseil ». Les exhortations du Sermon sur

la Montagne ne s’appliquaient comme commandement qu’à un groupe

d’hommes précis : les moines. Pour les autres chrétiens, immergés dans le monde, ce n’étaient que des conseils. Luther refusera un tel point

de vue.

Dans les deux premières parties du traité De l’autorité temporelle il expose pourquoi l’autorité temporelle est nécessaire. « Si le monde ne comptait que de vrais chrétiens, c’est-à-dire des croyants sincères, il ne serait pas nécessaire ni utile d’avoir des princes, des rois, des seigneurs, non plus que le glaive et le droit [. . .], mais étant donné que le monde entier est mauvais et que, sur mille personnes, il se trouve à peine un chrétien, tous s’entredévoreraient au point que personne ne pourrait

entretenir femme et enfants, se nourrir et servir Dieu, et que le monde deviendrait un désert. C’est pourquoi Dieu a institué deux sortes de

gouvernements : le gouvernement spirituel qui crée, par le Saint Esprit et dans la soumission au Christ, des chrétiens et des hommes pieux, et l’autre qui est temporel et qui réprouve ceux qui ne sont pas chrétiens, les méchants, aÀ n qu’ils soient forcés, malgré eux, de vivre en paix et de rester tranquilles extérieurement, qu’ils le veuillent ou non ».21

Ainsi, vu l’état du monde, l’autorité temporelle ne peut pas renoncer

à la contrainte. Dans certaines situations elle doit aussi se servir du glaive pour faire la guerre.

Mais comment doit se comporter le chrétien individuel ? Les ana-

baptistes récusaient l’usage du glaive par le chrétien.22 Selon Luther, l’autorité temporelle et son service de la paix correspondent à une

volonté divine clairement exprimée. Le chrétien ne saurait donc s’y

soustraire. Ce qui déterminera son attitude, c’est l’amour. C’est par

20 Arnold, p. 258.

21 WA 11, p. 249, l. 26–p. 251, l. 18 ; MLO 4, p. 18–19.

22 Clarence Bauman, Gewaltlosigkeit im Täufertum, Leyde, 1968 ; James M. Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword, Lawrence, 3e éd., 1979.

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amour pour le prochain qu’il se mettra au service de l’autorité légi-

time et, le cas échéant, il participera à la guerre, pour servir le droit et protéger le faible.

Mais comment observer alors les exigences du Sermon sur la Mon-

tagne ? Luther établit une distinction entre l’agir du chrétien pour lui-même et son action au service du prochain. « Nul chrétien ne doit porter le glaive ni faire appel à lui pour lui-même et pour ses propres affaires ; mais lorsqu’il s’agit d’un autre il peut et doit le porter et faire appel à lui aÀ n que la méchanceté soit réprimée et la piété protégée ».23

Luther évoque l’action des « saints » depuis les origines du monde, y

compris les guerres qu’ils ont menées au service des autres.24 Il rappelle aussi que le Christ et les apôtres ont exercé leur propre ministère qui était de prêcher, mais que ni le Christ ni l’apôtre Paul n’ont récusé le glaive comme tel et la fonction des hommes de guerre.25

Dans la troisième partie du traité, Luther aborde encore plus nette-

ment la question de la guerre. Il écarte toute guerre contre une autorité supérieure. Si un conÁ it éclate entre des autorités de même rang, il faut s’en tenir au droit et offrir la paix, mais en dernier recours se défendre par la force. Et les sujets sont tenus d’y participer. Cependant, si l’autorité est dans son tort, les sujets ne sont pas obligés de porter les armes. Bref, seule la guerre défensive est juste.

La Guerre des paysans de 152526 relancera le débat. Luther a pris

position à son sujet dans cinq écrits. Il refuse aux paysans le droit de se révolter contre les autorités et n’admet pas leur recours à l’Evangile pour justiÀ er leur entreprise. « L’insurrection n’est pas simplement un meurtre. C’est comme un vaste incendie qui embrase et dévaste un

pays ; elle inonde un pays de crimes et d’effusion de sang, elle crée des veuves et des orphelins et détruit tout comme la plus grande de toutes les calamités ».27

C’est pourquoi il faut, d’après Luther, la réprimer comme on

combat une bête enragée. Cette répression est une guerre défensive

23 WA 11, p. 260, l. 17–20 ; MLO 4, p. 29.

24 WA 11, p. 255, l. 22 ; MLO 11, p. 24.

25 WA 11, p. 258 ; MLO 11, p. 27.

26 Voir à ce sujet : Martin Greschat, « Luthers Haltung im Bauernkrieg », ARG 56

(1965), 31–47 ; Marc Lienhard, Martin Luther. Un temps, une vie, un message, Genève, 19984, p. 413–428.

27 WA 18, p. 358. Nous avons repris la traduction de Matthieu Arnold (cf. note 1), p. 264.

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« pour que les justes soient protégés et que la paix et la sécurité soient maintenues ».28

2. C’est le même arrière-plan qui conduit à l’écrit adressé en 1526 à Assa von Kramm : Les soldats peuvent-ils être en état de grâce ? Il y rappelle son traité de 1523 et l’institution divine, selon Romains 13 et 1 Pierre 3, du glaive « pour punir les méchants, protéger les justes et maintenir la paix ».29 Il identiÀ e la guerre avec l’action de police : « Qu’est-ce qu’elle est d’autre sinon le châtiment de l’injustice et du mal ? ».30 Avec la tradition, il récuse la guerre offensive et la révolte. Pour prouver que l’action militaire peut être au service de l’amour, il argumente de triple manière. Il faut prendre en compte la À nalité et non les modalités de cette action. Il en est comme de l’action du chirurgien : elle est douloureuse mais nécessaire et salutaire. La guerre est souvent un moindre mal. En second lieu, il convient de distinguer la fonction et

la personne. Le fait que des hommes méchants abusent de cette fonc-

tion et « égorgent et frappent sans nécessité »31 ne met pas en cause la nécessité et l’institution divine de la fonction. EnÀ n, Luther invoque un certain nombre de passages bibliques admettant la légitimité de la

fonction militaire.

Dans la suite de son écrit, il évoque diverses situations. Dans la

première, les sujets se révoltent contre l’autorité. Il maintient son point de vue : « Personne ne doit combattre ni lutter contre son supérieur ».32

Qu’en est-il du prince dément ? Il est incurable et il faut l’enfermer. Mais ne pourrait-on pas identiÀ er le tyran au prince dément et l’enfermer

aussi ? Non, répond Luther, car chez le tyran subsiste « la lumière de la raison » et donc un espoir d’amendement.33 « Il vaut mieux subir

l’injustice de la part d’un seul tyran, à savoir l’autorité, que de la subir de la part d’innombrables tyrans, c’est-à-dire de la populace ».34 Alors qu’il attribuait à l’autorité la tâche de préserver la paix dans un monde mauvais, Luther semble s’accommoder de « la ruine du pays et des

gens » sous la férule d’un tyran !

28 WA 18, p. 392 ; MLO 4, p. 193.

29 WA 19, p. 625, l. 20–21 ; MLO 4, p. 229.

30 Ibid.

31 WA 19, p. 627, l. 4–5 ; MLO 4, p. 230.

32 WA 19, p. 632, l. 32 ; p. 633, l. 2 ; MLO 4, p. 235.

33 WA 19, p. 634, l. 27–30 ; MLO 4, p. 237.

34 WA 19 ; p. 635, l. 14–16 ; MLO 4, p. 238.

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Il évoque les guerres de libération des Suisses qu’à la différence

notable de Zwingli il récuse comme il récuse le comportement des

Danois chassant leur roi. La vengeance appartient à Dieu seul ! Elle est aussi contraire au principe : « personne ne doit être son propre juge ; et encore, celui qui rend les coups est dans son tort ».35

L’exposé de Luther est beaucoup plus sommaire quand il s’agit des

guerres menées par les autorités contre leurs sujets. « Là où tout se passe correctement, l’autorité n’a rien d’autre à faire que d’exercer le droit, la justice et le jugement. Mais si les sujets se révoltent et s’insurgent comme le À rent récemment les paysans, il est alors juste et légitime de leur faire la guerre ».36

La situation qui retient bien plus longuement l’attention de Luther,

c’est celle où les deux combattants sont de même rang.37 Il réafÀ rme le point de vue déjà mis en avant dans le traité De l’Autorité temporelle : seule la guerre défensive est légitime. « Celui qui commence une guerre est

dans son tort ».38 Luther sait que bien d’autres motivations interviennent,39 mais il se contente ici de parler des « seigneurs insensés »40 qui commencent une guerre. Il maintient que le seul critère pour juger de

la légitimité d’une guerre est la protection des sujets.

Les sujets, quant à eux, ne doivent pas prendre part à une guerre

injuste, car, selon Actes 5, 29, il faut obéir à Dieu plutôt qu’aux hommes. Il ne peut être question d’obéir aux hommes sans discernement.

« Celui qui lutte contre le droit, lutte contre Dieu qui À xe, ordonne et maintient toute justice ».41 Luther a pourtant pleine conscience des conséquences d’une telle désobéissance : elle suscitera des souffrances pour le sujet qui désobéit, mais le chrétien sait qu’en ce monde il ne pourra pas éviter la croix.

Luther aborde aussi la question de la solde des combattants.42 En soi

elle est légitime pour ceux qui ont fait du métier des armes leur profession. Mais l’injustice naît « si quelqu’un sert dans la guerre [alors] qu’il ne recherche et ne songe à rien d’autre qu’à acquérir des biens [. . .]. Il ne verra pas volontiers la paix régner et il regrettera qu’il n’y ait pas de 35 WA 19, p. 636, l. 15–16 ; MLO 4, p. 239.

36 WA 19, p. 652, l. 8–13 ; MLO 4, p. 253.

37 WA 19, p. 645–652 ; MLO 4, p. 246–253.

38 WA 19, p. 645, l. 9 ; MLO 4, p. 246.

39 Voir à ce sujet : WA 30, II, p. 130, l. 15.

40 WA 19, p. 645, l. 8 ; MLO 4, p. 246.

41 WA 19, p. 658, l. 10–11 ; MLO 4, p. 259.

42 WA 19, p. 653 ; MLO 4, p. 256ss.

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guerre ».43 En stigmatisant les tentations des soldats de métier, Luther est proche des positions de Zwingli. Qu’en est-il quand un soldat sert différents seigneurs ? Il faut donner la priorité à l’autorité du territoire dont est issu le soldat. Par ailleurs, il faut servir seulement le belligérant qui n’est pas dans son tort.

Luther et la guerre contre les Turcs 44

L’écrit de 1526 se termine par une allusion à la guerre contre les

Turcs. Ces derniers avaient conquis Belgrade en 1521. En 1526 l’ar-

mée hongroise avait été battue par les Turcs à la bataille de Mohacs.

En 1528 l’armée turque, qui s’était provisoirement retirée, revint en

force. En octobre 1528, Luther commence son traité De la guerre contre les Turcs 45 qui parut en avril 1529 avant le nouvel assaut des Turcs le 10

mai. Luther s’était vu interpeller par un certain nombre de ses amis,

d’autant plus qu’il avait jugé dans ses Explications des 95 thèses (1518) que beaucoup de dirigeants ecclésiastiques prônaient de façon irréÁ échie la croisade contre les Turcs au lieu d’appeler à la repentance, ou que Dieu châtiait par l’intermédiaire des Turcs les péchés des chrétiens. Luther s’élevait contre la propension à prôner les croisades et à en faire une bonne œuvre au même titre que l’acquisition d’une indulgence. La bulle Exsurge Domine avait considéré que c’était la 34e erreur de Luther, et elle la formulait ainsi : « Mener bataille contre les Turcs, c’est s’opposer à Dieu qui nous frappe par eux ».46

La polémique catholique s’empara, non sans un certain succès,

de ce thème, d’autant plus que certaines afÀ rmations ultérieures de

Luther semblaient aller dans le même sens.47 Luther précisait, certes, qu’il n’avait pas voulu dire « qu’il ne fallait pas combattre les Turcs ».48

Mais il ne put écarter totalement la critique émise. Certains partisans de la Réformation invoquèrent d’ailleurs à ce propos l’interdiction faite 43 WA 19, p. 653, l. 19ss ; MLO 4, p. 256.

44 Voir Lamparter (note 1).

45 WA 30, II, p. 107–148.

46 Dokumente zur Causa Lutheri (1517–1521), 2. Teil, Münster, 1991 (= Corpus Catholi-corum 42), p. 384.

47 Assertio omnium articulorum M. Lutheri per bullam Leonis novissimam damnatorum, 1520, WA 7, p. 140, l. 18–p. 141, l. 25.

48 WA 7, p. 443, l. 19–20.

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aux chrétiens de se venger, voire de recourir au glaive. C’est pourquoi Luther se vit obligé de réagir.

Il publia en 1529 son traité De la guerre contre les Turcs. Ce qu’il rejette, précise-t-il, c’est la propagande papiste concernant la croisade : Combattre les Turcs sous des auspices chrétiennes est en contradiction avec l’ordre du Christ de ne pas résister au mal, mais de tout souffrir. Il n’appartient pas au pape de conduire une armée ecclésiale ou chrétienne.

Alors, comment faut-il comprendre le combat contre les Turcs ? Il

ressort de l’exposé de Luther qu’il ne s’agit pas d’une guerre défensive parmi d’autres, sinon les traités relatifs à l’autorité temporelle ou aux soldats auraient été sufÀ sants. Luther admet avec tous ses contemporains que les Turcs sont les ennemis déclarés de la chrétienté. Ils n’attaquent pas seulement l’Europe en tant que territoire, mais aussi l’Eglise et la foi chrétienne. Ils mènent une guerre de religion. Cependant, Luther ne revient pas pour autant au concept de croisade, il souligne simplement que le combat contre les Turcs est à mener aussi sur le plan spirituel, D’autant plus qu’il est persuadé de ne pas être confronté seulement

aux soldats turcs, mais en première instance à leur dieu, c’est-à-dire au diable.49 Tant que celui-ci n’est pas vaincu, les Turcs ne seront pas vaincus non plus.

Les chrétiens sont appelés au combat spirituel, c’est-à-dire à la

repentance et à la prière. Le danger turc a poussé les pasteurs de Wittenberg à réintroduire une litanie relative aux Turcs. Luther lui-même publia À n 1529 une Prédication contre le Turc. 50 Dans les années ultérieures (1539, 1541), il publie une exhortation à la prière au sujet des Turcs.51

Sur un autre plan, le plan temporel, il faut mener le combat militaire, sous la direction de l’empereur. Il s’agit d’une guerre défensive puisque l’attaque vient des Turcs.

Relevons quatre orientations importantes dans l’exposé de Luther. Il

souligne d’abord la fonction purement temporelle de l’empereur dans

ce combat. Il a rompu avec l’idée de croisade et ne prône pas non plus un combat pour la vraie foi comme le préconisait Thomas Müntzer.

Les guerres justes ne sont pas des guerres pour la foi et les guerres pour la foi ne sont pas des guerres justes. En second lieu, Luther ne cesse de faire appel à la responsabilité éthique de l’empereur et des princes.

49 WA 30, II, p. 116, l. 26.

50 WA 30, II, p. 160–197.

51 WA 51, p. 585–625 ; MLO 7, p. 273–293.

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Leur devoir est de protéger leurs sujets. C’est leur fonction comme

telle qui les y oblige, qu’ils soient chrétiens ou non. En troisième lieu, Luther presse les rois, princes et autres autorités à soutenir l’empereur qui doit diriger les opérations. Qu’ils oublient leurs querelles, sinon ils pourraient se voir punis par les Turcs comme ils l’ont été d’une certaine manière par le soulèvement des paysans. EnÀ n, quatrièmement,

la dimension spirituelle du combat ne doit pas être occultée. Combat-

tre par les armes ne dispense pas de l’obéissance envers Dieu. « Dieu

veut participer à l’affaire et être craint ».52 Seules la crainte de Dieu et l’humilité permettront de vivre, et non le combat pour l’honneur et

pour les biens matériels.

Entre la guerre et la paix : Luther et les alliances confessionnelles En l’espace de dix ans (1528–1539) Luther fut confronté à plusieurs

reprises à la question de savoir si les états évangéliques de l’Empire pouvaient, au nom de l’Evangile, mener une guerre contre les états

attachés à la foi traditionnelle, voire contre l’empereur.

1. Envisageons d’abord le premier cas de À gure : la guerre contre des états de l’Empire. En 1528 éclate l’affaire Pack. Le conseiller Otto von Pack de la Saxe ducale avait fait croire aux princes évangéliques que

les états catholiques les plus puissants s’étaient alliés en mai 1527 et s’apprêtaient à rétablir par la force la religion traditionnelle dans les territoires évangéliques. En fait, il n’en était rien. Mais le prince électeur Jean et le landgrave Philippe de Hesse envisagèrent une attaque pré-

ventive. Consulté par le prince électeur, Luther donna un avis négatif.53

Contrairement aux princes, il n’établissait pas de différence entre une guerre offensive et une guerre préventive. Par ailleurs, il lui semblait que « la culpabilité des adversaires et leur action concrète n’étaient pas encore manifestes ».54 Il fallait distinguer entre la résistance à une action qui était arrivée et une attaque préventive. Les autorités évangéliques ne pouvaient pas outrepasser le commandement de Dieu, à moins de

blesser leur conscience et de contribuer au triomphe du diable. Aux

52 WA 30, II, p. 135, l. 18.

53 WA Br 4, n° 1246, p. 421–424.

54 Ibid., p. 423, l. 68.

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raisons proprement religieuses concernant la conscience et son rapport à Dieu, s’ajoutaient des raisons juridiques : seul l’état de légitime défense pouvait fonder le droit à la guerre. EnÀ n Luther faisait valoir qu’une action injuste allait faire du tort à la cause évangélique.

Tout en récusant une attaque préventive, Luther n’a pas demandé

aux princes d’arrêter leurs préparatifs militaires. Ils devaient se tenir prêts pour se défendre s’ils étaient attaqués. Mais il alla jusqu’à menacer de quitter la Saxe électorale si le projet de guerre préventive n’était pas abandonné.55

Le problème devenait bien plus délicat si l’empereur s’associait à

la démarche du parti catholique en donnant son accord à la guerre,

voire en l’exigeant. Jusqu’en 1529, Luther pouvait laisser de côté une telle éventualité. Mais à la suite de la Diète de Spire de 1529, il fallut bien l’envisager.

2. Vers une alliance et une guerre des états protestants contre l’empereur ? Selon un recès de la Diète d’Augsbourg de 1530, les états pro-

testants avaient porté atteinte à la paix publique et étaient qualiÀ és de rebelles. Ainsi la nouvelle doctrine et ses partisans couraient le risque d’être combattus par les armes. Dans ces conditions, les états protestants reprirent leur politique d’alliance. L’attitude de l’empereur les força à décider s’ils étaient prêts à lui résister par les armes pour conserver leur statut religieux. Des hommes politiques et des juristes protestants ont justiÀ é le droit de résistance à l’empereur par une argumentation juridique : les princes dont le pouvoir était héréditaire avaient, par une élection, conÀ é la puissance impériale à l’empereur. Ils pouvaient, le cas échéant, se dresser contre lui s’il n’accomplissait pas les devoirs auxquels il s’était engagé lors de son élection.

Malgré certaines hésitations, Luther a donné, en compagnie d’autres

théologiens de la Saxe électorale, son accord lors de pourparlers qui

eurent lieu à Torgau À n octobre 1530. Il admettait ainsi un droit de

résistance sur des bases purement juridiques et constitutionnelles, et non plus sur des bases bibliques et théologiques. Cela relevait maintenant de la responsabilité juridique et politique des états de l’Empire.

En 1531, il exposa encore une fois son point de vue dans l’ Avertissement à mes chers Allemands . 56 Il y réitère son attachement à une paix 55 WA Br 4, p. 449, l. 50ss.

56 WA 30, III, p. 276–320.

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qui laisse libre cours à l’Evangile, tout en assurant que le Christ et l’Evangile ne pouvaient pas être vaincus par des guerres. Il admet que les princes protestants pourraient résister à l’empereur par la force, au cas où il serait porté atteinte à la foi évangélique, « puisqu’ils ferment la bouche et lient le poing de tout le monde pour que personne ne

puisse les critiquer par la prédication ou se défendre par le poing . . . ».57

« Je ne veux pas reprocher à la partie qui se défend d’être séditieuse, ni admettre qu’on le lui reproche, je veux laisser faire et admettre qu’on l’appelle légitime défense ( notwere). Par là je veux les renvoyer vers le droit et vers les juristes ».58

3. Le point de vue de Luther en 1536. Luther ne s’est pas opposé à la constitution de la Ligue de Smalkalde qui était, selon lui, du ressort des politiques. Mais, en tant que théologien, il mettait les hommes politiques en garde : qu’ils se reposent d’abord sur Dieu plutôt que sur leur politique d’alliance et qu’ils veillent à préserver la paix publique. La trêve de Nuremberg entre l’empereur et la Ligue de Smalkalde était pour lui

un miracle de Dieu. Mais par la suite, la situation des états protestants devint précaire. Dans un avis de 1536 au sujet du concile et signé par Luther, les théologiens de Wittenberg abordèrent à nouveau la question du droit de résistance. Ils se demandaient en particulier si, en cas de conÁ it entre l’autorité impériale et les autorités princières, ces derniers pouvaient se réclamer de Romains 13. Ils donnèrent la même réponse

que Luther en 1530 en soulignant l’autonomie et le droit des princes

à se déterminer librement. Pour la première fois, le droit de résistance était fondé maintenant sur la cura religionis des princes, c’est-à-dire sur leur devoir de veiller à la religion dans leurs territoires. Ils prenaient ainsi en compte l’institutionnalisation du mouvement évangélique et

l’émergence de territoires protestants. La cura religionis, comme devoir des autorités, était déduite du devoir général de protéger les sujets et du second commandement d’empêcher le blasphème.

57 Ibid., p. 283, l. 8.

58 Ibid., p. 282, l. 22.

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Les afÀ rmations de Luther de l’année 1539

Les relations entre l’empereur et la Ligue de Smalkalde s’étaient tendues en 1538, une guerre de religion semblait imminente. Voilà l’arrière-plan de deux textes de Luther de l’année 1539 : une lettre au pasteur

brandebourgeois Ludicke,59 les thèses d’une dispute du 9 mai 1539.60

Dans ces textes, Luther justiÀ e le droit de résistance à l’empereur,

pour défendre la Réformation, par le fait que l’empereur, en cas de

guerre de religion, se plaçait au service de la puissance antichrétienne qu’était la papauté. Le recours à la conception de l’Antichrist confère à l’argumentation une dimension apocalyptique et eschatologique.

Au même titre que les Turcs, la papauté détruit les institutions de la vraie religion, du droit public ( politia) et de la vie familiale ( oeconomia).

Luther évoque à ce propos l’action d’un tyran universel auquel il faut résister activement pour préserver l’annonce publique de l’Evangile

et les institutions voulues par Dieu. La résistance active s’impose non seulement de la part des autorités subalternes, mais de chaque chrétien.

L’irruption de la À n des temps ( eschaton) interrompt les subordinations naturelles. Mais il faut préciser : aucune révolte n’est permise s’il s’agit d’autorités païennes, cas où seule une résistance passive est possible selon Actes 5, 20. Mais Luther vise la papauté, c’est-à-dire une autorité tyrannique qui se réclame de l’Evangile, tout en se rendant coupable

de blasphème. En fait, le pape n’est plus une autorité, ni même une

tyrannie, il est en dehors de toute loi et de tout ordre de Dieu. C’est pourquoi il faut lui résister par tous les moyens, y compris par l’action populaire ( concursus popularis). Luther semble en déduire aussi qu’il faut, pour les mêmes raisons, résister à ceux qui défendent la cause du pape, tel l’empereur.

59 WA Br 8, n° 3297, p. 366–368.

60 WA 39,I, p. 39–91. Voir à ce sujet : Rudolf Hermann, « Luthers Zirkulardisputation über Matthäus 19, 21 », Lutherjahrbuch XXIII (1941), p. 36–53 ; repris dans Gesammelte Studien zur Theologie Luthers und der Reformation, Göttingen, 1960, p. 206–249.

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La Réformation et la guerre : les conceptions et l’attitude de Zwingli de 1523 à 1531

1. Le conÁ it avec les cinq cantons. L’introduction de la Réformation avait divisé la Confédération en deux camps. Zwingli avait franchi le

pas en 1523. Mais d’autres cantons s’opposèrent fortement à la Réfor-

mation. C’était le cas en particulier des cinq cantons primitifs : Lucerne, Uri, Schwyz, Unterwald et Zoug. Ils s’étaient unis le 8 avril 1524 dans une alliance défensive. Fribourg et Soleure les rejoignirent. L’évêque auxiliaire de Constance, Fabri, les mit en contact avec les adversaires catholiques de Luther au sein de l’Empire.

Les cinq cantons se dressèrent de plus en plus fermement contre

Zurich et contre les innovations religieuses, et déclarèrent vouloir extir-per l’hérésie luthérienne ou zwinglienne dans les lieux où ils exerçaient l’autorité. Ils décidèrent aussi de ne plus inviter Zurich aux diètes ni de siéger à ses côtés, si la ville ne se détournait pas du luthéranisme.

Mais c’est surtout l’affaire d’Ittingen qui empoisonnera les relations avec Zurich. Dans ce bailliage administré en commun par Zurich et Schwyz,

le pasteur Oechsli de Stammheim est capturé le 17 juillet 1524 par les soldats du bailli schwyzois de Thurgovie. Les habitants qui n’ont pas

réussi à le délivrer s’en prennent à la chartreuse d’Ittingen qu’ils pillent et incendient. Le 19 août, Zurich livre les principaux responsables, dont plusieurs seront décapités. « L’affaire d’Ittingen laisse un grave trauma-tisme des deux côtés. La conÀ ance entre Confédérés est morte ce 17

juillet 1524 et, avec elle, l’espoir d’une Suisse unie, donc la paix à plus ou moins long terme ».61 Zwingli, lui aussi, a perdu conÀ ance dans la Confédération et se décide à envisager, en principe dans une perspective défensive, une opération militaire contre les cantons catholiques. Il rédige à cet effet un Plan zu einem Feldzug (Plan pour une campagne).62

La date précise de cet écrit ne peut être établie avec certitude.63

Pourquoi envisager une campagne militaire ? Le texte y répond dès les

premières lignes : « pour l’honneur de Dieu et le service de l’Evangile du Christ, aÀ n que le blasphème et l’injustice ne prennent pas l’avantage et n’oppriment la crainte de Dieu et l’innocence ».64 Ainsi le caractère 61 Bangerter, p. 125.

62 Z III, p. 551–583.

63 Locher (voir note 1) le date de 1526 (p. 189). Il faut plutôt suivre Bangerter (p. 124) et le dater de 1524.

64 Z III, 551, l. 2–5 ; traduction de Bangerter, p. 126

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religieux de cette guerre est d’emblée souligné. Zwingli évoque une

alternative : soit se défendre de manière chevaleresque, soit renier Dieu et sa Parole. Dans les paroisses il faut prier pour la victoire. Il s’agit d’une campagne qui est une entreprise de légitime défense. C’est seulement en cas de détresse qu’il faut attaquer.65 Zwingli souligne la nécessité de la crainte de Dieu chez le capitaine et exige des qualités précises dans son comportement. La crainte de Dieu importe avant tout.66 Il faut qu’il ait un cœur intrépide,67 qu’il soit désintéressé,68 À dèle à sa troupe, et il doit bénéÀ cier de la conÀ ance de celle-ci. A côté du capitaine se tient un prédicateur69 qui doit prêcher une obéissance rigoureuse envers Dieu,

l’honnêteté, la discipline et d’autres vertus guerrières. C’est seulement avec une bonne conscience qu’on peut bien combattre. Le prédicateur

doit aussi proclamer la légitimité de la guerre.70

Dans le traité, Zwingli aborde successivement la préparation pro-

prement militaire de la campagne, les démarches diplomatiques qu’il

convient d’entreprendre, les diverses options militaires, en évoquant à la fois l’action défensive et l’action offensive. Il traite des connaissances tactiques du capitaine et enÀ n de ses capacités morales.

La sagacité de Zwingli dans ces domaines est assez surprenante. Sur

le plan stratégique il esquisse en détail quatre campagnes possibles,

selon la direction d’où pouvaient venir les ennemis. Il faut empêcher

l’Autriche d’intervenir, un soulèvement au Tyrol peut y contribuer. A

côté de l’action militaire, il faut veiller à informer et mobiliser l’opinion publique par des tracts. Sur le plan diplomatique il faut clariÀ er les relations avec l’empereur, faire appel à la médiation de la France en vue de la paix, veiller aux relations avec Berne, Glaris, Bâle, qui doivent rester neutres. D’autres territoires suisses sont mentionnés ainsi que Strasbourg, Constance et Lindau.

« Les connaissances militaires de l’ancien aumônier militaire sont

étonnantes ; il connaît de manière précise l’utilisation des armes modernes, ainsi que de la météo ; il maîtrise les ruses tactiques et les signaux des trompettes, la psychologie de la troupe et celle des ofÀ ciers. La justesse stratégique de ses esquisses a été souvent admirée par les spécialistes ; 65 Ibid., p. 582, l. 22–583, l. 4.

66 Ibid., p. 579, l. 10.

67 Ibid., p. 581, l. 3.

68 Ibid., p. 581, l. 19.

69 Ibid., p. 580, l. 4–7.

70 Ibid., p. 580, l. 10–15.

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on notait cependant qu’aucun de ces plans ne s’est retrouvé dans les

guerres de Kappel ».71

On a pu souligner la place que Dieu tient dans la pensée militaire de

Zwingli, plus précisément le Dieu des batailles de l’Ancien Testament.

« Il semble que Zwingli a oublié le Nouveau Testament, car il a une

vision très proche de celle de certains livres vétérotestamentaires, en l’occurrence de Josué, seul cité dans le Plan zu einem Feldzug. Ce livre biblique est lu comme un manuel d’instruction militaire et comme une

source d’exemples tactiques davantage que comme un texte déterminant

la pensée. Le choix de Josué exclut d’emblée la possibilité d’une défaite zurichoise, tant Zwingli assimile son armée à celle des À ls d’Israël. Il ne prend pas en compte l’éventualité d’une défaite car Dieu ne pourra

que récompenser ses À dèles obéissants. Le motif de cette guerre est la défense de la liberté de Zurich, liberté de prêcher la Parole et de se retirer de l’alliance française ».72

2. Vers la première guerre de Kappel. L’implantation du mouvement

évangélique dans divers territoires proches de Zurich, mais aussi l’attitude hostile des cantons catholiques et les menaces pesant sur Zurich

poussaient Zwingli à prôner la formation d’une alliance avec Constance, Lindau, Strasbourg et d’autres. Il développe ce projet dans un écrit de 1527 : Warum man sich mit Konstanz, Lindau, Strassburg u.s.w. in ein Burgrecht einlassen soll. 73 Il s’agit comme dans le Plan zu einem Feldzug de servir

« la gloire de Dieu et la révélation de sa sainte Parole ».74 En principe, l’alliance envisagée est défensive, mais le pas pouvait être vite franchi vers une guerre préventive, pour briser l’isolement de Zurich. Parmi

les À nalités de l’alliance, Zwingli cite la protection de ceux qui étaient victimes d’abus.75

Dès décembre 1527, la ville de Constance signe l’accord du Christ-

liches Burgrecht : Berne et Saint-Gall s’y joignent en 1528, Bâle, Schaffhouse, Bienne et Mulhouse s’y rattachent en 1529. Les cinq cantons

catholiques se sentent à leur tour menacés et cherchent des alliés. Le 22 avril 1529 ils contractent avec le gouvernement autrichien du roi

Ferdinand la Christliche Vereinigung. La division confessionnelle s’installe 71 Locher, p. 189.

72 Bangerter, p. 153.

73 Z VI, I, p. 200–201.

74 Ibid., p. 200, l. 4–8.

75 Ibid., p. 200, l. 11–13.

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en Suisse. Elle se traduira de manière conÁ ictuelle dans l’administration des bailliages gérés en commun. Chacun des deux partis s’efforce d’y

appliquer sa propre politique confessionnelle. Les villes alliées dans le cadre du Christliches Burgrecht étaient d’avis que la décision de supprimer la messe et d’engager des prédicateurs évangéliques relevait de chaque commune et d’une décision majoritaire, les cantons catholiques au

contraire voulaient réserver une telle décision aux autorités des cantons.

Les tensions s’accrurent, en particulier suite à l’exécution d’un pasteur de Zurich, Jacob Kaiser, enlevé par les Schwyzois.

Fin mai 1529 Zwingli rédigea un nouvel avis, le Ratschlag über den Krieg. 76 Au vu des torts de Schwyz (enlèvements, dénis de justice, etc.), il faut déclencher rapidement une opération militaire. Zurich doit prendre l’initiative par des attaques rapides contre Schwyz et Zoug. Mais les

plans de guerre se heurtèrent, à Zurich même, mais surtout à Berne, à

de fortes résistances. A Berne, Manuel proclama que les évangéliques

devaient apporter la paix et non la guerre et ne pas donner l’impres-

sion de vouloir imposer l’Evangile par la force. Selon une tradition

pas totalement établie, Zwingli ne réussit à imposer son point de vue

à Zurich qu’en menaçant de démissionner. La guerre fut déclarée. Les

deux armées se rencontrèrent à Kappel, mais en dernière instance la

bataille put être évitée.

Comme base de la paix, Zwingli rédige les Artikel, ohne die der Friede nicht abgeschlossen werden kann. 77 Les conditions qui devraient être respectées selon lui et les Zurichois étaient les suivantes : le droit d’introduire et de diffuser la Réformation dans les bailliages communs, la libre annonce

de l’Evangile dans l’ensemble de la Confédération, l’interdiction du

mercenariat et la punition des pensionnés, le versement de dommages

de guerre, la suspension de l’alliance avec Ferdinand.

Mais seules deux conditions furent acceptées dans la paix de Kap-

pel (26 juin 1529) : Les cantons catholiques s’engagèrent à renoncer à l’alliance avec Ferdinand. Ils donnèrent leur accord pour laisser aux

communes des bailliages communs la liberté du choix confessionnel.

La question de la liberté de prédication dans les territoires catholiques demeurait ouverte.

Ainsi, à la différence de Luther, Zwingli pouvait envisager une guerre préventive des états protestants contre les états catholiques. Une telle 76 Z VI, II, p. 424–440.

77 Z VI, II, p. 452–453.

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guerre devait être menée au service de l’Evangile. Mais d’autres moti-

vations intervenaient, tel le combat contre le mercenariat.

3. La deuxième guerre de Kappel et la mort de Zwingli sur le champ

de bataille. L’issue de la première guerre de Kappel avait permis à

Zurich d’imposer la Réformation dans une grande partie des bailliages

communs. La ville avait aussi toléré, voire favorisé la sécularisation du territoire ecclésiastique de Saint-Gall. D’après Zwingli, les cinq cantons catholiques auraient dû autoriser la libre prédication de l’Evangile dans leurs territoires. Or ils avaient continué de réprimer le mouvement

évangélique. Zwingli et Zurich y virent une atteinte à la paix de Kappel.

Mais quelles pressions fallait-il exercer sur les cinq cantons ? Bâle et Schaffhouse plaidaient pour la modération et Berne prônait une voie

moyenne, Zurich estimait qu’une opération militaire était inévitable.

Mais c’est le point de vue de Berne qui prévalut : en mai 1531 un

blocus alimentaire contre les cinq cantons fut mis en place pour les

contraindre à la conciliation ou les pousser à la guerre ; mais le blocus n’eut pas l’effet souhaité et fut à nouveau suspendu. Le 9 octobre les cinq cantons déclarèrent la guerre à Zurich : la ville fut battue à Kappel et Zwingli qui combattait avec les troupes trouva la mort ainsi qu’une vingtaine d’autres pasteurs.

Peu de temps auparavant – en août 1531 – Zwingli avait rédigé

encore un avis secret : Geheimer Ratschlag was Zürich und Bernn not ze betrach-ten sye. 78 Selon Locher,79 il s’agirait de notes en vue d’une délibération, plutôt que d’un avis élaboré et diffusé dans les conseils. Mais le texte, malgré son caractère d’esquisse et ses effets limités, mérite attention.

Les cinq cantons n’ayant pas respecté leurs engagements, écrit Zwingli, il faut les soumettre par la force. Dans le cadre d’une entité commune telle que la Confédération, les abus et injustices commis par une des

parties portent atteinte au tout. Or, les cinq cantons ont péché contre Dieu et porté atteinte au droit en réprimant la libre annonce de l’Evangile et en gérant mal les bailliages communs. Il faut donc les châtier et les soumettre par une opération militaire rapide. Zwingli propose de

mettre en place un condominium de Zurich et de Berne sur l’ensemble

de la Confédération.

78 Z VI, V, p. 222–249.

79 Locher p. 528.

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Zwingli a-t-il prôné une guerre de religion ? La référence à Deutéro-

nome 17, 12,80 (« l’homme qui, par orgueil, n’écoutera pas le sacriÀ cateur placé là pour servir l’Eternel, ton Dieu, ou qui n’écoutera pas le juge, cet homme sera puni de mort. Tu ôteras ainsi le mal du milieu d’Israël »), selon laquelle il faut faire disparaître le mal (ou le méchant) du peuple, pourrait le faire penser, ainsi que le qualiÀ catif de « Glaubenskrieg » appliqué à la deuxième guerre de Kappel. En fait, il faut plutôt suivre les conclusions d’Olivier Bangerter : « Zwingli afÀ rme généralement que la violence est impropre à convertir peuples et gouvernement. Tant face

aux catholiques [. . .] que face aux anabaptistes (sur le baptême), il garde la même opinion. Il ne travaille pas avec un concept de guerre sainte

et ne sacralise jamais la guerre ».81 Celle-ci est du ressort du magistrat et non des hommes d’Eglise. « Cependant, Zwingli afÀ rme la nécessité

pour le magistrat de ‘fermer la bouche des ennemis de Dieu’. Tout

écrivain ecclésiastique du XVIe siècle l’aurait dit, à la suite d’Augustin et de la tradition médiévale, mais cela a sufÀ à classer Zwingli parmi les penseurs des guerres de religion. Les textes où il afÀ rme ce rôle du magistrat sont pourtant très peu nombreux. Ils ne permettent donc pas

de fonder l’idée selon laquelle Zwingli veut imposer la Réforme à toute la Suisse orientale par les armées ».82 N’empêche que Zwingli voulait

bien imposer par les armes la libre prédication de l’Evangile dans les cinq cantons catholiques, convaincu de l’efÀ cacité de cette prédication et du choix confessionnel des habitants.

Les jugements de la postérité à l’égard de Zwingli furent contradic-

toires83. Luther rejetait tout appui militaire de la Réformation et tout mélange entre politique et religion, et considérait la mort de Zwingli comme un jugement de Dieu. Certains amis de Zwingli, tels Ambrosius Blarer, Bucer, Vadian, partageaient ce point de vue. Plus tard, le puritanisme a salué en Zwingli le révolutionnaire théocratique et le

mouvement libéral du 19e siècle verra en lui un combattant pour la

liberté et la souveraineté populaire.

80 Z VI, V, p. 229, l. 1–2.

81 Bangerter, p. 224.

82 Ibid. p. 224–225.

83 Locher, p. 167–168.

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Bilan

1. A la différence de Luther, Zwingli disposait de connaissances militaires étonnantes. Il s’y entendait aussi en diplomatie. Tout en s’efforçant d’argumenter en théologien, il met toujours en avant des considérations politiques, en rapport avec la ville de Zurich ou la Confédération en

général.

Luther raisonne seulement en théologien et en pasteur. En réponse

à des demandes, il s’efforce d’éclairer la conscience du soldat, d’interpréter les afÀ rmations de la Bible au sujet de la guerre et de la non-violence, et d’exposer, selon des perspectives théologiques, la fonction de l’autorité civile.

2. Il faut relever le patriotisme de Zwingli, À er des guerres de libération suisses menées dans le passé ou au service de l’Eglise en Italie. Mais c’est ce patriotisme qui le conduit aussi, à partir d’un certain moment, à s’opposer au mercenariat dont il juge les effets néfastes pour son

peuple. Le souci du bien-être de la Confédération, et pas seulement

de Zurich, le conduit ensuite à justiÀ er des opérations militaires pour mettre À n à certaines injustices.

La démarche de Luther est différente. Certes, il se soucie lui aussi du bien-être de son pays et assigne à l’autorité civile la tâche d’y veiller, au besoin par la force, par exemple dans la guerre contre les Turcs. Mais sa réÁ exion a une portée plus universelle. Il s’agit de savoir comment un chrétien, où qu’il soit, doit se comporter en cas de guerre.

3. Luther a été très attentif au problème posé par le Sermon sur la

Montagne. La non violence qui y est prônée concerne chaque chrétien

tant qu’il est seul en jeu. Le recours à la force et à la guerre ne peut se justiÀ er que si le prochain est concerné. L’intérêt de Zwingli porte d’emblée sur le service de la cité qui incombe aux autorités, qui peut impliquer la guerre : « Il est exact que le Réformateur de Zurich n’a

pas ressenti de scrupules quand il fallait passer de la défense politique aux pressions politiques et à des mesures militaires ».84

4. Mais, contrairement à une idée reçue, Zwingli n’a pas été un va-t-en guerre. Après ses expériences en Italie et sa lecture des textes d’Erasme, 84 Ibid., p. 172.

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et encore durant son activité à Zurich, il s’est efforcé d’œuvrer pour la paix. « Zwingli n’est pas homme de guerre, même si sa pensée militaire est remarquable pour un théologien . . . Il n’est pas le ‘modèle chrétien’ de l’armée suisse ».85 Pour Luther, « la paix est le bien terrestre suprême ».86

Il fait un grand éloge des autorités qui ont réussi à régler un problème sans recourir à la guerre.

5. Toutefois, si, pour des raisons valables, c’est-à-dire pour le service du pays, une guerre ne peut pas être évitée, Zwingli aussi bien que

Luther s’efforcent de puriÀ er les motivations des combattants. Il ne

peut pas s’agir de tuer des gens pour de l’argent et pour s’enrichir. Les deux hommes décrivent aussi les dispositions intérieures nécessaires des combattants et de leurs chefs pour que la guerre juste soit menée selon des règles justes et que le combattant puisse avoir bonne conscience

devant Dieu.

Au départ, Luther a exclu toute guerre menée par un sujet contre

l’autorité, et il s’est opposé à ce titre au soulèvement des paysans. Le point de vue de Zwingli est différent. Il rappelle les guerres de libération menées par les Suisses contre les Habsbourg. Il n’est pas opposé à la destitution par la force d’une autorité civile injuste. « Si celle-ci est inÀ dèle et n’agit pas en conformité avec la norme du Christ, on peut

avec [l’aide de] Dieu la déposer ».87

6. En ce qui concerne Luther, nous avons relevé un certain inÁ échissement dans la mesure où, à partir de 1530, il peut envisager, sur la base de considérations juridiques, une résistance des princes à l’empereur

et, en 1539, une résistance du peuple tout entier à l’autorité blasphé-

matoire et apocalyptique de la papauté et de ses soutiens, y compris

l’empereur.

7. Pour Luther comme pour Zwingli, seule une guerre défensive est

juste. Dans cette perspective, Luther a exclu toute action militaire pré-

ventive. Pour Zwingli au contraire, l’action défensive pouvait impliquer une opération militaire préventive.

85 Bangerter, p. 277.

86 WA 30, II, p. 538, l. 18.

87 Z II, p. 342, l. 26–27.

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8. Luther a fermement écarté la guerre de religion. La cause de l’Evangile ne pouvait pas être défendue ni propagée par les armes, mais seulement par la parole et par la non violence. Sensible à certains textes de l’Ancien Testament, Zwingli a invoqué l’honneur de Dieu pour justiÀ er certaines opérations militaires. Il afÀ rme clairement, certes, qu’on ne peut pas imposer la foi par la force, mais il veut imposer, et si besoin par la force, la liberté de la prédication évangélique.

9. A la différence de Zwingli, Luther s’est beaucoup préoccupé de la

guerre contre les Turcs, qui n’est pas pour lui une guerre de religion.

Elle découle du devoir des autorités de protéger leurs sujets. Mais, étant donné l’opposition des Turcs à la foi chrétienne, le combat est à mener aussi sur le plan spirituel, en particulier par la prière.

10. En certaines occasions, Luther a été consulté par les autorités de Saxe pour des décisions politiques à prendre. Mais ses avis furent assez peu suivis. Les considérations proprement politiques l’emportèrent le

plus souvent. Luther n’a joué qu’un rôle mineur comme conseiller

politique.

Il en alla autrement de Zwingli. Certes, il n’a jamais été tout-puissant à Zurich. Pourtant, au sein du Conseil secret notamment dont il faisait partie, son inÁ uence fut réelle dans la conduite des affaires, y compris des affaires militaires.

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LUTHER AND MÜNTZER SEE MARY’S MAGNIFICAT

THROUGH DIFFERENT SPECTACLES

Christoph Burger

Luther and Müntzer at the End of the Twentieth Century

In 1983, Thomas A. Brady, Jr. delivered a keynote lecture on Luther’s

social teaching at the Sixth International Congress for Luther Research in Erfurt.1 As it happened, elsewhere in town the govern ment of the

German Democratic Republic had organized an exhibition about the

Early Bourgeois Revolution. In the short texts explaining the exhibits, Luther was acknowledged cautious ly,2 but Münt zer received conspicu-ously more attention, because he was viewed as an ancestor of the

communist world-view.3 The contrasts of keynote lecture topic and

exhibit suggest how important and inÁ uential these two reformers of

the sixteenth century were and are perceived to be, and how research

into these À gures has mostly been carried out for different audiences.

For Luther, there is a superabundance of sources and studies. The

Weimarer Ausgabe der Werke Martin Luthers, 120 years in the making, will shortly reach completion with the publication of the À nal volumes

of indices to Luther’s German writings. The Lu ther jahrbuch and the Archiv für Refor mationsge schichte/Archi ve for Reformation Research regularly publish articles on the latest developments in Luther research. Müntzer research is catching up. The critical edition currently in progress will have its impact.4 Bernhard Lohse, for example, has written a very

1 “Luther and Society: Two Kingdoms or Three Estates? Tradi tion and Experience in Luther’s Social Teaching”, in: Lutherjahrbuch 52 (1985), pp. 197–212.—I would like to thank Dr. M. Sherwood-Smith for correcting my English.

2 For the broader context see Siegfried Bräuer, Martin Luther in marxistischer Sicht von 1945 bis zum Beginn der achtziger Jahre, Berlin (DDR) 1983.

3 See Friedrich Engels, Der deutsche Bauernkrieg (1850), in: Karl Marx/Friedrich Engels, Werke, vol. 7, Berlin (DDR) 1960, fourth edition 1971, pp. 327–413.

4 For the only volume of the new critical edition available thus far, vol. 3: Quellen zu Thomas Müntzer (2004), see, for instance, my review article in: sehe punk te. Rezen si ons-organ für die Ge schichts wis senschaften 5, 2005, no. 5 (http://www.sehepunk te.historicum.

net/2005/05/5565.html). For the older critical edition, see note 36.

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informative book about changes in the approach to, and estima ti on

of, Münt zer.5

Hermeneutics and Personal Experience

Important texts affect people; they are received. Their impact and

reception, however, can vary considerably. This is not only true with

regard to people reading, or hearing, texts in diffe rent times and places.

The principle also applies when contem pora ries, in neigh bou ring towns, with similar social back grounds and working in comparable pro fessi ons, read the same text. One is reminded of the warning of the theo lo gian Franz Overbeck (d. 1905), that the biggest misfortune to befall a text is to be interpreted.6 Religious texts seem to be prone to particular

misunderstanding in rather secularized times and societies, as Friedrich Schleiermacher once remarked.7

In his famous book Truth and Method, the philosop her Hans-Georg Gada mer makes a convincing case for the view that under standing

always entails the merging, or melting together, of hori zons.8 If one accepts Gadamer’s position, it is very plausible that nobody can understand anything without introducing a contri bution of one’s own, namely one’s own horizon. Gadamer’s model explains why the same text can

5 Bernhard Lohse, Thomas Müntzer in neuer Sicht. Müntzer im Licht der neueren Forschung und die Frage nach dem Ansatz seiner Theologie, Göttingen 1991.

6 “Es ist das grös ste Un glück, das einem Text passiren kann, ausgelegt zu wer den, und je eifriger man sich seiner in diesem Sinne an nimmt [ je eifri ger man ihn also deutet ], um so grösser ist das Unglück. “ Franz Overbeck, Art. Theologie (Wis senschaft) Exegese. Allgemeines, in: Franz Overbeck, Werke und Nachlaß, Band 5: Kirchenlexicon Texte. Ausgewählte Artikel J-Z, ed. by B. von Reibnitz, 1995, pp. 593–597, here: 596.

I take this quotation from Eberhard Jüngel, “Besin nung auf 50 Jahre theologische Existenz,” in: Theologische Litera turzeitung 128 (2003), cols. 471–484, here: 473–474. For the characteristics of Overbeck’s “Kirchen lexi con,” written for private use, see Fried rich Wilhelm Graf, Overbeck, Franz Camille, in: Religion in Ge schichte und Gegen wart, fourth edition, vol. 6, Tübingen 2003, cols. 758–759.

7 See Friedrich D.E. Schleiermacher, Über die Religion. Reden an die Gebildeten unter ihren Verächtern (III. Rede, UrauÁ age [1799], p. 144; KGA I.2, Berlin/New York 1984, p. 252, lines 15–19): “Mit Schmerzen sehe ich es täglich wie die Wuth des Verstehens den Sinn gar nicht aufkommen läßt, und wie Alles sich vereinigt den Men schen an das Endliche und an einen sehr kleinen Punkt deßelben zu befestigen damit das Unendliche ihm so weit als möglich aus den Augen gerükt werde.”

8 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Wahrheit und Methode. Grundzüge einer philosophischen Hermeneutik, Tübingen [1. ed. 1960] 6. ed. 1990, p. 308: “Die Aufgabe des historischen Verstehens schließt die Forderung ein, jeweils den historischen Horizont zu gewinnen, damit sich das, was man verstehen will, in seinen wahren Maßen darstellt.”

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be inter preted so different ly by diffe rent readers and hearers. It is only with great caution, however, that a scholar may use this model to

explain the speciÀ c manner of under stan ding a person in the distant past. A scholar today, after all, can be aware only of some of the factors which may reveal the horizon of a person of the past and how

that horizon came into being.

In the following, an attempt will be made to understand and explain

the very different ways in which Luther and Müntzer, in their turn,

understood and explained a well-known text which was of great impor-

tance for the spirituality of their day.

The Veneration of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, and the Impor tance of Her Song, the MagniÀ cat, in the Liturgy

Throughout the history of the Christian church, the venera tion of the mother of Jesus has been very important in the churches of both the

East and the West.9 Beginning as a mere twig on the tree of the cult

of her son, the reverence for Mary has grown so impressively that one might have the impression that devotion to her is as strong as the adoration of the redeemer himself. When the refor mers of the sixteenth century wis hed to emphasize the central role of belief in Jesus Christ, and to downplay the rival cults of the veneration of Mary, the saints and the hierarchical Church,10 it occurred to them to give their own

in ter pretati on of Mary’s famous song, Luther and Müntzer among

them.11 Luther and Müntzer tailored their exe ge sis each to his own

very different concept of faith.

9 See e.g. Klaus Schreiner, Maria. Jungfrau, Mutter, Herr scherin, München/Wien 1994, and Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary Through the Centuries. Her Place in the History of Culture, New Haven and London 1996.

10 See Berndt Hamm, “Warum wurde der Glaube für Luther zum Zentralbegriff des christlichen Lebens?,” in Die frühe Refor mation in Deutschland als Umbruch, ed. Stephen E. Buckwal ter and Bernd Moeller, Gütersloh 1998, pp. 103–127, and idem, “Von der Gottesliebe des Mittel alters zum Glauben Luthers. Ein Beitrag zur Bußgeschichte,”

Lutherjahrbuch 65 (1998): pp. 19–44, and idem: “Normative Zentrierung im 15. und 16.

Jahrhun dert. Beobachtungen zu Religiosität, Theologie und Ikonologie,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 26 (1999): pp. 163–202.

11 For the sermon of Huldrych Zwingli (1484–1531): “Eine Predigt über die ewig-reine Jungfrau Maria, die Mutter Jesu Christi, unseres Erlösers. In Zürich gehalten von Huldrych Zwingli im Jahre 1522”, in modern German, see Emidio Campi, Zwingli und Maria. Eine reformations geschichtliche Studie, Zürich 1997, pp. 110–146, and Hans OCKER1_f15_241-253.indd 243

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The song, attributed to Mary in the gospel according to Luke

(1:46–55), takes its name from the À rst word of the text (in the Vulgate): magniÀ cat anima mea Dominum, “(my soul) doth magnify (the Lord).” It was a very well-known part of the liturgy of the Hours, becau se it constituted “the textual climax of daily Vespers”.12 As early as the sixth century, the rule of Bene dict of Nursia had enshrined the song in this position.13 The importance of the MagniÀ cat in the liturgy is further apparent from its role during Advent. On the seven days leading up

to Christmas Eve, six-phrase MagniÀ cat antiphons are sung, addressed

to Christ.14 One can scarcely overempha size the importance of this

bibli cal text.

Two Trends in the Exegesis of Luke 1:48, and Erasmus’ Objections

As a consequence of the growing veneration of Mary, her excellence

was increasingly emphasized in the course of the Middle Ages. Espe-

cially in the interpretation of the Greek word ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƮ in Luke 1:48, two main tendencies can be distinguis hed,15 both of which can already be discer ned in the writings of the inÁ uential inter pre ters Origen (d.

Schneider, “Zwinglis Marienpredigt und Luthers MagniÀ kat-Auslegung. Ein Bei trag zum Verhältnis Zwinglis zu Luther,” Zwingliana 23 (1996): pp. 105–141.

12 Winfried Kirsch, “MagniÀ cat 2. Polyphonic to 1600,” The New Grove Dicti onary of Music and Musici ans, ed. by Stan ley Sadie, vol. 11 (London 1980), pp. 495–497; 495.

See also Bern hard Heininger, “MagniÀ cat I. Neues Testament,” and Markus Eham,

“MagniÀ cat II. Liturgisch und kirchenmusika lisch,” Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, fourth edition, vol. 5 (Tübingen 2002), cols. 679–681.

13 See Markus Jenny, “Cantica,” Theologische Realenzy klopädie, vol. 7 (Berlin and New York 1981), pp. 624–628, here 626, lines 33–35.

14 These antiphons all began with the word ‘O’ (O Sapien tia, O Ado nai, O Radix Iesse . . .). If one reads in reverse the initial letters of each second word, one À nds the promise: “Ero cras”, to be transla ted as: “Tomor row I shall be [with you].” See David Hiley, Western Plainchant. A Handbook (Oxford 1993, paperback edition 1997), p. 98.

15 See Christoph Burger, “Maria muß ermutigen! Luthers Kritik an spätmittelalterli-cher Frömmigkeit und sein Gegenen twurf in seiner Auslegung des ‘MagniÀ cat’ (Lukas 1, 46b–55) aus den Jahren 1520/21,” Piété et Spiritualité. L’impact de la Réformation aux XVI e et XVII e siècles/Frömmigkeit und Spiritualität. Auswirkungen der Reformation im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, ed. Matthieu Arnold and Rolf Decot (Mainz 2002), pp. 15–30; idem,

“ ‘Hij heeft omgezien naar den lagen staat zijner dienstmaagd.’ Gerson, Luther, Zwingli en Calvijn over Lucas 1, 48,” Sola Gratia. Bron voor de Refor matie en uitdaging voor nu, ed.

Abraham van de Beek and W.M. van Laar (Zoetermeer 2004), pp. 11–22; idem, “La polémique de Luther contre la vénération de Marie dans quel ques sermons,” Annoncer l’évangile (XV e–XVII e age). Permanences et mutations de la prédication, ed. Matthieu Arnold (Paris 2006), pp. 71–85.

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253/4) and Jerome (d. 419/20). One of these interpretations emphasizes the lowly social status of Mary.16 The other stresses her humility and her acceptance of God’s will.17 The Greek fathers, particularly, laid the emphasis on the contri bution of Mary’s free will in accepting the annunci ation of the angel Gabriel, as stated in Luke 1:38.18 Already Irenaeus of Ly ons (d.c. 200), who wrote in Greek, noted that Mary,

through her obedience, reversed what Eve began through her disobedi-

ence in paradise: “Through her obedien ce . . . she became a cause of salvation for herself and for all humankind.”19 This inter pretati on seems very ob vi ous in Latin, too, because the Vulgate trans lates ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƳ

as ‘humilitas’, the central virtu e.20 When in 1539, many centuries later, Car di nal Jacopo Sadoleto, bishop of Carpentras, addressed himself to the senate and people of Geneva in an attempt to win them back to

the Roman Catholic church, he wrote, among other things: “For we

know and are assured how great power, how great impor tance, how

great weight, humility has with God—humility, a virtue peculiarly

Christi an, which Christ our Lord always brought particularly forward

in his admonitions and precepts . . . humility constitu tes both the chief help to our eternal salva tion, and the chief support of that sweet and blessed hope with which we tend heaven wards.”21 Humility was a Marian virtue. By oppo sing it to the arrogance of Eve that led to the Fall, one could easily arrive at an Eve-Mary typolo gy, a kind of paral lel to the Adam-Christ typolo gy.

In the Annotationes to his edition and translation of the New Testament, Erasmus of Rotterdam criticized the preva lent interpretation of Luke 16 See Burger, “Maria muß ermutigen” (note 15), pp. 16–18.

17 See Burger, “Maria muß ermutigen,” pp. 19–21.

18 Lk 1:38: “And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” The translations of biblical texts in this article are taken from the King James Bible.—Jaroslav Pelikan points to the empha sis laid by the Greek fathers on Mary’s free will: “But in support of that cha racteristically Byzantine emphasis on the active role of free will as it accepted the word and grace freely given by God, the active response of the Mother of God in the annunciation as she accepted the word and grace of God was a key acci dent.” ( Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary Through the Centuries

[note 9, above], p. 90.)

19 Irenaios, Adversus haereses 3, 22, 4 (Migne, Patrolo gia Graeca 7:959), see also 5, 19, 1 (ibid., 7:1175–1176). The reference is from Joseph Vogt, “Ecce ancilla domini. Eine Untersuchung zum sozialen Motiv des antiken Marienbildes,” Vigiliae Christianae 23

(1969): pp. 241–263, here 256.

20 See Burger, “Maria muß ermutigen,” pp. 16, 19.

21 Sadolet’s letter to the senate and people of Geneva, in John Calvin, Tracts relating to the Reformation, trans . Henry Beveridge, vol. I (Edinburgh 1844), p. 11.

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1:48. Though a fervent advocate of humili ty in the Christian church,22

he felt it important, as a philolo gist, to point out that the Greek word ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƳ means “low social status,” not “virtue.” If the virtue of

humility had been meant, the Greek would have read ƵƣƱƧƫƮưƷƲưƴƾƮƩ.23

Lu ther’s exegesis of the Psalms, where there is frequent mention of the humble, might already have prompted him to understand humili tas in Luke 1:48 as “low social status.” He had expounded the entire Psalter

for his students in his Dictata super psalterium in the years 1513–1515, and in the years 1519–1521 he inter preted Psalms 1–22 (21) again in

his Operationes in psal mos.24 Nevertheless, the annotati ons of Eras mus were of great help to him, as we will see.

The Interpretation of Martin Luther

As a mendicant, Luther knew the MagniÀ cat very well. He preached

on this text sever al times, mainly on the occa sion of the annual feast of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, 2 July.25 Fourteen sermons by him on this 22 Cornelis Augustijn, Erasmus von Rotterdam. Leben—Werk—Wirkung (München 1986), p. 70 points to Adagium 2201 prai sing the humility of Christ as an archetype for Christians.

23 Desiderii Erasmi Roterodami in novum testamentum ab eodem denuo recognitum Annotationes, ingenti nuper accessione per autorem locupletate (Basel 1519), p. 119. In the modern criti cal e dition: vol. VI/5 (Amsterdam etc. 2000), p. 464, lines 516–520: “Humilitatem ancillae.

ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƮ Vt intelligas parui tatem, non animi virtutem quam suo vocabulo Graeci vocant ƵƣƱƧƫƮưƷƲưƴƾƮƩƮ. Nec est res pexit humilitatem, sed ‘aspexit ad humilitatem’, ƧƱƟƤƭƧƹƧƮ ƧƱɚ Ƶɘ Ʈ ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƮ, vt sit contra rium ei quod est auersari, sitque sensus: et sim inÀ ma ancil la, tamen non est auersatus a me.”

24 Critical editions of the Dictata super psalterium can be found in: D. Martin Luthers Werke, Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 3 (1885) and 4 (1886), and again in 55/I (1993) and 55/II (2000). Luther abandoned his second exegesis, the Operationes in psal mos, 1519–1521, after psalm 22 (21). There is a À rst criti cal edition of the Operationes in psalmos in the Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 5 (Weimar 1892), and the À rst half of a better one in Archiv zur Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. I (Histo risch-theologi sche Einleitung: 1991) and II (1981), Psalm 1 bis 10 (Vulga ta).

25 See Christoph Burger, “Luthers Predigten über das Magni À cat (Lc. 1, 46–55),”

Théorie et pratique de l’exé gèse. Actes du troisième colloque international sur l’histoire de l’exégèse biblique au XVI e siècle (Genève, 31 août–2 sep tembre 1988), ed. Irena Backus, Francis Hig man (Genève 1990), pp. 273–286, and idem, “La polémique de Luther contre la vénéra tion de Marie dans quelques sermons” (see note 15).

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text have come down to us.26 In 1526, Luther made the MagniÀ cat a

À xed part of his German mass, to be recited every Sunday.27

In Luther’s ser mon of 2 July 1520, one À nds the À rst evidence of his decision to interpret verses Luke 1:50–53 of the MagniÀ cat in the light of (one might almost say, through the spectacles of ) Jeremiah 9:22–23.28

According to Luther, the se ver ses are of central impor tan ce for the MagniÀ cat; it is not accidental that they occur at the very center of the text.

It was especi ally signiÀ cant to him that in Jeremiah 9:22–23 the verb

“to glory” is repea ted À ve times. By drawing on the text of Jeremiah, he puts special emphasis on those called “the proud” in Luke 1:51.

Luke 1:50–53:

(50) And his mercy is on them that fear him, from generation to

generation.

(51) He hath shewed strength with his arm;

he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their he arts.

(52) He hath put down the mighty from their seats,

and exalted them of low degree.

(53) He hath À lled the hungry with good things;

and the rich he hath sent empty away.29

Jeremiah 9:

(22) “Thus saith the Lord,

Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom,

neither let the mighty man glory in his might,

let not the rich man glory in his riches;

(23) but let him who glorieth glory in this,

that he understandeth and knoweth me,

that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment, and

righteousness, in the earth;

for in these things I delight, saith the Lord.”30

The effect of this juxtaposition is to emphasize “vainglory” as the central problem. Looking at the MagniÀ cat through spectacles borro wed

26 See Burger, “La polémique de Luther contre la vénération de Marie dans quelques sermons,” (see note 15), p. 80.

27 See Luther: Deutsche Messe und Ordnung Gottesdiensts (Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 19, Weimar 1897, [introduction: pp. 44–69], pp. 70–113, here: 79, 6–7).

28 Martin Luther, Sermon on 2 July 1520 (Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 59, Weimar 1983, p. 229, 24–27).

29 The emphasis is mine.

30 The emphases are mine.—The numbering of the verses differs in the Biblia Hebrai ca (9:22–23) and in the Biblia Vulgata and the King James Bible (9:23–24). I follow the numbering of the Biblia Hebraica.

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from Jeremiah 9:22–23, “the proud” become the proper enemies of

God, because they refuse to glory in under standing and knowing God,

glorying instead in their own abilities. Applying Gadamer’s model of

hermeneutics, one might say that in Luther’s horizon of understanding during these years of his life, the problem of “the proud” was so important that he stressed the words in the biblical text that corresponded with his own expectations. His experiences with the pope and the

papal curia disposed him to seek “the proud” predominantly among

such oppo nents.31

In the light of this interpretation, Luther sees God’s intervention as sixfold: He acts as the advocate for “them that fear him” against “the proud” (Lk 1:50–51 cf. Jer 9:22), for people “of low degree” against

“the mighty” (Lk 1:52 cf. Jer 9:22), and for “the hungry” against “the rich” (Lk 1:53 cf. Jer 9:22).

In his commentary, written at Wittenberg before he travelled to the

Diet of Worms and completed at the Wartburg after the Diet, Luther

further developed this schema. He writes: “In order to make us under-

stand, in these four verses she [Mary] numbers six divine works in six

[sorts of ] men consecutively, and she divides the world into two parts, on each side three works and three types of men, and in each case one part acts against the other one. Then she shows how God acts on each

side. She portrays him in a manner which cannot be surpassed.”32

Other important factors in Luther’s interpretation include placing

the emphasis in Luke 1:48 on the word “regarded,” instead of stressing, as did most late-medieval interpreters, Mary’s virtue of humili ty: “For he has regarded the low estate [or: the virtue] of his handmai den.”33

By emphasizing God’s “regar ding” rather than Mary’s low estate,

it was possible not to dwell on the virtue that might have attracted

31 Martin Luther, “Das MagniÀ cat verdeutscht und ausgelegt, 1520/1521.” Martin Luther, Studienausgabe, vol. 1, Berlin 1979, p. 345, 27–28: “Ein solch volck zu vnsern zeytten fur allen andern/ist der Bapst mit seinem hauffen . . .” I just published a monograph on Luther’s exegesis of the MagniÀ cat: Marias Lied in Luthers Deutung. Der Kommentar zum Magni À kat (Lk. 1, 46b–55) aus den Jahren 1520/21 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007).

32 Martin Luther, “Das MagniÀ cat verdeutscht und ausge legt,” edited by Martin Seils in Martin Luther Stu dienausgabe, ed. Hans-Ulrich Delius, vol. I (Berlin 1979) pp.

312–364, esp. 343 lines 28–32 = Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 7 (Weimar 1897), p. 577

lines 29–33. The translation is mine.

33 In order to understand the text as Luther knew it is necessary to look at the Latin text of Lk 1:48 according to the Vulgate: “quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae . . .”

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God’s grace. It is God’s mercy that matters, not the recipient’s lowliness. As mentioned above, Luther may have been inÁ uenced in his

interpretati on of Luke 1:48 by the Anno tationes of Erasmus or by his own ear lier exegesis of the Psalms. In the light of his own new-found belief in justiÀ ca tion by grace alone, he now wrote a long digressi on on the meaning of the Greek word ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƳ, repu diating the possibility of understanding it as “humili ty” conceived as a virtue. The di gression about false “humility” in contrast with true belief in God takes up more than a À fth of the whole interpretation. Luther dedicates his translation and exegesis of the MagniÀ cat to the seven teen-year-old Duke Johann Friedrich, a nephew of the Prince Elector Friedrich the

Wise. This gives this work the additional func tion of a Fürstenspiegel, a

“mirror” for the young prince.34

To summarize: according to Luther, in her MagniÀ cat, Mary teaches

each Christian to have faith that God will look graciously upon him,

to avoid glorying in his own powers and virtues, especi ally his own

humility, and to praise God on the basis of the proofs of his mercy

experienced in the past.

As early as 1536, a Low German hymnal appeared in Magdeburg,

an Imperial City which since 1521 had been one of the strongholds of

the Lutheran Reformation, a bulwark against the archbishop and prince

elector Albrecht von Hohenzollern. For Vespers, we À nd a Low German

version of the MagniÀ cat according to the translation of Luther.35

The Interpretation of Thomas Müntzer

Müntzer does not conÀ ne himself to an interpretation of the MagniÀ cat.

He treats the whole of Luke chapter one. Two versions of Müntzer’s

exegesis are extant. The longer one bears the title Außge trückte emplößung des falschen glaubens, der ungetre wen welt durchs gezeug nus des evangelions Luce vorgetragen, der elen den, erbermli chen Chris ten heyt zur innerung jres irsals. The shorter is called Gezeugnus des erstenn Capitels des Euangelion Luce durch 34 Cf. Christoph Burger, “Luthers Gebetsvorschlag für Herzog Johann Friedrich von Sachsen,” Oratio. Das Gebet in patristischer und reformatorischer Sicht. Festschrift zum 65.

Geburtstag von Alfred Schindler, ed. Emidio Campi, Leif Grane, Adolf Martin Ritter (Göttingen 1999), pp. 185–196.

35 See Stephen A. Crist, Enchiridion geistliker Leder unde Psalmen Magde burg 1536. Introduc-tory Study and Facsimile Edition (Atlanta 1994), p. 99 (= facsimile, fol. L4v/L5r).

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Thomam Munczer, der ganczenn cristenheit furgetra gen zurich tenn.36 I shall limit myself here to the longer text.

When Müntzer wrote his exegesis of Luke 1 in 1524, he had already

given the MagniÀ cat a prominent place in his Deutsches Kirchenamt of 1523.37 Now, as the title of his work declares, he uses the exegesis of the biblical text of Luke 1 to combat a false belief that he is convin ced he has discovered in both the church of the pope and in the teaching

of Luther and Luther’s follo wers. He opens his introduction with an

allusion to Ezekiel 8:7: “Then said he to me: Son of man, dig now in

the wall; and when I had dug in the wall, behold, a door.”38 As a man

of his times, Müntzer does not feel it necessary to quote the following verse.39 He can safely assume that his readers knew that the prophet,

through the hole he had dug, saw “wicked abominati ons.” In the text

of his treatise, Müntzer comes back to this biblical image.40 Müntzer then addresses his readers and urges them to follow the example of

the prophet and “to enlarge the hole in the wall” in order to see who

are the important people in their own time who reduce God to an

insigniÀ cant, painted statuette. Pointing to Jeremiah 23:29,41 Müntzer calls him self “Thomas Muntzer, mit dem ham mer.” He continues to

deÀ ne his self-image in terms of two further quotations from the book of Jeremiah.42 He con si ders himself to ha ve the same mandate from God 36 A new critical edition will appear soon, see note 4. See for the time being the edition of both treatises in two parallel columns in: Thomas Müntzer, Schriften und Briefe.

Kriti sche Gesamtausgabe, ed. Günther Franz with the assistance of Paul Kirn (Gütersloh 1968), pp. 265–319. The titles of the two versions: pp. 265, 266.

37 See Thomas Müntzer, Deutsches Kirchenamt, in Thomas Müntzer, Schriften und Briefe, ed. Franz (introduction, pp. 25–30), pp. 30–155, here 99–101.

38 In the year 1520, Luther, too, had spoken about three walls protec ting the pope and his followers in his An den christlichen Adel deut scher Nation: Von des christlichen Standes Besse rung. For the original text, one has to use Thomas Müntzer, Schriften und Briefe.

Kritische Gesamtausga be, ed. G. Franz (Gütersloh 1968). From a new critical edition, only volume 3: Quellen zu Thomas Müntzer, ed. Wieland Held and Siegfried Hoyer, has appeared up to now (see note 4).

39 See Kenneth Hagen, “It is all in the et cetera. Luther and the elliptical reference,” Luther-Bulletin 3 (1994): pp. 57–67, 58: “a portion of some text cited was short-hand for a whole piece.” Müntzer claims explicitly that in order to understand his statement about real belief, one has to put whole the context in memory (ed. Franz, p. 309, lines 33–38).

40 Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 268, lines 21–27).

41 “Is not my word like À re, says the Lord, and like a hammer which breaks the rock in pieces?”

42 Jeremiah 1:9–10: “Then the Lord put forth his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said unto me: “Behold, I have put my words in thy mouth . . . to root OCKER1_f15_241-253.indd 250

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in his own time as Jeremiah had in his time: he must build and break

down, he must withstand his adversaries like a forti À ed city. Müntzer’s own emphases in the latter quotati on are particularly revealing: “there will be a wonderful victory leading to the defeat of the strong god less tyrants.”43 If one con si ders that Münt zer wrote this treatise after trying in vain to win over the prince elector, Friedrich the Wise, and his brother Duke Johann on 13 July with a sermon known as the Fürsten predigt, and shortly before being summoned to appear before them on 1

August 1524, one may surmise that disap point ment may have played

a role in this interpretation. The quotations are lacking in the shorter treatment of Luke 1, Gezeugnus des erstenn Capitels des Euangelion Luce durch Thomam Munczer, der ganc zenn cris tenheit furgetra gen zurich tenn, which Müntzer composed for submission to the princes.

The title of the treatise and these biblical quotati ons reveal Müntzer’s understanding of the message of Luke chapter 1. Christian people are deceived by the pope and his followers,44 but also by Luther and his

adhe rents.45 Against Luther,46 it is exegesis of the Bible which must show the truth.47 The simple people must become learned.48 Leading

out and to pull down, and to destroy, and to throw down, to build, and to plant.”

Jere miah 1:18–19: “For behold, I have made thee this day a defenced city, and an iron pil lar, and brazen walls against the whole land, against the kings of Judah, the princes thereof, against the priests thereof, and against the people of the land. And they shall À ght against thee, but they shall not pre vail against thee, for I am with thee, saith the Lord, to deliver thee.”

43 Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 267 lines 28–30): “der sig ist wun-derlich zum untergang der starc ken, gottlosen tyrannen.”

44 Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 269 lines 4–7): “die prechtige gewon-heyt alles grewels in allen gemeynen über die gantze welt also halßstarrig worden ist . . .” Müntzer considers the pope as a baboon and mocks the priests as being sellers of permissions to eat butter during Lent (ed. Franz, p. 275 lines 9–10): “der toelpel, der bapst, mit seinen butterbuo ben . . .”

45 Thomas Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 268 lines 31–32): “irem buochstabischen glauben also hoch auffmutzt . . .” Luther and his adherents are not willing to accept that God is still speaking in their own time: “und also Gott stumm, toll und fantas tisch machen wil . . .” (ed. Franz, p. 268 line 34; p. 269 lines 1–2). Luther and his adherents are “unser gelerten” (ed. Franz, p. 279 lines 8–9), “zartlingen” (ed.

Franz, p. 278 line 16), “gottlosen zaertling” (ed. Franz, p. 279 line 39).

46 Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 268 line 2): “die schmachbücher”

refers to Martin Luther, Brief an die Fürsten zu Sachsen von dem aufrüh rischen Geist, Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 15 (Weimar 1899), pp. 199–221.

47 Thomas Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 268 lines 4–14).

48 Thomas Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 270 lines 21–24): “Derhal-ben muostu, gemeyner man, selber gelert werden, auff das du nicht lenger verfueret werdest.”

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up to his explanation of Luke 1, Müntzer assures us that even Mary

had to À ght unbelief within herself, and that therefore Luther is wrong to claim that belief can be reached without fear of God, trembling

and afÁ iction.49 Müntzer interprets the verb “to regard” in Luke 1:48

completely diffe rently from Lu ther:50 what matters is the experience of “being looked upon,” as one waits with the utmost trembling and

fear!51 In order to corroborate his own exegesis, Müntzer quotes from

the book of the prophet Isai ah: “But to this will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word.”52 People who disgrace the true Christian belief will be put down from their

seats (Lk 1:52).53

Summary

The priorities of the two interpretations of the MagniÀ cat by Luther and of Luke 1 by Müntzer are very different in deed. By drawing on

Jeremiah 9:22–23, with its sharp criticism of glorifying in wisdom, might and riches, Luther could highlight “the proud” in Luke 1, recognizing

in Mary’s song his own experiences with the pope and his followers.

For him, the song of Mary teaches the right manner of believing. This belief consists in faithfully waiting for God to “regard” one (Lk 1:48) in mercy, accep ting one’s own lowly estate (ƵƣƱƧơƮƺƴƫƳ; Lk 1:48) wit hout becoming proud (Lk 1:51) of false humility (ƵƣƱƧƫƮưƷƲưƴƾƮƩ, not

found in Lk 1:48, but easy to supply, since it is translated into Latin as humili tas).

By drawing on quotations from, among other things, Ezekiel, Jere-

miah and Isai ah, Müntzer claims to have been called by God him self

to lead the simple Christians to understand what belief really means: 49 Thomas Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 271 line 33 to p. 272

line 17).

50 One may summarize the experience of ‘being looked upon’ according to Luther as ‘being saved’.

51 Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, 272, 18–22): “Es kan auch Gott den glauben niemant vermeren, und in damit ansehen, es sey denn, das er solche ankunfft erdulde mit dem hoechsten zittern und forchten . . .” The emphasis is mine.

52 Isaiah 66:2. The emphases are mine.

53 Thomas Müntzer, Außgetrückte emplößung (ed. Franz, p. 282, 34–35; p. 284, 17–18).

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not what the pope and his followers teach, but equally not what Luther and his adherents say. A Christian can believe only after passing through fear, trembling and afÁ iction. According to Müntzer, Luther is guilty of proffering an easy form of belief and stealing away the Bible from the common man.

