The first year was the hardest on the Luther family. Even though the Church had allowed her son to remain with his family during his initial training, Margarethe still mourned the loss of his innocence. Each day, Martin would attend school at the local chapel, and then receive hours of training from visiting monks. He slept only a few hours at night, and what little sleep he got was often restless. Having no time for anything but his studies, Martin stopped playing with his brother and friends, and all too quickly, the bright gleam of youthful innocence had faded from his eyes.
Margarethe’s heart broke as she watched her energetic, imaginative son turn serious and often sullen. More nights than she could count, Martin would return home from his training with welts and bruises. But whenever Margarethe complained to Hans of their son’s harsh treatment, he reminded her that it was God’s will and they could not interfere.
After a few months, Martin stopped asking his mother to put salve on his wounds. Although she suspected the beatings continued, Martin couldn’t stand to see her barely contained sorrow and guilt any longer. One day, when Martin was ten, he disappeared, never returning home from school. That night, Hans led men from the town in a search for him; three days later, Martin showed up on their front stoop—dirty, cold and hungry. He never did tell her what had happened, but Margarethe believed he’d had enough and ran away. Secretly, she’d hoped he would not return, though the life of a fugitive could never provide the freedom she wished for him. She often regretted her decision to allow the Church to use her son, and if given the choice, she would have gladly recanted it—if it would have meant Martin’s freedom. But even if she burned for a crime she didn’t commit, she knew the Church would still have its way. Martin would never be free.
From then on, Martin was different, his devotion and obedience almost frightening. The monks had succeeded in laying down the ground work for his training, imprinting on the boy the conviction that his calling was more important than anything, including physical suffering. Upon seeing this change, his mentors felt it was time to begin his true indoctrination, entrusting the eleven-year-old with the deepest secrets of the Church, things only a handful of men knew.
As part of their agreement with the Church, Hans had insisted that his son continue his regular education, so in 1501, Martin attended the University of Erfurt. Just before he graduated, a plague ravaged the town, killing several of his closest friends. The loss affected Martin deeply, and he began to question God’s plan. Why had God allowed a plague to strike Erfurt? Why had his friends perished while he remained healthy? The only answer his mentors gave was that God sent the plague to punish sinners.
The experience left a deep impression on him. Martin Luther continued his training but with an uncertain heart. He wanted to remain worthy of God’s approval, but he couldn’t help wondering if this really was the correct path. Still in doubt, he graduated with a master’s degree and decided to pursue his law degree, which was his father’s fervent wish. Then, on July 2, 1505, while traveling back to Erfurt after a trip home, he was caught in a thunderstorm. A bolt of lightening struck the ground beside him, throwing him from his horse. Realizing his own mortality, Luther decided on the spot to devote himself fully to his calling. Withdrawing from law school, he sold his books and entered a monastery two weeks later.
Luther threw himself into the daily life of a monk, embracing the conviction that abandoning worldly comforts brought man closer to God. He wore the most uncomfortable garments he could find and routinely slept without covers at night. He ate only when necessary to keep his body from starving and refrained from speaking except to utter a confession or prayer. He studied every waking moment, and he was soon allowed to don the black robe of a confirmed monk.
He continued his private studies for five years, and then his mentors instructed him to go to Rome to receive his next orders directly from the pope. His pilgrimage to the Eternal City took forty days, and upon arriving, he was awe-struck by the beauty of the city of God. At the same time, he felt weary and disheartened. Hordes of pilgrims flooded the city, praying before relics for their salvation. Clergymen sold indulgences, promising the purchasers admission into Heaven regardless of their sins. The higher the price, the higher the level of forgiveness.
When Luther arrived at the Apostolic Palace, a priest led him to the pope’s private apartment. A young man about Luther’s age was working on a complex fresco of the imprisonment of Saint Peter when they walked in. The pope sat at one end of a long table, scrolls and letters spread out before him.
Upon seeing them enter, Pope Julius II said, “Raphael, why don’t you enjoy lunch outside today?” The young man turned then bowed, laying his paintbrushes on a small worktable before leaving the room. “And you?” the pope asked, turning to face Luther. “Are you hungry?”
“No, Your Holiness,” Luther replied.
The pope studied him carefully. “You should eat. Starving yourself is not God’s will.” Luther’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
“I know,” the pope said dismissively. “It is the way you have been taught. But from this moment forward, things are going to change.”
Before Luther could sit down, a priest brought forth a tray laden with food, setting dish after extravagant dish on the table next to the pope. “Change? How?” Luther asked as he took a seat at the far end of the table.
“We need to prepare you for what is to come,” the pope said. “It is finally time to put my plan―my Septem Montes—into action.”
So, this is the man who is responsible for my life’s work. Luther considered the older man’s words as he studied him for a long moment. The nephew of Pope Sixtus IV, Pope Julius II, had conceived the secret plan of which Luther was now an integral part. A plan that would alter the course of Christianity. Conflicting emotions of admiration and distrust warred within him. This was a man Luther had been taught to revere his entire life. Yet with so much power and prestige, why did this man do nothing to help the pilgrims seeking salvation on his very doorstep?
Luther listened obediently to the pope’s instructions, and by the time he returned home a few weeks later, his feeling of distrust had grown. The tranquility of his hometown did nothing to erase the scenes of corruption and profligacy he had witnessed in the Holy City. While he knew this was all part of the plan, that he needed to be shown such sin and debauchery to fuel his rebellion against the Church, he couldn’t help feeling genuine disgust at what had become of God’s Church.
As his training resumed, the monks relaxed their usual harsh and punishing methods, the need to cultivate fear of the flesh no longer necessary. Instead, they focused on nurturing the seeds of the new doctrines that had already taken root within his mind.
“You will need to lash out against us,” his tutors reminded him.
“I am well aware of that,” Luther said. The full impact of what he would need to do both terrified and excited him, allowing doubt to creep in once again. He would be going against the most powerful men in the world, almost all of whom knew nothing of the truth behind his actions. But the thought of sparking a fire in the hearts of the people, inciting them to take control of their own salvation, pushed him forward.
“You are destined to be part of God’s plan. You can and will carry out your mission,” his tutors continued. Luther nodded slowly. “And remember, we will always be watching.”
On All Hallows’ Eve in 1517, Luther hammered his disputation, the Ninety-five Theses, to the door of the All Saints’ Church of Wittenberg, which his tutors found fitting. The treatise objected to Church practices in ways that had never been dared before and resonated with the people immediately. Luther didn’t have to wait long for a reaction. For a monk to speak out publicly against the Church as he did was tantamount to declaring war.
By January, the printing presses were running continuously, distributing copies of the Ninety-five Theses throughout Germany. The peasants relished the David and Goliath story, siding with their newfound hero. People started questioning the tax-like tithes the