Among all the major individual varieties of Latin Christianity to emerge from the Reformation, Lutheranism stands alone for two reasons. In the first place, it bears the name of an individual. Secondly, its hallmark, more vital even than the reference to Martin Luther (1483–1546), consists of its formal, agreed-upon confessions of faith, in particular the Unaltered Augsburg Confession (1530), but also (save in Scandinavia) the Formula of Concord (1577) and the other documents contained in the Book of Concord (1580), which claim faithfulness to both the Scriptures and Luther's teachings. To answer the question, "What is Lutheranism?" therefore requires, at least in principle, no more than a careful reading of these theological sources with the understanding that conduct flowed from conviction. It can be no surprise, then, that Lutherans have traditionally relegated all other religious matters—liturgy, polity, hymnody, spirituality, and the like—to the realm of adiaphora or "things indifferent." The teachings were at the time of the Reformation, and remain now, the heartbeat of Lutheranism.
By contrast, even the finest of Lutheran scholarship has little to say about its distinctive characteristics, if any, with respect to its political, social, intellectual, artistic, and cultural preferences over time. Thus, even its hymnody and its vibrant traditions in choral music were put in service to its teachings. For the unengaged student, Lutheranism presents the unavoidable impression that all matters which make it a distinct variety of Christianity have rightly had a theological, as well as musical, standard applied to them. To the uninitiated and the veteran alike, it may well appear that once one has gotten the teachings of the Lutherans correct and arranged them in their proper relationships to one another, one has grasped all that is essential when it comes to understanding Lutheranism in almost any place and time. One is reminded of nothing so much as the words on the back of a coin struck in Württemberg on the fiftieth anniversary of the posting of the Ninety-Five Theses: "God's Word and Luther's Teachings are Never to be Forgotten!"
Luther had been in his grave for more than twenty years when this medal was struck. The Formula of Concord, to say nothing of the period of Lutheran Orthodoxy, did not yet exist. But the conviction that true doctrine was the equivalent of true religion did. Indeed, this very characteristic is not a caricature and, no matter how obvious it is, it must be underlined whenever one seeks to penetrate to the core of Lutheranism. Luther himself reportedly declared, "Others before me have contested practice, but to contest doctrine, that is to grab the goose by the neck!"
Even when one rightly approaches the core of Lutheranism by way of its teachings, there remain more and less enlightening ways to do so. One can, as noted above, and rather in the manner of Lutheran Orthodoxy in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, turn the exercise into an utterly misleading game of theological pick-up sticks. If, however, the objective is to render an image of Lutheranism that encompasses its whole as well as its many parts, one further and rather subtler characteristic must be given its due. Luther was indeed a theologian, and Lutheranism does indeed remain a highly theological version of even Latin Christianity. But, both Luther and the movement that sprang from him had almost no inclinations to systematic theology in a manner that might be recognized by, for example, Thomas Aquinas.
Neither Luther nor Lutherans in general have sought to create a Summa Theologica in which everything from the creation ex nihilo to human procreation has its own perfectly consistent theological understanding. This is not to say that Lutheran religious thought consisted merely of random insights on one unrelated topic after another in the manner of some types of mysticism. Instead, the consistency or univocality of Lutheran theology derived from its genesis over time from a single, unitary point of departure. Thus it began, by Luther's own testimony, with his personal search for a gracious God. He had been taught that the righteousness of God was a quality of God against which this divine judge measured all humans and found them wanting. On the bases of his lectures and writings from late 1518 through mid-1519, it is now a matter of nearly absolute certainty that he consciously rejected what he had been taught and then gradually came to understand God's righteousness as a gift that God bestowed on humanity and by which he reconciled mankind to himself. Thus, the famous passage, "The righteous (iustus, 'made righteous') shall live by faith" applied directly not only to the theology he taught as a professor at Wittenberg but also to his personal religious life. "Faith" itself was no longer an attribute that played a role in moving the sinner toward salvation but the central, unwilled response to having been made righteous by the benefits of Christ. By comparison with sola gratia, Luther did not even use the terms sola fide and sola scriptura with much frequency. They did not do more than indicate the principal source for and the manner by which the Christian received and held grace.
