I Am Baptized, Part 2

 From 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 cogitation an, so sprich: Ego sum filius Del, sum baptizatus, credo iu lesum Christum pro me crucixum, 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 to defend oneself against doubt, fear and deviltry as to use a magic coin against disease.