During the days of Valentinian (A.D. 364), the Roman Empire was divided into the Eastern and Western sections. The Turks eventually came to control the Eastern Empire, but proved unable to conquer Western Europe. Largely as a result of the efforts of the pope to revive the Empire in the west, the nations were grouped into a body, or federation of confederate states. From the kings of these various states, one was chosen to rule over them collectively and was given the title Emperor.
Charlemagne, the first head, succeeded in giving the confederation empire a show of power, but true to the words of prophecy: “And whereas thou sawest iron mixed with miry clay, they shall mingle themselves with the seed of men: but they shall not cleave one to another, even as iron is not mixed with clay.” Daniel 2:43. It was extremely difficult to introduce universal laws or to bring the nations together, even in matters of mutual interest. It was only the terror inspired by Mahomet II that led the princes of Germany to unite themselves in an empire.
Pope Gregory, about the year 997, is believed to have instituted seven electors. Of these, three were churchmen and three lay princes, to which one of kingly rank was added. The three churchmen wee the Archbishop of Treve, Chancellor of France; the Archbishop of Mainz, Chancellor of Germany; and the Archbishop of Cologne, Chancellor if Italy. The four laymen were the King of Bohemia, the Duke of Saxony, Count Palatine of the Rhine, and the Marquis of Brandenburg. The election was to take place in Frankfort; and no elector was permitted to enter the city attended by more than 200 horsemen, of which only 50 were to be armed.
The emperor had no special revenue to support the imperial dignity and no power to enforce the imperial commands. The princes were careful not to make the emperor too powerful, lest he should infringe on their independent sovereignty. In the end, the Empire had only two elements of cohesion—Roman Catholicism and their fear of the Turks.
With the death of Maximilian, in 1519, the imperial crown became vacant. There were two powerful contenders who came forward to claim the price—Francis I of France and Charles of Austria, the grandson of Maximilian and King of Spain. Henry VIII had an interest; but finding his chances of winning small, he early withdrew. In the end, the Germans chose Charles.
The Turks, hovering on their frontier, helped the German princes to recognize the benefit of a strong central government. They were not, however, unaware that the hand which could be strong to protect them could as easily crush out their rights. In order to protect themselves, they drew up an instrument called a Capitulation, or claim of rights, enumerating and guaranteeing the privileges and immunities of the Germanic Body, which the representatives of Charles signed. At the time of his coronation, Charles confirmed the agreement with an oath. In so doing, these men were, quite unconsciously, creating an asylum to which Protestantism might retreat when the emperor would later raise his hand to crush it.
Charles V was more powerful than any emperor had been for centuries. To the imperial dignity he added the substantial power of Spain, which was, at that time, by far the mightiest nation in Europe. In order to better understand how Spain had achieved this position, we will briefly look at the events that had taken place to bring Spain to the pinnacle of power and grandeur that it then enjoyed.
Spain Emerges
In 711, a Berber Muslim army crossed the Strait of Gibraltar from northern Africa into the Iberian Peninsula. By 719, Moorish rule was established in Spain. Their progress northward was arrested, however, at a battle fought in France, between Tours and Poitiers, in 732 by the Frankish ruler Charles Martel.
During the centuries of Moorish supremacy, numerous schools were built, many of them free and for the education of the poor. At the great Muslim universities, medicine, mathematics, philosophy, and literature were cultivated, placing Spanish civilization far in advance of that experienced by the rest of the continent.
With the death of Hisham III, the dynasty ended and the dissolution of the central Moorish power began, enabling the Christian kings of northern Spain to gain the advantage and subdue some Moorish states, while making others tributary. The Christian kings, in a great battle fought on the plains of Toledo in July 1212, won a decisive victory and shortly thereafter largely expelled the Muslims from Spain.
Except for small areas that were still under Moorish control, Spain, for the next two centuries, consisted of various principalities. As the Reformation approached, this suddenly changed with the merging of the various kingdoms into the two kingdoms of Castile and Aragon. Only one step remained to make Spain one monarchy, and that step was taken in 1469 by the marriage of Princess Isabella of Castile and Prince Ferdinand of Aragon. They became joint rulers of Castile in 1474 and of Aragon in 1479.
In 1492, sponsored by Ferdinand and Isabella, Christopher Columbus sailed west and landed in the West Indies. The opening of the New World made Spain the richest and most powerful European State of the sixteenth century. Through conquest and exploration, the Spanish colonies came to include the West Indies, Cuba, Mexico, all of Central America, the greater part of South America, Florida, and the Philippine Islands. In a series of Spanish campaigns from 1509 through 1511, Oran, Bougie, and Tripoli, in North Africa, became Spanish tributaries. It could then be said, as was later said of the British, that the sun never set on the Spanish Empire. Upon the death of Ferdinand, his grandson Charles became the first king of a united Spain.