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BEYOND THE FREEDOM OF THE WILL:

ERASMUS’ STRUGGLE FOR GRACE

Greta Grace Kroeker

In 1524, seven years after Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses appeared, Erasmus of Rotterdam À nally answered the calls of Pope Adrian VI and others and wrote against Luther.1 In that work, De libero arbitrio, Erasmus challenged Luther on the topic of the freedom of the will. Ostensibly, Erasmus could have chosen any of Luther’s many disagreements with

the Church about which to write. Instead, he chose to argue with Luther on a theme that made up the very backbone of the Reformation debate

for both Luther and his opponents. All of the other central theological issues of the Reformation also depended on this point: grace, salvation, justiÀ cation by faith alone, and the authority of the Church. Luther recognized the importance of Erasmus’ chosen theme for the debate:

You alone . . . have attacked the real thing, that is the essential issue. You have not worried me with those extraneous issues about the Papacy,

purgatory, indulgences and such like—triÁ es, rather than issues—in

respect of which almost all to date have sought my blood . . . you, and you alone, have seen the hinge on which all turns, and aimed for the

vital spot. For that I heartily thank you; for it is more gratifying to me to deal with this issue.2

With so much of his theological program connected to this issue, Luther could not let Erasmus’ defense of free will go unanswered. Luther’s

response to Erasmus focused on the theology of grace and justiÀ ca-

tion by faith alone.3 In De servo arbitrio, Luther revealed that he found Erasmus’ articulation of the freedom of the will not only unbiblical and inaccurate, but also sloppy and misguided. In the introduction he

1 Erasmus of Rotterdam and Martin Luther, Discourse on Free Will, trans. and ed.

Ernst F. Winter (New York: Continuum, 1999), viii–ix.

2 Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will, ed. J.I. Packer and O.R. Johnston (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Fleming H. Revell, 1957), 42.

3 Martin Brecht, Martin Luther: Shaping and DeÀ ning the Reformation, 1521–1532 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 51. Brecht notes that Luther referred to Romans as

“truly the purest gospel”.

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snipped that Erasmus’ efforts seemed unworthy of such a great and

formidable intellect:

your book, by comparison struck me as so worthless and poor that my

heart went out to you for having deÀ led your lovely, brilliant Á ow of language with such vile stuff. I thought it outrageous to convey material of so low a quality in the trappings of such rare eloquence, it is like using gold or silver dishes to carry garden rubbish or dung. You seem to have had more than an inkling of this yourself, for you were reluctant to undertake the task of writing because, I suppose, your conscience warned you that, whatever literary resources you might bring with you into the fray, you would not be able to impose on me, but I should see through

all of your meretricious verbiage to the vile stuff beneath4

There is something to be said for Luther’s critique of Erasmus’ work

in De libero arbitrio. That work did not represent the À nal or fullest formulation of Erasmus’ understanding of the believer’s freedom to effect his or her salvation. Although De libero arbitrio and Erasmus’ subsequent responses to Luther’s counterattack in the Hyperaspistes and Diatribae adversus servum arbitrium M. Lutheri (1526, 1527) have often been viewed as Erasmus’ À nal articulation of his position on the matter, they constitute, in effect, only the beginning. In a process that continued for the remaining twelve years of his life, Erasmus reconsidered and reworked his own understandings of Paul and justiÀ cation as he endeavored to

comprehend and assess the Scriptural perspective on the freedom of the will that Luther so vigorously articulated. In a lengthy letter to his close friend Thomas More in 1527, Erasmus fretted over what he had written

in De libero arbitrio. Erasmus pledged to continue his investigation: If I treat the subject from the point of view of the monks and theologians, who attribute too much to man’s merits because it is to their advantage to hold this opinion, clearly I speak against my conscience and knowingly obscure the glory of Christ. But if I govern my pen in such a way as to attribute some power to free will, but great efÀ cacy to grace, I offend both sides, which was my experience with the Diatribe. If I follow Paul and Augustine, very little is left to free will. Augustine, in fact, in the two books he wrote in his old age against Valentine, does indeed afÀ rm the existence of free will; but he makes such a case for the power of grace that I do not see what is left to free will. He admits that works performed before the action of grace are dead; he attributes to grace our ability to repent, our will to do good, the good we have done, our perseverance

in doing good. He admits that grace works all these things in us. Then 4 Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 63.

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where is merit? Confronted by this dilemma Augustine had recourse to

saying that God imputes his good works to us as merits and crowns his

own gifts in us. Is that not a clever defence of free will? For myself, I should not be averse to the opinion according to which we can of our

own natural powers and without particular grace acquire congruent grace, as they say, except that Paul opposed this view. For that matter not even the schoolmen accept this opinion.5

Erasmus worried that either interpretation of the will would pose “dangers.”6 Attributing too little to free will in the process of justiÀ cation might encourage some to “abandon their zeal for good works.” Yet, at

the same time, allowing too much “to our own strength what is owed

wholly to divine muniÀ cence” also posed problems.7 Erasmus’ letter

to Thomas More is a sign of his increasingly troubled position in the Reformation debate. He viewed the theological task of debating with

Luther as both thankless and dangerous8 and asked More, “Why should

I now compromise myself for the sake of the world, whose advantages

can never make me happy.”9

While crafting his responses to Luther’s counterattacks, Erasmus

also worked on editions of the Greek Church Fathers, Origen and

Chrysostom. His work on Chrysostom, in particular, shaped Erasmus’

promised reassessment of Paul’s Epistle to the Romans.10 Even though

Erasmus had depended heavily on Origen in his original dispute against Luther,11 his later work on free will demonstrates Chrysostom’s inÁ uence on his interpretation of Paul and justiÀ cation.

5 Erasmus of Rotterdam, Ep. 1804, The Correspondence of Erasmus, vol. 13 of Collected Works of Erasmus, ed. James Farge, trans. Charles Fantazzi (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, forthcoming), 17–18. I would like to express special thanks to the editor and translator for providing me with a copy of their translation of this letter prior to its publication.

6 Ibid., 18.

7 Ibid.

8 Ibid., 19.

9 Ibid., 20.

10 Erasmus mentions his work on Chrysostom in Ep 1804: Erasmus, Ep 1804, The Correspondence of Erasmus, vol. 13, ed. James Farge, trans. Charles Fantazzi, 16.

11 For a discussion of Origen and the Luther-Erasmus debate, see Jon F. Dechow,

“Origen’s Shadow over the Erasmus/Luther Debate,” Origeniana sexta: Origène et la Bible.

Actes du Colloquium Origianum Sextum, Chantilly, 30 août–3 septembre, 1993, eds. Giles Dori-val and Alain Le Boulluec (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1995), 739–757. For a complete discussion of Erasmus’ use of Origen in the Annotations of Romans, see André Godin, “Fonction d’Origène dans la pratique exégétique d’Erasme; les Annotations su l’epître aux Romains,” Histoire de l’exégèse au XVI e siècle: textes du colloque international tenu à Genève en 1976 (Geneva: Droz, 1978), 17–44.

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After 1527, Erasmus made substantial changes to his Paraphrases and Annotations on the Pauline Epistles.12 As he promised More in his letter, these changes demonstrated his commitment to reassessing Paul’s

understanding of the will and its ramiÀ cations for the justiÀ cation of human sinners. The Annotations and Paraphrases on Romans, in particular, reveal the evolution of his interpretation of Paul’s understanding of the will, grace, and justiÀ cation. The 1527 Annotations (the fourth edition) and the 1532 Paraphrases (the tenth edition)13 of Romans mark two points of departure in Erasmus’ development: the À rst theological, the second exegetical. The 1527 edition of the Annotations, Erasmus’

philological/theological notes on Paul’s Letter to the Romans, reÁ ects Erasmus’ reconsideration of established patristic sources, humanistic philological tools, and scholastic theological debates as well as the inÁ uence of Luther’s challenge to the freedom of the will. Likewise, the 1532 Paraphrases, his exegetical summary of the epistle, reveal Erasmus’

continued efforts to understand how much freedom Paul allowed the

human will in the process of justiÀ cation.

It was not uncommon for Erasmus to reexamine and make changes

to his works upon republication. Thus, it is not at all unusual that these editions of annotations and paraphrases included his changes. However, it is in these editions that the À rst evidence of “lutheranizing” changes appeared in his work on Romans.14 In his work on Romans alone,

Erasmus made more than twenty-seven changes to his interpretation

of the freedom of the will in the editions between 1527 and his death in 1536. The changes demonstrate Erasmus’ reappraisal of Paul on

many levels. Most importantly, Erasmus increased his references to

12 Erasmus, “Paraphrasis in epistolam Pauli ad Romanos,” Tomus Secundus (Basel: Fro-ben, 1532). The version I used is found at the Universität Basel, call number fa 246.

13 For an accounting of the publication history of the Paraphrases on Romans, see John J. Bateman, “The Textual Travail of the Tomus secundus of the Paraphrases,” Holy Scripture Speaks: The Production and Reception of Erasmus’ Paraphrases on the New Testament, eds. Hilmar M. Pabel and Mark Vessey (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), 213–264. For the publication history of the Annotations on the New Testament, see Erika Rummel, Erasmus’ “Annotations” on the New Testament: From Philologist to Theologian (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986), vii.

14 I borrow this terminology from John B. Payne. See his article, “The SigniÀ cance of Lutheranizing Changes in Erasmus’ Interpretation of Paul’s Letter to the Romans and the Galatians in his Annotationes (1527) and Paraphrases (1532),” Histoire de l’exégèse au XVI e siècle: textes du colloque international tenu à Genève en 1976 (Geneva: Droz, 1978), 315. James Tracy discusses similar observations in an unpublished paper, “Luther’s InÁ uence on Erasmus’ Concept of Faith,” Paper presented at the Central Renaissance Conference, Denton, Texas, 1968.

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Chrysostom, expanded his annotations and exegetical paraphrases on

important verses regarding the will, and introduced interpretations

remarkably similar to Luther’s own understanding of Paul’s position

on grace and free will.

The following examples demonstrate that the opinions Erasmus

expressed in De libero arbitrio did not reÁ ect his À nal consideration of the issues central to the Reformation debate. Although I have space

for only two examples here, they serve to illustrate the nature of the changes to Erasmus’ understanding of Paul’s statements to the Romans

about free will and grace. Erasmus’ treatments of Paul’s Letter to the Romans changed over time. By the eve of his death, he had signiÀ -

cantly altered his interpretation of many of the very same verses he had used in his defense of the freedom of the will, as well as other verses from Romans.

First, Erasmus uses Romans 1:16 and 1:1715 in De libero arbitrio as evidence against the enslavement of the will.16 In the polemic, Erasmus À rst quotes Galatians 2:20 and then paraphrases Romans 1:17: “Ita

Paulus: ‘Vivo autem iam non ego, vivit vero in me Christus’, et tamen

iustus apud eundem ex À de vivit. Quomodo igitur vivens non vivit?

Quia spiritui dei fert acceptum quod vivit.”17 Although Erasmus chose

not to employ his own version of the verse which was À rst published in 1516, nor the Vulgate version, for that matter, but rather crafted a 15 Note that Erasmus did not treat the two verses together in the Paraphrases.

16 Erasmus altered the Vulgate version of the verse, but did not use his own translation in De libero arbitrio. Erasmus’ New Testament Version: “Non enim me pudet evangelii.

Potentia siquidem est dei in Salutem omni credenti, Iudaeo primum simul & Graeco.

Iustita enim Dei in eo revelatur ex À de in À dem: sicut scripturum est; Iustus autem ex À de vivit.” Vulgate: “Non enim erubesco Euangelium. Virtus enim Dei est in Salutem omni credenti, Iudaeo primum & Graeco. Iustitia enim Dei in eo revelatur ex À de in À dem: sicut scripturum est; Iustus autem ex À de vivit.” For Erasmus’ versions of the Vulgate, see Erasmus, Erasmus’ Annotations on the New Testament: Acts, Romans, I and II Corinthians, eds. Anne Reeve and M.A. Screech (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1990). The verse reads, “For I am not ashamed of the gospel: it is the power of God for salvation to every one who has faith, to the Jew À rst and also to the Greek. For in it the righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith; as it is written, ‘He who through faith is righteous shall live’.” Romans 1:16–17 RSV.

17 Erasmus, De libero arbitrio, vol. 4 of Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. and trans. Winfried Lesowsky (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1969), 146–147. For English, see Erasmus, Controversies, vol. 76 of Collected Works of Erasmus, ed. Charles Trinkaus, trans. Peter Macardle and Clarence H. Miller (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999) 69. Romans is used in De libero arbitrio when he argues, “Similarly Paul says, ‘But now it is not I who live; it is Christ who lives in me’; yet also according to Paul, ‘the just man lives by faith.’ How can he live and not live? Because he ascribes the fact that he lives to the Spirit of God.”

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slightly altered version of the text, the meaning of the verse remained the same.18

Erasmus’ discussion of these verses falls in a section of his diatribe entitled, “Pauline passages that do not preclude free will if they are correctly interpreted.”19 He argues that “certain orthodox Fathers”

“posit three stages of human activity: À rst comes thought; then follows the wish to carry it out; the third is actually performing it.”20 Erasmus acknowledges that the À rst and third stages preclude free will. “But in the second phase, wishing to carry it out, grace and human will work

together, grace, however, being the principal, and our will the secondary, cause.”21 Erasmus argues that it is this call to work, this freedom to work, that demonstrates human freedom in the process of justiÀ cation.

He asks, if humans have no free will, “what does man ‘work’ if our

will is to God as clay to the potter?”22

Erasmus uses the apparent tension between the commands in Romans

1:16–17 and those in Galatians 2:20 to argue that grace and free will

are not mutually exclusive. Thus, he points out that although Paul

asserts in Galatians 2:20 that “it is not I who live; it is Christ who lives in me” Paul also said in Romans 1:17 that “the just man lives by faith.”

If both verses are interpreted literally, Erasmus asks, “How can he live and not live?” Erasmus claims that since Paul “ascribes the fact that

he lives to the Spirit of God,”23 God’s grace works in conjunction with the believer’s will. Consequently, Paul does not exclude the “possibility of cooperation.”24

In 1527, just three years after the publication of De libero arbitrio, Erasmus explains Romans 1:17 very differently in his Annotations. In this annotation on the verse, Erasmus focuses directly on the word

“faith” and its various meanings. He connects “faith” to the concept

of “Promise.” He argues:

18 After 1516, Erasmus continued to annotate his version of the New Testament. For a thorough discussion of Erasmus’ work on the revision of Jerome’s Vulgate and the accompanying Annotations, see Erika Rummel, Erasmus’ “Annotations” on the New Testament: From Philologist to Theologian.

19 CWE, vol. 76, 67.

20 Ibid.

21 Ibid., 68.

22 Ibid., 69.

23 Ibid.

24 Ibid., 70. Like most verses Erasmus employs to argue against Luther, he uses this verse in quick succession with snippets of other verses. In the same paragraph he also refers to Matthew 10:20, Acts 4:8, Acts 6:10, and 1 Corinthians 15:10.

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À des belongs sometimes to one who promises, sometimes to one who

fulÀ ls a promise, sometimes to one who believes, sometimes to one who is believed; sometimes it is a general term, as when we say ‘there is no faith

[À des] left in the world,’ meaning that no one fulÀ ls what he promises, and that no one trusts [À dere] another. . . .25

After speaking of faith in terms of reliance and belief in a promise, Erasmus turns to another meaning of faith; one he began to emphasize

in his later interpretations of Romans (especially Romans 3:22, 4:21–24, 8:15, and 10:12).26 Here, he explains trust as the result of faith, so that trust “resides only in the believer [in credente].”27 Trust, moreover, is the product of God’s omnipotence and goodness, and it instills hope in the fulÀ llment of God’s promises.28 In this way, the will has no role in establishing or maintaining faith and trust. Instead, even the believer’s assent to God’s mandates stems from this faith:

But sacred literature frequently uses these words loosely, for it often uses À des [faith] for À ducia [trust] in God almost in the sense of hope; sometimes for the belief or conviction by which we assent to the things handed down to us about God—by which even the demons believe. Sometimes

the word faith [À des] embraces all these meanings: that assent to the truth both of the historical record and of the promises, and the trust [À ducia]

that arises from his omnipotent goodness, not without the hope, that is, the expectation, of the promises. So far, indeed, does one speak of the faith [À des] of human beings.29

These À rst sections of the annotation establish the various meanings and interpretations of faith. In the last part of the annotation of 1:17, Erasmus goes on to emphasize what Paul intends to say in Romans 1:17

about the meaning of faithfulness; namely, to be faithful is to see that

“faith [À des] is strengthened concerning the things that were predicted about his À nal coming.”30

25 For the entire annotation, see Erasmus, Annotations on Romans, vol. 56 of Collected Works of Erasmus, ed. Robert D. Sider (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994), 42–45.

26 Both Rudolf Padberg and James Tracy have noted Erasmus’ post-1527 concern for connecting “faith” and “trust.” See Rudolf Padberg, “Glaubenstheologie und Gla-buensverkündigung bei Erasmus; Dargestellt auf der Grundlage de Paraphrase zum Römerbrief ” Verkündigung und Glaube: Festgabe für Franz X. Arnold, eds. Theodor Filthaut and Josef Andreas Jungmann (Freiburg; Verlag Herder, 1959), 58–75 and James D.

Tracy, “Luther’s InÁ uence on Erasmus’ Concept of Faith.”

27 CWE, vol. 56, 42–45.

28 Ibid.

29 Ibid.

30 Ibid.

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To stress this point yet further, Erasmus adds another annotation

to Romans 1:17 in 1527. This change undermines his interpretation

of the verse he presented in De libero arbitrio as well. Erasmus locates the beginning of true living in faith itself: “For life has its beginning in this, that we subordinate our human understanding and trust the

divine words. This phrase is directed against the philosophers.”31 In

this way, faith is conÀ rmed by experience, not created by it. Thus, the human will does not create faith. Instead, faith precedes trust, and trust grows out of knowledge, but faith is a product of belief. Faith, Erasmus posits, is not only something to be placed in God, but something one

receives from God.

In De libero arbitrio, Erasmus argues that in the second stage of human activity, that is, “the wish to carry it out,” grace and the human will worked together, and he uses Romans 1:17 to support that notion of

cooperative grace. In this annotation to the verse, however, human

understanding, and thus human freedom, are subordinate to faith given

by God.32 Consequently, the human role in justiÀ cation is minimized,

as even faith is not the result of the human will, but rather of God’s omnipotence.

As James Tracy points out, Erasmus adheres in the Annotations to an essentially patristic interpretation, even in his lengthy discussion of faith as both belief and trust.33 Erasmus’ annotation of the verse is consistent with the interpretations of Chrysostom and Ambrosiaster.

“This righteousness is not ours,” argues Chrysostom, “but belongs to

God, and in saying this Paul hints to us that it is abundantly available and easy to obtain. For we do not get it by toil and labor but by believing.”34 Ambrosiaster concurs, suggesting, “He calls it the righteousness of God because God freely justiÀ es the ungodly by faith, without the works of the law. . . .”35

The 1517 version of the Paraphrase of Romans 1:17 contains the pattern evident in the 1527 annotation to the verse. In it, the believer is granted salvation through the gospel.36 The À rst edition of this para-31 Ibid.

32 CWE, vol. 56, 42.

33 Tracy, “Luther’s InÁ uence on Erasmus’ Concept of Faith,” 4–5.

34 Gerald Bray, ed, New Testament: Romans, vol. 6 of Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture (Downers Grove, Illinois: Intervarsity Press, 1998), 32.

35 Ibid., 30.

36 Erasmus, Paraphrases on Romans and Galatians, vol. 42 of Collected Works of Erasmus, ed. Robert D. Sider, trans. John B. Payne, Albert Rabil Jr., and Warren S. Smith Jr.

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phrase (1517) already holds that “righteousness does not depend on

the superstitious cult of idols or on the legal ceremonies of the Jews,”

but on justiÀ cation from faith, not works.

The 1532 additions to this paraphrase take this idea one step further

when Erasmus argues that the salvation of the believer is not only

given by God as no works are mentioned, but this salvation quiets the

conscience of the believer. “Quieting his conscience” is a remarkable phrase as it reÁ ects neither language used in the verse itself, nor ideas from the annotations of the verse. With it, Erasmus is attempting to

show that salvation circumvents even the conscience of the believer.

The believer’s thoughts are quieted, and therefore irrelevant to justiÀ cation as God’s power works to effect salvation, for, as Erasmus argues, righteousness stems not from Moses (and thus the law and works), but

from God and the faith of the Gospel.

Like other reformers and humanists, including Bullinger, Erasmus

chose from different sources that made the most sense to him and that

most corresponded to the meaning of the text he wanted to convey.37

Erasmus’ treatment of the verse in the Annotations and Paraphrases,

however, is not consistent with his presentation in De libero arbitrio. When looking at this progression, it is worth noting that Martin Luther also used Romans 1:17 in De servo arbitrio. Although Luther’s use of the verse (Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1984), 17. (Bold portion added 1532, emphasis mine): “For the majesty of imperial Rome does not deter me from this, nor do I think that I ought to be ashamed of performing my task if I preach the gospel of Christ.

For just as to the impious and unbelieving the gospel seems silly and worthless, so to whoever believes it is the power of God capable of conferring salvation on the believer and truly quieting his conscience, which neither the traditions of the Jews nor your philosophy nor your wealth is able to do. Although this power is equally effective for all, nevertheless, as the Lord commanded, it was offered À rst to the Jews for the sake of honour; soon, through preachers of the gospel, to be spread among the Greeks and all the nations of the world, so that all equally might acknowledge their own unrighteousness and seek the righteousness of God, whether they be Scythians or Britons. Far, indeed, from salvation is he who neither understands his own sickness nor knows where to seek a remedy for it. For formerly, different people had different views of what righteousness depended upon; but now the righteousness, not of Moses, but of God himself, is disclosed to all through the gospel of Christ. This righteousness does not depend on the superstitious cult of idols or on the legal ceremonies of the Jews. Rather it comes from faith, as long as men acknowledge that God is now offering what formerly he had promised through the mouth of his own prophets. For instance, Habakkuk prophesied: ‘My righteous man shall live by Faith’.”

37 For Bullinger’s dependence on Origen and his use of this verse, see Susi Hausam-mann, Römerbriefauslegung zwischen Humanismus und Reformation: Eine studie zu Heinrich Bullingers Römerbriefvorlesung von 1525 (Zürich: Zwingli Verlag, 1970), 64.

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is very different from Erasmus’ deployment of it in De libero arbitrio, Erasmus’ later discussions of the verse are not so far from Luther’s.

Luther writes “So that this pair of statements by Paul, that ‘the righteous lives by faith’ (Rom. 1:17), and that ‘whatsoever is not of faith, is sin’

(Rom. 14:23), stand conÀ rmed. The latter follows from the former; for if it is only by faith that we are justiÀ ed, it is evident that they who are without faith are not yet justiÀ ed. . . .”38

A second example from Romans also demonstrates Erasmus’ recon-

sideration of the ideas expressed in De libero arbitrio. Erasmus uses Romans 3:27–28 to argue against Luther’s assertion of the servitude

of the will. However, this was neither Erasmus’ only nor his last interpretation of this verse.39 In De libero arbitrio, Erasmus uses the verse to describe Paul’s three uses of “law”: the law of nature, the law of works, and the law of faith.40 The most important of these for Erasmus are

the law of works and the law of faith.

Erasmus then carefully describes Paul’s understanding of the relationship between the law of works and the law of faith. On the one hand, the law of works “increases sin and engenders death, not because it is evil but because it commands things that we cannot achieve without

grace.”41 The law of faith, on the other hand, requires “more difÀ cult things than the law of works, and yet, with the addition of abundant grace, it makes things which are intrinsically impossible not merely easy but actually delightful.”42 Erasmus argues, using this deÀ nition of the different kinds of law, that “the Law shows what God wishes. It lays

down punishment if you do not obey, and promised reward if you do.

For the rest, God leaves the power of choice to their will, which he

created free in them and able to turn in either direction.”43 Erasmus

wonders, why God would have laws and rules, “if we lacked the power

of free will. For although freedom of the will has been wounded by

sin, it is not dead.”44 Against Luther’s assurance that the human will 38 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 300–301.

39 RSV Romans 27–28. “Then what become of our boasting? It is excluded. On what principle? On the principle of works? No, but on the principle of faith. For we hold that man is justiÀ ed by faith apart from works of the law.”

40 “Unde nascitur nobis triplex legis genus: lex naturae, lex operum, lex À dei, ut Paulinis utar verbis.” See Erasmus, De libero arbitrio, vol. 4 of Ausgewhälte Schriften, 42.

41 CWE, vol, 76, 25.

42 Ibid.

43 Ibid., 26.

44 Ibid.

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plays no role in salvation, Erasmus argues that God’s very expectation that humans live within the conÀ nes of the law indicates the ability of the will to comply.

Even though the original paraphrase of the verse indicated Paul’s

insistence on faith, Erasmus’ 1532 additions to the paraphrase removed any doubt that Erasmus felt Paul intended the Law of Faith to supplant the Law of Moses.

Tell me, therefore, Jew, where is your boasting? Of course this boasting was taken away from you after the divine will made all the races of the world equal with respect to the gospel. Salvation and righteousness are conferred also on the gentiles. Through what law then? Through that

old Mosaic law which prescribes ceremonies? Not at all, but through a

new law which demands nothing except faith in the Son of God. For we believe what in fact is the case, that in the future anyone at all will be able to attain righteousness through faith, even if he does not observe the prescriptions of the Mosaic law. That law was peculiar to the Jewish nation, but this favour of the grace of the gospel proceeds from God himself to all.45

The 1532 changes indicate that not just any faith, but faith in the

Son of God is demanded by the new Law of God. Additionally, while

Erasmus originally wrote that righteousness could be attained, he

reverses that by adding “through faith” to the sentence. The resulting message is that nothing but faith leads to righteousness. Moreover,

unlike in De libero arbitrio, Erasmus is arguing that the grace of God is the grace of the Gospel, and therefore dependent not on the law, but

on faith. Though the changes Erasmus added in 1532 are brief, they

are some of the most theologically signiÀ cant changes he made to the Paraphrases on Romans.

According to John B. Payne, Erasmus’ treatment of Romans 3:27

indicates yet another instance of his choosing to emphasize “faith as the means or basis of forgiveness or justiÀ cation.”46 Tracy has also noted an increased emphasis on faith in the changes made to this verse in 1532, in spite of the care taken in De libero arbitirio to maintain “an eye to ‘the law of faith’ in Romans 3:27 and ‘the spiritual law’ of Romans 7:14.”

Yet, as Tracy also argues, “identifying the Law with the ceremonial law left room for belief that salvation depended partly on observance of

45 CWE, vol. 42, 25. Bold added 1532, emphasis mine.

46 Payne, “Lutheranizing Changes,” 319.

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the moral law; ceremonies were works of the Á esh, not of the spirit.”47

Indeed, the changes Erasmus introduced in 1532 went some distance

to reverse this understanding of the relationship between the law and salvation. This verse, in particular, became an important touchstone

of the Reformation debate because Luther’s insertion of “alone” after

“justiÀ ed by faith” in his translation of the verse sparked accusations that his manipulation of the text was “lacerating and falsifying” Holy Scripture.48

The changes in Erasmus’ interpretation of both Romans 1:16–17

and Romans 3:27–28 indicate the evolving nature of his theology of

the will. His uses of both verses changed signiÀ cantly after his 1524

exchange with Luther. As his 1527 letter to Thomas More indicates,

Erasmus felt unsure of his own position on the will and struggled to

come to terms with Luther’s position in light of both Pauline scripture and Augustinian theology. Fatigued by the battle with the Lutherans

and the criticisms of Parisian theologians,49 Erasmus complained that

“To put it brieÁ y, the majority of the Lutheran faction is convinced that I am the only obstacle to the conversion of all of Germany to the Gospel . . . Now the other side is striving with every ounce of energy to knock my books from men’s hands.”50

Despite his eagerness to be done with the debate, Erasmus contin-

ued to grapple with the issues of free will, justiÀ cation, and grace and acknowledge the centrality of the issue for Christians and Christendom long after his initial foray into the debate in 1524 with De libero arbitrio.

His subsequent changes to the Annotations and Paraphrases on Romans serve as a reminder of the seriousness with which Erasmus undertook

Biblical studies and the gravity with which he addressed the theological issues central to his day.51

Historians of the Renaissance and Reformation have often incorrectly

assumed that in the 1524 debate with Luther, Erasmus rendered his À nal opinion on Free Will. As a result, Erasmus has typically been lumped

47 Tracy, “Luther’s InÁ uence on Erasmus’ Concept of Faith,” 4, 8.

48 Jaraslov Pelikan, The Reformation of Church and Dogma (1300–1700), vol. 4 of The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 252. See also page 266.

49 See Ep 1804, Correspondence of Erasmus, vol. 13 of Collected Works of Erasmus, 16

fn 16.

50 Ibid., 24.

51 For a more detailed discussion of the signiÀ cance of Letter 1804, see Charles Trinkaus, in his introduction to Erasmus, CWE, vol. 76, especially pages lxxx–lxxxi.

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in with other defenders of Catholicism against the Protestant reform-

ers. This may be the consequence of the popularity and availability of De libero arbitrio and because Erasmus failed to discredit Luther’s program and movement for reform. Many, including experts on Erasmus’

thought, have assumed that this perceived failure marked the decline

of Erasmus’ inÁ uence on the humanistic and theological debates con-

nected with the Reformation.52 The reason for the persistence of this view is simple: hardly anyone has even looked at Erasmus’ theological

ideas after his exchange with Luther. However, the examples cited here, and the more than twenty-À ve changes like them that Erasmus made

to the Paraphrases on Romans prior to his death, demonstrate that he

continued to reassess and revisit his view of Free Will. Indeed, Erasmus’

exegetical work on Romans and theology of the Will between 1522

and 1536 evidences a remarkable shift away from what would come

to be deÀ ned as “Orthodox” by the Council of Trent.

52 Even more recent approaches to Erasmus’ theology tend to take Erasmus’

polemical work as the À nal and most complete articulation of his theology of the will.

Timothy Wengert’s Human freedom, Christian righteousness: Philip Melanchthon’s exegetical dispute with Erasmus of Rotterdam (Oxford UP, 1998), for example, bases Melancthon’s critique of Erasmus’ theology of the will primarily on Erasmus’ De libero arbitrio and Hyperaspistes (both polemical works against Luther) and his New Testament Annotations, rather than his theological trajectory evidenced in the Pauline Paraphrases.

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TOLERANCE AND HERESY: MARTIN BUCER’S RADICAL

NEW DEFINITION OF CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP

Berndt Hamm

At À rst sight the reformation controversy about the Lord’s Supper was related to only one speciÀ c theological problem: the interpretation of Christ’s words of institution and the question of the nature of Christ’s physical presence in the celebration of the Eucharist. But in the course of the controversy it became ever more apparent how extensively the

limits of the problem were bound up with the question of the Real

Presence. Hence the dispute about the interpretation of a few bibli-

cal sayings could open up and foster fundamental differences in many

areas of theology, from ontology and the doctrine of God to Christology and pneumatology to biblical hermeneutics and ecclesiology. One

of the truly radical considerations which was given impetus by the

dispute about the Lord’s Supper—and subsequently revealed totally

different conceptions within the reforming camp—was the question of

the conditions and limits of fellowship within the Church: whom can

one recognize and countenance as a brother in Christ (there is never

speciÀ c mention of sisters when this question is considered)? How much disagreement over biblical interpretation and questions of doctrine can the unity of the church tolerate? And at what point does the insupport-able heresy which leads to exclusion from the community arise?

Martin Bucer faced these questions with increased urgency because of

the disappointing outcome of the Marburg Colloquy. Towards the end

of the meeting, on the afternoon of October third 1529, Martin Luther had explained to him that, because of the difference in the understanding of the Eucharist, his conscience would not allow him to recognize the Upper Germans and Swiss as brothers in Christ.1 In Bucer’s view

this denial of Christian fellowship by the faction from Wittenberg

created a gulf which was far wider even than that occasioned by the

1 Cf. Bucer’s reminiscence in his Widmungsschreiben ( v. n. 9), 51, 23–27; Cf. also BCor III, 333, 3–25 (Bucer to Ambrosius Blarer), BDS IV, 350, 23–25; 353, 15–23; 355, 10–18 (Reports on the Marburg Colloquy by Kaspar Hedio, Johannes Brenz and Andreas Osiander). Abbreviations: BCor = Martin Bucer: Briefwechsel/Correspondance; BDS = Martin Bucers Deutsche Schriften.

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problem of the Eucharist; for as he saw it what was now at stake was

the fundamental ecclesiastical unity with the people from Wittenberg.

For him it was not the question of the physical presence of Christ but the question of the weight-bearing capacity of Christian communio which was the real, truly fundamental controversy that threatened to destroy the solidarity of those of the Protestant conviction.2 Consequently, in the months after Marburg Bucer devoted himself energetically to this

problem. He was already familiar with the topic. In the early years of the conÁ ict about the Eucharist before the Marburg Colloquy—which

were also the years when the clash with the Anabaptists began—Bucer,

following Erasmian ideas and in common with his Upper Rhine and

Swiss Humanist and Reforming friends Zwingli, Oecolampadius and

Capito, had developed views on the central signiÀ cance of the Christian principles of paciÀ sm and love, friendship and brotherhood.3 Here special emphasis was laid upon the basic position of tolerance, i.e. on the ability within the Christian community, and with the biblical Word as

the basis for agreement, to permit divergent opinions, endure brotherly admonition and in this way achieve unity in the diversity of doctrine and belief.4 Hence the outlines of Bucer’s theology of tolerance were already clearly developed before 1529/30.5

Bucer overcame the shocking experience of Marburg—the experience

of a kind of excommunication which was made even more bitter and

2 This relativizing—indeed trivializing—of the actual controversy about the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist is in Bucer and Capito from the very beginning not simply tactics and strategy (as Kaufmann would have us believe) but is primarily the result of a theological position: when the Eucharist is spiritualized and internalized the signiÀ cance of the external signs and the text of the Words of Institution is diminished; all the emphasis now falls on the trusting recollection of Christ’s redeeming act and the eucharistic gift of brotherly love bestowed therein by the Holy Spirit. The fellowship of those who believe and love becomes the main content of the Eucharist to such a degree that by comparison the divergence in the understanding of the Words of Institution can be described as a quarrel about something insigniÀ cant, a misunderstanding and an unnecessary squabble over words ( cf. BCor IV, Nr. 314, 320, 324, 326, 328, 329, 338, 339). The true criteria of the proper understanding of the Eucharist are then the fruits of love and patient brotherly treatment of those who hold another interpretation of the eucharistic words. Cf. Thomas Kaufmann: Die Abendmahlstheologie der Straßburger Reformatoren bis 1528, Tübingen 1992 (BHTh 81).

3 Cf. Friedhelm Krüger: Bucer und Erasmus. Eine Untersuchung zum EinÁ uss des Erasmus auf die Theologie Martin Bucers (bis zum Evangelien—Kommentar von 1530), Wiesbaden 1970 (VIEG 57); Gottfried Bender: Die Irenik Martin Bucers in ihren Anfängen (1523–1528),

Hildesheim 1975 (Studia Irenica 5).

4 Cf. Bender: ibid . , 25–35, “Die Sodalitas Christiana der oberrheinisch-schweizeri-schen Reformatoren.”

5 Cf. e.g. Bucer’s remarks at the Bern Disputation in 1528: BDS IV, 82,8–83,18.

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offensive by further comments from the Wittenberg party6—by hon-

ing his earlier thoughts on Christian irenics and expanding them even

further into an agenda. In the spring of 1530 he reached a fundamen-

tally new deÀ nition of Christian fellowship. Bucer’s new understanding is innovative in major points on the one hand in comparison to the

traditional Roman Catholic understanding of church fellowship and

heresy and on the other in clear contrast to the Lutheran deÀ nition of the relationship between the truth of faith and the tolerance of love7

Moreover, in the context of a dynamic biblical, reforming theology

he also goes beyond the de-dogmatizing ideals of peace and unity of

Erasmian Humanism and Zwingli’s intolerantly dogmatic, aggressive

claim to hold the truth.8 In what follows we shall see the exceptional features which mark Bucer’s way, so that we can speak of a new conception of Christian tolerance in his works.

The great programmatic text in which Bucer—as answer to Mar-

burg—treated in depth the question of the basis and bounds of

Christian brotherhood and the nature of heresy was the Dedicatory

Letter ( Epistola nuncupatoria) of 20 March 1530 preÀ xed to the second edition of his commentary on the Gospels.9 He addresses this to the

Professors at the University of Marburg with whom he feels a particular solidarity after they met at the Colloquy, particularly in their efforts to À nd a form of Christian fellowship strong enough to reconcile the differences in the Eucharist.10 The length of this letter—as the longest 6 In the Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9, 62,28–66,10) Bucer remarks upon the ‘libelous’

and hurtful statements made by the Lutheran side against the Strasbourg theologians in the months after the Marburg Colloquy: “Iam non per Germaniam solum circum-feruntur ac volitant non paucorum epistolae [. . .]”.

7 Here cf. below, p. 287f.

8 Cf. e.g. his attitude on the question of images, and on this Fritz Büsser: “Bucer und Zwingli” in Christian Krieger/Marc Lienhard (eds.), Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg (28–31 Aout 1991) Vol. I, Leiden et al. 1993 (SMRT

52), pp. 394–402. Cf. for example Bucer’s clear criticism of Zwingli’s proscriptive polemic on the question of the Eucharist: Letter to Zwingli, 18th September 1530 in BCor IV, Nr. 341, 288,3–289,26. The letter shows clearly how Bucer’s conception of brotherly tolerance and readiness to negotiate alienated him from Zwingli’s polemical theology although in his understanding of the Eucharist itself he remains very close to Zwingli as before.

9 Martin Bucer: Widmungsschreiben an die Marburger Akademie. 20. März 1530, in BCor IV, Nr. 279, 37–67. On Bucer’s exchange with Marburg cf. also his earlier letter to Ambrosius Blarer dated 26th January 1530 (ibid . , Nr. 273, 11, 2–13, 25) and Roland Liebenberg, “Die Ehre Christi und der Kampf um die Einheit” in: Matthieu Arnold/Berndt Hamm (eds.), Martin Bucer zwischen Luther und Zwingli, Tübingen 2003, pp. 30–48.

10 It is characteristic that Bucer directs his great doctrinal writing on tolerance and heresy to the teaching staff of the newly-established regional University of Marburg, OCKER1_f17_268-291.indd 271

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text of our new volume of Bucer’s correspondence it covers thirty

pages—indicates that it is in fact an independent tract rather than a

letter. One could possibly best describe it as a tract-like doctrinal letter. This is underlined by the fact that Bucer initially published and sent the dedicatory letter separately11 before it appeared in a slightly for—within the bounds of commitment to reformation doctrine—his composition offers “a comparatively varied, liberal depiction of various tendencies” in which “the independent tradition of irenic, mediating frankness characteristic of Hesse in the Protestant camp” is already heralded: Wilhelm Ernst Winterhager: “Wittenberg und Marburg als Universitäten der Reformation. Humanistischer Aufbruch, reformatorische Bildungskrise und Hochschulreformdebatte im frühen 16. Jahrhundert” in Sachsen und Anhalt. Jahrbuch der Histor. Kommission für Sachsen Anhalt, Vol. 22 (1999/2000), Cologne et al. 2000, pp. 189–238; quotation from p. 215. On the positive reaction of the Marburg professors to Bucer’s dedicatory letter see the letters from Marburg of 12th and 13th April 1530 mentioned below in n. 11.

11 This separate issue, which forms the basis of our edition, appeared between 20th March and 4th April 1530 in a Strasbourg duplex-print (by Johann Prüss the Younger: VD 16, Nr. B8861), in second place after Jakob Bedrot’s Latin translation of Bucer’s German tract against religious images ( Non esse ferendas in templis christianorum imagines et statuas coli solitas [. . .] under the title: Epistola Martini Buceri in evangelistarum enarrationes nuncupatoria, ad praeclarum Academiam Marpurgensem, in qua quid haeresis, qui haeretici, et quatenus cum dissentientibus societas Christi servanda sit, disseritur. Excutiuntur quoque articuli conventus Marpurgen[sis]. Cf. BCor IV, Nr.

278, 29 and Nr. 279, 67. On 4th April 1530 Bucer sent this duplex-print to the Ulm preacher, Konrad Sam: “Mitto hic tibi, quibus castra Christi defendo a Lutheranis

[. . .]” Ibid . Nr. 282, 70,10f. On April 12th the Marburg professor of Hebrew, Sebastian Nouzenus writes to Bucer: “Libellum tuum accepi gratissimo animo [. . .]”—whereby the further tenor of the letter with the allusions contained therein (and in the letter of April 13th mentioned below) makes it clear that this ‘libellus’ is the duplex-print dedicated to Marburg but not the second edition of Bucer’s commentary on the Gospels: ibid . , Nr. 285, 76,2. On April 13th the professorial staff of Marburg University under the overall leadership of the Rector (Euricius Cordus) express their thanks for this dedicatory writing in a letter to Bucer but at the same time mention that as yet only the dedicatory letter has arrived, not the commentary on the Gospels—which is expected shortly from Frankfurt: ibid . , Nr. 286, 79,20f. There are clear proofs that Bucer’s separate edition of his letter appeared before the combined edition of the (slightly abbreviated) dedicatory letter and the commentary on the Gospels. On April 18th Bucer writes to Ambrosius Blarer that he is not sure whether he has already sent him the “epistola nuncupatoria mea de servanda ecclesiae unitate” and then in the next sentence talks about Bedrot’s translation of his “libellus de tollendis imaginibus,”

meaning the Strasbourg duplex-print of the writing about images and the dedicatory letter to Marburg: ibid . , Nr. 290, 86,2–7. Finally we must cite the letter dated May 23rd from the Augsburg doctor, Gereon Sailer to the Strasbourg preacher, Matthias Zell in which he also mentions the duplex-print: Sailer writes that the ‘libellus’ on images (written by Bucer) published by the Strasbourg party, with which Bucer’s ‘epistola’ (to the Marburg Academy) was combined, will be circulated in Augsburg. Because of its erudition, but particularly because it gives priority to love before those endless verbose arguments (on the question of the Eucharist) it will be applauded by many: ibid . , Nr.

301, 109,20–110,3.

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shortened version with the printing of his newly-published commentary on the Gospels.12

We can clearly differentiate three main sections in the construction

of the text. The À rst and longest section13 treats the basic questions of the extent of Christian tolerance and fellowship and the distinguishing features of the type of heresy which causes exclusion from the community. The basis of the argumentation is above all the New Testa-

ment corpus of Pauline Epistles. In the second, considerably shorter

section,14 Bucer turns to the particular case of the controversy over the Eucharist and the Christian brotherhood refused by Luther and

his supporters in order to return once again to the main concerns and

particularly to pick out as a central concern the forbearance of love.

The third—once again longer—section15 extracts from the statement of

the fundamentals contained in the À rst two sections the implications for assessing the Marburg Colloquy. While Bucer goes through the Marburg Articles one by one, he points to the great actual common ground

existing between the opposing parties. Hence he concludes that those

who cannot recognize such brothers as are manifestly bound to them

in Christ as members of the Christian community because they have a

different conception of the Eucharist are acting contrary to the Spirit of Christ.16 Because of their programmatic treatment of the subject the À rst two sections can be taken as a unit; they constitute what is in fact the tract on Christian tolerance and unchristian heresy. Here, as Bucer sees it, he obtains the criteria which enable him in section three to give an appropriate acknowledgement of the efforts made in Marburg, particularly by the Strasbourg group, to achieve unity, and also puts him in a position to reject libellous misinterpretations of his stance in Marburg. He writes to the Marburg professors, who witnessed the

Marburg Colloquy, that the À rst edition, like the reprint of the commentary on the Gospels, can show them that in putting his signature

to the Marburg Articles he did not contradict his earlier convictions in any way but remained true to his theological conscience in his struggle for brotherly understanding.17

12 Cf. August Lang. Der Evangelienkommentar Martin Bucers und die Grundzüge seiner Theologie,

Leipzig 1900 (SGTK II/2), reprinted Aalen 1972, pp. 63–66.

13 Widmungsschreiben, Cor IV, Nr. 279, 38,1–49,37.

14 Ibid . , 49,38–56,18.

15 Ibid . , 56,19–67,21.

16 Ibid . , 57,8–23.

17 Ibid . , 62,24–65,7.

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The conjunction of the dedicatory letter with the commentary on

the Gospels underlines the fact that Bucer’s programmatic reÁ ections on church unity and heresy are part of the central core of his theological work as interpreter of scripture. But at the same time this core of his theology in the spring of 1530 also had far-reaching religio-political consequences. For this there is a lovely literary piece of evidence which can scarcely be surpassed: Bucer took over his remarks on church fellowship and heresy, right down to particular lines of argumentation and formulations, from the À rst two parts of his Latin dedicatory epistle to the Marburg Academy, in a German recommendation which he drew up

on behalf of the Strasbourg Council for the town’s delegates to the Diet of Augsburg.18 This Ratschlag is a modiÀ ed—by and large abbreviated but in part extended by supplementary arguments—intensiÀ ed revised

version of the programmatic reÁ ections of the dedicatory tract, more strongly focused on the controversial interpretation of the Eucharistic Words. Since the Strasbourg Council at the end of May or beginning

of June 1530 allowed the document to be delivered by its Augsburg

delegates to the Hessian landgrave, Philip,19 it is clear that, with his theological programme, Bucer not only met with the approval of the

governing body at Strasbourg but that his ideas became a factor in their strategy of agreement and alliance with Philip of Hesse. We shall come back to this point at the end of this essay. But for the present I should like to summarize the main features of Bucer’s remarkable, not to say 18 This has been edited by Bernd Moeller as Bucer’s so-called “Ratschlag A” on the Eucharistic Controversy (after the [as yet] only known copy in the municipal archives in Constance) in: BDS III, pp. 321–338. The close connection between Ratschlag A and the dedicatory letter has, as far as I can see, eluded research up till now. Cf. in addition to Moeller’s introduction to the edition e.g. Friedhelm Krüger: “Bucer und Erasmus”

in: Christian Krieger/Marc Lienhard (eds.) Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe (as n. 8) Vol. 2 (SMRT 53) pp. 583–594: 587; Tatiana Balt: “Humanistische Traditionen in der Tätigkeit von Martin Bucer”, ibid . , pp. 595–602: 600–602.

19 On 2nd June the delegates Jakob Sturm and Matthis Pfarrer wrote to the Strasbourg Council that they had delivered the Ratschlag to the landgrave: Politische Correspondenz der Stadt Straßburg im Zeitalter der Reformation, Vol. 1, edited by Hans Virck, Strasbourg 1882, Nr. 728,447. This delivery must have taken place between May 28th, the date of the delegates’ previous letter to the Council (ibid . , Nr. 726,445), and June 2nd. The landgrave passed the Ratschlag on to the theologians of the Lutheran princes who were residing in Augsburg. Melanchthon and Brenz reacted on June 11th with a stringent rejection of the Ratschlag’s offer of concord, in which rejection they persisted in a second document—after the landgrave had made a renewed attempt. On June 21st Sturm and Pfarrer sent Bucer’s writing back to Strasbourg with the comment that they had been unable to achieve anything with the “Saxon scholars” (BDS III, Nr. 747,459).

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astonishing, redeÀ nition of Christian fellowship and unchristian heresy.

In so doing I refer both to the dedicatory letter to Marburg and to the Ratschlag which, as regards both time and content, is contiguous to it.

We can formulate as follows the decisive question with which Bucer

saw himself confronted after the crucial test of the Eucharistic Controversy but also because of the clash with the Anabaptists: How much variability in doctrine and belief can and must Christian community

bear?20 And what kind of solidarity is the basis for allowing church

unity to be preserved in spite of the differences? A look at the disciples and apostles, at the Pauline congregations in the New Testament and

at the history of the Church Fathers shows Bucer how serious from

the very beginning were the errors and conÁ icts about the truth in the Church.21 Obviously error in the question of faith is an inevitable part of earthly Christian and Church existence because not only the Spirit of Christ but the counterforce of sinful blindness is always at work in the believer.22 Everyone, no matter how learned and devout he is, must reckon that he can fall into a serious error of faith and doctrine.23 The devout Church Fathers provide illustrative material, among them, for

example, the great Cyprian.24 Enthusiastically—and in the À rm convic-

tion that he was serving the truth—he defended the false doctrine that the baptism of heretical groups was invalid, so that those who wished to transfer to the mother Church, having been baptized by heretics,

must be baptized again

What is typical here is that precisely the one who is very much

mistaken, who is miles away from the Christian truth25 labours under

the subjective conviction that he is following the true doctrine.26 Consequently according to Bucer a À rm certainty and faithfulness to one’s conviction right up to readiness to suffer for the truth is no proof that 20 Cf. the question in Bucer’s Ratschlag, BDS III 324,13f: “wie weyt mit dem irrennden christlich gemainschafft unnd liebe zuhaltenn seyg” (to what extent Christian community and love should be maintained with one who strays).

21 Cf. ibid . , 323,10–324,35 with the summary (324, 14–16.30f ): “dann nie ists so wol in der kirchen gestannden, es haben sich vil, die billich von Christen nie verworffen sind, schwerlich geirrt unnd auch irenn irthumb verfochten;” “es ist auch zwar kainer unnder allen vättern, der nit doch in etlichen stucken unleydennlich geirrt habe.”

22 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 40,13–15 and 43,20–44,19.

23 Cf. ibid . , 40,3–5; Ratschlag (as n. 18) 324,21f and 325,6–8.

24 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 45,31–47,2; Ratschlag 333,19–334,11.

25 Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 40,5: “a vero absit quam longissime”.

26 Ibid . , 40,5–7 and 44,10f.

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one is grounded in truth.27 One often errs at the very point where “one thinks one is most sure of the matter.”28 Bucer directs this at Luther and his comrades-in-arms who, in the conviction of their faith and

theological conscience, can permit no other interpretation of Christ’s Eucharistic Words to be valid than their own.29 Hence in principle and in general Bucer relativizes the argument of personal conviction and

certainty: therein can lurk the greatest blindness. The consequence for Christian behaviour is twofold: À rst, the consistent self-relativisation in which one constantly reckons with the possibility of one’s own error

and does not imagine that one is in indisputable possession of the

Christian truth;30 second, the tolerant consideration of the conviction and conscience of those who err, who can do no other than think, speak and act within the limits of their faith. In the face of this permanent situation of error which is often so difÀ cult to see clearly there remains for the Christian only the possibility of prayerfully entrusting himself and all who err to the Spirit of Jesus Christ who alone can set free

from error and teach the truth.31

Consequently the Christian congregation is enjoined not to exclude

from its brotherly fellowship those who err, even when the error is

obvious and goes against elementary insights of the Christian faith.

Even in such cases one should welcome (suscipere) those who err with

love and gentleness, support (ferre) them and tolerate (tolerare) them patiently, talk to them tirelessly, instruct them in a friendly manner and admonish them graciously—i.e. act as brothers—but under no circumstances judge and condemn, despise and damn.32 Such behaviour would

27 Cf. Ratschlag (as n. 18), 325,8–15.

28 Ibid . , 325,9f; cf. also 324,11–14: “man meinet der sachen am gewüsslichsten zu sein.”

29 Cf. ibid . , 328,24–329,10 with the formulation “wie sy glauben, allso müssen sy reden unnd hanndlen” (as they believe, so must they speak and act).

30 Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 42,5–6.

31 Cf. ibid . , 40,33–37; 42,9–14; 44,11–14.

32 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 39,5–49,37 and 52,32–56,18, particularly Bucer’s praise of gentle, tolerant and benevolent love following the example of Christ, 53,17–

56,18; Ratschlag (as n. 18), 323,5–329,26 and 332,9–20. Bucer uses the term ‘suscipere’

(‘welcome’) following the Epistle to the Romans (15.7; 14.1) e.g. in the Widmungsschreiben 40,30–33 and in the Ratschlag 324,3; 326,6.14; 332, 16–20. In his works we also À nd the term ‘tolerare’ (‘tolerate’) which does not appear in the Vulgate. Consequently in quoting the Pauline praise of love in 1 Cor. 13.1–8 Bucer substitutes ‘tolerans’ for the Vulgate word ‘patiens’: Widmungsschreiben 53,38; cf. also ibid . , 49,8 (tolerare). In the Ratschlag cf.

the corresponding concept ‘dulden’ (put up with): 323,12; 332,11. Furthermore in the Widmungsschreiben there sometimes appear other terms as synonyms for ‘suscipere’ and

‘tolerare’ such as ‘ferre’ (56,17), ‘sustinere’ (53,30) and ‘amplecti’ (53,24) or ‘complecti’

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be unchristian heresy and tyranny which only make things worse.33

Error as such, Bucer stresses, does not justify excommunication.34 If

the instruction is not successful, one should wait patiently until God grants those who err conversion to the knowledge of the truth.35 Bucer À nds an example of this type of behaviour in the way in which the

apostle Paul dealt with those judaizing teachers of false doctrine who believed that it was necessary for salvation to observe particular holy seasons and the rules about food laid down in the ceremonial Mosaic

laws.36 This mistaken belief, Bucer argues, was so signiÀ cant that it called into question Christ’s entire work of salvation. It annulled the fundamental declared belief that we receive justice and salvation only through faith in Christ and that the law of Christ can only be fulÀ lled through love.37 Despite the gravity of this error Paul was so far from expelling those who erred from the congregation that he even ordered

the Christians in Rome to welcome ( suscipere) them, that is, to recognize them as brothers and to be affectionate towards them with exceptional

kindness ( singulari humanitate) instead of passing judgment on them in a tribunal.38 From this early Christian/Pauline evidence Bucer derives the following maxim for the future: Of whatever kind or however great the error in belief in the congregation may be, it cannot be the ground for refusing Christian fellowship.39 The breadth of brotherly love and tolerance must always be greater still.

But what is the criterion of Christian concord and where are its

limits? Bucer thematizes this question by tackling such NT passages as speak of exclusion from the congregation, particularly the imperative in the Epistle of Titus (3.10): “Have nothing to do with a heretical

person after you have admonished him once or twice!”40 Here Bucer’s

43,5; 56,15). All these terms as used by Bucer are synonymous with ‘fratrem (fratres) agnoscere’ (40,9.31; 42,4.7 and frequently).

33 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 53,30–56,18.

34 On the differentiation between error and heresy cf. below, p. 278, nn. 41–43.

35 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 56, 1–4; see above, n. 31.

36 Cf. ibid . , 40,21–41,35; Ratschlag (as n. 18) 323,37–324,10; 325,34–326,17; 332, 16–20.

37 Cf. particularly Widmungsschreiben 40,26–30 and 41,2–6 („totius Christi negatio-nem“); Ratschlag 326,1–6.

38 Widmungsschreiben 40,30–33.

39 Cf. ibid . , 47,22–25; Ratschlag, 327,11f; 329,3f.14.

40 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 43, 16–18 with the following discussion up to 49,37; Ratschlag 326,26–31 with the following discussion up to 327,32 and the repeated reinforcement of this theme up to the end of the Ratschlag.

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questioning narrows down to the decisive concept of what is ‘heretical’; Christian fellowship with its spirit of tolerance meets its limits where the spirit of heresy ( haeresis, ketzerey) counters it. It is not error, be it ever so serious and stubborn, but heresy which cuts a person off from the

congregation. But what does ‘heresy’ mean for Bucer, and whom does

he consider as homo haereticus?

The Christian tradition has understood heresy as false doctrine, i.e.

an incorrect attitude which stubbornly denies or doubts one or other

dogma of the Church. Heresy is a falling-off from the true doctrine of the Church based on Holy Scripture. To the traditional picture of a

heretic there admittedly also belonged stereotypically unkind malice, but what makes the heretic a heretic is the notorious false doctrine. Bucer reaches what is in my opinion a fundamentally different new deÀ nition of heresy over against this dogmatic understanding. Its essence does not consist in an error which offends against the Church’s true doctrine, i.e.

against the biblical writings and dogmatic tradition, nor in the stubbornness of this error.41 The mark of the heretic, to be precise, is that he abandons love; that he severs the bonds of brotherly love to his fellow Christians and terminates his fellowship with them. As long as one who errs still continues to love those who believe differently, strives for peace, understanding and the unity of the Church, and neither cuts himself

off from the fellowship nor desires to expel others from it, he cannot be considered a heretic.42 One who does not wish to denounce others

as heretics shows that he himself is no heretic, no homo haereticus—as can be seen from the example of Cyprian, who did in fact err in a

major way against the true faith of the Church but did not lack love

and sought the unity of the Church. The Holy Spirit was at work in

him in spite of his error; it produces fruits in the form of love to one’s neighbour, peaceableness, tolerance and gentleness.43

For Bucer these fruits are the essential criteria by which one can recognize the non-heretical and the heretical person. Bucer lays particular stress on this in the face of Luther and his followers in the controversy over the Eucharist. They should be able to see in their opponents, the 41 On Bucer’s pointed differentiation between (stubborn) error and heresy cf. in particular Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9) 45,16–30 and 43,18; cf. Ratschlag (as n. 18) 324, 11–327,6.

42 Cf. particularly the Widmungsschreiben 42,14–43,15; 44,12–14; 45,16–25; 46,26–47,2; 47,18–25; Ratschlag 327,7–12.28–32; 328, 19–23; 330,4–8.

43 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 46,7–47,2; Ratschlag (as n. 18), 338,25–30.

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Swiss and the Upper Germans, the fruits of the Spirit of Jesus Christ and therefore must acknowledge: “Now their lives bear witness that they are of Christ. We will commend them to him (i.e. Christ) and not judge the servants of another but accept them lovingly as brothers till the Lord himself opens their eyes.”44 Bucer resolutely rejects the objection that the criterion of a spiritual life is not appropriate for making a decision about the authenticity of a Christian, brotherly and non-heretical faith since one might hypocritically simulate the fruits of love.45 Against this he emphasizes the evidence of how one lives: a patient care for fellow Christians which embraces not only the like-minded but also those who

believe differently, the weak and refractory, cannot be simply a veneer.

Such fruits of a steadfastly proven desire for harmony are infallible, indisputable evidence of the presence of the Holy Spirit. Anyone who shows himself to be such cannot be considered a heretic no matter how serious and stubborn his error in respect of the true faith may be; he should be met with the same brotherly love and tolerance which he

himself shows.46

In association with this Bucer makes an important differentiation

closely connected to that between error and heresy: If one wishes to

ascertain whether a person who holds a controversial interpretation of faith is a Christian or a heretic, one should not look at this interpretation qua se, no matter how erroneous this is or may be, but one must look into the heart from which it comes. What is decisive is not the

doctrinal content of an interpretation seen by itself in isolation together with its possible effects, but the underlying objective of the heart—and for Bucer this means: the fundamental disposition of faith and love.47

Therefore, he says, in the Epistle to the Romans the Apostle Paul was

able to call for brotherly toleration of members of the congregation who were in such great error because he did not consider in isolation

their error against the Law with all its fearful consequences but was

thinking of their hearts. He saw that, in spite of their error, they had 44 Ratschlag 329,23–26: “Nun betzeügt ir leben, das sy Cristi sind. Dem [ scil. Christo]

wöllen wir sy bevelhen unnd die frömbden knecht nit richten, sonnder sy als brüder in aller liebe auffnemen, bis inen der herr selb die augen besser auffthut.”

45 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 42,24–26.

46 Cf. ibid . , 42,26–43; 51,13–15 (“ex tam certis indiciis [. . .] spiritum Christi cernimus”).

47 Cf. Ratschlag (as n. 18), 325,34–36; 328,19–23.30–33; Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 40,26f; 51,9–15.

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committed themselves to Christ and sought him with all their heart.48 In like manner, concludes Bucer, the opponents in the controversy about

the Eucharist should not look at the conÁ icting doctrinal opinions in the interpretation of the Words of Institution in isolation but should be aware that, together with these opinions, there dwelt in the hearts of their opponents a true faith and a real love, which—as one can clearly see—brings forth living fruits.49 Hence for Bucer the criterion of the heart has the same signiÀ cance and line of argument as the criterion of the witness of how one lives described above.50

The fruits of life are decisive: they come from the heart because it

is the fruit-bearing witness of faith and love. There has already been detailed discussion of love as the measure of the genuine, non-heretical Christian life. But in what sense does the confession and witness

of faith become the anti-heretical criterion? What signiÀ cance can

the truth of faith have here when Bucer has so pointedly stressed that heresy does not consist in the error of faith which offends against the true doctrine of the Church but in the lack of love and tolerance?

Bucer does not withdraw in the least from this position. However, he

states his conception more precisely by integrating into the decisive

criterion of love to one’s neighbour the criterion of faith in Christ. The theological foundation for this is Bucer’s pneumatology, his teaching on the working of the Holy Spirit. Because the Holy Spirit is the Spirit of Jesus Christ he bestows upon a person the ability to love only in

the manner in which he bestows upon him or her the true faith, that

is, directs the heart to Christ.51 Hence true love of one’s neighbour is always associated with true faith in God, or, put more precisely, with the fundamental Christological confession that Christ, the Son of God, took Á esh and died for us and that consequently we can only be saved

by him. Characteristic of Bucer in the two writings from the spring of 1530 is that he time and again emphatically stresses this fundamental

confession as the sum, essence and criterion of the Christian faith,52

and differentiates from it the large number of doctrinal statements with which the unity of the Church and the salvation of her members does

48 Cf. Ratschlag, 325,36–326,17; Widmungsschreiben 41,19–42,4.

49 Cf. Ratschlag, 328,24–329,29.

50 Cf. especially ibid . , 328,32f: “wie die [Meinung der Lutherischen] stee in der Lutherischen hertzen, so rechtglöybig unnd gottesförchtig sind.”

51 Cf. Widmungsschreiben, 42,14–24; 47,18–25; Ratschlag 327,7–12.

52 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 47,17–25; 48, 25–40; 50,1f; 51,30–52,2; 56,32–57,2; Ratschlag 325,21–33; 326,34–36; 327,13–17; 329,15–18.

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not stand or fall. Hence a Christian may err in many things, even in

basic things, without becoming a heretic if only he holds fast to the most elementary truth that God is his loving Father who leads him to

salvation through Christ alone.53

The extent to which Bucer disregards both the traditional dogmatic

teaching and even specific reformation doctrine and to which he

reduces and concentrates the content of faith to the person of Christ as SanctiÀ er is striking. This is all that should be required of a Christian brother’s faith: “This faith should extend no farther than that the person conÀ dently grounds his sanctiÀ cation on our Lord Jesus Christ, seeks God from the heart, whence faith develops at once to love and

all that is good, and that he desires to live virtuously, honourably and in accord with the whole world.”54 Looked at more closely, for Bucer

faith in Christ is in essence nothing other than love of God—that is, a faith which cedes one’s own life to Christ and consequently seeks him

from the heart.55 Consequently this faith is not primarily determined by its content, by a “À des quae creditur,” not by a ‘possession’ of truths, but by a loving outreach. In the relationship with Christ, the only

SanctiÀ er, there is above all an ardent pilgrimage and quest ( studere) amid the error, a questioning, a craving and seeking which desires to

see and serve God, Christ and one’s neighbours:56 “Hence the person

who confesses the Lord Jesus Christ—which no one can truly do unless

in the Holy Spirit—who strives for innocence and endeavours to accept

all his fellow Christians—which is a characteristic of the children of God—is without doubt driven by the Spirit of Christ to whom he

belongs. If then we do not accept such a person as a brother we are

rejecting Christ in him.”57

53 Cf. Ratschlag 325,1–7.

54 Ibid . 327,13–17: “Diser glaub soll auch nit weyter ausgestreckt werden, dann das der menntsch sein säligkayt gewüsslich zu unnserem herren Jesu Cristo setze, frage von hertzen nach gott, wölher glaub dann alsbald zu der liebe unnd alem guten artet (= geartet ist), das man vor allem begert, züchtig, erbar unnd freüntlich zu leben mit aller welt”.

55 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 49,21–30; Ratschlag (as n. 18), 326,13f.

56 Cf. Widmungsschreiben 45,15 (“qui Christum una quaerunt”); 47,38 (“studuerit”); 65,22 (“proÀ cit”); 66,16 (“Christi nomini studere”); Ratschlag 327,15 (“frage von hertzen nach gott”); 329,1 (“guter eyfer”); 330,5f (“das man warlich gott suchet, sich Cristo dem herren genntzlich begeben hat”) [that one truly seeks God and has devoted oneself completely to Christ the Lord].

57 “Qui igitur Dominum Jesum Christum conÀ tentur, quod nisi in spiritu Sancto nemo serio potest (1 Cor. 12.3), qui innocentiae et demerendi quoslibet studio, quod tantum À liorum Dei est, intenti sunt, eos ut indubitato agit Spiritus Christi, cuius OCKER1_f17_268-291.indd 281

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Consequently the community of Christians, as Bucer understands

it, is a community of those who are amenable and are seeking, and

who in the process continually fall into error. Their striving is directed towards Christ and their fellow-Christians and is therefore characterized by faith and love. Faith and love, however, do not stand side by

side as distinct criteria of a Christian existence but merge in the living dynamic of justiÀ cation.58 The essence of faith, its heart, is the love of God which recognizes and seeks Christ in caring for its neighbours.

Conversely, the faith in Christ the Saviour is the heart of a love which seeks and recognizes the child of God in its neighbour. The reality of faith proves itself in love just as, conversely, the loving acceptance of a brother is only possible through the believing orientation to Christ. Or, put another way: because love is an integral part of Bucer’s concept

of faith he can also conversely integrate faith into the criterion of love.

Hence love alone, the proof in a person’s life of brotherly love ( caritas or dilectio), frequently appears as the hallmark and measure of Christian existence59 so that, in Bucer’s sense, we can formulate the rule: anyone who holds fast to love cannot be a heretic; anyone who does not possess love is a heretic.60 The more gently and tolerantly one treats his erring fellow-Christians, or the more he holds fast to fellowship with those of a different conviction in spite of his own error, the farther he is from heresy.

Bucer’s conception of faith as determined by love and brotherly

tolerance has corresponding effects on his understanding of truth. In the same way as he determines faith in Christ from the living proof

of love, the criterion of love also À nds its way into his characterization of truth as opposed to heretical error.61 While the latter cannot endure anyone who does not immediately applaud it but rages and raves against dissenters, it is a sign of the truth that it accepts those who are in error and lovingly attempts to convince them from the word of God. Since

the truth of faith is identical with the truth of Jesus Christ and since the Spirit of Christ is the spirit of love, kindness, meekness, patience and tolerance, the epitome of truth lies in that same loving tolerance sunt, ita si fratres non agnoscimus, vere Christum in illis rejicimus.” Widmungsschreiben 42,20–24.

58 Cf. e.g. Ratschlag, 327,7–27; 328,19–30; 329,11–18.

59 Cf. e.g. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 42,24–43,15; 44,12–14; 45,16–21; 46,32–47,2.

60 Cf. ibid . , 47,19–25.

61 On what follows cf. ibid . , 56,8–18 (“Hoc sane interest inter errorem et veritatem

[. . .]”).

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which humbly reckons that it will itself err and treats another’s error gently.62

It should by now have become clear in what sense one can speak of

a programme of Christian tolerance, a new understanding of heresy

and a redeÀ nition of Christian fellowship in Bucer. The new starting-point can be seen both in comparison with the medieval tradition and

in contrast to Luther, Melanchthon and the theologians connected with

them at Wittenberg such as Wenzeslaus Linck, Johannes Brenz, Andreas

Osiander or Lazarus Spengler. The use of the concept ‘tolerance’ for

the age of the Reformation is known to be tricky; yet if one can use it legitimately of speciÀ c phenomena of the Middle Ages63 then it is also possible, with great caution, to apply it to characterize particular programmes and claims of the early sixteenth century, particularly in the sphere of inÁ uence of Erasmian Humanism. With Martin Bucer

I think we have reached the degree of a programmatic forbearance

in principle which justiÀ es the use of the term ‘tolerance’—admittedly with the reservation that in his writings he was not thinking of tolerance between religions but simply of an internal Christian forbearance and conciliation which presupposes the fundamental confession of

Jesus Christ, “our only Redeemer”64 as the basic stipulation.65 Within this framework, Bucer in the spring of 1530—extending, focusing and

intensifying earlier ideas66—formulated typical guiding principles of a tolerant manner of thinking. Among these the following aspects are

particularly important:

62 Cf. ibid . , 53,17–54,7 (“Sed intueamur tandem Christi Dei et servatoris nostri exemplum! [. . .]”).

63 Cf. Cary J. Nederman/John Christian Laursen (eds.): Difference and Dissent. Theories of Tolerance in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, Lanham and New York 1996; Alexander Patschovsky/Harald Zimmermann (eds.): Toleranz im Mittelalter, Sigmaringen 1998.

64 Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 49,27f: “Christum unum esse servatorem nostrum”.

65 Bucer’s attitude toward the Jews in many respects, particularly in the years before 1530, stands out from the bitterly polemic ant-Judaism of many of his contemporaries, but seen on the whole he did not advocate a religious and social tolerance of the Jews.

The well-discriminating article by R. Gerald Hobbs: “Martin Bucer et les Juifs” in: Krieger/Lienhard: Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe, Vol. 2 (as n. 18), pp. 681–689, comes to this conclusion with the À nal observation: “L’on ne peut pas demander d’un Bucer qu’il soit un homme de l’ Aufklärung. Mais l’on souhaiterait qu’il put faire preuve d’un esprit plus large, plus humaniste comme ses contemporains Osiander, Capiton, Rhegius. On regrette aussi que cet homme qui a su sur bien des plans se libérer des préjugés et prises de positions des siècles passés, soit resté, quant aux juifs, si solidement enraciné dans cette triste tradition médiévale.”

66 On the prehistory of Bucer’s deliberations on tolerance before the Marburg Colloquy cf. Bender: “Die Irenik Martin Bucers” (as n. 3).

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1. Bucer relativizes his own position in that in principle he takes up the extraneous perspectives of the one of a different creed and reckons

with the possibility that one may be in error at the very place where

one is particularly certain of one’s own cause.67

2. Likewise, he reckons in principle with a standard situation of con-

Á ict of opinion—a “status dissentiendi”—on more or less important

questions of faith in the congregation of Christ.68 Its unity cannot be achieved by a homogenizing of faith but only via reconciliation

through the forbearance of love of the variety of competing biblical interpretations, ways of believing and doctrinal positions.

3. Consequently for Bucer tolerance is not merely a momentary attitude which should serve to achieve a À nal state of religious agreement

and uniformity. It is true that the total consensus of faith in the

congregation in all respects remains for him the desirable ideal,

but he holds that this is impossible to realize in view of the sinful condicio humana, so that he sees religious toleration of other ways of believing as a permanently necessary principle.69

4. Characteristic of Bucer’s programme is a high degree of de-dog-

matizing of faith and truth. He reduces the basic concord necessary

for the Christian community of faith to a ‘principle of Christen-

dom’, i.e. to a basic Christological confession of great openness and breadth.70 The marked diminution appeared necessary to him in

order to preserve freedom and scope for the Christian community

to deal with those in error.71 This corresponds to the fact that in

principle he attached more importance to how life is lived than to

67 Cf. above, p. 276 at n. 28.

68 Cf. e.g Widmunsschreiben (as n. 9), 56,31–57,5; 40,3–15.

69 This is true at least of Bucer’s conception in 1530. Cf. on the other hand R. Emmet McLaughlin: “Martin Bucer and the Schwenckfelders”, in: Krieger/Lienhard (eds.): Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe, Vol. 2 (as n. 18), pp. 614–626; 615 n. 1: “For Bucer, as for most others in the sixteenth century, a measure of religious toleration might be accorded for a time, but only as a means to the À nal goal of religious concord, i.e. uniformity. Bucer thus tolerated some dissent in order to do away with it eventually.”

70 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 49,26–30 (“christianismus”). On the concept

‘principle of Christendom’ cf. Walther Köhler (in: Ernst Troeltsch, Tübingen 1941, p. 72): “But the concept is older ( sc. than Troeltsch believes): its creator was Bucer, who in the chaos of the Eucharistic Controversy took up in belief in Christ [ . . .] the ratio Christianismi above the party squabbling.” Quoted by Kaufmann: Abendmahlstheologie (as n. 2) p. 6 n. 32.

71 Cf. Ratschlag (as n. 18), 324,13f.

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doctrine: where doctrine divides, the living fruits of faith and love in the spirit of tolerance unite.

5. Heresy, therefore, is not seen as a splitting-off in questions of doctrine but as a betrayal of love (and therewith at the same time as a

violation of the fundamental confession of Christ).72 Correspond-

ingly the church community is not classiÀ ed as a unity of doctrine

but as a solidarity held together by the bonds of love and therefore

simultaneously through the unifying living witness of faith.73

6. Bucer did not emphasize the assertive character, the À rm, enduring certainty of this faith but that of the loving, seeking and striving which endeavours to serve Christ and one’s neighbour. It is not the

certainty of doctrine but the certainty of life—always understood

as certainty of Christ—which gives the Christian faith its distinctive proÀ le.

7. Hence Bucer can relate his programme of forbearance not only to

the difference in doctrines in the Eucharistic Controversy but also

in principle to the conÁ ict with the Anabaptists.74 The difference

in the understanding of baptism was in his eyes not a reason for

segregation75 provided one remains in the spirit of tolerant love

and mutual seeking. Hence in Bucer’s view the problem with the

Anabaptists is the offensive lovelessness and impatience with which

they deny those who dissent from them brotherly fellowship, despise

and condemn them.76

8. It is true that Bucer holds fast to the principle of dogmatic orthodoxy in that he makes a distinction between true doctrine (according to

the proper interpretation of Holy Scripture) and false doctrine;77 in this sense he can sharply reject Luther’s doctrine of the Eucharist

72 Cf. e.g. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 49,27–30; 45,3–21; further evidence in n. 42.

73 Cf. e.g. ibid . , 49,21–26; further evidence in nn. 58–60.

74 Cf. Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 52,18–53,16. On Bucer’s attitude towards the Anabaptists which was by and large irenic—although more intolerant in particular situations and against particular people— cf. John S. Oyer: “Bucer and the Anabaptists”

in: Krieger/Lienhard (eds.) Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe, Vol. 2 (as n. 18), pp. 603–613; Stephen E. Buckwalter: “Die Stellung der Sraßburger Reformatoren zu den Täufern bis 1528” in: MGB 52 (1995), pp. 52–84.

75 Bucer maintains that it is not the external water of Baptism which conveys faith and salvation ( Widmungsschreiben 52, 18–20 and 61, 3–5.24f ) and that Christians have complete freedom (“plenam libertatem”, 52.20f ) in all external matters, including the question of infant Baptism.

76 Cf. particularly ibid., 52,32–53,16.

77 Cf. e.g. Ratschlag (as n. 18), 325,24f.

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as totally unbiblical: it contradicts “all the teachings of Christ, the nature of the New Testament and the character of the true humanity of Christ as it is exhibited to us in all the Scriptures.”78 And in this sense, in spite of his attempts to make peace, Bucer is always

an argumentative theologian. But at the same time in his deÀ ni-

tion of the relationship between truth and heresy he opens up the

understanding of truth for the yardstick of love and tolerance: as

love gains entry into the truth of faith we can now in general equate remaining À rm in the truth of Christ with remaining À rm in gentle

love and brotherly tolerance.79 Herewith the concept of truth like

those of heresy, faith and fellowship (societas, communio) falls into a current of de-dogmatization, diminution of doctrinal deÀ niteness

and intensiÀ ed ethicizing.

If one desires to make a summary characterization of the proÀ le of Bucer’s programme of tolerance in the Spring of 1530, one must À rst of all stress how on various problematic points he consistently puts

the criterion of a proper lifestyle before the criterion of true doctrine and consequently the criterion of forbearing love before the criterion of orthodox faith (in the sense of ‘doctrina’). The elements are so

intertwined that love becomes the decisive criterion—with the result

that anyone who lives in serious religious error but remains tolerant

can sooner be counted as a Christian than one who stands in the true

biblical doctrine but lacks tolerance.80

This theology of tolerance is the result of a synthesis of elements of Erasmian Humanism and a reformation-biblical way of thinking.81 It is embedded in Bucer’s understanding of justiÀ cation and sanctiÀ cation,82

78 Ibid . , 331,9–12: “aller lere Cristj, der art deß Newen Testamennts unnd eygenn-schafft der warenn menntschayt Cristj, wie unns die in allen schrifften wirt fürge-halten.”

79 Cf. the evidence in n. 61 and n. 62.

80 In Bucer’s sense one can formulate this more precisely as follows: the one who technically holds to the biblical doctrine—i.e. teaches correctly—but lacks tolerance and thus opposes the biblical Spirit of truth and true doctrine.

81 Cf. above, p. 270 with n. 3.

82 Cf. Bucer’s emphatic representation of justiÀ cation as a true sanctiÀ cation of the believer in the Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 59,5–19, with the formulation: “Salus siquidem nostra et felicitas nihil aliud est quam solida iustitia [. . .] quod quid aliud est quam efÀ cere iustos?” (59,14f.17f ). Cf. also the characterization of faith as love and iustiÀ catio as regeneratio in the Commentary on the Gospels itself, to which the Widmungs schreiben to Marburg is a preface; on this see Lang (as n. 12), pp. 104–120, particularly pp.

108–110 and pp. 113–116.

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in his pneumatology, Christology and ecclesiology,83 in short, in the

whole drift of his theology which we cannot examine more closely at

this point. His statements on heresy, error, truth and tolerance should be understood as instances of the application of his soteriology and doctrine of justiÀ cation which are focused on the saving love of Christ.

