Theologians: The Unheard Mediator

He was a Dutch Catholic who wanted to be “rid of the Roman See and its satellites”; yet in his old age, he was considered for a cardinal’s red hat. He believed that priests and monks should be allowed to marry. He argued for liberalized divorce, defended the use of the vernacular in the Mass, and questioned the infallibility of the Pope. He would, in short, be much at home among church reformers today. This month, in Rotterdam, the Dutch began a summer-long celebration marking the 500th anniversary of his birth.

With good reason: Erasmus* has survived those centuries well. As a humanist of international eminence and a lifelong apostle of Christian renewal, he put a special mark both on the Renaissance and on the Reformation that followed it. More important, many of his ideas about reform and the Christian life seem remarkably relevant today, and the best scholarship on Erasmus has been the work of 20th century historians. The most recent example is Erasmus of Christendom (Scribners, $6.95), an affectionate appreciation by Yale Reformation Historian Roland H. Bainton, best known for his biography of Martin Luther, Here I Stand. In Bainton’s view, the current revolution in the church makes the Erasmian message even more pertinent—and perhaps more poignant—than ever before.

The illegitimate son of a Dutch priest, Erasmus was sent as a young boy to study with the Brethren of the Common Life in the town of Deventer. The Brethren were an anomaly in the 15th century church: laymen who lived like monks, they took no permanent vows but observed a strict discipline and worked zealously among the poor. Erasmus was greatly attracted by their spirituality, even though he eventually joined a more conventional religious order, the Augustinian Canons.

Although Erasmus remained a priest all his life, his interest in the Augustinians did not last long. Discipline interfered with his dedication to scholarship, and he eventually was dispensed from monastic rules. His central concern, apart from classical learning, was the true meaning of the Christian life. A follower of Christ, Erasmus thought, ought to be a spiritual soldier—a theme he explored in one of his first popular books, a volume that he dedicated hopefully to a sybaritic armaments manufacturer. His Enchiridion Militis Christian! (The Handbook, or “Dagger,” of the Christian Soldier) failed to convert the man to a more virtuous life, but it did become a stimulus to Christian liberal reform throughout Europe. It assured the layman that he could be as much a true Christian as any priest—a revolutionary thought for the times. “Monasticism is not a way of piety,” Erasmus said. “It is a way of living.”

A monk without a monastery, Erasmus was free to travel. On visits to England, he found close friends in Sir Thomas More, John Colet and other noted English humanists. In Italy, he learned Greek, published an extensive anthology of ancient Adages, and was appalled at the wars of Pope Julius II against neighboring Christian states. In Bologna, he witnessed Julius’ triumphal entry with “a mighty groan,” wondering whether the Pope was the successor of Jesus Christ or Julius Caesar.

Much of what he saw was later reflected in a satiric essay on the foolishness of life, called In Praise of Folly —now the most widely read of all his works. Far more influential during his own lifetime was a new Greek translation of the New Testament published in 1516. Though faulty by modern standards, according to Bainton, it established the proper principles of Biblical scholarship and became “the basis for the great vernacular translations.”

A year later, Martin Luther posted his 95 Theses at the Wittenberg Castle church; Erasmus was caught in the ensuing crossfire between the Reformers and the defenders of the Roman Church. He had protested constantly against the abuses of the religious orders, against clerical concubinage, against indulgences, shrines, relics and rote prayers. Thus at first he sympathized with Luther, who, he said, had committed only two sins: he had “struck at the tiara of the Pope and the bellies of the monks.” But as a cool, skeptical rationalist, Erasmus was no more at home with Protestant dogmatism than with Catholic authoritarianism. “I cannot be a martyr for Luther,” he declared, and set out to be a mediator instead. “I see sedition under way,” he wrote sadly. “I hope it will turn out to the glory of Christ. Perhaps scandals have to come, but I do not want to be their author.”

Extremist Sides. It was not an age for mediators. After Luther’s excommunication, criticism of Erasmus’ moderate views drove the scholar from the Low Countries. He moved to Basel, but the tyranny of the Reformers there eventually forced him to Germany. “There is more latitude in the Church of Rome,” he complained, “than among the heretics.” He tried to prevent the schism of England’s church, arguing with Roman theologians that it would be better to let Henry VIII commit bigamy than cause another split. But both sides of Christendom seemed impelled toward extremism. In Catholic Paris, a disciple of Erasmus was burned at the stake for heresy; in London, two close friends—Thomas More and Bishop John Fisher—were beheaded for loyalty to Rome.

A year after their executions, in the summer of 1536, Erasmus died. He had pronounced his century “the worst since Christ,” and certainly, for a man of tolerance and moderation, it was. He was a man who preached reason and discussion in a torn world that preferred angry deeds. More than a rationalist, Erasmus was something of a prophet: many of the changes he wished to see in the church were adopted not merely by the Reformers but ultimately by Rome as well, and his understanding of what it means to be a Christian is still valid. Like modern liberals caught between revolution and reaction, says Bainton, Erasmus had tried to bring about change without the “grave tumult” he feared, and was “caught between the upper and nether millstone, and ground not to flour but to dust.” It was a bitter ending. As the great humanist died, even his last words—”Dear God”—seemed not so much a prayer as an anguished comment on his times.

*From the Greek, meaning “the beloved.” His surname was simply Roterdamus (“of Rotterdam”), and he later added a first name, De-siderius—the Latin version of “the beloved.” Historians are uncertain about his birth date, which may have been either 1466 or 1469.