The theology that marked Lutheranism was therefore intensely practical and rarely, before Kant, speculative or philosophical in the least. Two examples will illustrate the point. The first concerns the subject of predestination, which came under dispute during the 1560s in a few places that were, for the most part, south of the Main River and along the Rhine—most notably in Strasbourg. Those who introduced the issue were commonly Italian converts to Calvinism such as Girolamo Zanchi (1516–1590) and Peter Martyr Vermigli (1500–1562). The issue, certainly related theologically to Luther's position in De servo arbitrio (1525; On the bondage of the will), nonetheless never caught fire among the German Lutherans. In its eleventh article, the Formula of Concord observed that the subject had not been an issue "among the theologians of the Augsburg Confession" and then addressed it anyway. Taking the approach and even borrowing some of the language that was used at Strasbourg in 1561–1563, the formulators declared that there were good biblical grounds in support of both the doctrine of election and the assertion that Christ came for all. But, because God's predestining belonged to his hidden will and Christ's coming for all to his revealed will, Lutherans would henceforth ignore predestination and preach only what God had revealed to all. For the most part, Lutherans to this day have carefully observed this self-denying ordinance. They were single-minded about the original insight regarding justification and remained tenaciously within it.
A second illustration from Luther himself may also be revealing. It concerns the subject of "hiddenness" and a similar, related principle of self-denial in general. Luther observed, for example, that everyone of sound mind could know that God existed, that he created all things, that he was omnipotent, and so forth. What humans could not know were God's intentions toward them because God had hidden and continued to hide this knowledge in the folly of Christ. Moreover, this keen awareness of what God has revealed and what he has hidden guided even Luther's exegetical practices. Consequently, his biblical lectures often contained the declaration regarding a particular passage, "It is too dark there. I cannot go there because all is hidden." Indeed, his first reaction to Johann Agricola of Eisleben's (c. 1494–1566) insistence that the Law should not be preached to the saved (the fundamental issue at stake in Lutheranism's first Antinomian Controversy, which involved the notion that a saved Christian was free from the dictates of the Law) was not to press on to the truth of the matter but—in part because he was one of Luther's favorite students—that Agricola should stop talking about the matter.
Nonetheless, little more than a generation had passed before Luther's followers had fallen into so many internecine theological quarrels that Jakob Andreae of Württemberg (1528–1590) and others took up the work that led to the Formula of Concord. In addition to predestination, Andreae and his colleagues addressed ten such controversies that threatened to undo the unity implied in the name "theologians of the Augsburg Confession." To modern ears, some of these issues were truly frivolous and may have derived more from some individuals' vanity than serious theological considerations. Georg Major's (1469–1550) tactic of expressing Luther's views of the place of works in the economy of salvation may be a case in point. Somehow, his declaration that "Good works are dangerous to salvation" seems intended more to enrage than to enlighten. It is easy to understand Philipp Melanchthon's (1497–1560) giving thanks at the point of death for at last being released from the rabies theologorum ('the madness of the theologians').
With this much granted to the merely human, the emphasis should fall here on two related practical, political realities that forced theological reflection. The first was Emperor Charles V's (ruled 1519–1556) victory over the Schmalkaldic League in 1547–1548 and his determination to establish religious peace within the empire by force if necessary. Thus, the Augsburg Interim required of the Lutheran rulers that they reinstitute the Mass in their territories, provide for an unmarried clergy, and cease secularizing religious foundations, among other, more local, arrangements. In addition, by putting the free imperial city of Constance under siege, the emperor demonstrated that he was more than willing to employ force during this interim before the calling of a general council. Consequently, in order to meet these terms, Strasbourg found itself compelled to negotiate a treaty with its long-time non-resident bishop, while Magdeburg to the northeast resisted imperial pressure successfully by holding firm behind its outlying marshes to defend its choice of resistance. At the same time, Maurice, called on account of his political behavior the "Judas of Meissen," now enjoying the title elector of Saxony (1547–1553), found so much resistance to the new order in his territories that he felt compelled to negotiate a somewhat milder version, called the Leipzig Interim, whose intent was to defend Lutheran doctrine, albeit without much regard for contrary practices, in the face of these temporary practical concessions.
A genuine theological problem lay at what became an internecine pamphlet war among the theologians of the Augsburg Confession. Mathias Flaccius Illyricus (1520–1575) led the defenders of Magdeburg's policy on the grounds that the Leipzig Interim violated the spirit, if not the letter, of true Lutheranism. In this instance, there was no authoritative text to which the parties could turn, if only because the Augsburg Confession's seventh article was silent with respect to any of the specifics regarding what actions (or lack thereof) fell under the umbrella of "things indifferent." According to the Magdeburgers with Matthias Flaccius Illyricus, the "Genesio" or Original Lutherans (as they were now called) insisted that while some practices, such as the celebration of the Mass, might be indifferent in themselves, they were intolerable in a Lutheran territory, because they in fact promoted a false gospel. The outrage was so great that there are present-day Lutherans who still call themselves Genesios. During the late 1570s, its simple existence forced the inclusion of Section X in the Formula of Concord, which basically endorsed the Genesios' position.