The innovative conÀ guration of this idea of tolerance becomes even

clearer if we cast a look at the ideas of Luther and his followers. With their conceptions of heresy, true doctrine and orthodoxy they remain

within the traditional coordinates, admittedly with the difference to those holding fast to the old faith that for them Holy Scripture becomes the exclusive criterion of truth. Against the initiatives of the party from Strasbourg, who in the Eucharistic Controversy put their hope on peace, love and unity—that is, they start from the weight-bearing ability of

what is common to all and forge links of brotherly toleration across the doctrinal differences84—the Wittenberg party presented a sharply anti-irenic model of zeal for the truth and intolerance. Luther anathematized a love which—as he saw it—wants to disregard the completely clear

and unambiguous sense of the biblical Eucharistic Words.85 There is

no place for love, conciliation and tolerance where it is a matter of the immutable biblical truth. Here God confronts the devil: either the Wittenberg party’s interpretation of the Words of Institution is true—then the Swiss and Upper Germans are blasphemers, equivocators against

the Holy Spirit, betrayers of Christ and seducers of the world; or the converse is true: “One side must belong to the devil and be God’s

enemy. There is no middle course.”86

83 Cf. especially Gottfried Hammann: Martin Bucer 1491–1551: Zwischen Volkskirche und Bekenntnisgemeinschaft, Wiesbaden 1989 (VIEG 139), pp. 113–121 (the unity of the church), pp. 127–133 (fellowship as a prerequisite), pp. 139–146 (the Church as “corpus mixtum”). Cf. also the contributions in: David F. Wright (ed.): Martin Bucer: Reforming Church and Community, Cambridge 1994.

84 Cf. Reinhold Friedrich; Martin Bucer—‚Fanatiker der Einheit’? Seine Stellungnahme zu theologischen Fragen seiner Zeit (Abendmahls- und Kirchenverständnis), insbesondere nach seinem Briefwechsel der Jahre 1524–1541, Diss.theol. (typescript) Neuchâtel 1989; Reprint, Bonn 2002 (Biblia et Symbiotica 20).

85 Martin Luther: Daß diese Wort Christi „Das ist mein leib“ noch fest stehen, 1527 (WA 23,81,19–22): “VerÁ ucht sey solche liebe und einickeit ynn abgrund der helle, darumb das solche einickeit nicht alleine die Christenheit jemerlich zutrennet, sondern sie nach teufelisscher art noch zu solchem yhrem jamer spottet und nerret.”

Cf. the whole section 78,19–87,21.

86 Luther, ibid . , 83,19–21: “Ein teil mus des teufels und Gotts feind sein. Da ist kein mittel.”

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This strict biblical-dogmatic, exclusive understanding of truth, the

word of God and faith leads to a deÀ nition of the relationship between faith and love/paciÀ sm/tolerance which stands in the most profound

contrast to Bucer’s fusion of faith and love. In the opinion of the group from Wittenberg—I am now citing Lazarus Spengler who on this point

adheres closely to Luther and Wenzeslaus Linck—faith and love must

be clearly distinguished in their areas of application. Where it is a question of faith—that is, of the biblical truth and teaching—neither love nor patience is appropriate; here a Christian dare not deviate

an inch but must rage and À ght with God’s word. Love, compassion

and forbearance, on the other hand, relate to the ethical weakness of

those who are orthodox—i.e. not to faith and doctrine but to the weak

human existence. But since it is not a sinful life but a wrong doctrine and false faith which corrupt Christendom, in a case of conÁ ict—as

in the Eucharistic Controversy about the truth of the word of God—a

Christian must always come down on the side of faith rather than love.87

One can scarcely formulate more explicitly the Lutheran opposition

to Bucer’s tolerant programme of love and forbearance, especially on

questions of doctrine.

In his dedicatory tract to the Marburg professors Bucer expressly

went into this Wittenberg antinomy of faith and love. He resolutely

opposes the idea that one must modulate brotherly love in order not to damage faith.88 Such thinking is diametrically opposite to his conviction that love is the heart of faith because faith in Christ is always À lled by the spirit of his gentleness and tolerance, and consequently would be a contradiction in itself as intolerant faith: a faith contrary to the Spirit of Christ. There can be no love, says Bucer, which can be unjust (“carnal”) when it encourages among the brethren the knowledge of

Christ and a spiritual life (“innocentia”), accepts the weak, does not break the bent reed but sets it upright and strengthens it and does not extinguish a smouldering wick but makes it shine. How can a love be

contrary to faith, he asks further, which supports, tolerates and cares 87 Cf. Lazarus Spengler: Schriften; Vol. 2: Schriften der Jahre September 1525 bis April 1529, edited by Berndt Hamm/Wolfgang Huber/Gudrun Litz, Gütersloh 1999

(QFRG 70), 258,8–259,14 (from Spengler’s letter to Georg Maurer, 8th. July 1528); cf. also 259,15–261,11. On Spengler’s dependence upon Luther and Luther’s friend, Wenzeslaus Linck, which extends even to his formulations, cf. ibid . 245–252. On the corresponding Luther passages cf. also Gerhard Ebeling: Lutherstudien III, Tübingen 1985, p. 145f with notes 55–57, also WA TR 5, 273 Nr. 5601.

88 Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 54,7f.

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for those who are weak in faith for no other reason than that they may strengthen, encourage and make their faith effective through its fruits?

Do we do faith a service by the converse behaviour of tearing off and eradicating? O what a preposterous zeal and inopportune severity!89

With these words Bucer emphasizes his completely different under-

standing of ‘orthodoxy’ and faithfulness to the biblical truth of Jesus Christ. For the Wittenberg delegation (as also for the Roman Catholic

side) love comes to a halt at the truth of faith. For Bucer, on the other hand, love and its witness in life to tolerance becomes the criterion of faith, its loyalty to Christ and thereby also to the truth of Christianity.

That Zwingli, Oecolampadius, Hedio and their like-minded friends had

offered in Marburg to recognize the other side as brothers is therefore in Bucer’s view a clear indication “that they were instructed and moulded by the Spirit of Christ”.90 Then he goes on to write: “But by what spirit are they were driven, who now interpret—not to say libel—this honest

concession in letters which they send everywhere, saying that they [the Swiss and Strasbourg delegation] are not sure of the truth [of their teaching], let them look to that. For it is by no means a certain sign of the truth if you immediately commit to Satan those who oppose your

opinion; for no one has ever done this so zealously as the followers of Mohammed, several Popes and the bishops and Universities pledged to

them. [. . .] The Spirit of Christ does not aim to destroy but to preserve, regardless in whom it is at work.”91

In conclusion I should like to return to the religio-political signiÀ cance of Bucer’s programme of tolerance. The manner in which he brought

together faith and love with their reciprocal ranges of obligation met the concerns of many politicians—such as the councillor, Jakob Sturm

in Strasbourg, the town clerk, Georg Maurer in Memmingen or the

landgrave Philip of Hesse. They saw in the Eucharistic Controversy

a basic socio-political crisis of the Reformation which threatened not 89 Ibid . , 54,8–20: “[. . .] O praeposterum zelum et intempestivam severitatem!”

90 Widmungsschreiben (as n. 9), 57,8–13 “ [. . .] hac facilitate Christi se spiritu doceri et formari certo planeque declararunt.”

91 “Quo autem agantur spiritu, qui hunc candorem, hanc facilitatem nunc per epistolas, quas undique spargunt, argumentum interpretantur, ne dicam calumniantur, animi sibi de veritate parum conscii, ipsi viderint. Neque enim certum veritatis documentum est, tradere mox Satanae, quicunque tuae sententiae contradixerint, cum hoc nemo unquam aeque strenue fecerit atque Mahometani et pontiÀ ces aliquot Romani hisque obnoxii episcopi atque academiae [. . .]. Neque enim ad perdendum, sed servandum intentus est Christi spiritus, in quoque fuerit.” Ibid . , 57,13–23. On the last sentence cf. Luke 9.56 (Vulgate) .

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only the common foundation of faith but also, along with this, the civil peace and the defence alliance of the Protestants against the power of those who held to the old faith.92 In this situation Bucer’s irenic with its differentiation between the fundamental in the form of the basic

confession of Christ and the wider areas of doctrine, where differences and errors can be endured without leading to division, presented itself as an optimal theology of agreement, of alliance and of social peace.

Yet Bucer’s theology of toleration was far more than a theory suitable for politics and one which was socially beneÀ cial. I remind you once

again of its roots: it developed from his early encounter and enduring attachment to the writings of Erasmus of Rotterdam,93 from the intellectual exchanges with his Humanist and reforming friends from the

Upper Rhine and Switzerland, from his intensive work commenting on

biblical texts, from his confrontations with the severity of the Anabaptists who pushed for separation and À nally above all from the hurtful experiences of the Eucharistic controversy.94 The climate typical of early reformation Strasbourg during the 1520s of hospitality, leniency and

openness for the religious refugees streaming into the city encouraged such thoughts. Thus Bucer reached what was in principle a new deÀ nition of the coordinates which should give orientation to the Church of Jesus Christ and a Christian community. His astonishing view of the

relationship of the biblical truth of faith and love and his bold new understanding of heresy and Christian existence were no longer compatible with the Roman Catholic, Erasmian, Lutheran, Zwinglian and

Anabaptist thinking, but they also demolished the multiform political

understanding of religion held by princes, mayors, councillors, lawyers 92 Cf. Berndt Hamm: “Die reformatorische Krise der sozialen Werte—drei Lösungs-perspektiven zwischen Wahrheitseifer und Toleranz in den Jahren 1525 bis 1530” in: Thomas A. Brady Jr./Elisabeth Müller-Luckner (eds.) Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, Munich 2002 (Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien 50), pp. 91–122, particularly pp. 98–101 (Georg Maurer) and pp. 105–107

( Jakob Sturm). Cf. also Herbert Grundmann: Landgraf Philipp von Hessen auf dem Augsburger Reichstag 1530, Göttingen 1959.

93 Bucer’s relationship to Erasmus admittedly reached a low point in that very year 1530. In April he published an ‘Epistola apologetica’ against Erasmus who had attacked him in the ‘Epistola contra pseudevangelicos’. Yet in a letter written on 4th March (to Ambrosius Blarer, BCor IV, Nr. 275,23,1–6), he emphasizes that he wants to write this apologia in a tone that is completely unusual among theologians; so far will he retract his claws: “[. . .] talem volente Deo dabo Apologiam, qualem nostri ordinis homines non multas dederunt; ita continebo ungues.” In the Ratschlag (as n. 18, 324,31–35) he refers approvingly to Erasmus.

94 See above, p. 269f.

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and town clerks.95 It was quite possible to use this conception of tolerance politically but Bucer’s ideas were theologically so fundamental and far-reaching that they created the model for an ecumenical movement

of the future beyond any contemporary political usability.

Even if we can visualize this broad horizon, my essay can offer no

more than a ‘still’ picture of the spring of 1530. Research on Bucer has already shown or will yet have to show how this basic position

so incisively formulated between the Marburg Colloquy and the Diet

of Augsburg continued to have an effect, was modiÀ ed and possi-

bly—in rapprochement with the Lutheran conception—weakened.

A detailed examination must also be made of whether and to what

extent Bucer’s programme of tolerance corresponded to the practice

of tolerance and how this practice changed with the various stages of the Reformation.96

Translated from the German by Helen Heron.

95 On the diversity in the conceptions held by town clerks and the remarkably prominent conception of tolerance held by the Nuremberg law clerk, Georg Frölich in March 1530 (which leads in another direction to that of Bucer) cf. Hamm: “Die reformatorische Krise” (as n. 92) passim. One can À nd parallels to Bucer’s understanding of heresy, Christian truth and tolerance in Sebastian Franck, who lived in Strasbourg from the turn of 1529/30 to the end of 1531. But Franck expressed these thoughts in a completely spiritualized, comprehensive understanding of the Church which is foreign to Bucer. Cf. Gustav Adolf Benrath: “Die Lehre außerhalb der Konfessionskirchen” in: Carl Andresen (ed.): Handbuch der Dogmen- und Theologiegeschichte, Vol. 2, Göttingen, pp.

560–664, here pp. 578–581 (with literature p. 574); Klaus Deppermann: “Sebastian Francks Straßburger Aufenthalt” in Jan-Dirk Müller (ed.): Sebastian Franck (1499–1542), Wiesbaden 1993 (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen 56), pp. 103–118.

96 How difÀ cult it is adequately to determine on the scale between tolerance and intolerance Bucer’s attitude to those who held to the old faith, Spirituals, Anabaptists, other religious outsiders and Jews and on the questions of Church discipline and the responsibility of a Christian authority for the pure religion can be seen in the article by Marijn de Kroon, “Martin Bucer und das Problem der Toleranz” in: Jean-Georges Rott/

Simon L. Verheus (eds.): Anabaptistes et dissidents au XVI e siècle, Baden-Baden- Bouxwiller 1987 (BiDi,S3), pp. 401–411; slightly extended version: “Martin Bucer and the Problem of Tolerance” in SCJ 19 (1988), pp. 157–168. Cf. also the informative survey (which also takes into account the position of the Strasbourg preachers) in Marc Lienhard, Religiöse Toleranz in Straßburg im 16. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart 1991 (AAWLM.G 1991/Nr. 1).

Neither de Kroon nor Lienhard takes into account Bucer’s writings on tolerance from the Spring of 1530 or comparable statements by Bucer on the essence of heresy and the scope of Christian tolerance. Hence they do not thematize or examine Bucer’s new conception on these questions (although at the beginning of his article de Kroon cites a passage from a letter from Bucer to Margarete Blarer dated 19th September 1531 which points in this very direction).

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LANDGRAVE PHILIPP’S DILEMMA:

THE ROOTS OF TOLERANCE AND THE DESIRE

FOR PROTESTANT UNITY1

Ellen Yutzy Glebe

Landgrave Philipp of Hesse (r. 15182–1567) stands out in the early

modern landscape as a unique À gure.3 Clearly he was one of the most

important political personalities of the Reformation, and historians have detected in his exceptionally humane treatment of religious dissidents a prescient tolerance and even the roots of modern ecumenism. A closer

examination, however, reveals facets of Landgrave Philipp’s response

to heterodoxy which can hardly be recognized as modern. Because

he discounted the autonomy of the common man, he felt impelled

to grant clemency to those who had been “misled” by Anabaptist

teachers while simultaneously seeking the repression of theological

diversity on other points within Protestant circles. Although he often defended with idealistic eloquence his refusal to execute Anabaptists, there were also elements of pragmatism in this decision. His attitude towards diversity within the Protestant faction was likewise conÁ icted: while he upheld in principle theologians’ right to disagree, he sought 1 The author would like to thank Jeff Vanke, Blake Johnson, and Tim Kircher for their responses to drafts of this article.

2 Landgrave Philipp, whose father died in 1509, was declared to be of legal majority in 1518 by the Holy Roman Emperor and took over rule in Hesse from his mother, who had served as regent.

3 A note on the abbreviations used in the following essay to refer to primary source material:

SAM-PA refers to the Politisches Archiv des Landgrafen Philipp in the Hessian State Archive in Marburg, Germany, and is always accompanied by the À le number. Within passages cited directly from archival source, the text within brackets represents abbreviated text in the original.

Franz refers to the volumes of the published sources for the Hessian Reformation edited by Günther Franz and is accompanied by the volume number and the document number. Volumes II and III include general Reformation sources, while Volume IV

includes sources speciÀ c to the Anabaptists. Urkundliche Quellen zur hessischen Reformationsgeschichte, vols. II–IV (Marburg: Elwert, 1951–1955).

BW refers to the Weimar Ausgabe of Luther’s correspondence and is accompanied by the volume number and the document number. D. Martin Luthers Briefwechsel, vols.

IV, VII, and VIII (Weimar: Böhlau, 1933–1938).

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in practice to limit the scope and reach of their disagreement. This

tension between idealism and pragmatism and between medieval and

modern worldviews can be explained by the depth of the Landgrave’s

commitment to Protestant unity and the extent to which pragmatism

itself became for him an ideal.

As his customary moniker “Landgrave Philipp the Magnanimous”

suggests, the tradition of Landgrave Philipp as relatively tolerant is quite old. However, the sympathetic historiography of Anabaptism

over the last century fed this notion by contrasting Hesse with other

lands where Anabaptists were treated much more harshly. An article

by Christian Hege in an early volume of the Mennonite Quarterly Review ( MQR) claimed in 1931 that “Hesse has a special place in the history of the Anabaptist movement” because no Anabaptists were ever executed

there on account of religious dissent.4 Hege explained that Landgrave Philipp “preferred as more Biblical the method of free exchange of

opinion, rather than the application of force” and suggested that even those measures which the Landgrave had undertaken to suppress the

Anabaptist movement were “due to the inÁ uence of persons who

attempted to make the ruler fear that his throne would be endangered

if the Anabaptist movement should grow.”5 Thirty-six years after Hege’s

article was published, Franklin H. Littell pointed to Landgrave Philipp as a predecessor ( Vorgänger) of the ecumenical movement6 and described the Landgrave as equanimous ( gelassen) toward the Anabaptists.7 He also echoed Hege’s contention that Landgrave Philipp encouraged open

theological debate.8 In that same year, Horst Schraepler published a

study of the legal treatment of Anabaptists in Switzerland, southwestern Germany, and Hesse, in which Hesse stood out as the only territory

in which no one was ever executed for Anabaptist beliefs.9 Schraepler

attributed this solely to Landgrave Philipp, who, in refusing to execute 4 Christian Hege, “The Early Anabaptists in Hesse,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 5

( July 1931), 157–178: 157.

5 Hege, 157, 163.

6 Franklin H. Littell, Landgraf Philipp und die Toleranz: Ein christlicher Fürst, der linke Flügel der Reformation und der christliche Primitivismus (Vorlesung, anläßlich der Promotion zum Dr.

theol. h. c. an der theologischen Fakultät der Philipps-Universität zu Marburg am 7.

Februar 1957 gehalten), (Bad Nauheim: Christian-Verlag, 1957), 35.

7 Littell, 18.

8 Littell, 37.

9 Horst W. Schraepler, Die Rechtliche Behandlung der Täufer in der deutschen Schweiz, Süd-westdeutschland und Hessen, 1525–1618, edited by Ekkehart Fabian (Tübingen: Fabian, 1957).

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religious dissidents, deÀ ed both the advice of his own councilors and recommendations from abroad.10 Shortly thereafter, two American dissertations examined Anabaptism in Hesse, stressing the uniqueness of

the conditions there.11 One of them claimed that the Landgrave’s

zeal for preserving freedom of conscience, his acceptance of the possibility of Christians differing in their interpretations of the Scriptures, and his conÀ dence in the efÀ cacy of discussion all prompted Philipp to seek a solution to his Anabaptist problem by means of the Disputation [ between Martin Bucer and local Anabaptist leaders in 1538].12

More recently, Wolfgang Breul posed the question as to whether Land-

grave Philipp’s relationship to Anabaptists and Jews within Hesse can

be viewed as the “beginnings of modern tolerance.”13 While Breul’s

answer to this question is refreshingly nuanced compared to much of

the preceding historiography, the brevity and focus of his essay preclude examination of the Landgrave’s motivations or placement of his actions in the larger context.

These historians have based their claims of Landgrave Philipp’s rela-

tive tolerance almost exclusively on examination of his relationship to the Radical Reformation in general and the Anabaptists in particular,

but this approach ignores other questions of tolerance, including the readiness to accept religious diversity within the Protestant camp. In this regard, in fact, competing tendencies within Landgrave Philipp’s reign demand closer attention. On the one hand, over the half century of

his reign, the Landgrave was one of the most powerful forces pushing

for uniÀ cation of the Protestant front, at times expressing disgust and exasperation when his efforts proved unsuccessful. On the other hand,

he persistently refused, despite imperial law and the demands of his

closest political allies, to impose the death penalty for more extreme religious dissidence. Whereas Anabaptist historians have tended to

emphasize the Landgrave’s ethical motivation for refusing to execute

10 Schraepler, 46.

11 Allen W. Dirrim, The Hessian Anabaptists: Background and Development to 1540 (unpublished dissertation, Indiana University, 1959), and Alton Odell Hancock, The Reformation in Hesse to 1538: A Study of the Encounter of Differing Reformation Points of View (unpublished dissertation, Emory University, 1962).

12 Hancock, 253.

13 Wolfgang Breul, “Anfänge moderner Toleranz?: Philipp und die religiösen Minderheiten,” in Ursula Braasch-Schwersman, Hans Schneider, und Wilhelm Ernst Winterhager, eds., Landgraf Philipp der Großmütige: 1504–1567 (Neustadt an der Aisch: Schmidt, 2004), 105–112.

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dissidents, secular historians have been quick to note possible political motivations for his campaign to unify the Protestant movement.

A close reading of the sources suggests that each of these traditional interpretations neglects either pragmatic or ideological motivations as important factors in the Landgrave’s decisions. While Landgrave Philipp often displayed a remarkable pragmatism when addressing religious

questions, his conscience sometimes led him to take actions which

were politically inexpedient. In such cases, he frequently proved to be extraordinarily quotable, providing historians with ample material for their claims that he was a tolerant prince who fostered open debate

on theological matters.

These notable quotes from the Landgrave must however be under-

stood within their social and linguistic context, as well as compared

with the empirical results of the Landgrave’s philosophy within the

Hessian territory. The term “tolerance” itself is problematic, as are so many of the terms which have been used when discussing Landgrave

Philipp (“freedom of conscience,” “ecumenism,” etc.). In fact, the term

“tolerance” was rarely used in the Reformation period, and what the

Landgrave meant when he said that he wanted the religious parties to

“tolerate” each other until the council which the Reformers demanded

may in fact be quite different than what the term means in the twenty-

À rst century.14 Notably, he used the term in reference to the conÁ icts between Catholics, Lutherans, and Zwinglians, not when referring to

religious minorities like the Anabaptists. “Tolerance” for Landgrave

Philipp meant in this case the existence of homogenous communities in neighboring lands; it was not intended to be a long-term solution, and it did not mean that individual communities would become mixed.15

For example, the terms of the Religious Peace of Augsburg from 1555

allowed princes to determine the confession of their subjects16 but

14 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to his councillors, document undated, according to collection index from December 1534. SAM-PA-3059[draft]: “Die Religion [“bet”

crossed out] und glaubens sach belang[end] ist auch unser gutmeynung und mocht[en]

wol leid[en] das man einander tolleriert[en] bis auf ein kunftig concilium.”

15 Littell recognized to some extent a different quality of Landgrave Philipp’s “tolerance” when he wrote that this was not the “indifferent tolerance” of the post-Enlightenment West but rather tolerance as deÀ ned by a prince who did not yet believe in separation of church and state. Littell, 35.

16 The only confessions which the Peace of Augsburg recognized were the Lutheran and the Catholic. Calvinism was À rst legalized within the Holy Roman Empire in 1648

by the Peace of Westphalia. Anabaptists and other separatists were not recognized by either treaty.

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granted those subjects the right to leave their homes and migrate to

another prince’s territory if they objected to their own prince’s confession; this would hardly be considered tolerant in a modern sense despite the fact that the decree was conceived of as a solution to the religious conÁ ict of the preceding half century. These issues of terminology notwithstanding, historians have rightly observed that both the opinions Landgrave Philipp expressed and the actions he took (or did not

take, as the case may be) set him apart from his contemporaries as a

relatively “tolerant” prince. The danger persists, however, of projecting anachronistic values and meanings onto a historical À gure who would

hardly have recognized them.

One value which was certainly important to Landgrave Philipp was

the desire to see the uniÀ cation of the evangelical factions; this was one of the central leitmotifs of his reign.17 From his efforts in 1529 to bring Martin Luther and Huldrych Zwingli together in Marburg to resolve

their differences, to his report in 1563 of meeting with the Elector of the Palatinate near Heidelberg to try to convince him not to distance

himself from the Augsburg Confession,18 the topic of Protestant unity surfaces again and again throughout the Landgrave’s correspondence. In these two examples, it is easy to assume that his motivation was primarily political. After all, the division of the Protestant movement into Zwinglian (and later Calvinist) and Lutheran factions severely undermined

its political clout. In addition, it weakened the movement’s ideological position, as the Landgrave was fond of repeating in his letters:

Furthermore, we call to your attention the fact that the papists and other opponents of our Christian religion know no better way to disparage

our religious creed to the Emperor and generally than to say that we are so misguided and uncertain that we are not even able to agree among

ourselves . . .19

17 Wilhelm Ernst Winterhager, “Philipp als politische Persönlichkeit,” in Ursula Braasch-Schwersman, Hans Schneider, und Wilhelm Ernst Winterhager, eds., Landgraf Philipp der Großmütige: 1504–1567 (Neustadt an der Aisch: Schmidt, 2004), 1–15. For a more comprehensive overview of politics in the age of the Reformation and Landgrave Philipp’s central role, see Thomas A Brady, Jr. Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489–1553) and the German Reformation (Boston: Brill, 1995).

18 Letter to Herzog Christoph of Württemberg on 23 May 1563. SAM-PA-3098.

Printed in Franz III-902.

19 Draft of Instructions for Niclaus Meyer before being dispatched to visit the Saxon Elector in September 1530. SAM-PA-2545. “Ferner thun wir e.l. freuntlicher guter meynung diese anzeige, das di[e] papisten und unsers christlichen glaubens widderwertig[en]

bey key[serlichen] mt. und allenhalb[en] bisdaher, unsers glaubens bekantnus nit hoher OCKER1_f18_292-312.indd 297

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A movement which demanded a return to biblical truth without

being able to reach a consensus on what the Bible says suffered from a certain lack of credibility. Even after the failed Marburg Colloquoy, the Landgrave continued to urge Luther to reconsider his position and seek the path to compromise, cautioning that continued disunity threatened

the political stability of upper Germany.20

In all these cases, the Landgrave emphasized the political need for

compromise, but he often expressed a very different reason for desir-

ing the elimination of religious discord. As an early modern prince,

he felt a real obligation to provide for and protect his subjects, and he feared the spiritual implications of religious strife for them. He repeatedly voiced his concern that “simple-minded” or “common” people

would be distracted from the truly important aspects of religion by

unnecessary bickering about theological and liturgical details.21 This fear was perhaps not ungrounded; Philipp’s own territory was one of

the most polarized over the question of the real presence of Christ in communion bread and wine. When Luther and Zwingli were unable

to reach a satisfactory compromise in 1529, the debate raged on, with

Hesse geographically and ideologically in the middle. Stories of local pastors publicly quarreling with one another about interpretations of

communion are not infrequent in the surviving Hessian records, and one must imagine that many lesser instances were never reported. Landgrave Philipp maintained that he advocated “a middle way” between the two

Reformers’ interpretations and even wrote to Herzog Albrecht of Prussia in 1534 that he had forbidden his pastors to discuss the speciÀ c nature ( Gestalt) of communion with the common people. He had commanded the clergymen rather to preach only about the usefulness and beneÀ t

of the practice itself. Philipp recommended such a ban to the Herzog, so that preachers in Prussia would also be forced to

refrain from such unnecessary disputation before the common man and

stop berating and embarrassing each other, and speak only about the

usefulness and beneÀ t of the sacrament. And you should take a middle zuverunglimpf[en] gewust, dan das sie furgeb[en] und sag[en] unser sach sey so irrig und ungewiß das wir unther ein ander uns selbst nit vergleich[en] konth[en] . . .”

20 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Martin Luther, dated approximately 25 September 1534. Printed in BW-VII-2138. See also the letter from Landgrave Philipp to Martin Luther, dated 29 December 1534. Printed in BW-VII-2165.

21 SAM-PA-269, SAM-PA-2434, SAM-PA-3099; BW-VII-2177.

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way between the Lutherans and Zwinglians (for you know very well,

what the soul is).22

Indeed, the Landgrave’s own correspondence with his theologians in

Marburg displays a genuine sense of exasperation at their inability to get along. In 1544 he complained to them in a letter that they insisted on preaching against the concordance “no doubt to the delight of

the papists [which is changed from “opponents” in the draft] . . . and nuisance of countless good-hearted people, as well as to the general

irreparable disadvantage, damage, and disruption of the evangelicals in their negotiations.”23 Their quarrelling, the Landgrave suggested, was not the result of an apostolic spirit but rather of a quarrelsome spirit; if they would simply lay aside their “human emotions” ( menschliche affection) and turn to Scripture, then they could avoid this unnecessary discord.

The Landgrave even wrote that “with the papists, Anabaptists, Jews, and other sects there is enough to do” without the evangelical theologians À ghting among themselves.24 In this letter, the Landgrave’s idealism

and pragmatism intersect: the unnecessary debate is regrettable in an

idealistic sense because it is a sign that theologians have gotten away from the sola scriptura principle of the Reformation, and it is problematic in a pragmatic sense because it deÁ ects energy from the evangelical

campaign against Catholicism and religious separatists. The incident

which sparked this letter involved Theobald Thamer, a preacher in

Marburg who had attacked the Lutheran communion doctrine in an

academic debate. After Thamer responded with a defensive letter of

his own, the Landgrave wrote to clarify that he did not mean to favor

one side in the debate, rather “we are dissatisÀ ed with both those who 22 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Herzog of Prussia, dated 18 March 1534.

Franz II-279. “Und were demnach unser gutbedunken, E.L. hette iren predigern auch bevolhen, das sie ein soliche unnotige disputation vor dem gemeinen man unterlassen, enthielten sich einander zu schelten und zu schmeen, sagten allein von dem brauch und nutzen des sacraments und ginge E.L. also ein mittelstrassen zwuschen den lüt-terischen und zwinglischen (dan es wissen E.L. wole, was die sele ist).”

23 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to the theologians in Marburg, dated 14 October 1544. SAM-PA-723. Printed in Franz II-518: “. . . daraus an allen zweivel grosse frolock-ung den [“widerwertigen” is crossed out] papisten und dargegen merglicher anstos und ergernus unzelich vilen gutherzigen leuten, auch gemeinen handel des evangelii unwiderpringlicher nachteil, schad und zerruttung ervolgen wurde.”

24 Ibid.: “. . . man sonst an das mit den papisten, widerteufern, juden und andern secten gnug zu schaffen hat . . .”

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are called Zwinglians and those called Lutherans because in these worri-some and dangerous times . . . they provoke this quarrel . . .”25

His insistence on compromise between Zwinglian and Lutheran

doctrines of communion and his efforts to suppress any sort of heated exchange between the two groups within his own territory reveal an

important aspect of Landgrave Philipp’s perception of religious matters.

Luther and Zwingli themselves understood their arguments as mutually

exclusive: there is no sliding scale of “real presence,” rather Christ is either really present under the elements (Luther) or symbolically present (Zwingli). That the Landgrave claimed to have found a “middle way”

between these two positions can only really mean that he discounted

the importance of the theological question, or at least its practical implications, holding it to be less important for theologians to resolve the question than for Christians to commune together. In a paternalistic age, his was a profoundly paternalistic attitude: don’t ask what it is, trust that it’s good for you and eat. This rejection of the necessity that the common man understand the theology of the Last Supper—from one

of the leading Protestant princes—contradicts the popular pro-Luther

sentiment regarding the Reformation which holds that the movement

stood for individual responsibility for salvation and urged that even

commoners must understand that in which they participate.

Where then did historians get the oft repeated idea that Landgrave

Philipp encouraged open theological dialogue? There is certainly much

to counter the idea that the Landgrave honored religious diversity. In fact, he seemed often to equate diversity with error (as typical in this era).26 Furthermore, his conception of a properly ordered society left no room for individuals unattached to a recognized religious confession. In 1556, he wrote to the Saxon Elector that he thought little of a clergyman who had emigrated from Hesse to Saxony because the clergyman

was “such a person” who adheres to “neither the evangelical nor papist 25 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Theobald Thamer, dated 5 November 1544.

SAM-PA-723.: “. . . niemandts insonderheit allein gemeint haben, sondern wir seindt beide uber die so man zwinglier nennet, und die so man Lutheraner nennet zuunfrieden, won wegen des, das sie in itzigen sorglichen geferlichen leuften und zeitten, do man sonst mit den papisten, widerteufern und andern gnug zuthun hette, disen zanck erregen. . . .”

Franz II-518 refers to this letter in a footnote, but does not reprint the text.

26 For example, in a letter to the Saxon Elector, dated 13 December 1545. SAM-PA-2642.

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doctrine and is therefore in no part uniÀ ed with a religion.”27 Though the Landgrave was unwilling to put Anabaptists to death, he certainly

meant neither to endorse their beliefs nor to support an ongoing dia-

logue between them and his other subjects.28 In fact, the same pater-

nalistic tendency which led him to limit the communion controversy

obliged him to be concerned about the spread of Anabaptism.

However, in other contexts, the Landgrave was prepared to allow

for diversity and exchange of opinions, and it is upon these occasions that his reputation as an open, and even ecumenical, leader is based.

In addition to the Marburg Colloquoy, he most famously—at least in

the context of Anabaptist historiography—invited Martin Bucer to

speak with imprisoned Anabaptists in 1538. This dialogue resulted in

changes to the Hessian church and the return of the native Hessian

Anabaptist leaders to the evangelical fold.29 The Landgrave also dis-

played a certain theological curiosity, even if he sometimes downplayed the practical implications of these speculations. He corresponded with Caspar Schwenckfeld in addition to leading theologians, and some have

suggested that the Landgrave was strongly inÁ uenced by Schwenckfeld,

who deÀ ed confessional categories and also advocated a “middle way”

in communion doctrine based on the concept of a spiritual presence

for the true believer.30

In addition, the Landgrave chose a fairly broad spectrum of opin-

ions for the faculty of the university he founded in Marburg in 1527.31

In principle he also supported their right to express varied opinions, though (as seen above) he was sometimes frustrated by the passion with 27 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to the Saxon Churfurst, dated 23 June 1556.

SAM-PA-2794: “sollicher mensch ist der wedder der Evangelischen noch papistische lehr, und also keins theils religion mit eynig.”

28 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to the Saxon Churfurst, dated 6 August 1544.

SAM-PA-2623 [draft]: “. . . wir auch irenn ihrthumb nicht lobenn, sie auch damit nicht recht habenn, so habenn wir doch unsers gewissens halbenn groß bedenck[en]

sie darumb am leben zu straff[en].”

29 Two articles which discuss and disagree about the signiÀ cance of these negotiations for the Hessian church: John C. Stalnaker, “Anabaptism, Martin Bucer, and the Shaping of the Hessian Protestant Church,” Journal of Modern History 28, issue 4 (December 1976), 601–643. Amy Nelson Burnett, “Martin Bucer and the Anabaptist Context of Evangelical ConÀ rmation,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 68 ( January 1994), 95–122.

30 Littell discusses the inÁ uence of Schwenckfeld and suggests that, though the Landgrave welcomed Schwenckfeld’s input, he had more concrete ideas of church reform than Schwenckfeld, who displayed spiritualist tendencies. Littell, 23.

31 Littell, 36.

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which they did so. He wrote in response to a letter in which Luther

and Melanchthon urged him to control the diversity of opinions being

expressed by Hessian preachers that he had a “tiny stumbling block,”

because Paul wrote in Philippians that though preachers may be moti-

vated by personal ambitions or rivalries, the proclamation of Christ

is paramount.32 Furthermore, wrote the Landgrave, Christ himself

reprimanded the apostles when they resented that others were driving

demons out in his name.33 Landgrave Philipp also cited the text used

most often to argue that Anabaptists and other dissidents not be per-

secuted, the parable from the Gospel of Matthew of the weeds among

the wheat, which says that the weeds cannot be pulled from the À eld

until the harvest because otherwise the wheat will also be damaged.34

The Landgrave’s exegesis of this parable, however, led him not to the conclusion that he should actually shelter religious separatists within his realm, but rather that executions based on deÀ ance of the organized

religions would be unbiblical. Instead, he favored an approach which

included instruction and forgiveness when dissidents were willing to

repent and expulsion from his territories when they were not. In a letter to the Saxon Elector in 1544, he wrote that he would see the matter

differently if it were a case of malfeasance ( maleÀ z), but that in matters of belief, one must let the weeds grow until the end times.35

In this letter, he makes another distinction which is recurring and

central to his attitude towards the Anabaptists and his reluctance to

impose the death penalty for their heterodoxy: he urges the Elector to recognize that “not all the Anabaptists are the same; some are good,

32 Phil. 1: 15–18.

33 Mark 9:38–39; Luke 9:49–50. Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Martin Luther and Philipp Melanchthon, undated, presumably from September 1526. SAM-PA-2687

[handwritten, contemporary copy]. Printed in BW-IV-1035: “Jch hab aber ein winzig Hindernus, daß St. Paulus sagt zu den Philippern ungefährlich: Was leit dran, daß Christus gepredigt werde allerlei Weise, es sei rechter Weise oder Zufalles (so mein ich, es stehe), und darzu, dieweil Christus spricht zu seinen Aposteln, das sie wider ihnen sageten: man saget, etlich die treiben Teufel aus in deinem Namen, und die Apostel waren zornig darüber; aber Christus wollt dennuscht haben, daß ihn nit verboten wurde. Das schreib ich darumb, dieweil Jhr mir geraten habt, zweispaltige Prediger nit zu leiden.”

34 Math. 13:24–30.

35 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Saxon Elector, dated 6 August 1544. SAM-PA-2623 [draft]. Partial excerpt printed in Franz IV-121d.

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simple, pious people, and others are knaves and scoundrels.”36 He had

inserted this distinction some years earlier into a joint letter with the Saxon Elector to King Henry VIII after some German Anabaptists

suggested in a hearing that there was Anabaptist activity in England.

During the drafting process, the Landgrave added the explanation that

“part of them [the Anabaptists] are good-hearted, misled people, the

others, however, desperate knaves,” and urged the king to distinguish

between the two before punishing them.37 Even earlier, in 1530, just

two years after the À rst reports of Anabaptist activity within Hesse, the Landgrave wrote in a letter to an ofÀ cial in Fulda, that “. . . we now have sympathy for the poor, simple people who as a result of their

simplicity are misled by evil knaves, especially when they recognize

their error and agree to be properly instructed . . .”38 The Landgrave is not the only early modern leader who recognized this distinction; the

Margrave of Brandenburg, for example, wrote in his instruction for

a delegation to the Diet of Schmalkalden in 1530 that “some [Ana-

baptists] are misleaders, teachers, re-baptizers, and the others are the misled, who from error or simple-mindedness allowed themselves to

be baptized. . . .”39 However, the frequency and persistence with which Landgrave Philipp stressed this distinction is nevertheless remarkable.

His insistence on recognizing the majority of Anabaptists as misled

is related to the attitude he took towards the need for commoners to

36 Ibid . , SAM-PA-2623.: “So sindt auch die wid[er]teuffer nicht alle glich etliche sindt gute frome einfeltige leuthe, etliche auch grosse bubenn unnd schelcke.” Franz IV-121d does not include this passage.

37 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Saxon Elector regarding joint letter to the English King, dated 11 September 1538. SAM-PA-2575.: “. . . einen unterschiedt under den widderthauffern halte, dan eins teils seienn gutherzige verfurte leuthe, das ander aber boese verzweyvelte buben, damit nit die fromen mit den boesen gestraft werden. . . .”

The À nal letter to Henry VIII was translated into Latin by Philipp Melanchthon, who left out the paragraph which the Landgrave had inserted. It is nevertheless useful in understanding Landgrave Philipp’s attitude towards the Anabaptists. Franz IV-62

includes correspondence related to the drafting of this joint letter, but not the letter from the 11th of September cited here.

38 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to Administrator in Fulda, dated 8 March 1530.

Printed in Franz IV-11b: “Weil wir nuhe mit dem unverstendigen leuten, die durch iren onverstand von boesen buben verfurt und zu misverstand ires glaubens abgeleitet werden, mitleiden tragen, sonderlich so sie irtumb erkennen und von andern under-richt annemen wollen, bitten wir den Armen wideraufzunehmen.”

39 Instructions from Margrave George of Brandenburg for delegates to the Diet of Schmalkalden, dated 16 December 1530. SAM-PA-269: “dan etlich sind verfurer, leer meister, tauffer und die andern aer die verfurt[en] die aus irsaln oder einfalt, in disse schweranerei freatt[er] und getaufft worden . . .”

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understand the nature of communion; by deemphasizing the autonomy

of the individual, the Landgrave was able to be more tolerant than if he had insisted on individual responsibility. Thus the tolerance which has been sometimes recognized as modern respect for the individual’s

freedom of conscience often stemmed from a medieval conception of

the common man which excluded individual freedom of conscience.

This alone, however, can neither fully account for nor explain the

Landgrave’s actions, because even those whom he considered to be

“knaves and scoundrels,” came out relatively well in Hesse, where the

Landgrave steadfastly refused to execute Anabaptists who were accused

of no other crime. In fact, even unrepentant exiled Anabaptists who

returned to Hesse, meaning they were guilty of the crime of violating their oath to never return, were never put to death. The Anabaptist

leader Melchior Rinck, who was instrumental in the early growth of

the Anabaptist communities in Hersfeld and Fulda,40 was sentenced to

life imprisonment after refusing to recant. His execution never came

into question, at least not from the side of the Landgrave, who wrote in a draft of his will in 1536 that his sons should take care that the Anabaptists and “other onerous and vicious sects” not make inroads

into the territory. He reiterated at the same time, however, that “no

one should be put to death for any matter related to belief, unless he provokes rebellion or bloodshed.”41 As the Landgrave’s reaction to

both the Peasants’ War in 1525 and the Anabaptist takeover of the

city of Münster in 1534 illustrate, on such occasions he was prepared to react with force.

Nevertheless, even in the context of these forceful reactions, he

retained a degree of moderation lacking among some of his contempo-

raries.42 After the siege of the city of Münster, the Landgrave advocated the instruction of the imprisoned Anabaptists so that they might recant (and would then be executed as mere insurgents rather than heretics).43

Adam Krafft, a native of Fulda whom Landgrave Philipp appointed to

40 Hersfeld and Fulda were semi-independent abbacies between Hesse and Saxony over which the Landgrave was increasing his control during this period.

41 Will of Landgrave Philipp, dated 25 February 1536. Franz II-319: “Es ist auch unser will und meinung, das niemants am leben umb keinerlei sachen willen den glauben betreffen gestrafft werden soll, es sei dan, das einer ufrur oder plutvergiessen erwecke.”

42 Littell claims that despite these military campaigns, the Landgrave was never feared as a persecutor the way many theologians were. Littell, 18.

43 SAM-PA-420.

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lead the Reformation in Marburg, was known to have been involved in

the Peasants’ War, and the Landgrave, though he liked to point this out from time to time to put Krafft in his place, demonstrated an impressive willingness to forget the past by allowing Krafft to serve for decades as superintendent in the Hessian church. In other cases, the Landgrave

allowed pastors who were suspected of Anabaptist sympathies or activ-

ity to continue to serve their congregations. Pastor Gerlach in Wieseck, for example, was taken prisoner at an Anabaptist gathering in 1535,

but he was able to distance himself sufÀ ciently from the Anabaptists to satisfy ofÀ cials. He served as pastor in Wieseck for another decade.44

Again and again, the Landgrave proved himself remarkably willing to

forget the past and to grant individuals the chance to start over. For this reason, even foreign Anabaptists sometimes petitioned him to ask

that he intercede with rulers on their behalf.45 Clearly this quality fed his reputation as a tolerant prince and in turn the historical tradition praising his magnanimity.

The laxity of the Landgrave’s handling of those who were imprisoned

in the course of the Hessian campaign against Anabaptism is further

evidence of his relatively humane treatment of dissidents. He repeatedly instructed ofÀ cials to provide imprisoned Anabaptists with suitable accommodations and to see that they received appropriate food and

drink.46 These instructions must be viewed in context of the early modern period, when dank, derelict castles or city towers were often used to house prisoners, who frequently received a diet of bread and water.

However, the signs of the Landgrave’s mercy are repeatedly evident.

For example, he instructed ofÀ cials to move an imprisoned Anabaptist

woman whose health was failing to a better cell until her health had

improved.47 Perhaps the most extreme example of the laxity of the

prison conditions in Hesse is the case of Anabaptist leaders imprisoned in Wolkersdorf in 1538, shortly before the meeting in Marburg with

Martin Bucer. When interrogators arrived to question the prisoners,

they discovered that one of the Anabaptists was missing and that the

44 Franz IV-35. See also Franz IV-121b.

45 See, for example, the case of Matthias Werner, which is described in Franz IV-10, Franz IV-11.

46 See, for example, his command regarding Anabaptists in Wiesenfeld in 1532.

Franz IV-22. For a more general analysis of the Landgrave’s provisions for Anabaptist prisoners compared both to other offenders and Anabaptist prisoners in other territories, see Schraepler, 50ff., and especially for Hesse, Schraepler, 55.

47 Franz IV-56.

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prisoners had enlarged an opening in their cell through which they had been able to freely enter and exit the prison, continuing their mission activity in the surrounding countryside and visiting their families for up to a week at a time! The ofÀ cials also found Anabaptist books and

letters belonging to the prisoners in the cell.48

Though historians may speculate about underlying psychological

motivations for Landgrave Philipp’s leniency towards religious dissidents, it is difÀ cult if not impossible to substantiate such assertions. However, the Landgrave at times expressed his own insecurities and uncertainties regarding his own salvation: it was this insecurity that made him hesi-tant to use the ban to place the power of the state more at the service of the church.49 In 1532 he wrote, “I do not know whether I am a

Christian, or if I may truly say that I shall act as beÀ ts a Christian, and therefore my control over excommunication would be tyrannical and

not a brotherly ban or warning.”50 Thus it is possible to suggest that the Landgrave’s tendency towards relativism and tolerance resulted from

his own experience of existential angst. His argument here, however

was limited to his own uncertainty rather than expressed in general

philosophical terms.

The Landgrave’s desire for unity and his political ambitions at least

complemented each other, but his refusal to comply with imperial law

and the will of his Protestant allies regarding punishment of religious dissidents at times hindered his political agenda. One reason the correspondence between the Landgrave and the Saxon Elector so extensively

deals with Anabaptists is that the two rulers shared jurisdiction in border lands between their two principalities, where there was considerable

Anabaptist activity in the 1530s. The Elector accused the Landgrave

of violating imperial law and encouraging Anabaptists by refusing to

punish them more harshly.51 In 1910, Paul Wappler related a diplomatic struggle which arose when a group of Anabaptists was taken prisoner

in 1531 in Hausbreitenbach, where the Hessian Landgrave and Saxon

48 Franz IV-65b, 65c.

49 John C. Stalnaker, The Emergence of the Protestant Clergy in Central Germany: The Case of Hesse (unpublished doctoral dissertation, UC-Berkeley, 1970), 154, 246–28.

50 Franz II-250: “. . . zudem das ich auch noch nit weiss, ob ich ein crist sei, oder auch mit warheit sagen darf, das ich mich, wie eim cristen zustet, halten woll, und darumb wurde aus meiner handhabung des bans ein tyrannei und nit ein bruderlicher ban noch vermanung folgen.”

51 See, for example, the exchange between the two princes concerning Melchior Rinck. Franz IV-16.

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Elector shared jurisdiction.52 Hege incorporated this poignant example into his article for the MQR, but it seems to have been since forgotten.

When the two leaders were unable to agree on a suitable punishment

for the imprisoned dissidents, they were forced to compromise. Eventu-

ally they agreed to divide the prisoners, so that each ruler could punish those assigned to him as he saw À t. The prisoners who were sent

to Hesse recanted and were subsequently released. The authorities in

Saxony, however, immediately executed the three prisoners who had

had the misfortune of being assigned to the Elector.53

This case was complicated by the shared jurisdiction between the two

princes, but generally speaking, Landgrave Philipp consistently defended his right to exercise his own judgment within his territory, writing for example in a draft of a letter to his councilors in Steinfurt: “Further we have never been of a mind or understanding that we can bind his

imperial majesty or any other authority to believe or not to believe, to accept the Gospel or not to accept it, to punish their subjects or not to punish them, for faith is and should be free.”54 The implication is, however, that the Landgrave can likewise not be bound in these matters for cases which fall within his territories.

The uniqueness of the Landgrave’s position in the political landscape of the sixteenth century is not to be discounted or underestimated. An exchange of letters between the imperial vice-chancellor Matthias Held, Herzog Heinrich of Braunschweig, and Herzog Ludwig of Bavaria

illustrates one of the more extreme dangers. In 1540, À ve years after the events at Münster had served to convince anyone who had doubted

it before that the Anabaptists were a revolutionary, dangerous sect,

Herzog Heinrich wrote to Herzog Ludwig:

it has been reported to us, so credibly that any person on earth must

believe it, that the Landgrave has been rebaptized along with three of his councilors. And just in this past hour, as we wanted to close this letter, we 52 Paul Wappler, Die Stellung Kursachsens und des Landgrafen Philipp von Hessen zur Täufer-bewegung, Reformationsgeschichtliche Studien und Texte, Heft 13 and 14 (Münster: Aschendorffsche Buchhandlung, 1910), 30–36.

53 Hege, 159–160.

54 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to his advisors in Steinfurt, dated 13 April 1532.

SAM-PA-294 [draft].: „Ferner so ist unser gemute und verstand nie gewest auch noch nit, . . . [crossed-out section] das wir key. m. auch andern oberkeit einbinden wolten . . . [crossed-out section] zu glauben od[er] nit zuglauben. d[as] eveanglion anzunemen od[er] nit anzunemen. ire underthane zustraff[en] oder nit zustraff[en]

dan der glaube ist [“frei” crossed out] und sol frei sein.”

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received further credible information that the aforementioned Landgrave sent out a command to all his district ofÀ cials that no one is to lay a hand on the Anabaptists, rather they shall remain unpunished . . .55

The letter continued, describing how a new rebellion was brewing in

Kassel (one of the Landgrave’s residence cities), where several Á ags had reportedly been created with traditional symbols of the common man;

this letter echoes the fears of European rulers which had been fed by the Peasants’ War and the Anabaptist kingdom of Münster.56 In this

atmosphere, the fact that the Landgrave’s actual actions in refusing to execute religious dissidents lent credence to such seemingly fantastical rumors as these suggests that his insistence on defying imperial law and conventional wisdom carried very real political risks.57

In more realistic, persistent ways, the Landgrave’s refusal to execute Anabaptists threatened relations with even his closest allies. While he refused to execute Anabaptists, he nevertheless recognized a need to

punish them, and his preferred method of punishment for recalci-

trant offenders was exile. Those whose territories bordered upon the

Landgrave’s could justiÀ ably feel that he was thereby only pushing the dissidents into their territories. In fact, the persecution of the Anabaptists was a deciding factor in their spread through central Europe.58 By 55 Letter from Herzog Heinrich of Braunschweig to Bavarian Herzog Ludwig, undated, but apparently from mid-October or early November 1540. SAM-PA-795:

“Wir mog[en] auch e.l. nit bergen, das wir hiebevor glaubwirdiglich berichtet word[en]

sein dergestellt das wir es glaub[en] mussen so annderst menschlicher glaub auf erdtrich ist, das der lanndgrave sich mit dreien seiner Rethe habe widerumb teuffen [“lassen” is here crossed out] Unnd eben itzo in disen stund als wir disen briefe wolten schliessen

[“lassen ist” is here crossed out] unns weit[er] glaubwirdge kuntschafft zukomen [“ist”

inserted above the lined] des bemelter landgraffe [“durch sein ganz furstamthumb”

is crossed out, “an alle seine ampte” is inserted] ain gebott ausgeenlassen hab. das ma[n] an die widerteuffer nicht hendtlegen sond[ern] sie ungestraffet bleib[en] lassen solle . . .”

56 Another À le in the Hessian State Archives in Marburg contains a letter from Matthias Huld, imperial vice-chancellor, to Herzog Heinrich, dated 5 October 1540, which makes similar claims about the Landgrave having been rebaptized. This suggests that these rumors were in circulation over a period of at least a few weeks.

SAM-PA-784.

57 Perhaps it bears mention that his resistance to punishing religious dissidents was not the only case in which Landgrave Philipp deÀ ed both tradition and political prudence: his insistance on entering a second, bigamous marriage in 1540 was a terrible symbolic blow to the Protestant cause in which he had invested so much, and it also had signiÀ cant political implications for his standing within the Empire..

58 For a description of how this process effected Hesse, see the following articles by Ruth Weis: “Die Herkunft der osthessischen Täufer, Teil 1,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 50, Heft 1 (1959), 1–16; idem, “Die Herkunft der osthessichen Täufer, Teil 2,”

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adhering to a policy of exile, the Landgrave was arguably only fostering the spread of heterodoxy. Luther wrote to him in 1538 that the Anabaptists were the devil’s spawn ( teuffels samen) and that by driving them out of Hesse, the Landgrave was inviting them to do damage elsewhere.

Luther compared the Anabaptists to wolves, which a good shepherd

would presumably rather kill than chase into another Á ock.59

The fact that the Landgrave in so many other cases demanded

compromise on religious questions and the political risks he incurred

through his leniency suggest the depth of his personal commitment to

not imposing the death penalty for religious dissidence. In many other respects, the Landgrave was extremely pragmatic when faced with theological disputes. For example, he refused early on to make religion the sole factor in his political alliances, unwilling to break traditional ties based only on new differences of religion, though the forces of confessionalization pushed him increasingly in this direction.60 His approach to the Anabaptists also had certain clearly pragmatic dimensions: he

mentioned occasionally the danger of creating Anabaptist heroes

through executions and urged the instruction of the Münsterites in part because he understood that their conversion before their death would

weaken the resolve of others attracted to the movement.61 Furthermore, he was also concerned about giving Catholic rulers an excuse or precedent for executing Protestants.62 Even in cases which would seem to

be central to the respect for freedom of conscience, the Landgrave was often surprisingly pragmatic. For example, in a reply to an inquiry on behalf of Herzog Christoph of Württemberg in 1537, he suggested that it belonged to a son’s deference to accept the confession of the father.

The fact that the father in question adhered to the “correct Christian, evangelical truth” ( rechte Christliche, evangelische warheit) made the solution perhaps easier, but Landgrave Philipp closed his letter by urging the

son to show obedience and respect for his father.63

Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 50, Heft 2 (1959), 182–198; idem, “Herkunft und Sozialan-schauungen der Täufergemeinden im westlichen Hessen,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 52, Heft 2 (1961), 162–188.

59 Letter from Martin Luther to the Hessian Landgrave, dated 20 November 1538.

SAM-PA-2687. Printed in BW-VIII-3274.

60 Draft of a letter from Landgrave Philipp to his chancellor, dated 9 April 1532.

SAM-PA-294.

61 Letter from Landgrave Philipp concerning Münster, undated. SAM-PA-420.

62 Dirrim, 205.

63 Reply from Landgrave Philipp regarding an inquiry from Herzog Christoph of Württemberg, 18 March 1537. SAM-PA-3071.

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This pragmatism led him to be at times somewhat distrustful of theo-

logians. In the mid-sixteenth century, there was still considerable interest in trying to dissolve the confessional boundaries that persisted and divided the Protestants into competing camps. In 1555, the Landgrave

responded favorably to a suggestion from the Herzog of Württemberg

for a new meeting to discuss possible solutions, but he complained that theologians “like to make the matter much worse rather than better, so that if you see À t to assemble the theologians, it should not be bad to have some secular advisors as representatives there as well.”64 This sense of secular pragmatism was also expressed in a letter to the Elector of the Palatinate and the Herzog of Württemberg in 1561.65 Landgrave

Philipp cautioned them to refrain from judging Calvinism based only

on insufÀ cient third-person knowledge of its precepts—this he called unchristian—and argued that Calvin taught “nothing different than that which Martin Luther has already said.”66 Furthermore, he suggested,

if they would only listen to both sides with open minds, they would

realize how miniscule the differences are and how much “unnecessary

À ghting and strife” is taking place.67 It is a theme that echoes through nearly forty years of the Landgrave’s correspondence.

Ironically, it may be the same relativization and pragmatic orientation which led the Landgrave to repress or at least discourage Protestant

diversity and simultaneously to be rather lenient towards the Anabap-

tists. While this tolerance is not to be understood as an indifference to the spiritual well-being of his subjects, a certain indifference to (or even deÀ ance of ) the practical implications of theological diversity nevertheless played a role. While he was perhaps prepared to accept

the possibility that Christians would reach differing interpretations of Scripture, he expected other Christians to recognize and accept this

64 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to his advisors in Augsburg, dated 4 June 1555.

SAM-PA-1199: “Wir besorgenn aber wan sie die Theolog[en] zusammen kommen, sie möcht[en] [“die” inserted above the line] sach viell mehr irriger dan Richtiger mach[en]

So aber ir die zusammen [“kunft” is crossed out] schickung der Theolog[en] vor gut ansehenn, und vor sich gehenn So solte inn allewege nicht ungut sein, das auch ezliche von weltlich[en] Rehten inen zugeordnet wurd[en].”

65 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to the Elector of the Palatinate and the Herzog of Württemberg, dated 4 September 1561. SAM-PA-2454.

66 Ibid.: “. . . da haben wir vorhin unnd izo neulich auch gelesenn, das er nith anders lehret, als Martinus Luther hievor darvonn auch geredt hatt. Dis aber were pillich unnd christlich das mann keinenn verdampt, Mann hort inn dann erst . . .”

67 Ibid.: “Und wurdenn E.L. wann sie beide theil horeten, alsdann besser erkennenn, Ob sie so weit von einander, unnd welcher unnotigenn streit, unnd zanck anÀ nge.”

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possibility as well, and he reacted with exasperation when they proved less equanimous. In a certain sense, the Landgrave was intolerant of

intolerance within his own realm; he envisioned a territory where all

should join him on his “middle way.” The problem for him was not so

much the disagreement itself, but the insistence of those who disagreed on making their disagreement grounds for schism.

Though the tradition of Landgrave Philipp as an ecumenical, tolerant

ruler was built on a ideological foundation by historians who believed that he fostered an “open debate” on religious matters, it is clear that for the Landgrave, this debate was meant to be a limited means to the

end of eliminating disunity. An important aspect for Landgrave Philipp was the suppression of controversial questions as part of an agreement to disagree but not to do so passionately or in such a way as to alienate others, especially not the particularly vulnerable “common man.”

His sincere longing for the bridging of the confessional À ssures which had emerged during his lifetime was so strong that he was willing to

plaster over these ruptures without necessarily resolving the underlying theological differences. It sometimes seems that the laity have much

more swiftly progressed towards ecumenism than theologians—who

persist in raising theological questions. Despite the inÁ uence Landgrave Philipp exerted over theological developments in the Reformation era

and the curiosity with which he at times pursued theological questions, he was a layman, and his own efforts to unify the Protestant movement

reÁ ect this.

The historiography concerning Landgrave Philipp has generally

oversimpliÀ ed the questions of tolerance and motivation. Only by

recognizing the complexity of the situation with which the Landgrave

was dealing can historians understand the development of what at times seem to be competing tendencies. The fact that Protestant unity was so important to Landgrave Philipp makes it all the more remarkable that

he refused to exert the full extent of his power to enforce conformity.

The Landgrave was relatively tolerant, but this tolerance was at least in part motivated by a medieval sense of monarchial paternalism rather

than the modern recognition of freedom of conscience to which his-

torians have too readily accredited it. It is misleading to speak of the Landgrave as tolerant in any modern sense. He banished a number of

Anabaptists, imprisoned others for life, and repeatedly expressed con-

cern about the spread of the movement. He also forbade theologians

within his territory to engage in controversial debates, especially with the common laity. However, he refused to employ the death penalty in

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his campaign against the Anabaptists. Furthermore, even if he in practice discouraged theologians’ “unnecessary bickering,” he nevertheless defended their right to hold dissenting views when urged from without

to curb the religious diversity of the Hessian Reformation.

By adopting pragmatism as one of his ideals, the Landgrave could

come across as both idealistic and pragmatic at the same time. He

was thus theologically engaged but also frustrated by theologians who

insisted that their theological disagreements were fundamental and

that they therefore justiÀ ed confessional division. He fostered dialogue where he thought it might serve his purpose of uniting competing

evangelical or separatist factions, but he dismissed many arguments

as theologians’ quarreling over trivial details, which he even viewed in certain contexts as dangerous. In 1563, as he was nearing the end of his forty years of activism on behalf of the evangelical cause, Landgrave Philipp responded to a letter from the Herzog of Württemberg which

expressed concern about some Schwenckfeldian publications. Though

the Landgrave’s letter conÀ rmed a variety of errors in Schwenckfeldian doctrine, he closed his letter with his typical reservations, urging “that one proceed wisely and in a Christian manner regarding these matters” in order to avoid that the “poor, irrational laity” be exposed to these ideas. Proceeding too harshly would “create more damage than

piety [ mehr schaden dann frommen schaffe ].”68 Much had changed during the Landgrave’s lifetime as the Reformation fragmented into various

confessional groups. A constant, however, was his concern about the

effects of religious diversity on the social fabric and his conviction that a moderate approach was the most effective way to combat religious

separatists. This makes him a remarkable prince and a sympathetic

À gure, but not a herald of modern religious tolerance or ecumenism.

68 Letter from Landgrave Philipp to the Herzog of Württemberg, dated 17 December 1563. SAM-PA-3099. Printed in Franz III-918: “Es ist aber wol von noten, dass man in diesen dingen weislich und christlich fare, dass man nicht meine, man wolle den Schwenckfeldern wehren, und in den armen unverstendigen leihen, gleichmessig urtel hat, dise opinions pringe und mehr schaden dann frommen schaffe.”

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CALVIN IN GERMANY

Christopher Ocker

Scholars have sometimes pointed to the importance of John Calvin’s

three Strasbourg years (early September 1538 to 2 September 1541),

where he settled, more or less, into a schedule of preaching and bible lecturing that he kept for the rest of his life.1 “Calvin, when he left Strasbourg, was more himself, he was more Calvinist.”2 “The three Strasbourg years made Calvin a stronger man; his development was now

completed.”3 “It was in Strasbourg that Calvin became ‘Calvin’ ”; it

was “the best three years of his life.”4 Strasbourg stood squarely in the middle of imperial debates; it was a city at the pivot of princely and urban interactions in the Protestant League of Schmalkalden, and both 1 For Calvin’s routine, Jean-François Gilmont, John Calvin and the Printed Book, trans.

K. Maag (Kirksville: Truman State University Press, 2005), p. 30, and at Geneva, Max Engammare, L’ordre du temps. L’invention de la ponctualité au xvie siècle (Geneva: Droz, 2004), pp. 28–45. To my knowledge, no new evidence for Calvin’s Strasbourg period has come to light since this period was chronicled by Jacques Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg (Strasbourg: Imprimerie alsacienne, 1925); August Lang, Johannes Calvin. Ein Lebensbild zu seinem 400. Geburtstag (Leipzig: Verlag von Rudolf Haupt, 1909); Emile Doumergue, Jean Calvin. Les hommes et les choses de son temps, 7 vols. (Lausanne: Georges Bridel, 1899–

1927), 2:293–713; Wilhelm H. Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag zu den Religionsgesprächen von Hagenau, Worms und Regensburg (1540/41),” Studien zur Geschichte und Theologie der Reformation. Festschrift für Ernst Bizer, ed. Luise Abramowski, J.F. Gerhard Goeters (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), pp. 213–237; and E.A. de Boer, LoÁ ied en hekeldicht. De geschiedenis van Calvijn’s enige gedicht (Haarlem: Aca Media, 1986). What has changed, in no small measure thanks to Thomas A. Brady, Jr., is our knowledge of Strasbourg, with recognition that the Protestant League entered a crucial test during these years, and Strasbourg’s diplomacy played a crucial role.

2 Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 55 (Pannier’s emphasis).

3 Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 61.

4 Bernard Cottret, Calvin: A Biography, trans. M.W. McDonald (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), pp. 132, 134. Wilhelm Neuser emphasized Calvin’s theological contribution to Protestant discussions at Worms, where Calvin introduced the concept of “double justiÀ cation” and made particularly crisp arguments against the mass, monastic vows, and the papacy. Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 227–235. The doctrine of double justiÀ cation eventually stood among the agreements reached by Catholic and Protestant theologians at Regensburg April and May 1541. Elisabeth Gleason, Gasparo Contarini.

Venice, Rome, and Reform (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), pp. 201–256.

Thomas Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch. Typologie und Funktion der Religionsgespräche in der Reformationszeit (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995), pp. 429–456.

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a source and a conduit of the League’s French and Swiss diplomacy.

With the opening of the gymnasium illustre in 1539, it intended to be, alongside Wittenberg, a second center of an international movement.

Geneva was still struggling for independence. Only a few years before, its urban magistrates À rst wrested control from their bishop, while in most of Europe cities had been challenging the bishop’s civic power for over three hundred years.5 Geneva was a peripheral city, and Calvin had been a somewhat irrelevant public À gure during his À rst residence there (1536–1538).6 It would be wrong to view Strasbourg as an interlude to a great Genevan career, as an exile worse than Switzerland, or as a mere station in the development of the great man. Calvin, when he arrived, was relatively young (29), but also unimportant.7 In Germany, he basked in the sunshine of illustrious evangelicals. It was no asylum or retreat.8

After arriving, he found himself in the ranks of theological advisors to the Protestant League, and he enjoyed a political education, as a review of these three years shows. How did Germany affect him?

1

The Holy Roman Empire À rst inspired what we could consider a right-

eous ambition, but it was also an improbable one. Calvin later recalled Strasbourg, like Geneva, as an act of God, which we may take in the

5 For Geneva’s recent economic decline, its relationship to its bishop and the house of Savoy, and its position between Savoy and Bern, William G. Naphy, Calvin and the Consolidation of the Genevan Reform, (Louisville: John Knox Westminster, 2003), pp. 12–27

and E. William Monter, Calvin’s Geneva (New York: Wiley, 1967), pp. 29–63.

6 “It would be a serious mistake to view the crisis of 1538 [which produced Calvin’s exile] as the À rst round of a dispute which ended in 1555” [the exile of Perrin and the consolidation of reform]. Naphy, Calvin, pp. 222–3.

7 In September 1538, Martin Bucer was 38, Wolfgang Capito was 43, Philip Melanchthon was 33, and Jean Sturm was only 27 but already had been a professor of the Collège de France and enjoyed an international reputation in rhetoric and dialectic.

8 Cf. Richard A. Muller, The Unaccommodated Calvin: Studies in the Foundation of a Theological Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 27. Calvin later recalled that he À rst went to “Germany,” to Basel, seeking respite, and he hoped again to À nd it when he was exiled from Geneva, but received Bucer’s call to Strasbourg, instead.

Calvini Opera, 59 vols., ed. G. Baum, E. Cunitz, E. Reuss (Braunschweig: Schwetschke et Filius, 1863–1900), 31:23–4, 25–7 (hereafter, CO). Ioannis Calvini Epistolae, vol. 1

(1530–September 1538), ed. C. Burger, P. Estié, A. den Hollander, M. Stolk, M. van Veen, J. Vree (Geneva: Droz, 2005), p. 420 nr. 78. His worries over Genevan and Swiss affairs and his money problems made these three years difÀ cult. Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, pp. 39–40.

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modern sense.9 If Strasbourg blocked his pursuit of academic leisure, by now he might have been used to it. He left the normal scholar’s path when he abandoned his beneÀ ces in Noyon. What made Strasbourg

inexplicable was the sheer improbability of Calvin himself, who came, after all, as the pastor of a foreign refugee church.

Calvin’s immediate future rose from a personal quality and circum-

stances: his proven usefulness as a scholar of Strasbourg’s gymnasium illustre and the opportunities created by imperial politics, before and during the colloquy at Worms (28 October 1540 to 19 January 1541).

His position was nursed by Wolfgang Capito and Martin Bucer, as is well known.10 Bucer and Capito brought him to the French refugee church,

but they also had him lecture and hold academic disputations, then

recommended him to the young Jean Sturm before the gymnasium illustre opened in Easter 1539. Calvin’s services were secured by a redeeming

salary of 52 gulden per annum (he purchased citizenship two months

later).11 The new school granted Calvin steady contact with Sturm,

Strasbourg’s and, by extension, the League’s chief broker with France.12

Apart from Calvin’s humiliating reconciliation with Pierre Caroli,13 1539

was a year of milestones. The milestones included the completion of

the second edition of the Institutes of the Christian Religion (a decisive shift in genre from the À rst edition, but not yet a complete abandonment of 9 See the previous note.

10 Emphasizing Bucer’s role, William J. Bouwsma, John Calvin: A Sixteenth-Century Portrait (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 20–4.

11 Lang, Johannes Calvin, pp. 50, 52–3. For the public disputations, Johannes Sturm, Quarti antipappi tres partes priores (Neustadt: Matthaeus Harnisch, 1580), p. 20. For the opening of the gymnasium illustre in Strasbourg, Thomas A. Brady, Protestant Politics: Jacob Sturm (1489–1553) and the German Reformation (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press, 1995), pp. 119–125 and the literature noted there. For Calvin’s attempts to increase his income, Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, pp. 39–40.

12 Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 156–7. Sturm was a member of the College de France when Calvin studied at Paris ( June 1531–October 1534), and an important contributor to trends that shaped Calvin’s method and thought, although we do not know if they had personal contact in France. For this and the following, Olivier Millet, La dynamique de la parole. Etude de rhétorique réformée (Geneva: Slatkine, 1992), pp. 114–121. During this period, Calvin left Paris only to visit Orleans, May–June 1533, and again to visit his native Noyen, May 1534, where he resigned his beneÀ ces. For Sturm’s inÁ uence on Calvin’s thinking, together with Bartolomeus Latomus and Melanchthon, Millet, La dynamique de la parole, pp. 120–121. For Latomus, Contemporaries of Erasmus, 3 vols.

(Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985–7), 2:303–4.

13 In October, famously driving Calvin to a À t of extreme anger, which Doumergue took as early evidence of Calvin’s irrascibility. Cottret, Calvin, pp. 135–6. Doumergue, Jean Calvin, 2:397–401.

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the original catechetical format),14 the study of Chrysostom’s sermons and Bernard of Clairvaux, the continuation of lectures begun in Geneva (Paul’s Epistle to the Romans), his À rst French Reformed worship book,15

his À rst major polemical work (against Cardinal Sadoleto’s appeal to

Geneva, to return to Catholic obedience), two strange tracts in defense of Count Wilhelm of Fürstenberg, and a polemic against an obscure

prophet in Montbéliard who admonished Catholic loyalty.16 He also

helped Johann Sleidan with Queen Marguerite of Navarre’s German

diplomacy, arranging a marriage between the 13-year old daughter of

the learned queen with the young Duke Wilhelm of Jülich-Cleves.17

14 This edition included, among other things (for example, a new chapter on justi-

À cation by faith) his vehement insistence on the continuity of the church with ancient Israel and on double predestination, both of which distinguished him from Luther.

Francis Higman, “Calvin et le peuple élu,” Lire et découvrir. La circulation des idées au temps de la Réforme (Geneva: Droz, 1998), pp. 651–662. Muller, The Unaccommodated Calvin, pp.

122–130, who shows that the additional chapters, the one on the law prominent among them, were likely “generated by the exegesis of Romans [by Calvin], particularly in view of the Melanchthonian understanding of the structure of the epistle,” while in contrast with Melanchthon, Calvin separated the theological loci from the commentary and placed them in the Institutes (ibid., p. 130 for the quote).

15 The À rst French reformed liturgy, however, was Guillaume Farel’s Manier et fas-son (1533). Francis Higman, “Bucer et les nicodémites,” in idem, Lire et découvrir, pp.

636–7.

16 For the study of Chrysostom and Bernard, Millet, La dynamique de la parole, pp.

176–181, here 180; Alexander Ganoczy, Klaus Müller, Calvins handschriftliche Annotationen zu Chrysostomus: Ein Beitrag zur Hermeneutik Calvins (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1981); Gilmont, John Calvin and the Printed Book, pp. 161, 163. For his lectures on Romans (published 1541), soon followed by 1 and 2 Corinthians (published 1545, 1546), Gilmont, John Calvin and the Printed Book, pp. 46–7; Benoît Girardin, Rhétorique et théologique. Calvin, le commentaire de l’Epître aux Romains (Paris: Beauchesne, 1979). For the worship book and Calvin’s adaptation of Strasbourg liturgy, Calvin’s First Psalter (1539), ed. R.R. Terry (London: E.

Benn, 1932); Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 50, and Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 29. For the Strasbourg years and the Institutes, Bibliotheca Calviniana. Les oeuvres de Jean Calvin publiées au XVI e, ed. Rodolphe Peter, Jean-François Gilmont, 3 vols. (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1991–2000), 1:58–64, 74–77; Muller, The Unaccommodated Calvin, pp. 27–31, 118–139; Otto Ritschl, Dogmengeschichte des Protestantismus, 4 vols. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1908–1928), 3:157–8. For his adaptation of Strasbourg’s church discipline, Franklin H. Little, “What Calvin Learned at Strassburg,” The Heritage of John Calvin, ed.

John H. Bratt (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1973), pp. 74–86, reprinted Calvin’s Early Writings and Ministry, ed. Richard C. Gamble (New York: Garland, 1992), pp. 166–178. For Sadoleto, Bibliotheca Calviniana, pp. 65–67, 84–86. Count Wilhelm of Fürstenberg served Francis I in his third conÁ ict between the French king and Charles V (1536–1538), but after coming into conÁ ict with the king’s high constable, he was humiliated when the king turned to Wilhelm’s vassal, Sebastian Vogelsperger, to recruit mercenaries instead of him. Bibliotheca Calviniana, pp. 51–52, 55–57, 68–69, 78–80. Jean Calvin, Plaidoyers pour le comte Guillaume de Fürstenberg, ed. R. Peter (Paris: Presses universitaires, 1994), xvii–lvii. For the Montbéliard prophet, Bibliotheca Calviniana, pp. 53–54.

17 Wilhelm was 23. Queen Marguerite de Navarre was the most important promoter of French evangelisme and sister of King Francis I. The marriage was dissolved in 1543

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Marguerite’s diplomacy was one of several points at which Calvin

had contact with the higher reaches of the imperial political community,

“a vast, complicated, and regionally and locally articulated system of law and politics.”18 A Frenchman might À x the positions of political actors by reference to the meridian of the king, but not here. Any

pilgrim could get quickly lost. In addition, the everyday complexity of the empire had stepped up in 1537 with the sudden expansion of the

Protestant League between 1537 and 1538.19

It has never been easy to describe the stormy and difÀ cult political climate that followed the growth of the League. The Holy Roman

Empire was a community primarily shaped by the interactions of

individual property and power-holders with no single chief. The play-

ers could and often did rapidly change positions. There were, to be

sure, sweeping, organizing “imagined communities” at play, to borrow

Benedict Anderson’s famous phrase, ranging from the diverse histories

of a national-regional past, or a Roman-imperial one, to ecclesiol-

ogy—the church as a supernatural communion of all baptized souls

and Christ. Such images projected À xed genealogies upon the social

body (whether historical or supernatural or both) in compensation for

a dynamic polity based upon friendship, enmity, and the constant, ad

hoc negotiation of relationships. That having been said, the present

confusion may be, and usually is, traced to one particular cause. The

alliance’s northern leader, Johann Friedrich, Elector of Saxony, looked to extend the League’s mandate beyond the more obvious affairs of

religion stipulated by its constitution, and he intensiÀ ed his efforts to build an international anti-Habsburg coalition that might include the

kings of England and France (the king of Denmark, who as duke of

by the French king upon the defeat of the duke by the emperor. Calvin also helped arrange letters by German princes at the Regensburg diet in 1541 on behalf of the persecuted in France. He considered the letters insufÀ cient and his efforts a failure.

Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 60. CO 11:62–63 nr. 226 with n. 4; 11:220–1 nr. 311; 11:252

nr. 334; 11:253 nr. 335. For Strasbourg’s French diplomacy and Jacob Sturm’s role in the Elector of Saxony’s efforts vis-à-vis Duke Wilhelm of Jülich-Cleves, Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 254–257.

18 Brady, Protestant Politics, p. 6.

19 For the threat of war and the drive to peace by restoration of the imperial diet as the principal national political theater, within which context the imperial colloquies of 1540 –1541 must be seen, and the Saxon Elector’s exploration of an international anti-Habsburg coalition, Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 206–248. For the Schmalkald League’s preparation for war in 1539, Gabriele Haug-Moritz, Der Schmalkaldische Bund, 1530 –1541/4 (Leinfelden-Echterdingen: DRW-Verlag, 2002), pp. 465–484, and for the League’s expansion, pp. 124, 273.

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Schleswig and Holstein was a member of the imperial diet, became a

partner to the League in 1538). His efforts held real promise to establish the League as an evangelical republic or as a counter-diet nudging both Habsburgs, emperor and Roman king, aside.20 This ambition was

going to be nurtured in the next years by the temporary suspension of

cases for the restitution of church property before the Imperial Chamber Court in 1541, by the League’s recusal of the court in all matters in 1542, by the suspension of all cases involving Protestants in 1543, and by conÀ rmation of the court’s suspension by the imperial diet in 1544.21 It was also simultaneously eroding when the emperor drove the

Duke of Jülich-Cleves from Guelders in 1543, for Jülich-Cleves was an important piece of Johann Friedrich’s strategy.22 Johann Friedrich had won the League’s commitment to Duke Wilhelm of Jülich-Cleves after

the Duke’s assumption of rule, in 1539, when he seized Guelders. Duke Wilhelm was the Elector’s brother-in-law.

As Johann Friedrich probed for ways to expand, a counter-alliance

was formed. The Nürnberg League, organized by the imperial vice-

chancellor Matthias Held, was comprised of the Austrian Habsburg

Ferdinand, King of the Romans, the two dukes of Bavaria, the arch-

bishop of Mainz, the duke of Albertine Saxony, the duke of Braun-

schweig-Wolfenbüttel, and the duke of Braunschweig-Calenberg. Calvin

20 Calvin recognized the Elector of Saxony as chief of the war party in March 1539 ( qui . . . necessitatem belli impositam nobis putavit) and the Landgrave as chief advocate of peace ( Lantgravius praeter omnium spem bellum dissuasit), who turned the League to pursue the truce, while the Elector tried to draw the Duke of Jülich-Cleves into the League. CO 10:330 nr. 164; Herminjard, Correspondance 5:267; Jules Bonnet, Letters of John Calvin (Philadelphia: Presbyterian Board of Publication, 1858), 1:128–129 nr. 33.

