While Luther was proceeding on his way to Wittenberg, the Emperor signed an edict in the Cathedral of Worms, in which, after stating that the reformer had rushed like a madman on “our holy Church,” he went on to say: “We have dismissed from our presence this Luther, whom all pious and sensible men count a madman, or one possessed by the devil; and we enjoin that, on the expiration of his safe-conduct, immediate recourse be had to effectual measures to check his furious rage.” The edict further stated that no one was to harbor him, to give him food or drink, or to furnish him by word or deed with any kind of succor whatever, under pain of incurring the penalties due to high treason. His adherents were to be imprisoned, and their property was to be confiscated.
Meanwhile, the subject of this terrible condemnation quietly journeyed onward. He preached at Eisenach, where, as a boy, he had been kindly received by the good Ursula Cotta. He visited his aged grandmother at Mora, and he traveled along a road skirting the woods of Thuringia. Seated in a wagon, with his brother James and friend Amsdorff, he passed through a hollow way near the deserted church of Glisbach. Suddenly a sound of horses’ feet was heard, and five horsemen, armed and masked, rushed upon the little party. James Luther fled. The driver tried to resist; but one of the assailants, with a terrible voice bid him “Stop!” and threw him to the ground. A second seized Amsdorff, and kept him at a safe distance. The rest dragged Luther from the wagon. They threw a military cloak over his shoulders, and placed him upon a horse. All five assailants galloped off, carrying their captive along with them into the gloomy recesses of the forest.
The report spread rapidly that the brave monk had been carried off. Some rejoiced, but many were astonished and indignant. A cry of grief resounded through Germany: “Luther has fallen into the hands of his enemies.”
To avoid being followed, the horsemen took first one direction and then another, until the poor monk was quite exhausted, and begged for a few minutes’ rest. He was allowed to dismount, and drank some water from a brook which still bears his name. As soon as it grew dark his guards took a new road; and just before midnight they reached the foot of a mountain. On the top was an old castle called the Wartburg, surrounded by dark forests. The weary horses slowly ascended the steep path, and Luther was admitted within the gates. He dismounted in the court, and one of the horsemen led him into a chamber, where he found a knight’s uniform and a sword. He was dressed in these garments, and enjoined to let his hair and beard grow. In the Wartburg he went by the name of Knight George.
The preacher of Wittenberg was now severed from his flock; the bold servant of the Most High, who feared not the face of man, was now a prisoner in a gloomy fortress. Was he in the hands of friends or foes?
Various reports were circulated. “Luther’s body has been seen pierced through and through,” reached the ears of his friends. “Alas!” they said, “we shall never see the noble-minded man again.” At Wittenberg the grief was very great.
Suddenly startling news reached that town: “Luther is alive!” “Our beloved father lives!” exclaimed Melancthon, “take courage and be firm.”
The news was indeed true. Luther was alive, but a captive. The Elector, seeing the fearful danger which surrounded the reformer, had planned his capture, so that he might be kept in safety from his foes.
The Reformation progressed, and, notwithstanding the edict of the Emperor, Luther’s writings were read more and more.
While in the Wartburg, Luther was not idle. He wrote letters to his friends, dating them from the “Isle of Patmos,” comparing his prison to the island to which the apostle John was banished. He secretly issued many tracts, and translated the New Testament into German. He also took great pains to improve his knowledge of both Greek and Hebrew, so that he might translate his intended version of the Scriptures more accurately. “Scripture without any comment,” said he, “is the sun whence all teachers receive their light.”
The solitary life now led by Luther did not suit him. He became weak and ill. His mind was depressed. Seated alone on the ramparts of the Wartburg, he remained whole days lost in deep meditation. He longed to be with his beloved people at Wittenberg, once again contending for the truth against its many foes. Strange imaginations became to him living realities, and the enemy of mankind—Satan—appeared to assume a visible form. On one occasion, while engaged in translating the New Testament, he fancied that he beheld the prince of darkness prowling round him like a lion about to spring upon its prey. Alarmed and vexed, he snatched up his inkstand and flung it at the head of his enemy.
Day by day the restraint imposed upon him became more and more unendurable.
Tidings also reached him from Wittenberg, which enabled him sometimes to rejoice, at other times caused him profound sorrow and anxiety. The Reformation was progressing, but the zeal of some of its supporters exceeded their discretion. While Luther rejoiced to hear that the mass had been declared to be unscriptural, and that, thirteen monks had been led to leave their cloister, he felt sad and indignant when he heard that, in his beloved town, the churches were being broken into, priests insulted, books carried off, and images taken away and burned.
Another source of disquiet was occasioned by false prophets who came from Zwickau. They declared that they had received direct revelations from God; they cast the Bible aside, and despised learning. Many were led away, the University became disorganized, and the work of the Reformation was imperiled. In this hour of danger there was a general cry for Luther; he was the only one who could bring order out of this chaos.
At the end of November he had paid a secret visit to Wittenberg, and now he resolved to brave all the dangers that beset him and to leave his retreat. The Elector was averse to his doing so, but he could no longer remain inactive amidst the scenes which were taking place.
On March 3, 1522, he bade farewell to the Wartburg, and set out for Wittenberg. When near Jena he was overtaken by a dreadful thunderstorm, and sought shelter at an inn called the Black Bear. Two young Swiss students were also traveling toward Wittenberg, and stopped at the same inn. Seated at a table, intently reading a book, was a knight who politely invited them to come and sit at his table, also offering them refreshment. Encouraged by his kindness, they said, “Sir, could you inform us where Martin Luther is at present?”
“I know for certain,” answered the knight, “that he is not at Wittenberg, but he will be there shortly.” “If God spare our lives,” said one of the young men, “we will not return home without having seen and heard Dr. Luther, for it is on his account that we have undertaken this long journey.”
After supper the stranger knight shook hands with the students, and said, “When you reach Wittenberg salute Dr. Schurff from me.”
“Most willingly,” they replied; “but whose name shall we give?”
“Tell him simply,” said the knight, “that he that is to come salutes you.”
The knight was Luther, who continued his journey until he came to the little town of Borne, near Leipsic, from which place he wrote to the Elector, informing him of his intention to return to Wittenberg. In this letter he entreated his prince not to protect him, as no sword could further the Word of God. “You must offer no resistance if men desire to seize or kill me,” he wrote, “for no one should resist dominions except He who has established them.”
Press forward, and fear not; though trials be near,
The Lord is our refuge—whom, then, shall we fear?
His staff is our comfort, our safeguard His rod;
Then let us be steadfast, and trust in our God.