The decade from the mid-1540s to the mid-1550s also called for greater theological precision in imperial politics. The Religious Peace of Augsburg (1555) inserted the Augsburg Confession (1530) into the imperial constitution by declaring that adherents to it would be guaranteed a modicum of religious freedom, depending on the confession of the town or principality that was their home. This is the famous provision that is summarized with the anachronistic term cuius regio eius religio, according to which the ruler's confession determined the religion of the town or principality. Some try incorrectly to draw from this provision the beginnings of state-dominated religion. Instead, this provision merely stated that the prevailing religion in any territory or city was to be the one that existed there before the Schmalkaldic War.
There was a problem, however, lurking beneath the easy reference to the Augsburg Confession as the imperial confessional standard. Which Augsburg Confession? In 1540 Melanchthon had been given the task of revising the version that was submitted at Augsburg in 1530 in light of the Wittenberg Concord of 1536. Specifically, he had used the language, approved expressly by Luther, cum pane et vino ('with bread and wine') rather than in pane et vino ('in bread and wine') as a way to describe just how the consecrated elements in the Lord's Supper were presented as the body and blood of Christ. One change of preposition provided certain Reformed theologians, notably those active at the court of the elector palatine, just enough room to assert that their understanding of the spiritual presence of the body and the blood came under the umbrella of "the Augsburg Confession" and therefore of the Peace of Augsburg.
At last an assembly of evangelical princes, meeting at the request of the elector palatine at Naumburg in January 1561, declared that the standard was the invariata (the version of 1530), but that the variata (Melanchthon's version of 1540) might be used to explain its teaching on contentious issues. No sooner had they returned home than they were confronted with a round-robin inquiry from Emperor Ferdinand I (ruled 1558–1564), in which he asked whether the elector palatine was or was not in harmony with the Unaltered Augsburg Confession of 1530. They replied that, while perhaps technically he was not, the emperor should not presume to take any actions against him.
These festering disagreements and Reformed aggressiveness in northern Germany go much of the way to explaining why, about seventy-five years later, in the aftermath of the Battle of White Mountain, the Lutheran princes decided to sit on their hands when General Albrecht Wenzel Eusebius von Wallenstein attacked the Electoral Palatinate, deposed the elector, reduced parts of Heidelberg to ashes, shipped the contents of the university library, the Palatinum, off to the pope as a gift, and inaugurated the Thirty Years' War (1618–1648). Certain developments within Lutheranism contributed to this decision not to intervene in defense of a generous interpretation of the Peace of Augsburg. Perhaps it was the price the Reformed were called upon to pay for their aggressive attempts over the past seventy years to convert Lutheran princes. In the event, it was Germany, and in particular northern, Lutheran Germany that paid the price by becoming the playground for armies from all over Europe, while the south had the burden of paying for it all.
The reference above to "certain developments within Lutheranism" points to the two paths between which Lutherans chose beginning in the early seventeenth century and continuing on through the mid-eighteenth century. They persist to this day under the terms "Pietism" and "Lutheran Orthodoxy." Both had deep roots. As should be evident, Orthodoxy can claim parentage in the heavily doctrinal character of Lutheranism from the outset, through the Genesio Lutherans, the Formula of Concord, Martin Chemnitz with his monumental Examination of the Council of Trent (1565–1573), and into the professorial life of seventeenth-century Lutheran theological faculties. Pietism, on the other hand, can claim its origins with Martin Bucer (1491–1551) of Strasbourg and a tradition that produced such luminaries in the movement toward a more "heartfelt" religion, as evident in two later products of Strasbourg, Johannes Arndt (1555–1621) and his Vier Bücher vom wahren Christentum (1606; Four books on true Christianity), and Philipp Jakob Spener (1635–1705), the collegia pietatis, and his Pia Desideria (1675), which is still read and cherished by many. That the two parties did not think well of one another is evident from the story about Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750), who was frustrated by a powerful Pietist preacher at the Church of St. Thomas in Leipzig. It was said that whenever he encountered the preacher on the street, Bach would "compose and throw another fugue" at him.
One may legitimately wonder whether Voltaire's Dr. Pangloss, despite the evident reference to followers of Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz, was a parody of Lutheran theologians he had met. Research has only begun on these theologians, but two matters are presently apparent. In the first place, they were indeed extremely learned men who brought to their tasks Aristotle, both of the Metaphysics and the Posterior Analytics, the ancient authority whose very dominance of Wittenberg's theological faculty Luther once celebrated. Secondly, it was the Orthodox who turned the substance of Lutheranism into a laundry list of virtually self-standing doctrines that the theologian needed only to memorize. While so doing, they no longer studied Luther himself nor did they cite him in their general histories of doctrine or their works on specific theological topics. Finally, their influence lasted long past the eighteenth century and can be said to have peaked in the nineteenth century. This is not to say that no one read Luther any longer. The Finnish "Luther Readers" both in Finland and in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan read him regularly, but more for the sake of spiritual enrichment than of theological learning. It was left to the Swedish Luther Renaissance of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries to return to a genuinely theological-critical study of Luther himself.