Calvin did not need to mention that the Elector’s interest in Cleves tended against the League’s rapprochement with the emperor and favored an alliance between the League and France. Attempts at a coalition between the League and France, in which Jean Sturm, Johann Sleidan (at the Hagenau colloquy in summer 1540), and Calvin played a role, fell victim to the League’s near-term pursuit of an imperial peace. With regard to French diplomacy, Calvin focussed on the persecution of Protestants. He provided Jean Sturm with an instruction on their behalf, for Sturm’s report to the Arnstadt diet of the League in Fall 1539. CO 10:428–9 nr. 196. Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” p. 235. At Regensburg in May 1541, he still hoped the Landgrave would be inclined to work toward alleviating the suffering of French Protestants. CO 11:216 nr.

308; 11:235–6 nr. 321.

21 Brady, Protestant Politics, p. 169, with Bernd Christian Schneider, Ius Reformandi. Die Entwicklung eines Staatskirchenrechts von seinen Anfängen bis zum Ende des Alten Reiches (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 2001), pp. 118–9 for the progressive suspensions of the court.

22 Hans-Joachim Behr, Franz von Waldeck, Fürstbischof von Münster und Osnabrück, Administrator zu Minden (1491–1553). Sein Leben in seiner Zeit, 2 parts (Münster: Aschendorf, 1996, 1998), 1:293.

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watched the anxious and belligerent Protestant response to the formation of the Catholic League of Nürnberg take shape. But this division of

Protestants and Catholics, League against League, would have clariÀ ed little during the next three years. It was obvious that the Holy Roman Emperor, who with his brother King Ferdinand stood to gain least from

armed confrontation, initiated imperial religious colloquies in order to remove obstacles to a steadier Á ow of war taxes in support of their

respective Mediterranean and Hungarian campaigns against the Turks.

It was also plain that a reactivated and indigenous electoral peace party pulled in key Protestants, like the Strasbourg diplomat, Jacob Sturm,

and, by À ts and turns, Philip the Landgrave of Hesse.23 More difÀ cult to comprehend would be the way the principals tested their alternatives in rapid succession or all at once. For example, Vice-Chancellor Held

had announced the emperor’s readiness to compromise with Protestants

on the key issue of conÀ scated church properties a year before.24 Duke Georg of Saxony joined the Catholic League, but he may also have

felt an evangelical allure, now that he himself was being sued before the Imperial Chamber Court for inventorying the properties of the

Teutonic Order, a À rst step toward the conÀ scations that his successor Heinrich carried out in 1539.25 Among the princes there circulated

proposals—to negotiate a peace in the imperial electoral college, in a grand coalition of the Schmalkaldeners and prince-bishops, and in a

princes’ colloquy—all of this predicated on a trans-confessional German fear of Habsburg dynastic ambitions.26 In spite of the evident religious conÁ ict, there were a good number of church prelates in the imperial diet who avoided the religious controversy altogether, others who promoted reconciliation (including the bishops of Eichstätt, Constance, 23 In general, see Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 206–248. For the peace party and coali-tions contemplated, Haug-Moritz, Der Schmalkaldische Bund., pp. 288, 295, 348; Albrecht Pius Luttenberger, Glaubenseinheit und Reichsfriede. Konzeptionen und Wege konfessionsneutraler Reichspolitik 1530–1552 (Kurpfalz, Jülich, Kurbrandenburg) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1982), p. 185; Eike Wolgast, Hochstift und Reformation (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner 1995), p. 72.

24 Haug-Moritz, Der Schmalkaldische Bund, pp. 292–5, 510.

25 The complaint was made in 1537, the inventory in 1535. R.M. Sprenger, Viglius van Aytta und seine Notizen über Beratungen am Reichskammergericht (1535–1537) (Nijmegen: Gerard Noodt Institut, 1988), pp. 77–80. His successor, Duke Heinrich, conducted an inventory of all monastic properties in 1539. Helga-Maria Kühn, Die Einziehung des geistlichen Gutes im Albertinischen Sachsen, 1539–1553 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1966).

26 Christopher Ocker, Church Robbers and Reformers in Germany (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2006), pp. 116–7 and the literature noted there.

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and Passau, and the archbishop-elector of Trier), and still others who promoted Catholic reform (including the bishop of Strasbourg; the

bishop of Münster, Minden, and Osnabrück; and the archbishop-elector

of Trier).27 To a French exile, turns in the Schmalkald League’s French and English diplomacy, which had seemed so hopeful only a few years

before, could only add to the confusion. The weird treatment of the

German delegation by King Henry VIII in spring 1539, followed by

the king’s confessionally ambiguous Act of Six Articles in June,28 showed how unsteady the League’s fortunes abroad were.

There were “some powerful barriers to a German confessional war,”29

but some, for example Johann Friedrich, believed war could be a good

thing. In addition to the possibility of war, clergy were at once encouraged and vexed by new opportunities for reform and by the possibility

of religious compromise. From 1539 to several years after Calvin’s

departure from Strasbourg in September 1541, reform and compromise

increasingly threatened to go hand in hand. Electoral Brandenburg, the Palatinate, Albertine Saxony, the territory of the archbishop of Cologne, and Jülich-Cleves all experimented with unpartisan reforms.30 There

were dangers within the League, too. While the Imperial Chamber

Court accelerated its work to restore church properties and incomes

to priests, canons, and monastic communities, Protestant clergy were

taking stock of the spectacular pace of conÀ scations in the duchy of Württemberg in 1535–1536, and they were following Henry VIII’s

dissolution of monasteries in England (most properties were taken

in between 1537 and 1540). What would be left for their redesigned

ministries? The emperor himself set dangerous precedents. He had

expanded his prerogatives in the churches of the Netherlands and

Spain.31 The League’s estates, upon the advice of theologians, eventually developed a common opinion on conÀ scated property, which converged

27 Luttenberger, Glaubenseinheit und Reichsfriede, p. 140.

28 John SchoÀ eld, Philip Melanchthon and the English Reformation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), pp. 124–145.

29 Brady, Protestant Politics, p. 207: the most obvious barrier was Charles V’s preoccupation with the Mediterranean theater of his war with the Turks and Ferdinand’s on-going efforts to build up his south-German clientele. The point was also observed by Calvin, CO 10:315 nr. 158; Herminjard, Correspondance, 5:227–231 nr. 767; Bonnet, Letters, 1:105 nr. 29.

30 Estes, Peace, Order, and the Glory of God, pp. 138–152 for this and the following.

31 Ocker, Church Robbers, pp. 180–237. For Charles V, Jochen A. Fühner, Die Kirchen-und die antireformatorische Religionspolitik Kaiser Karls V. in den siebzehn Provinzen der Niederlande, 1515–1555 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2004), pp. 89–165.

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nicely, if a little ironically, with the League’s accelerating efforts, from 1538 to 1541, to recuse the Imperial Chamber Court (it succeeded in

1544). The recusal depended on the court’s incompetence in religious

matters, and the clergy taught their princes to defend conÀ scations as religious acts.

Second-tier advisors at court,32 the Protestant clergy studied oppor-

tunities to promote the new faith, and Calvin studied them, too. The

Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave of Hesse’s recent overtures to

France and England had ampliÀ ed the voice of theologians in the

League’s affairs, as did the problem of church property, and the new

religious colloquies showcased theologians—none more than Philip

Melanchthon. German theologians had not enjoyed such an imperial

stage since the Diet of Augsburg in 1530.33 When the counselor of

Duke Georg of Saxony, Georg von Karlowitz, initiated the À rst in the new round of dialogue (for early January 1539 at Leipzig), Bucer and

Melanchthon joined the chancellors of Hesse and Electoral Saxony,

negotiated stifÁ y, and kept channels open as the dialogue foundered.34

(Luther dismissed dialogue altogether, in contrast with the sanguine

theologians of Strasbourg and Hesse.35) Bucer and Sturm then hauled

Calvin to the Schmalkald League’s Frankfurt diet in early 1539, six

weeks after the Leipzig colloquy. There, the arrangement of powers

32 Miriam Usher Chrisman, ConÁ icting Visions of Reform. German Lay Propaganda Pamphlets, 1519–1530 (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press, 1996), pp. 34–5, 43–5. H.C.

Erik Midelfort, Mad Princes of Renaissance Germany (Charlottesville: University Press of Virgina, 1994), p. 124.

33 Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch, pp. 363–388.

34 Calvin was thrilled to report Duke Georg’s overture to Bucer in January 1539, which he learned before Bucer’s return from Saxony. CO 10:315 nr. 158. Herminjard, Correspondance, 5:229 nr. 767. Bonnet, Letters, 1:105 nr. 29. Bucer and Johann Feige (the Landgrave’s chancellor), Melanchthon, and Gregor Brück (the Elector of Saxony’s chancellor) represented the Protestant side, while von Karlowitz, Ludwig Fachs (another counselor at the Saxon court in Dresden), and Georg Witzel (a Protestant who returned to Catholicism in 1530 and who since 1538 was active in the duke of Saxony’s territory) represented the Catholic side. This conference proved inconclusive, although Bucer and Witzel produced a reunion proposal that included a doctrine of justiÀ cation very close to the Lutheran position and suggested modest reforms in the doctrines of the Eucharist, monasticism, the adoration of the saints, feast days, the sacrament of holy anointing, fasts, and the place of temporal government. Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch, pp. 401–7. The Elector of Saxony was still hoping Duke Georg’s evangelical brother Heinrich would follow in the Albertine line, which he did in 1539, when Georg’s incompetent son Friedrich died. Midelfort, Mad Princes, pp. 53–54.

35 Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 211–219. Wilhelm H. Neuser, Die Vorbereitung der Religionsgespräche von Worms und Regensburg 1540/41 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974), pp. 44–5.

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lined up like pieces on a board: the League prepared for war while

probing the emperor’s overtures for peace, reignited English diplomacy, and clariÀ ed Protestant conditions for negotiation, in particular their opposition to the Imperial Chamber Court: the court had recently

issued its À rst ban on a Protestant city, the city of Minden, in October 1538.36 Calvin took note as the League’s two leaders arrived in a

military pageant: the Elector of Saxony with his half-brother Johann

Ernst and his more distant kinsman Moritz (son of Duke Heinrich,

the new Protestant who was about to succeed the Catholic Georg in

ducal Saxony) each with 400 horsemen, the Landgrave and an equal

number of footmen, but the duke of Lüneburg “with less pomp.”37

Deputies came from the margrave of Brandenburg-Küstrin (Hans, who

joined the League in 1538 and established evangelical churches in his

territories, a brother to the Brandenburg Elector),38 a younger Duke

of Braunschweig (probably the duke of Braunschweig-Grubenhagen),

the king of Denmark, the duke of Prussia, “many others,” and “the

foremost men of the cities.” They were all irritated that Duke Ulrich of Württemberg was too busy hunting to make the two-day journey.

Calvin was impressed by the show of force, remarking their resolve to À ght. At Frankfurt, the League received the emperor’s À rst resolution to extend the Nürnberg Truce of 1532 and resume the dialogue that

failed early in the decade.39 The two electors (the Palatine Elector and the Elector of Brandenburg), came with the emperor’s letter and the

archbishop of Lund to negotiate a peace. The Landgrave posed the

League’s conditions to the emperor’s embassy: the free administration of their churches, including the property, and admission of new members

to the Protestant League at will.

This much, Calvin witnessed À rst hand. But after returning to Stras-

bourg he studied closely Bucer’s subsequent report of continuing events, noting the League’s interest in a permanent peace, the resumption of

diplomacy with England (it brought about the unfortunate half-year

marriage of Anne of Cleves, sister of Duke Wilhelm of Jülich-Cleves, to Henry VIII), and the arrival of Duke Wilhelm’s embassy to declare

the duke’s recovery of Guelders (in violation of claims by the emperor and the Duke of Lorraine) and to ask for the League’s support when

36 Haug-Moritz, Der Schmalkaldischer Bund, pp. 64–5.

37 CO 10:326–8 nr. 162. Herminjard, Correspondance, 5:253–260 nr. 772. Bonnet, Letters 1:121–7 nr. 32.

38 Haug-Moritz, Der Schmalkaldischer Bund, pp. 167–9.

39 Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 219–220.

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the emperor attacks.40 He took measure of Bucer’s proposal on church

property.41 He tracked the powers. He identiÀ ed the League’s goals in negotiation (a permanent peace that left conÀ scations of church properties in tact) and noted important players, such as the duke of Jülich-Cleves, who would provide the League with an opportunity to confront

the emperor and who Calvin thought might facilitate a French-German

Protestant alliance. His own activities at Frankfurt, on the margins of the League’s diet, indicate his alien position. He met Melanchthon for the À rst time, discussed church discipline and the Eucharist, hoped

to encourage the resumption of excommunication among Lutherans

(Melanchthon called this impractical), and won Melanchthon’s (strictly private) approval of articles Calvin composed on the Eucharist to mediate the divide between German and Swiss evangelicals.42 Although for

his entire time at Strasbourg Calvin was clearly under Bucer’s wing,

Melanchthon would leave a deep imprint.43 Calvin also advocated the

League’s intervention on behalf of French Protestants.44 Or in other 40 Calvin had noted the emerging conÁ ict between Guelders and Cleves soon after arriving in Strasbourg. CO 10:279 nr. 149. The brief and unhappy marriage of Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves was celebrated on 6 January 1540. SchoÀ eld, Philip Melanchthon, pp. 124–145. Diarmaid MacCulloch, Thomas Cranmer (New Haven: Yale, 1996), pp. 257–275.

41 CO 10:324–5 nr. 162. Herminjard, Correspondance, 5:247–253 nr. 772. Bonnet, Letters, 1:119 nr. 32. For Bucer’s views, see Gottfried Seebaß, “Martin Bucers Beitrag zu den Diskussionen über die Verwendung der Kirchengüter,” Martin Bucer und das Recht. Beiträge zum internationalem Symposium vom 1. bis 3. März 2001 in der Johannes a Lasco Bibliothek Emden, ed. by Christopher Strohm (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2002), pp. 167–83, and Ocker, Church Robbers and Reformers, pp. 194–201, 215–221.

42 The articles do not survive. Calvin’s Petit traicte de cene de nostre seigneur Iesu Christ, published soon after his return to Geneva in 1541, was probably begun in 1537 before he came to Strasbourg, in connection with an exchange between Bucer and Bern over the Eucharist, and continued at Strasbourg. Bibliotheca Calviniana 1:102 nr. 41/2.

43 Willem van ’t Spijker, “Calvin’s Friendship with Bucer: Did It Make Calvin a Calvinist?,” Calvin and Spirituality; Calvin and His Contemporaries: Colleagues, Friends and Contacts, ed. David Foxgrover (Grand Rapids: Calvin Studies Society, 1998), pp.

169–186. Wilhelm Pauck, “Calvin and Butzer,” Articles on Calvin and Calvinism: Calvin’s Early Writings and Ministry, ed. Richard C. Gamble (New York: Garland, 1992), pp.

37–56. Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, pp. 9, 54–5. Olivier Millet, “Les ‘Loci communes’

de 1535 et l’Institution de la Religion chrétienne de 1539–1541, ou Calvin en dialogue avec Melanchthon,” Melanchthon und Europa, ed. G. Frank, K. Meerhoff (Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2002), pp. 85–96.

44 Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 57. Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 34. CO 10:331 nr. 164.

Neuser linked the Eucharistic agreement between Calvin and Melanchthon to debate over the Nürnberg theologians Wenceslaus Linck, Veit Dietrich, and Andreas Osiander, who viewed the relation of the sacramental elements to the Son of God on the analogy of the hypostatic union of divine and human natures in Christ. Luther appears to have supported Calvin’s position. See Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 213–237. Neuser OCKER1_f19_313-344.indd 323

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words, he studied the Germans, but his main interests were French and

his network was Swiss, as the city of Basel reminds us when it named

him a good source of advice in future colloquies.45

Before the diet of Frankfurt ended, Calvin settled into his work at

Strasbourg, 1539 being, as I mentioned, a scholarly productive year.

By 1540, he had produced his À rst major polemical work, his refuta-

tion of Cardinal Sadoleto, and a revised edition of his Institutes, and his lectures on Romans made an important advance in Protestant bible

scholarship. As plans for the imperial colloquies progressed, his position among the League’s clergy solidiÀ ed. In Spring 1540, he followed events at the League’s diet at Schmalkalden from Strasbourg, noting

Bucer, Melanchthon, and Bugenhagen’s pleasure that they could stir the League to intervene against surviving Catholic images and tabernacles

in Schmalkalden’s churches.46 Calvin expected a report of proceedings from Bucer, then forwarded a summary to Guillaume Farel in Neuchâtel.

Calvin’s account highlighted the resolve of the League’s princes and

stressed the difference between Calvin and Melanchthon on church displine: Calvin wished it were used to decrease ceremonies in Lutheran worship, while Melanchthon expressed sympathy for Calvin’s view, but considered action impractical. Ibid., pp.

220–221. Calvin, in a letter of 1539 to Richard Sylvius, who stirred up a Eucharistic controversy at Bern, appealed to his Frankfurt articles as representing Melanchthon’s view of the Eucharist. CO 10:447 nr. 203. He was, soon after arriving in Strasbourg, frustrated by Luther’s intransigence on eucharistic compromise ( peccet sane Lutherus, he wrote to Farel, “certainly Luther blunders”) and by the difÀ culty of keeping Zürich and Bern in dialogue. CO 10:277–8 nr. 149; Herminjard, Correspondance, 5:140–8 nr.

751; Bonnet, Letters, 1:89–90 nr. 26. For Calvin and the eucharistic debate, see also CO 11:23–5 nr. 211; Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:189–193 nr. 854; Bonnet, Letters, 1:107–9 nr. 30 (misdated to 1539). For Luther’s tacit approval of his views in 1539

and 1540, Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag zu den Religionsgesprächen,” 216–217, WA Br 8:569. His initial attempt to win support for French Protestants met a cold response from Bucer, and he found little sympathy for drawing sacramentarians closer to the League, although a Catholic attempt to exclude sacramentarians from the truce failed.

CO 10:322–3 nr. 162; 10:330 nr. 164. Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” p. 223.

45 Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche im 16. Jahrhundert 1/2:1089, the recess of the Schmalkald diet of Frankfurt, 23 April 1539, in preparation for the À rst imperial colloquy included a list of theologians and jurists. Strasbourg would send Bucer, Hedio, and Capito. The city of Basel intended to commission Bonifacius Amerbach, who was to consult “die von Strasburg . . . und auch Simon Grineum und Johannen Calvinum.”

46 CO 10:337 nr. 168, with Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 221–2 note 64, which corrects the letter’s date to 1540. Herminjard, Correspondance 5:286–8 nr. 782 and Bonnet, Letters, pp. 132–3 nr. 34, like CO 10:337 nr. 168, misattributes the letter to the Frankfurt diet of April 1539. Calvin had recently sought to reduce tensions over the Eucharist between Zürich and Strasbourg. Alasdair I.C. Heron, “Calvin an Bullinger 1536–1549,” ProÀ le des reformierten Protestantismus aus vier Jahrhunderten, ed. M. Freudenberg (Wuppertal: Foedus, 1999), pp. 49–69, here 52.

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cities to resume a religious dialogue under the auspices of an imperial diet, and again he reconnoitered the positions of the main parties.

There was the emperor who through his chancellor Nicholas Perrenot

de Granvelle tried to accommodate Protestants without alienating the

Catholic estates and without conceding anything Calvin considered of

substance; the triangle of the Duke of Braunschweig with Guelders and the emperor; the mediating position of the Electors of the Palatinate, Cologne, and Trier; and the possibility of an English alliance with

the League.47 Assigned the task of translating the Landgrave and the

Elector’s reply to Granvelle from Latin into the emperor’s native French, Calvin knew À rst-hand the League’s conditions for a future colloquy: the exclusion of church property from debate and a discussion focused on

the contested points of the slightly revised Augsburg Confession.48 The League’s agreed principles on property, so important for their campaign against the Imperial Chamber Court and the eventual establishment

of Protestant churches in the empire, can be found in Calvin’s own

later counsel, in 1542.49 He sent Guillaume Farel a secret copy of the ofÀ cial answer to Granvelle.50

47 CO 11:38–40 nr. 218. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:215–225 nr. 863. Bonnet, Letters, 1:179–182 nr. 46. Martin Bucers Deutsche Schriften, 9/1:80.

48 CO 11:39 nr. 218.

49 Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 169–174. Calvin argued that gifts given to God may not be profaned; and if priests and monks abuse the religious purposes of church endowments, they are guilty of sacrilege, and a prince must restore church property to its correct use. CO 5:250–1; 11:447–8 nr. 426. Herminjard, Correspondance, 8:165–7

nr. 1171. Bonnet, Letters 1:359–361. He considered the inalienability of church property a regula reformationis of King Josiah (Herminjard, Correspondance, 8:167). Others before him had appealed to Josiah’s example, Melanchthon, in particular, as early as 1521, Bucer since at least 1533, Wolgang Musculus and Bonifacius Wolfahrt in their memorandum to the League of Schmalkalden in 1538, and Melanchthon again in his De ofÀ cio principum of 1539. James M. Estes, Peace, Order and the Glory of God: Secular Authority and the Church in the Thought of Luther and Melanchthon, 1518–1559 (Leiden: E.J.

Brill, 2006), pp. 60, 116, 154. F. Roth, “Zur Kirchengüterfrage in der Zeit von 1538 bis 1540,” ARG 1 (1903): 299–336, here pp. 331–36. In his Actes de Ratisbonne, published just after his return to Geneva, which follows Bucer closely, he also mentioned, as had Bucer, Musculus, and Wolfahrt, that the principle of the inalienability of church property had much support in canon law. CO 5:604. For the canon law, see P. Fourneret,

“Biens ecclésiastiques,” Dictionnaire de theologie catholique, 2/1:843–78, here 857, 874. A maxim of Pope Boniface VIII summarized the non-revocability of a gift to the church: semel deo dicatum non est ad usos humanos ulterius transferendum. Sexti Decretales, De regulis iuris, regula 51. Jörn Sieglerschmidt, Territorialstaat und Kirchenregiment (Cologne: Böhlau, 1987), p. 113. Accordingly, Protestants argued that their conÀ scations conformed to religious purposes. Ocker, Church Robbers, pp. 154, 183–199, 227, 292.

50 A shortened version was À rst printed at Granvelle’s request. It is reproduced in Friedrich Hortleder, Handlungen und Ausschreiben. Von den Ursachen des teutschen Kriegs, book 5, OCKER1_f19_313-344.indd 325

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The À rst imperial colloquy began badly at Hagenau on 12 June and

lasted until 28 July. There, in a pre-colloquy conference, Ferdinand’s theological advisors steered away from discussion of the Augsburg Confession, although they were ready to concede clerical marriage and the sacrament of communion in both kinds, concessions Calvin could have

appreciated more.51 He attended with no ofÀ cial position, disappointed that Zurich and Bern sent no theologians, worried that Basel might

send Karlstadt and inÁ ame Lutheran opposition to the Swiss reformers, and disillusioned, like the Wittenbergers in particular, that the king of England went beyond his confessionally unsatisfying Act of Six Articles ( June 1539) and executed three prominent evangelical preachers that

spring (Cromwell’s execution followed that summer). He was heartened

that the recent reconciliation of the emperor with the king of France was falling apart: it could have created a united front against Protestants in France and Germany. Advocacy for French Protestants and

mediation between Lutherans and the Swiss clergy were still Calvin’s

principal aims. Calvin reported Ferdinand’s attempt to limit admission to the Protestant League, the agreement over dialogue at an imperial

diet, the emperor’s disinterest in a German war, the pope’s interest in one, the Catholic princes who promoted use of force, the universal

opposition of the electors to it, and the League’s pious resolution ( de multiplier le regne de Christ tant quil leur est possible, et nont point deliberre de Á eschir aucunement).52 After inconclusive negotiations the parties agreed to resume discussions of the Augsburg Confession and Melanchthon’s

Apology for it on 28 October at Worms.53

chapter 8 (Gotha: Wolfgang Endters, 1645), p. 1124. The longer, original text (in High German translation) may be found in Martin Luther, Sämmtliche Schriften, ed. Johann Georg Walch, 23 vols. (St. Louis: Concordia, 1901), 17:338–53. For the Latin, Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 1/1:81–89 nr. 21. See also CR 3:989. The pamphlet version: Johann Friedrich I, Philipp Landgraf, Responsio, quam in causa religionis dedimus ad instructionen, quae allata est Smalcaldiam (Wittenberg: Georg Rhau, 1540), Flugschriften des späteren 16. Jahrhunderts, Fiche 1007 nr. 1766.

51 For this and the following, SchoÀ eld, Philip Melanchthon and the English Reformation, p. 127; Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 58; CO 11:50–4 nr. 221; Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:234–241 nr. 868; Bonnet, Letters, 1:1890193 nr. 48. The executed preachers mentioned in my next sentence were Robert Barnes, William Jerome, and Thomas Garret.

52 CO 11:64–7 nr. 228. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:256–261 nr. 874. Bonnet, Letters, 1:193–7 nr. 49. Bedrotus made a very similar report. CO 11:68–9 nr. 230. Myconius added that the League’s theologians confronted a Catholic demand that church properties be restored, be decided by the Imperial Chamber Court, or be judged by trustees. CO 11:70 nr. 231.

53 In the meanwhile, Bucer and Capito found Calvin a wife, with considerable dif-

À culty, to whom he was married on an unknown day that summer and with whom, OCKER1_f19_313-344.indd 326

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2

All of this exposure must have made a heady brew for a scholar who

wanted, as he later remembered it, only a quiet life.54 Calvin was surely convinced of the importance of his work, advocating liberty for the

French brethren and the cooperation of Swiss and German Protestants.

He moved in lofty circles. He was present when Melanchthon and Bucer

confronted famous defenders of the old faith. These were historic times.

At Frankfurt, he had watched evangelical preachers from within the

retinues trying to maneuver imperial princes. He proved useful enough

to win an actual appointment to the next colloquy, beside Jean Sturm, in the entourage of the Duke of Lüneburg (as has been frequently noted, but he and Sturm were more often, by far, identiÀ ed with Strasbourg

in the various lists of the colloquy’s envoys and counsels).55

This is when the syndics and council of Geneva decided to send

a terse letter by personal envoy to John Calvin in Strasbourg, on 22

October 1540—their ofÀ cial invitation to return from his German ref-

uge.56 Geneva’s council knew it would be hard to take him from the

by Beza’s account (as Cottret pointed out), he lived in complete chastity (“Il a vescu environ neuf ans en mariage en toute chasteté”), and sadly with no surviving children.

Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, pp. 45–6. Cottret, John Calvin, pp. 139–142. CO 21:37.

54 Note 8, above.

55 Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche im 16. Jahrhundert, 2/1:59; 2/2:811, 943, 960, 969, 1034, 1060, 1109, 1169–70, 1183, 1187, 1316, 1326, 1333, 1360, 1363.

Calvin is once, inexplicably, named with Martin Frecht and Jorg Pesserer as envoys of Ulm. Ibid., 2/2:1028.

56 22 October 1540. CO 11:94–5 nr. 245. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:331–332

nr. 899–900. Two previous attempts to recall Calvin, after conciliar elections in February 1539 and March 1540, had failed. Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 49. The council commissioned Ami Perrin a day before, with a herald, to make an appeal in person, although Perrin did not need to act (Calvin composed a reply in Strasbourg a day later!). Correspondance, 6:331 n. 1. On 22 October, Loys du Four and a herald received the same commission. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:331 n. 1. The Genevan delegation that did arrive on 6 November 1540 consisted of Loys du Four and the printer Michel du Bois. CO 11:113–4 nr. 254. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:364–7 nr. 912

with n. 17. Bonnet, Letters, 1:218–220 nr. 56. Du Bois was hoping to become “Calvin’s printer of choice.” Gilmont, John Calvin and the Printed Book, p. 183. Perrin, of course, was the councilman who À rst defended the exiled reformer. After Calvin’s return he rose to syndic and, for a time, captain general. Calvin soon lost faith in him, and Perrin became the leader of the “children of Geneva” that opposed Calvin’s largely French-refugee “party of the good” in the early 1550’s. William G. Naphy, Calvin and the Consolidation of the Genevan Reformation, pp. 166–207. A brief account of Perrin may also be found in Cottret, Calvin, pp. 91–100. Their conÁ ict reached its climax between 1553 and 1555, a contest the Calvinists famously won. Perrin was sentenced to death in abstentia in 1555, after he Á ed to Bern, and over the next two years Calvin’s party OCKER1_f19_313-344.indd 327

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Holy Roman Empire. 57 Former colleagues had recently urged him to

return. A previous envoy, the printer Michel du Bois, had asked him

to come back, and Calvin already declared his continuing reluctance

to Guillaume Farel.58 He could reasonably fear the resumption of a

tortured Genevan obscurity. He sent the syndics a polite and indecisive answer, on 23 October, well before he could receive their ofÀ cial word, in order to decline because of another engagement, the imperial colloquy assembling at Worms: he had to contribute to “the good of all churches.”59

For the young Calvin was dazzled.60 At Worms, for the À rst and only

time in his life, he would work upon an international stage, with the

purged opponents and dominated the city, establishing Geneva as a center of international Protestantism for an inÁ uential quarter-century. (Perrin is sometimes thought to have fallen on account of his alleged support of Servetus. Calvin indeed accused Perrin of opposing the council’s judgement of Servetus, in his letter to Beza of 26 October 1553, which reported the consensus of Swiss reformed cities against the heretic and Calvin’s failed attempt to change the mode of execution. CO 14:656–7 nr. 1839. But it is highly improbable that anyone actually supported Servetus in the city. See Naphy, Calvin, p. 184.) Calvin’s conÁ ict with Perrin and the ruthless suppression of Perrinists by Calvinists manifested well the reformer’s political determination to establish Geneva as a godly commonwealth, which reputation was a crucial element of the city’s À rst international fame. But Germany molded Calvin’s political ambition.

57 The general council decided to send letters asking the Strasbourg senate to release him, and others asking Bern and Basel to intercede on their behalf. Correspondance, 6:331

n. 1. Correspondance, 6:199 nr. 857 (29 March 1540): to Farel, Calvin had famously said, in reaction to Michel du Bois and the jurist Jean-Louis Blescheret’s earlier suggestion that his return to Geneva “could be arranged” ( reditum illuc mihi posse conÀ ci ), “rather a hundred other deaths than that cross, on which one could perish a thousand times daily. By the way, I want to tell you, you should counter, to the utmost, the councils that will try to get me back there. Lest I seem to go against reason, I explain my judgement to you, in case you should ask.” For the composition of Genevan councils, Naphy, Calvin, pp. 38–40.

58 3 October 1540, to Du Taillis, CO 11:89 nr. 241. 21 October 1540, to Farel, CO

11:90–3 nr. 243. Correspondance, 6:333 n. 1–2. Du Bois had also been enlisted in March (CO 6:331 n. 1). Du Taillis had recently encouraged Calvin’s return and appealed to Farel to do the same. CO 11:89 nr. 241 (3 October 1540). Farel did, after Calvin explained his motives. CO 11:99–100 nr. 248; 11:101 nr. 249. Herminjard 6:338–9

nr. 903; 6:345–7 nr. 907.

59 CO 11:95–7 nr. 246. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:333–4 nr. 901. Bonnet, Letters, 1:208–210 nr. 53. Calvin sent another reply on 12 November from Worms. CO

11:104–6 nr. 252. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:352–5 nr. 910. Bonnet, Letters, 1:214–7

nr. 55.

60 Pannier’s remark is misleading. “Il a connu [at Strasbourg] les états, les princes, les villes de l’empire, le roi des Romains, sinon l’empereur lui-même. Et plus il les a connus, plus il s’est senti et montré Français, servant de son mieux les intérêts de son roi et surtout ceux de ses coreligionnaires, auprès des puissances d’outre-Rhin.” Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 56.

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backstage crew.61 Nor could it have been too difÀ cult to subordinate

a peripheral Swiss city to “the good of all churches,” as he called the object of his current ministry. In mid-November he wrote to Geneva

again, from Worms, while theologians of the old and new faiths

prepared for their À rst round of discussion. Again, he declined the

Genevan invitation, while declaring his love for the Genevan church

and his affection for the syndics and councilmen. Again he appealed

to the greater good of his work for Christendom, nor could he leave

without the consent of his German colleagues, in the interest of good church order.62 Calvin’s colleagues, of course, shared his sense of the importance of their affairs. Capito, Grynaeus, Bucer, and Jean Sturm

“ministers of the churches of Strasbourg and Basel sent to the col-

loquy on religion at Worms” explained this in their own lengthy letter to Geneva from Worms (13 November 1540), couched in a discourse

on the virtues of good pastors and, especially, church discipline. They extolled Calvin and Farel, who the Genevans had previously expelled,

as “really exceptional and extraordinary organs of Christ,” gifts of

God: how wise that the Genevans should recall them.63 They also noted

Calvin’s contribution to Christendom’s reform: he is detained for a

cause that affects the ministry of all churches ( causa una est quod communi nunc omnium ecclesiarum ministerio et eo perquam necessario sane detinetur),64 and they confessed that their current opportunity, an imperial peace around evangelical reform, seemed to blossom: how could there be German

unity without overcoming the religious controversy, and how could it

happen without purity of doctrine and universal acceptance of the

sincerity of the discipline of Christ? But, they noted, the adversaries have gathered from Rome and Italy and other nations, bishops, doctors, monks and friars of diverse sects, to defeat those seeking the peace of the church, and Calvin must not leave. Then there is his service to the French church in Strasbourg, his exposition of the scriptures in their school, where he instructs Germans, the French, and Italians who have

Á ocked to the city, that they might teach Christ and preach well. The church and republic of Strasbourg itself serves the common needs of

61 In his 23 October 1540 response to the forthcoming Genevan invitation, it would be hard to miss the grandiosity of his altruism, when he wrote that his purpose was non seulement pour servir a une Eglise, mais a toutes, au nombre desquelles la vostre est comprise.

CO 11:95–97 nr. 246.

62 12 November 1540, CO 11:104–5 nr. 252.

63 CO 11:106–113 nr. 253, esp. 107–8.

64 CO 11:108 nr. 253.

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all the churches, and its gymnasium will replicate Wittenberg, for there is no other school to prepare people for an evangelical ministry (Philip of Hesse’s university at Marburg is overlooked).65 In short, Strasbourg was living the future that Geneva could not yet have imagined for

itself.

Before Worms, Calvin tried to keep Swiss Protestants in the German

orbit, and he enthused over the new potential for evangelical progress, however it might come, whether through an international anti-Habsburg

alliance or with an imperial peace. At Worms, he did two things.

First, he held his own among Protestant theologians, who gathered in

November in the Saxon residence to work out their agreements over

the Augsburg Confession before the colloquy began. They started with

the Trinity, which Calvin turned into a discussion of faith, then went over justiÀ cation, the mass, monastic vows, clerical marriage, and papal primacy.66 Second, he became belligerently anti-papal.

At Worms, Calvin was quickly disillusioned by the Catholic oppo-

nents’ determined opposition! Eck and his colleagues schemed among

themselves, “before our eyes, while we stood there,” and three of the colloquy’s presidents seemed to favor weak theologians of the old faith before Granvelle arrived.67 Once Granvelle came, he scolded Protestants: they were to blame for all evils.68 They haggled over procedure, and the League’s delegates dug in their heels, refusing to accept any

irregularity that could prejudice their case. They noticed the deferential seating of the papal legate and withstood schemes to limit their voice.69 Calvin reinforced a growing distaste for compromise, if we may believe Jean Sturm’s much later account, by holding a disputation with Ruprecht Mosheim, dean of the cathedral of Passau, on the subject of 65 CO 11:108 nr. 253.

66 Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche im 16. Jahrhundert 2/1:474, 475, 477, 480, 485–6, 488, 568, 570–1, 572, and for Calvin’s redirection of the discussion of the Trinity to the topic of faith, 2/1:474 nr. 183.

67 CO 11:136 nr. 268. The presidential council consisted of four men, Johann von Ehrenberg, cathedral canon of Mainz, Wolfgang von Seiboltsdorf, counsel to the duke of Bavaria, Johann von Eisenberg, a delegate of the bishop of Strasbourg, and Ludwig von Fleckenstein, the Palatine Elector’s Hofmeister. Calvin names “the Mainzer, Bavarian, and Strasbourger.”

68 Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/2:1083 rn. 373 for an eyewitness account of Granvelle’s arrival. CO 11:135–6 nr. 268. Herminjard 6:405–414 nr. 928. De Boer, LoÁ ied, p. 52.

69 CO 11:137 nr. 268. The legate was the papal nuncio Tommaso Campeggio. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/2:91 nr. 50; 2/1:538 nr. 212; 2/2:1134 nr. 390.

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justiÀ cation.70 Mosheim claimed that justiÀ cation is “a work of faith,”

i.e. to exercise belief is a product of human agency, a view in conÁ ict with Luther’s doctrine (and Calvin’s).71 It was not their À rst encounter.

Mosheim had already vexed theologians in Nürnberg by presenting a pro-

posal for religious unity to the city’s council in September 1539, alleging in disputations there that both Luther and the papacy were antichrists.72

He also came to Strasbourg. Calvin, we are told by Jean Sturm’s later

account, had demonstrated his sharp wit ( ingenij acumen) to the Strasbourg magistrate Jacob Sturm in a public disputation with Mosheim before

he departed for Worms. The magistrate and the two other “scholarchs”

70 Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” p. 234, which does not mention the Strasbourg or Nürnberg disputations prior to Worms, or the role of Calvin’s disputation in calling him to Jacob Sturm’s attention. Sturm, Quarti antipappi tres partes priores (Neustadt: Matthaeus Harnisch, 1580), pp. 20–1. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/2:1103.

Mosheim’s proposal to the colloquy for the peaceful end of the religious controversy, dated 7 January 1541, may be found in the Generallandesarchiv Karlsruhe, Sammlung 50/46, ff. 159–164. The proposal contains his claim that both parties stand under the judgement of the divine word and required the third way represented by his own writings: “So wissen auch, E.G . unnd gunst, quod Romani et Lutherani sunt extrema quaedam et partes in plerisque multis ex diametro diuersae et contrariae, quae coni-ungi et concordari non possunt nisi per medium quoddam, quandoquidem per media coniungunt extrema. Haec uero media conciliandae À dei et religionis habeo ex diuina gratia in libris et manibus meis, und mag wol mit dem apostel Sannt Paulus sprechen, Ecce coram Deo non mentior [Gal 1:20], et scio sane me non uana et inania polliceri

[cf. Phil 2:16–17]. Dann gleich wei zwischen dem Judentumb unnd den heiden nicht mitlen, unnd den hader unnd zanck uffheben möchte, wir allein Cristus, also mag auch zwischen dem Papsthumb unnd luterthumb, zwischen dem Babel unnd dem Rechten geistlichen zrael [ leg Israel] nichte mitlen, nisi uerbum unitatis abbreuiatum quod fecit et reuelauit dominus super terram in quo in domino glorior.” Ibid., f. 163r.

71 According to Sturm’s account of the Strasbourg disputation (see the previous note). Melanchthon, who took a somewhat complex position on the issue of faith and human agency, had recently parted ways with Erasmus over it. Timothy Wengert, Human Freedom, Christian Righteousness: Philip Melanchthon’s Exegetical Dispute with Erasmus of Rotterdam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 145–6, 149–153 and passim. Philip Melanchthon Werke im Auswahl, ed. H. Engelland, R. Supperich (Gutersloh: C. Bertelsmann, 1953), pp. 597–9 (from the Loci praecipui theologici of 1559). For Erasmus, consider also Greta Grace Kroeker in this volume.

72 At Nürnberg, Mosheim couched his conciliatory views apocalyptically, describing the pope as a “carnal antichrist” and Luther as a “spiritual antichrist” and advocating that a new spiritual Jerusalem be built on the twelve foundations (Rev. 21:14, 19) of the 12 articles of the creed, the 12 gates (Rev. 21:12) of the four trinities of Father-Son-Holy Spirit, word-faith-charity, intellect-reason-will, and heart-mouth-works; and claiming that faith, love, and works all justify. For the two Nürnberg disputations and an edition of a À nal written response to Mosheim by four of the city’s leading clergy (Linck, Osiander, Dietrich, and Venatorius), see Andreas Osiander, Gesamtausgabe, 10 vols.

ed. G. Müller, G. Seebaß (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1975–1988), 7:73–4 nr. 252 (a summary of his doctrine in a letter of Andreas Osiander to Spalatin, 24 October 1539), 7:185–211

nr. 255 (the theologians’ response). Compare Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” p. 234.

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presided over the Strasbourg debate. The repeat performance at Worms

endeared Calvin to Melanchthon, “For Melanchthon was present at

Worms in that disputation in which Calvin beat the Passau deacon, after the deacon was threshed by Calvin À rst in the Strasbourg encounter.”73

Mosheim’s views, whatever his allegations about antichrists may have

been, must be placed within the via media of the day, which asserted

that a truly “catholic” evangelisme, to borrow Lucien Febvre’s famous phrase, was, vis-à-vis the religious controversy, uncommitted. The via media posed a signiÀ cant threat to the partisans of the Augsburg Confession, or did it? The Confession itself claimed to be merely a statement of Catholic reform.74 The Elector of Brandenburg, the Palatine

Elector, the Duke of Saxony, the archbishop of Cologne, and the Duke of Jülich-Cleves all experimented with unpartisan reforms.75 Although Martin Bucer treated the non-partisans as an opportunity to expand

the ranks of evangelicals, Melanchthon, for one, was more concerned

to dismantle their neutrality. Calvin quickly admired Melanchthon.

Of the colloquy’s only apparent accomplishment, an agreement over

the doctrine of original sin, Calvin had this to say: “I don’t know what formula they co-wrote, in which they jointly agreed,” yet he granted

that it mitigated, rather than condemned, “our doctrine.”76 When the

Protestant-Catholic commission came to the Augsburg Confession’s

doctrine of justiÀ cation by faith, the Catholics fell into a violent quarrel.77 Calvin attributed it not to theology but to the tension between divided poles: the Protestant party at one end and madmen on the

other, with reasonable people drawn to the former and others stolen

by the latter:

the Brandenburgers are thoroughly ours, the Palatines draw somewhat

near. The Cleves and Cologners are not the most unfavorable.78 Others, 73 Sturm, Quarti antipappi, pp. 20–1.

74 Confessio Augustana, preamble before article 22, Die Bekenntnisschriften der evangelisch-lutherischen Kirche, sixth edition (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1967), p. 84.

Creeds and Confession of Faith in the Christian Tradition, edited by J. Pelikan, V. Hotchkiss, 4 vols. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 2:77.

75 Estes, Peace, Order, and the Glory of God, pp. 138–152.

76 CO 11:138 nr. 268.

77 Ibid., Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/1:497 nr. 194.

78 Referring to theologians of Joachim II, Elector and Margrave of Brandenburg, Leonhard Keller, Alexander Alesius Scotus, and Johann Ludicken; theologians of Wilhelm, Duke of Jülich-Cleves, Johannes Ulateenus, Konrad Heresbach, and Albert König; theologians of the archbishop of Cologne, Johannes Gropper and Eberhard Billican. Herminjard, Correspondance, 6:411–2 n. 52.

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as though snatched by robbers, endure no one fair, moderate, or sane. In their party is the margrave, because since he would not yet oppose the decrees of the emperor nor enter the League, he is not of our Á ock.79

Because he is an elector, he cannot be ignored. Therefore, our enemies gathered to receive him.80

Calvin left the three-month affair thoroughly frustrated, disgusted by Eck’s performance in debate with Melanchthon and unimpressed by

the theological consultation between Bucer and Melanchthon with Eck,

Matthias Held, and Johann Mensinger.81 He was not party to the secret, post-colloquy consultation between Bucer, Capito, Granvelle, and the

imperial secretary Gerhard Veltwyk that produced articles to serve as

the beginning of the next dialogue.82 The articles were circulated to the Landgrave (he had it translated into German) and to Joachim the

Elector of Brandenburg, and from the latter an anonymous copy went

to Martin Luther and Melanchthon at Wittenberg. Bucer, convinced

of Luther’s hostility, was anxious that Luther not identify him with

the articles.83 Luther rejected them anyway, denouncing the colloquies altogether.84

79 Margrave Joachim II of Brandenburg, a leader of the imperial peace party. Late in the Regensburg Colloquy he would send Johann of Anhalt and his own counselor to Luther, in an attempt to mediate a compromise on the Eucharist. CO 11:251 nr.

334. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:177 nr. 1008 with n. 7, which corrects Bonnet, Letters, 1:272 nr. 70.

80 CO 11:138 nr. 268.

81 CO 11:145–7 nr. 273. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/2:1122 for a list of theologians present (with Musculus and Kircheim apparently placed in the wrong columns). Mensinger was auxilliary bishop of Halberstadt and a delegate of Albrecht of Brandenburg, archbishop of Mainz. Ibid., 2/2:1023; 2/2:1298–1301 nr. 431.

82 This was the Wormser Buch, which served as the basis for the Regensburg Buch.

For its composition, see Lenz, Briefwechsel, 3:33–38, and an edition, Akten der deutschen Reichs religionsgespräche 2/1:574–701. Versions containing changes made by both sides to the Wormser Buch before the Regensburg colloquy are known collectively as the Regensburg Book. Acta Reformationis Catholicae Ecclesiam Germaniae Concernentia, 6 vols.

(Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 1959–74), 6:21–88, the apparatus to which marks the original articles and compares the four versions published subsequent to the colloquy by Bucer, Eck, Melanchthon, and the Cologne theologian Johann Gropper. See also Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch, pp. 423–29, and Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/2:1126–34 nr. 389.

83 Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch, p. 430.

84 WABr 9:333–4 nr. 3578. Fuchs, Konfession und Gespräch, pp. 430–31. Others opposed to dialogue included Nürnberg’s Wenzeslaus Linck and Andreas Osiander. Although present and skeptical at the colloquy of Worms, Nürnberg’s city council replaced Linck and Osiander with the more moderate Veit Dietrich at the Regensburg Colloquy. Jürgen Lorz, Das reformatorische Wirken Dr. Wenzeslaus Lincks in Altenburg und Nürnberg (1523–1547), (Nürnberg: Stadtarchiv, 1975) p. 121.

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Calvin, meanwhile, was drifting from Strasbourg’s conciliatory

politics, and he developed an eloquent belligerence (while Bucer was

drifting from him).85 This belligerence is best studied in the single poem known from all of Calvin’s oeuvre, which he composed for recreation at Worms.86 Melanchthon, Jean Sturm, and probably Simon Grynaeus, at

least, also composed poems on similar occasions during the colloquy.87

Melanchthon carried a fatherly tune. He had a personal exhortation

for each addressee, turning a complement by Grynaeus into a com-

parison of Ciceronian eloquence with the better praises of Christ88

and reminding the jurist, Andreas Franke (Camitianus), to be worthy

of his quill and remember the lesson of Thomas More—the danger

of faithfulness to despots:89

A legal negotiator, whose doctrine, having moved

The people, rules the senate and the assembly,

Must rightly have a name among citizens,

85 Bucer’s neglected Consilium theologicum privatim conscriptum has been dated to this period. Francis Higman has pointed out that Bucer answered Calvin’s Epistolae duae of 1537 without naming Calvin. The Epistolae duae ( Bibliotheca Calviniana 1:41–3 nr. 37/2) was Calvin’s À rst public pronouncement on the necessity of withdrawing from Catholic churches. Bucer argued that the papal church is indeed part of the universal church (a question, Higman explains, Calvin evaded, while rejecting the idea, advocated by Bucer, that the mass contains a kernel of the Lord’s Supper), that it is wrong to create schism in the universal church (whereas Calvin argued that one must separate from antichrist), that the spiritual condition of the soul confronting idolatry matters more than the antichristian external forms of worship themselves (whereas Calvin believed that when believers appear to tolerate idolatry they endanger the souls of their neighbors), and that the neuralgic point in reform is rejecting belief in the sacrÀ ce of the mass; abuses may be corrected incrementally under the provisional regime of the papal church. Bucer’s accommodation of political circumstances can also be observed in his advice on the Anglican liturgy in 1549, after arriving in England, now an exile himself; whereas, “à la différence de Bucer, Calvin ne reconnaît pas de limitation politique ou diplomatique à son action.” Higman, “Bucer et les nicodémites,” pp. 636–650, and 647 for the quote.

86 De Boer, LoÁ ied en hekeldicht.

87 CR 10:563 nr. 172 appears to be a response to verses by Grynaeus. Otto Clemen published an additional poem to Franke and two more by Melanchthon, and noted the existence of two others by Melanchthon included in his letters, one by Ebner, and one by Franke. Otto Clemen, Beiträge zur Reformationsgeschichte 3 vols. (Berlin: C.A.

Schwetschke, 1900–3), 1:138–142.

88 CR 10:563 nr. 172.

89 CR 10:564 nr. 173. Since these have, to my knowledge, never been translated into English, it may useful to sample a few. Consider also Melanchthon’s friendly evocation of Camitianus’ family on the occasion of his birthday, 30 November 1540 (taking the Feast of St. Andrew as the correct date, not the date given, 10 November). CR

10:564 nr. 174. Franke was a delegate of Duke Heinrich of Saxony. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/1:59 nr. 19.

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And be worthy always of the honor of the quill:

If now he regards justice, peace, and faith

And lays claim to the laws of Christ, and honors them.

A person should not want to defend dire slaughter,

By which Caesar himself suffered brother Geta:90

More,91 who, lest he recommend repulsive divorces,

Cruelly underwent your rage, O despot!92

Distinguished titles don’t make a man, nor does purple

Make him illustrious, if he sells smoke, or artfully piles up deceits.

To Erasmus Ebner’s93 cooking supper for poets, Melanchthon joked,

An ant delights in ants, a cicada in cicadas,

So sweet are your eating societies to me.

Why then would you not call me to supper, Erasmus?

Could you consider me not a poet enough?

Melanchthon intoned with a declaration of harmony, for Nürnberg

theologians, perhaps because he had recently contested their Eucharistic arguments (against positions in Calvin’s Institutes of 1539).94 Jean Sturm sounded a more alarming note at the current performance of Catholic

theologians in a poem addressed to Kilian Goldstein.95

Most distinguished Chilianus, you might ask

What’s saddened me all these months?

From whom has the suspension of justice come about:

I both take offence and complain that Cochleus96

90 This presumably refers to Lucius Septimius Geta, the younger of two famously scandalous sons of Septimus Severus (the other was Aurelius Antoninus, alias Cara-calla). Protected by his mother from his brother’s designs after Severus’ death, Geta was murdered by Antoninus in 212. Oxford Classical Dictionary, s.v. Aurelius Antoninus and s.v. Geta, Lucius Septimius. Dio Cassius, Historia Romana lxxvii.7, lxxviii.2 trans.

E. Carey, Loeb Classical Library, 9 vols. (Cambridge: Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1961), 9:251–3, 281–3.

91 Sir Thomas More, former Lord Chancellor, was executed by King Henry VIII for high treason 6 July 1535, for his rejection of the Act of Supremacy of 1534.

92 I.e. Henry VIII.

93 The Nürnberg counselor and diplomat. ADB 5:591. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/1:60 nr. 19.

94 CR 10:567 nr. 178. For the controversy, over the Nürnberg doctrine of a “hypostatic and somatic” union of the body of Christ and bread in the Eucharist, Neuser,

“Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 213–214.

95 Jean Sturm to Kilian Goldstein CR 10:565 nr. 176. Goldstein was a delegate of the Margraves Georg and Albrecht of Brandenburg-Ansbach-Kulmbach. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche 2/1:59 nr. 19.

96 The famous Catholic controversialist, an envoy of King Ferdinand.

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And the Sorbonicus, and the black Pelargus97

With them Nausea,98 and Eck, the sophists,

The ignoble part of eleven men,

Rule, and keep their patrons,

And strike the brow, and concede nothing.99

To this, Melanchthon responded:

As fearless rocks spurn gales in the middle

of the sea, and spurn the well-known grumblers:

So insults, and the attacks of evil men,

All the traps, the threats, the furies,

Does that ruler command us to despise

He who was born from the eternal begetter,100

Who carries the weapons against marching armies

Of the godless, and deÁ ects the angry dragon’s furies

The dragon raving with hatred for God,

And the ruler defends the holy chorus,

That sings the gospel’s tune and God’s praises.101

Then came Calvin, building on Melanchthon’s response to Sturm, with

a tour de force he called, in Greek, a “victory song” ( Epinicion), dated 1 January 1540 (my translation is provided in the addendum to this

essay). It was longer than the longest other known contribution by a

factor of approximately À ve. He digressed, from book one of Ovid’s

97 Ambrosius Storch, the Dominican theologian and envoy of the archbishop of Mainz.

98 Friedrich Nausea, auxilliary bishop of Vienna.

99 The poem continues, to the end: “To see this monstrosity makes me sad./Again what did refresh and revive,/Listen, as long as they fear, and over-reacting/To that extent they snatch many favors for themselves,/And they turn away good men, and excel in nothing,/While we are nothing, and we all are dejected:/The victorious cause remains God’s, and he overthrows/The monster [Sturm now lapses into Greek], men who guild even the choleric,/The calf-herder, the coward, the rough/The insatiable, the belly-loving,/The blood-guilty, the ruiner of men.”

100 I.e. Christ, the Son of God.

101 The poem continues, to the end: “Nor is that Cyclops to be feared by us,/The name that Eck takes upon himself,/The rash man who provokes you with reproaches, O Christ,/A man dirtied with À lthy longing/Who drinks with the satyrs and their whores./But the penalties to pay will come to him too,/And to the proud the friend among the sad chorus/Of the holy tears out the wailing eye,/He has sometimes been despised as a baleful man [Read ưȾƭƫưƳ for ưȾƭƫƳ in CR 10:566 line 12],/But now God rules mind and hands./Then the hairy satyrs around the one slain,/Pelargus the humpback and Cochleus,/Will vomit [a dinnertime pun?] useless quarrels for the Lord’s sake,/But Christ the victor erects the trophies./So let us the quick-witted pray, and then/Expect power from the causer of things,/Who hears the devout prayers of his own.”

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Fasti and the ancient presentation of new Roman consuls on the New Year, to a pious allegory and a rousing laudation of Christ’s rule—a kind of supercession of Roman Empire by Christocracy—before mocking

Catholic theologians and calling them names. The Christocracy praised

in his demonstration of humanist-evangelical virtuosity has apocalyptic overtones.102 Calvin, let it be said, clearly believed war could be a good thing, since the war had already been won. This is the context in which Catholic theologians should never be taken too seriously. Calvin carried this faith, and its cynicism about dialogue, to Regensburg.

3

By then, he had learned of the conÁ ict over Duke Heinrich of Braun-

schweig and Goslar, another piece of Johann Friedrich’s expansion of

the League’s mandate.103 This conÁ ict’s religious element seemed accidental, at best. The League’s obligation to intervene on Goslar’s behalf was arguable, but not to Calvin, who took the Wittenberg view that

the League should intervene.104 The emperor had ordered the duke to

restore what had been plundered, yet Calvin suspected he secretly col-

luded with the duke. Calvin marked out positions on the colloquy’s À eld and reported them to Farel. Contarini, who could have hurt his arm, he passed out so many gifts of crosses when he arrived, wanted Protestant subjection without bloodshed. The Protestants wanted to show good

faith in the pursuit of religious peace. The real enemies were arranged in three camps. The À rst camp consisted of “raving men,” including the archbishop of Mainz, the dukes of Bavaria, Heinrich of Braunschweig and his brother Christoph, the archbishop of Bremen. The second

camp held those (unnamed) who would accept peace at any price.

The third was a trickier group. They posed as those wanting peace for 102 August Lang argued the importance of a concept of ecclesiastical Christocracy, adapted from Bucer, in the Institutes of 1543, a revision begun at Strasbourg that also informed the Ecclesiastical Ordinances published upon his return to Geneva. Lang, Johannes Calvin, p. 88.

103 Brady, Protestant Politics, pp. 260–3.

104 CO 11:174–180 nr. 290. Herminjard 7:55–64 nr. 957. Bonnet, Letters, 1:237–246

nr. 63. Cf. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:49–50 nr. 955. Heinrich was buttressed by the Imperial Chamber Court’s bann of the city in October 1540, which the emperor removed in late January 1541. For the Goslar affair, Brady, Protestant Politics, pp.

168–9.

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anything but would only reform a little to that end. This included Hermann von Wied, the archbishop of Cologne and an object of Bucer’s

expanding reform, Christoph von Stade, the bishop of Augsburg, the

Palatine Elector, his brother Friedrich, their nephew Otto-Heinrich,

and Duke Wilhelm of Jülich-Cleves.105 Calvin recognized that pope

and the emperor stood on contrary sides, since the pope opposed any

settlement. Where Bucer saw opportunity, Calvin despised the opposi-

tion. Eck, he said, can only confuse matters. The mediating theologian Julius PÁ ug, theologian of Mainz, was well educated, but not in theology, and hobbled by ambition. Johannes Gropper, another Catholic

theologian who selectively adapted Protestant ideas, from Cologne, was worth talking to, but had not abandoned the world. Before negotiations began, Calvin expected little.106 He had published against people who

compromise evangelical principles by taking Catholic ofÀ ces four years before.107 He met far more like them now than he cared to.

The agreements soon reached at Regensburg on original sin, free will,

and justiÀ cation by faith, might have amazed Farel, as Calvin suggested they would, but did little to dim Calvin’s suspicion. When the Protestants repudiated transubstantiation, the Catholics responded intransigently, and Bucer, “who totally burns with zeal for an agreement, grumbled

and complained that the questions were put in such an untimely man-

ner!”108 It seemed to Melanchthon that the prospect for agreement now

ended.109 When theological advisors were summoned to give advice,

Calvin joined their universal rejection of compromise on this topic, and he praised Johannes Brenz’s outspoken condemnation. “Believe me,” he

reported to Farel, “in business like this, the job belongs to strong minds who conÀ rm others.”110 When an obstructive Eck was later incapacitated by an apoplectic À t, Granvelle tried to engage the parties again, and Bucer and Melanchthon complied with a “wavering and bogus”

105 CO 11:176 nr. 290. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:61 nr. 957.

106 CO 11:202 nr. 302. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:88–9 nr. 967. Bonnet, Letters, 1:256 nr. 65.

107 Against Nicolas Duchemin, his friend in Orleans, who became an ofÀ cial of the bishop of Mans, and Gérard Roussel, who was made bishop of Oléron. Bibliotheca Calviniana 1:42 nr. 37/1; 1:70–1 nr. 40/2 (the German translation, by Leo Jud of Zürich, published at Basel in February 1540).

108 CO 11:215–6 nr. 308. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:112 nr. 975.

109 Ibid.

110 CO 11:216 nr. 308. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:112 nr. 975. Musculus reported Calvin’s contribution to the Protestant consultation. CO 21:278, Herminjard 7:112

n. 5.

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formula on transubstantiation. No manner of Bucer’s good intentions

could compensate for the good advice of their colleagues, however regret-ful Calvin called the abuse Bucer must endure for his intentions.111 After further negotiations over intercessory masses and confession, the colloquy’s compromise document, the Regensburg Book, was given to the estates for deliberation. The ambassadors of Hungary and Austria were presented to the imperial diet next, pleading for aid against the Ottoman Turks, which is when Calvin left, before he could witness the transfer of the religious controversy to a council, national or universal, yet again.112

By then, he had long decided to return to Geneva.113 In early August,

he À nished his lectures in the gymnasium illustre, perhaps to leave time for a last assignment from his Strasbourg colleagues before depart-ing on 2 September. Pope Paul III’s son and legate at the emperor’s

court in Ghent, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, together with his close

associate Cardinal Marcello Cervini, had composed a papal admoni-

tion to emperor Charles V a year before, in response to Granvelle’s

announcement of an imperial colloquy. The admonition was given

to the emperor on 21 April 1540. Its purpose was to rouse Charles

in defense of orthodoxy, for a Germany united in its faith against the Turks.114 Calvin, who helped Bucer gather materials for a published

account of the colloquy,115 now, soon after midsummer 1541, composed

a commentary on the papal admonition, which Strasbourg published

in Latin and German under the pseudonym of the ancient bishop

and church historian, Eusebius.116 His task was simple enough. Point

by point he argued that the papacy never intended to negotiate peace

(it wanted to recuperate Germany), and he depicted German Protes-

tants as long-suffering victims of the antichrist’s abuse. What holds for reform in Germany holds for the entire world, Calvin insisted, insofar as “Protestants ask to renew nothing in religion, but restore now those 111 CO 11:217 nr. 309. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:114–6 nr. 976.

112 CO 11:251–2 nr. 334; 11:257–8 nr. 338. Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:176–180

nr. 1008; 7:194–7 nr. 1015. Bonnet, Letters, 1:271–4 nr. 70.

113 He admitted his decision to Farel on 29 March 1541. Pannier, Calvin à Strasbourg, p. 50; CO 11:180.

114 Bibliotheca Calviniana, 2:1107–1112 nr. 41/5, 41/6.

115 Herminjard, Correspondance, 7:216–7 nr. 1022 with notes 1 and 3.

116 Consilium pro Lutheranis quod Pontifex Romanus nuper Caesari dedit, CO 5:467–508. For Calvin’s authorship, A. Nemilov, “Une lettre de Martin Bucer à Veit Dietrich du 6

septembre 1541,” Martin Bucer and Sixteenth-Century Europe, ed. C. Krieger, M. Lienhard (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1993), 2:575, and Bibliotheca Calviniana, 2:1111.

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things that Christ handed down, the apostles commended, the ancient

and purer church observed,”117 or more cynically, “even if the Germans should not maintain [the reforms] . . . the bright shining example goes forth to salute, in the universal Christian name, the one thing necessary at this time, harmful to no one but anti-Christians.”118 Calvin eulogized German reforms À ve years before the disaster of the Schmalkald War.

Whatever might happen to Germany, what had happened was nothing less than the light of God.

After Calvin returned to Geneva, he gives us one last indication of

his impatience with the imperial politics he studied among Strasbourg’s advisors, in his French translation of Bucer’s Acts of the Regensburg Colloquy. His declared purpose in publishing it was to shore up the

“many saintly people in all nations, true lovers of the truth of God, longing for the advancement of his kingdom, who day by day long

for the time when it will please the Savior to put his church in good

order,” but not only to shore them up:

Nevertheless, there are many weak people in the world, who do not ven-

ture to decide which way they ought to follow, until there be a reformation by the public authority of those to whom God has given the power and

government of Christendom. I have thought that it would be a good and proÀ table labor, for the sake of all Christians, to put in order the sum of what was negotiated lately between all the estates of the empire at the Diet of Regensburg . . . touching the dissension in religion, in order that they À rst have evidence to console themselves and rejoice in our Savior, seeing that the truth of the gospel, however assailed by the devil, was neither put down nor vanquished, but rather marched on; and second,

that by the procedure followed there, they recognize that the time has passed to give heed to human beings, as they will easily see, and so must receive the light of God when it is revealed to them. . . . For, it is a poor condition to vacillate and waver always, over that in which we should

be certain and assured.119

Germany was littered with Nicodemites.120 The Holy Roman Empire

was an admonitory tale.

117 CO 5:489.

118 CO 5:490.

119 CO 5:513–514.

120 See note 85, above. In 1543 Calvin requested support for his position against Nicodemites from Philip Melanchthon, Martin Luther, Martin Bucer, and Zurich (provided by all but Luther, to whom Melanchthon did not forward the request). Lang, Johannes Calvin, pp. 66–7. CO 6:537–588.

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Still, Calvin witnessed historic events in the empire, was privileged to participate in them, and left with the conÀ dence of a scholar befriended by the famous of his generation. He had also found the acid in his

pen, put it to good use (against Sadoleto and in the next revisions of his Institutes, which he began in Strasbourg and published in 1543,121

and where the anti-papalism was liberally expanded), supported Bucer’s Eucharistic peace-making, never forgot the French brethren, and learned a lesson in politics. He returned to Geneva with a hardened resolve and

“little or no intention of adhering to the Swiss model” of church discipline under the thumb of urban magistrates.122 It was equally doubtful that the empire could deliver a godly republic, when the jockeying of

princes constantly undermined the preachers’ political ideal: a society uniÀ ed by reforming King Josiahs, dismissing bad priests and restoring divine worship by means of state. He knew it was a commanding

vision. But, in his way, he also learned how “the longing for a single

‘Germany’ is a sign of the compensatory imitation in which German

history is uncommonly rich.”123

Addendum: John Calvin’s Epinicion (1 January 1541)124

Look! Father Janus rises, starts the New Year,

Which it’s custom to greet with lucky omens.

This is that day, by an ancient tradition, which

Revives the Roman Empire’s original form,

Each New Year consular symbols are presented

The ivory gleaming on two consuls in full view.

Let the year arise before our lucky omens,

The day to be adorned with that solemn boon.

So let the reverent masses greet Christ the king

And let them with worthy elegies proclaim him.

He guides and rules endlessly, not for mere years

Nor holds the appointed empire for mere months.

To him glory is forever, an eternal power of rule

That no single day could vary or diminish.

Still he would govern years, months, and days,

And the different turns of time ordain,

And it is right his year arising from praises

121 Neuser, “Calvins Beitrag,” pp. 234–5.

122 Naphy, Calvin, pp. 222–3.

123 Thomas A. Brady, “Zur Einführung,” Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit (Munich: Eldenbourg, 2001), p. xii.

124 CR 5:422–428. De Boer, LoÁ ied, pp. 66–70, 110–116. I know no previous English translation.

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To begin, so success may follow to the race’s end.

What is it that so glitters now with marvelous valour

As some consul lately performs illustrious duties?

He were rather going out as usual, himself eye-catching,

Noble victor returned from the enemy to home.

So it is: with triumphant valour he shakes golden scepters at his right And gives signs of horrid ruination to the enemies.

And in hope he commands us to exult in a sure salvation

And shows that the day of triumph has already arrived.

Therefore pious tongues burst forth from thankless silence:

Nor should such pleasures from the earth delay.

Pure conÀ dence shown before the laughing stock, before stupid

Enemies the chant, like a snow-white swan’s song, will it be.

So maybe they’ll say: what, might I ask, is this folly? Christ

Will not be victor once close battle has been joined?

Did anyone ever return from an uninjured nation triumphant?

By whom is the laurel taken before the sword-blade has been forged?

Well then, half-dead we think to sing

The grave’s funeral song before the kindled pyre.

There’s something I fear by the kingdom’s sturdy oak

Impiety remains in a high proud throne.

That man125 undiminished is still inÁ ated with bogus honor,

Who grants himself the right of the highest priest.

What’s more, with a nod he rules and bends great monarchs,

Raises them and lays them low, terriÀ es and gladdens them.

He shakes the wide world with the signal of his À nger.

He is no less À erce today than he was before.

No less does he scatter Christ’s unhappy sheepfold,

And spit foul venom from a lying mouth.

And he rages at the saints soaking [ his]

Blood-stained hands yet again with innocent blood.

But because death is life and the cross is Christ’s victory,

No dire threats will impede our joy.

Christ remains to himself the same and will remain eternal,

To conquer, not be conquered, who knows suffering well.

Although pressed and suffering, to be thought desperate,

That’s when to him and his own the gorgeous trophy appears.

Now earthly pride marches on stupidly, but soon

Plunging and rage-struck it charges its own train.

That holy blood, divine honor’s champion,

Will need to be produced in equal measure as seedling from seed.

The voice is Christ’s sword and the lance is the mouth’s breath,

125 The Antichrist, i.e. Pope Paul III.

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So once the voice is raised it can level the enemy.

This sword, here, there, more than twenty years

He brandishes, the robust advocate, not without killing, in hand.

Satan, prince and pope of a church-robbing army, eluded

Them, until today the sword-stroke has been delayed.

But now he À ghts, experienced and shrewd, at last

Each wounded man groaning with an unfamiliar wound.

Next it’s the pope’s henchmen stunned and dazed

He hangs them, the mob shudders from its very souls.

Next it’s the crowd À lled with noise and panic,

And the treacherous castles of a dumbstruck general tremble.

More often they sway with disoriented motions, while some man

Joins battles already broken to make a last stand.

All the while we have the constancy of a composed mind

And a sturdy repose is À xed in our stress-free breast.

Who here so established would refuse Christ before losing enemies

To draw blazing weapons by an invincible hand?

Who would refuse this the winner’s historic work? And who

Would begrudge the laurel victory-garlands to such a general?

It was contested by blade: the knight avenges

Part of the general’s honor for his own sake and does not let the matter rest.

What if therefore Christ were to claim for himself the conquered enemy’s praise,

Until he might wish to overcome the warfare of men?

To conquer a great enemy by force is a huge thing, what is it to level with a nod?

To strike wins praise, how much honor to rout by just standing?

Look! He levels those who rage like rabid beasts

While relaxing and establishes in silence.

Is it not that these are the men, again who lately thought

To vomit grave threats about a bitter defeat?

Why hold back the madness enclosed within?

Why is it that the terrible anger has no power?

Do we think them not instructed in defense? In art

Of villainy, in swords, audacity, plots.

We, a moderate, unwarlike, naked and disarmed throng,

Like a Á ock of sheep before monstrous wolves.

Is not the victory of Christ the king amazing?

He warms our hearts with a fearless force.

Therefore wreathed with triumphant laurel

Let him emerge glorious on the four-horsed chariot’s chair.

The Edomites pursue that chariot and are put in a fury

Those who make war with his holy majesty.

Yesterday Eck red and swollen to Iacchus

Bared the backs exposed to hard lashes.

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Lazy Cochleus put down the untamed head, before the brow recovered,

From which he was always devoid.

Nausea producing scorns from verbose books

Silent with closed mouth will carry the yoke.

For a long time there skulked an owl under the name Pelargus,

Snarling with savage muzzle and hard snaggled teeth.

It’s not because they are exceptional men, but in the contest

The infamous legion inserted its standard bearers.

Therefore they make war under the sign of a papal tiara

And they set up entire castles with their general:

Clever foxes and lions dripping with blood

And lunging packs of barking dogs.

Each in his own rank, high and low,

Uncustomarily joined they learn to yoke up necks.

And you, on the better note of a holy poet,

To whom the charming muse utters soft tones:

The famous triumph of Christ in a magniÀ cent

Song is sung. Another crowd chants the victory hymn.

What nature denies, the hard work of study accomplishes

That I might try to sound out your praises, O Christ.

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CONFESSIONALIZATION IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY:

A JEWISH PERSPECTIVE

Dean Phillip Bell

Introduction to the Problem

Confessionalization is a concept that has been highly charged and

much discussed in recent historiography. Whether seen as an important

paradigm, a useful tool for periodization, or simply dismissed, the question of confessionalization has clearly and signiÀ cantly affected how we think about early modern Germany.

Yet little attention has been given to the relation between confes-

sionalization and early modern German Jewry. It is primarily within

the context of the impact of the development of the modern state on Jewish communities or, alternately, the development of internal Jewish reform after the Haskalah (or in some recent literature the movement for codiÀ cation or the false messianism of Shabbatai Sevi) that there has been any connection posited between early modern Jewry and

confessionalization.

In what follows I offer a brief review of the paradigm of confessionalization and a look at the problems and implications of the model. I then ask whether there is evidence that early modern German Jewry experienced signiÀ cant changes that might be usefully associated with the confessionalization paradigm and I illustrate with a few examples.

Confessionalization

Confessionalization has recently been deÀ ned as the “consolidation and advancement of the development of the three confessions (Catholic,

evangelical, and Reformed Churches) in terms of religious doctrine,

relationships with the state and developing religious identities, particularly in Germany but also in other parts of Europe and its empires.”1

1 H-German forum launch (Monday, April 4, 2005) http://www.h-net.org/~german/

discuss/Confessionalization/Confess_index.htm, last visited November 18, 2005. For a OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 345

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dean phillip bell

According to another interpretation, confessionalization is “The spiritual and organizational solidiÀ cation of the various Christian confessions diverging since the faith-split to a halfway stable Church according

to dogma, constitution and religio-customal life form.”2 A product of

German historiography in the 1970s,3 the paradigm generally assumes

that confessionalization unfolded especially in Germany between the

years 1555 and 1648, though some scholars maintain that the confes-

sionalization of the Church followed the process of splintering and

differentiation of Western Christianity that began with the Hussites in the later Middle Ages and culminated with the “confessional churches”

after the sixteenth-century Reformation.4

Despite its apparently simple deÀ nition, however, confessionaliza-

tion has been used in a variety of ways in the scholarly literature. The paradigm raises signiÀ cant questions of how historians understand the possible breaks between the medieval and the modern.5 It also forces

us to consider broader early modern political developments such as

state building, the concept of social discipline, and identity building, and how to compare various religious movements and developments,

which despite differing theology, spirituality, and legal-institutional forms shared some general developments.6 Indeed, confessionalization

has become a central category, even an “elemental process,” for distinguishing the early modern period. According to one recent historian,

discussion see Heinz Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich,” Historische Zeitschrift 246 (1988): 1–45, here at 2ff; Walter Ziegler, “Kritisches zur Konfessionalisierungsthese,”

in Konfessionalisierung und Region, ed. Peter Frieß and Rolf Kießling (Constance, 1999), 41–53, here at 43ff.

2 Ernst Walter Zeeden, cited in Helga Schnabel-Schüle, “Vierzig Jahre Konfessionalisierungsforschung—eine Standortbestimmung,” Konfessionalisierung und Region, 23–40, here at 25.

3 See Heinz Schilling, “Confessionalization: Historical and Scholarly Perspectives of a Comparative and Interdisciplinary Paradigm,” in Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700: Essays in Honor and Memory of Bodo Nischan, ed. John M. Headley, Hans J. Hillerbrand, and Anthony J. Paplas (Aldershot, 2004), 21–35, here at 25.

4 Johannes Wallmann, “Lutherische Konfessionalisierung—ein Überblick,” in Die lutherische Konfessionalisierung in Deutschland, ed. Hans-Christoph Rublack (Heidelberg, 1992), 33–52, here at 34. The historian Heinz Schilling, for example, has argued that the initiation of confessionalization began in the late 1540s through the 1560s, confrontational confessionalization developed in the 1570s, the high point of confessionalization occurred between the 1580s and the 1620s, and the conclusion of confessionalization took place with the Peace of Westphalia and growing irenicism. Schilling,

“Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich,” 11–28.

5 When did it begin and end (how do we understand deconfessionalization, secularization, etc.)?

6 Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich,” 30.

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confessionalization stands at the peak of a host of processes, such as territorialization, disciplining, and capitalistic economic structures that give meaning to early modern history.7

Wolfgang Reinhard, a central scholar of confessionalization, has pro-

vided a rich overview in his assessment of Catholic confessionalization.8

Reinhard argues that confessionalization was caused by religious inno-

vation and the origin of and competition between more churches with

absolute claims. He divides the forms of confessionalization between

processes and institutions. Among the processes he identiÀ es are: the eradication of unclear beliefs; ensuring against the unsuitable; censure; the monopolization of education; the distancing and isolation of dissidents; an emphasis on differentiating rites; and linguistic exclusion.

Among the institutions, Reinhard notes: new church organization; the

establishment of confession-speciÀ c education; confessional-speciÀ c control and repression; and the symbiosis with the state. Further, according to Reinhard, confessionalization intentionally led to the establishment of confessionally correct behavior and unintentionally contributed to the development of State authority, modernization, and possibly to an emotional crisis and the secularization of Europe.9

Limitations of the Confessionalization Paradigm

Among the most common and persuasive criticisms leveled at the

con fessionalization paradigm are those contesting or reÀ ning alleged 7 Schnabel-Schüle, “Vierzig Jahre Konfessionalisierungsforschung,” 23.

8 Wolfgang Reinhard, “Was ist katholische Konfessionalisierung?,” in Die katholische Konfessionalisierung, ed. Wolfgang Reinhard and Heinz Schilling (Heidelberg, 1995), 419–52, here at 426–27.

9 See also Wolfgang Reinhard, “Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung? Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des konfessionellen Zeitalters,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 10

(1983): 257–77, here at 258, 263; also Wolfgang Reinhard, “Gegenreformation als Modernisierung? Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des konfessionelles Zeitalters,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 68 (1977): 226–52. For various summaries and interpretations of Reinhard’s position, see R. Po-chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation: Central Europe 1550–1750 (London, 1989), 1–3; Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, introduction; Markus Wriedt, “ ‘Founding a New Church . . .’: The Early Ecclesiology of Martin Luther in the Light of the Debate about Confessionalization,” in Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, 51–66, here at 57–59; Thomas A. Brady, Jr., “ ‘Confessionalization: The Career of a Concept,’ ” in Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, 1–20, here at 9ff. Regarding Schilling, see Brady, 5; regarding the work of John Bossy, 10; and the work of Benjamin Kaplan, 15.

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connections between confessionalization and social discipline, the rise of the state, the nature of religion and faith, and modernization.

Confessionalization has long been associated with the concept of

social discipline and the growth of the modern state. According to the model pioneered by Ernst Walter Zeeden and to some extent supported

by the work of Gerhard Oestreich and Norbert Elias, rulers developed

a strong church primarily for the goal of disciplining their subjects.