In addition to Spain and the Spanish colonies, Charles inherited Naples (through his mother) and the Netherlands and Burgundy (through his father) and also acquired the duchy of Milan, including most of Lombardy. “Since the noon of the Roman power, the liberties of the world had at no time been in so great peril as now. The shadow of a universal despotism was persistently projecting itself father and yet farther upon the kingdoms and peoples of Western Europe. There was no principle known to the men of that age that seemed capable of doing battle with this colossus, and staying its advance . . . Unless Protestantism had arrived at that crisis, a universal despotism would have covered Europe, and liberty banished from the earth must have returned to her native skies.” Wylie, The History of Protestantism, vol. 1, Book 2, 220.
From the fall of the Western Empire to the eleventh century, Europe experienced an era of unparalleled darkness. It was the crusades that first began to break the darkness. Though it was a feeble beginning, and of itself would not have been sufficient to bring the day that was yet to break over the world, commerce, art, and poetry began to appear to act upon society. In the passage of time, the printing press appeared, and soon after, the mariner’s compass. Men, who until this time had but a limited view of the world, suddenly awakened to discover a world larger and richer in natural resources than they had dared to dream existed.
The Bible Brings Light
Though these things could not have brought the dawn, they opened the way for the true light to make its way, scattering the darkness before it. The Bible, so long buried, was brought forth and translated into the various languages of Europe. “The light of heaven, after its long and disastrous eclipse, broke anew upon the world.” Ibid., 227.
It was into this setting that Martin Luther was born on November 10, 1483, in Eisleben, Germany. John and Margaret, Luther’s parents, were very poor. His father, however, was determined to make a scholar of his son; and at the age of fourteen, Luther was sent away to advance his education at Madeburg, and later at Eisenach. At eighteen, Luther entered the university at Erfurth where he pursued a course in law, according to his father’s wishes.
At this time, books were very rare. One day, during his second year at Erfurth, he was in the library, opening books to learn the writer’s names, when he came upon a Bible. His interest was greatly aroused to learn that there was such a book. Until this time he had thought that the fragments of the Gospels and Epistles that the Church had selected for reading made up the entire Bible. With indescribable emotion he turned the pages of the sacred Volume. The first part to which his attention was drawn was the story of Hanna and Samuel. As he read of Samuel’s dedication to the Lord, of how he witnessed the wickedness of Eli’s sons, the priests of the Lord who made the people to transgress and abhor the offering of the Lord, he fancied that he saw a parallel with his own times. Day after day he returned to read, rejoicing in the truth that began to open to his inquiring mind.
Luther continued to pursue his education until he acquired a Master of Arts, or Doctor of Philosophy; and for a time, the Bible appeared to be forgotten as he began to give public lectures on physics and ethics of Aristotle.
God did not, however, leave Luther. About this time, a very dear friend and companion, Alexius, was overtaken by a sudden and violent death. Soon after this, Luther paid a visit to his parents in Mansfield. On returning to Erfurth, as he neared the city gate, he was caught in a fierce thunderstorm. One bolt struck so close that, by some accounts, he was thrown to the ground. In his extremity, he vowed to God that if his life was spared, he would devote his life to His service. The storm passed, and a solemn Luther made his way into town.
On August 17, 1505, Luther entered the Augustinian Convent. He had expected that in a place so quiet and, as he thought, so near to heaven, he would find rest for his soul and relief from the burden of sin that was, to him, becoming an insupportable burden. “There is a city of refuge to which the sinner may flee when death and hell are on his track, but it is not that into which Luther had now entered.” Ibid., 236.
At the news of his son’s change of plans, John Luther became indignant and wrote an angry letter to his son. He withdrew all of his favor, and declared him disinherited from his paternal affection. In vain did the father’s friends seek to effect reconciliation.
Not long after this, the plague deprived John of two of his sons. At that time, it was related to him that Martin had also been taken in death. The father’s friends seized this opportunity to reconcile him to the young novice. Somewhat grudgingly, and still half-rebellious, John relented. “Some time after this, when Luther, who had been reconciled to his father, related to him the event that had induced him to enter a monastic order: ‘God grant,’ replied the worthy miner, ‘that you may not have taken for a sign from heaven what was merely a delusion of the devil.’” D’Aubigne’s History of the Reformation, Book 2, Chapter 3, 57.
The monks at the convent received Luther with joy. It was no small gratification to their vanity to have one of the most esteemed doctors of the age abandon the university and join their order. Nevertheless, they treated him harshly and imposed on him the meanest occupations, seeking to humble him.
