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At this wordy warfare none proved more adept than Martin Luther. He became Senior Wrangler; secured his degree; remained at the college as a post-graduate and sub-lecturer; finally was appointed a teacher, then a professor, and when twenty-nine years old became a Doctor of Theology.

He took his turn as preacher in the Schlosskirche, which was the School Chapel, and when he preached the place was crowded. He was something more than a monotonous mumbler of words: he made his addresses personal, direct, critical. His allusions were local, and contained a deal of wholesome criticism put with pith and point, well seasoned with a goodly dash of rough and surprising wit.

Soon he was made District Vicar–a sort of Presiding Elder–and preached in a dozen towns over a circuit of a hundred miles. On these tours he usually walked, bareheaded, wearing the monk’s robe. Often he was attended by younger monks and students, who considered it a great privilege to accompany him. His courage, his blunt wit, his active ways–all appealed to the youth, and often delegations would go out to meet him. Every college has his kind, whom the bantlings fall down and worship–fisticuffs and books are both represented, and a touch of irreverence for those in authority is no disadvantage.

Luther’s lack of reverence for his superiors held him back from promotion–and another thing was his imperious temper. He could not bear contradiction. The orator’s habit of exaggeration was upon him, and occasionally he would affront his best friends in a way that tested their patience to the breaking-point. “You might become an Abbot, and even a Bishop, were it not for your lack of courtesy,” wrote his Superior to him on one occasion.

But this very lack of diplomacy, this indifference to the opinions of others, this boldness of speech, made him the pride and pet of the students. Whenever he entered the lecture-room they cheered him, and often they applauded him even in church.

Luther was a “sensational preacher,” and he was an honest preacher. No doubt the applause of his auditors urged him on to occasional unseemliness. He acted upon his audience, and the audience reacted upon him. He thundered against the profligacy of the rich, the selfishness of Society, the iniquities of the government, the excesses of the monks, the laxity of discipline in the schools, and the growing tendency in the Church to worship the Golden Calf. In some instances priests and monks had married, and he thundered against these.

All of the topics he touched had been treated by Savonarola in Italy, Wyclif in England, Brenz at Heidelberg, Huss in Bohemia, Erasmus in Holland and Bucer in Switzerland–and they had all paid the penalty of death or exile.

It is well to be bold, but not too bold. Up to a certain point the Church and Society will stand criticism: first it is diverting, next amusing, then tiresome, finally heretical–that is to say, criminal.

There had been a good deal of heresy. It was in the air–men were thinking for themselves–the printing-presses were at work, and the spirit of the Renaissance was abroad.

Martin Luther was not an innovator–he simply expressed what the many wished to hear–he was caught in the current of the time: he was part and parcel of the Renaissance. And he was a loyal Churchman. None of his diatribes were against the Church itself–he wished to benefit the Church by freeing it from the faults that he feared would disintegrate it.

And so it happened that on the Thirty-first day of October, Fifteen Hundred Seventeen, Martin Luther tacked on the church-door at Wittenberg his Ninety-five Theses.

The church-door was the bulletin-board for the University. The University consisted of about five hundred students. Wittenberg was a village of three or four thousand people, all told. The Theses were simply questions for discussion, and the proposition was that Martin Luther and his pupils would defend these questions against all comers in public debate.