Belief, in this interpretation, was of a secondary interest, primarily as a means to the end of social discipline.10 But confessionalization did occur in non-princely territories as well,11 and what is more, in some places the state actually and genuinely did strengthen religion, found schools, extend visitations into the countryside, and establish mandates for religious practice—that is, it did not simply make religion subservient.12

The historian Heinz Schilling has asserted that the formation of

confessions focuses on narrowly religious and ecclesiastical phenomena and considers political, social, and intellectual connections marginal.

Confessionalization, on the other hand, embraces a universal perspec-

tive of society.13 Indeed, in some recent scholarship there have been attempts to differentiate with greater clarity communal religion and

confessionalization. For seventeenth-century southwest Germany, for

example, Marc Forster has argued that the development of a popular

Catholicism and attachment to Catholic practices that can be termed

communalism was different from confessionalization.14 David Mayes

also contrasts two types of Christianity in Upper Hesse during the

confessional age: confessional Christianity and communal Christianity.

Confessionalization in this model was state down and communalism

Gemeinde up. The latter was cultivated and regulated by members of 10 Heinrich Richard Schmidt, “Sozialdisziplinierung? Ein Pladoyer für das Ende des Etatismus in der Konfessionalisierungsforschung,” Historische Zeitschrift 265 (1997): 639–82, here at 639–40, 648; see also Winfried Schulze, “Gerhard Oestreichs Begriff

‘Sozialdisziplinierung in der frühen Neuzeit,’ ” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 20 (1987): 265–302, especially 294ff for the genesis, reception and problems of the concept.

11 Schmidt, “Sozialdisziplinierung?,” 660, 680–82.

12 Ziegler, “Kritisches zur Konfessionalisierungsthese,” 51; see also Brady, “ ‘Confessionalization: The Career of a Concept,’ ” 15.

13 Schilling, “Confessionalization: Historical and Scholarly Perspectives,” 24; see also Harm Klueting, “Problems of the Term and Concept ‘Second Reformation’: Memories of a 1980s Debate,” in Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, 37–49, here at 47 for the criticism of Schilling, who is seen as disregarding religion as faith.

14 Marc Forster, Catholic Renewal in the Age of the Baroque: Religious Identity in Southwest Germany, 1550–1750 (Cambridge, 2001), 10–12, 15, 156, 173ff.

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the Gemeinde; it was free-standing, historical Christianity that operated within its own parameters, according to its own principles and with its own objectives. It was non-doctrinal in nature and synthesized communalism, agrarian environment and Christianity.15 Despite attempts

to deÀ ne the role and nature of religion more precisely, many scholars continue to believe that the confessionalization thesis leaves religion itself too far from its consideration.

There are other criticisms leveled at the confessionalization thesis. In part because of the difÀ culty of deÀ ning modernization or the process leading to it, confessionalization’s connection with modernization is frequently criticized,16 although confessionalization seems at times to have brought social transformation into sharper focus and at times catalyzed it.17 Other criticisms of confessionalization include that in its attempt to create a grand comprehensive paradigm, the model effectively denies

tensions and contradictions inherent in early modern religion and society just as it sweeps away the importance of local differences.18

For our purposes the criticism of some scholars that the concept of

confessionalization is limiting when applied only to the three major confessions—Lutheranism, Calvinism and Catholicism—is also signiÀ cant.

Many scholars have begun to ask about the viability or signiÀ cance of the confessionalization model for sectarians and other minority groups.

Hans-Jürgen Goertz, for example, notes that Anabaptists disciplined

themselves voluntarily and in advance of regulative efforts on the part of the rulers; they practiced social discipline without a state.19 Gerhard Lauer notes that early modern Jews’ deeply religious concerns resulted 15 David Mayes, Communal Christianity: The Life and Loss of a Peasant Vision in Early Modern Germany (Boston and Leiden, 2004), 1–3, 338.

16 Schilling, “Confessionalization: Historical and Scholarly Perspectives,” 26, 29; see also Brady, “ ‘Confessionalization: The Career of a Concept,’ ” 15.

17 Heinz Schilling, KonfessionskonÁ ikt und Staatsbildung: Eine Fallstudie über das Verhältnis von religiösem und sozialem Wandel in der Frühneuzeit am Beispiel der Grafschaft Lippe (Gütersloh, 1981), 371–72.

18 Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich,” 24.

19 See Michael Driedger, “The IntensiÀ cation of Religious Commitment: Jews, Anabaptists, Radical Reform, and Confessionalization,” in Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, ed. Dean Phillip Bell and Stephen G. Burnett (Leiden, 2006), 269–99; “Crossing Max Weber’s ‘Great Divide’: Comparing Early Modern Jewish and Anabaptist Histories,” in Radical Reformation Studies: Essays Presented to James M. Stayer, ed. Werner O. Packull and Geoffrey L. Dipple (Aldershot, 1999); and Obedient Heretics: Mennonite Identities in Lutheran Hamburg and Altona during the Confessional Age (Aldershot, 2002). See also Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung,” 22; Ziegler, “Kritisches zur Konfessionalisierungsthese,” 49.

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in the pluralization of group identity, sparking factions to outdo one another religiously and inciting new orthodox reactions.20 Heinz Schilling also notes the danger of excluding non-confessional belief com-

munities in research and he asks whether Christian confessionalization inÁ uenced, directly or indirectly, the legal, social, and even spiritual situation of the Jews.21

Implications for the Theme of Confessionalization and the Jews

In a recent and important article, Gerhard Lauer has questioned

whether the confessionalization paradigm can rightfully be applied to

early modern Judaism.22 Lauer notes that for it to be truly applicable to Judaism the confessionalization thesis must have been relevant for the Jews themselves, and not simply the environment in which they lived.

Early modern Jewry must have somehow changed from its medieval

form.23 Lauer posits a trajectory of early modern Jewish development

that he sees moving from “tradition” to “orthodoxy” and correspond-

ing “heterodox” reaction(s).24 Among the central developments in early modern Judaism that lead in this direction are: systematicization and

the regulation of everyday life (as in the development of the Shulhan Arukh);25 the internalization of religion leading to a strict separation of the impure and unbelieving (as in the religious developments that

began in Safed and spread from there);26 a renewal of Jewish educa-

tion, opposition to formalism in learning27 and a connection between

religion and social disciplining (as evident in the moral-religious instruction books that appeared in Ashkenaz from the middle of the sixteenth 20 See Driedger, “The IntensiÀ cation of Religious Commitment.”

21 Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung,” 21; Ziegler, “Kritisches zur Konfessionalisierungsthese,” 49.

22 Gerhard Lauer, “Die Konfessionalisierung des Judentums: Zum Prozess der religiösen Ausdifferenzierung im Judentum am Übergang zur Neuzeit,” in Interkonfes-sionalität—Transkonfessionalität—binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität: Neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungsthese, ed. Kaspar von Greyerz, Manfred Jakubowski-Tiessen, Thomas Kaufmann and Hartmut Lehmann (Heidelberg, 2003), 250–83.

23 Ibid., 261.

24 Ibid., 262, 279.

25 Ibid., 261.

26 Ibid., 264.

27 Ibid., 265–67.

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century);28 mystical quietism;29 and the development of a far-reaching systemic closedness.30 While cautioning about the effects of localization,31

Lauer concludes that there was Jewish confessionalization and that it

began around the year 1530.32 This conclusion leads Lauer to argue

that we need to reassess our notion that Judaism was not a confession

but merely a religion that could not participate in the state-political territorialization because of its minority status.33

Given Lauer’s conclusions and the general overview of confession-

alization provided above, there appear to be at least four central, and overlapping, topics raised by the confessionalization paradigm that

resonate with what we now know about early modern German Jewry.

They are:

1. the creation of conformity (orthodoxy?): customs and beliefs

2. censure: eradication of the unsuitable and distancing of dissident behavior

3. the formalization and monopolization of education

4. communal or institutional (re)organization

Do these themes have real meaning in early modern German Jewry,

and if so, with what implications?

Creating Conformity: Customs and Beliefs

Much scholarly literature has recently treated the question of halakhic Á exibility and tolerated dissent in pre-modern Jewry. Scholars have

grown increasingly uncomfortable with deÀ ning pre-modern Jewry as

simply homogenous and “orthodox.”34 Some scholars have gone so

28 Ibid., 268.

29 Ibid., 269.

30 Ibid., 280.

31 Ibid., 291.

32 Ibid., 279.

33 Ibid., 280.

34 In addition, it is clear that the Jewish communities of our period were far from homogenous. Mordechai Breurer has posited a distinction between elite and folk religion in the early modern period. The former, according to Breuer, focused on the Talmud, philosophy, and the sciences and arts; the latter on the study of the Pentateuch, Rashi’s commentary, and the narrative-moralizing parts of the Talmud. Mordechai Breuer,

“Jüdische Religion und Kultur in den ländlichen Gemeinden 1600–1800,” in Jüdisches OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 351

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far as to assert that late medieval and early modern Ashkenazic Jewry

was complex and contained a world of doubters, reÁ ecting something

of a crisis. In response, they argue, it surrounded itself with a tangled web of religious rituals as a defensive barrier to preserve its unique identity and prevent the inÀ ltration of Christian inÁ uence.35 While some have assumed that Ashkenazic Jewry was Á exible enough to

absorb such heterogeneity, others have argued that Ashkenazic Jews

increasingly reacted to variation by attempting to centralize authority and standardize customs. There emerges in the historiography, then, a

perceived tension between regional particularism and growing universal standardization. But what picture can we draw from early modern German Jewish discussions of belief, custom, and proper behavior?

One useful source for answering this question is the customs books,

one of the very important genres of Jewish literature that matured in the early modern period. Such books sought to codify local and regional customs, particularly as regional identities developed, and as German

Jews responded to a broader pull in early modern Judaism towards

codiÀ cation. While they reÁ ect the power of local customs in Germany, they also demonstrate the increasing engagement with broader codes

and collections of practices in the early modern period.

One particularly important example of the customs book was Sefer

Josef Ometz. It was completed around 1630,36 with many handwritten Leben auf dem Lande, ed. Monika Richarz and Reinhard Rürup (Tübingen, 1997), 69–78, here at 72. Daily folk religion of Jews, particularly in the rural areas, where Jews increasingly took up residence, was centered on daily customs—particularly local or regional ones—and was largely oral (Breuer, 73).

35 Ora Limor and Israel Jacob Yuval, “Skepticism and Conversion: Jews, Christians, and Doubters in Sefer ha-Nizzahon,” in Hebraica Veritas? Christian Hebraists and the Study of Judaism in Early Modern Europe, ed. Allison P. Coudert and Jeffrey S. Shoulson (Philadelphia, 2004), 159–80. See Jay Berkovitz, “Jewish Law and Ritual in Early Modern Germany,” in Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation, 481–502, who argues that “Several distinct features of the Worms and Frankfurt Minhagbücher set them apart from comparable works produced in the fourteenth century. The earlier works—such as Leket Yosher and Semak Zurich, and the various customs books bearing the name of Maharil, R. Isaac Tyrnau, R. Abraham Klausner, and Mordechai b. Hillel—were secondary accounts invariably assembled by disciples-attendants. Accordingly, succeeding generations would question their reliability. By contrast, the compilations undertaken by Kirchheim and others never represented themselves as anything but anthologies of local traditions. For this reason, they were never viewed as independently authoritative. The later works also evinced a distinctly popular style. Admittedly, popularization was not unique to the sixteenth century, as is evident from the rather ordinary manner of presentation that typiÀ ed the earlier works” (492).

36 Hava Fraenkel-Goldschmidt, “Jüdische Religion und Kultur in Frankfurt am Main im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert: Yuzpa Hahn und sein ‘Yosif omez,’ ” in Jüdische Kultur in OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 352

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versions circulating in the author’s family; but the text was not ofÀ cially published until 1723 (in Frankfurt).37 The author, Joseph Juspa Hahn of Nördlingen (1570–1637), a leading member of the Jewish community

in Frankfurt am Main, served as head of the bet din and yeshivah and communal rabbi during a key, and particularly tumultuous time.38

Sefer Josef Ometz, it could be argued, had relatively little new to say.

It was largely a collection of laws and customs sifted from a variety of well-known and circulating sources. But to the group of frequently cited materials, Juspa added a number of lesser-known works, the customs

of his own city of Frankfurt, and the actions of his father, teachers and personalities of his age, particularly the leading scholars of Frankfurt.

In addition to the legal portion, the emphasis on proper pious behavior, drawn from a variety of texts in the kabbalistic and musar traditions gave the work an important quality that placed it squarely within a

seventeenth-century milieu.

The sources and authorities Juspa cited most frequently were the

Shulhan Arukh and commentaries of and introductions to it; the Tur; the Maharil; Isaac Luria and his school;39 Reishit Hokhma; Sefer Hasidim and Sefer Haredim; Moses Mat’s40 Matteh Moshe; Seder ha-Yom; Zohar; the work of the Maharshal; and Emek Bracha.41 Less frequent, but important, references were also made to a number of kabbalists and kabbalistic

works and central German rabbinic authorities of the later Middle

Frankfurt am Main von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Karl E. Grözinger (Wiesbaden, 1997), 101–121, here at 106.

37 Ibid., 107.

38 See Markus Horovitz, Frankfurter Rabbinen ( Jerusalem, 1969).

39 Juspa Hahn Nördlingen. Sefer Josef Ometz ( Jerusalem, 1965). These include Rabbi Yona of Safed, a student of the Ari—see Fraenkel-Goldschmidt, “Jüdische Religion und Kultur in Frankfurt am Main,” 109.

40 Moses Mat (c. 1551–c. 1606), born in Przemysl, a disciple of Solomon Luria, and a teacher in Belz. His compendium of Jewish ritual law was completed in 1584

and printed in Cracow around 1590. In addition to other things he also wrote Taryag Mitzvot (Cracow, 1581) and Minhagei Maharshal. See Encyclopedia Judaica.

41 Emek Bracha, written by Rabbi Abraham b. Shabbetai Sheftel haLevy Hurwitz (Cracow, 1597?)—see Bernhard Friedberg, Bet ‘eked sefarim (Antwerp, 1928–31), 486, no. 473. For details regarding Hurwitz, see Israel Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, trans. Bernard Martin, 12 vols. (Cleveland and Cincinnati, 1972–78), 6:50–57. Zinberg traces Hurwitz’s life from his early “free-thinking” at Prague, when he was an ardent supporter of Maimonidean rationalism, to his later moral and penitent mystical asceticism, when he consciously refuted his earlier views. It is to this later period that we can trace his work Emek bracha and his Yesh Nohalim (Zinberg, 6:56).

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Ages.42 In addition to mentioning the Sefer Hasidim and the Sefer Haredim throughout the work, Juspa also focused on the actions and teachings

of the individual hasid 43 or on pious individuals44 more generally.

Although Juspa referred frequerntly to the “sages,” he rarely refer-

enced talmudic sources directly.45 Juspa also referenced his father, his teacher Hirtz Treves of Frankfurt and a host of other personalities

of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, such as: Avraham Shaftel, Hayyim Katz of Prague, Levi Micha, Meir ha-Levy, Yakov Lieberman,

Rabbi Segal, Daniel Landshut, Jacob Schweinfurt, Slumiel of Prossnitz and Moses Menachem.46

Frequently, Juspa attested to the binding authority of the Shulhan Arukh, though at times he chose to follow the German rabbis. When he contrasted the opinions of Jacob Weil with the Shulhan Arukh, for example, he wrote “that one conducts in their lands differently, but

we follow according to Rabbi Jacob Weil, who was an Ashkenaz . . .”47

Juspa, like his Ashkenazic co-religionists, held closely to the binding power of custom ( minhag), noting that one must hold to old customs, even when the basis for them was no longer known.48 Yet, though he

cited Ashkenazic customs frequently, he did not automatically follow

the father of Ashkenazic minhag, the Maharil.49

The tension between more universal codes and particular local

scholars and practices highlights nicely what appears to be a period of transition, in which general standards of belief, religious outlook, and practice were congealing. Indeed, initially hostile Ashkenazic reactions to codiÀ cation, such as that of Hayyim ben Bezalel (see below),50 gave 42 Cordovero; Derekh Hayyim; Jacob Weil; Maharam; Maharik; Maharit; Maimonides; Moses Mintz; the Mordechai; Rashi; the Rosh; Sha’arei Teshuva; Sefer ha-Yirah; Terumas ha-Deshen. Passing references were made to many more authors and sources, including, for example: Alfasi; Alkabetz; Karo; Isserles; David Kimhi; Rabbenu Gershom; Rabbenu Tam; Ramban; Ran; Rashba; Ri; Ribash; Rif; Rokeach; Tashbetz. Divrei Shalom; Mayyim Hayyim; Seder ha-Get; Sefer ha-Hinukh; Seder ha-Teshuva; Sefer Mitzvoth; Sefer Taryag Mitzvot; Sefer Musar; Semag.

43 Sefer Josef Ometz, 86, 100, 69, 9, 295.

44 hasidim— Sefer Josef Ometz, 120, 89, 67, 32, 137; or haredim—142, 61, 41.

45 Avodah Zara, Avot, Eruvin, Yoma, Shabbat, and Sanhedrin are each referenced, as is the Palestinian Talmud; so are Samuel, Sifre, and Tehilim.

46 See also Fraenkel-Goldschmidt, “Jüdische Religion und Kultur in Frankfurt am Main,” 113ff for “other small works.”

47 Ibid., 109–10.

48 Ibid., 111.

49 Ibid., 110.

50 Joseph Davis, “The Reception of the Shulhan ‘Arukh and the Formation of Ashkenazic Jewish Identity,” AJS Review 26:2 (2000): 251–76.

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way within a generation or so to a signiÀ cant adoption and engagement, if not complete embrace, of the central codes of Karo and Isserles.51

Joseph Davis has pointed out that legal codiÀ cation can have one of

two opposing effects: either to oppose localization and support universalization or to undermine universalization and support localization.

Davis argues that despite the ongoing production of collections of local customs, the synods of late sixteenth-century German Jewry “gave

evidence of the new, clearer sense of forming a single community.”52

The interweaving of these sources of authority in Juspa’s customs

book points to an important period of transition and forces us to ask questions about early modern German Jewish belief and observance.

Did this reÁ ect the beginnings of Lauer’s sense of a transition from

“tradition” to “orthodoxy?”

Censure: Eradicating the Unsuitable and Distancing Dissident Behavior The late historian Jacob Katz asserted that Jewish polemic against

Christianity nearly ceased in the sixteenth century.53 According to him, Ashkenazic Jewry became a closed system with few or no comprehensive

thinkers, or philosophers, but a plethora of moralizing and admonish-

ing preachers.54 Indeed, a variety of early modern literature focused on questions of moral behavior, including works about the Hasidei Ashkenaz, creating something of a seventeenth-century renaissance of the Hasidei Ashkenaz.55 Through moralizing, Jewish leaders admonished 51 Ibid., 273; see Isadore Twersky, “Law and Spirituality in the 17th Century: A Case Study in R. Yair Hayyim Bacharach,” in Jewish Thought in the Seventeenth Century, ed. Isadore Twersky and Bernard Septimus (Cambridge, MA, 1987), 447–67, here at 449. Bacharach urged the study of codes (see Twersky, 452–53).

52 Davis, “The Reception of the Shulhan ‘Arukh,” 267.

53 See Jacob Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance: Studies in Jewish-Gentile Relations in Medieval and Modern Times (Oxford, 1961).

54 Fraenkel-Goldschmidt cites Twersky to this effect. See her “Jüdische Religion und Kultur in Frankfurt am Main,” 101.

55 Along these lines, one must note the general interest among scholars of seventeenth century in the Sefer Hasidim. Fraenkel-Goldschmidt refers to a renaissance of penance literature (ibid., 115). According to Fraenkel-Goldschmidt Juspa was a Hasid Ashkenaz of the sixteenth to seventeenth century (113). There are scattered references to the Hasidei Ashkenaz in a number of late medieval rabbinic responsa—such as those of the Maharil—and stories about the Hasidei Ashkenaz circulated orally in Yiddish throughout the period in which they operated. During the À fteenth century, these stories were À xed into an hagiographic cycle, translated into Hebrew and handed down in written form.

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their coreligionists to particular forms of behavior, while marking off particular behavior as unacceptable, damaging or purely evil.

The famous sixteenth-century shtadlan Joseph ben Gershon of

Rosheim ( Josel) stressed the relation of informers and traitors to heretics and apostates. Throughout his Sefer ha-Miknah Joseph discussed the nature of the evil brought about by informers and apostates in both a broad philosophical sense, and in a more concrete sense, describing in detail the events perpetrated by such people in the history of German Jewry in his own time. Joseph placed them in gehinnom, philosophically associated them with pure evil, and he found two mutually exclusive

forces at work in the world. Joseph wrote that:

. . . the whole world beneÀ ts from the righteous and is troubled by the evil, and because the evil and the good and all of their activities and their thoughts are two vessels, it is impossible to unite, attach and associate the righteous with the evil in name, business or partnership, because they are enemies one to the other . . . the slanderers and informers are evil to heaven and the creation, desecrate God and damage the creation, in everyday

speech incite and instigate them [people] from the path of good to the path of evil as explained above . . .56

While the À rst book of Sefer ha-Miknah deals with manifestations of evil in Jewish history, the second part, extracted largely from the late medieval Spanish Jewish philosopher Abraham Bibago’s Derekh Emunah, is something like a book of musar, extolling proper morals and behavior.57 While Joseph did not take up Bibago’s discussions on redemption, exile, the messiah, philosophy or polemics with Christians, he did extol popular and accessible Yiddish version, and eventually collected and subsumed with other stories into the Mayse-Bukh. (Sara Zfatman, “The Mayse-Bukh: An Old Yiddish Literary Genre,” Hasifrut 28, VIII/2 (April, 1979): 126–152; [Hebrew; English summary, iv].) The Hasidei Ashekanz were primary agents in the Maxaseh Book ( Ma’aseh Book: Book of Jewish Tales and Legends, trans. Moses Gaster, 2 vols. (Philadelphia, 1934)), published in Basle in 1602. An edition of the Sefer Hasidim was also published in 1581, as part of a growing body of ethical literature and exempla printed in Yiddish in the sixteenth century in Verona, Basle and Prague (the Brandspiegel and the Zuchtspiegel, ascribed to Moses Henoch, for example, were printed in Prague in 1572). ( Maxaseh Book, xxiv, xxvi, xxxiv.). Sefer Josef Ometz also included a synthesis of important observations on aspects of pietica, and the work was a self-styled moral compendium. One recent scholar suggests a comparison between it and its contemporaneous early Pietism. (Fraenkel-Goldschmidt, “Jüdische Religion und Kultur in Frankfurt am Main,” 121).

56 Ibid., 6, also see 1; see Dean Phillip Bell, Sacred Communities: Jewish and Christian Identities in Fifteenth-Century Germany (Boston, 2001), 218–23.

57 Joseph of Rosheim, Sefer ha-Miknah [mexet] Yosef Ish Rosxheim, ed. Hava Fraenkel-Goldschmidt ( Jerusalem, 1970), 44, 69.

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the importance of Kiddush Hashem and prayer.58 Taken together, the two books formed a coherent unit that stressed proper behavior and

correlated dissent and evil.

In early modern German Jewry, dissidence was not simply moralized

against, however; it was also punished, particularly through a variety of À nes and excommunication ( herem). Among the more common forms of dissidence, aside from the informing 59 and apostasy we have just

seen, we À nd Sabbath desecration (as well as the transgression of other religious laws, such as shaving the beard),60 the disruption of prayer or synagogue decorum,61 disrespect for the authority of communal

ofÀ cials,62 the violation of sumptuary laws, scandalous behavior (including participation in games of chance, and violence)63 or writings,64 and inappropriate relations with Christians—either relations that were too intimate or actions that might provoke negative Christian reaction.65

A number of these elements were treated in the last major and impor-

tant synod of German Jewry in 1603 held in Frankfurt. In addition,

the protocol books of the Portuguese Jewish community in Hamburg in

the mid-seventeenth century provide some indication of increasing uses of censure to eradicate dissent or the appearance of nonconforming

behavior.66 These documents also present Jewish communities looking to 58 Ibid., 40, 44, 70.

59 Apparently considered the most dangerous infractions. See Yosef Kaplan, “The Place of the Herem in the Sefardic Community of Hamburg during the Seventeenth Century,” in Die Sefarden in Hamburg: Zur Geschichte einer Minderheit, part 1, ed. Michael Studemund-Halevy (Hamburg, 1994), 63–87, here at 72.

60 Including mention in Hamburg of people “careless” or “lacking conscience;”

Kaplan, “The Place of the Herem,” 77; 81 regarding transgressions against halakah.

61 See also Moritz Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung bei den deutschen Juden, von den ältesten Zeiten bis auf Mendelssohn (Amsterdam, 1968), 55ff. for the 1583 Jewish-German book “Buch des ewigen Lebens.” It is indicated that one should not speak or hear Neuigkeiten said during the Torah reading in synagogue.

62 Kaplan, “The Place of the Herem,” 81.

63 Ibid.

64 Ibid., 72.

65 See statutes from 1685 in Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden Altona, Hamburg und Wandsbek: Quellen zur Jüdischen Gemeindeorganisation im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Heinz Mosche Graupe (Hamburg, 1973), “[for every] man or woman, young man or maiden, it is forbidden, on the Sabbath and on holidays to go to drink in a non-Jewish inn. Likewise it is forbidden to visit on Shabbat [a] skittle Á oor, a comedy, fencing school—with penalty of 4 Rt. Women and girls should generally not go to the opera, not even on weekdays—with the same punishment” (86).

66 Compare Mack P. Holt, “Confessionalization beyond the Germanies: The Case of France,” in Confessionalization in Europe, 1550–1700, 257–73, here at 268: “What seems clear from these examples—which are characteristic of the surviving sample of OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 357

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deÀ ne and monopolize authority. The statutes of the triple community of Altona, Hamburg, and Wandsbek from 1685, for example, are quick

to remind that “every one who appears before the community council

should be obedient and willingly follow [their decisions].”67

The important Frankfurt synod of 1603 attempted to create Ger-

man-wide standards of behavior and governing mechanisms. It devised

punishments for a variety of transgressors, including Jews who com-

pelled opposing litigants to go to secular courts,68 who informed on the community, or who used their wealth or power to press their own advantages.69 In response, À ve central courts were established—in Frankfurt, Worms, Fulda, Friedberg and Günzburg—as were nine centers for the

collection of tax money.70 The synod decreed that “no rabbi or head

of a court shall extend his jurisdiction over communities or districts which are traditionally subjects to another court.”71 The appointment

of rabbinic titles was regulated72 as was the publication of books.73

The synod also addressed the problem of ritual slaughterers ( shohetim) who lacked adequate authorization, poor training or knowledge,74 and

anyone who bought wine from non-Jews.75

Crimes that involved deceit of Christians and that made the precari-

ous position of the Jewish communities even more difÀ cult were seen as particularly egregious.76 Those who were involved with counterfeiting

coins,77 dealing with thieves or stolen goods, or borrowing money or

wares from non-Jews with no intention of paying for them, should all

certiÀ cates of abjuration—is that the Dijon magistrates appeared to be much more concerned about scandalous acts, seditious behavior, loyalty to the king, and threats to the public order than in explicit statements of faith or doctrine.”

67 Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden Altona, Hamburg und Wandsbek, 110.

68 Louis Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages (New York, 1964), 257.

69 Ibid., 258.

70 Ibid., 259.

71 Ibid., 263. See also Eric Zimmer, Jewish Synods in Germany during the Late Middle Ages (1286–1603) (New York, 1978), 140–47 for excerpts from the Frankfurt synod of 1542 that detailed the issue of jurisdiction.

72 Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 260–61.

73 Ibid., 263.

74 Ibid., 260.

75 Ibid.

76 See Josel’s “Artikel und Ordnung,” written to secular authorities, which details problematic Jewish commercial and social behavior regarding Christians, e.g. , unseemly usury (Ludwig Feilchenfeld, Rabbi Josel von Rosheim: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland im Reformationszeitalter (Strasbourg, 1898), especially 156ff.

77 Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 261.

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be ostracized.78 On the other hand, behavior that brought Jews into

too much familiarity with Christians was also seen as problematic. Jews were not to buy milk from Gentiles if the milking was not witnessed

by a Jew79—this may have been in part an attempt to override local

customs to the contrary—or to dress like Gentiles. The local or regional and imperial-wide tension is worth pointing out here, as is the fact that 1603 marked the last imperial-wide synod of the period.

In the protocol books of the Portuguese community of mid seven-

teenth-century Hamburg, communal authority and governance were

legislated. Many of the passages of the protocol book detail ordi-

nances establishing order and practices meant to secure peace; many

also address the punishments and threats associated with disturbing

this order. On 2 Nissan 5427 (1667), Daniel da Fonseca and Netanel

Abudiente, for example, were À ned 3 Rt for disturbance of the prayer service on the previous Sabbath and Guidon Coën Lobatto 20 Rt,

because the disturbance was so great that the Torah reading had to be

interrupted. All three were threatened with great punishment in case

of repetition of the offence.80 On 7 Shevat 5424 (1664), an ordinance from Iyar 5413 (1653) against shouting or loud words—and the penalties associated with such acts—was renewed.81 Synagogue life was strictly

enforced, as we see from a decree of 17 Sivan 5427 (1667) in which

young people conversing in two corners of the synagogue (instead of

praying), thereby disturbing other people in their worship were threatened with punishment along with their parents.82

But, community statutes were for everyone, as we are reminded in

an entry from 28 Heshvan 5425 (1664), when the haham, Ishac Jesurun, was castigated for inviting more people than allowed to his daughter’s wedding. The protocol book reiterated that no more than 20 men

and 13 women could be invited, and concluded that “this was a great

outrage, since the haham must observe the community statutes more strongly than anyone else.”83

78 Ibid.

79 Ibid., 262.

80 Isaac Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch der Portugiesisch-Jüdischen Gemeinde in Hamburg: Übersetzung und Anmerkungen,” in Jahrbuch der Jüdisch-Literarischen Gesellschaft 6 (1908): 1–54; 7 (1909): 159–210; 8 (1910): 227–90; 9 (1911): 318–66; 10

(1912): 225–95; 11 (1916): 1–76; 12 (1920): 55–118, here 11:31.

81 Ibid., 10:243.

82 Ibid., 11:34.

83 Ibid., 10:260.

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Relations with Christians were monitored closely. Community mem-

bers were reminded that it was scandalous (escrupolo escandalaso) for

individuals to purchase vegetables and other foodstuff on the Jewish

Sabbath or holidays through non-Jews; though interestingly, it was not because of the relationships that they presumably would have entered

into, but because they did so “in the belief that this was permitted, while the opposite is the case . . .”84 The leadership was also concerned that Jews should not be perceived as distracting Christians from their own Sunday worship and rest. On the 8th of Elul, 5418 (1658), a À ne

of 5 Rt was set for anyone carrying on the preparation of tobacco

who allowed the assistance of Christians (mossos da religião da terra) on Sunday or any of their festival days, “which would arouse such a

great offence.”85 The council was also concerned lest relations become too cordial. In a case from 29 Tevet 5424 (1664), it became known

that “Jeosua Habilho invited various non-Jews to the brit of his son. . . .

The council allowed the following ascama to be announced: ‘Since the maamad has noted the great evils and detriments, which accrue to our community from the presence of other-believers at beritot, it ordains that everyone, who is granted to thank godly favor, to have such a religious act in his house, is forbidden to allow the presence of a non-Jew in

this matter . . .”86

The herem was imposed in a variety of cases—often for what was simply termed “great disturbance in the community,”87 simply upon

people denoted as evildoers,88 or upon the publication or circulation of particular books.89 As one example from Friedberg (1624) makes quite

clear, transgressions against communal and moral norms were taken

quite seriously: “Regarding the youngster Jakob, son of the widow

Gutrot Beienheim and his evil deed, which he undertook and which

brought great shame in Israel and such great shame upon a young

girl of Israel, that it cannot be written in the book, it was decided from the mouth of the members of the council, to punish him and to

84 Ibid., 9:320; 8 Tisrei 5420 (1659).

85 Ibid., 8:239.

86 Ibid., 10:241; 29 Tevet 5424 (1664).

87 See ibid., 6:44.

88 Ibid., 7:165.

89 Ibid., 7:181; the ban on a book by Mose Gideon, dealing with the end of days—3

Elul 5426 (1665), 11:27–28.

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exclude him from the holiness of Israel. . . .”90 But the protagonist was, in typical fashion, allowed the opportunity for complete and sincere

repentance.

According to the historian Yosef Kaplan, “the ejection of deviants,

their banning, ostracism from the congregation, or banishment from

the city [of Hamburg], helped the community leaders mark the moral

boundaries of the new community’s religious, cultural, and social

identity.”91 The monitoring and enforcing of correct behavior, Kaplan argues, was related to maintaining the delicate internal balance of a community of former conversos and presenting positive impression to

often tense relations with the Christian populace.92 There were, in fact, a large number of bans and excommunications in Hamburg. Between

1652 and 1681 there were at least 41 (2 people were punished twice; one a third time). During the 167 years between 1622 and 1789, by contrast, Amsterdam, some À ve times larger than Hamburg, had only 70 banned

or excommunicated people (though those punished in Hamburg do not

seem to have been subjected to the harshest forms of punishment).93

The balance of enforcing correct behavior and presenting a positive

external image was not limited to the Jewish community in Hamburg.

What is more, the control of communal behavior in the Hamburg Jewish

community paralleled broader social concerns as well as the concerns

faced by other minority groups, such as the Mennonites.94

The deÀ ning and punishment of dissent was much discussed in early

modern German Jewish sources. On the one hand, such discussions

continued late medieval considerations; on the other, they revealed

increased concern with generating and regulating communal norms of

behavior, for both internal organization and external accountability. To this extent, the Jewish communities were indeed a part of the territorial state, which itself took great and increasing interest in the internal affairs of and boundaries within the Jewish communities. In reviewing the materials from Hamburg, Friedberg and other cities, one develops

90 Stefan Litt, Protokollbuch und Statuten der Jüdischen Gemeinde Friedberg (16.–18. Jahrhundert) (Friedberg, 2003), 367 (143 in the Hebrew); compare, A. Kober, “Documents Selected from the Pinkas of Friedberg,” PAAJR 17 (1947–48): 19–60, here at 52, no.

VIB (September, 1624).

91 Kaplan, “The Place of the Herem,” 69.

92 Ibid., 70.

93 Ibid., 70–71.

94 Consider Driedger, Obedient Heretics.

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the impression that the Jewish communities mirrored broader early

modern societal developments even as they addressed unique religious

concerns within their own jurisdiction. The tension between vestiges

of localized behavior and standardized norms—imposed from the

state, the city or other regional or imperial Jewish bodies—was clearly shaping the Jews in our documents.

Formalization and Monopolization of Education

Jewish education in the early modern period maintained important

connections with previous traditions, at the same time that some new

emphases became more discernable. The educational institutions of

Talmud Torahs tended in the early modern period to become better and more formally organized and they began to serve a broader communal population.95 As we have seen, the spread of printing, making

works more standardized and accessible, and the push to codiÀ cation

occurred in the early modern period. Leading authorities such as the

Maharal of Prague and Rabbi Yair Hayyim Bacharach, among others,

increasingly emphasized the need for and beneÀ t from a proper order

of study. This, along with the possession of certain standard works, such as popular grammars, opened the door to more consistency in

Jewish education.

Numerous statutes and customs books stressed the importance of

orderly progression in learning—Bible, Mishnah, and then Talmud,

with an under-girding of Hebrew language and daily instruction in

law ( halakhah)96—with sensitivity to the backgrounds and capabilities of individual students. According to the Maharal: “If he was entrusted

through instruction in Bible with the ground rules of the religion, so the foundations were laid for the Mishnah and he could build upon

95 Encyclopedia Judaica, “Jewish Education, Italy.”

96 Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 181ff; the prescribed order was Bible, Mishnah, Talmud; “In every case, however, he should learn halakhah daily. If he goes through a lesson [ schiur] in Alfasi, that is enough for this obligation.” Juspa sang the praises of Alfasi, whose work he considered the introduction and key for all the decisors (182; see Hebrew text in Sefer Josef Ometz, 269ff ). See 184

for the use of moral books; 187 for the order and age for learning. See Yair Hayyim Bacharach, Havot Yair, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem, 1997), responsum 124; there he discusses the importance of order and gradation in education. He also emphasizes the study of Talmud, but not hairsplitting.

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it in order to achieve the understanding of the Talmud, then he

could advance to independent research and be admitted into learned

debate.”97 Shunning the philosophical approaches of the past, Juspa

emphasized the need for fundamental and applied learning.98 Isaiah

Horowitz, for a time resident in Frankfurt, in his widely circulated Shenei Luhot ha-Berit also emphasized order in the instruction of boys (he also pointed out that night was a better time for study and he noted the

importance of reviewing material).99 Horowitz argued that learning

Torah was according to God’s will and not for the sake of honor or

money.100 Juspa noted that after the studies outlined, the housefather should invoke moral books, such as Shaare Teshuvah, which lead men to fear God.101 Precise schedules were at times developed—both for daily

instruction and for seasonal adjustments to the educational schedule.102

But it is worth keeping in mind that such a picture was an ideal to which Jews did not always measure up. Hayyim Ben Bezalel, for example, in

ruing the loss of Hebrew facility reÁ ected that the Christians noticed that the Jews had neglected the study of the Hebrew language; what was an

industriously studied science in the days past was now forgotten.103

It was not simply the order of study itself that was becoming for-

malized. The institutional structures to support education were also

becoming more consistently organized. Throughout central Europe

97 Ibid., 59.

98 Ibid., 146.

99 See Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch,” 11:32–33 for a rabbinic agreement; for elections, see, for example, 11:41 (Rosh Hodesh Iyar, 5427 (1667)). It included the provision that the Rabbi Moses Jessurun “should instruct the Talmidim punctually,”

instruct a section in the Gemara and another in the Prophets, review the material every Thursday and Friday morning, and when there was a break, when the other rabbis come to the synagogue, read the Psalms.

100 Isaiah Horwiz (seventeenth century), Shenei Luhot ha-Berit, regarding the importance of order in teaching children [boys], the importance of grammar and syntacti-cal connection, and covering all six orders of the Mishnah and Talmud (Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 106). He notes that night is better for study, that one should learn out loud and review, that philosophy is a foreign science and forbidden (109), and that one should learn Torah to follow God’s will, but not because of honor or money (111).

101 Juspa, in ibid., 184.

102 See Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 218–19, 220ff for the customs of the holy community of Worms, as recorded by Juspa (1663–73), including details about Hebrew language, summer synagogue attendance, avoiding evil, Thursday reviews, striking students who give wrong answers (220), hourly schedules, the learning of halakhah in “in between times,” and the study of Rashi’s commentary, the Tosafot, and pilpul.

103 In Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 74–5.

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in the seventeenth century there seems to have been a renewed effort

to structure and coordinate the work of the Talmud Torah.104 In 1654

in Posen a bi-annual tax was levied on all householders to pay two

teachers appointed to the Talmud Torah.105 A Hessian edict of 1690

stipulated that all donations in synagogues be given for the upkeep of the Talmud Torah, in addition to other assessments paid by the members; one percent of dowries and inheritances also had to go to the Talmud Torah.106 As part of an apparent trend toward communalizing education, the community of Frankfurt appointed three ofÀ cials ( gabbaim) to supervise the educational arrangements of the Talmud Torah—including supervision of the number of students per teacher and wages for

teachers—rather than re-elect a charity committee.107 Similarly, the

Hamburg protocol book established rules for the united Talmud Torah.108

The regulations called for special care and constant supervision of the students and punctuality on the part of the teachers, and stipulated

teaching schedules and monetary punishments for teachers who missed

class.109 Regulations were also enacted regarding student behavior and 104 Regarding the yeshivah and council’s care for the students in Friedberg, see Litt, Protokollbuch und Statuten der Jüdischen Gemeinde Friedberg, 5.

105 Isidore Fishman, The History of Jewish Education in Central Europe: From the End of the Sixteenth to the End of the Eighteenth Century (London, 1944), 27.

106 Ibid., 28 (citing Simha Assaf ).

107 “. . . also for the instruction of the children new ordinances were forwarded (1662).

A special ofÀ ce of instruction was named, which consisted of three designated men, from which yearly one had to be appointed from the ofÀ cials and must be replaced by another. This board of instruction had to oversee the teachers, to determine their salaries and to watch over them [so] that each Thursday an exam would be held. The number of proper teachers would be ten; that of the assistant teachers was established at 30” (Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 284).

The community book from Frankfurt am Main for the year 1662 notes: “on the new moon Heshvan 422 according to the short calculation (1662) the “Holy Union”

assembled and affected the agreement no longer to elect a Kuppa-Gabbaim (cashbox administrator), but to elect in place of the Kuppa-Gabbaim three Talmud-Torah Gabbaim.

These same should supervise the order of the teaching, how many children, how many students per teacher, how much wages for the instruction yearly one should give, that the children be questioned every Thursday . . . The length of service for the three Talmud-Torah-Gabbaim is one year, from today until Chanukah 423 (1663) . . .”

(ibid., 301–02). According to the statutes of Altona, every teacher who comes to the community must report to the community council and “a teacher should instruct 10

hours in the winter and eight hours in the summer [daily]. He should take no more than 4 Rt. [per student]” (149).

108 Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch,” 6:5–31.

109 “All Herren Robiem (teachers) should [conduct] the instruction of the Talmidim with special care and continual supervision and to present themselves punctually in the school in question before the beginning time.” (Ibid., 22) Next follows the sched-OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 364

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performance. According to the statutes, “students who do not come on

time in the school or in the main synagogue and who do not maintain

themselves in the same [synagogue] very peacefully; in order to perform their prayers” should be punished. They must be “very attentive and

reverent,” the foundations of prayer.110

Early modern Ashkenazic authorities had very mixed responses to

the codiÀ cation reÁ ected in the Shulhan Arukh, even if legal codiÀ cation eventually won the day. Hayyim ben Bezalel noted that such codiÀ cation complicated the problem by which “there are many uneducated who are

not worried about the ancient writings, do not even understand them,

and in the meantime forget the Torah.”111 His brother, the Maharal of

Prague was a more outspoken opponent. He argued that:

No more! The older generation kept the Torah under pressure and per-

secution, but we each sit still and quiet in the house, and if a legal case or a religious question reaches us, then we search industriously around and look up the chapter until one À nds the desired or similar. Thereby one takes the sentence ‘The Torah is only acquired through signs’ for

what is not naturally intended. Recently a shorter process also emerged through the ‘Shulchan Arukh,’ of which it is said: ‘This is the table, which is before the Lord [ Eze. 41:22].’ On the table is found large and small, one cannot discern the noble from the common man, everyone wants

to take from this ‘high table’ his spiritual nourishment, without following the foundation and the intention of the determinations . . .112

More to the point, Maharal believed that such codes allowed, even

forced, people to make decisions from ignorance and lowered the level

of knowledge more generally. He wrote that it was better to decide

from the Talmud itself (relying on a collection of decisions allows

one to decide without knowing);113 “. . . for it is as if one was invited to a ‘set table’ ( Shulhan Arukh), on which stand costly dishes, but one cannot himself acquire food and drink, rather one must wait for this

foreign table.”114 Maharal also reacted against the then current pil-

pulistic style—“while we cannot achieve the wisdom of the ancients,

ule—days and hours—and any monetary À ne (which would be taken from their salary) for teachers who miss class (ibid., 23).

110 Ibid., 23.

111 Güdemann, Quellenschriften zur Geschichte des Unterrichts und der Erziehung, 77.

112 Ibid., 62–63.

113 Ibid., 69.

114 Ibid., 74.

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we go idly and spend the time with empty word battles”115—and the

lack of broad learning. (He believed it a duty also to learn astronomy and chronology.)116 Maharal conceded that his efforts were frequently

unsuccessful, because teachers say to the fathers: “‘it is better if your son learns the Talmud-Pilpul, by which he will rise ever higher . . .’ to become a great man.”117

Early modern German Jewry witnessed increased attention to the

organization, support structure, and content of Jewish education. In part this was due to religious orientation and development and in part to

growing bureaucratization within the various communities. More than

simply concern with internalization, the new emphases reveal similar

developments to those in non-Jewish communities. Jewish education

thereby responded to internal communal needs and agendas, while

also reacting to more general religious and educational developments

in society at large.

Communal and Institutional (Re)organization

Early modern German Jewry evinced signs of growing communal orga-

nization, despite thinly-spread settlement and often small community

size. Increasingly, Jews like non-Jews turned to more bureaucratic tools and practices. Not surprisingly the early modern period witnessed a

growing number of examples of community pinkasim (ledgers), memorybooks, formal constitutions, community ofÀ ces, and institutions, such as those for the sick. In some cases, the impetus for communal institutional re-structuring came from outside, as Christian civic, territorial or even imperial agents required Jews to adhere to particular codes,

policies or practices.

Recent scholars have argued that there is evidence to suggest some

kind of cohesive German Jewish collective representation in the later Middle Ages until the middle of the fourteenth century and again in

the sixteenth century,118 but that such cohesion was lacking between

115 Ibid., 64.

116 Ibid., 67.

117 Ibid., 71.

118 Yacov Guggenheim, “A suis paribus et non aliis iudicentur: jüdische Gerichtsbarkeit, ihre Kontrolle durch die christliche Herrschaft und die obersten rabi gemeiner Judenschafft im heiligen Reich,” in Jüdische Gemeinden und ihr christlicher Kontext, ed. Christoph Cluse, Alfred OCKER1_f20_345-372.indd 366

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1350 and into the sixteenth century.119 By the middle of the sixteenth century there was again an established imperial-wide organization

of the Jews,120 even if growing regionalization allowed little room for broader Jewish communal activity by the beginning of the seventeenth

century.121

Much like a communal constitution, the initial entries of the Ham-

burg protocol book outline the nature and structure of the community

government. The book begins after the 1652 union of the three com-

munities of “Talmud Tora,” “Keter Tora,” and “Neve Schalom,” as

follows:

. . . While our nation (resident in this [local] city of Hamburg), considers the social ills, which grow out of the situation, in which the matters relating to our administration À nd themselves, everything has been decided for the best, from among the seven men elected, thereby with their help in meeting the order to be established for all in the most suitable way, which according to them is appropriate for prosperity of the service of the blessed God. This election should follow further according to the

manner indicated.122

What follows are details about elections, governance and order (espe-

cially regarding the herem), communal positions and functions (including salaries),123 the allocation of money (especially charity), communal membership and education.124

The far-reaching governance of the community by the elected ofÀ cials smacks of the authoritarianism expressed by the Amsterdam leaders in

their ordinances of 1639.125 It is noted, for example, that “the ground stone and the [foundation] of our union exist in the arrangement of

our statutes, which serve as starting point for all other matters of our administration [ governo] . . .”126 A similar example of communal legislation that set out clear boundaries and expectations can be found in

Haverkamp, and Israel J. Yuval (Hanover, 2003), 405–39, here at 412; see also Fraenkel-Goldschmidt’s introduction in Joseph of Rosheim, Historical Writings, 130–31.

119 Guggenheim, “A suis paribus et non aliis iudicentur,” 419.

120 Ibid., 424.

121 Zimmer, Jewish Synods, 90–91.

122 Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch,” 6:5.

123 For a rabbinic contract, see ibid., 11:32–33.

124 Ibid., 6:5–31.

125 See, for example, Daniel M. Swetschinski, Reluctant Cosmopolitans: The Portuguese Jews of Seventeenth-Century Amsterdam (London, 2000), 196.

126 Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch,” 6:7; the “will of the community” is mentioned on 11:57.

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Friedberg. A document from 1664 begins by noting that “the beginning

of all things is the fear of God. We begin with the direction of the House of God . . .”127 What follows are a wealth of regulations regarding the synagogue, the organization and decorum of the prayers, community

rules against transgressing prohibitions,128 court procedures,129 rules for the ending of a Talmudic tractate,130 and taxes and duties.131

The rabbi was closely supervised and his powers and duties clearly

circumscribed. The protocol book of Friedberg begins: “Elul 335 [1575]

according to the short calculation. With our—the heads of house and

individuals of this holy community Friedberg—agreement we have

taken on the very wise, greatly learned in Torah, our outstanding and

honorable teacher, the learned master, Man Todros, may God protect

him, as chairman of the legal court. And these are the words of the

union and the conditions that would be agreed between the named

lord and between the council, may God protect it, just as they were

all explained for us [in the following].”132 In this case, the rabbi was obligated to remain in his position for four years, without his residing in another area; the council, for its part was obligated not to seek another rabbi during these four years. The rabbi in question was not

to ostracize or place under the ban any son of the union (any residents in the holy community, or from any of the areas of the surrounding

area) without the agreement of the council. The council, however,

retained the authority to ban without the agreement of the rabbi. The rabbi should ostracize any person from the community or from the

surroundings if those of the community demanded it from him. As a

salary the council was to give the rabbi twelve Gulden every year and

he was freed from all customary taxes (though not every tax obligation).

The rabbi was also to receive one Gulden from each betrothal and a

second Gulden in the case of lodgings for the students of the yeshivah.

Other regulations and agreements were also outlined.

A century or so after its installation, rabbinic ordination was becoming more supervised. The 1603 Frankfurt synod, for example, stipulated:

“No one shall be appointed a Rabbi without the consent of three heads 127 Litt, Protokollbuch und Statuten der Jüdischen Gemeinde Friedberg, 394–445 (1664).

128 Ibid., 406ff.

129 Ibid., 413ff.

130 Ibid., 423ff.

131 Ibid., 426ff.

132 Ibid., 274–76 (74ff in the Hebrew).

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of academies; the authorization as a haber given any person by a Rabbi outside Germany, shall not be considered valid; no authorization as

Rabbi, shall be given any young man who has not been married for two

years.”133 Similar control was exercised over the publication of books, which the synod decreed had to be done with the permission of three

courts; transgressors were threatened with excommunication.134 Such

legislation was intended not only to control the quality of rabbinic

appointments, but also to mark clear boundaries between German insti-

tutions and practices and those apparently increasingly being brought

into Germany and supplanting Ashkenazic practices.

As pointed out in the Hamburg documents, the statutes of the com-

munity applied to all members of the community. In ritual fashion,

in the assembly of the council ( maamad ), the principal takes an oath on teÀ lin that the only goal of his service is the service of God and the best interest of the community.135 And membership belongs to all

people of “our nation” without any exception as members, united

into a corporation.136 Indeed, the book clearly asserts that “among us there is only one community and that all are brothers and members,

with only one cashbox and one council that is elected by the entire

nation.”137 While the seven leaders were elected from among members

of the nation,138 the nation in its totality, it is frequently asserted, has the obligation to be helpful, so that everything ordered by the lords of the council is carried out precisely.139 As a central tool for maintaining order and fulÀ lling the demands of good governance, the herem was, as we have seen, threatened and enacted in numerous places throughout

the protocol book.

Given the rather narrow deÀ nition of membership, as well as the long tradition in Jewish communities to control settlement, it is not surprising that foreigners and settlement in the community were issues frequently discussed. An entry for 9 Nissan 5416 (1656), for example, states that:

“All foreigners stopping here should be notiÀ ed through the community servants that they must leave the area three days after the Passover

133 Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages, 260–61.

134 Ibid., 263.

135 Cassuto, “Aus den ältesten Protokollbuch,” 7:159, 185.

136 Ibid., 6:8.

137 Ibid., 6:10.

138 Ibid., 6:12.

139 Ibid., 6:13.

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holiday,” or “they will be expelled by means of the authorities.”140 In the entry for 22 Nissan, it is noted that “it is necessary for the existence and the better administration of the community, to enact a decree that nobody, whether from our or the other nation [Ashkenazic], should

reside in this city, without being licensed by the council.”141 Similarly,

“nobody from our or the other nation should reside here, without

attaining prior consent and approval of the council.”142

Early modern Jewish communities faced many traditional concerns

related to settlement and institutional hierarchy. But communal tradi-

tions were also redirected to address internal and external early mod-

ern complexities and needs. In this regard, Jews were similar to early modern Christians in how and why they structured and regulated their

communities. Such an observation throws into question not only the

minority status of the Jews or the separation of Jews from broader

social and cultural developments; it also forces us to reassess the very concept of Jewish identity in early modern Germany.

Conclusions

The central role of custom in medieval Ashkenaz continued into the

early modern period. Local customs persisted even as German-wide

attempts at standardization recurred. Jewish communal—local or

regional, and even at times imperial—institutions experienced solidi-

À cation and formalization, as evident in the variety of governmental constitutions and ledgers, which were often required by non-Jewish

authorities. The rabbinate was increasingly “professionalized” and the approach to Jewish law itself was becoming more standardized. Jewish

education, including the growing literature on morals, became the topic of more formal discussion and oversight as indicated in numerous early modern treatises and communal ordinances.

Taken together, these developments indicate that confessionalization

may in fact be a useful paradigm to apply to early modern German

Jewry. If this was so, what are the implications for Jewish and Christian relations, internal Jewish developments, and the nature of early modern 140 Ibid., 7:167.

141 Ibid.

142 Ibid., 7:168.

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Judaism? First, we can say that while Jewish communities maintained

an important degree of communal autonomy, they were increasingly

drawn into the orbit of territorial regimes. Jews formed part of a broader territorial politics and were affected by and participated in more general changes no matter their minority or marginal status. Like confessionalized societies more generally, religion and response to religious questions was one piece of a bigger early modern puzzle.

Second, the tension between local and imperial-wide customs and

authority that existed in the later Middle Ages continued into the early modern period; this despite efforts at imperial-wide organization at

the instigation of both Jewish and ruling Christian authorities. As we noted above, the customs book and growing reception to codiÀ cation

reÁ ected the multi-valent and multi-layered nature of early modern German Jewry. Just as standardization did not completely or immediately

supplant local and regional development or lead to imperial-wide uni-

formity, confessionalization had to overcome local centers of authority and religious practices. Such an observation should not minimize the

impact that confessionalization could have on the Jewish communities,

many of which exhibited similar communal developments.

Elsewhere I have argued that Jewish communities were becoming

“sacralized” in the later Middle Ages. That trend clearly continued and further matured throughout the early modern period. Education—both

its content and its supervision—became increasingly formalized, as

it was seen and used as a necessary tool in the reinvigoration of the Jewish religion. The rabbinate, professionalized already by the À fteenth century continued to be clearly circumscribed, as many rabbinic contracts and communal statutes make clear. The growing communal

control—which was not the same as “secularization”—meant that

religion was only one of many possible identiÀ ers for early modern

Jews. Other means of creating identity included ethnicity, geography, profession, and customs.

The emphasis on proper behavior (especially in public) that we À nd

in many documents of the early modern period continued the medi-

eval religious and cultural orientation of German Jewry. The primary

concern in early modern literature was still largely with actions and

behavior, not “theology” or dogma. Even the burgeoning musar literature of the sixteenth century served more as a bridge connecting traditional concern with public behavior to the world of private thought than as a formal theology. In the end, the transition from “tradition” to “orthodoxy” posited by Gerhard Lauer seems to have been very much an

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ongoing development and something of a back and forth conversation

in early modern Germany. Any modernizing impetus that existed did

not bring German Jews kicking and screaming into modernity. At the

same time, “orthodoxy,” to whatever extent it did develop, did not mean the forsaking of tradition. Early modern German Jewry was clearly

caught in the broader developments of the surrounding society, at the same time that it engaged its own tradition and unique developments.

Confessionalization allows us to approach this apparent tension in a

new and useful way and to reconsider what the early modern experi-

ence meant for German Jews.

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CATHOLIC INTENSITY IN POST-REFORMATION

GERMANY: PREACHING ON THE PASSION AND

CATHOLIC IDENTITY IN THE SIXTEENTH AND

SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES

Susan C. Karant-Nunn

Early modern Roman Catholics did not have many changes to adjust

to as the Church reformed itself during the latter sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Lutherans and Calvinists, by contrast, experienced radical alteration of their traditional liturgical year, religious services, and social patterns; they knew they were witnessing a Reformation. For ordinary Catholics, however, innovation took the form of modifying

past practices, and it usually crept in subtly, slowly, over generations.

Although historians of the Reformation era now properly include

parallel revisions in the Catholic sphere as fully part of the religious reform movement of that day and not simply as a reaction against

emerging Protestantism, qualitative differences have perhaps not received adequate attention. Even the devout Catholic populace may hardly

have noticed the small additions and excisions that the ecclesiastical apparatus undertook from above, for similarity prevailed. Most of those who constituted the body of the faithful could not have known that the papacy promoted a uniform Mass everywhere by the early seventeenth

century. It probably did not register long in their minds if one or two peculiar seasonal or local tropes fell away as a result.1 A few À nely tuned ears might have caught new strains of ecclesiastical music. More would have grasped the utility of catechisms that their head-priests employed in teaching them and their children precisely what to believe, even

though they often resisted sending their offspring and young servants

to instruction. Yet the content of those emerging catechisms was not

unfamiliar to them, just more detailed, orderly, reiterated, and pressed upon them with admonition. They did not possess the text in written

1 A regional study of such modiÀ cations is Leopold Kretzenbacher, Nachtridentisch untergegangene Bildthemen und Sonderkulte der ‘Volksfrömmigkeit’ in den Südost-Alpenländern (Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, in Kommission bei C.H. Beck, 1994).

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form, and so the medium of communication was still oral, from cleric

to his À gurative sheep.2 They could have worked up interest in and

joked about efforts by bishops to curtail clerical concubinage. They

may even have feared that such prohibitions would drive priests from

stable to unstable liaisons, for the latter were far more dangerous to the common weal.

They would certainly have been aware of the refurbishing of local

sanctuaries—they could well have contributed À nancially to these

improvements—but they would not have perceived that the program

of, say, the Milanese archbishop Carlo Borromeo was manifested in the

results. Their judgments would have run more toward concepts such as

beauty, grandeur, elegance, or richness. They might have admired elaborate new baroque pulpits that projected out into the assembled parishioners’

midst and afforded a better view and hearing of the preacher; but it

is unlikely that they would have understood those pulpits as a symbol

of missionary zeal or confessional rivalry with neighboring Lutheran

or Calvinist clergymen who were enjoined to hone their homiletic

skills. Grandeur aside, and whether they were redecorated or not, in

Catholic sanctuaries, images of the local patron saint, the Virgin, and the bleeding cruciÀ ed Christ remained.

In certain regions, as along the Rhine, beginning in the later six-

teenth century, the people could indeed have noticed a fresh inÁ ux of initially non-resident preachers—Jesuits or after them Capuchins most

likely—but even these repeated the pattern of itinerant sermonizing

that began not later than the twelfth century and involved, depending

on where one lived and the current need, Waldensians, Cathars, Cis-

tercian abbots, Dominicans, Franciscans, members of other mendicant

orders, admirers of Jan Hus, and the independent preachers who criss-

crossed Europe during the À fteenth century. Before any hint of Luther or Zwingli, many cities of the Holy Roman Empire possessed formal

preaching posts, for the desire to hear the Word of God, to know what was in the Bible, was already widespread. Some rural folk strained their ears too but with less chance of ediÀ cation, unless a religious house or a sympathetic and well-to-do nobleman were situated conveniently

2 On precatechetical aspects of the sermon, see Hervé Martin, Le métier de prédicateur à la À n du Moyen Age 1350 –1520 (Paris: Cerf, 1988), chap. 9, “Un catéchisme avant la lettre,” 295–320.

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near their village and enjoined their chaplains to hold forth to the

ordinary people as well.3

When modern-day researchers compare the condition of the Catho-

lic Church on the eve of the Reformation process with that of the

mid-seventeenth century, they will likely notice, nevertheless, that in the aggregate, religious life was now more intense for many of its loyal adherents than that of their ancestors had been. Change had deÀ nitely occurred.

We can associate a number of the differences that had been made

with the process presently referred to as confessionalization.4 State interest was one of the driving forces moving Catholic entities and Christians toward improved institutional and personal behavior. Indeed, part of the usual deÀ nition of the term confessionalization, referring to both Catholic and Protestant lands, is precisely a bond between church and state,

with the state sometimes assuming the decisive role. Yet, in Catholic

territories, church and state never ran the risk of merging as they did in Lutheran Saxony or the Reformed Rhenish Palatinate. The Church

with its disparate, sometimes divisive parts remained a corporation that in many situations competed with the state. The values of the two

overlapped but were not coterminous. As a generalization, they coop-

erated in imposing ritual uniformity and intensifying their disciplinary oversight of people’s creedal and moral lives. They jointly exploited a number of mechanisms to ensure conformity and uprightness, such as

3 In medieval France, at least, Hervé Martin believes that preachers were much more widely available: “L’Omniprésence des prédicateurs. De la scène parisienne aux scènes locales 1450–1520,” Le métier de prédicateur, 73–97.

4 The literature on this subject simply burgeons. Wolfgang Reinhard and Heinz Schilling simultaneously but separately devised this concept, building upon related ideas of the earlier Ernst Walter Zeeden and Gerhard Oestreich. Apropos of Catholic lands, with reference to which Reinhard wrote, see especially his summary essay, “Was ist katholische Konfessionalisierung?” in Die katholische Konfessionalisierung: Wissenschaftliches Symposion, ed. by Wolfgang Reinhard and Heinz Schilling, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 198 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995), 419–52.

A number of other articles in this collection are pertinent to speciÀ c dimensions of Catholic confessionalization, mainly in German-speaking lands. An important critique of the concept is by Kaspar von Greyerz, Religion und Kultur: Europa 1500 –1800 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000).

Scholars concentrating on other language-areas are not consistently informed on the theory of confessionalization. For discussion of the applicability of the concept to other regions, see the “Focal Point/Themenschwerpunkt” on “Confessionalization and Social Discipline in France, Italy, and Spain,” with respective contributions by James R. Farr, Wietse de Boer, and Allyson M. Poska, Archive for Reformation History 94

(2003), 276–319.

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the enforcement of directives by visitation committees and consistories that were more reliable than earlier; catechetical instruction and examination; the founding of additional grammar schools under the À rmer

supervision of magistracies, princes, or religious orders; the encouragement of lay membership in yet additional confraternal socio-devotional societies; the claustration of theretofore permeable monastic communities, especially convents; censorship of materials printed, bought, sold, and taught; the expansion of secular and religious bureaucracies and

unprecedentedly rigorous efforts to subject their procedures to prescribed order; and the promotion of preaching that was more frequent, edifying, and moving. Order ( Ordnung) was the byword and guiding principle of the day in Catholic as in Protestant lands, and the deÀ nition of order reposed in the minds of those who tried to impose it on others. God

required their exertions, they were sure.

In late medieval thought, order and reason were closely linked,

whereas emotion, especially strong emotion, was virtually certain to

unleash the wild, refractory dimensions of humans’ capacities that

always lurked threateningly near the surface. Within this medieval

context, then, the homiletic facet of this program for improvement

displays a curious feature. More than ever before, in addition to

attempting to inform their audiences, preachers sought to arouse

their hearers’ feelings. To be sure, rhetoric as a discipline had always included the engagement of listeners’ affectus, particularly as an aid to persuasion.5 Public speakers made a link between opinion and feeling.

To be sure, as well, preachers to the pronounced majority of unlettered audiences resorted to sentiment rather than intellectual arguments in

framing and in delivering their persuasion. Nevertheless, arousal was

to be contained and merely to inÁ uence the arrival at an opinion; it

was not to be dramatically manifest or to have unruly consequences.

But Catholic preachers increasingly sought to engage people’s hearts,

which was both a body part and regarded since ancient times as the

seat of emotion, in the service of deep, indeed truly heartfelt conviction. Catholic identity comprised not merely adhering to the proper

beliefs and acting out that adherence in liturgical participation; it also meant allowing one’s metaphorical heartstrings to be set in motion. If 5 Melanchthon’s ongoing (post-Reformation) advocacy of affect in public speaking may be seen in Joachim Knape, Philipp Melanchthons ‘Rhetorik’, Rhetorik-Forschungen (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993), 454–55; cf. the analysis of Olaf Berwald, Philipp Melanchthons Sicht der Rhetorik (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), 50–56.

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mystical spirituality could arouse suspicion owing to the very “enthusiasm” its participants displayed, as well as for the fact that it facilitated bypassing the ofÀ cial ministrations of the Church, now, beginning in the mid-sixteenth and continuing on at least until the late seventeenth century, religious declaimers from chancel and public square sought

to break their hearers’ hearts. In keeping with a well-established goal of late medieval preaching, engaging the Christian’s sentiments was to move him to repentance, which in turn produced confession and the

reform of life.6 In the determined mood of the early modern era, this heartbreak was pressed upon everyone.

There was no lack of such effort in the Middle Ages, but its kernel lay in religious establishments. Catholic thinkers tended to associate feelings and their display to the less disciplined, less rational female half of the population. The reputations of prominent (usually noble) mystic nuns, such as Hildegard of Bingen, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and Elisabeth

of Schönau, offered models to those in their orders.7 On a larger scale, in the towns of Germany, houses of beguines, their contemporaries

noted disapprovingly, were “enthusiastic” in their worship. During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, under ecclesiastical pressure, many beguines were brought under formal mendicant supervision. Within

these ranks, the Dominican mystic preachers of the fourteenth century found especially receptive audiences.8

From the eleventh century on, the personality of Jesus underwent

modiÀ cation; he became more human. Depictions of the cruciÀ xion

become more vivid and detailed, designed to present to the viewer, often a nun, the intractability of Christians’ sinfulness and Christ’s atoning suffering as a result. James Marrow, an art historian, has asserted that the pictorial dissemination of this more human Son of God was most

pronounced in the Low Countries and along the Rhine. But Thomas

6 See Jane Dempsey Douglass, JustiÀ cation in Late Medieval Preaching: A Study of John Geiler von Keisersberg (Leiden: Brill, 1966), 179–86, on this late medieval preacher’s conviction that “through the Passion sinners are incited to love God again” (179).

7 See E. Ann Matter, “Theories of the Passions and the Ecstasies of Late Medieval Religious Women,” and Elena Carrera, “The Spiritual Role of the Emotions in Mechthild of Magdeburg, Angela of Foligno, and Teresa of Avila,” both in Lisa Perfetti, ed., The Representation of Women’s Emotions in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2005), respectively 23–42 and 63–89.

8 For the changing position of beguines in the fourteenth century, consider Christopher Ocker, “Lacrima ecclesie. Konrad of Megenberg, the Friars, and the Beguines,”

Das Wissen der Zeit. Konrad von Megenberg und sein Werk, ed. by Gisela Drossbach, Claudia Märtl, Martin Kintzinger (Munich: C.H. Beck, forthcoming), pp. 169–200.

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Bestul À nds the image of God’s bleeding humanity to have been widely dispersed throughout Europe.9 Men, too, engaged in meditation on the

agony of God, and Bernard of Clairvaux was an early, enduring advo-

cate of contemplation of the Passion for both men and women. So was, a century and a half later, Jacobus of Voragine (d. 1298), whose Legenda aurea contained a detailed, moving chapter on the Passion. This work was printed eighty times before 1500.10 Such devotion accompanied

a growing emphasis upon the body as a vessel of sensation, including

pain. Bestul notes, as a parallel development, the legitimation of judicial torture beginning in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries as a consequence of the revival of Roman law.11 This is compatible with Valentin Groebner’s observations concerning the raw and bloody depiction of

the CruciÀ ed and public displays of judicial punishment.12

The identiÀ cation of a strain of demonstrative spirituality, long since established as “affective piety” by André Vauchez,13 André Wilmart,14

9 James H. Marrow, Passion Iconography in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages and Early Renaissance (Kortijk, Belgium: Van Ghemmert, 1979); Thomas H. Bestul, Texts of the Passion: Latin Devotional Literature and Medieval Society (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996), on these points, pp. 5, 7, 10. For contrast, see Celia Chazelle, The CruciÀ ed God in the Carolingian Era: Theology and the Art of Christ’s Passion (Cambridge, Eng., and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001). On Italian artistic depictions, cf. Anne Derbes, Picturing the Passion in Late Medieval Italy: Narrative Painting, Franciscan Ideologies, and the Levant (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

10 Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints, 2 vols., trans. William Granger Ryan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 1: 203–14. Jacobus stresses the shame of Jesus’s ignominious form of execution along with the pain. The publication statistic is provided by Petra Krutisch, “Niederrheinische KruziÀ xe der Spätgothik: Die plastischen KruziÀ xe und Kreuzigungsgruppen des späten 15. und frühen 16. Jahrhunderts im Herzogtum Kleve,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation in art history, University of Bonn, 1987, 37. The foundational À gure is, of course, Bernard of Clairvaux. See his Passion sermons, Bernhard von Clairvaux: Sämtliche Werke lateinisch/

deutsch, vol. 8, ed. by Gerhard B. Winkler (Innsbruck: Tyrolia-Verlag, 1997), 155–259.

Bernard does not recount Christ’s suffering in detail.

11 Bestul, Texts of the Passion, 154.

12 Groebner, “ ‘Abbild’ und ‘Marter’: Das Bild des Gekreuzigten und die städtische Strafgewalt,” in Kurturelle Reformation: Sinnformationen im Umbruch 1400–1600, ed. by Bernhard Jussen and Craig Koslofsky (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 209–38.

13 La spiritualité au moyen âge occidental: VIIIe–XII e siècles (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1975). Cf. idem, Les laïcs au Moyen Age: Pratiques et experience religieuses (Paris: Cerf, 1987), which addresses feminine mysticism but not speciÀ cally religious feeling.

See esp. chap. 9, 105–112; and chap. 16, 189–202.

14 Auteurs spirituels et textes dévots du moyen âge latin: Études d’histoire littèraire (Paris: Bloud et Gay, 1932).

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and Caroline Walker Bynum,15 does not characterize the entire devo-

tional topography, however. The ritual offerings of the late medieval church were woven into the life-course of the people, guiding their

activities, along with the phases of agriculture and exchange, from

season to season. The wealth of late medieval religious culture lay in its legitimate, or at least tolerated, varieties of expression. Emergent Protestant sects made their choices from among myriad offerings of

theology and styles of worship, and recombinant Catholicism did the

same. These choices could be starkly different, drawing on distinct

traditions, or they could be overlapping and similar. All showed the

impact of sitting in the commodious lap of Holy Mother Church in

the preceding ages. The quality that they exhibited across the spectrum was intensity, a determination to deÀ ne the will of God in detail and to ensure that those subject to them adhered strictly, in life as well as belief, to their respective selections. The Reformation era holds out little that is brand new but an unprecedented degree of determination across Europe. It reÀ nes methods of oversight of belief and morality to make them as universally applicable as possible. Within the rationalization of institutions lurked elements of feeling such as condescension, disgust, anger, ambition, and determination. Nominal adherence to reason and

the pursuit of godly order little concealed the sense of superiority of those who wielded authority.

The Tridentine Church, being, as observed above, more institution-

ally complex and separate from the civil government than was often

the case in Protestant lands, probably unconsciously cast about for

mechanisms of persuasion (or of confessionalization) that would complement the varying levels of compulsion that might be available in the

parishes.16 Even if precedented, its devices were manifold, ranging from liturgical uniformity, catechisms, school drama, and a new emphasis

on confraternity membership and pilgrimage. One of them was the

propagation of the previously minority form of emotive engagement in the life and death of Jesus and Mary, as well as a deliberate fostering of impassioned conviction. Until the parish clergy of Germany were in 15 Jesus As Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1982), esp. 3–21, 77–81, 105–109, 129–35, and the entire chapter, “Jesus As Mother and Abbot As Mother,” 110–69 and 264–65 (notes).

16 Louis Chatellier, T he Europe of the Devout: the Catholic Reformation and the Formation of a New Society, trans. by Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989).

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a position to champion, and personally to represent, such engagement,

at the forefront of its dissemination was the missionary preaching of select Jesuits and Capuchins. Their homiletic commitments are hardly

original, but we have not yet paid sufÀ cient attention to the fervor with which chosen members strove to enÁ ame, to foster the unrestrained

sentiment of those who came to hear them. This effort was particularly intense during Lent and Holy Week.

That this inÁ ammatory preaching had a solid past is not simply

borne out by scholars like Ellen Ross and Siegfried Wenzel, who focus

on England.17 It was well established in Germany.18 During Holy Week

1460, Paul Wann (d. 1489), for example, preached on the Passion in

the cathedral of Passau, as was the custom in the churches all around him. In this very year, he had obtained the doctorate in theology

from the University of Vienna, where for part of his career he was a professor. These sermons survive in Latin manuscript form, but their

editor thinks—and I agree—that they were given in German so that at

Eastertide the common people could understand them.19 Wann was a

reform-minded clergyman, and one of his prominent goals in preaching

during Holy Week was to move his listeners of every station to repent of their sins and reorder their lives.20 Inspiring feeling was essential in this process, and during the period from Palm Sunday to Easter ( Kar-woche) the method of doing this was to describe Jesus’s suffering. Wann begins his À rst of eight sermons:

17 Ellen M. Ross, The Grief of God: Images of the Suffering Jesus in Late Medieval England (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). By Wenzel, Latin Sermon Collections from Later Medieval England: Orthodox Preaching in the Age of Wyclif (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 294–96. See also John V. Fleming on the thirteenth-century Franciscan affective preaching: “the emergence throughout Europe of a pervasive and durable ‘Franciscan’ style in which the conscious manipulation of vicarious emotional experience has become an important element.” An Introduction to the Franciscan Literature of the Middle Ages (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1977), 186.

18 See Georg Steer, “Die Passion Christi bei den deutschen Bettelorden im 13. Jahrhundert,” in Die Passion Christi in Literatur und Kunst des Spätmittelalters, ed. by Walter Haug and Burghart Wachinger (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1993), 52–75; Ulrich Köpf, “Die Passion Christi in der lateinischen religiösen und theologischen Literatur des Spätmittelalters,” op. cit., 52–75. On Johann Staupitz’s preaching on the Passion, Franz Posset,

“Preaching the Passion of Christ on the Eve of the Reformation,” Concordia Theological Quarterly 59, 4 (1995), 279–300.

19 Paul Wann, Die Passion des Herrn (Passauer Passionale): Gepredigt im Passauer Dom im Jahre 1460, ed. and trans. Franz Xavier Zacher (Augsburg: Dr. Benno Filser Verlag, 1928), 22, on the matter of preaching in German.

20 Wann, Die Passion, e.g. , 20–21 in Zacher’s introduction.

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Dearly beloved souls! Saint Gregory the Great (in the 34th homily on the Gospels) begins a sermon on the penitence of Mary Magdalene with the

words: “When I think about preaching the repentance of the Magdalene, I would rather weep than speak. For who would have a heart so stone-hard that it would not soften at the sight of her tears?” These words are even more suitable for preaching on the bitter suffering and death of Christ.

It would be better to weep over it than to speak at length. Oh, if only I had tears for my cruciÀ ed Redeemer! We must be people [ sic] if we are not moved by the tears of Christ, who poured them not alone from his

eyes but also as drops of blood from the thousand wounds of his holy body. . . . We should never cease to cry and have pity [on him].

At least every year, the clergyman continues, we must sink ourselves

in the pain of the most holy body and all its members.21 In the course of a week’s expatiation, Wann takes us through a number of painful

episodes in the story, pausing for emphasis and occasionally citing his sources, such as Saints Benedict and Bonaventure. In the Garden of

Gethsemane,

his human nature is horriÀ ed in the face of the [coming] suffering and the disgraceful death. For this reason his heart pounds loudly and his soul is constricted. Such a powerful battle rages within him that a sweat mixed with blood presses out of all his pores and Á ows in thick drops to the earth. . . . Oh, what about me, miserable sinner? Where are my tears?

I do not sense the least hesitation to look upon the Lord, my God, soaked in his blood; I am not even ashamed that despite all my sins I have made it through [life] unpunished.22

In a further sermon, Wann envisions John going to Mary’s house and

informing her of her son’s arrest and mistreatment. He describes her

suffering. She falls senseless to the ground.23 He discusses her grief at length, her moans and her tears.

When Pilate has Jesus Á ogged, Wann musters all his descriptive power.

He is not original but marshals the vocabulary that his predecessors

have already provided.

And now these heartless nonhumans do their work on the holy, tender

body with rods and knotted rope and straps with barbs attached. The

countless strokes hiss and whiz through the air. When two of the execu-tioners are weary, two others take their place. Immediately stripes appear on the holy body—welts upon welts, wounds upon wounds, until there is

21 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 1, p. 29.

22 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 2, p. 43; my italics.

23 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 4, pp. 63–65.

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hardly a place where the skin is not ripped open. The blood has sprayed around onto the ground. . . . All the À bers of his tender body quiver, he is bent over in pain, he groans and whimpers softly; but no word of

complaint or reproach crosses his lips. . . .

Pieces of his Á esh stick to the column to which he was bound and even dot the ground.24 The crown of thorns, when applied, penetrates the

skull to his brain, and fresh blood pours over his forehead and cheeks.25

In the next sermon, his killers continue to beat him as he carries the cross. His wounds bleed afresh and drip blood onto his feet.26

Generations of artists, with their paintbrushes and chisels, have

preserved Jesus’s modesty by providing him with a loincloth. Nonethe-

less, part of Christ’s torture in medieval and early modern accounts is his being exposed naked to the crowd. Bernard of Clairvaux early on

offered a solution: the Virgin used her veil to cover her son’s genitals.

Wann adopts this, after stressing how torturous exposure was to the

chaste Son of God.27

In this À fteenth-century description, the nails used to afÀ x Christ to the cross were blunt.