The drudgery of the monastery, combined with the late nights of study, worked a transformation in the communicative and jovial student. He became solitary and withdrawn. At times he fell to the floor of his cell in sheer weakness, more like a corpse than a living man. One day, when his door had not been opened as usual, they knocked on his door; but there was no response. “The door was burst in, and poor Fra Martin was found stretched on the floor in a state of ecstasy, scarcely breathing, and well-nigh dead. A monk took his flute, and gently playing upon it one of the airs that Luther loved, brought him gradually back to himself. The likelihood at that moment was that instead of living to do battle with the pope, and pull down the pillars of his kingdom, a quiet grave, somewhere in the precincts of the monastery, would erelong be the only memorial remaining to testify that such a one as Martin Luther had ever existed.” Wylie, The History of Protestantism, vol. 1, Book 2, 237, 238.
Later, as a Reformer, he wrote to Duke George of Saxony, “I was indeed a pious monk and followed the rules of my order more strictly than I can express. If ever monk could obtain heaven by his monkish works, I should have certainly been entitled to it. Of this all the friars who have known me can testify. If it had continued much longer, I should have carried my mortifications even to death by means of my watchings, prayers, reading, and other labors. D’Aubigne’s History of the Reformation, Book 2, Chapter 3, 59.
Staupitz Points Luther to Christ
A tender conscience inclined Luther to regard the slightest fault as a great sin. He would endeavor, by the severest mortifications, to expiate it; but in all of this, he found no peace.
It was at this time that the Lord brought the pious John Staupitz into Luther’s life. Staupitz was Vicar-General of the Augustines of Germany. Through his study he had learned the way of salvation. The purity of his own life condemned the corruption that surrounded him, but he lacked the courage to be the Reformer of Christendom. In spite of this lack, God used him in preparing Luther for that work. “The pious Staupitz opened the Word of God to Luther’s mind and bade him look away from himself, cease the contemplation of infinite punishment for the violation of God’s law, and look to Jesus, his sin-pardoning Saviour. ‘Instead of torturing yourself on account of your sins, throw yourself into the Redeemer’s arms. Trust in Him, in the righteousness of His life, in the atonement of His death. . . . Listen to the Son of God. He became man to give you the assurance of divine favor. Love Him who first loved you.’ D’Aubigne’s, History of the Reformation, Book 2, Chapter 4. Thus spoke this messenger of mercy. His words made a deep impression upon Luther’s mind. After many a struggle with long-cherished errors, he was enabled to grasp the truth, and peace came to his troubled soul.” The Great Controversy, 123, 124.
The light that pierced the darkness that surrounded Luther freed him from the principles of popery. He no longer looked to himself and to the Church for salvation, but to Jesus Christ. Before he left the convent cell to break the shackles of Rome from the Christian world, the Reformation first rehearsed itself in his cell at Erfurth.
A short time later, Luther was ordained a priest and accepted a call to professorship in the University of Wittenberg. There he applied himself to his study of the Scriptures in the original tongues. He began to lecture on the book of Psalms, the Gospels, and the Epistles. His friend Staupitz urged him to ascend the pulpit and preach the Word of God; but Luther hesitated, feeling himself unworthy of such a high calling. It was only after a long struggle that he yielded to the invitation of friends.
Luther was still a true son of the papal church and had no thought that he would ever be anything else; but in the providence of God, he was led to make a trip to Rome. About this time a quarrel broke out between seven monasteries of the Augustines and their Vicar-General. It was agreed to submit the matter to the pope, and Luther’s eloquence recommended him as the person most fit to undertake the task. Descending the mountains to the fertile plains of Lombardy, he stopped for a few days of rest at a monastery on the banks of the Po. He was filled with misgivings as he observed the magnificence and luxury. The monks, endowed with a princely income, lived in splendid apartments and dressed themselves in the richest and most costly attire. His mind became perplexed as he contrasted this lifestyle with the self-denial and hardship of his own life. Friday came and, according to church law, there was to be no meat served. The tables of the monks, however, groaned under the abundance as before. Luther could no longer remain silent. “’On this day,’ said Luther, ‘such things my not be eaten. The pope has forbidden them.’” Wylie, The History of Protestantism, vol. 1, Book 2, 248.
Though it did not spoil their appetites, the manners of this rude German did startle the monks. They became apprehensive that he might report their style of life to their superiors at headquarters, and they consulted how this danger might be avoided. A friendly porter disclosed to Luther that to remain longer would be to incur great risk. Profiting by the friendly warning, Luther quickly departed with as little delay as possible.
At the first sight of Rome, Luther fell to his knees, exclaiming, “Holy Rome, I salute thee!” Expecting there to find the spotless beauty of apostolic truth, he made his way into the city.