I Am Baptized, Part 2

Among Luther's many uses of the phrase "I am baptized," one appears to be cited with special frequency. It is from his Table-Talk for 18 February 1542, as recorded by a graduate student named Caspar Heydenreich (TR 5658a). It can be found in the WA Tischreden series, in v. 5 on page 295.  

Luther's Table-Talks are quoted frequently, but should be approached with caution. They are not, after all, the product of a scholar in his study, writing for posterity, nor even of a lecturer or preacher hoping to shape the hearts of his listeners. They are dinner-time chat, extemporized at a boarding-house table, as food is chewed, wine is poured, amid squawking children and a dog pleading for scraps. They were then transcribed by guests, presumably with some reconstruction from memory. Moreover, many of them have been passed on in forms altered for publication by Luther's sometime secretary, John Aurifaber. Although modern scholarship has recovered the underlying manuscript evidence, the altered versions are still in circulation.

On top of that, the Table-Talk are (as conversation at Luther's table surely was) a mixture of German and Latin, which can be a little disorienting for many, and a genuine obstacle for some.

Those caveats duly caveatted, what was Luther talking about on that winter evening almost five centuries ago? 

According to Heydenreich, it was a "discourse on predestination," but that is really only part of it. As was Luther's wont, it seems (at a quick reading) to be a rambling reflection on his own spiritual life, and especially on the transition from dread of divine judgment to assurance of favor.  It is especially touching that he still speaks warmly and repeatedly of his old spiritual mentor, von Staupitz, who had at this point been two decades in the grave.

Here's a snippet of the original:

Alioquin illae cogitationes sunt diabolicae de praedestinatione. Ficht dich die cogitatio an, so sprich: Ego sum filius Del, sum baptizatus, credo in lesum Christum pro me crucifixum, lass mich zu friden, zu Teufel!  Tum illa cogitatio te deseret. Also list man von einer nonnen, quae vexabatur a Diabolo miserabilibus illis cogitationibus; wen er ein spruch gemacht hett und mit seinen feurigen pfeilen kam, so sprach sie nit mer den dise wort: Sum christiana. Das verstund der Teufel wol, und war so vil gesagt: Ego credo in Deum crucifixum, qui ad dextram Patris sedet et mei curam gerit et qui pro me interpellare solet; du leidiger Teufel. las mich zu friden, ille me suo impenetrabili sigillo certum reddidit. 

Honestly, this is a bit beyond our modest translation abilities, but it seems to say something like this:

In any case, these thoughts of predestination are demonic. If a thought bothers you, say: I am a child of God, I am baptized, I believe in Jesus Christ crucified for me, so leave me alone you devil! Then this thought leaves you. 

So we read of a nun whom the Devil tormented miserably with these thoughts. When he had come to her with speech like burning arrows, she said only these words: I am a Christian.  The Devil understood that perfectly well, and no more needed to be said. 

I believe in the Crucified God, who sits at the right hand of the Father and cares for me and who habitually intercedes for me. Leave me alone, you pitiable devil, for he has surely given me his invincible sign.

Note that there is nothing here about chalk or a handkerchief. For that matter, although in context Luther has been speaking of his own experience, he is not here telling a personal anecdote concerning a diabolic visitation during one of his Anfechtungen. Rather, Luther distances the story from himself, by using what appears to be a conventional preacher's topos: "We read about a certain nun," he says. Yet after ending the story -- "no more needed to be said" -- Luther continues, perhaps putting further words into the mouth of his fictional nun, but more likely imagining either himself or his audience in her place, and giving them an alternative protective formula.

If, incidentally, the words "protective formula" sound like something out of Keith Thomas, it seems fitting that it might. Although it is widely held that (as a publisher's blurb for Religion and the Decline of Magic puts it) "the Protestant Reformation attempted to take the magic out of religion," this is a surprisingly debatable point. We once heard a fine lecture by a colleague, an expert on Johannes Kelpius and the Wissahickon Hermits, who observed that well into the 17th century, it was still quite normal for the Protestant clergy, very much including Lutherans, to deal in potions and amulets as part of their pastoral practice.  In a 2019 article for the Science Museum Group Journal, Annie Thwaite gives examples of various amulets, the most interesting of which is a gold coin given to those healed of scrofula by Charles I, to be worn around the neck as protection against further infection. In an engraving, the king is shown healing his subjects, surrounded by approving courtiers -- at least three of whom are clearly Anglican priests.