The nail is dull. As a result, it initially mashes the skin and Á esh and individual bones of the hand, drives the blood back into the chamber

of the heart, and shocks the nerves of the entire body. The heart of the Redeemer is thereby almost ground to pieces [ zerrieben]. . . .28

The raising of the cross opens all his wounds anew:

. . . The whole body is convulsed, the wounds are made larger, blood Á ows unstanched and ever more plentifully from his hands and feet and from

all those wounds that the Á ogging had opened; red streams fall from the hands to the earth, spring from the holy head and from the feet and all the members. They trickle across the body and the wood of the cross.29

Wann À nds fault with artists who only display the À ve major wounds

and not all the welts and the thorough soaking with blood.30

The genre of which Wann’s sermons are representative Á ourished in

the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The Protestant generalization 24 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 5, pp. 75, 77.

25 Ibid., sermon 5, p. 79.

26 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 6, p. 92.

27 Ibid., p. 97.

28 Ibid., p. 99.

29 Ibid., p. 99.

30 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 6, p. 100.

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that pastors revived the preaching medium that, under Catholicism,

had fallen into almost complete disuse surely needs qualiÀ cation in

order to remain valid at all.31 To my knowledge, no estimate exists of the numbers of Catholic sermons surviving in print from the age of

the incunabula until the end of the Reformation era. They are high, and far more research should be carried out on this homiletic corpus.

Those that were presented during Holy Week, of which there are many

thousands surviving in print, reveal that preachers tapped and attempted to disseminate that strain of medieval piety that drew worshippers via their imaginations into the very presence of the tormented Christ. A

task of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century preachers was to spread this form of emotive empathy to a broader body of lay participants than

ever before. This form of worship becomes normative—not something

reserved for members of religious orders and the especially pious. The great missionary orders of the Catholic Reformation, the Jesuits and

the Capuchins, selected those brothers for the work of preaching who

were inclined in their temperament, who possessed a mastery of the

more narrowly deÀ ned doctrines of their faith, whose voices could

withstand the rigors of drawn-out projection, and whose histrionic

manner moved those who came to their sermons. Only chosen members of both spiritual fraternities developed into a À ne art the moving depiction of Christ’s suffering and the appeal to Christians to feel with their Lord and reconstruct their lives.32 Far beyond Holy Week, Christians

were to cultivate devotions that extended the pain of the cruciÀ xion into the basis of a year-round interiority, an antidote to the poisonous pull of sin.

The Jesuits were inclined toward the shaping of the youthful intellect.

Yet, from the beginning, in the formation of their pedagogical theory and their missionary ministrations to the masses, they saw the necessity of exploiting emotions in the molding of conviction and practice. Igna-tius of Loyola himself used not only doctrine but feeling in the service 31 For comment on the debate over frequency of preaching in the late Middle Ages, see G.R. Owst, Preaching in Medieval England: An Introduction to Sermon Manuscripts of the Period c. 1350–1450 (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 1926; reprinted New York: Russell & Russell, 1965), 25; and newly, Wenzel, Latin Sermon Collections, 227.

32 Bonaventura von Mehr, Das Predigtwesen in der kölnischen und rheinischen Kapuziner-provinz im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, Bibliotheca Seraphica-Capuccina, Sectio Historica 6 (Rome: Istituto Storico dei Fr. Min. Cappuccini, 1945), provides tables showing the small percentage of preachers among all members of the order, pp. 56–57. A special course of training for preachers was added in 1698 (p. 61).

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of the imitation of Christ.33 This is apparent in The Spiritual Exercises, the intimate knowledge and frequent performance of which bound

his spiritual sons into a community. The school-drama for which the

Jesuits are rightly famous incorporated the same principles of moving the audience to regret over sin and reform of life.34 Some plays were dramatized sermons.35

Reverend Father Philipp Kisel (1609–1681), of the Society of Jesus

and probably associated with the diocese of Bamberg as a young man,

left a Latin collection of sermons that were translated into German

later in the century.36 Unless he preached exclusively to other clerics, it is most likely that despite these sermons’ having been published in Latin, they were delivered in the vernacular. Father Kisel offers forty reasons why Christ sweated blood in Gethsemane.37 The very fact of

his enumerating all forty is a clue to his intentness upon envisioning every act and dimension of Christ’s suffering. Such detail is an aspect of the effort to move his audience. He prays, “O you heated blood!

Warm our hearts, inÁ ame our minds, and À re our prayers so that we

love JESUS without ceasing.”38 He envisions the violence with which

Jesus was arrested: “The one who held the rope around his neck pulled

him with such force that Christ the Lord was almost throttled and

strangled.” He and his companions pulled Jesus’s hair and beard and

scratched him with their À ngernails.39

He was dragged here and there by some of them with ropes, others

attacked his clothing, and others grabbed his arms and thrust him for-

ward. Still others dragged him by the hair . . . accompanied by further 33 For the Jesuit context, see Martin Mulsow, “Exemplus und Affektenlehre bei Georg Stengel S.J.,” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 2 (1991), 313–50, here at 317–19. See also 333–34

for the “seamless transmission” of late medieval mystical metaphors, such as the heart aÁ ame with love of God.

34 Peter-Paul Lenhard, Religiöse Weltanschauung und Didaktik im Jesuitendrama: Interpreta-tionen zu den Schauspielen Jacob Bidermanns (Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang; Bern: Herbert Lang, 1978), takes up, among much else, one member’s use of emotion, p. 449.

35 Ibid., 457.

36 Siebenfältig = Blutiges schau = Spiel Deß Siebenströmigen Geistlichen Nili = Flusses, Das ist: Sieben Passion = Predigten von dem GnadenÁ iessenden und Schmertzhafften Leyden und Sterben unsers Einigen Erlösers und Heyl = Erwerbers JESU CHRISTI, trans. Andreas Bresson (Bamberg: Johann Elias HöfÁ ing; Jacob Immel, 1679). Kisel does not appear in the standard biographical reference works. Kisel’s Latin sermons were published as Nili Mystici ex Paradiso Voluptatis, sive Verbi Divini . . . (Bamberg: Cholinus, 1666).

37 Ibid., 55–77.

38 Ibid., 79.

39 Ibid., 98–99.

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blows, kicks, and insults. He was moved and dragged along in such a

way that he often fell down upon the hard and pointed stones, sometimes upon his most holy face and chest, sometimes upon his back, sometimes

upon one side—with most painful damage and bruising of his arms and

elbows.40

Kisel says that the man who struck Jesus in the face wore an iron-clad glove on his À st and knocked out some of his victim’s teeth.41 Jesus’s

“honey-sweet tongue” swam in blood.42 The saliva of those who spat in Jesus’s face stank of raw garlic and À lth ( UnÁ at).43 As for the beating itself, Christ received 110 blows to his jaw, 120 to the neck, 85 to the head, 62 to the shoulders, 40 to his arms, 32 to his shins, 30 to his mouth, 300 pulls to his hair, and 58 to his beard. He was thrown to the ground 170 times.44 He recounts that according to Saint Bonaventure, Christ

was wounded a total of either 5,466 or 5,000 times; to Saint Gertrude, 5,400 or 5,500 times; to Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, 6,666 times; and to Kisel’s co-Jesuit Alphonsus Salmerón, 5,100 times.45 Sixty-two of a total of one thousand thorns in the crown of thorns penetrated Christ’s brain. On the matter of brain penetration, though not on the numbers

of times, Kisel cites John Chrysostom, Peter Damian, Bonaventure, and Thomas à Kempis.46 He insists that no matter that artists added loin

cloths to their renderings of the cruciÀ xion, Christ was nude. He lists ten kinds of pain that Jesus endured as a result of bodily exposure.47

Jesuit preaching as a rule was rooted in earthly experience—incit-

ing listeners to call to mind in vivid detail, to experience through their deliberate, active contemplation the À nal agonies of the Son of God.

Capuchin preachers, by contrast, seem to wish to convey a mystical

comprehension of the sacriÀ ce of Christ. This order saw itself, from the papal approval of its charter on May 18, 1526, as rededicated to

the spirituality of Saint Francis of Assisi, including its vision of how Francis had apprehended God. Bernardino a Colpetrazzo, one of the

great early modern historians of the Capuchins, of which he was a

40 Ibid., 99–100.

41 Ibid., 107–108.

42 Ibid., 116.

43 Ibid., 134.

44 Ibid., 137.

45 Ibid., p. 177.

46 Ibid., 191.

47 Ibid., 242–43, 246–47. Cf. J.D. Douglass, JustiÀ cation (n. 6 above), 185–86, on the controversy Johann Geiler von Keisersberg aroused by preaching that Christ was completely nude.

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member, wrote of the crudely clad brothers walking from place to place (they were not to ride), clutching portable cruciÀ xes when they preached.

“They preached the Holy Scripture, chieÁ y the Holy Gospel. . . . And

many times they were seen by the secular [priests?] to weep so much,

speciÀ cally on the Passion of the Lord, as if they had him present

there.”48 Colpetrazzo says that the Capuchins who preached were from

the beginning illuminated by the Holy Spirit “and well purged of all

earthly affection, such that as they began to preach, they inÁ amed everyone who heard them.”49 They were among the earliest practitioners of

the “forty-hour prayer,” a devotional marathon carried out during Holy Week which could last about forty hours without interruption or could

be divided into quarters and distributed among four successive days.50

The Capuchins who led these observances interrupted the prayers and

inserted homilies on the Passion.

Representative of the rousing homiletics of these brothers who plied the southern regions of Germany and the Rhineland beginning in the

late sixteenth century is Donatus of Passau, “Capuchin of the Austrian Province, Cathedral and Ordinary Preacher, Superior in the Mount

Mary-Helper in Passau.”51 He preached for 24 years in the Passau cathedral during the À rst half of the seventeenth century.52 In his collection of one hundred Passion sermons, The Dolorous Rose of One Hundred Petals

[ Blätter], Donatus’s treatment of the Passion is different from Wann’s 48 Colpetrazzo, Historia ordinis fratrum minorum Capuccinorum (1525–1593), vol. 1, Praecipue nascentis ordinis eventus., ed. by Melchiore a Pobladura (Assisi: Collegio S.

Lorenzo da Brindisi dei Minori Cappuccini, 1939), 189. On holding up the cruciÀ x, see Gabrielle Ingegneri, “I Cappucini nell’Umbria Cinquecento tra predicazione e carità,” in Vincenzo Crisculol, ed., I Cappuccini nell’Umbria del Conquecento 1525–1619

(Rome: Instituto storico dei Cappuzzini, 2001), 267–301, on this point 271. Their emphasis on emotion is 273, 281–83.

49 Historia, vol. 3, Ratio vivendi fratrum ministri et vicarii generales cardinales protectores, ed.

by Melchiore a Pobladura (Assisi: Collegio S. Lorenzo da Brindisi dei Minori Cappuccini, 1941), 43.

50 See Eberhard Mossmaier, Die Kapuziner in Mainz 1618–1802 (Mainz: Kapuziner-Kloster Mainz, 1953), 13. But the tendency to lengthen Passion sermons dates from at least the À fteenth century: Rudolf Cruel, Geschichte der deutschen Predigt im Mittelalter (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1966; reprint of 1879 edition), 577–78.

51 On the early history of the Capuchins in German-speaking lands, see Hillard von Thiessen, Die Kapuziner zwischen Konfessionalisierung und Alltagskultur: Vergleichende Fallstudie am Beispiel Freiburgs und Hildesheims (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombech, 2002), 60–69.

52 1609–1681.

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and Kisel’s in its incitement of the soul to reciprocate the love of Christ for human beings that is demonstrated in the Passion.53

Donatus begins with a routine but sincere scolding of the many souls

who neglect the Passion. In sermon 4, he rouses his hearers to feeling with Christ. What we experience every day hardens our hearts and makes us insensitive. He lists Jesus’s most horrible wounds.

If you lived thousands of years in hellish À re, you could not pay back one of his wounds. But be consoled, O you sinful souls, for the best Jesus takes account of your insufÀ ciency; he demands nothing more of you

than that, with the most sympathetic feeling and imprecation, you more often break the seal on this book of his most bitter suffering, that you not forget his love and good deeds but always keep them in the thoughts of your heart. . . .54

When you think about Christ’s wounds, he tells his audience, you must

weep. He holds up the example of the nun, Magdalena de Pazzi, who

took the image of the cruciÀ ed Christ in her arms and

walked up and down in the cloister, completely drunk from the wine of

love. She called out with a loud voice, “O my love! O my love! O my

love! O that I had a voice as loud as a bolt of thunder that echoed not just to the four corners of the earth, but even into the depths of hell, and impressed into the hearts of all people that you suffered out of love

[for them] and that you were love itself ! I, a poor sinner, wish that you would give me such a powerful voice that I could move all human beings to pity you in your suffering.”55

Donatus adds such embellishments to his story as that the brook of

Cedron was deadly and that Jesus, as he was led or dragged away from

Gethsemane, had to drink from it. His pain was worse than that of

any martyr-saint.56 He lists his torments, adding at two points that all Christ’s blood Á owed out through his many wounds.57 He urges Christians inwardly to kiss Jesus’s feet along with Mary Magdalene and wash them with the tears of repentance; to kiss the Lord along with Simeon in deference; to kiss him with Mary and Joseph out of À ery devotion

53 R.P. [Reverend Father] Donatus von Passau, Rosetum dolorosum Centifoliatum: Schmertzhaffter Rosen-Bart von hundert Blättigen Rosen, Das seynd Hundert . . . Predigen von dem Bitteren Leyden und Sterben JESU Christi . . . (Passau: Rudolph Wege, 1694).

54 Rosetum dolorosum, 35.

55 Ibid., 40.

56 Ibid., 159.

57 Ibid., 237, 248.

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and love.58 Here Donatus includes not only the earliest phase of the

Passion story but also the infancy and boyhood of Christ.

In his sixth sermon, Donatus sums up his intention of moving his

hearers: The tongues of zealous preachers should be as À ery arrows

that strike, penetrate, and inÁ ame the hearts of true believers. They arouse the soul with godly words of might ( göttliche Kraffts-Wörter). They press out listeners’ tears with their portrayal of [Christ’s] innocence.

They act as angelic mourning-laments in fostering sobs; they awaken

sparks of love in the hardened conscience—leading it, he hoped, to

contrition and confession.59

So central was emotion to the message of the Capuchin brothers

that they held forth publicly even when they could not speak the native language of the people. Sometimes there was simultaneous translation.60

Sometimes there was not, and the masses who came to hear them could

perceive their deep conviction from their gestures, expression, and

intonation. Marco d’Aviano, who is credited with rousing the Viennese

to such a fever pitch that they were able to repel the Turks in 1683,

declared in his native Italian or in Latin to up to 30,000 people who

had gathered, “Ah, I would to God that I could make myself under-

stood to you in your mother tongue. But I shall speak to your hearts as well as I can, with my whole heart, with my whole heart [repeated].” The audience could tell by experience and perhaps by his beating on his

breast that he began by confessing his own sinfulness and calling them to repentance. He was, he insisted, an unworthy instrument of God.61

In Italy, and probably also in Germany, d’Aviano incited the throngs to shout after him, “I believe, I believe, I believe!”62 Both in Italy and in Germany, healings sometimes followed upon the sermon—because of

the large numbers of which, Church authorities were skeptical.63 Occasionally both Jesuit and Capuchin preaching achieved the conversion

of a Lutheran clergyman, which the orders doubtless trumpeted.64

58 Ibid., 302.

59 Rosetum dolorosum centifoliatum, 51–52.

60 Hervé Martin, Le métier de prédicateur, 564–65.

61 Erich Feigl, Halbmond und Kreuz: Marco d’Aviano und die Rettung Europas (Vienna and Munich: Almathea Verlag, 1993), 16.

62 von Thiessen, Die Kapuziner, 355.

63 Ibid., 356. These were clustered especially in the À rst half of the seventeenth century.

64 For one example, see Georg Manz, “Die Kapuziner im rechtsrheinischen Gebiet des Bistums Speyer im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert,” Th.D. dissertation, University of OCKER1_f21_373-396.indd 388

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Witnesses of d’Aviano’s preaching in Munich, Augsburg, Neuburg,

“et cetera,” remarked that despite his not speaking in German, the attention of all was glued to him; and one could see from the masses’

facial expressions their inner feeling and contrition.65 An engraving

of Father Marco preaching on June 26, 1681, in Ghent—he did not

speak Flemish either—shows a huge market square packed with people.

A number in the foreground are visibly moved.66 D’Aviano brought

about the softening of the most hardened sinner and moved him to

repentance.67 A Jesuit reported that as a result of d’Aviano’s sermon, 115,000 individuals sought and received the Eucharist in their church

afterward.68

Early modern Catholic preaching retained and elevated to new promi-

nence the grief of the Virgin Mary.69 Through evidently universal dissemination from the pulpit, whether an architectural one or makeshift, the story of her unbearable suffering upon witnessing the tormented

death of her son, now became a standard component of the effort to

elicit tears from the congregation. Again, the regular propagation of

this element to the populace at large rather than the concept itself

was new. Jean Gerson (d. 1429) wrote a vernacular (French) treatise

to guide the recollections of his sister, a nun, on the Passion. Among other points, he stresses to her the desirability of traveling mentally back through time and calling upon the Virgin and telling her of her

son’s arrest and torture; the Paris divine’s sister is to lend her feminine nature to the comprehension and sharing of every psychological and bodily pang that Mary experienced.70 Similarly, Paul Wann envisions

Freiburg im Breisgau, 1979, 61–62. In this case, the pastor’s wife refused to convert with her husband.

65 This reminds me of the story told by Peter the Chanter about Bernard of Clairvaux’s preaching to Germans. The listeners could not understand Bernard but were nevertheless moved to tears. When the sermon was translated into German and was now literally comprehensible, it produced no effect. Verbum abbreviatum, chap. 6, in Patrilogia Latina, t. 205, col. 37.

66 Feigl, Halbmond, 86–87.

67 Maximilian Pöckl, Die Kapuziner in Bayern von ihrem Entstehen an bis auf die gegenwärtige Zeit (Sulzbach: J.E. von Seidelschen Kunst- und Buchhandlung, 1826), 159.

68 Ibid., 87.

69 Donna Spivey Ellington, “Impassioned Mother or Passive Icon: The Virgin’s Role in Late Medieval and Early Modern Passion Sermons,” Renaissance Quarterly 48, 2 (1995), 227–61.

70 Although this was originally written in French, I read a German translation, Betrachtungen über das Leiden und Sterben unsers Herrn Jesu Christi (Passau: A. Ambrosi, 1840). Cf.

Gerson’s “In Dominicam Passionem expositio, e Gallico in Latinum versa,” Johannes Gerson, Opera omnia, ed. by Louis Ellies Du Pin, vol. 3 (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, OCKER1_f21_373-396.indd 389

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John the Beloved Disciple going to Mary’s house to inform her in

detail of these horriÀ c events. Wann describes her grief at length, her moans and her tears. She falls senseless to the ground.71 Wann demands that his listeners sigh and weep along with Mary. He declares that the thought of the sword of grief penetrating his mother’s virginal heart exacerbates Christ’s agony.72 Mary, indeed, he says, revealed to Saint Brigitta secrets concerning Longinus and the spear-thrust that produced her son’s side-wound.73

Preachers of the post-Tridentine Catholic Church retained and

elevated yet further the À gure of the Virgin in pain. Father Kisel

disseminates the medieval legend of Mary’s last embrace and À nal

farewell-taking from her son.

O you most troubled Virgin! O you misery-À lled mother! . . . By the Á ow of your falling tears, I beg and implore you . . . out of your inexhaustible fountain of grace to please give me a sign of your favor. [You were] cast into and sunk in your most wretched and deepest sea of misery in that very hour in which your Jesus called to you, with face aghast, the last farewell. O sad mother! The tears that rained down this evening as you embraced him and wrapped your arms around his neck for the last time

and pressed your motherly kisses upon him, and especially as your dearest son moved out of your vision, are countless and limitless.74

Kisel cites Salmerón as transmitting the information that from Christ’s First Word on the cross, “Father, forgive them . . .” Mary “threw herself to her knees and with tears streaming down, prayed the same prayer as

Christ: ‘O Father, yes, forgive them!’ ” She repeated this in her heart, Kisel adds, a thousand times.75 She became thereby, and on that occasion, all sinners’ intermediary. He ends his series of sermons:

1987), cols. 1153–1203, which is not the same but in which Mary’s suffering also À gures prominently. The technique of transferring mentally into a distant setting was not new in Gerson’s time. See Holly Flora, “A Book for Poverty’s Daughters: Gender and Devotion in Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS Ital. 115,” in Varieties of Devotion in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. by Susan C. Karant-Nunn, Arizona Studies in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance 7 (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 2003), 61–97, on fourteenth-century Poor Clares’ use of meditation on pictures to enable them, as enclosed nuns, to perform public acts, such as the relief of the poor in imitation of Mary.

71 Wann, Die Passion, sermon 4, 63–65.

72 Siebenfältiges = Blutiges Schau = Spiel, p. 30.

73 Ibid., 314.

74 Ibid., 82–84.

75 Ibid., 337–38.

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Dear listeners, along with the groaning Virgin, let us, like her, moan and weep. Let us keep her groans in continual memory; let the sword

that pierced her heart pierce ours, so that we sigh with Mary, the highly praised mother of God, in her sad and pitiable suffering.76

Donatus of Passau likewise urges all his hearers to regard themselves as Mary’s children. “Lay your hearts with Mary upon the shoulders

and the cross of Jesus, help him bear it out of pity.”77 In his sermon on Stabat Mater, he exclaims, “Oh, Mary, Mary, the mother of Jesus stands at the cross, and we should not weep with her?” In the next sermon,

“The Wounded Heart,” he declares, “Jesus was Mary’s spouse, groom,

son, child, and the only comfort of her soul!” Should she not weep?78

He admonishes his audience, “If the sword of pain of the suffering

Jesus does not move your stone-hard hearts, does not sympathy for the

motherly heart and soul-sword of Mary soften you?”79

If Donatus concentrates somewhat less than Kisel upon the Virgin

Mary, he makes up for it in the vitriol he directs at the Jews. A third aspect of post-Tridentine homiletic intensiÀ cation is the concentrated anti-Semitic invective contained in Holy Week sermons, now evidently

preached to all without restraint. While this element was perpetually

present in Christian homiletics, some preachers articulated and fostered this hatred with a fervor that surpassed the average. Charles Zika has noted the artistic and rhetorical similarities, in this age of the persecution of alleged practitioners of sorcery, between the depiction of witches and that of Jews.80

The most violent and implacable of all the pre-Easter preachers

whose sermons I have consulted was neither a Jesuit nor a Capuchin

but a Franciscan.81 Heinrich Helm (d. 1560) preached in and around

Cologne, later being named the provincial of his order for Saxony. He was subsequently an advisor of Duke Heinrich of Brunswick when this

nobleman was compelling his subject to take up the Roman Catholic

76 Ibid., 468.

77 Rosetum dolorosum centifoliatum, 638–39.

78 Ibid., 767.

79 Ibid., 773.

80 “Witches and Other Stereotypes: Image-Making in Early Modern Europe,” public lecture, 1 November 2005, University of Arizona.

81 On a Franciscan tradition of anti-Semitic preaching, especially during Lent up till Easter ( quadragesima), see Franco Mormando, The Preacher’s Demons: Bernardino of Siena and the Social Underworld of Early Renaissance Italy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), esp. 191–96.

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faith again. His Latin sermons on the Passion appeared in 1557 and in

my opinion had been earlier presented in the vernacular to a popular

as well as a learned audience. The archbishop of Cologne, Adolf von

Schaumburg, held up Heinrich’s sermons as models to the secular

clergy in his very commodious archdiocese; by the device of recom-

mendation, both the style and the content of Helm’s sermons further

spread. Heinrich’s vituperation against the Jews remains a steady cho-

rus. “Ungrateful Judea,” he rants, “the elect people, gave back to him

[ Jesus] evil for good, and iniquitous hatred for love—this nation of sin, this people of grave iniquity, this good-for-nothing seed, sons of Belial, of pollution and the devil, offspring of vipers. . . .”82 This refrain is endless. Helm even turns the deeds of the Roman soldiers into a result of Jewish devilishness—for, as he sees it, the Jews were in a larger sense responsible for the entire cruciÀ xion.83

Nonetheless, Kisel, as a representative of the Society of Jesus, and Donatus the Capuchin communicate a noticeable strain of anti-Jewish

sentiment to their listeners. Kisel rages as he imagines Jesus’s arrest and violent removal from Gethsemane,

O you servants [of the Jewish high priest] full of lewdness, forgetting all modesty, intent on adultery and fornication! O you self-serving hearts full of envy! Conspiracy! Conspiracy! Revolt! Revolt is at hand! You are the raging hounds; you are the embittered and unrestrained lions who

repeatedly rebel against my Jesus, overpower and take hold of him. O

you excessive eaters and drinkers! You slaves and serfs, you brothers of Bacchus! You obese oxen! You undertake to rebel against the son of

God!84

He describes minute aspects of the physical abuse of Jesus and their effects. He calls the man who struck Jesus in the face “a stinking

Jew.”85

Donatus of Passau employs similar bestial images. Describing the

Jews’ treatment of his Savior, Donatus, too, blasts out, “O you imprudent non-humans! What are you thinking? O you senseless people!

What are you doing?” They fall upon Christ “like furious lions, like

bloodthirsty tigers, like hungry wolves.” They take hold of Jesus, he 82 Heinrich Helm, PASSIO Domini nostri iesv Christi, secvndvn quatuor Evangelistas (Cologne: n.p., 1557), 12.

83 E.g. , ibid., 261–62.

84 Kisel, Siebenfältig = Blutiges Schau = Spiel, 99–101.

85 Ibid., 108.

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continues, bind and hobble him, throw him to the ground, and kick

him with their accursed feet. They grab his beard, strike and tramp on him, choke him with iron chains, and call him a murderer, magician,

robber, and seducer of the people.86

Whatever their order, the Holy Week preachers believed that they

themselves were to be visibly moved by the story they told. Genuinely

succumbing to the spirit of the occasion and aware of their duty to

provide an example to the laity, they leave a record, very possibly reliable and not solely rhetorical, that they sometimes had to pause to

regain their composure. These divines wept before the people whom

they attempted to engage in a ritual of empathy with Jesus and with

Mary. When tears moistened both speaker and hearers, the medieval

precept that the preacher’s heart was joined to that of his audience

was fulÀ lled.87

Ideally, the catharsis of Holy Week was not simply an annual experi-

ence. The preachers desired that the awareness of suffering in order to atone, the sense of personal responsibility because of sin for Christ’s agony, would accompany Christians the entire year around. Works of

art ranging from cheap block-prints to elaborate paintings and cruci-

À xes—and from the late seventeenth century the increasing erection of

“stations of the cross”—were designed to assist in the maintenance of this state of arousal. Both the seasonal and the enduring intended to aid the devout in coming to repentance, confession, and the Eucharist, and they were to produce understanding of the signiÀ cance of the Mass with its attention to Christ’s very Á esh and blood. An added sign of

the intensity of this era is the Church’s advocacy of partaking of the Eucharist far more often than the once annually required by the Fourth 86 Rosetum dolorosum centifoliatum, 331–33. See the very similar metaphors of the mid-sixteenth-century preacher Johannes Wild, Sacrosancta Passionis Saluatoris nostri Iesu Christi Hystoria, Ex quatuor Euangelistis studiose concinnata & in quatuor partes rite distincta (Mannheim: Franciscus Behem, 1555), 367; internal evidence, 518, documents its original presentation in 1541. Wild considers the entire Jewish people to be lost because of the deeds of their ancestors at, and in obtaining, Jesus’s cruciÀ xion (395).

87 Franco Morenzoni, “Les Artes Praedicandi,” in La Parole du prédicateur, V e–XV e siècle, ed. by Rosa Maria Dessì and Michel Lauwers (Nice: Centre d’Études Médiévales, 1997), 271–90, here at 288–89: cites Th.-M. Charland, Artes praedicandi: contribution à l’histoire de la rhétorique au moyen âge (Paris: Vrin, 1936), 334, who in turn quotes Thomas Waleys (ca. 1287–1350?), De modo componendi sermones, as saying that when a preacher preaches,

“ ‘son coeur s’unit de manière à tel point immédiate aux coeurs des auditeurs qu’il ne se rend plus compte d’avoir une langue, et les auditeurs d’avoir des oreilles; mais il a la sensation que sa parole procède presque sans médiation de son coeur et s’insinue dans les coeurs des auditeurs.’ ”

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Lateran Council. A more frequent presence at Mass might keep the

feelings of the Paschal season alive throughout the year.

Conclusions

Beginning in the sixteenth century, but with clear roots in late medieval monastic culture, the early modern Catholic Church enjoined emotional

participation in the cruciÀ xion on every adherent. It saw the mere outward imitation of Christ as inadequate. Inner experience had to result in outward piety. Easter homiletics meant to illuminate the intellect of listeners, to be sure, but this was not enough. It had to enter human

beings’ “stone-hard hearts” and move them to feel keenly in their total beings what Jesus had endured in order to save them. People were to

exercise their imaginations, be transported back to the home of Mary, the Mount of Olives, the court of the Sanhedrin, the presence of Pilate, and the road to Calvary. They were personally to endure, to feel in

their own bones and tissues, heads and limbs every single affront to

their Lord. They were to comprehend in a new way God’s body and

blood, and they were to shed tears. These tears initially sprang from

sympathy, but this sentiment had to progress to sorrow and personal

resolve to refrain from sin. If in one respect, the effort systematically to spread this model of devotion underscored the Church’s emphasis

upon the outcome, which was abstinence from the great vices that every medieval preacher had railed against, it also stressed the link between outer conformity and inner conviction. This conviction needed to be

deep and enduring. Within this framework, contrition clearly won out

over attrition.

In studying this age of intensiÀ cation, we should also note the component of Catholic confessional identity in arousal to weeping. Protestants did not behave in the same way—or they were not supposed to.88 The

Lutheran Johannes Kymeus wrote disparagingly,

88 In fact, there was wide variation in Lutheran treatments of the Passion, despite the fact that Luther himself disapproved of sermons that focused on Christ’s suffering.

The rare surviving Calvinist sermons indicate that the preaching of this denomination was different still, paying little attention to the torment of cruciÀ xion. I am writing on Protestantism separately. See my À rst attempt, “ ‘Gedanken, Herz und Sinn’: Die Unterdrückung der religiösen Emotionen,” in Kulturelle Reformation, n. 12 above, 69–95, from which my current thinking has departed; also by me, “Patterns of Religious Practice: Nontheological Features,” in Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und OCKER1_f21_373-396.indd 394

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It was the ultimate goal of those who preached the Passion [to consider]

how one could move the people to crying, to howling, and to lamenting

over the unkind Jews and hard-hearted people who took the life of Christ, God’s Son. But the recognition of sin and faith, which one ought chieÁ y by means of the Passion to bring about, this remained behind.89

Indeed, Kymeus went on, the quality of a man’s preaching was judged

chieÁ y according to his success in eliciting such outbursts.90

Catholic leaders too were aware that the cultivation of Christ’s

agony, signaled additionally by the elevation of his wounds to virtually independent sainthood, as well as the heightened concentration on the

Virgin’s pain, constituted a line of demarcation between the old faith and the new ones. Catholics were physically members of a community of sorrow, one that the happiness of Easter morning was not to disband.

They were not ashamed of their attachment to corporeal manifestations of the divine or of their belief that the route to spirituality lay in the heart, the seat of the emotions, and traveled through the body. Christ had rendered the body, too, capable of sanctity, and certainly capable of serving as an instrument of salvation. Whether people were able to achieve the ideal or not, their preachers tried to persuade them to unite their whole being in devotion. Ellen Ross calls this the “somatization of divine love.”91

The Catholic state as well as the Church easily adopted the expanded

model of emotional worship. The arousal of large numbers of people

during Holy Week and at other times of mass preaching appears not

to have made authorities uneasy over the possibility of civil unrest.

Affective response was marked, to be sure, but it was also carefully

directed toward precise and positive objects. Indeed, profound love for the Savior was to raise the level of charity among neighbors, promoting peace. It may be seen as an aspect of confessionalization both in the sense of leading the faithful to know precisely which church they belonged to, and in the sense of restraining and redirecting any lurking impulses toward disobedience. Strong emotions served the maintenance

of order, as long as they did not stimulate pogroms.

Früher Neuzeit, ed. by Thomas A. Brady, Schriften des Historischen Kollegs Kolloquien 50 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2001), 159–71, on this point 163–68.

89 Urbanus Rhegius, Johann Kymeus, Johannes Bugenhagen, and Martin Luther, Passional Buch. Vom Leiden vnd Aufferstehung vnsers Herrn Jhesu Christi . . . (Wittenberg 1540), fol. x.

90 Ibid., fol. xxiii.

91 The Grief of God, 92–94.

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Mel Gibson is the unwitting modern heir of this tradition. The link

between him and the preacherly culture under discussion, and indeed

the monastic culture that preceded it, is the mysterious Sister Anne

Katherine Emmerich (d. 1824), a German nun who regarded herself

as a mental witness of the cruciÀ xion. Sister Anne Katherine received the stigmata and the mark of the cross on her chest. She revealed her visions to the poet Clemens Brentano, who publicized them to an avid

European public in his book, The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.92

Brentano writes, “God had bestowed upon her the gift of tears to so

great an extent that she often passed whole hours in the church weeping over the sins and ingratitude of men, the sufferings of the Church, the imperfections of the community, and her own faults.”93 Gibson needed

not have found inspiration in speciÀ cally this nun’s visions, but hers is the account he happened upon. It is representative of a well-established late medieval and early modern pattern. As a member of a conservative Catholic group whose spiritual leader was excommunicated, Gibson

appears to be persuaded that the truly devout will travel as far as they can along the path of adoring the Passion. He, like the late medieval and early modern preachers, wishes to move to tears and repentance

all who see his portrayal. Historians of modern American Protestantism will have to explain the cultural and theological changes that have crept in to render the suffering displayed in The Passion of the Christ attractive to Baptists and denominations akin to them today. Martin Luther and

John Calvin would decidedly not share Pope John Paul II’s admiration

of this À lm. The late pontiff, however, was well acquainted with the emotive worship that his clerical forebears promoted.

92 Read by me as Anne Catherine Emmerich, The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ (Rockford, Illinois: Tan Books and Publishers, 1983), which does not refer to Brentano. John Seabrook summarizes a part of the genealogy of Gibson’s movie, The Passion of the Christ, in “The Talk of the Town: Rome Postcard, Boffo Beatitude,” The New Yorker of October 4, 2004 (I read this article on-line, and that format was not paginated). On October 3, Pope John Paul II beatiÀ ed Sister Anne Katherine.

93 Dolorous Passion, 11.

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PIETISM, MINISTRY, AND CHURCH DISCIPLINE:

THE TRIBULATIONS OF CHRISTOPH MATTHÄUS SEIDEL*

Terence McIntosh

The heterogeneity and À ssiparousness of the German Pietist movement

became evident during the À nal decade of the seventeenth century.

While the religious titans Philipp Jakob Spener (1635–1705) and August Hermann Francke (1663–1727), through their activities in Berlin and

Halle, established the necessary foundations for the continued strengthening of Pietism in Brandenburg-Prussia, radical Pietists elsewhere in Germany claimed direct access to the Divine and bellowed blistering

criticisms of the Lutheran and Reformed churches, suffered in turn

suspicion, derision, and harassment, and eagerly anticipated that the

millennium, Christ’s thousand-year reign on earth before the Last

Judgment, would begin in 1700. Already in the early 1690s, several

women, including servants in Halberstadt, Erfurt, Quedlinburg, and

Gotha, claimed to have prophetic visions that portended momentous

events. A few years later, the translation of writings of leading À gures in the English Philadelphia movement greatly strengthened the apocalyptic expectations in German Pietist circles. By the end of the decade, Frankfurt am Main and then the residence towns Laubach (County of

Solms-Laubach) and Berleburg (County of Sayn-Wittgenstein-Berleburg)

* Earlier versions of this essay were presented at the fourth triennial international conference of Frühe Neuzeit Interdisziplinär (Durham, NC, April 2005), the Interdisziplinäres Zentrum für Pietismusforschung der Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg (Halle an der Saale, July 2005), and the Triangle Seminar in Medieval and Early Modern German Studies (Durham, NC, October 2005). The author is grateful for the helpful comments from the participants at these meetings, especially Professor Udo Sträter, and from Dr. Britta Klosterberg. A grant from the University Research Council of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and a Fritz Thyssen Stipendium der Franckeschen Stiftungen supported the research for this essay.

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became centers of chiliast agitation.1 Even Spener himself was not

immune from the eschatological fervor.2

Against this background of increasing religious ferment, many

German Pietists demanded the punishment of moral adiaphora ( Mit-

teldinge), secular amusements such as music and dancing that orthodox Lutheran theologians maintained were not inherently right or wrong.3

The demand À rst became prominent in the 1680s, when Hamburg’s

leading pastors and burghers disputed whether the opera, a musical

genre recently introduced to German cities, was inherently sinful or

an acceptable entertainment. The resulting fault lines harbingered the deeper religious, social, and political cleavages that would subsequently plague the Elbe port.4 In the early 1690s, Thuringia, particularly the city of Gotha, emerged as a stronghold of Pietist perfectionism in which the reborn strongly condemned drinking, dancing, and playing cards.5 While the assault on such pleasurable pastimes found some measure of support in certain cities and residence towns, a few Pietist pastors even tried to 1 Martin Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener, sein Programm und dessen Auswirkungen,”

in Der Pietismus vom siebzehnten bis zum frühen achtzehnten Jahrhundert, ed. Martin Brecht (Göttingen, 1993), 360; Hans Schneider, “Der radikale Pietismus im 17. Jahrhundert,”

in Der Pietismus, ed. Brecht, 401, 405–6, 417–21; Barbara Hoffmann, “ ‘. . . daß es süße Träume und Versuchungen seyn.’ Geschriebene und gelebte Utopien im Radikalen Pietismus,” in Im Zeichen der Krise. Religiosität im Europa des 17. Jahrhunderts, eds. Hartmut Lehmann and Anne-Charlott Trepp (Göttingen, 1999), 104–7; Barbara Hoffmann, Radikalpietismus um 1700: Der Streit um das Recht auf eine neue Gesellschaft (Frankfurt am Main, 1996), 56–82.

2 Spener’s interest in chiliasm dates from 1674–75 (Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,”

299–301, 363–64, 370). In central Europe, the belief in the impending establishment of Christ’s thousand-year kingdom had grown steadily throughout the seventeenth century. See Hartmut Lehmann, Das Zeitalter des Absolutismus: Gottesgnadentum und Kriegsnot (Stuttgart, 1980), 129–32.

3 Realencyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, 3d ed., s.v. “Adiaphora”; The New Schaff-Herzog Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge, Embracing Biblical, Historical, Doctrinal, and Practical Theology and Biblical, Theological, and Ecclesiastical Biography from the Earliest Times to the Present Day, s.v. “adiaphora.”

4 Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,” 344–51; Hermann Rückleben, Die Niederwerfung der hamburgischen Ratsgewalt. Kirchliche Bewegungen und bürgerliche Unruhen im ausgehenden 17.

Jahrhundert (Hamburg, 1970); Martin Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung. Theologische Polemik und die Kommunikationsreform der Wissenschaft am Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen, 1997), 49–59. Gierl notes (47 n. 75) that the adiaphora controversy began in 1670–71 with the controversy surrounding the Erfurt deacon Johann Melchior Stenger.

5 Willi Temme, Krise der Leiblichkeit. Die Sozietät der Mutter Eva (Buttlarsche Rotte) und der radikale Pietismus um 1700 (Göttingen, 1998), 68–70; Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,”

361–62; Albrecht Ritschl, Geschichte des Pietismus, vol. 2, Geschichte des Pietismus in der lutherischen Kirche des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts (Bonn, 1884), 190–92; Eugen Sachsse, Ursprung und Wesen des Pietismus (Wiesbaden, 1884), 227–31, 237–41.

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suppress moral adiaphora in their rural congregations. The pastors did so by exercising an exceptionally severe form of church discipline that provoked the stubborn resistance of their peasant parishioners. Best

known is the case of Justinus Töllner, pastor of Panitzsch, a village about twelve kilometers east of Leipzig; his increasingly rancorous efforts to prevent his Á ock from holding riotous Pentecostal beer festivals led to his dismissal in 1697.6 By contrast, the case of Christoph Matthäus Seidel (1668–1723) and his congregation in Wolkenburg, located in the Elector-ate of Saxony some twenty to thirty kilometers west of Chemnitz, has remained in virtual obscurity. Because he, unlike the pastor of Panitzsch, never published a lengthy apologia, the events in Wolkenburg receive

mention neither in the standard nineteenth-century histories of Pietism such as Albrecht Ritschl’s and Eugen Sachsse’s nor in Johann Georg

Walch’s invaluable eighteenth-century survey of the dozens of tangled religious and intellectual disputes that formed the Pietist controversy.7

But these events deserve careful study.8 Despite obvious tribulations, 6 Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung, 79–80, 153–55; Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,” 362; Sachsse, Ursprung und Wesen, 235–36; Ritschl, Geschichte des Pietismus, 2:192–93. Töllner related the case in Unrechtmäßige Absetzung, Das ist; Außführliche und deutliche Beschreibung dessen, wie man nemlich etliche Jahr her mit ihm um der Wahrheit willen sehr übel umgegangen, ihn hefftig verfolget, an vielem Guten in seinem Amt gehindert, dreyviertel Jahr suspendiret und endlich gar removiret, Zu Rettung seiner Unschuld. . . . (Glaucha an Halle, 1697) 7 Johann Georg Walch, Historische und theologische Einleitung in die Religions-Streitigkeiten der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Kirchen, von der Reformation an bis auf ietzige Zeiten, 5 vols. ( Jena, 1730–39). Concerning the course of the Pietist controversy and the institutional practices that shaped it, see Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung, 19–265.

8 The following study draws on over À ve hundred pages of handwritten material concerning Christoph Matthäus Seidel reposited in the archives of the Franckesche Stiftungen in Halle an der Saale. Collected in one dossier (Archiv der Franckeschen Stiftungen/Hauptarchiv [AFSt/H] D 83), the material contains copies of two long apologias that Seidel submitted to the Upper Consistory in Dresden. He apparently wrote the À rst apologia (pp. 197–344) soon after his hearing before the Leipzig consistory in March 1693; the second (pp. 1–195 plus title page) is dated May 1700. The dossier also contains both transcriptions of dozens of letters and documents pertaining to his case and occasional diary-like entries in which Seidel reÁ ected on recent events. Thus the dossier, written mostly in one hand, does not contain any ofÀ cial records. I assume that Seidel himself compiled the dossier as an aid for mounting his defense against the various charges that could lead to his dismissal. Another possibility is that he was preparing to publish a vindication of his actions. Thus the selection and presentation of the material in the dossier obviously favors Seidel’s case. I doubt, however, that the dossier seriously misrepresents the events in Wolkenburg. To defend himself effectively before the consistory or to write a vindication, Seidel still needed accurate personal records. In Dresden is the draft of a letter from the Upper Consistory to the Leipzig consistory (Sächsische Hauptstaatsarchiv Dresden [SHStA Dresden], Loc. 10329/7, fol. 332r–v) that I compared with Seidel’s transcription in his 1693 apologia (p. 252).

His transcription is faithful. On the practice of citing ofÀ cial records, correspondence, OCKER1_f22_397-424.indd 399

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Seidel fared better than Töllner in suppressing moral adiaphora; thus

Seidel’s motives and actions provide key insights into the limits and

possibilities for transforming peasant communities into godly societies.

More importantly, the events in Wolkenburg illustrate the extent to

which, in at least one region, chiliastic expectations seeped into the countryside, seizing both pastors and peasants and reorienting their

lives, even if, in the case of the peasants, only for a brief period. For inner-churchly Pietists like Seidel, however, the enthusiastic embrace of millenarianism is indisputable.

1

Born in 1668 in Weissenfels, residence town of the Duchy of Saxe-Weissenfels, Christoph Matthäus Seidel matriculated at Leipzig University

in 1685 and received his master’s in theology in 1687. While a student, the young Seidel, in all likelihood, observed the curricular innovations from which the Pietist movement in Leipzig germinated. In 1686,

August Hermann Francke and Paul Anton (1661–1730), prompted by

the suggestion of Johann Benedikt Carpzov II (1639–99), established

the collegium philobiblicum, a seminar for biblical studies. Philipp Jakob Spener, who in the same year left Frankfurt am Main to become the

senior court preacher and the confessor of Elector Johann Georg III

in Dresden, regarded the collegium philobiblicum as a potentially useful means by which students could deepen their faith and transform their

lives. When Spener visited Leipzig in 1687, he attended the seminar

and attempted to fashion it into a collegium pietatis modeled on his experiences in Frankfurt. By 1689, the curricular innovations had broadened, and over three hundred students eagerly attended Francke’s lectures

in German, not Latin, on the devotional signiÀ cance of the Epistles.

Alarmed by these developments, Carpzov would soon denounce these

students and spark the Pietist controversy in Leipzig. But in 1688

Seidel had already left the city and in 1689 became the substitute pastor in Marbach near Dresden.9 Thus he did not experience directly

the authorities’ increasingly repressive measures to extinguish the last and other documents in the polemical writings of the Pietist controversy, see Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung, 145–57.

9 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 234–35.

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embers of religious fervor among the students and their ardent preceptors, measures that led to Francke’s departure in 1691 and the rapid

spread of Pietism throughout the Thuringian lands and elsewhere.

Instead, from the proximity of Marbach, Seidel could follow closely

and disconcertingly the souring of relations between Spener and the

elector. Seidel’s friendship with Spener dates from this period.10

On Spener’s recommendation to the lord of Wolkenburg, Hans

Haubold von Einsiedel, Seidel became Wolkenburg’s pastor in 1691.11

Because of this recommendation and various disputes with neighbor-

ing pastors and his immediate superior, the superintendent of Borna,

Seidel was soon widely regarded as a Pietist. Indeed, in 1693 the notorious Ausführliche Beschreibung Des Unfugs, Welchen Die Pietisten . . . gestifftet, a scurrilous polemical attack on Spener, Francke, and their followers, described the pastor of Wolkenburg, mistakenly called “George Matthias Seidel,” as one of the most offensive Pietists.12 The increasing religious ferment obviously sharpened Seidel’s views on music and popular

entertainments. The Word of God, Seidel explained, À rst enlightened

him in 1692, but, in response, he branded as sinful only secular music performed on Sunday. In effect, Seidel À rst campaigned against the

profanation of the Sabbath. By 1696, however, he condemned all

secular music, regardless of the day of its performance. Delighting the senses and thus capable of stirring carnal desires and corrupting the 10 Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,” 329–33, 335–38; Martin Brecht, “August Hermann Francke und der Hallische Pietismus,” in Der Pietismus, ed. Brecht, 442–49; F. Ernest StoefÁ er, German Pietism during the Eighteenth Century (Leiden, 1973), 4. At roughly the same time, Christian Thomasius’s seminars on natural law and related subjects also sparked attention and outrage at Leipzig University (Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung, 425–39; Ian Hunter, “Christian Thomasius and the Desacralization of Philosophy,”

Journal of the History of Ideas 61, no. 4 [2000]: 606–11). On the beginning of Seidel’s friendship with Spener, see Christoph Matthäus Seidel, “Des sel. Herrn Christoph Matthäus Seidels, gewesenen Probstes zu Berlin, für seinen Nachfolger im Lehr-Amte zu Schönberg verfaßte Nachricht von den nöthigsten Umständen der daselbstigen Gemeinde,” in Theologia pastoralis practica, oder Sammlung nutzbarer Anweisungen zur gesegneten Führung des Evangelischen Lehramts 3 (1740): 225 n.

11 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 200, 203; “Seidels Nachricht,” 227 n.; Reinhold Grünberg, Sächsische Pfarrerbuch: Die Parochien und Pfarrer der Ev.-luth. Landeskirche Sachsens (1539 –1939) (Freiberg [Saxony], 1939–40), s.v. “Seidel, Christoph Matthäus”; Johann Heinrich Zedler, ed., Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexikon (Halle, 1732–54; Graz, 1961–64), s.v.

“Seidel, Christoph Matthäus.”

12 Anonymous [ Johann Benedikt Carpzov II ], Ausführliche Beschreibung Des Unfugs, Welchen Die Pietisten zu Halberstadt im Monat Decembri 1692. ümb die heilige Weyhnachts-Zeit gestifftet. Dabey zugleich von dem Pietistischen Wesen in gemein etwas gründlicher gehandelt wird (n.p., 1693), 18–19.

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soul, such music should hold no place in the life of a true Christian.

To serve God properly, Seidel argued, one should behave on weekdays

no differently than on Sunday.13

Seidel tried to prohibit music in two ways. First, he went after the

village musicians, exhorting them repeatedly to cease performing.

Thus, since 1692, Seidel locked horns with Blasius Steiner, a feckless horse farmer who sank into debt and turned to À ddling for his meager

livelihood. Unwilling or perhaps simply unable to forsake such a vital source of income, Steiner did not heed the pastor’s increasingly urgent pleas to end the musicking. By 1697, Seidel was demanding also that

Georg Friedrich, a tailor and À ddler in the nearby village of Gernsdorf

[Gersdorf ], stop performing at wedding celebrations and other popular entertainments.14 In trying to bring Steiner and Friedrich to heel, Seidel wanted to suppress all popular music in village life. Second, to give his admonitions bite, Seidel decided not to absolve during confession the

sins of these musicians and those who danced to their merry tunes.

Tantamount to the imposition of the small ban, or excommunicatio minor, his decision excluded the affected men and women from the Lord’s

Supper because the Saxon church ordinances obligated a pastor to

administer Communion only to those in the local congregation who

had properly confessed the previous day.15 In early August 1696, Seidel informed the superintendent in Borna that Steiner would no longer

receive absolution. As the dispute escalated, dividing Wolkenburg and

surrounding communities, the number of villagers whose sins Seidel

refused to remit increased.16

13 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 6–7, 36, 100, 363. In the summer of 1696, Seidel wrote a draft treatise whose title, in the form of a question, stated his foundational views: “Gründliche Untersuchung zweyer Fragen: 1. Ob die im Schwelgen, Spielen, Fiedeln, Tantzen und dergleichen Unwesen bestehende Üppigkeit wie solche fürnehmlich Sonntags und in der Wochen getrieben wird, eine Verdammliche Sünde, und die so solche verüben, Unchristen seyn? 2. Ob ein christlicher Pfarrer solche Leute, die es vor Sünde nicht erkennen, auch nicht davon ablassen wollen, ohne Verletzung seines Gewissens zur Absolution und Communion zulassen können?” (pp. 11–12).

14 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 9–10, 39, 53, 347–49 (letter from Seidel dated 3 August 1696), 382–83. The identity of the À ddler whom Seidel mentioned during his consistorial hearing in Leipzig in December 1696 is unclear (p. 39).

15 R[ichard] Franke, “Geschichte der evangelischen Privatbeichte in Sachsen,” Beiträge zur Sächsischen Kirchengeschichte 19 (1905): 48–51, 75.

16 AFSt/H D 83, p. 349. By May 1697, Steiner had a number of supporters whom Seidel refused to absolve (pp. 52–55). In several letters to the superintendent, Seidel named the unrepentant in Wolkenburg and the neighboring communities (pp. 77, 86, 91, 97, 117, 435).

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In trying to prohibit music, Seidel could not avoid provoking a serious dispute. For starts, the Saxon church ordinances clearly permitted communal dances and thus the performance of lively, entertaining music.

Villagers could hold a dance annually during Shrovetide and at the ale commemorating the consecration of the local church ( kirmes) as well as after the afternoon sermon ( vesperpredigt) on each Sunday between Pentecost Tuesday and Michaelmas. In part, the authorities permitted these

dances in order to prevent young people from improvidently spending

their wages and perhaps even their inheritances at dances in neighbor-

ing territories and thus depriving the Saxon state of any À nancial gain.

The authorities also did not want intoxicated adolescents and young

adults to return home from these dances late at night, when either brutal À ghts with injuries and death could occur or amorous couples could

slip away to bed. Thus the 1580 church ordinance permitted village

dances only during daylight.17 Indeed, Jakob Andreae, the inÁ uential

South German theologian who carefully supervised the preparation of

this ordinance, afÀ rmed unequivocally in a report from February 1579

that dancing itself was not sinful. He acknowledged, however, that some members of the Saxon territorial diet, which, during its meeting in

Torgau, had deliberated a draft of the ordinance, wanted to prohibit

dancing because it occasioned drunkenness and indiscipline.18

Sanctioning only chaste merriments, the church ordinance prohibited

dancing with spinning and lewd gestures. This prohibition may have

given Seidel some leverage in his efforts to banish music and dancing.

The pastor of Wolkenburg insisted that all lively, entertaining dancing unavoidably caused sinful behavior. His lapidary remark that “[t]he

abuse is inseparable” encapsulated his views. The inseparability of

dancing and moral abuse stemmed partially from the amorous kissing,

caressing, and embracing that occurred at village festivals and from

17 Emil Sehling, ed., Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des XVI. Jahrhunderts, vol. 1, Sachsen und Thüringen, nebst angrenzenden Gebieten. Erste Hälfte, ed. Emil Sehling (Leipzig, 1902), 442. See also SHStA Dresden, Loc. 9357/9, fols. 22r–23r, 38r.

18 “Den Tantz betreffende, das derselbe nicht gentzlich abgehen werde, hat seine vrsachen, denn mann nicht Sünde machen soll, das an Jm selbst nicht Sünde ist.

Wie Salomon schreibet, Tantzen hatt seine Zeitt. Aber Ehebrechen ist Zu aller Zeitt vorbotten vnnd Sünde. Das er aber auch wiederumb auf alle Sontag erleübet, wie in der Lanndtschaft er Jnnerung vermeldet, Jst auch nicht thuelich, Vnnd da Christliche Zucht dabey gehaltten, were auch wohl maß zuÀ nden, allein das die Vnzucht vnnd schwelgerey, umb welcher willen, damit das Bier ausgetruncken werde villeicht so hefftigt[ ?], von ettlichen darauff gedrungen, dabey, wie auch anders so hie er jnnert, gentzlichen abgeschaft würde” (SHStA Dresden, Loc. 9357/7, fol. 21v.).

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the peasants’ supposed inability to moderate their behavior.19 More-

over, Seidel also pointed to a passage in the church ordinance that, he claimed, expressed the desirability of eventually abolishing all popular dances.20 In short, Saxon law could support strongly different views

about the permissibility of dancing.

Seidel also courted trouble because the Saxon church constitution

did not grant a pastor the authority to withhold absolution. In general, after hearing a confession, the pastor admonished the penitent, who

then agreed to better himself or herself. Thereupon the pastor spoke

the words of absolution. But a notorious sinner who had repeatedly

disregarded these admonitions and showed no promise of reform prob-

ably bore an impenitent heart and thus deserved the small ban. The

decision to impose the ban did not rest with the pastor, however. Instead he had to inform his superiors, who would investigate the matter and

determine whether or not the sinner deserved admission to the Lord’s

Supper. As might be expected, peccadillos did not justify exclusion from Communion; the serious sins that did were typically sexual offences,

chronic drunkenness, religious heterodoxy, and the like.21 Thus, when

Seidel counseled and admonished Steiner to cease performing music

and dutifully notiÀ ed his superiors of the À ddler’s supposed unwillingness to better himself, they repeatedly instructed the pastor to grant absolution.22 In stubbornly disobeying his superiors, Seidel ensured

their intervention.

19 Christoph Matthäus Seidel, Christliches und erbauliches Gespräch Von Zechen, Schwelgen, Spielen und Tantzen, Darinnen aus Gottes-Wort, Lutheri Schrifften, Catechismo, Libris Symbolicis und Kirchen-Ordnung deutlich erwiesen wird, Daß dergleichen Fleischliche Wollüste nicht zugelassenes Mittel-Dinge, sondern allerdings verdammliche Sünden seyn. . . . (Halle, 1698), appendix: 51–52; AFSt/H D 83, pp. 41–42, 43, 49, 56, 374.

20 The passage reads, “und gewisslich nichts bessers were, denn das solche Á eischliche wollust und das daraus folgende ergernis genzlichen abgeschaffet und ernstlich darob gehalten würde,” although it is by no means clear whether the “carnal passions” refer speciÀ cally to dancing or to the mischievous nocturnal activities of adolescents and young adults (Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen, 1:442). See also SHStA Dresden, Loc. 9357/9, fol. 22r–v. For Seidel’s invocation of this passage, see AFSt/H D 83, pp. 161, 175–76.

21 Franke, “Geschichte der evangelischen Privatbeichte,” 66–71. For the pertinent passages in the 1580 Saxon church ordinance concerning admonitions and the ban, see also Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen, 1:395–96, 431.

22 Seidel detailed his conversations with Steiner from October 1696 to March 1697

(AFSt/H D 83, pp. 382–93).

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2

Seidel wanted to punish moral adiaphora. He probably drew consid-

erable inspiration from the zealous and deeply fervent radical Pietists in Gotha who, since the early 1690s, inveighed against popular entertainments. To Seidel, moral adiaphora, despite their seeming triviality, wedged open and thus exposed society to consumption by far more

virulent sins. Invoking the À rst Christians, he had to condemn secular amusements and work to suppress them entirely.23

But suppressing moral adiaphora completely would undoubtedly

require the disciplining of many villagers. Seidel did not shrink back from such a prospect and saw no reason, at least in theory, not to

exclude everyone from the Lord’s Supper. Neither leniency nor a

modest appreciation of the deep-rootedness of traditional forms of

leisure and sociability in village life inÁ uenced any of his calculations.

SigniÀ cantly, in Seidel’s consistorial hearing in February 1698, August Benedikt Carpzov charged that Seidel “wants to purify the church

completely, like the Donatists. If one could only achieve that. . . . If he wants that, then he must exclude from confession not only this À ddler [Steiner] but the entire congregation, all of whom dance.” Seidel responded À rmly, “If I know of someone who danced, I do not admit

him unless he renounces.”24

23 In January 1700, Seidel wrote: “Denn wo wider Gottes Wort den Welt- Menschen und Teuffel nur ein Haarbreit eingeräumet wird, daß unter dem Namen der Mittel-Dinge (desen nichtigen Feigenblats sich ja alle Christen schämen solten, diese teuÁ ische Sünden-Blösse des alten Adams damit zudecken; da auch die Heyden sich davor entsetzet, die ersten Christen aber, welches Ew. hochEhrw. Magnif. nach der grossen Erfahrung in der Kirchen-Historie sattsam bekant, ganz verÁ ucht haben) solche Á eischl.

Lüste indulgiret werden, so nehmen sie den gantzen Leib und Seele, die gantze oder meiste Zeit des Lebens ein, bleiben nicht in einem grad, sondern steigen, ach! daß wirs doch ietzo in unsern Landen mit dem größten Schaden und Verlästerung des Namens Christi nicht sehen müßten! so hoch, daß alle heydnische Greuel dadurch zu Heiligkeiten, und ärgsten schandhaftesten Heyden, Sardanapal, und andere, dadurch fromm gemacht werden” (AFSt/H D 83, p. 127). Concerning Seidel’s correspondence in the late 1690s with the Gotha Pietists Johann Conrad Keßler and Heinrich Fergen, see below.

24 August Benedikt Carpzov: “[Seidel will] die Kirche ganz rein haben, wie die Donatisten; Wenns nur dahin zubringen wäre. . . . Wenn er so wil, so müß er nicht nur diesen BierÀ edler, sondern seine gantze Gemeine vom Beichtstuhl abhalten, die alle tantzen.” Seidel: “So ich iemand weiß, der noch tantzet, den lasse ich nicht zu, er sage denn ab” (AFSt/H D 83, p. 71). One should not confuse August Benedikt Carpzov (1644–1708), professor of law in Leipzig and Merseburg who sat on the Leipzig consistory, with Johann Benedikt Carpzov II (see above), professor of theology, moral theology, and oriental languages in Leipzig and one of the most bitter opponents of OCKER1_f22_397-424.indd 405

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Church authorities never succeeded in shaking Seidel’s conviction that those who did not sincerely renounce secular amusements should not

receive confessional absolution. This conviction sprang not only from

a personal abhorrence of moral adiaphora but also from a conscience

gnawed by fear and anxiety. Seidel claimed that he himself would sin

if he absolved the unrepentant and thus admitted them to the Lord’s

Supper. The common man, Seidel rightly suspected, believed that

private confession effected absolution ex opere operato, whereby the

pastor perforce forgave the sinner who correctly performed the rite and spoke the formulaic words of contrition. Thus Seidel doubted that the villagers who approached the confessional regretted their sins sincerely and wanted henceforth to live righteously. But in becoming a minister, Seidel had sworn to absolve only those who were truly repentant. If

he should fail to do so, Seidel would misuse the powers of the keys,

giving the sinner the mistaken impression of God’s forgiveness. Such

a failure would amount to a sin. This prospect produced the fear and

anxiety that prevented Seidel from absolving men and women who

did not renounce music and dancing. Unless one demonstrated from

Scripture that the unrepentant should receive confessional absolution, Seidel, as a matter of conscience, had to disobey his superiors who

commanded him to absolve.25

Seidel’s troubles rooted in his understanding of confession and its

function in preparing only worthy congregants to receive the Lord’s

Supper. His conception reÁ ected a growing concern of Pietists across the German territories. Since the mid-1670s, individual radical Pietist pastors like Samuel Nethenus (1628–1707) and Reiner Copper (1643–

93), both nominally of the Reformed faith, had been trying to prevent unworthy congregants from receiving Communion; their efforts resulted

in their repeated suspension and dismissal from their pastoral ofÀ ces.26

The so-called Saalhof Pietists, the À rst separatists to break away in the 1670s from the circle of supporters that Spener had gathered in

the Pietists ( Deutsche biographische Enzyklopädie [ Munich, 1995–2000], s.vv. “Carpzov, August Benedikt” and “Carpzov, Johann Benedikt II”).

25 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 11–12, 17, 40, 180–81, 368. See also Seidel, Christliches und erbauliches Gespräch, 86–87, 88, 94–95. That the common man did indeed regard confession as an opus operatum, see Hans-Christoph Rublack, “Lutherische Beichte und Sozialdisziplinierung,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 84 (1993): 147, 153.

26 Johann Friedrich Gerhard Goeters, “Der reformierte Pietismus in Deutschland 1650–1690,” in Der Pietismus, ed. Brecht, 268–69; Schneider, “Der radikale Pietismus,”

399.

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Frankfurt, criticized the practices of the Lutheran church for administering the Lord’s Supper.27 The Berlin confession controversy ( Berliner Beichtstuhlstreit) marked a highpoint in this development. In 1695, more than a year before Seidel À rst refused to absolve Steiner, Johann Caspar Schade (1666–98), deacon of Berlin’s St. Nikolai Church, began to

insist in public sermons that the unrepentant should not receive abso-

lution. Deeply troubled by pangs of conscience over the admission of

the unworthy to Communion, Schade soon sharpened his critique of

the rite of penance and broadly denounced the failings of the secular authorities and the Lutheran church in Brandenburg. Unlike Seidel,

however, Schade never attempted to impose strict church discipline by

refusing to absolve the reputedly unrepentant; instead he requested that his fellow ministers assume his responsibility for hearing confession.

Moreover, the controversy apparently did not touch directly the coun-

tryside or, for that matter, most towns in Brandenburg. After Schade’s untimely death in July 1698 and the promulgation in November of the

elector’s decision to allow upstanding congregants in Berlin and Cölln an der Spree (but nowhere else) to receive the Lord’s Supper without À rst confessing privately to a clergyman, the controversy ended. Although

satisfying the Pietist claim that the reborn did not need private con-

fession to prepare themselves to receive the Sacrament, the decision

clearly did not represent a tightening of church and social discipline.28

In this respect, the Berlin confession controversy differed signiÀ cantly from the Seidel affair.

In the mid- and late 1690s, several works debated issues concerning

confession, absolution, and moral adiaphora. Drawn almost immediately

into the controversy that Schade had triggered, Philipp Jakob Spener,

then the rector of St. Nikolai Church in Berlin, published in 1695 his 27 Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,” 317; Schneider, “Der radikale Pietismus,”

399–400.

28 During the controversy, Philipp Jakob Spener acknowledged that many people falsely regarded confession as an opus operatum. Helmut Obst, Der Berliner Beichtstuhlstreit. Die Kritik des Pietismus an der Beichtpraxis der Lutherischen Orthodoxie (Witten, 1972), 22–23, 26–46, 105, 114–16; Ryoko Murakami-Mori, “Der Berliner Beichtstuhlstreit: Frömmigkeit und Zeitwende im späten 17. Jahrhundert,” Pietismus und Neuzeit 17 (1991): 62–94; Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,” 354–56; Mary Fulbrook, Piety and Politics: Religion and the Rise of Absolutism in England, Württemberg and Prussia (Cambridge, Eng., 1983), 160–62. It is worth noting that in at least some of the rural parishes of the margraviate Brandenburg-Ansbach, a Lutheran territory, group confession had begun to replace private confession by 1720, a change that also diminished the clergy’s ability to exercise any sort of social control (Rublack, “Lutherische Beichte,” 145–47, 154).

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sermon Des Beichtwesens in der Evangelischen Kirchen rechter Gebrauch und Miß-

brauch, an unsuccessful attempt at reconciling the critics and opponents of auricular confession. Less than a year later, Schade’s short pamphlet Vom Conscientia erronea, oder also genannten Irrigen Gewissen eines Predigers Wegen Absolution und Ausztheilung des H. Abendmahls: Einige Fragen vorgestellet appeared. Although the authorities promptly seized the available copies, they could not prevent an anonymous reprinting of a substantial

portion of the pamphlet in 1697.29 Also in that year, Justinus Töllner, pastor of Panitzsch, published a detailed account of his repeated clashes with church authorities over his refusal to absolve villagers who did not renounce partaking in future Pentecostal beer festivals. These clashes led to Töllner’s suspension and then dismissal.30 In 1698, Seidel’s work Christliches und erbauliches Gespräch Von Zechen, Schelgen, Spielen und Tantzen, without referring speciÀ cally to the events in Wolkenburg, argued that pastors should not absolve those who refused to renounce drinking,

gambling, dancing, and other moral adiaphora, and the radical Pietist

Johann Konrad Dippel (1673–1734) published Der vor dem Thron der

Wahrheit angeklagte Beicht-Vatter, which forcefully expounded the radical Pietist critique of confession.31 In 1699, Seidel reentered the fray with Christ-Lutherische Unterredung Uber Hr. D. Joh. Deutschmanns Tractat, Der Christ-Lutherischen Kirchen Prediger Beichte und Beicht-Stuhl.32 All these works À nally drew a formidable rebuttal from the jurist Gottlieb Gerhard Titius (1661–1714), who in 1701 and 1704, responding directly to Töllner’s

arguments, contended that clergymen did not have the authority to

refuse to admit reputedly unrepentant sinners to the Sacrament.33 This rebuttal soon came under À re, however, in Siegismund Bärensprung’s

Rechtmäßige Abhaltung Der Offenbar-Unbußfertigen Vom Beichtstuhl und Abend-29 Obst, Der Berliner Beichtstuhlstreit, 23–26, 31–44, analyzes both Spener’s sermon and Schade’s pamphlet. The anonymous reprinting bears the title Die Schändliche Praxis des Beichtsthuhls und Nachtmahls des Herrn (n.p., 1697).

30 Unrechtmäßige Absetzung.

31 Schneider, “Der radikale Pietismus,” 417.

32 Walch, Historische und theologische Einleitung, 2:479, 5:94.

33 Gottlieb Gerhard Titius, Eine Probe des Deutschen Geistlichen Rechts, wie selbiges ohne Päbstische und papenzende Verfälschung, auch andere unförmliche Verwirrung, aus den Grundsätzen Göttl. Rechte, zum Gebrauch Protestirender Staaten, in richtiger Ordnung etwa könte fürgestellet werden (Frankfurt, 1701), and Fernere Ausführung Seiner, In der Probe des Teutschen Geistlichen Rechts Fürgetragenen Lehre Vom Päbstischen Mißbrauch des Binde-Schlüssels wieder Hrn. Justini Töllners Vermeynte Deutliche Widerlegung (n.p., 1704). In 1703 Töllner reissued Unrechtmäßige Absetzung with an appendix that attempted to refute Titius’s arguments.

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mahl, a long pamphlet challenging the juristic arguments.34 Representing only a fraction of the more than À ve hundred polemical pieces that

appeared during the Pietist controversy, the publications on confes-

sion, absolution, and moral adiaphora nevertheless deserve attention.35

These writings suggest that the nature of church discipline had become sharply more contested.

Seidel’s understanding of confession and church discipline may

partly account for his apparent lack of interest in any form separatism.

If, in August Benedikt Carpzov’s mind, Seidel wanted to emulate the

Donatists, he certainly did not share their conviction that those who

had fallen from the “pure” church had become spiritually unregenera-

tive. Seidel implicitly believed and sometimes explicitly afÀ rmed that effective church discipline, including the imposition of the small ban, would not only maintain the congregation’s ritual purity respecting the celebration of the Lord’s Supper but would also heal the fallen and

make them worthy of partaking of the Sacrament. Thus he sharpened

church discipline not only to assuage his troubled conscience but also to effect real change. He truly wanted to banish secular music and dancing, thereby religiously sanitizing time-honored cultural practices of peasant social life. In contrast to many late seventeenth-century Pietists who bewailed the sinfulness of court culture and vanities of city life, Seidel was one of a small handful of pastors who tried to bring Pietist social discipline to the countryside. Given this purpose, Seidel never expressed any intention to gather the reborn and establish a congregation independent of the ofÀ cial church.

But Seidel may have set the bar too high by demanding that his

villagers satisfy moral norms that most could not possibly satisfy. The Leipzig consistory confronted Seidel with this issue by characterizing 34 Siegismund Beerensprung, Rechtmäßige Abhaltung Der Offenbar-Unbußfertigen Vom Beichtstuhl und Abendmahl, Aus Heiliger Schrifft Kürtzlich, iedoch gründlich, bewiesen, Und Der irrigen Meynung Herrn D. Titii, Juris-Consulti in Leipzig, Da Er Wider Herrn Justini Töllners Apologetische Schrifft zu behaupten sich bemühet, als ob Gott offenbar-Unbußfertige, z. e. Säuffer, Hurer, Spieler, Balger u. vom Beichtstuhl und Heil. Abendmahl abzuhalten, verboten habe (Halle, 1705). In 1703 Bärensprung was dismissed as the pastor of Tautenhain; in 1705 he became the superintendent and provost in Angermünde (Otto Fischer, Evangelisches Pfarrerbuch für die Mark Brandenburg seit der Reformation [Berlin, 1941], s.v. “Bärensprung, Siegismund”).

35 I have not listed all the authors whose publications treat these topics. For a fuller account, see Walch, Historische und theologische Einleitung, 2:475–89, 5:80–99.

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his moral rigorism as excessively severe.36 The pastor responded cagily in the apologia that he submitted in 1700 to the Upper Consistory in

Dresden. He claimed À rst that Christ’s yoke is not too hard for the

true Christian, without commenting on the identity and number of

true Christians. Then the pastor explicitly declined to explain in detail whether a sharper church discipline would actually change the behavior of the many or merely restrict Communion to the few. SigniÀ cantly,

however, he closed his defense by noting: “I cannot hide one thing,

however. Since this teaching on the rejection of all worldly desires is not just too severe but entirely impossible for natural man, and nevertheless my congregation, through the power of the Holy Spirit and divine bless-ings, has accepted this teaching and begun such a rejection . . . I have an unassailable witness that this teaching, far from treating the people too harshly, must be divine. . . . Praise God that my congregation itself can truthfully demonstrate that no one was treated too severely.”37 Seidel apparently held a trump card: he succeeded in bringing the villagers

of Wolkenburg to heel. This success did not come easily.

If for some reason Seidel had concluded that church discipline

could not bring about such a change, he would have found himself in

a troubling predicament, faced with three unattractive choices. First, he could surrender by abandoning the use of church discipline to

create a godly society. But this surrender is precisely the deÀ ciency of the ofÀ cial church that the Pietists so trenchantly condemned. Seidel himself had already expressed profound dismay over this deÀ ciency in his own superintendent, who in 1696 wrote that “the keys have been

taken from our hands, and one should also use no force in the church.

We have not been instructed to drag people by the hair into heaven.

Instead our charge is: Dixisti, et liberasti animam tuam. Since God himself tolerates such disreputable sinners, we must have all the more patience with the tares and not have an ecclesiam puram; À nally the ordained secular 36 “Der Hauptsache setzet der Bericht ferner entgegen, daß allzuharte mit den Leuten verfahren werde, wenn sie allen solchen Ergötzligkeiten absagen solten” (AFSt/H

D 83, p. 156).

37 “Eins aber kan ich nicht verbergen, daß ich eben daraus, weil diese Lehr von Ver-leugnug aller weltlichen Lüste dem natürlichen Menschen nicht nur allzuhart, sondern ganz unmöglich ist, und dennoch meine Gemeine durch die Kraft des Wortes, Heiligen Geistes und göttlichen Segens dieselbe angenommen, und in solche Verleugnung zutreten angefangen hat . . . ein unverwerfÁ ich Zeugniß habe, daß nicht zuhart mit den Leuten verfahren werde, sondern es allerdings eine göttliche Lehre seyn müsse. . . . Gott sey Lob, daß meine Gemeine selbst in der Wahrheit bezeugen kan, daß mit niemand allzuhart verfahren worden!” (AFSt/H D 83, pp. 157–59).

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authorities can in an instant achieve more with their punishments than we can with a 1,000 admonitory sermons.”38

Second, Seidel could continue to impose the ban, knowing that most

of those excluded from the Holy Sacrament would persist in leading

ungodly lives. This course would uphold ritual purity, but only at the considerable cost of bitterly dividing the congregation into the few

who succeeded in forgoing music and dancing and the many who

did not. Such a situation would only breed communal rancor.39 Thus

the most palatable of the choices would in all likelihood be the third: separatism. The reputed true believers could turn their backs on the

unredeemable church and assemble as an independent congregation.

Indeed, between 1670 and 1710, many radical Pietists did just that,

establishing separatist congregations that, unlike the ofÀ cial church, kept the impious from receiving Communion and, equally important,

afforded refuge from harassment by secular and ecclesiastical authorities.

In withdrawing from the world, such congregations separated the true

Christians, who could follow demanding moral strictures, from those

unable to renounce worldly pleasures.

Apparently disinclined to consider separatism, Seidel had to overcome

stiff village resistance against the suppression of music and dancing.

During the controversy’s À rst six years, Seidel made little headway.

His personal notes, letters, and reports to the superintendent indicate that only a few villagers in Wolkenburg had accepted his demanding

moral strictures. This was not for lack of effort. Particularly between October 1696 and March 1697, Seidel repeatedly urged the musician Steiner in long and intensive private conversations to reform but achieved little.40 Moreover, the villagers countered Seidel’s efforts with 38 “[D]aß uns der Bindeschlüssel aus den Händen genommen, und wie also in der Kirchen keine Macht zugebrauchen, uns auch nicht befohlen sey, daß wir die Leute mit den Haaren zum Himmel ziehen solten, sondern es heisse: Dixisti, et liberasti animam tuam. Da auch Gott solche ruchlose Sünder vertrage, müßten wir um so viel mehr Geduld mit den Unkraut haben, wie doch hier Ecclesiam puram nicht haben würden, die ordentl. Obrigkeit endlich mit ihrer Straffe auf einmal mehr ausrichte, als wir mit 1000 Strafpredigten” (AFSt/H D 83, p. 11).

39 For an example of how the exclusion of just a few individuals from Communion could seriously disrupt social relations within the village, see David Sabean, Power in the Blood: Popular Culture and Village Discourse in Early Modern Germany (Cambridge, Eng., 1984), 37–60.

40 In the late spring or summer of 1697, Seidel noted that a few villagers had reformed (AFSt/H D 83, pp. 57, 382–93). During a local visitation in 1699, Seidel outlined his understanding of his pastoral obligations. They included: administering various examinations in order to monitor and deepen his parishioners’ understanding OCKER1_f22_397-424.indd 411

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cunning deception. In early April 1698, the pastor reported excitedly

to the Leipzig consistory that all his congregants, including the À ddlers Steiner and Friedrich, had À nally repented. But the repentance was

short lived; Seidel’s opponents wanted only to satisfy their customary obligation to receive the Lord’s Supper on Palm and Easter Sundays.

On Easter Monday and Tuesday, these villagers resumed their sinful

drinking and misbehaving.41

Seidel’s first real successes came in early August 1698, when a

powerful cyclone passed near the village of Uhlsdorf, destroying sev-

eral hundred trees and prompting a handful of villagers to repent.

Almost four months later, a second frightening storm struck, produc-

ing additional repenters.42 These villagers, for whom Seidel probably

interpreted the terrifying storms as signs of divine anger at the vices that he sought to eradicate,43 now took his teachings to heart. Thus

the pastor of Wolkenburg gathered a core of supporters who accepted

his moral rigorism.44

Despite these conversions, Seidel felt beleaguered. He suspected that

the villagers’ recalcitrance was actually increasing, and the insecurity of his pastoral ofÀ ce aggravated his sense of vulnerability. The villagers, he feared, realized that the threat of his suspension or removal loomed and that the ecclesiastical authorities did not support him in any substantive way. The villagers also doubted that the secular authorities would prohibit dancing and knew that neighboring pastors behaved indecorously.