Save in a few synodical groupings and a handful of individuals, notably in North America, Lutheran Orthodoxy is no longer particularly influential. Pietism in both vibrant and decadent forms is a different matter. Beginning with Bucer, who was truthfully more a religious thinker and churchman than a theologian, those with Pietist proclivities have downplayed the theological character of Lutheranism as a distortion that drew the believer's attention away from the inclination of the heart, moral behavior, and the amendment of life that must follow the hearing of the Gospel.
To take but two examples, one at the beginning and the other near the end of the story, in the mid-1530s Bucer wrote a book called The True Care of Souls. In it (among other concerns) he listed Christians by type according to the extent to which they approximated the ideal and then prescribed different forms of pastoral care that would help them advance on the classification table. He did bow toward the central teaching from Luther that a Christian remained simul iustus et peccator ('at the same time righteous and a sinner'). But this was for him merely a background principle to the main task of creating more genuine believers and moral members of the church on earth. Still, Bucer's list of exercises remained some distance from Luther's insistence that true pastoral care occurred in the preaching of God's Word, which did all that could be done to create true people of God.
Spener differed from Bucer first in that he openly criticized the theologians and churchmen of his day for their self-serving lack of attention to improving the tenor of Christian life. Secondly, he favored the establishment where possible of collegia pietatis ('colleges of piety') in which the truly repentant and committed would withdraw to increase their search for true piety and their willingness to perform good works. Bucer, too, had engaged himself in similar work, known as the Christliche Gemeinschaften or ecclesiolae in ecclesia ('little churches within the church'), shortly before being forced as a condition of the Interim to leave Strasbourg for England while under a storm of criticism from both the government and many of his fellow pastors for the tendencies of these small fellowships to split the existing parishes and churches. It should be noted that these efforts were not strictly anti-dogmatic but simply did not evidence much interest in public teachings. The Pietist movement reached its apogee in August Hermann Francke (1663–1727) with his school and later university at Halle, institutions that came to specialize in the training of servants for the Prussian bureaucracy.
Lutheranism in the main experienced the same fate as most other branches of Christianity during the early modern period. By the end of the eighteenth century, true religion had retreated from the public sphere into the private. Whereas the "two kingdoms" through which God ruled his creation—the world of daily affairs in politics, society, and business, and the world of faith—had once served one another, by the end of early modern times, the kingdom of the world had come to dominate. Lutheranism in both its Orthodox and Pietist forms thus abandoned the public sphere to a heretofore-unknown realm of religious indeterminacy, and it did so well before the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. By their own doing, Lutherans turned true religion into a private matter that was by and large excluded from the "real world" of politics, business, and society. Christendom had died. Europe was born.
Bibliography
Primary Sources
The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church. Translated by Charles Arand, et al. Edited by Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert. Minneapolis, 2000.
Luther, Martin. D. Martin Luthers Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Weimar, 1883–. Comprises Luther's published works, correspondence, the German Bible, and table talks. Commonly referred to as "the Weimar edition" or simply "WA." ——. Luther's Works. Translated and edited by Jaroslav Pelikan, Helmut Lehmann, et al. 55 vols. St. Louis and Philadelphia, 1955–1986.
——. Sources and Contexts of The Book of Concord. Edited by Robert Kolb and James A. Nestingen. Minneapolis, 2001.
Secondary Sources
Brecht, Martin. Martin Luther. Translated by James Schaaf. 3 vols. Philadelphia and Minneapolis, 1985–1993.
Elert, Werner. The Structure of Lutheranism. Vol. 1, The Theology and Philosophy of Life of Lutheranism Especially in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. Translated by Walter A. Hansen. St. Louis, 1962. Informative but filtered through a neo-Kantian framework.
Kittelson, James M. Luther the Reformer: The Story of the Man and His Career. Minneapolis, 1986.
——. Toward an Established Church: Strasbourg from 1500 to the Dawn of the Seventeenth Century. Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz 182. Mainz, 2000.
Maurer, Wilhelm. Historical Commentary on the Augsburg Confession. Translated by H. G. Anderson. Philadelphia, 1986.
Nischan, Bodo. Princes, People and Confession: The Second Reformation in Brandenburg. Philadelphia, 1994.
—JAMES M. KITTELSON