Perhaps we are overthinking this, but it seems to us that in this particular Table-Talk, Luther is using the language of faith and the sacraments much the way somebody else might have used a magical incantation. He even identifies baptism as an "impenetrable sigil," an invincible sign, given to him by Christ -- not so different from the golden coin given by Charles to his subjects.

This observation in no way accuses Luther of mechanizing faith or religious rituals -- his life's work may be conceived as an extended argument against that implication of ex opere operato. Nor does it identify Luther as somehow "medieval" in contrast to the "early moderns" around him.  It rather reminds us that early modern theology was quite different from the late modernity more familiar to us. Symbols functioned a little differently, we think, and it was as natural to use words (in a curious recursion of Wimsatt’s “verbal icon”) to defend oneself against doubt, fear and deviltry as to use a magic coin against disease.

UPDATE: a few hours after posting this, we learned of a 2011 book by Carolyn Schneider exploring Luther’s repeated use of the story about the nun. We haven’t seen the book (yet), but here’s a review: https://crossings.org/book-review-i-am-a-christian-the-nun-the-devil-and-martin-luther-carolyn-m-schneider/

I Am Baptized, Part 1

 Doing some routine pastoral work on a snowy morning in the Iron City, Father A. stumbled across a form letter written by a predecessor in which Martin Luther is purported to have said Baptisma sum. Obviously, Luther did not say this precisely, since it would have meant either that he was baptism itself personified, or perhaps a baptized female. What he did say, however, is ego sum baptizatus, "I am baptized," and this is something he said often.

But when and in what context did he say this?  We thought it might be enjoyable to track down a few instances now and then, as time allows.  Most of of us have heard stories about Luther mentioning his baptism to ward off the Devil, or writing it in chalk and covering it with a hankie (as he did with the Lord's hoc est corpus meum at Marburg). If a reader can provide citations to either of these, we will be most grateful.

Meanwhile, here is a little something for starters.

In his Lectures on Genesis from the 1540s, Luther discusses 26:15-16, and praises Isaac's patience at a time when it would have been easy to feel forsaken by God, and proposes it as a model for Christians:

In spite of all, we should say "I believe. I have been baptized. I have been absolved. I have God's promise of grace and mercy. I have enough. Whether night, day, tribulation or joy befalls me, I shall nevertheless not forfeit His mercy or lose courage." (LW 5; consulted online, so no page number is available; cf WA 43:469).

This is quite a quotable moment. If you are pretentious and would like to quote it in Latin, come sit by us at the Synod assembly:

...  dicamus tamen: Credo, sum baptisatus, sum absolutus, habeo divinam promissionem gratiae et misericordiae, satis habeo, sive nox, sive dies, sive tribulatio, sive laetitia mihi obversentur: non tamen amittam misericordiam, nec despondebo animum.

Another instance from Luther's 1523/1524 discussion of Genesis, which exists in two forms as recorded by two students, concerns the faith of Noah, in chapter 7.

You see what the Word can do, if it is understood by faith; it protected him for 150 days. This is written to praise faith, because the Scriptures are given in order that faith may be preached. Here there is no need of Noah's works to help. What is the bare word of God? "Make an ark and I will be with you." 

This let us learn, and this is written for us, so that when the hour of death or affliction comes, we will not ask "Where shall we stay?" That to those who say "I am dying," and ["Woe is me,"] may stand firm in the words "I am baptized." [You pray:] "Thus have you spoken, O Christ"; and as much as Death invades, so much more must you hold to the Word.

That is a very weak translation; Latinists are welcome -- nay, implored -- to improve it based on the original:

Vides, quid verbum possit, si fide percipitur, quod servavit 150 dies. Hoc scriptum est pro laude fidei, quia data est scriptura, ut fides praedicetur. Hic nullum opus adiumento Noe. Quid autem nudum verbum dei 'fac arcam, Ego tecum ero', hoc discamus, et nobis scriptum, quando hora venit vel mortis vel afflictionis, ut non quaeramus, ubi manebimus? ut illi dicunt "Ich stirb und weis wie" sed consistendum in verbo 'ego baptizatus sum'. 'Ita dixisti, Christe", et quanto plus invadit mors, tanto plus verbum arripe. 

In the first passage, baptism is connected closely to faith, absolution, grace, mercy and even providence.  It is as if Luther, quite possible speaking off the cuff, simply lists a series of God's gifts. In the second (if we have understood it correctly) Luther uses baptism as a defense against the familiar medieval dread of death. It will surprise nobody familiar with Luther that, in both passages, he connects baptism closely to the Word of God.