Moreover, some, like the minister from Niederfrohna, directly challenged Seidel’s teachings about the sinfulness of dancing. Overall, however, the situation in Wolkenburg remained Á uid, and Seidel, in December

of religious doctrine; having lay moral censors ( censore morum) to help in enforcing godly behavior; arranging for peasant households, even the poorest, to own at least a copy of the New Testament; suppressing various vices; and enforcing better school attendance. Clearly Seidel wanted to provide all his congregants with intensive pastoral care (AFSt/H D 83, pp. 502–4).

41 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 75–77.

42 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 87–88, 97.

43 AFSt/H D 83, p. 2.

44 Thus, when complaining in a letter of 28 November 1698 that the pastor of Niederfrohna openly preached in Kaufungen that dancing was not sinful but a pastime of the young (“Lust der Jugend”), Seidel noted that some of his parishioners who attended this sermon were saddened, others scandalized to hear such teaching.

These disappointed parishioners apparently accepted Seidel’s views on the sinfulness of dancing (AFSt/H D 83, p. 101).

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1698, referred to the existence of two distinct factions, the unrepentant and his supporters “who followed the Word of God.”45

In 1699, events turned decisively in the pastor’s favor. Around March, Seidel felt that the villagers’ obstreperousness had diminished. Although he learned in September that some parishioners had À led a formal

complaint against him, the consistory showed little zeal in pursuing the matter. Moreover, the departure of the rent collector ( Schosser), perhaps Seidel’s most formidable opponent in Wolkenburg, also worked in his

favor. In the following months, Seidel won further supporters so that

only the two À ddlers and a handful of agricultural servants remained impenitent.46 In March 1700, Blasius Steiner, the À ddler whom Seidel

had tried to reform for the last eight years, À nally relented. Steiner even sold his À ddle so as to mute the temptation to music again.47

3

The speciÀ c reasons for Seidel’s success in À nally winning the support of his rural parishioners remain somewhat unclear. Nevertheless, his

papers occasionally highlight a few fault lines in village society along which resistance to the Pietists’ efforts to punish moral adiaphora most likely emerged. Age probably deÀ ned the most prominent line. The

attack against moral adiaphora, particularly music and dancing, affected adolescents and young adults most directly. Thus Seidel referred to

secular amusements as the “Lüsten der Jugend,” and he often identi-

À ed agricultural servants and the sons and daughters of villagers as the unrepentant who persisted in dancing to music.48 In many respects, the pastor of Wolkenburg’s campaign amounted to an assault on youth

culture. Moreover, agricultural servants could indirectly transmit their 45 “[ M ]eine übrigen dem Worte Gottes folgende Zuhörer” (AFSt/H D 83, pp. 98, 104). The divisions in the village at this time were shifting for, as Seidel noted, some parishioners improved their behavior while others joined the unrepentant (p. 106). In a letter to the superintendent on 31 July 1699, Seidel named some villagers who had recently joined the unrepentant (pp. 117, 456). Concerning Niederfrohna’s minister, see previous note.

46 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 116, 118–19, 125, 130, 463 (letter from Seidel to Einsiedel, 6 January 1700).

47 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 131, 464. Georg Friedrich, the other renitent À ddler, repented at this time also.

48 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 59, 97, 123, 172; Seidel, Christliches und erbauliches Gespräch, 1–53, attacks generally the pastimes of adolescents and young adults.

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discontent to other segments of rural society. In trying to suppress music and dancing in Wolkenburg, Seidel tarnished the parish’s attractiveness for servants seeking employment. Thus their supply began to shrink,

which triggered in turn the angry complaints of substantial peasants

who relied upon the labor of agricultural servants.49 This constellation of factors—adolescents, young adults, and agricultural servants—also

loomed large in Henningsleben, a village À ve kilometers from Lan-

gensalza (today Bad Langensalza) in Thuringia, where Pastor Johann

Christian Arnold (d. 1728) attempted to enforce the Pietist prohibition of secular amusements. The local lord, Caspar Adam von Berlipsch,

was Arnold’s antagonist. He forged an alliance with the village youth, allegedly convincing two servants to revoke their promise to the pastor to cease dancing on Sundays and not intervening in any way when the

young attacked the pastor’s house. In a grievance letter submitted in

1701 to the Leipzig consistory, the villagers complained that the reluctance of servants to live in or come to Henningsleben because of the discord would result in the parish’s material ruin.50

The social and economic dimensions of village life do not adequately

illuminate the reasons for Seidel’s eventual triumph, however. Instead one should focus on Seidel himself and the tenor of the times. As the turn of the century approached, eschatological fervor increased signiÀ -

cantly, propelling the pastor of Wolkenburg. Already in August 1692,

the superintendent of Borna suspected Seidel of chiliasm and noti-

À ed the Leipzig consistory accordingly. Thus when Seidel appeared

before the consistory in September, his interrogators questioned him

about millenarianism. Although he did not know when the millennium

would begin, Seidel did not doubt the accuracy of the biblical prophecy.

49 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 457–58, 459, 463–64. Seidel also noted the difÀ culty of attracting servants when he later served as the pastor of Schönberg in the Altmark (“Seidels Nachricht,” 238.)

50 AFSt/H D 70, fols. 43v–44v, 62v–63v, 78r, 80r, 118v, 169r, 231v; Verein für Pfar-rerinnen und Pfarrer in der Evangelischen Kirche der Kirchenprovinz Sachsen e.V., ed. Pfarrerbuch der Kirchenprovinz Sachsen (Leipzig, 2003), s.v. “Arnoldi (Arnold), Johann Christian.” In the parish of Saara [Sara and Muckern] in the Duchy of Saxe-Altenburg, where, in the 1690s, the pastor Johann C. Crasselius [Crassel] campaigned against dancing and other popular entertainments, peasants opposed his efforts because agricultural servants ceased coming to the parish (D.J. Löbe and E. Löbe, Geschichte der Kirchen und Schulen des Herzogthums Sachsen-Altenburg mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Ortsgeschichte

[Altenburg, 1886], 1: 60). For an example of similar behavior by sixteenth-century adolescents, see Gerald Strauss, “Success and Failure in the German Reformation,”

Past and Present, no. 67 (1975): 57.

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In a subsequent hearing in March 1693, the consistory charged Seidel

with chiliasm and the subversive belief in the destruction of the secular authorities who opposed Christ.51

In September 1695, in a letter to his fellow pastor Nicolaus Schmidt,

Seidel afÀ rmed his conviction in the coming of the millennium.52 In

the following years, chiliastic beliefs circulated among the peasants in Wolkenburg and the surrounding villages. The extent to which Seidel

himself propagated these beliefs remains unclear, but in February or

March 1699, when his parishioners’ enthusiasm for chiliasm appar-

ently began to sag, he responded with unshakable determination.

Seidel remarked in his records, “Susan indicates that many people

were speaking disrespectfully about the millennium and the conversion

of the Jews, the double resurrection, as if these teachings were untrue and even though it is found in the bible, preachers had to swear not to sermonize about them. Thus [ I ] can no longer remain silent but will

preach the truth every Sunday as best I can. O Jesus, your kingdom

comes. Amen.”53 Not long after, Seidel noted that Johann Christian

Günther, pastor in the neighboring village of Niederwiera, had advised him not to preach from Apocalypse, whose prophecies did not accord

with Article 17 of the Augsburg Confession.54 These urgent comments

strongly suggest that the peasants of Wolkenburg were familiar with

some central tenets of millenarianism: the conversion of the Jews

would precede Judgement Day [ Romans (11: 25)] and the resurrection

of the martyrs and Christ’s millennial rule would precede the general resurrection [ Revelation (20: 4–13)]. Moreover, the authorities had

apparently pressured some pastors to cease preaching on these subjects.

Finally, Seidel had now resolved to defend chiliastic doctrines publicly and ceaselessly.

51 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 214, 218–19, 236–39, 252, 483–92; SHStA Dresden, Loc 10329/7, fols. 332r–333v, 335r–v.

52 AFSt/H D 83, p. 431.

53 “Müllers Susan zeigt an, daß so viel Leute von den 1000 Jahren lasterlich redeten, it von bekehrung der Jüden, it gedoppelten auferstehung, als obs irrige Lehre wäre und die Prediger obs gleich in der Bibel Stünde verschweren müßen davon zupredigen.

daher nicht länger schweigen kan, sondern die Wahrheit dagegen auch alle Sontage zupredigen mich entschloßen, so in einginge[ ?] geschehen kan. O Jesu dein Reich komme. Amen” (AFSt/H D 83, p. 436). The approximate date of Seidel’s note is probably February 1699. The entry comes between the excerpt of a letter dated 8

February 1699 and an entry dated 22 February (no year mentioned).

54 AFSt/H D 83, p. 436 (entry dated 22 February [1699]); Löbe and Löbe, Geschichte der Kirchen und Schulen, 1: 405.

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Accordingly Seidel delivered at least one À ery sermon on the sinful-

ness of dancing and the threat of eternal damnation. On 31 March

1699, around the time that Seidel felt that he was making some head-

way in Wolkenburg, he warned his parishioners that those who refused

to renounce dancing and sought confession outside the parish would

crawl in hell along with the minister who supposedly absolved their

sins. The menacing language provoked the rent collector to disrupt the sermon three times by loudly stamping his feet and then to leave the

church altogether.55

In a missive penned in early April, Seidel sternly admonished his col-

league Christian Koch, pastor in the neighboring parish of Kaufungen, for rejecting millenarianism. Less than two weeks later Koch parried the charge, noting that the preaching of some pastors (Was Koch referring gingerly to Seidel?) had deeply confused his parishioners. These pastors had asserted that deniers of the millennium would suffer in hell. Some of his parishioners had even read in a book a remarkable interpretation of the Revelation prophecy. In responding to Koch, Seidel approvingly revealed that Töllner, the troublesome pastor of Panitzsch, had written this book.56 The events in Wolkenburg and the surrounding region leave no doubt that a key to Seidel’s success in convincing the À ddler Blasius Steiner and other villagers in 1700 to renounce dancing and playing

music was the heightened eschatological expectations. Similarly, the

events suggest how apocalypticism directly affected the common man

in the countryside.

Chiliasm also accounts for the increasing rancor in Seidel’s relations with Saxony’s ecclesiastical authorities. These relations began to sour quite early. In 1692, when Seidel À rst admonished Blasius Steiner for À ddling on Sundays and reported him to the superintendent, the latter apparently threatened Seidel with either suspension or removal from the pastoral ofÀ ce. In 1696 and early 1697, when he again reported Steiner, 55 AFSt/H D 83, p. 440.

56 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 441–43, 445. The book is probably Justinus Töllner’s Einfältiger und deutlicher, aber doch Schrifftmässiger Unterricht Von dem bald künftigen, herrlichen und gesegneten Tausend-jährigen Reich Christi und seiner Gläubigen, Wobey zugleich von der allgemeinen Bekehrung der Jüden und doppelten leiblichen Auferstehung etwas ausführlich gehandelt wird, Neben einem gründlichen Beweiß, daß die Lehre im heiligen Catechismo, und sonderlich im 2. und 3. Artickel seinen herrlichen Grund habe, Und daß sie der Augspurgischen Confession im geringsten nicht zu wider sey . . . (n.p., 1696), an anonymous publication that scholars have mistakenly attributed to the radical Pietist Johann Wilhelm Petersen. In Unrechtmäßige Absetzung, 164, Töllner described how he confessed his authorship to his superintendent.

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similar threats followed.57 As noted earlier, Seidel appeared before the Leipzig consistory in September 1692 and March 1693. Additional

hearings followed in December 1696, June 1697, and February 1698

because of Seidel’s refusal to admit Steiner and other parishioners to confession and the Lord’s Supper.58 The pastor of Wolkenburg had

suffered several years of harassment, which eroded his conÀ dence in the ofÀ cial church ( Amtskirche). As the seventeenth century drew to a close and the eschatological expectations mounted, Seidel could hardly contain his bitterness and wrath. He erupted shortly after failing to

become the pastor of Großstechau in Thuringia, an ofÀ ce that, in May 1699, the lord of Wolkenburg, Hans Haubold von Einsiedel, asked him

to assume.59 The pastorate of Großstechau lay in the Duchy of Saxe-

Altenburg, a principality held since 1672 by the dukes of Saxe-Gotha, and the Altenburg consistory had to approve Einsiedel’s nomination.

Undertaking the requisite inquiries, the consistory learned of Seidel’s strained relations with the ecclesiastical authorities in electoral Saxony and thus rejected the nomination. In explaining to Hans Haubold

von Einsiedel the reason why his protégé did not receive the pastorate in Großstechau, the Altenburg consistory noted À rst that it suspected Seidel of “Pietism and chiliasm.”60

Seidel held the Leipzig consistory largely responsible for his failure to receive the appointment. Without providing him an opportunity to

defend his actions, the Leipzig consistory reported to the Altenburg

consistory that Seidel had refused to grant absolution to his parishioners and, in October 1699, sent his case to the Upper Consistory in Dresden for adjudication.61 Seidel certainly burned with resentment and thus,

in a letter of January 1700, bitingly criticized the superintendent of Leipzig for his worldliness.

I [Seidel ] would have gladly spoken to your highly venerable magniÀ cence about this matter at your investiture in Leipzig, if I had not seen there so many pastors swamped with business, if I had also not been bowled

57 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 10, 34, 46. The superintendent’s suspicion that Seidel already belonged to the Pietist camp probably accounts for the admonition.

58 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 39, 55–57, 63–73, 374–79.

59 Einsiedel was also the lord of Löbichau, an estate that included Großstechau (Zedler, ed., Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexikon, s.v. “Einsiedel.”).

60 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 404–5, 500 (letter from the Altenburg consistory to Einsiedel, 25 July 1699).

61 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 1, 128, 185–86, 497 (letter from the Leipzig consistory to the Altenburg consistory, 30 June 1699).

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over on the previous day by the luxury and waste of God’s precious gifts at the dinner, luxury and waste that few kings, princes, and lords have and can justify. Because I attended the dinner, I immediately had to feel and hear the pangs of conscience since so many poor teachers (many of whom are also undoubtedly members of Christ) could have been greatly

refreshed from our superÁ uity but instead, in these dear times, had to go hungry and with sighs, not to mention others, who were incensed by

the events or who were tempted to burden their hearts with gluttony

and drunkenness.62

In the same letter, Seidel accused church ofÀ cials of justifying the pursuit of such worldly pleasures through their acceptance of moral adiaphora and warned that God would send horrible punishments in return.63

But resentment alone does not account for Seidel’s vitriol. His alarm

about heavenly afÁ ictions appears as a veiled reference to the coming millennium, a reference that he dared not articulate more forthrightly because of the condemnation of chiliasm in Article 17 of the Augsburg Confession. Seidel again intimated the imminence of God’s coming in

the apologia that he submitted in May 1700 to the Upper Consistory.

“God illuminate our hearts through the Holy Spirit so that we may

recognize the time of our divine judgment, better ourselves, and each according to his calling work for collective reform, so that when God’s righteous punishments of the sins of the land appear, we do not À nd a 62 “Gerne hätte ich, als ich zur investitur zu Leipzig war, mit Ew. HochEhrw. Magn.

mündlich hievon geredet, wo ich nicht bey anwesenheit so vieler Prediger dieselbe mit Geschäften ganz überhäufft gesehen hätte, ich auch nicht durch des Tages vorher geschehenen luxum und verschwendung der theuren Gaben Gottes bey der Mahlzeit, desgleichen kaum Könige, Fürsten und Herren haben und verantworten können, ganz niedergeschlagen worden wäre, weil ich die Bestrafungen des Gewissens gleich empfunden und noch hören muß, daß ich solchen beygewohnet habe, da hingegen so viel arme Schuldiener (unter solchen ohne Zweiffel auch viel Glieder Christi) die von unserm ÜberÁ uß reichlich hätten können erqvicket werden, bey dieser theuren Zeit hungrig und mit Seufzen davon gehen müssen, zugeschweigen anderer, die daran sich geärgert, oder dadurch zur völlerey oder Beschwerung des Herzens mit Fressen und Sauffen gereitzet worden” (AFSt/H D 83, p. 129). In the summer of 1698, the superintendent of Leipzig replaced the superintendent of Borna as Seidel’s superior. Although Seidel’s letter did not name the superintendent, he was Thomas Ittig, whose investiture occurred on 22 November 1699. I am grateful to Tanya Kevorkian for assistance in identifying the superintendent. See Tanya Kevorkian, “The Material of Faith: Religion and Society in Leipzig, 1685–1725” (Ph.D. dissertation, 1997), 20–23.

63 “Ach mein Herz ist so voll ängstlicher Besorgniß, daß wo wir uns nicht bessern, sonderlich aber diese Á eischliche Lehre, als ob dergleichen und obberührten Lüste unter dem Namen der Mittelding erlaubt wären, nicht abgeschafft wird, daß Gott nicht nur mit schrecklichen Strafen uns die Lüste versaltzen, sondern auch dadurch unsere aller-reineste Glaubens-Lehre werden verderbet werden” (AFSt/H D 83, pp. 129–30).

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gnawing worm in our awakened conscience, that we, through neglect

of our duty, hastened the dispensing of the most righteous divine

punishments, which will torment us more painfully hereafter than all

the plagues that will soon descend after God’s righteous judgment.”64

Seidel’s premonition of impending apocalyptic events could only strain his already frayed relations with Saxon church ofÀ cials.

While religious authorities regarded Seidel with displeasure, he

received collegial support from Pietist clergymen, and he encouraged

others to persevere. During a consistorial hearing in June 1697, Seidel disclosed that he and Töllner had corresponded a year earlier about

the latter’s efforts not to admit some of the villagers of Panitzsch to confession and the Lord’s Supper. Seidel noted in his apologia from

1700 that he had consulted with other theologians and preachers before revising and publishing a manuscript concerning music, dancing, and

confession in 1698. In the same year, friends of Seidel published a short exposition on the sinfulness of dancing that he had submitted to the

superintendent of Borna. When Seidel failed to receive the pastorate

in Großstechau, he sought advice from Johann Conrad Keßler and

the superintendent-general Heinrich Fergen, both in Gotha. Keßler

belonged to a circle that denounced moral adiaphora and embraced

chiliasm and that Fergen protected. Seidel’s correspondence with Keßler and Fergen expresses concern for Johann C. Crasselius, a Pietist clergyman dismissed in 1699 from his pastorate in the village of Saara in the Duchy of Saxe-Altenburg after attempting to impose a severe church

discipline similar to that in Wolkenburg. Seidel exchanged letters with Spener in 1697 and reportedly corresponded with Johann Caspar

Schade and August Hermann Francke.65

64 “Gott aber erleuchte unsere [Seidel’s and the Upper Consistory’s] Herzen durch seinen Heiligen Geist, daß wir die Zeit unser gnädigen Heimsuchung noch erkennen, uns selbst bessern, und als dann ein ieder nach seinen Beruf auch an der gemeinen Besserung arbeiten, damit nicht, wenn Gottes gerechte Strafen um der Sünden des Landes willen erwachen, bey aufwachenden Gewissen sich in uns ein nagender Wurm À nde, daß wir durch Unterlassung unserer PÁ icht die Ausschüttung der gerechtesten göttl. Strafen beschleuniget hätten, als welches uns hernach schmerzlicher quälen würde, als alle Plagen die nach Gottes gerechten Gerichten bald anbrechen werden”

(AFSt/H D 83, pp. 172–73).

65 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 62–63, 83, 86–87, 352–55, 375–76, 379, 404–5, 407–8; Philipp Jakob Spener, Letzte Theologische Bedencken und andere BriefÁ iche Antworten, 1711: Nebst einer Vorrede von Carl Hildebrand von Canstein, vol. 3 (Halle, 1711; Hildesheim, 1987), 702–3.

On Keßler and Fergen, see Temme, Krise der Leiblichkeit, 63, 64, 67, 68 n. 226; Brecht,

“Philipp Jakob Spener,” 362; Ritschl, Geschichte des Pietismus, 2:190–92. On Johann C.

Crasselius, see Sachsse, Ursprung und Wesen, 236–39. The hymnist Bartholomäus C.

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Although Seidel could count on the support of a loose network of

other Pietist clergymen, he faced the indomitable opposition of the

church authorities in Leipzig and Dresden. Under these circumstances,

Seidel could never have prevailed in Wolkenburg without the tolera-

tion and protection of the local lord, Hans Haubold von Einsiedel,

who apparently supported the Pietist cause. Before nominating Seidel

in 1691 for the pastorate in Wolkenburg, Einsiedel consulted Philipp

Jakob Spener. In July 1699, two days after Einsiedel had asked Seidel

to become the pastor of Großstechau, some of the leading members

of the unrepentant faction in Wolkenburg presented Einsiedel a formal complaint against their pastor. Einsiedel, it seems, never rebuked Seidel and eventually told the unrepentant that they would have to reform

morally.66 Georg Samuel Thierchen, Einsiedel’s secretary, in language

redolent of Pietist sentiments, expressed to Seidel a genuine interest that he would provide the Á ock in Großstechau with the proper spiritual care.67 Seidel’s theological positions and disciplinary measures received at the very least Einsiedel’s tacit approval. Thus Seidel’s case reÁ ects a broader pattern throughout the German-speaking lands whereby Pietists

achieved some measure of success only through the passive or active

support of those who held political power, be they the Hohenzollern

rulers of Brandenburg-Prussia or the petty princes of minor territories such as the County of Ysenburg-Büdingen.

But in 1700, when German Pietists’ eschatological expectations

reached a feverish pitch, Seidel could viciously lash out at his benefactor. In August the dowager duchess of Altenburg visited Einsiedel, who, according to Seidel, spent lavishly to receive her. After the banquet in the duchess’s honor, the guests danced, which incensed Seidel. In his

letter of 21 August, he minced no words in reproaching Einsiedel and

his family.

And what saddened me the most is that your most honorable excellency,

noblest, noblest consort, children, and attendees themselves danced,

thereby giving the entire parish, indeed the entire territory, a shocking Crasselius was Johann’s brother ( Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie [ Leipzig, 1875–1912], s.v. “Crasselius, Bartholomäus C.”) Francke wrote the preface to Seidel’s Christliches und erbauliches Gespräch.

66 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 394–95, 449–50.

67 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 400–401 (letter of 25 May 1699 to Seidel). Thierchen was responding to Seidel’s letter of 24 May 1699 (pp. 395–99), in which Seidel agreed to become the pastor of Großstechau but brieÁ y noted his personal concerns about the proper administration of confession.

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scandal. . . . You have heard the eternally true teaching of God that dancing is heathenish and you cannot deny it, but nevertheless you contravene this teaching. Now my obstreperous parishioners will brazenly claim that to permit dancing and À ddling, or even to dance oneself, cannot amount to sin, otherwise such esteemed persons or our lord himself would not do it or allow it to happen.68

Despite the submission of the À ddler Blasius Steiner and the other

recalcitrants just a few months earlier, Seidel obviously suspected that the villagers hankered after their sinful pastimes; recidivism posed a real danger.

More importantly, Seidel’s intemperate letter clearly exceeded the

bounds of decorum, for Einsiedel was no minor lord but a court-

aristocrat and an ofÀ cial in the Saxon territorial state. Born in 1654

and designated as a lord-in-waiting to the princess elector in 1679, he was appointed in 1686 as master of the horse at the court of the prince elector, Duke Johann Georg IV of Saxony. Two years later Einsiedel

became the seneschal but then retired to his estates in 1689 because of poor health. In 1694, however, Johann Georg IV, now the elector of

Saxony, appointed Einsiedel as his chamberlain, and in August 1697

the lord of Wolkenburg became a Saxon privy councilor under Fried-

rich August I, the elector and the king of Poland.69 In effect a courtier, Einsiedel fully understood and accepted his obligations in August 1700

to host and entertain the duchess in accordance with her social rank.

But satisfying these obligations did not accord well with his role as

protector of Pietists. Whether Einsiedel actually perceived a tension is unclear, but Seidel quickly realized that his admonitory letter had gravely injured his lord’s dignity. For the next six weeks the pastor of Wolkenburg anguished over the punishment that he rightly deserved. On 7

September he sent Einsiedel a conciliatory letter; therein Seidel asserted repeatedly that his sincere concern for Einsiedel’s spiritual welfare had compelled him to write so compulsively before. Perhaps Seidel knew

68 “Und was vor mich das betrübsteste, so haben Ew. hochherl. Exc. hochadel hochadel [sic] Ehegemal, Kinder, und anwesende selbst mit getantzet, und dadurch dieser gantzen Gemeinde, ja diesem gantzen Land ein erschrecklichstes Ärgerniß gegeben. . . . [ D]ie ewig wahre Lehre Gottes, daß das Tantzen heidnisch, haben Sie gehöret, und können sie nicht leugnen, und thun [sic] dennoch dawieder. Nun werden meine Wiederspänstige Zuhörer ungescheuet sagen: Ein Runda machen laßen, und Tänze À edeln, oder selbst tantzen, muß ja nicht Sünde seyn sonst würden es solche hohe Personen, oder unser Herr selbst nicht thun, oder zu thun verstätten” (AFSt/H

D 83, pp. 467–68).

69 Zedler, ed., Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexikon, s.v. “Einsiedel.”

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at the time that his patron was dying; regardless, Einsiedel never displayed any bitterness or anger toward the censorious pastor. Einsiedel had forgiven Seidel and told him so just hours before passing away.70

4

Ten days before Einsiedel’s death, Baron Carl Hildebrand von Canstein

(1667–1719), Spener’s trusted friend and Francke’s most important

patron in Berlin, asked Seidel to become the pastor of Schönberg, a

village on Canstein’s estate in the Altmark in Brandenburg. Thus, in

November 1700, Seidel left Wolkenburg and never had the opportu-

nity to judge whether his protracted efforts there to introduce a more severe form of church discipline yielded enduring results.71 But what consequences did Seidel draw from his experiences in Wolkenburg, and

how did they guide him during his eight-year tenure in Schönberg? One

thing is certain; Seidel still condemned moral adiaphora and continued to afÀ rm that an upright pastor could bar unrepentant sinners from

confession and the Lord’s Supper. In a report written in 1708 for his

successor in Schönberg, Seidel described how he administered confes-

sion. “Those who live publicly in sin and in those vices that the world no longer regards as sinful such as swearing, immoderate drinking, curs-ing, dancing, gambling, and so forth, they were not accepted without a heartfelt afÀ rmation to sin no more and to improve their lives, so that one does not profane God’s most holy name nor embolden them in their

sinfulness.”72 In all likelihood, the persistence of chiliastic expectations strengthened his resolve, but the admittedly sparse evidence does not

suggest that he achieved much.73

70 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 469–78. Einsiedel died on 1 October 1700.

71 “Seidels Nachricht,” 226–28. On Canstein, see Brecht, “Philipp Jakob Spener,”

354, 358; Brecht, “August Hermann Francke,” 478.

72 “Seidels Nachricht,” 596–97. Published posthumously, Seidel’s report greatly bemoaned the impiety and iniquities of his parishioners. For recent scholarly reÁ ections on the report, see Heinz D. Kittsteiner, Die Entstehung des modernen Gewissens (Frankfurt am Main, 1991), 296–303; Ulrike Gleixner, “Die ‘Ordnung des Saufens’

und ‘das Sündliche erkennen.’ PÀ ngst- und Hütebiere als gemeindliche Rechtskultur und Gegenstand pietistischer Mission (Altmark 17. und 18. Jahrhundert),” in KonÁ ikt und Kontrolle in Gutsherrschaftsgesellschaften: Über Resistenz- und Herrschaftsverhalten in ländlichen Sozialgebilden der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Jan Peters (Göttingen, 1995), 42–43, 47.

73 In 1716, eight years after Seidel’s departure from Schönberg, Canstein appointed the Pietist peasant Jakob Schneider as the warden of the poorhouse there. Schneider OCKER1_f22_397-424.indd 422

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Although Seidel did not surrender, his lengthy report indicates that

the pastoral context in which he exercised ecclesiastical discipline had changed in several respects. In Schönberg, Seidel regularly provided

religious instruction, administered catechism examinations, and held

conventicles and prayer hours; he also abolished fees for hearing

confession in order to reduce the mistrust between himself and his

parishioners.74 He struggled to create a godly congregation and, at the same time, to avoid unnecessary conÁ icts with the peasants. But one

must compare circumspectly the pastoral situations in Wolkenburg and

Schönberg. In the former, Seidel could not work without encumbrance

to improve his parishioners’ religious understanding because he did not enjoy the support of his superintendents and the ecclesiastical authorities in Leipzig and Dresden. He had to justify repeatedly his actions

as pastor, and he appeared before the Leipzig consistory on several

occasions.75 In Schönberg, by contrast, Seidel remained relatively unmo-lested. Brandenburg’s overarching political and ecclesiastical framework differed fundamentally from Saxony’s.

In the last twenty years, scholars have written extensively on social

discipline in central Europe, but they have given little attention to the Pietists’ various attempts in the 1690s to create a godly society. The intellectual debates spawned by these efforts can probably partially

explain why the project of social discipline began to lose force after 1700.76 Before turning to these debates, however, scholars must À rst better appreciate how Pietists like Christoph Matthäus Seidel struggled to achieve moral reform through severe church discipline. This essay has

did not À nd anyone in the parish who shared his religious sensibilities (Ritschl, Geschichte des Pietismus, 2:501, 503, which incorrectly states that Seidel remained in Schönberg until 1717). Seidel afÀ rmed that he had awakened several souls in Schönberg, but of roughly 570 adolescent and adult parishioners, no more than 12 attended his conventicles (“Seidels Nachricht,” 230, 492).

74 “Seidels Nachricht,” 356–60, 365–66, 484–86, 492–94, 589–95, 722–25, 818–31.

75 AFSt/H D 83, pp. 39, 55–57, 63–73, 229–41, 252–64, 374–79, 483–92.

76 In this respect, the Pietist controversy’s role in prompting Christian Thomasius’s critique of moral precisianism seems crucial. See Brecht, “August Hermann Francke,”

503–4; Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung, 456–58. The relations between discipline, social discipline, and Pietist pedagogy in Halle have received scholarly attention, however.

See James Van Horn Melton, Absolutism and the Eighteenth-Century Origins of Compulsory Schooling in Prussia and Austria (Cambridge, Eng., 1988), 23–59; Anthony J. La Vopa, Grace, Talent, and Merit: Poor Students, Clerical Careers, and Professional Ideology in Eighteenth-Century Germany (Cambridge, Eng., 1988), 137–64.

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shown that chiliastic expectations greatly motivated Seidel and perturbed Saxon church ofÀ cials. These expectations also possibly moved peasants to acknowledge the urgency of Seidel’s warnings and forswear at

least temporarily the pleasures of music and dancing. By highlighting the importance of millenarianism, this essay has shown also that the

distinction between radical Pietists and inner-churchly Pietists remained inchoate during the 1690s. Seidel never embraced separatism, but his

uncompromising pursuit of moral reform in preparation for the mil-

lennium posed, from the perspective of Seidel’s superintendents and

the consistories in Leipzig and Dresden, a clear threat to the social and ecclesiastical order. Later, however, Seidel himself stood as one of the pillars of this order. In 1708, after serving in Schönberg for eight years, he became the pastor and inspector of the town of Tangermünde; in

1715 the pastor and inspector of Neustadt-Brandenburg; and in 1717

assistant pastor of Berlin’s St. Nikolai Church and a superintendent.

In 1720 Seidel was inducted into the Royal Prussian Society of Sci-

ences (Königlich-Preußische Societät der Wissenschaften).77 Finally, it is important to recognize that chiliasm and the suppression of moral adiaphora were two closely related but ultimately separate theological issues within the Pietist controversy. By 1710, anticipation of the millennium had subsided considerably, but the demand for moral reform persisted

and eventually gained wider acceptance within the orthodox Lutheran

church. The campaign to suppress moral adiaphora in the 1690s,

illustrated by the case of Christoph Matthäus Seidel, had far-reaching consequences for shaping the clergy’s professional self-identity.

77 “Seidels Nachricht,” 353–54 n., 473–74 n.; Archiv der Franckeschen Stiftungen, Pfarrerkartei der Kirchenprovinz Sachsen. Seidel’s successful career would have perhaps surprised even his benefactor Spener, who, in a letter to Francke in 1699, explained that Seidel, because of his scruples concerning church discipline, would not make a suitable candidate for an appointment in Berlin as Spener’s assistant and possible successor. See Philipp Jakob Spener, Briefwechsel mit August Hermann Francke 1689 –1704, eds.

Johannes Wallmann and Udo Sträter (Tübingen, 2006), letter no. 158 (11 April 1699).

I gratefully thank Professor Sträter for bringing this letter to my attention before the publication of the critical edition of the Spener-Francke correspondence.

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RELIGIOUS WARS AT HOME:

THE PROBLEM OF CONFESSIONALLY MIXED FAMILIES

Craig Harline

A number of years ago in Belgium’s National Archive, my eye was

drawn to an intriguing description of a document listed in the inventory of the “Jesuit Collection.” Of course many documents sound intriguing, only to disappoint when they are À nally in our hands. But this one did not disappoint at all. Here was a detailed journal, kept during 1654,

of a young Dutchman’s secret conversion from the Reformed religion

to Catholicism.

This alone caught my notice, but two other things stood out as well.

First, about half of the journal’s entries were written in code—always a sure way to grab a historian’s attention. And second, enough words

were immediately understandable to determine that this young man’s

father was not merely a member of the Reformed church, but a

preacher. What sort of drama must have gone on here, I mused? And

why were these documents now in Belgium rather than the Nether-

lands? Determined to À nd out, I set myself to breaking the journal’s code. After two or three days of heroic struggle, I did just that, and was quite proud of myself—until I realized that the key to the code had been in plain sight on the journal’s inside cover all the while, written there by a later hand.

I didn’t dwell on this bruise to my ego, for now that I could read the whole I was riveted by the scenes unfolding before my eyes regarding its author, named Jacob Roelants, and his religiously divided family. I also began to think about the larger signiÀ cance of these scenes: what did I know about confessionally mixed families more generally of the time?

A growing body of historical literature on tolerance had already made me aware of the extensive religious diversity in the Dutch Republic,

where this story largely played out. Members of rival confessions lived quite peaceably side by side, a condition broken only occasionally by

À ts of violence, and up to half the people in towns such as Haarlem belonged to no church at all. Yet it now struck me that I had allowed this strong image of relative tolerance among confessions to stop me from

considering the nature of relationships within the many confessionally OCKER1_f23_425-439.indd 425

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mixed homes that surely existed in the Republic, either in the heart

of the land or near its borders with Catholic states. It was one thing to bear the religion of one’s neighbor or grocer, and quite another to bear the conversion or mixed marriage of one’s child.

Despite a number of insightful works regarding mixed families in

France or England, overall this was not a topic which seemed well-

studied, either in the literature on tolerance or in the related bodies of literature on the family and conversion. Yet it must have been a daily problem for tens of thousands around Europe. Not knowing exactly

where to go, I did what many before me have done: I read what I

could and made sure to have a talk with Tom Brady. Few people are

more generous and frank than Tom with encouragement and (when

asked) criticism—which to him seem to be merely different ways of

showing affection. As usual, he made me feel like a genius for raising the subject. Even though I knew I was hardly the À rst to have done

so, and knew as well that he encouraged just about everyone this way,

it helped motivate me to continue.

Over the next several years I found in other archives still other

detailed papers about Jacob Roelants and his family—especially about

Jacob’s preacher-father, named Timothy, and Jacob’s sister and only

sibling, the staunchly Reformed Maria. These dense papers led me to

conclude that there might be an entire book here, which would offer

not only a rare glimpse at this sort of Á esh and blood drama, but also the opportunity to explore the wider spectrum of possibilities open to other mixed families of the age—either in areas where confessional

boundaries were À xed, as in the Swiss cantons and German territo-

ries, or areas where confessional mixing was more Á uid, as in France, England, and especially the Dutch Republic. With the research still at an intermediate stage (archival work À nished but reading in secondary literature barely begun), my main purpose here is to piece together the complicated outlines of this family’s story, while a secondary purpose is to suggest the variety of contexts which I will explore in my larger study so as to give this particular case larger signiÀ cance.

We may enter the story of the Roelants family at any number of

revealing points, such as the fourth Sunday of May 1654, inside the

family’s home in the southern Dutch Republic, near the city of Den

Bosch. There, just before midnight, we would see twenty-one-year-old

Jacob at the open window of his upstairs bedroom, quietly lowering his traveling bags to a servant in the garden. We might follow the servant OCKER1_f23_425-439.indd 426

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as he carries the bags to a nearby À eld, where a tethered horse stands waiting. Several hours later, between two and three in the morning, we would see Jacob climb out his bedroom window, jump over a fence,

and run from his parents’ home forever, to Antwerp in the Spanish

Netherlands. And this because Jacob, still a minor, did not feel that he could practice his recently discovered Catholicism freely while living under the roof of his Reformed mother and father.

But to give this scene even more meaning, we must go back before

Jacob’s Catholic stirrings. We must go back even before the time that

Jacob’s father, Timothy Roelants, became a Reformed preacher. We must

begin instead with at least Jacob’s grandfather, also called Jacob.

In 1590, Jacob Roelants the elder began the family tradition of

serving as a Reformed preacher, or dominee. At least two of his sons, including Timothy, also became dominees toward 1620. Jacob the

elder established a second family tradition as well: mastery of ancient languages, especially Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. He not only taught

these to his sons, but more importantly put them to use as one of the lead translators of the new Dutch Reformed Bible sponsored by the

States General from 1618. In other words, Jacob Roelants the elder

was a celebrity, in Reformed circles and among scholars both Protestant and Catholic. Soon after he died in 1632, both of his dominee sons

decided to honor the memory of their distinguished father by vowing

to name their next newborn sons after him. Thus it happened that

in 1633 two male Roelants cousins came into the world, both named

after their famous grandfather Jacob, and both intended to carry on

the family traditions of preaching and learning.

Our Jacob was born in the village of Ouderkerk, just south of

Amsterdam, where Timothy labored as dominee from 1620 to 1649.

For most of that time, nothing remarkable happened to the family:

Timothy married Catharijna Ruts, they had two children ( Jacob and

Maria), and Timothy appears to have served the community of fourty-

one Reformed members adequately, doing his best to counter Socin-

ians, Remonstrants, free-thinkers and especially Catholics who circled around his small Á ock.

Yet the biggest crisis of Timothy’s years in Ouderkerk came not from

these external rivals. Rather it came from within his own Reformed

community. SufÀ ce it to say that in 1647 several former members of

the church council accused their longtime preacher of appointing

unqualiÀ ed elders, and of borrowing large sums of money from church coffers without permission. This conÁ ict dragged on for the next two

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years, with furious arguments waged regularly before the weary classis (or consistory) of Amsterdam. Timothy À nally proved to the classis’

satisfaction that he had paid back the loan, with interest, but he could not convince them that he was without blame at all. In fact the classis declared that both parties were partly to blame, and should therefore

seek forgiveness of the other and reconcile. This Timothy would not

do: he insisted that he had acted rightly and was the only one who

deserved an apology. Such an example of self-assured stubbornness

was not lost on his son Jacob.

Neither was another event in the dispute. In 1648 the classis of

Amsterdam, fed up with the situation, sent a delegation of preachers to Ouderkerk to interview the fourty-one Reformed communicants there

about the general suitability of Timothy Roelants as their preacher.

Appointed to the task of driving the delegates around was Timothy’s

own son, À fteen-year-old son Jacob. While the interviewers went inside homes to ask about the À tness of his father, Jacob sat waiting on the wagon. This memory of his father’s humiliation, and by extension his

own, likewise made a strong impression on the boy—one he would

later speciÀ cally mention when setting out his reasons for eventually leaving the Reformed Church.

Timothy’s conÁ ict with his congregation in Ouderkerk was never

solved on its merits. Instead it was brought to an end by his timely

transfer to another village, near the newly Dutch town of Den Bosch.

In 1629 Dutch troops had taken this town and its surrounding territory from the Spanish. This huge windfall carried with it a huge religious

problem as well: almost all of these new Dutch citizens were Catholic.

The Dutch Republic did not have an ofÀ cial religion, but it did accord the Reformed Church a privileged status as the “public” church, and

it did tend to regard Catholics as potential security problems. Thus it would not simply ignore the religious situation in the new territories.

For two decades after 1629 the Dutch States General made some

attempts to establish a Reformed presence among their Catholic sub-

jects in what were now called the “Generality Lands.” But only with

the Peace of Munster in 1648 did those attempts become earnest. In

that year the Republic assigned fourteen Calvinist dominees to labor in and around Den Bosch, heart of the Generality Lands. The dominees

moved in, Catholic priests were kicked out, churches were stripped for Reformed worship, and Catholic services were forced underground.

In 1649, the States General increased the preachers in the Generality

Lands to thirty-six—a number which included Timothy Roelants.

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Perhaps Timothy took this new assignment for the money: the States

General promised higher and regular salaries to those brave enough

to labor here, and such a salary had always eluded the Roelants fam-

ily (leading in part to Timothy’s recent controversial loans). Perhaps Timothy took the new position simply to escape the dispute with his

congregation in Ouderkerk, or perhaps it was even arranged by other

Reformed leaders. But if Timothy left to escape his problems, he found a new set awaiting him in the Catholic territories, where life for a

preacher was, to say the least, a challenge, and the increased income

akin to combat pay.

The small congregation of fourty-one which Timothy had served

in Ouderkerk was massive compared to the tiny congregation in his

new town, called Boxtel. There at Sunday services were the dominee,

his wife and two children, three or four magistrates, and the school-

master, inside a whitewashed church far too spacious for their needs,

and with an echo that must have been horrendous. It was so big that

a large chunk of the aisle was soon walled off in order to house farm animals. In addition to a nearly empty church on Sundays, Timothy

also had to endure the enmity of almost all villagers, who wished

to keep their Catholic religion and who often expressed it with such

aggressive actions as shooting out the windows of the new preacher’s

rectory—when he À nally had one! When the Roelants family À rst

moved to Boxtel, none of the locals would rent to them. Hence, for

some months they lived in Den Bosch, 12 miles away, and the travel

ate up much of Timothy’s increased income. At last he got his rectory in 1653, but also some broken glass and frightening nights soon afterward. Nevertheless, throughout these tensions, Timothy tried to interact patiently with as many of the Catholic villagers as possible, just as the missionary guidelines for the area prescribed, and urged them all to be open-minded about religion. Why not consider becoming Reformed,

he asked them? But no one did.

To make things worse, Timothy soon faced even greater problems

from within his own tiny Á ock—just as he had in Ouderkerk. His main

rival was also his chief comrade-in-arms: namely, the local Reformed

schoolmaster, Jan van Santen. Because Catholic parents of the area

would characteristically neither attend Reformed services nor send

their children to the local Reformed school, both schoolmaster and

preacher had a lot of time on their hands, and too often they spent it arguing with each other. SpeciÀ cally in this case, they argued over a barn which lay between their adjoining properties. Timothy believed

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that the barn belonged to him, while the schoolmaster thought other-

wise. Their dispute reached all the way to the Netherlands’ Council of State, which ruled in favor of the schoolmaster in late 1653. But there was more to this dispute, and this takes us to the heart of the story: during the testifying and accusing, the schoolmaster brought out all his verbal ammunition to support his case, including the telling of unÁ attering stories about Timothy’s son, Jacob. These said that Jacob, now

20, could often be found at the local convent of Poor Clares (allowed to operate until the present nuns died out), where he helped to sing

Lauds; that Jacob had invited a schoolmaster from a neighboring town

to come along to the service and try it; and that Jacob had told various Catholics in town that he had no intention of becoming a dominee,

as his family expected.

Timothy was furious at the schoolmaster for spreading such stories,

and brought another formal complaint against him to the classis. But

the schoolmaster was unperturbed. Called to defend himself, he insisted that he could prove all of these claims. In fact, the schoolmaster was right. Something was stirring inside the heart of young Jacob Roelants, which we know from Jacob’s journal, begun in January 1654, as if in

anticipation of his conversion year. He wrote that in his new village of Boxtel all of his new friends were necessarily Catholic: from associating with them, he realized that the many unÁ attering stories he’d heard

about Catholics were simply untrue. This only made Jacob more curi-

ous about Catholicism, and he asked for something to read: a young

nobleman named Vlierden provided it. Jacob also attended Lauds at

the convent of Poor Clares, where two Vlierden daughters were nuns.

What Jacob learned not only undid the false rumors he had long heard

about Catholics, but moved him to heed his father’s frequent exhortation to the people of Boxtel: namely, open your minds and see for yourself through study which religion is true. Hence Jacob, aided by his growing knowledge of languages learned from his father, began studying

the Bible and the church fathers in the family library, and concluded

that the New Testament church was more present in Catholicism than

in the Reformed religion. More than merely informing himself about

Catholicism, he decided to go further and convert.

His private studies, and then clandestine meetings with Catholic

clergy in Den Bosch, where Jacob often ran errands for his father, led at last to Jacob’s making his Catholic profession of faith, on April 25, 1654. On May 5 he secretly confessed and communed for the À rst time.

Timothy did not know that Jacob had converted, but he did notice

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Jacob’s friends and his sudden interest in the church fathers and grew suspicious. Timothy tried to head off a crisis: he walked with Jacob

and chatted amiably, he threatened and reviled, he prohibited Jacob

from using the library alone or from consulting the church fathers,

while at other times he spoke “sweetly,” as Jacob called it. But À nally Jacob decided that if he were ever going to practice Catholicism in

the manner he pleased, then he would have to leave home—however

much he respected his father.

And thus the scene of his Á ight on May 24, 1654, in which he was

supported by a complex network of Catholic friends in and around

Boxtel. After the thirty-six-hour trip to Antwerp, Jacob found a room, then sought out contacts provided him by those in Boxtel. All these new contacts were curious, some were forewarned, some were leery, and a

few—including the local Jesuits—were genuinely helpful.

Within two days Jacob’s father and uncle and their Reformed friends

arrived in Antwerp to À nd him and take him back. Jacob wrote that

the local Jesuits urged him to consider returning: could he not do as

many other Dutch Catholics and practice his religion at home discreetly?

Jacob would hear nothing of it, saying that if he returned he would put his soul in peril, for his father would send him to live with Reformed family members in less Catholic parts of the Republic. Hence, Jacob

lay low, but heard several days later that his father was still riding madly about the streets of Antwerp looking for him.

To make many long stories short, the Jesuits arranged a meeting

between Jacob and his father. Father and son both began weeping upon

seeing the other. Timothy took this to mean that Jacob was sorry for

his actions, while Jacob explained that he cried because he loved his

parents but his conscience would not allow him to return. Timothy

grew upset, the Jesuits tried to calm him down. Timothy grew even

angrier and accused the Jesuits of forcibly holding Jacob. And Jacob

À nally Á ed the room, tears streaming down his face, while his father was preoccupied with arguing. Seeing that Jacob was gone, Timothy

bolted after him, but was too slow to catch his son, who cried violently at the thought of his father chasing him. In fact it was the last time Jacob would ever see his father.

Another meeting was arranged with Jacob’s uncle, who at À rst spoke

peaceably with Jacob in the front hall of a private home—but sud-

denly he grabbed Jacob and called out to Timothy, hiding behind the

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to please stop chasing him: “I’ve been assured that with God’s grace

I will À nish my life in this one and only salvation-giving church, this being the church which was built on a rock by the wise carpenter Christ Jesus and not on sand.” But Timothy would not give up: like many

others who felt robbed of their converted minor children, he sought

the intervention of the States General in The Hague, which promised

to investigate.

Meanwhile, in Antwerp the Jesuits helped Jacob formulate arguments

and legal precedents justifying his right to stay. The Jesuits also agreed to let Jacob attend classes in their local school, where his ability in languages, and his heritage as grandson of the great Reformed translator, made strong impressions. The Jesuits in turn impressed Jacob. In fact

after four years of study, he decided in 1658, the year of his majority, that he wanted to become a Jesuit himself. It was at this point that

Jacob’s family À nally gave up on him.

Before that time, especially his sister Maria had held out hope. Her

correspondence with Jacob offers a close look into the hearts of two

completely convinced people who still loved each other, but who put

their faith ahead of their relationship—or at least could not see their relationship except through the lens of their particular faith. Maria scolded Jacob for breaking the commandment to honor one’s father

and mother; look at your aged father, she wrote, “surely you’ll bring

his gray hairs down into the grave with his constant sobbing, may God

have mercy on you.” She often ended her letters with, “father and

mother are in good health, but your absence, plus your conversion

to that abominable popedom, are perpetual wounds.” To Maria the

answer was obvious: God had allowed a cloud to descend over Jacob’s

understanding. “Your fancy words and your letters are but the powder

and lipstick on the whore of Babylon.” Jacob insisted in response that he honored his parents by his continued feelings of love but that he

had to honor God even more, just as scripture taught him. In fact

brother and sister quoted biblical verse after biblical verse to support their respective positions on saints, images, and virtually every other issue disputed by competing theologians since the beginning of the

Reformations—but these sometimes tedious old arguments were shot

with new life when traded by brother and sister. It was one thing for

Martin Luther to insist that some rival was going to hell, and quite

another for Maria Roelants to say that had she known what disastrous

course Jacob would take, then she, despite her love for him, wished

that he had never been born.

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And now here in 1658, when Jacob decided to enter the Jesuits, even

Maria gave up on him. Never again, for the remaining 26 years of his

life, would Jacob hear from any member of his family. He continued

to write home, rather pathetically, trying anything to get his parents to respond, even asking his father to write back in Greek, because

Jacob wanted to improve himself in that language—as if this exercise would somehow make his father forget the real issue! And he rather

naively asked Maria as late as 1662 whether she didn’t wish to escape

to Antwerp and join him in the Catholic Church, which would surely

prompt the conversion to Catholicism of their dear parents.

In 1663, perhaps precisely because he felt alienated and family-less,

Jacob put himself forward as a missionary to the Indies. Many other

Jesuits did so each year, but only a very few were chosen, and the

accomplished Jacob was one of them. He made it to Brazil in 1664,

and would stay there twenty years. Characteristically, and like his father, he went against existing missionary practices; instead of bringing the native population to the coast, for instance, he went 100 hours inland to convert them. This resulted in some impressive successes, for the

convert Jacob now converted himself at least 12 whole villages—until

one day his work was ruined by Portuguese traders and soldiers who

burned the villages down. This caused the disillusioned Jacob to seek

a transfer to Japan or Africa, where he thought the mission soil would be more fertile and less tainted by greedy Europeans. But he remained

in Brazil, eventually rising to secretary of the province, until À nally landing in controversy again—this time because his latest independent

scheme ran directly contrary to the wishes of his superiors. Apparently as punishment, he was transferred at last in 1684, to the desolate island of St. Thomas, off the coast of Africa, where within weeks of his arrival he developed a fever and died. After his passing, friends in the Society praised his diligence, and several credited him for their vocation. One or more of them thought enough of Jacob to preserve his papers,

including his journal, his attempts at correspondence with his family, and some of his missionary letters, depositing them at the Provincial House in Flanders. But several superiors from his mission noted Jacob’s regrettable tendency to go his own way—the very tendency that had

allowed him to become a Catholic, then a Jesuit; the very tendency he

had learned or inherited from his Reformed father.

As for Timothy Roelants himself, he died in 1667, at age 73, during

Jacob’s third year in Brazil. It surely devastated Timothy that the schoolmaster in Boxtel had been right—both about Jacob and the disputed

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barn. Various people in Boxtel noted that soon after Jacob’s Á ight to Antwerp in 1654, Timothy fell into a distracted and melancholic state of mind. Did he blame himself, and entertain the thought that had he never come to the Catholic lands, then Jacob might never have become so

curious about Catholicism? Certainly Timothy was upset about Jacob’s

leaving. He missed the very next meeting of the classis (for which he received a reprimand). And despite the ruling of the Council of State regarding the disputed barn, Timothy still refused to let it go entirely to his rival, the schoolmaster. Rather than do so, Timothy decided to

turn part of the barn into a privy for his family’s use, and he arranged things so that the privy’s contents spilled out onto the schoolmaster’s property. What more could a psycho-historian ask for? And surely it

didn’t help Timothy’s state of mind that Jacob’s parallel cousin, also named Jacob Roelants, was blossoming as a Reformed preacher, with

a wife and seven or eight children, some of whom would also become

preachers. The other Jacob Roelants would carry on the great name,

and the family legacy.

The wider contexts in which this story might be situated, and thus its signiÀ cance enhanced, are many.

Obviously one is the father-son relationship between Timothy and

Jacob, perhaps illuminated through modern theories, but more likely

through literature, deportment books, and laws of the day. Another

is Jesuit education and recruitment, already much studied in the Low

Countries, as well as Jesuit publicity of its missionaries—why, for

instance, were Jacob Roelants’ papers preserved at all? And to what

extent did he self-consciously fashion his journal and conversion story, from which many important pieces of information were taken for the

narrative recounted above? There is also the context of preachers’

families, and the social pressures upon them.

But the largest possibility to me is again that of tolerance and

conversion in mixed families. Nowhere else was tolerance tested more

severely, nowhere else did theory and practice meet so dramatically, or affect each other so profoundly. An article by Barbara Diefendorf on

families during the French Wars of Religion is one example of useful contextual insight: Theodore Beza’s father was Catholic, yet father

and son maintained a long correspondence and their affection for each

other never waned; moreover, father made sure to meet his son’s new

wife and family, even though the son had married without consent.

Compared to the Roelants family, this response was somewhere else

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along the spectrum of tolerance and confrontation. François Hotman,

on the other hand, came closer to the Roelants’ experience, for he

disinherited one of his sons for returning to the Catholic faith. Then there was the printing family the Estienne’s, who, though divided into Calvinist members in Geneva, and Catholic members in Paris, defended

each other even in court—while in the mixed Spifame family various

members aggressively sued each other along religious lines. Hence, in

France reactions to conversion and marriage varied greatly, as we can

expect in the Dutch Republic as well, but the point is to try to deÀ ne the spectrum of possibilities rather than identify some “typical” pattern.

Another example of helpful context for the story of the Roelants is

Raymond Mentzer’s Blood and Belief, which concludes that in general noble families of France put family considerations above religious—but this provides insight through contrast, because to Timothy Roelants,

decidedly non-noble but the son of a famous dominee, the family

identity was the Reformed religion. Other studies, on conversion and religious miscegenation, can offer insight into why Timothy refused to accept Jacob at home: Timothy might interact cordially with Catholics

every day, but he could not allow one under his roof lest this somehow dilute the Reformed religion.

These are just some of the contexts, angles, and speciÀ c works I will pursue in addressing the fundamental problem underlying the topic

of religiously mixed families: at what point did devotion to one’s faith transcend devotion to one’s closest relationships, and vice versa? At

least this is how the Roelants family would have framed the problem.

Some mixed families who got along better might have framed it dif-

ferently: to these, it was precisely their faith which gave them the ideas and sentiments necessary to act peaceably toward family members of

other faiths; to others, economic, social, or political motives might have contributed just as much to peaceable living.

In the end, that the shape of these and other religious sentiments was complex, and therefore demands close, empathetic study transcending

easy categories and simplistic dynamics is no longer any surprise—but

that we have come to accept this as a given is thanks in no small part to the plentiful examples of nuanced, deeply grounded studies given

us over the years by Tom Brady himself. Such an intellectual legacy

is no small feat. Still, that is only the start: those fortunate enough to know him, and Kathy, have inherited as well the memory and beneÀ ts

of even more soul-searing personal acts and kindnesses, in even greater abundance.

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craig harline

Bibliographical Notes

Chief Primary Sources

Jacob’s journal, and indeed all of his letters to his sister and father, plus some of his later letters as a Jesuit missionary, are located in the Algemene Rijksarchief (National Archives) of Belgium, Fonds Jesuitica, Provincia Flandria Belgica, 1436. Other letters he wrote as a missionary are in the Jesuit Archives in Rome. These are obviously important to

my narrative, but just as important are documents concerning Timo-

thy Roelants, which are scattered around numerous Dutch archives.

Timothy’s years in Ouderkerk are especially in the Gemeente Archief

(municipal archive) of Amsterdam, which contains the “Acta” of both

the (local) classis (or consistory) of Amsterdam, vols. 1–5, and of the (regional) synod of South Holland, especially the volume covering

1646–56. ( Jacob Roelants senior is also frequently mentioned in these Acta in Amsterdam, since he too was a preacher of this classis.) Timothy’s transfer to the Generality Lands is in the Rijksarchief (Provincial Archive) of Den Bosch, Collection Classis Den Bosch, Acta, and Collection Synod Gelderland, Acta; one volume of the Acta has been pub-

lished, P.H.A.M. Abels, A.P. F. Wouters, ed., Acta Conventus Sylvae-Ducensis extraordinarii 1648, 2 vols. (Den Bosch, 1985), which covers the À rst year of serious Reformed efforts in the Generality Lands. Also housed in

the Rijksarchief Den Bosch are the archives of the Dutch Reformed

Community of Sint-Michielsgestel en Schijndel, Timothy’s À rst post

in the Generality Lands, and the archives of the Dutch Reformed

Community of Boxtel. See here as well the archives of the Raad van

Brabant, 1586–1811, especially regarding Belastingen en Domeinen,

1513–1828. In the National Archives of The Hague, the Collection

Raad van State, Tiende Verpachting, 1819, discusses Timothy’s troubles with the schoolmaster of Boxtel. Timothy’s last post was in the nearby town of Helvoirt, whose archives are in the Rijksarchief Den Bosch,

Streekarchief Langs Aa en Dommel, Haeren (Helvoirt), Dorpsbestuur

Helvoirt 547, plus the kerkrekeningen, 1661–72.

Printed sources on Grandfather Jacob Roelants, the preacher-trans-

lator, include W.P.C. Knuttel, ed., Acta der Particuliere Synoden van Zuid-Holland, 1621–1700, vol. 1, 1621–1633 (The Hague, 1908), 134, 165, 202, 203, 246, 247. Also J. Reitsma, S.D. van Veen, Acta der provinciale en particuliere synoden, gehouden in de Noordelijke Nederlanden gedurende de jaren 1572–1620, 3 vols. (Groningen, 1892), vol. 1, 349, 381, 420; vol. 2, 2, OCKER1_f23_425-439.indd 436

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46, 123; vol. 3, 76, 97, 229, 241. Jacob Senior’s papers related to the translation of the ofÀ cial Dutch Bible in the Algemene Rijksarchief in The Hague, Tweede Afdeling, Collectie 497, OC22226.

Other members of this preaching dynasty, including Timothy’s

preacher-brother Daniel, and Daniel’s preacher-son Jacob, and Jacob’s

preacher-son Daniel, are discussed in Knuttel, Acta, vol. 2, 1635–1648

(The Hague, 1909), 386, 405, 432, 437, 457, 474; vol. 3, 1646–56 (The

Hague, 1910), 65, 69, 104, 129, 284, 289, 342–44, 358, 361, 420; vol. 4, 1657–1672 (The Hague, 1912), 173, 213, 217, 249, 472, 592, 608;

vol. 5, 1673–86 (The Hague, 1915), 3, 12, 19, 22, 46, 48, 63, 64, 84,

122, 176, 180, 192, 223, 224, 229, 276, 280, 308, 351, 382, 426, 432,

468, 472, 509, 511, 516, 546, 547, 548. A Thomas Roelants, preacher

in Waarder, is mentioned in the last volume as well, and there is more on these family members in volume 6.

Secondary Studies on the Roelants, the Generality Lands, and Jesuits Two article-length studies of Jacob Roelants were published in a local Catholic journal early in the twentieth century by W. van Nieuwenhoff,

“Eene zeventiend’-eeuwsche bekeeringsgeschiedenis,” Studien. Godsdienst, wetenschap, letteren 65 (1905): 1–54, and 127–157. Also useful in the con-

Á ict with the schoolmaster is H. Roosenboom, De dorpsschool in de Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch van 1648 tot 1795 (Tilburg, 1997). Some materials on Jacob in Brazil are included in S. Leite, Historia da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil, 5 vols. (Rio de Janeiro, 1948) (my thanks to Jonathan Harline for his translations from Portugese of the relevant parts), and E. Op De Beeck, “A Liberdade dos Indios. De Braziliaanse indianen in de

spiegel van de Westerse Christenheid (1549–1683)” (Licentiate thesis

Catholic University Louvain, 1997). L. Labbeke, “De recrutering van

de Jezuïeten in het Hertogdom Brabant, 1584–1640” (Licentiate thesis

Catholic University Louvain, 1995), on recruiting of Jesuits, while there are numerous studies on the Jesuits in the Low Countries as well as

Brazil such as, to name a very few, E. Put, De Jezuieten in de Nederlanden en het Prinsbisdom Luik (1542–1773) (Brussels, 1991), D. Alden, The Making of an Enterprise: The Society of Jesus in Portugal, Its Empire, and Beyond, 1540–1750 (Stanford, 1996), T.M. Cohen, The Fire of Tongues: António Vieira and the Missionary Church in Brazil and Portugal (Stanford, 1998), J. Hemming, Red Gold: The Conquest of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA, 1978).

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Religious Mixing in Families and More Broadly

Works mentioned include B. Diefendorf, “Houses Divided: Religious

Schism in Sixteenth-Century Parisian Families,” in S. Zimmerman,

R.F. Weissman, eds., Urban Life in the Renaissance (Newark, 1989), 80–99; R. Mentzer, Blood and Belief: Family Survival and Confessional Identity among the Provincial Huguenot Nobility (West Lafayette, IN, 1994); and, on religious miscegenation, J. Evenson, “Gender, Conversion, and Religious Miscegenation in The Merchant of Venice,” unpublished paper presented to

the Renaissance Society of America, New York, 2004.

A few other useful examples so far of religious mixing, especially

in France and England, include J. Bossy, The English Catholic Community 1570–1850 (New York, 1976); La conversion au XVII e siècle. Actes du XII e Colloque de Marseille ( janvier 1982) (Marseille, 1983); P. Collinson, “The Cohabitation of the Faithful with the Unfaithful,” in O. Grell, J. Israel, N. Tyacke, eds., From Persecution to Toleration: The Glorious Revolution and Religion in England (Oxford, 1991), 51–76; E. Duffy, “ ‘Poor protestant Á ies’: Conversion to Catholicism in early eighteenth-century England,” in D. Baker, ed., Religious Motivation: Biographical and Sociological Problems for the Church Historian (Oxford, 1978), 291–304; M. Forster, B. Kaplan, eds., Piety and Family in Early Modern Europe: Essays in Honour of Steven Ozment (Aldershot, 2005); G. Hanlon, Confessio n and Community in Seventeenth-Century France: Catholic and Protestant Coexistence in Aquitaine (Philadelphia, 1993); D. Kelley, François Hotman: A Revolutionary’s Ordeal (Princeton, 1973); K. Luria, “The Politics of Protestant Conversion to Catholicism in Seventeenth-Century France,” in P. van der Veer, ed.,

Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity (New York, 1996), 23–46; K. Luria, Sacred Boundaries: Religious Coexistence and ConÁ ict in Early Modern France (Washington, D.C., 2005); M. Questier, Conversion, Politics, and Religion in England, 1580–1625 (Cambridge, 1996), and there are many more, for other countries as well.

In the Dutch Republic, examples include H.A. Enno van Gelder,

Getemperde Vrijheid (Groningen, 1972); W. Frijhoff, “La coexistence confessionnelle: complicités, méÀ ances et ruptures aux Provinces-Unies,”

in J. Delumeau, ed., Histoire vécue du peuple chrétien (Toulouse, 1979); S. Groenveld, Huisgenoten des geloofs: Was de samenleving in de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden verzuild? (Hilversum, 1995); B. Kaplan, Calvinists and Libertines (Oxford, 1995); C. Kooi, “Converts and Apostates: The Competition for Souls in Early Modern Holland,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 92 (2001), 195–; R. Po-Chia Hsia, H. van Nierop, eds., OCKER1_f23_425-439.indd 438

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Calvinism and Religious Toleration in the Dutch Golden Age (Cambridge, 2002); J. Pollmann, Religious Choice in the Dutch Republic: The Reformation of Arnoldus Buchelius (1565–1641) (Manchester, 1999); J. Pollmann, “A Different Road to God: The Protestant Experience of Conversion in

the Sixteenth Century,” in P. van der Veer, ed., Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity (New York and London, 1996), 47–64; J. Spaans, Haarlem na de Reformatie (The Hague, 1989).

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TROUBLE WITH MIRACLES:

AN EPISODE IN THE CULTURE AND POLITICS OF

WONDER IN COLONIAL MEXICO1

William B. Taylor

Miracles—those signs of divine presence and intervention in the world that defy ordinary experience of cause and effect2—have been a deÀ ning belief in the history of Christianity. Christian shrines of the Middle Ages and Catholic shrines since the sixteenth century are famous for

marvelous healings and protection that mark them as special places of

transparency between devotees and the divine. Such supernatural boons

to believers have been a vital proof that “our religion is a living one,”

as Mexican Jesuit Francisco de Florencia (among countless others) put

it near the end of the seventeenth century. “Books” of miracles consist-ing of hundreds, sometimes thousands of short entries written down

by attending priests as early as the À fth century, became a common

feature of European shrines in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,

with entries occasionally added through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.3 During the confessional and political upheavals of the Reformation news of miracles and the record of them mushroomed, leading

1 I am grateful to Inga Clendinnen, Brian Connaughton, and my UC-Berkeley colleagues Leslie Peirce, Paul Ramírez, Sylvia Sellers-García, Yuri Slezkine, and Wen-hsin Yeh for their thoughts about the document discussed in this essay.

2 Las Siete Partidas, the thirteenth-century Castilian legal text offered a surprisingly post-tridentine deÀ nition of a miracle at 1–4–124 as: “a marvel worked by God, which exceeds nature in everyday experience, and therefore happens rarely. And to be considered a true miracle, four things are needed: À rst, that it comes through the power of God, not by other means [ arte]; second, that the miracle is contrary to nature, otherwise people will not marvel at it; third, that the person or persons favored by God with miracles are worthy, by their saintliness and goodness; and fourth, that the miracle is such that it conÀ rms Christian faith.”

3 For example, Raymond Van Dam, Saints and Their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993) draws on four À fth-century “books”

recounting approximately 250 miracles for St. Martin of Tours; The Book of Sainte Foy, translated and edited by Pamela Sheingorn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), records 116 miracle stories from the early eleventh century; the Castilian text, Cántigas de Santa María offers 357 different miracles [available in English translation by Kathleen Kulp-Hill as Songs of Holy Mary of Alfonso X, the Wise (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2000)].

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historian Craig Harline to call seventeenth-century Europe one of the

“brightest . . . golden ages and places of miracles.”4 Philip Soergel found a veritable Á oodtide of miracle events reported at particular German shrines—about 12,000 from Neukirchen bei Heilig Blut in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and about 16,500 at Bettbrunn from

1573–1768.5 But there was a countervailing development in Catholic

Europe during the early modern period that could quiet the exuberant

recording and publicizing of miracle stories. The twenty-À fth session of the Council of Trent on December 3–4, 1563 called for “no new

miracles [to] be accepted or new relics recognized without the bishop’s examination and approval.”6

Where reformed bishops faced the rise of Protestantism on their

doorsteps, they might well risk trying to reinvigorate the faith by

encouraging news of new miracles, but in Spain and the Spanish

empire the Tridentine reforms to strengthen the authority and power of the bishops seem to have affected the promotion and dissemination of

miracle stories in three ways: (1) the shrine books of miracles often fell out of favor and new entries dwindled or ceased; (2) lengthy inquiries about miracles were undertaken at the bishop’s court in a few special

cases, mainly for shrines a bishop meant to promote or to investigate

and silence reports of miracles that were attracting wide interest but seemed threatening to the institutional church;7 and (3) the publica-4 In his recent book about À ve celebrated miracles from the Spanish Netherlands, Miracles at the Jesus Oak: Histories of the Supernatural in Reformation Europe (New York: Doubleday, 2003), pp. 4–5.

5 Philip M. Soergel, Wondrous in His Saints: Counter-Reformation Propaganda in Bavaria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), p. 103; Benedicta Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind: Theory, Record and Event, 1000–1215 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987), drew from 150 miracles worked by relics of Thomas á Becket at Canterbury during the seven-year period, 1171–1177; Françoise Crémoux studied 747 episodes from the miracle books of the shrine of Guadalupe (Spain) recorded between 1510 and 1599, Pèlerinages et miracles à Guadalupe au XVIe siècle (Madrid: Casa de Velásquez, 2001).

6 Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, H.J. Schroeder, trans. (St. Louis: B. Herder Book Co., 1941).

7 Francisco de Florencia, Zodíaco mariano . . . los templos y lugares dedicados a los cultos de su S.S. Madre por medio de las más célebres y milagrosas imágenes de la misma Señora, que se veneran en esta América Septentrional, y Reynos de la Nueva España, edited with additions by Juan Antonio de Oviedo, S.J. (Mexico: Colegio de San Ildefonso, 1755), pp. 9, 32, 33, 41, 50, 56, 60 consulted or referenced such informaciones jurídicas for the Marian shrines of La Conquistadora (Puebla, 1582), Zapopan ( Jalisco, 1641, 1653, 1663), Cosamaloapan (Veracruz, 1641 or 1642), Nuestra Señora del Pueblito (Querétaro, 1649), Nuestra Señora de la Laguna (Yucatán, 1649), Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (1666), Nuestra Señora de San Juan de los Lagos ( Jalisco, 1668, 1693), and Nuestra OCKER1_f24_440-458.indd 442

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tion of devotional shrine histories and novena booklets from the late sixteenth century on that reduced the number of recognized miracles

to a dozen or so exemplary cases.8 In Mexico, the authors of published devotional texts during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who

mentioned apparent miracles were careful to speak of maravillas (marvels and wonders) and leave the question of whether they were truly

miracles to higher authorities.

Miracles were both necessary and troublesome for authorities of the

early modern Catholic Church as they worked to contain and direct

what Émile Durkheim called the “contagiousness” of the sacred.9

Miracles validated Christianity as a living faith of transcendent power and protection, but they also spilled out in directions that invited false prophets and undermined the dream of a universal Christian church

in a time of sectarian divisions. Max Weber thought that trouble of

this kind not only had deep roots in the Christian tradition, but was a perennial challenge to the priesthood of any established religion in its claim to special knowledge and institutional control over access to the Señora de la Salud (Pátzcuaro, 1739). For an example of a lengthy investigation into a reported miracle and its suppression (This one from the 1670s and 1680s), see Martha Lilia Tenorio, De panes y sermons: El milagro de los “panecitos” de Santa Teresa (Mexico: El Colegio de México, 2002).

8 Early published compendia for Mexico include Luis de Cisneros, Historia de el principio y origen progressos venidas a Mexico, y milagros de la Santa Ymagen de nuestra Señora de los Remedios, extramuros de Mexico . . . (Mexico: Iuan Blanco de Alcaçar, 1621); Bernardo de Lizana, Devocionario de Nuestra Señora de Izamal y conquista espiritual (Valladolid: Gerónimo Morillo, 1633); Miguel Sánchez, Imagen de la virgen María Madre de Dios de Gvadalvpe, milagrosamente aparecida en la civdad de Mexico (Mexico: Imprenta de Bernardo Calderón, 1648); and Florencia and Oviedo’s Zodíaco mariano, much of it compiled by Florencia in the late seventeenth century. For Spain, examples include Narciso Camós, O.P., Jardín de María plantada en el principado de Cataluña (1657) (Barcelona: Editorial Orbis, 1949), which offers a smattering of miracle stories, but mainly concerns the shrines; Roque Alberto Faci, Aragón, reyno de Christo, y dote de Maria SS.ma fundado sobre la columna immobil de Nuestra Señora en su ciudad de Zaragoza (Zaragoza: Joseph Fort, 1739), treats 104

images, again with a smattering of miracle stories; and Juan de Villafañe, Compendio histórico, en que se da noticia de las milagrosas y devotas imágenes de la reyna de cielos y tierra . . . que se veneran en los más célebres santuarios de España (Madrid: M. Fernández, 1740), surveys eighty-À ve Spanish Marian shrines. Of the chapters I read for ten shrines, 112 miracles were recounted, for an average of eleven miracles each. By contrast, a mid-sixteenth-century book of the history and miracles of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat recounted 239 miracles for this one shrine alone, Libro de la historia y milagros hechos a invocación de Nuestra Señora de Montserrat (Barcelona: Pedro Monpezat, 1550).

9 Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, Carol Cosman, trans. (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2001), pp. 180 note 1, 237, 239–240.

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divine.10 As a religion of the book, this tension in Christianity between charismatic powers of would-be prophets and seers and the institutional-ized spiritual authority of the priesthood found ofÀ cial expression in the proposition that God has rarely spoken through supernatural phenomena since the time of Christ. If a supernatural event was reported, was it really God’s doing or just an unusual natural event misrepresented

by a gullible public or an illusion concocted by a cunning magician?

And if it was judged to be a supernatural event, was it the work of

God or Satan? Given these chronic tensions, church authorities were

bound to intervene and restrict where they could.

There is trouble, too, for historians of New Spain (early modern

Mexico and Central America) who seek to understand what miracles

meant to people of the time and how they inÁ uenced local practices

of faith. Mexico has been described as “a society that devoured news

of miraculous events,” but the written records about them are thin,

scattered, and almost always combed and shaped into a few lines each

by ecclesiastical authorities. I have found no “books of miracles” kept at Mexican shrines, no long-running registers of the European kind.11

The authors of the early devotional histories and novena booklets that set out what became the small canon of miracle stories for a shrine

lamented that nearly all the great marvels of the place had gone unrecorded. Except in the shifting sands of pious hearsay, they were lost to posterity.12

10 “Yet another distinguishing quality of the priest, it is asserted, is his professional equipment of special knowledge, À xed doctrine, and vocational qualiÀ cations, which brings him into contrast with sorcerers, prophets, and other types of religious functionaries who exert their inÁ uence by virtue of personal gifts (charisma) made manifest in miracle and revelation”; “the perpetual control of an individual’s life pattern by the ofÀ cial, whether father confessor or spiritual director, empowered to distribute grace, a control that in certain respects is very effective, is in practice very often cancelled by the circumstance that there is always grace remaining to be distributed anew,” Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion, Ephraim Fischoff, trans. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1963), pp. 29, 189.

11 In Zodíaco mariano, p. 62, Florencia or Oviedo claimed that there had been a book of about 300 miracles for the shrine of Nuestra Señora de San Juan de los Lagos, now lost. I hope to have more to say on another occasion about why there were no miracle books in colonial Mexico, and why comparatively few Mexican miracles were recorded for posterity.

12 For example, Cisneros, Historia de el principio, 129r–v, 135.

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From the seventeenth century on, historians have been moved by a

desire to counter “this epidemic of forgetfulness.”13 The trouble with miracles for historians stems from the trouble with miracles for the

authorities and the purging and editing of the written record which

followed. Prelates and their priests had good reasons not to publicize the full array of marvels-cum-miracles that circulated by word of

mouth and were expressed tangibly, if ephemerally and often inaudi-

bly, in gestures, prayers, and votive offerings at home and in shrines.

Both theologically and politically, authorities knew that there could not be many miracles and that true ones conformed to familiar patterns,

inspired by the miracles Christ worked in the Gospels.

My meager success in trying to establish how miracles were under-

stood and how they inÁ uenced the practice of faith in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mexico is not simply because miracles and their

reception are rarely mentioned. There are hundreds of references, but as Kenneth Woodward noted for Christian miracle stories in general,

they are exemplary stories, not simply case histories. They offer known types, not necessarily representative types.14 I can do something that feels substantial with the uses of an eighteenth-century devotional print or two and the patterns of “founding miracle” stories for several dozen Mexican shrines. The founding miracles for most colonial period (sixteenth to eighteenth centuries) Mexican image shrines differ somewhat

from the patterns in Spain and other parts of Europe, judging by the

three types of founding stories Philip Soergel described for medieval and early modern Europe: (1) holiness tried and triumphant (for example, where heretics tried to desecrate a consecrated host and it either bled or could not be broken; or they threw an image or relic into a À re

and it emerged undamaged); (2) holiness lost and found (where a long lost image or relic revealed its location by celestial music, a radiant light, or unusual behavior of domesticated animals, often a mule, ox, or

bull); and (3) holiness suddenly revealed, in apparitions of the Virgin Mary or another saint, visions that came to pass, or an image that began to 13 “A esta epidemia de olvido acude con el remedio de la historia,” Jesuit Joseph Ramírez’s sentir at the beginning of Francisco de Florencia’s La milagrosa invención de un tesoro escondido . . . (Mexico: Viuda de Juan de Ribera, 1685), pages unnumbered.

14 Kenneth L. Woodward, The Book of Miracles: The Meaning of the Miracle Stories in Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2000), p. 26.

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perspire, bleed, weep, or change appearance.15 Examples of all three

types appear in most parts of Europe and Latin America, but the bleeding hosts of type 1 were especially common in early modern Germany;

and, according to William Christian, the “shepherd cycle” of type

2—where pastors were led to a place by unusual behavior of an ox or

bull and uncovered an image of the Virgin Mary that had been hidden

from Muslim invaders—was the most characteristic story in Spain. In

both the German and Spanish cases, overcoming threats to the faith

was the deÀ ning feature of the origin miracle. The origin miracles of most Mexican shrines are less about the faith and society endangered,

and they À t Soergel’s third type—of holiness suddenly revealed in an apparition or a statue that changed posture, grew, or wept.

But beyond a few extended investigations of reported miracles by

episcopal courts in which the investigators’ voices and enthusiasms

overwhelm those of devotees, I am stalled by the record of miracle

stories for what they meant to those who told and heard of them, and

how they circulated and changed. It is not that nothing can be done

with the 800 or so miracle stories from the colonial period I have collected so far, but 800 truncated and scattered stories are not many,

and they rarely come in large bunches that are well-contextualized in

time and place. Forced onto tables, this selection displays a range of dangers, favors, and preoccupations much like those of their European counterparts, although more men than women are represented in

these Mexican stories (by a ratio of about 3:2). Most were cures (252) or narrow escapes from life-threatening situations (217). Nearly half

of the cures were for acute internal distress—intestinal complaints

in most cases, it appears—followed by recoveries from paralysis (34)

and dangerous birthings (34), perhaps also reÁ ecting the most familiar or at least notable maladies of the day.16 Cases of resuscitation (27), restoration of sight (20), exorcism (15), and recovery from deafness (7) stand out, too, serving as allegories of enlightenment, revelation, and 15 Soergel, Wondrous, pp. 170–171.

16 Some shrines and images had specialties that complicate general patterns and reÁ ect local circumstances. Miraculous images in coastal settlements, such as the Cristo de San Román of Campeche, were noted for rescues at sea and other maritime prodi-gies. Others, such as the fame of Querétaro’s Nuestra Señora del Pueblito for bringing a good death to the repentant, seem less related to geography or the local economy.

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salvation, or reenacting the particular miracles Christ performed in

the Gospel stories.17

People may not have expected instant miracles in their lives, but

many were led to hope and to practice rituals of promise, propitiation, and thanks. However, the traces of them are ephemeral and anonymous. Candles, Á owers, coins, and little wax or silver body parts called milagritos were the common votive offerings of most people.18 Colonial milagritos are rarely seen today, but they did not usually disappear in some mysterious or irreverent way. Many were recycled—melted down

to make candles if they were made of wax, and candlesticks or other

religious ornaments if made of silver. More personalized miracle stories favoring the less privileged during the colonial period occasionally turn up in unexpected places, but I have found them mainly in a few lines

in devotional histories and novena booklets. Most are generic cures or narrow escapes, but a few are more speciÀ c in a homely way: “María

de Viscarra of the city of Guanajuato in the neighborhood of San

Juan was eating round cactus apples at home and swallowed a spine,

which stuck in her throat. She motioned for a print of Our Lady of

El Pueblito, which she kept on a small altar, kissed it reverently and coughed up the spine.”19

Ex-voto paintings are especially approachable, personal artifacts of

faith in the miraculous for colonial Mexico. Usually these small paintings 17 Two contrasts to European patterns in these records may or may not stand up to close scrutiny: (1) Despite the post-Tridentine skepticism about reported apparitions in the European record, at least À fty two apparitions were reported in the Mexican ecclesiastical sources, most of them from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; (2) for the most part the Mexican miracle stories are less fraught with political and social danger than their European counterparts. There is little in the body of Mexican stories that is quite like the ominous social circumstances of miracles associated with St. Martin of Tours in the À fth century, St. Foye in the eleventh century, Spain’s Montserrat and Guadalupe in the sixteenth century, La Salette and Marpingen in the nineteenth century; or Fatima and Medjugorje in the twentieth century.

18 Joseph Manuel Ruiz y Cervantes reported that the shrine of Nuestra Señora de Xuquila in southwestern Oaxaca displayed thousands of milagritos in the early 1780s, adding about 200 to the collection every year, Memorias de la portentosa imagen de Nuestra Señora de Xuquila . . . (Mexico: F. de Zúñiga y Ontiveros, 1791).

19 Historia de la milagrosa imagen de Nuestra Señora del Pueblito, de la santa provincia de religiosos observantes de San Pedro y San Pablo de Michoacán, n.p., n.d. (composed after 1747, since the last dated miracle recounted is 1747, and before 1769 when the famous—but here unmentioned—Picazo miracle occurred), p. 83, Oct. 29, 1747. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries ex-voto paintings, made to order in shrine towns on cheap tin sheets slightly bigger than a piece of writing paper, were a popular expression of devotion for all but the poorest devotees in Mexico.

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on canvas or wooden tablets vividly depict an accident or a sickbed

scene. Votive paintings of miracle scenes are not unique to Mexico, of course. The form was introduced from Europe, but had a later and long

life in Mexico, enjoying great popularity in the nineteenth century and lasting well into the twentieth. It is part of a tradition that apparently Á owered in Italy in the sixteenth century and spread through much of

Catholic Europe before declining there in the late nineteenth century.

In Mexico during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was an

expression of thanks mainly for elites, who could afford to commission them. What appear to be spontaneous expressions of personal devotion

and vivid depictions of miraculous cures and escapes are actually quite stylized in their presentations, expressing in a standardized way what people wanted to be seen and recorded. But which people? Who made

the choices? Who did the paintings? We can rarely know, beyond the

likelihood that very few were painted by the devotees themselves. The

challenge of inferring much about popular and personal understand-

ings of miracles from these colonial ex-voto paintings commissioned by elites is compounded by their small number. Fewer than one hundred

examples in shrines and private collections have been published—too

few to constitute a sample. How many more were destroyed, lost, or

have not been published remains an open question. Certainly many

fewer were made before the nineteenth century when ex-voto scenes

painted on tin became a cottage industry, but even then it is doubtful that the hundreds of nineteenth- and twentieth-century survivors from a particular shrine constitute a representative sample since local pastors would have culled offbeat, crude, decrepit, and otherwise unedifying

specimens, and some of the more pleasing pictures found their way

into national and international art and artisan markets beginning in

the 1920s.20

Typically an early ex-voto painting is divided into three registers: the heavenly realm of the devotional image at the top; the miracle scene

occupying most of the frame; and a caption at the bottom. Most cap-

tions are much like the brief miracle accounts in devotional histories and novena booklets, identifying the grateful devotee, the event, the place, the date, and the object of devotion. An undated but otherwise typical caption reads, “A distinguished Spanish woman, Doña Gerónima de la

20 See, for example, the compact disk, “México en un espejo: Los exvotos de San Juan de los Lagos, 1870–1945” (Mexico: UNAM, 2000).

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Llana of Pátzcuaro was acutely ill with a malignant fever. She pleaded for the statue of Neustra Señora de la Salud (Our Lady of Health) to be brought to her bedside. She prayed fervently to the Virgin Mary and suddenly felt relief. In thanks she offered Our Lady an exquisite new

dress and cloak.”21 Like nearly all the others, this record is particular to a place and person, but the pictorial and written representation is standardized and reduced to the essentials.22

We say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I wish we had

those thousand words and more from the patrons and painters to go

with these paintings. Many of the ex-voto paintings are now in private collections, treated as freestanding art objects, far from their original shrine context. As attractive and individualized as they may be, the

paintings are usually no less standardized than the short captions that accompany them. In fact, most of the paintings were meant to illustrate the captions, the artist probably taking his cues in conversation with the devotee who commissioned the painting. Though they have a particular setting, the stories in them are reduced to essentials, expressing familiar types of events, with little about the loose ends and possible ambiguities of the episode. This, in itself, can be revealing—document-ing what people wanted to be seen and recorded, especially about the

gestures and other conventions of communication with the divine. But, again, which people? Who made the choices? Who chose to preserve

the paintings? What is left out? What experiences are hidden under the placid surface of these two- or three-line stories? That is, what is their provenance and how were they viewed? We rarely know.23

21 Zodíaco mariano, p. 267.

22 Two examples of captions on published ex-voto paintings that have the same form and basic content are: “On August 6, 1775, Doña María Flores found herself gravely ill from a mortal attack of apoplexy, hemorrhaging blood. Without hope of remedy, she commended herself to Our Most Holy Mother and Lady of Guadalupe and found herself safe and sound by the grace of God”; and “On October 16, 1771, Don Pedro Jurado suffered a deadly seizure and delirium. His sister Doña Antonia invoked the Archangel St. Michael, promising to come and offer him a little silver body. Don Pedro recovered from the attack and both of them came to this shrine to offer their thanks to this great Prince,” Dones y promesas: 500 años de arte ofrenda (exvotos mexicanos) (Mexico: Centro Cultural, Fundación Cultural Televisa, A.C., 1996), pp. 56–7.

23 And what can be said about the more evocative paintings? Their signiÀ cance rarely is transparent (though their symbolism likely was obvious to most contemporary viewers). In his essay “The Visual Image: Its Place in Communication” Ernst Gombrich juxtaposed speech acts and visual representation in a way that gives me pause. He wrote of speech acts as potentially serving (1) to express (to inform use of the speaker’s state of mind); (2) to arouse (to elicit an emotional response from the reader or hearer); and (3) to describe (to inform the reader or hearer of a state of affairs—past, present or OCKER1_f24_440-458.indd 449

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María Francisca Larralde and Our Lady of the Walnut Tree

E.P. Thompson suggested that “History is made up of episodes, and

if we cannot get inside these, we cannot get inside history at all. This has always been inconvenient to the schematists.”24 Here is a daunting proposition for the history of miracles. Can the surface of an episode like the colonial ex-voto sickbed scene of Doña Gerónima de la Llana

and her offering of precious garments be scratched for more than its

abbreviated story and fairy tale ending told by someone else? Hardly

ever, it appears, but I recently read an eighteenth-century record that brings me a little closer to a similar episode that was not memorialized in an ofÀ cial publication. This one was right under my nose in an uncatalogued box of miscellaneous Mexican manuscripts in UC-Berkeley’s

Bancroft Library. Here is my reading of the Bancroft document and

what it suggests about doubts and certainties of faith in an episode

much like many depicted in eighteenth-century ex-voto paintings.25

On March 29, 1758 Doña María Francisca Larralde and her hus-

band Sargento Mayor D. Antonio Urresti, citizens of the small city

of Monterrey in the far northern province of Nuevo León, sent a 48-

page À le of documents to the bishop of Guadalajara, some 300 miles

away. As they explained in their cover letter, the À le contained depositions by dignitaries of their city who witnessed the course of Doña

María Francisca’s suffering and recovery from a grave illness between

December 16, 1757 and February 17, 1758, and the vows she made to

Nuestra Señora del Nogal (Our Lady of the Walnut Tree) in the hope

of regaining her health and achieving a good death. Now she sought

the bishop’s judgment on whether she was obliged to fulÀ ll her vows.

The À le includes depositions by eight male dignitaries, six of whom

were deposed twice. Seven of these witnesses were leading priests of

the city, and the eighth was the captain general of the province. Less future; observable or distant; actual or conditional). He notes that “the visual image is supreme in its capacity for arousal, that its use for expressive purposes is problematic, and that unaided it altogether lacks the possibility of matching the statement function of language,” The Essential Gombrich: Selected Writings on Art and Culture (London: Phaidon Press, 1996), p. 40.

24 “The Peculiarities of the English,” in The Poverty of Theory and Other Essays (New York & London: Monthly Review Press, 1978), p. 275, tellingly quoted as an epigraph in Inga Clendinnen’s Dancing with Strangers: Europeans and Australians at First Contact (Mel-bourne: Text Publishing, 2003).

25 Bancroft Library MSS 87/190m, “Mexican Miscellany,” carton 2.

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than thirty years old (her mother was married in 1728), Doña María

Francisca clearly commanded the attention of Monterrey’s political

and spiritual elite. The priests included the pastor of the city, Lic.

Bartolomé Molano; his two assistant pastors, Joseph Lorenzo Báez de

Treviño and Luis Buenaventura de la Garza; her brother, Br. Francisco

Antonio Larralde, who was the ecclesiastical judge of the district; the retired president and prior of the Franciscan convent, Fr. Miguel de

la Portilla; another former Franciscan prior, Fr. Blas de Quintanilla; and Lic. D. Juan Báez Treviño, the regional commissary of the Inquisition. A silent presence in the documents is Doña María Francisca’s

mother, Doña Josepha Francisca Cantú del Río y la Zerda, widow of

the former military leader of the province, General Don Francisco

Ygnacio Larralde, and mayordoma de la fábrica de la parroquia—in charge of overseeing funds for improvements to the parish church and promoting the cult of its celebrated image of Our Lady of the Walnut

Tree. Doña Josepha Francisca was from a prominent family of Valle

de las Salinas, and both she and her sister, María Juliana, had married Basque immigrants who rose to regional prominence.26 Doña María

Francisca was being cared for in her mother’s home when the events

of late 1757 and early 1758 transpired, and in the second phase of

her daughter’s recovery, Doña Josepha Francisca steered the activity

into the city’s parish church and Franciscan convent.

There is not room here to elaborate on the individual depositions,

but together they provide a detailed, largely complementary chronicle

of events and sentiments, including Doña María Francisca’s surprising recovery. To summarize the points of agreement in the depositions,

Doña María Francisca became gravely ill in the middle of December

1757, hardly able to eat or drink, and passing in and out of consciousness. Expecting her to die at any moment, one or another of the church dignitaries kept vigil around the clock until January 13. On January 1

the parish priest attended the seemingly lifeless body and called upon 26 Doña Josepha Francisca’s marriage to Don Ignacio de Larralde, a native of the Villa de Aapeitia, Guipúzcoa, is recorded in the marriage register of the Diocese of Guadalajara on January 21, 1728, Index to the Marriage Investigations of the Diocese of Guadalajara: Pertaining to the Former Provinces of Coahuila, Nuevo León, Nuevo Santander, and Texas, Raúl J. Guerra, Jr., Nadine M. Vásquez, and Baldomero Vela, Jr., eds. ([Browns-ville, Tex.?]: R.J. Guerra, 1989–), I, 79. Her sister’s marriage to Don Juan Antonio de Sobrevilla y Layseca from the province of Álava appears on p. 106 of this index.

Members of the prominent Garza family appear among witnesses in the records for the Cantú del Río y la Zerda family.

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Doña María Francisca to squeeze his hand, and she responded. He

summoned her mother and brother to witness this happy turn of events.

María Francisca recovered full consciousness brieÁ y, making various

charitable wishes known and giving a sign for her husband to come

forward. She asked him to grant her permission to take the veil should she recover, to which he agreed. Then she took leave of her household and asked for communion, anticipating her death. She soon fell back

into a nearly lifeless state until January 13, 1758 when her mother asked that the sovereign image of Our Lady of the Walnut Tree be brought

to her bedside, attended by the priests of the city reciting the litany of the Virgin. Doña Josepha Francisca decorated a portable altar beside

her daughter’s bed and placed a beautiful string of pearls around the statue’s neck that María Francisca had promised to the Virgin. Soon

the sick woman lifted her head, and with new strength spoke in praise

of the Holy Sacrament, Our Lady of Sorrows, and the sweet names

of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

I can imagine an ex-voto painting of the event with Doña María

Francisca in bed, the statue of Our Lady of El Nogal adorned with the string of pearls, the dignitaries and family members gathered around, and a caption mentioning her illness and giving thanks for her marvelous recovery in the presence of this image of Mary. But there is more to the episode. Doña María Francisca asked that the church bells of the

city be rung to honor God and remind the citizens that their continu-

ing misfortunes stemmed from tepid devotion to the Divine Lady, and

declaring that her own misfortune resulted from having turned away

from her early desire to lead a celibate life as a bride of Christ. She took her husband’s hand and asked him to afÀ rm her recent vow of

celibacy, asked him to dress in the habit of a Franciscan for two years, and to allow her to make a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Guadalupe at

her shrine near Mexico City, walking the last three leagues. To all of this he once again agreed.

On February 7, however, she again became deathly ill, immobile

and unable to take even a sip of water. On February 17 her mother,

brother, and husband decided to take her to the altar of Our Lady of

the Walnut Tree in the parish church. At about ten in the morning, the priests of the city carried her there on a stretcher, singing the litany of the Virgin. Prayers continued at the altar. She was still motionless, with her eyes closed. Eventually she stirred, sat up and patted the stretcher until she found the Franciscan habit. With the help of the priests she put on the habit, struggled out of the stretcher to touch her lips to the OCKER1_f24_440-458.indd 452

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hands of the image and the hands of each of the priests. She kissed her mother and husband, and sat down on the stretcher, looking intently at the image of the Virgin. Then she indicated that she and her husband

had made a solemn vow that needed to be afÀ rmed before the bishop in

Guadalajara and that she wanted to be taken to the Franciscan church

to pray before the statue of Jesus and the consecrated Host deposited there. She was no longer speaking, but gestured in a way that made it

known that she had received divine instruction not to speak again until she was in the presence of the bishop. The priests said they feared she would exhaust herself and resolved to carry her back to her mother’s

house, but she gave signs that she must keep vigil at the image of Jesus and, with her husband, reafÀ rm her vow there. Finally, at about À ve in the afternoon they carried her home.

On February 22, with his sister on the road to recovery, ecclesiastical judge Larralde certiÀ ed the depositions of the clergymen who witnessed these events and passed the À le to the governor and captain general of the province of the Nuevo Reino de León for his review and remission

to the bishop in Guadalajara. Governor Pedro de Barrio Junco, in the

presence of the municipal ofÀ cers of Monterrey, proceeded to summa-

rize events as reported by the witnesses, adding that he had seen Doña María Francisca arise from the stretcher with little help, clear-eyed and with a strong purpose.

The next document in the À le is dated March 29 in the bishop’s

ofÀ ces in Guadalajara. The À le and petition by Doña María Francisca

and her husband had been received, and the bishop now appointed

three members of the cathedral chapter and a local Jesuit to advise him in the matter. The four reported back on April 7 that there were not

sufÀ cient grounds to declare this recovery a miracle or to believe that the Virgin Mary had spoken to the sick woman. Therefore it was most

probable that the recovery was natural and Doña María Francisca’s

vows were not binding. They recommended that the vows be commuted

and dispensation be granted. The pilgrimage to Tepeyac, they thought,

could do her considerable harm in her weakened condition, but that

it was appropriate to show thanks for her recovery in some other way.

Whether miraculous or not, it was certainly special, they said. They

recommended spiritual exercises, perhaps one or two communions a

month for six months or a year, and a charitable gift that the bishop

might recommend.

The À nal document in the À le is Bishop Fray Francisco de San Bue-

naventura Martines de Texada’s judgment, dated April 15, 1758. He was

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more inclined to view Doña María Francisca’s recovery as miraculous,

describing the episode as a case of a woman of faith gravely ill without hope of recovery, privada de sentidos (rendered senseless) for thirty-six days. He concluded, however, that she was “not perfectly in control

of her judgment” when she made her vows to the Virgin. Therefore

the couple was not bound to the promise of perpetual chastity, and he commuted the promised visit to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe

to a donation of 500 pesos to the building fund of the parish church of Monterrey. In addition, Doña María Francisca was to sponsor a

mass for Our Lady of Guadalupe at whatever altar or chapel the par-

ish church might have dedicated to her, to keep vigil there all that day, and for her husband to wear a Franciscan habit over his usual clothing whenever he went to church for the next two years.

Discussion

Except in the cover letter, Doña María Francisca did not speak for herself in the formal record, nor did her mother, Doña Josepha Francisca, but they were leading actors in this provincial drama of illness, faith, healing, salvation, and doubt. They were among those elite lay women

with the time, resources, and inclination to cultivate their spirituality and the wellbeing of their immortal souls through prayer, frequent

confession and communion, good works, and other pious activities.

Doña Josepha Francisca set the tone as mayordoma of the church fabric in her parish, as mother of one of the city’s leading priests, and as the backstage manager of events described in the record. Whether

or not the activity of leading ofÀ cials during Doña María Francisca’s prolonged travail should be seen in light of I.M. Lewis’s reading of

women’s possession cults as protests against the dominant sex,27 she

and her mother certainly kept prominent men of the city busy attend-

ing to two women’s wishes and instructions. Her husband repeatedly

acquiesced in her desire for a celibate life and her request that he wear a Franciscan habit. Leading priests of the city attended the sickbed in shifts for weeks on end. They responded with alacrity to her mother’s

urgent request that they come in procession with the miraculous statue 27 Ecstatic Religion: A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Routledge, 1989), pp. 26–27.

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of the Virgin. Later they would come again to carry her to the parish church and Franciscan convent and witness her devotions. Doña María

Francisca’s refusal, on instruction from the Virgin Mary, to speak except to the bishop of Guadalajara left the men to interpret her gestures

about what needed to be done next. They also prepared the substantial

dossier of notarized depositions and other information that was sent to the bishop for his review and disposition. Despite the men’s authority, she and her mother did much to shape the course of events.

The result of the bishop’s review, which completes this written record, seems prudent and politic more than inspired. He and his advisers were divided about whether Doña María Francisca’s recovery was miraculous,

but they agreed that she should not be required to keep her extrava-

gant promises to the Virgin. In place of the arduous pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and withdrawal into a nun’s life of

chastity and seclusion, the bishop prescribed a charitable donation to the parish building fund and some light spiritual exercises. The most

interested parties in the spiritual question—Doña María Francisca, Doña Josepha Francisca, and the bishop—apparently got what they wanted

at this late stage of the episode. Doña María Francisca was released

from her most rigorous vows, her conscience assuaged. For the bishop,

excessive spiritual exuberance of distant and important women of his Á ock was calmed or at least removed to the privacy of their home,

and leading citizens of Monterrey reafÀ rmed his Tridentine authority to mediate between church members and the divine in a time when

that authority was challenged.

Why did the stirring recovery of this pious member of a leading local family fail to become one of the canonical miracles of Our Lady of

the Walnut Tree, a statue still famous for miraculous cures, now known as Our Lady of the Oak Tree, the perpetual patroness of the city of

Monterrey? I don’t know.28 All of the combination of circumstances in 28 The name change seems less mysterious. Oak trees had a special appeal as sites of miracles, as William Christian has noticed for Spain since early modern times: “Apple trees and blackberry bushes quickly were abandoned (as ‘the’ vision site) for oak trees,”

“Six Hundred Years of Visionaries in Spain: Those Believed and Those Ignored,” in Michael P. Hanagan, Leslie Page Moch, and Wayne te Brake, eds., Challenging Authority: The Historical Study of Contentious Politics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), p. 117. “Our Lady of the Oak Tree” appears often as a special advocation of Mary in Camós and other Marian compendia for early modern Spain, but they rarely mention other trees. And Matías de Escobar, early eighteenth-century cronista for the Augustinian Province of San Nicolás Tolentino de Mechoacán in western Mexico, had something to say about the oak’s special appeal. “The oak tree,” he wrote, “is an OCKER1_f24_440-458.indd 455

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play here may have been indispensable to the outcome. Lack of ofÀ cial sanction and promotion, and the bishop’s evident good sense, obviously were important. While he seemed to regard Doña María Francisca’s

recovery as miraculous, his advisers were convinced otherwise, and he

did not press the matter. Miracle stories were not so eagerly, universally celebrated and promoted in the later eighteenth century as they had

been in the seventeenth century. Ecclesiastical ofÀ cials in New Spain were more cautious about spreading the news and thereby courting

unwanted attention and derision by Bourbon ofÀ cials who were begin-

ning to press a more limited public role on the church. Moves by mid

eighteenth-century European states at home and abroad toward a more

regalist, Erastian church and a more restrained, parsimonious, and

decorous spirituality may have inÁ uenced the judgment of the bishop

and his advisers. So, too, the growing skepticism and empiricism of

the time may have disposed the bishop’s advisers against interpreting

Doña María Francisca’s recovery as miraculous. (The experts were

especially doubtful of her claim to have received instructions from the Virgin.) There was no decisive time of disenchantment in Mexico—as

Hartmut Lehmann posits for Germany during the great famine of the

early 1770s when, for the À rst time, a major disaster was not widely

seen as the result of God’s wrath—but a shift was apparent in small,

mostly ofÀ cial ways, including cemetery reforms, wills, and more rigorous standards for judging purported miracles.29

Even more decisive for this story’s absence from the annals of the

miraculous in Nuevo León may have been the nature of Doña María

Francisca’s recovery and her second thoughts about the promises she

made to the Virgin. Her recovery was not sudden and complete, as

miracle cures were expected to be, and her vacillation over the promises she made—emphatically, on three occasions—also was not very good

evergreen that gives us shade and nourishment, and is our defense,” Americana Thebaida (1729), Morelia: Balsal Editores, 1970, p. 464.

29 Hartmut Lehmann’s lecture at the University of California, Berkeley in April 2004 explored this theme of miracles in catastrophes in early modern Germany. Benito Jerónimo Feijóo’s skepticism within belief suggests a more rigorous standard for judging miracles in eighteenth-century Spain, but one that stopped short of the disenchantment Lehmann notices: “[ Here] is the way I proceed in this matter: to believe those miracles which are well authenticated, to doubt those which do not possess strong evidence, and to judge those false which after careful examination I have judged to be such. . . . Am I convinced by the number of witnesses? No, by the quality.” Quoted in Lee Hoinacki, El Camino: Walking to Santiago de Compostela (University Park: Penn State Press, 1996), p. 228.

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material for an edifying miracle story. Change this one fact and I think her recovery would have become an exemplary miracle: if she had kept

her promise to take the veil (or perhaps even if she had expired after she recovered consciousness the second time and was able to prepare a

good death and make her pronouncement to the people of Monterrey),30

her story might well have gained favor no matter what royal authorities or the bishop and his advisers intended. Her ringing challenge to the

tepid faith of the people of Monterrey might then have echoed for a

good, long time among the faithful and stirred the local Franciscans

(to whom the two women, both of them named for St. Francis, felt

a special attachment) to undertake the kind of revivalist mission that their order’s colleges further south—in Zacatecas, Pachuca, Querétaro, and Mexico City—were known for during the eighteenth century. The

voz pública y fama— popular opinion and reputation—that authors of devotional histories of shrines and miraculous images invoked to prove the veracity of miracles when they lacked other evidence was crucial

to the fame of a shrine.31 Clerical and lay promoters of shrines and miracle stories might encourage and shape the canon of miracles, but

miracles had to seem true and right to many devotees if they were to

have much staying power.32 How active public acceptance of particular shrines, images, and miracles was achieved is another elusive story, but Doña María Francisca’s salvo to the people of Monterrey without the

promised sacriÀ ce would not have met the test of right and À tting.

Coda

“Sometimes the evidence available in the surviving records of the past will satisfactorily sustain two or more divergent yet credible conclusions 30 I have not searched the burial registers of Monterrey for the date of her death.

31 For example, Francisco de Florencia in La milagrosa invención asserted that although there was little documentation on the early history of the shrine of Our Lady of los Remedios and the many miraculous cures there, any doubts were erased by the fact that they were widely retold and known in the voz pública y fama. “Los milagros de esta Imagen son vozes que la publican” (The miracles of this image are themselves voices that publicize it), he wrote in chapter 1, and reiterated in chapter 2: tenemos por ciertas solo con fe humana” (Human faith alone makes them certain).

32 William Christian makes the point of the À ttingness and familiarity of a miracle story being important to its acceptance by the laity and church authorities, in “Six Hundred Years of Visionaries in Spain,” pp. 116–117.

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william b. taylor

about what went on in the past,” wrote J.H. Hexter.33 In this episode of Doña María Francisca’s illness and recovery, not to mention the whole

subject of miracles, more than one line of interpretation appears to be credible, and mysteries remain. Readers will have their own ideas about this, but here are three to start with. (1) I may have overplayed the two women’s roles in shaping the events (though Doña María Francisca’s

dramatization of her alliance with the Madonna and her very public

performances add credibility to it). The priests and other dignitaries of Monterrey may well have been full partners with the women in shaping

the events—not directed by them as much as working together with

them, deciding more or less spontaneously what would come next in

this dire, prolonged emergency. Were Doña María Francisca and her

mother more afraid than manipulative when she was in the throes of

her illness? Were they À xed on the imperative of a good death more

than either afraid or manipulative? The shift from her ringing, reiterated vows to doubt about whether she had to fulÀ ll them suggests a change

of heart by Doña María Francisca, if not more complex, contradictory feelings from the start. Perhaps the bishop was right in his assessment of her state of mind, and perhaps the priests in Monterrey and Guadalajara were more in control of the events than I suggest here. (2)

Perhaps, too, the deliberations at the bishop’s court and the failure of Doña María Francisca’s cure to rise to the level of a miracle has less to do with disenchantment by anyone in the late eighteenth century, than

with earnest doubts by all concerned—including the voz pública—about whether she had, in fact, approached the divine in the right ways, in

the right frame of mind. And (3), whether the dignitaries regarded the early events of this episode as an especially delicate time of inversion of gendered social hierarchies in which the sacred was spilling out in unwanted directions, and acted accordingly, is another imponderable.

The fact that Doña María Francisca was in extremis, that she and her mother were notably faithful (if perhaps pushy) church members calling on the priests to vigorously exercise their institutional and liturgical authority, and that the distinguished men mobilized around her in

Monterrey were relatives, friends, and spiritual advisers of the family leads me to doubt that they regarded the unusual demands of her

travail as a world turning upside down.

33 The History Primer (New York: Basic Books, 1971), p. 169.

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Dean Phillip Bell, Dean/Chief Academic OfÀ cer and Professor of

Jewish History, Spertus Institute of Jewish Studies.

Prof. em. Dr. Peter Blickle, University of Berne.

Prof. Dr. Christoph Burger, Institute for Church History of the Late

Middle Ages and the Reformation, Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, Vrije

Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

Roger Chickering, Professor of History, BMW Center for German

and European Studies, Georgetown University.

Constantin Fasolt, Professor of History, the University of Chicago.

Ellen Yutzy Glebe, doctoral candidate, University of California,

Berkeley, exchange student, Philipps-Universität-Marburg.

Kaspar von Greyerz, Ph.D., Professor of Early Modern History at

the University of Basel (Switzerland).

Prof. Dr. Berndt Hamm, Lehrstuhl für Neuere Kirchengeschichte,

Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg, Germany.

Craig Harline, Professor of History, Brigham Young University.

Professor Joel F. Harrington, Assistant Provost for International Affairs, Vanderbilt University.

Susan C. Karant-Nunn, Director, Division for Late Medieval and

Refor mation Studies, Professor of History, University of Arizona.

Dr. Greta Grace Kroeker, Assistant Professor of History, University

of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

Amy Leonard, Associate Professor of History, Georgetown University.

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list of contributors

Marc Lienhard, Professeur émérite de l’Université Marc Bloch de

Strasbourg, Doyen honoraire de la Faculté de théologie protestante.

Terence McIntosh, Associate Professor, the University of North

Carolina at Chapel Hill.

H.C. Erik Midelfort, C. Julian Bishko Professor of History and Reli-

gious Studies, the University of Virginia.

Christopher Ocker, Professor of History, the San Francisco Theologi-

cal Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union at Berkeley.

Michael Printy, Wesleyan University.

Anne Jacobson Schutte, Professor of History Emerita, University of

Virginia.

Peter Starenko, Research Associate, Williams College.

Julie K. Tanaka, Ph.D. candidate, University of California, Berkeley.

William B. Taylor, Muriel McKevitt Sonne Professor of Latin Ameri-

can History, University of California at Berkeley.

Elaine C. Tennant, Professor, Department of German, University of

California, Berkeley.

Peter G. Wallace, Professor of History, Hartwick College.

Lee Palmer Wandel, Professor of History, Religious Studies, & Visual Culture, Senior Fellow, Institute for Research in the Humanities, University of Wisconsin, Madison.

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INDEX OF NAMES OF PERSONS

Accursius 124

297, 313, 315, 317, 318, 319, 320,

Adorni Braccesi, Simonetta 92n

321, 325, 337, 341, 426, 435

Albrecht, margrave 205

Brambilla, Elena 107n

Albrecht, Grand Master of the Teutonic

Breul, Wolfgang 295

Order (1511–1525), duke of Prussia

Bucer, Martin 199, 209, 212, 237,

(1525–1568) 298

295, 301, 305, 314, 315, 316, 321,

Alciato, Andrea 125

322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 329,

Alfonso the Wise 124

332, 333, 334, 337, 338, 339, 340,

Amabile, Luigi 92n

341

Amiel, Charles 103n

Budé, Guillaume 125

Andreae, Jakob 403

Büsching, Anton Friedrich 142

Anne of Cleves 322, 323

ButterÀ eld, Herbert 66

Anton, Paul 400

Antoniano, Wilvio 107n

Cahn, Jean-Paul 217

Aquinas, Thomas 221

Calandra, Endimio 101n

Aristotle 29,

129

Calvin, John 212, 310, 313–344, see

Armbruster, family 203

also Epinicion in the Subject Index

Arnold, Johann Christian 414

Canosa, Romano 92n

Arnold, Matthieu 217, 221, 223

von Canstein, Carl Hildebrand 422

Augustine 221

Carafa, Gian Pietro 93; see also Paul

Augustus, elector of Saxony

IV, Pope

(1553–1586) 300,

306

Carnesecchi, Pietro 98 and n. 99 and

n. 102

Bacharach, Rabbi Yair Hayyim 362

Carpzov, August Benedikt 405

Bangerter, Olivier 217, 220, 221, 232,

Carpzov, Johann Benedikt II 400

234, 237, 239

Cavazzana Romanelli, Francesca 110n

Bärensprung, Siegismund 408–9

Celtis, Conrad 211

Bartolus of Sassoferrato 124

Christoph, duke of Württemberg

Bauman, Clarence 222

(r. 1550–1568) 308, 312

de Beaumanoir, Philippe 124

Cicero 221

Bellarmine, Robert 104n

Cifres, Alejandro 111n

von Berlipsch, Caspar Adam 414

Colonna, Vittoria 101n

Bibago, Abraham 356

Comte, Auguste 29

Blarer, Ambrosius 237

Conring, Hermann 128–33

Blau, Felix Anton 145, 147–149

as founder of German legal history

Bock, Ursula 209

128–131; De civili prudentia 129;

Böcklin, family 203

De origine iuris Germanici commentarius

Bodin, Jean 126

historicus 128;

Discursus novus de

Bonnici, Alexander 92n

imperatore Romano-Germanico 131;

von Bora, Katharina 199

training 129–130; works 129

Borromeo, Agostino 91n, 92n

Copper, Reiner 406

Boswell, John 85

Crasselius, Johann C. 414 n. 50, 419

Bouwsma, William J. 315

Cujas, Jacques 125

de Bracton, Henry 124

Brady, Thomas A. Jr. 1–10, 11–19,

Davidico, Lorenzo 99 and n. 101

33, 35–36, 78–80, 90, 199, 202, 241,

Davis, Joseph 355

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index of names of persons

De Boer, Wietse 105 and n. 106

Klassische und philosophische Hermeneutik

De Bujanda, Jesús Martínez 104

72; Selbstdarstellung 71

and n

Galilei, Galileo 101

Dedieu, Jean-Pierre 93n, 110n

Georg, margrave of Brandenburg-

Del Col, Andrea 91n, 92n, 93n, 95n,

Ansbach 303

96, 97 and n, 98 and n, 99 and n,

Gerlach, Pastor in Wieseck 305

100n, 101 and n, 102n, 103n, 109n,

Ghislieri, Michele 93, 104, 106; see also

110n

Pius V, pope

Denck, Hans 212

Ginzburg, Carlo 97 and n, 99 and n,

Di Capua, Pierantonio 105 and n

101, 106

Di Simplicio, Oscar 103 and n

de Glanville, Ranulf 124

Dickens, A.G. 26, 32

Godman, Peter 104n

Dippel, Johann Konrad 408

Goebel, Johann Wilhelm 129

von Döllinger, Ignaz 135

Goertz, Hans-Jürgen 349

Duchrow, Ulrich 217

Goethe, J. W. 24n

Gotor, Miguel 105 and n

Ebner, Friedrich 208

de Granvelle, Nicholas Perrenot,

Ebner, Hieronymus 208

imperial chancellor 325, 330, 330,

Ebner, Katherine 208

338, 339

Eike von Repgow 124

Greschat, Martin 223

von Einsiedel, Hans Haubold 401,

Grimani, Giovanni 105 and n

417, 420–22

Elias, Norbert 348

Hahn, Joseph Juspa, of Nördlingen

Engammare, Max, 313

353–55, 363

Erasmus of Rotterdam 104, 109n,

Hartweg, Frédéric 217

218, 219, 220, 238

Harvey, William 130

Estes, James M. 320, 325, 332

Haskins, Susan 91n

Hayyim ben Bezalel 354, 363, 365

Fabri, Jean 232

Hege, Christian 294

Farel, Guillaume 316, 324, 325, 328,

Hegel, G.W.F. 23, 29

329, 337, 338, 339,

Heinrich, duke of Braunschweig 307

Ferdinand, archduke of Austria (1521/

Held, Matthias, imperial

1525–1564), king of the Romans

vice-chancellor 307, 318, 319, 330,

(1531–1556), king of Bohemia and

333, 337

Hungary (1526–1564), emperor

Henningsen, Gustav 103n

(1556–1564) 234,

235

Henry VIII 200

Fergen, Heinrich 419

Henry VIII, king of England 303

Ferrazzi, Cecilia 102n

Herder, J.G. 29

Fichte, J.G. 25, 27, 29, 31–2

Hermann, Rudolf 231

Ficino, Marsiglio 130

Higman, Francis 316, 334

Firpo, Massimo 93n, 99 and n, 100

Hinrichs, Carl 24n

and n, 101 and n, 102, 105n, 109n

Hontheim, Niklaus (Febronius)

Forster, Marc 348

136–7

Fragnito, Gigliola 104 and n, 105

Horowitz, Isaiah 363

Frajese, Vittorio 106n, 107n

Franck, Sebastian 157, 166–75

Innocent IV, pope 204

Francke, August Hermann 397,

Irnerius 122–123

400–401, 419, 422

Ittig, Thomas 418 n. 62

Friedrich, bishop of Eichstatt 204

Fuchs, Thomas 313, 321, 333

Johann Friedrich, elector of Saxony

von Fürstenberg, Wilhelm 316

(r. 1532–1547; d. 1554) 317, 318,

320, 326, 337

Gadamer, Hans Georg 64, 71–4,

Johann, elector of Saxony

77–78

(r. 1525–1532) 228

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index of names of persons

463

John Paul II, pope 101

Marcatto, Dario 98 and n, 99 and n,

Joseph ben Gershon of Rosheim ( Josel

101 and n, 102, 105n

of Rosheim) 356

Marguerite d’Angoulême, queen of

Joshua 234

Navarre (1527–1549) 316, 317

Julius III, pope (1549–55) 105

Marini, Marino 102

Justinian, Byzantine emperor (518–565)

Marsiglio of Padua 130

118

Marx, Karl 31

Mayes, David 348

Kaiser, Jacob 235

Melanchthon, Philip 211, 302, 314,

Kant, Immanuel 24

315, 316, 320, 321, 323, 324, 325,

Kaplan, Yosef 361

326, 327, 333–36, 338, 340

von Karlstadt, Andreas Bodenstein 75,

Menocchia, see Scandella, Domenico

77

Mieg, family 203

Katz, Jacob 355

Millar Carvacho, René 93n, 110n

Keßler, Johann Conrad 419

Millet, Olivier 315, 316, 323

Kessler, Johannes 63

Möhler, Johann Adam 152

Köhler, Walter 217

de Montaigne, Michel Eyquem 63–4

Krafft, Adam 304

Montanari, Daniele 106n

von Kramm, Assa 224

Monter, E. William 103n

Krieger, Leonard 24

Morone, Giovanni 99 and n, 101

Kuhn, Thomas S. 103 and n

Mörßmünster, Ursula 208

Kunst, Hermann 217

Mosheim, Johann Lorenz 140–41

Mosheim, Ruprecht, dean of the

Lamparter, Helmut 217, 226

cathedral of Passau 330–32

Lamprecht, Karl 23, 28–33

Mozzarelli, Cesare 93n

Lattis, James M. 93n

Muller, Richard A. 314, 316, 331

Lauer, Gerhard 349–51, 355, 371

Müntzer, Thomas 227

Laven, P.J. 105n

Murner, Thomas 200

von Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 29

Myconius, Oswald 220

Lenz, Max 31–2

Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 138

Naphy, William G. 314, 327, 328, 341

Lienhard, Marc 219, 223, 339

Napoleon 102

Littell, Franklin H. 294

Nardon, Franco 99n

Locher, Gottfried 217, 232, 234, 236

Nethenus, Samuel 406

Locke, John 130

Niebuhr, Berthold Georg 26–7

Lotze, Hermann 28

Nubola, Cecilia 106n

Ludicke, pastor in Brandenburg 231

Nützel, Clara 208

Ludwig X, duke of Bavaria

Nützel, Kaspar 214

(1508–1545) 307

Luther, Martin 24–32, 63, 67–71,

Oberman, Heiko 135–6

75–8, 135, 146, 151, 199, 208–209,

Oechsli, pastor in Stammheim 232

214, 217–240, 297, 298, 300, 302,

Oecolampad, Johannes 76–7

309–310, 316, 321, 323, 324, 331,

Oestreich, Gerhard 348

333, 340

Osiander, Andreas 199, 212, 214

Luttenberger, Albrecht Pius 319, 320

von Pack, Otto 228

Machiavelli, Niccoló 129

Pagano, Sergio M. 100 and n, 101

Maharal of Prague ( Judah Loew)

and n

362, 365–66

Paolin, Giovanna 95n, 101n, 110n

Maharil ( Jacob Molin) 353, 354

Paschini, Pio 105n

Malena, Adelisa 103 and n

Paul III, pope (1534–1549) 91

Malkani, Fabrice 217

Paul IV, pope (1559–1565) 104, 107

Manuel, Niklaus 235

Paul VI, pope (1963–1978) 92n

Manzoni, Giacomo 98 and n

Paul, apostle 222, 223

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464

index of names of persons

Pelargus, see Storch, Ambrosius

Seidel Menchi, Silvana 91n, 96n,

Petersen, Johann Wilhelm 416 n. 56

100n, 109n

Petrarch 133

Seidel, Christoph Matthäus

Philip IV, king of France (1285–1314)

chiliasm 414–19, 422; church

120

discipline 409–11,

423;

Philipp, landgrave of Hesse (1509–1567)

confession 402, 404, 406, 408,

228, 293–312

422; later career 424; relations

Pirckheimer, Caritas 204, 206, 208,

with church authorities 401,

211

404, 412, 416–19, 420, 423, 424;

Pirckheimer, Willibald 204

relations with Hans Haubold von

Pius V, pope (1566–1572) 96n

Einsiedel 420–22; relations with

Pole, Reginald 101n

Pietist clergymen 401, 419; relations

Pozzi, Regina 97n

with villagers 402, 404, 406, 408,

Prodi, Paolo 91n

411–13, 422; separatism, uninterested

Prosperi, Adriano 97n, 105n, 106

in 409, 411, 424; suppressing moral

and n, 107 and n, 108n, 109n

adiaphora 399–400, 405–6, 408, 409,

422; suppressing music and village

Rachfahl, Felix 31–2

dances 401–2, 403–4, 408, 409,

Ranieri, Concetta 101n

411; university studies 400

von Ranke, Leopold 23–33, 64, 65

Shabbatai Sevi 345

Deutsche Geschichte im Zeitlalter der

Simon, Ernst 23

Reformation 65–70

Sleidan, Johann 135, 139–140, 316,

Ratzinger, Joseph 93, 101 and n, 102n

318

Reinhard, Wolfgang 347

Sluhofsky, Moshe 91n

Reinhold, Karl Leonhard 150–152

Soranzo, Vittore 100 and n, 102

Rinck, Melchior 304

Spener, Philipp Jakob 397–98,

Ritschl, Albrecht 399

400–401, 407–8, 420, 422

Romeo, Giovanni 92n, 94 and n,

Spinoza, Baruch 29

107n, 108n, 109n

Stäudlin, Karl Friedrich 137–38

Roscher, Wilhelm 28

Stayer, James 222

Rotweiler, Otilia 207

Steinbart, Gotthilf Samuel 142–43

Storch, Ambrosius (Pelargus) 336,

Sachsse, Eugen 399

344

Sadoleto, Jacopo, cardinal 316, 324,

Sturm, family 203

341

Sturm, Jacob 317, 319, 331

Saitta, Armando 97n

Sturm, Jean ( Johannes) 314, 315,

Sangalli, Mauriozio 91n

318, 319, 321, 327, 329, 330, 331,

Scandella, Domenico, known as

332, 334–36

Menocchio 99 and n

Scaramella, Pierroberto 92n, 106n

Tacitus 129

Schade, Johann Caspar 407–8, 419

Tedeschi, Anne 97n, 99n

Schilling, Heinz 348, 350

Tedeschi, John 93, 93n, 94, 94n, 95

Schleiermacher, Friedrich 23

and n, 96 and n, 97n, 99n, 102

Schmidt, Michael Ignaz 144,

and n, 103n

145–47

Tetzel, Margaret 208

Schneilin, Gérard 217

Thamer, Theobald 299

SchoÀ eld, John 320

Thomasius, Christian 401 n. 10,

Schraepler, Horst 294

423 n. 76

Schutte, Anne Jacobson 92n, 102n

Titius, Gottlieb Gerhard 408

Schwanhauser, Johann 206

Töllner, Justinus 399–400, 408, 416,

Schwartz, Katherine 207

419

von Schwarzenberg, Johann 222

Tucher, Felicitas 203

Schwenckfeld, Caspar 301, 312

Tucher, Sixtus 211

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index of names of persons

465

Vadian, Joachim 237

Wimpheling, Jacob 156–65, 175

Valier, Agostino 107n

Winter, Georg 30

Valla, Lorenzo 125

Wolf, Peter Philipp 144

Venard, Marc 219

Wolgast, Eike 217

Wyclif, John 68

Walch, Johann Georg 399

Wappler, Paul 306

Zeeden, Ernst Walter 348

Weil, Jacob 354

Zimmermann, Bénédicte 81–84,

Werner, Michael 81–84, 87–90

97–90

Wilhelm, duke of Jülich-Cleves-Berg

Zwingli, Huldrych (Ulrich) 75–8, 212,

(1539–1592) 316, 317, 318, 322,

217–140, 297, 298, 300

332, 338

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INDEX OF PLACES

Acireale, Archivio Vescovile 100n

Italy 118, 120, 122, 124–125, 129

Altenburg, edition of Luther’s works 26

Altona 358

Jena, edition of Luther’s works 26

Amsterdam 361,

367

Aquileia, Patriarchate of, Roman

Leipzig, university 23–6, 28–30, 129,

Inquisition in 96, 97 and n, 98r, 110

400

and n

Lucca, Republic of 91, 92n

Avignon, Roman Inquisition in 92

Malta, Roman Inquisition in 92

Bologna 122

Marburg 297–299, 305; university

Bonn, university of 23

of 301

Brandenburg 303

Marradi 100n

Brussels, Royal Library 94

Milan, archdiocese of 106n

Modena, Archivio di Stato 100

Cagliari, Archivio Arcivescovile 100n

Modena, Roman Inquisition in 103

Calabria, Waldensians in 106 and n

Münster, Anabaptist Kingdom of 304,

Carcassonne, Roman Inquisition in 92

307–309

Casanatense, Biblioteca 111

Cologne, Roman Inquisition in 92

Naples, Archivio Diocesano 100

Concordia, diocese of 110 and n

Naples, Roman Inquisition in 92n

Corsica, Roman Inquisition in 91

Nuremberg 87–88; city council,

203; convents of: St. Clara 207,

Engelthal 203–205,

210

St. Katharine 203, 207, 210–211;

England 121–122, 303; dissolution of

Reformation in 205

monasteries in 200, 202

Palatinate 297

Faenza, Archivio Vescovile 100n

Perugia, Archivio di Stato 101

Florence, Archivio Arcivescovile 100

Pforte 64–65,

69

France 120, 124, 125

Pillenreuth 203

Franche-Comté, Roman Inquisition

Posen 364

in 92

Prussia 298

Frankfurt am Main 353, 358, 363, 364

Fulda 304,

358

Safed 350

Sardinia, Roman Inquisition in 91,

Geneva 313, 314, 316, 327–28, 329,

100n

339, 340–41

Saxony 300,

306

Germany 79–80, 84, 87–88

Schönensteinbach 211

Göttingen, university 24, 28, 32

Schulpforta 23,

25

Günzburg 358

Sicily 91

Siena, Roman Inquisition in 103

Hamburg 358, 361, 364, 367, 369;

and n

Portuguese Jewish community

Strasbourg 80,

313–344

of 357,

359

city council of 203; convents of:

Helmstedt, university of 128, 129

St. Clara an dem Rossmarkt 203,

Hersfeld 304

207, St. Clara auf dem Wörd

Hesse, Upper 348

203, 207, St. Katherine 203, 207,

Himmelthron 203

SS. Margaret and Agnes 203, 207,

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index of places

467

209, St. Marx 203, 207, St. Mary

Vatican City, Archivio Segreto

Magdelene (Penitents) 203–204,

Vaticano 111

207, St. Nicholas-in-Undis 203,

Venice, Patriarcate of, Roman

207–208; Gymnasium illustre 314,

Inquisition in 96

315, 330, 339, Reformation in 205

Venice, Republic of, Roman Inquisition

in 92 and n

Terra di Lavoro, Roman Inquisition

Verona, diocese of 107n

in 92n

Vicenza, Archivio Vescovile 100n

Tyran 224,

231

Wandsbek 358

Udine, Archivio Patriarcale 100, 101,

Wittenberg 212

110

Worms 358

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INDEX OF SUBJECTS

abortion 87

common law 121

adiaphora, moral 398–99, 413–14

communal organization and

agency 63, 67–71, 73–8

governance 351,

366–70

agricultural servants 413–14

communal religion 348

Anabaptists, Anabaptism 212–213,

communion 300;

see also Lord’s Supper

222, 237, 293–312, 349

confession 402, 404, 406–9, 422

Antichrist 231

confessionalization 105,

345–47,

Augsburg Confession (1530) 297;

370–72; confessionalization

article 17 of 415, 418

thesis, limitations of 347–50;

Augustinians 199

conversos 361

authority, centralization of 352;

confessors 106, 107, 206

monopolization of 358; temporal

Congregation for the Doctrine of the

221, 222, 223, 225, 239

Faith 92

Congregation for the Doctrine of the

Bartolists 124

Faith, Archive (ACDF) 101, 102,

Bavarian Wars 205

111 and n

Berlin confession controversy 407–8

Congregation of Rites 105

Bible 362

Congregation of the Holy OfÀ ce 91,

bigamy, Roman Inquisition and 95

101, 109

bishop, connection to convents 204

Congregation of the Index 104, 105

blasphemy 232; Roman Inquisition

connected history 81

and 95,

110

convent administrator (PÁ eger) 205

Byzantium 118

convents 200

establishment of 204; as contested

Calvinism, Calvinists 297, 310, 349

space 205; as schools 213–214;

canon law 119

survival of 210; utilty of 206, 213

Carmelites 200

Corpus Iuris 118, 119, 123

Carolingian era 29

council, Jewish community 360, 368,

Catharism 99

369

Catholic Enlightenment, see katholische

courts, central Jewish 358

Aufklärung

crusades 226,

227

Catholicism 345, 347, 348, 349

cultural reception 82

child abandonment 85–89

cura religionis 230

child circulation 85–89

customs 351–53, 370, 371; customs

chiliasm (millenarianism) 397–98, 400,

books 352

414–19, 422, 424

christliches Burgrecht 234,

235

Diet of Schmalkalden (1530) 303

church 219

Digest of Justinian 118, 122, 123

church discipline 399, 409–11, 423

dissidence 357; censure of 351, 355,

city councils 203; control over

361

convents by 211

Dominicans 199–200, 203–204, 206,

Code of Justinian 118

210–212

codiÀ cation 132

Dublin, Trinity College Library 94, 111

codiÀ cation of Jewish law 345, 352,

355, 362; responses to 354–55,

early modern period 346

365

ecclesiastical property 205, 213, 318,

commentators 124, 127, 134

320–1, 322, 323, 325

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index of subjects

469

education, Jewish 350, 351, 362–66,

infanticide 87

370, 371

Inns of Court 121

emperor 218, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231,

Inquisition: Portuguese 92

233

Roman 91–111;

Spanish 91,

92,

Epinicion 336–37, 341–44

100n

Eucharist, see Lord’s Supper

Institutes of Justinian 118

Eucharistic controversy 321, 323, 324,

333, 335, 341

Jewish and Christian relations 357,

European legal culture 120–122,

358–59, 360

127–128, 134

Jews 295,

299

excommunication, ban of ( herem) 357,

360–61, 367, 368, 369

kabbalistic writings 353

katholische Aufklärung 137, 141, 145–46,

Fehde 234, 235

152–53

feud, see Fehde

fosterage 87–88

l’histoire croisée 79–90

foundling home 86–87

language, German, Latin 172–4, 157,

Franciscans 200,

203

158

free imperial cities 201–202

law 113–34, 225, 236

Friedberg 358, 360, 361, 368

academic 115–116,

118–119,

126, 134; ancient 125–126;

German History (Karl Lamprecht)

and clergy 117, 118, 120; and

30–1

laity 120; and politics 134;

German law 128–133

and reason 119; canon 119;

glossators 123,

134

common 121;

deÀ nition of

godparents 87

113–114, 121; English 121–122;

Golden Bull, of Charles IV 201

German 128–133;

Germanic

gospel 218, 222, 223, 228, 230, 231,

117–118; history of 113–114,

232, 235, 236, 240

133; in northern Europe 117, 120;

in southern Europe 116, 120; local

halakhic Á exibility and tolerated

versus academic 115–22, 123, 126,

dissent 351

134; Roman 116–128, 130–134;

hasid 354

vulgar 116;

written 116;

Jewish

Hasidei Ashkenaz 355

(halakhah) 362

Haskalah 345

League of Schmalkalden 313, 314,

Hebrew language 362–63

315, 317, 318–19, 320–26, 330, 333,

hermeneutic 72–4

337

heterodoxy 350

legal history 113–114, 122–28, 133;

Holy Roman Empire 121; governance

deÀ nition of 113–114; signiÀ cance

of 200–202, 204, 215

of 133

household strategy 86

legal humanism 125–127, 130–131

humanism 219,

220

liberty 219,

220

humanists 155, 157, 167, 173

Lord’s Supper 404, 406, 411; see also

Hussites 346

communion, real presence; eucharistic

controversy

idealism, German 26, 28–9

love 222–223,

224

Ideenlehre (Ranke) 25, 31–2

Luther Fragment (Leopold von

Imperial Religious Colloquies:

Ranke) 24, 27, 29

Hagenau (12 June–28 July 1540)

Lutheran Orthodoxy 136; 141; 151

318, 326; Worms (28 October 1540

Lutheranism 23, 25, 28, 31, 349

to 19 January 1541) 313, 315,

Lutherans 297,

300

316, 326, 328–34; Regensburg

(27 April–22 May 1541) 313, 317,

macrohistory 80–81,

84–86

318, 333, 337–39, 340

Marburg Colloquy (1529) 298, 301

OCKER1_index_461-471.indd 469

8/6/2007 11:27:02 PM

470

index of subjects

medicine 130

Poetry, see Epinicion

memorybooks ( Memorbücher) 366

Poor Clares 203, 204, 206

Mennonites 361

Portuguese Jewish community of

Mercenariat 217–218, 219, 220, 221,

Hamburg, see Hamburg in the index

235

of places 357, 359

messianism, false 345

pregnancy 87

microhistory 80–81,

84–86

Problemgeschichte 83

Middle Ages 29–30

Property, see ecclesiastical property

millenarianism. See chiliasm

protocol book(s) 359, 364, 367

miscarriage 87

Mishnah 362

Quietism 103

missionaries 106,

108

modernization 348,

349

rabbi 368–69;

rabbinate 370,

371

monasteries 199

ratio scripta 126

monasteries, dissolution of 199–200

real presence 298, 300

mos gallicus 125, 126, 130

Reform, Reformation 24, 26–7,

mos italicus 124, 126

29–30, 80, 232, 235, 237, 346

musar literature 353, 356, 371

Reichskammergericht 121

mysticism 29

revolt 223, 224, 231, 239

right of resistance 229, 230, 231

narrative 63,

66–71

Roman Empire 156, 157, 171, 172,

Neo-Platonism 24n

174

Neo-Rankeanism 31

Roman law, see law

Nicodemites 340

romanticism, German 24

Ninety-Five Theses 26

notaries public 119

Sabbath, desecration of 357

Novels of Justinian 118

saints 223

novices 211–212; acceptance of 210

Satan 220,

227

nuns, accommodation of 209–210,

Schmalkaldic League 135

213; connection to elite 203,

schools, German 214

204, 208, 210; resistance to

sectarians 349

Reformation 202, 207–208, 210

secularization 199, 200, 205, 206,

210, 213

observance reform 207

Sermon on the Mount 220, 222, 223,

ordinances 359

238

orphanage 86–87

sexual misconduct, in the convent

orthodoxy and tradition 350, 351, 355,

205–206

371–72

shared history 81

Shulhan Arukh 350, 353, 354, 365

paciÀ sm 219

social discipline 105 and n, 109, 346,

papacy 217, 218, 231

347, 348, 350

Passover 369–70

social history 79–90

peace 217–240

Society of Jesus 108 and n, 109

Peace of Augsburg (1555) 296

sola scriptura 299

Peasants’ War (1525) 207, 210, 304,

solicitation in confessional 110

305, 308

sorcery, Roman Inquisition and 95,

pensions 205

110

periodization 345

sovereignty 126–127,

131

Pietism 136,

140

state 345; state building 346

Pietists: inner-churchly 400, 424;

symbolic books 141, 142, 147–49

radical 397, 406, 408, 411, 424; in

synagogue 357, 359, 364, 365, 368

Saalhof 406–7; and separatism

synods of German Jews 355; synod

406–7, 411

of German Jewry (Frankfurt am

pinkasim (ledgers) 366

Main, 1603) 357, 358–59, 368–69

OCKER1_index_461-471.indd 470

8/6/2007 11:27:02 PM

index of subjects

471

Talmud 354, 362–63, 365–66, 368

village dances 401–2, 403–4, 408, 409,

Talmud Torah 362, 364

411, 414

taxes, collection of 358

temporal authority, see authority,

Waldensians, see Calabria in the index

temporal

of places

territorialization 347;

territorial

war 217–40; against the Turks 226,

politics 371; territorial state 361

227; of religion 224, 231, 232, 233,

Thirty Years War 131

237, 240; defensive 223, 227, 239;

Torah, learning of 363

offensive 224;

preventive 228,

229,

torture, Roman Inquisition’s use of

234, 235; holy 219, 237

94

witchcraft, Roman Inquisition and 94,

Toulouse, Roman Inquisition in 92

95

transfer history 82

translatio imperii 157, 158, 171, 172

Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für

Trent, diocese of 106n

Rechtsgeschichte 133

Zwinglians 297,

300

universities 118, 119, 123, 127, 129

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8/6/2007 11:27:02 PM

STUDIES IN MEDIEVAL AND REFORMATION TRADITIONS

( Formerly Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought)

Founded by Heiko A. Oberman†

Edited by Andrew Colin Gow

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15. KEMPFF, D. A Bibliography of Calviniana. 1959-1974. 1975 out of print 16. WINDHORST, C. Täuferisches Taufverständnis. 1976

17. KITTELSON, J.M. Wolfgang Capito. 1975

18. DONNELLY, J.P. Calvinism and Scholasticism in Vermigli’s Doctrine of Man and Grace. 1976

19. LAMPING, A.J. Ulrichus Velenus (OldÌich Velensky´) and his Treatise against the Papacy. 1976

20. BAYLOR, M.G. Action and Person. Conscience in Late Scholasticism and the Young Luther. 1977

21. COURTENAY, W.J. Adam Wodeham. 1978

22. BRADY, Jr., Th.A. Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg, 1520-1555.

1978

23. KLAASSEN, W. Michael Gaismair. 1978

24. BERNSTEIN, A.E. Pierre d’Ailly and the Blanchard Affair. 1978

25. BUCER, M. Correspondance. Tome I (Jusqu’en 1524). Publié par J. Rott. 1979

26. POSTHUMUS MEYJES, G.H.M. Jean Gerson et l’Assemblée de Vincennes (1329). 1978

27. VIVES, J.L. In Pseudodialecticos. Ed. by Ch. Fantazzi. 1979

28. BORNERT, R. La Réforme Protestante du Culte à Strasbourg au XVIe siècle (1523-1598). 1981

29. CASTELLIO, S. De Arte Dubitandi. Ed. by E. Feist Hirsch. 1981

30. BUCER, M. Opera Latina. Vol I. Publié par C. Augustijn, P. Fraenkel, M. Lienhard. 1982

31. BÜSSER, F. Wurzeln der Reformation in Zürich. 1985 out of print 32. FARGE, J.K. Orthodoxy and Reform in Early Reformation France. 1985

33. 34. BUCER, M. Etudes sur les relations de Bucer avec les Pays-Bas. I. Etudes; II.

Documents. Par J.V. Pollet. 1985

35. HELLER, H. The Conquest of Poverty. The Calvinist Revolt in Sixteenth Century France.

1986

36. MEERHOFF, K. Rhétorique et poétique au XVIe siècle en France. 1986

37. GERRITS, G. H. Inter timorem et spem. Gerard Zerbolt of Zutphen. 1986

38. POLIZIANO, A. Lamia. Ed. by A. Wesseling. 1986

39. BRAW, C. Bücher im Staube. Die Theologie Johann Arndts in ihrem Verhältnis zur Mystik. 1986

40. BUCER, M. Opera Latina. Vol. II. Enarratio in Evangelion Iohannis (1528, 1530, 1536).

Publié par I. Backus. 1988

41. BUCER, M. Opera Latina. Vol. III. Martin Bucer and Matthew Parker: Flori-legium Patristicum. Edition critique. Publié par P. Fraenkel. 1988

42. BUCER, M. Opera Latina. Vol. IV. Consilium Theologicum Privatim Conscriptum.

Publié par P. Fraenkel. 1988

43. BUCER, M. Correspondance. Tome II (1524-1526). Publié par J. Rott. 1989

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45. POLLET, J. Julius Pflug et la crise religieuse dans l’Allemagne du XVIe siècle. Essai de synthèse biographique et théologique. 1990

46. BUBENHEIMER, U. Thomas Müntzer. Herkunft und Bildung. 1989

47. BAUMAN, C. The Spiritual Legacy of Hans Denck. Interpretation and Translation of Key Texts. 1991

48. OBERMAN, H.A. and JAMES, F.A., III (eds.). in cooperation with SAAK, E.L. Via Augustini. Augustine in the Later Middle Ages, Renaissance and Reformation: Essays in Honor of Damasus Trapp. 1991 out of print

49. SEIDEL MENCHI, S. Erasmus als Ketzer. Reformation und Inquisition im Italien des 16. Jahrhunderts. 1993

50. SCHILLING, H. Religion, Political Culture, and the Emergence of Early Modern Society.

Essays in German and Dutch History. 1992

51. DYKEMA, P.A. and OBERMAN, H.A. (eds.). Anticlericalism in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. 2nd ed. 1994

52. 53. KRIEGER, Chr. and LIENHARD, M. (eds.). Martin Bucer and Sixteenth Century Europe. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg (28-31 août 1991). 1993

54. SCREECH, M.A. Clément Marot: A Renaissance Poet discovers the World. Lutheranism, Fabrism and Calvinism in the Royal Courts of France and of Navarre and in the Ducal Court of Ferrara. 1994

55. GOW, A.C. The Red Jews: Antisemitism in an Apocalyptic Age, 1200-1600. 1995

56. BUCER, M. Correspondance. Tome III (1527-1529). Publié par Chr. Krieger et J. Rott.

1989

57. SPIJKER, W. VAN ’T. The Ecclesiastical Offices in the Thought of Martin Bucer. Translated by J. Vriend (text) and L.D. Bierma (notes). 1996

58. GRAHAM, M.F. The Uses of Reform. ‘Godly Discipline’ and Popular Behavior in Scotland and Beyond, 1560-1610. 1996

59. AUGUSTIJN, C. Erasmus. Der Humanist als Theologe und Kirchenreformer. 1996

60. MCCOOG S J, T.M. The Society of Jesus in Ireland, Scotland, and England 1541-1588.

‘Our Way of Proceeding?’ 1996

61. FISCHER, N. und KOBELT-GROCH, M. (Hrsg.). Außenseiter zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Hans-Jürgen Goertz zum 60. Geburtstag. 1997

62. NIEDEN, M. Organum Deitatis. Die Christologie des Thomas de Vio Cajetan. 1997

63. BAST, R.J. Honor Your Fathers. Catechisms and the Emergence of a Patriarchal Ideology in Germany, 1400-1600. 1997

64. ROBBINS, K.C. City on the Ocean Sea: La Rochelle, 1530-1650. Urban Society, Religion, and Politics on the French Atlantic Frontier. 1997

65. BLICKLE, P. From the Communal Reformation to the Revolution of the Common Man.

1998

66. FELMBERG, B.A.R. Die Ablaßtheorie Kardinal Cajetans (1469-1534). 1998

67. CUNEO, P.F. Art and Politics in Early Modern Germany. Jörg Breu the Elder and the Fashioning of Political Identity, ca. 1475-1536. 1998

68. BRADY, Jr., Th.A. Communities, Politics, and Reformation in Early Modern Europe.

1998

69. McKEE, E.A. The Writings of Katharina Schütz Zell. 1. The Life and Thought of a Sixteenth-Century Reformer. 2. A Critical Edition. 1998

70. BOSTICK, C.V. The Antichrist and the Lollards. Apocalyticism in Late Medieval and Reformation England. 1998

71. BOYLE, M. O’ROURKE. Senses of Touch. Human Dignity and Deformity from Michelangelo to Calvin. 1998

72. TYLER, J.J. Lord of the Sacred City. The Episcopus Exclusus in Late Medieval and Early Modern Germany. 1999

74. WITT, R.G. ‘In the Footsteps of the Ancients’. The Origins of Humanism from Lovato to Bruni. 2000

77. TAYLOR, L.J. Heresy and Orthodoxy in Sixteenth-Century Paris. François le Picart and the Beginnings of the Catholic Reformation. 1999

78. BUCER, M. Briefwechsel/Correspondance. Band IV (Januar-September 1530).

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79. MANETSCH, S.M. Theodore Beza and the Quest for Peace in France, 1572-1598. 2000

80. GODMAN, P. The Saint as Censor. Robert Bellarmine between Inquisition and Index.

2000

81. SCRIBNER, R.W. Religion and Culture in Germany (1400-1800). Ed. L. Roper. 2001

82. KOOI, C. Liberty and Religion. Church and State in Leiden’s Reformation, 1572-1620.

2000

83. BUCER, M. Opera Latina. Vol. V. Defensio adversus axioma catholicum id est crimina-tionem R.P. Roberti Episcopi Abrincensis (1534). Ed. W.I.P. Hazlett. 2000

84. BOER, W. DE. The Conquest of the Soul. Confession, Discipline, and Public Order in Counter-Reformation Milan. 2001

85. EHRSTINE, G. Theater, culture, and community in Reformation Bern, 1523-1555. 2001

86. CATTERALL, D. Community Without Borders. Scot Migrants and the Changing Face of Power in the Dutch Republic, c. 1600-1700. 2002

87. BOWD, S.D. Reform Before the Reformation. Vincenzo Querini and the Religious Renaissance in Italy. 2002

88. PELC, M. Illustrium Imagines. Das Porträtbuch der Renaissance. 2002

89. SAAK, E.L. High Way to Heaven. The Augustinian Platform between Reform and Reformation, 1292-1524. 2002

90. WITTNEBEN, E.L. Bonagratia von Bergamo, Franziskanerjurist und Wortführer seines Ordens im Streit mit Papst Johannes XXII. 2003

91. ZIKA, C. Exorcising our Demons, Magic, Witchcraft and Visual Culture in Early Modern Europe. 2002

92. MATTOX, M.L. “Defender of the Most Holy Matriarchs”, Martin Luther’s Interpretation of the Women of Genesis in the Enarrationes in Genesin, 1535-45. 2003

93. LANGHOLM, O. The Merchant in the Confessional, Trade and Price in the Pre-Reformation Penitential Handbooks. 2003

94. BACKUS, I. Historical Method and Confessional Identity in the Era of the Reformation (1378-1615). 2003

95. FOGGIE, J.P. Renaissance Religion in Urban Scotland. The Dominican Order, 1450-1560. 2003

96. LÖWE, J.A. Richard Smyth and the Language of Orthodoxy. Re-imagining Tudor Catholic Polemicism. 2003

97. HERWAARDEN, J. VAN. Between Saint James and Erasmus. Studies in Late-Medieval Religious Life: Devotion and Pilgrimage in The Netherlands. 2003

98. PETRY, Y. Gender, Kabbalah and the Reformation. The Mystical Theology of Guillaume Postel (1510–1581). 2004

99. EISERMANN, F., SCHLOTHEUBER, E. und HONEMANN, V. Studien und Texte zur literarischen und materiellen Kultur der Frauenklöster im späten Mittelalter.

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102. MALONE, C.M. Façade as Spectacle: Ritual and Ideology at Wells Cathedral. 2004

103. KAUFHOLD, M. (ed.) Politische Reflexion in der Welt des späten Mittelalters / Political Thought in the Age of Scholasticism. Essays in Honour of Jürgen Miethke. 2004

104. BLICK, S. and TEKIPPE, R. (eds.). Art and Architecture of Late Medieval Pilgrimage in Northern Europe and the British Isles. 2004

105. PASCOE, L.B., S.J. Church and Reform. Bishops, Theologians, and Canon Lawyers in the Thought of Pierre d’Ailly (1351-1420). 2005

106. SCOTT, T. Town, Country, and Regions in Reformation Germany. 2005

107. GROSJEAN, A.N.L. and MURDOCH, S. (eds.). Scottish Communities Abroad in the Early Modern Period. 2005

108. POSSET, F. Renaissance Monks. Monastic Humanism in Six Biographical Sketches.

2005

109. IHALAINEN, P. Protestant Nations Redefined. Changing Perceptions of National Identity in the Rhetoric of the English, Dutch and Swedish Public Churches, 1685-1772.

2005

110. FURDELL, E. (ed.) Textual Healing: Essays on Medieval and Early Modern Medicine. 2005

111. ESTES, J.M. Peace, Order and the Glory of God. Secular Authority and the Church in the Thought of Luther and Melanchthon, 1518-1559 . 2005

112. MÄKINEN, V. (ed.) Lutheran Reformation and the Law. 2006

113. STILLMAN, R.E. (ed.) Spectacle and Public Performance in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. 2006

114. OCKER, C. Church Robbers and Reformers in Germany, 1525-1547. Confiscation and Religious Purpose in the Holy Roman Empire. 2006

115. ROECK, B. Civic Culture and Everyday Life in Early Modern Germany. 2006

116. BLACK, C. Pico’s Heptaplus and Biblical Hermeneutics. 2006

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119. SPRUYT, B.J. Cornelius Henrici Hoen (Honius) and his Epistle on the Eucharist (1525).

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Document Outline

- Contents

- List of Illustrations

- Preface

- Bibliography of the Works of Thomas A. Brady, Jr

- Tempests and Stürme in Reformation Studies: Some Scholarly and Personal Observations (Kaspar von Greyerz)

- The Reformation in Post-War Historiography: An American Contribution (Peter Blickle)

- PART ONE: HISTORIES

- Ranke, Lamprecht, and Luther (Roger Chickering)

- The Reformation and the Early Social Sciences (Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Freud): Toward a Cultural Epidemiology (H.C. Erik Midelfort)

- Ranke Meets Gadamer: The Question of Agency in the Reformation (Lee Palmer Wandel)

- Historians without Borders? L'histoire croisée and Early Modern Social History (Joel F. Harrington)

- Recent Studies of the Roman Inquisition (Anne Jacobson Schutte)

- Hermann Conring and the European History of Law (Constantin Fasolt)

- The Reformation of the Enlightenment: German Histories in the Eighteenth Century (Michael Printy)

- Historical Writing and German Identity: Jacob Wimpheling and Sebastian Franck (Julie K. Tanaka)

- Perfecting the Past: Charles the Bold and Traditional Historiography in Early Modern Germany (Elaine C. Tennant)

- PART TWO: REFORMATIONS

- The Personal is Political: Convents in the Holy Roman Empire (Amy Leonard)

- Guerre et paix dans les écrits de Zwingli et de Luther: une comparaison (Marc Lienhard)

- Luther and Müntzer See Mary's Magnificat through Different Spectacles (Christoph Burger)

- Beyond the Freedom of the Will: Erasmus' Struggle for Grace (Greta Grace Kroeker)

- Tolerance and Heresy: Martin Bucer's Radical New Definition of Christian Fellowship (Berndt Hamm)

- Landgrave Philipp's Dilemma: The Roots of Tolerance and the Desire for Protestant Unity (Ellen Yutzy Glebe)

- Calvin in Germany (Christopher Ocker)

- Confessionalization in Early Modern Germany: A Jewish Perspective (Dean Phillip Bell)

- Catholic Intensity in Post-Reformation Germany: Preaching on the Passion and Catholic Identity in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Susan C. Karant-Nunn)

- Pietism, Ministry, and Church Discipline: The Tribulations of Christoph Matthäus Seidel (Terence McIntosh)

- Religious Wars at Home: The Problem of Confessionally Mixed Families (Craig Harline)

- Trouble with Miracles: An Episode in the Culture and Politics of Wonder in Colonial Mexico (William B. Taylor)

- List of Contributors

- Index of Names of Persons

- Index of Places

- Index of Subjects

Table of Contents

Contents

List of Illustrations

Preface

Bibliography of the Works of Thomas A. Brady, Jr

Tempests and Stürme in Reformation Studies: Some Scholarly and Personal Observations (Kaspar von Gre

The Reformation in Post-War Historiography: An American Contribution (Peter Blickle)

PART ONE: HISTORIES

Ranke, Lamprecht, and Luther (Roger Chickering)

The Reformation and the Early Social Sciences (Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Freud): Toward a Cultural Epid

Ranke Meets Gadamer: The Question of Agency in the Reformation (Lee Palmer Wandel)

Historians without Borders? L'histoire croisée and Early Modern Social History (Joel F. Harrington)

Recent Studies of the Roman Inquisition (Anne Jacobson Schutte)

Hermann Conring and the European History of Law (Constantin Fasolt)

The Reformation of the Enlightenment: German Histories in the Eighteenth Century (Michael Printy)

Historical Writing and German Identity: Jacob Wimpheling and Sebastian Franck (Julie K. Tanaka)

Perfecting the Past: Charles the Bold and Traditional Historiography in Early Modern Germany (Elaine

PART TWO: REFORMATIONS

The Personal is Political: Convents in the Holy Roman Empire (Amy Leonard)

Guerre et paix dans les écrits de Zwingli et de Luther: une comparaison (Marc Lienhard)

Luther and Müntzer See Mary's Magnificat through Different Spectacles (Christoph Burger)

Beyond the Freedom of the Will: Erasmus' Struggle for Grace (Greta Grace Kroeker)

Tolerance and Heresy: Martin Bucer's Radical New Definition of Christian Fellowship (Berndt Hamm)

Landgrave Philipp's Dilemma: The Roots of Tolerance and the Desire for Protestant Unity (Ellen Yutzy

Calvin in Germany (Christopher Ocker)

Confessionalization in Early Modern Germany: A Jewish Perspective (Dean Phillip Bell)

Catholic Intensity in Post-Reformation Germany: Preaching on the Passion and Catholic Identity in th

Pietism, Ministry, and Church Discipline: The Tribulations of Christoph Matthäus Seidel (Terence McI

Religious Wars at Home: The Problem of Confessionally Mixed Families (Craig Harline)

Trouble with Miracles: An Episode in the Culture and Politics of Wonder in Colonial Mexico (William

List of Contributors

Index of Names of Persons

Index of Places

Index of Subjects

Table of Contents

Contents

List of Illustrations

Preface

Bibliography of the Works of Thomas A. Brady, Jr

Tempests and Stürme in Reformation Studies: Some Scholarly and Personal Observations (Kaspar von Gre

The Reformation in Post-War Historiography: An American Contribution (Peter Blickle)

PART ONE: HISTORIES

Ranke, Lamprecht, and Luther (Roger Chickering)

The Reformation and the Early Social Sciences (Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Freud): Toward a Cultural Epid

Ranke Meets Gadamer: The Question of Agency in the Reformation (Lee Palmer Wandel)

Historians without Borders? L'histoire croisée and Early Modern Social History (Joel F. Harrington)

Recent Studies of the Roman Inquisition (Anne Jacobson Schutte)

Hermann Conring and the European History of Law (Constantin Fasolt)

The Reformation of the Enlightenment: German Histories in the Eighteenth Century (Michael Printy)

Historical Writing and German Identity: Jacob Wimpheling and Sebastian Franck (Julie K. Tanaka)

Perfecting the Past: Charles the Bold and Traditional Historiography in Early Modern Germany (Elaine

PART TWO: REFORMATIONS

The Personal is Political: Convents in the Holy Roman Empire (Amy Leonard)

Guerre et paix dans les écrits de Zwingli et de Luther: une comparaison (Marc Lienhard)

Luther and Müntzer See Mary's Magnificat through Different Spectacles (Christoph Burger)

Beyond the Freedom of the Will: Erasmus' Struggle for Grace (Greta Grace Kroeker)

Tolerance and Heresy: Martin Bucer's Radical New Definition of Christian Fellowship (Berndt Hamm)

Landgrave Philipp's Dilemma: The Roots of Tolerance and the Desire for Protestant Unity (Ellen Yutzy

Calvin in Germany (Christopher Ocker)

Confessionalization in Early Modern Germany: A Jewish Perspective (Dean Phillip Bell)

Catholic Intensity in Post-Reformation Germany: Preaching on the Passion and Catholic Identity in th

Pietism, Ministry, and Church Discipline: The Tribulations of Christoph Matthäus Seidel (Terence McI

Religious Wars at Home: The Problem of Confessionally Mixed Families (Craig Harline)

Trouble with Miracles: An Episode in the Culture and Politics of Wonder in Colonial Mexico (William

List of Contributors

Index of Names of Persons

Index of Places

Index of Subjects