The Rise of a Swiss Reformer
The Rise of a Swiss Reformer
“Our confidence in Christ does not make us lazy, negligent, or careless, but on the contrary it awakens us, urges us on, and makes us active in living righteous lives and doing good. There is no self-confidence to compare with this.” – attributed to Ulrich Zwingli
Inside a quaintly rustic yet spacious log cabin in Wildhaus, away in Switzerland's Toggenburg Valley and constructed from the timber that once stood in the neighboring woods, laughter, hosannas, and gentle noises of jubilation spilled out the windows. It was New Year's Day 1484, but the Zwingles, or more commonly, the Zwinglis, had been blessed with more than one reason to celebrate. Under this cozy roof – a bed of shingles weighed down by stones – the delighted farming family, along with close relatives and friends, sat huddled around a slightly worn wooden crib, inhabited by the third of what would be their brood of nine. The parents, their faces flushed with joy, looked down lovingly upon their newborn son. They named him Ulrich, after his father, though as an adult, he much preferred to be called “Huldrych,” which meant “rich in grace.”
The Zwinglis may have been farmers, but considering the amenities on their property, which included ample furnishings, a sizable plot of land, and a fount of fresh water outside their door, they were relatively comfortable financially. In addition to these amenities, the two-story cabin was kitted out with a parlor, bedrooms, and a private study that featured a handsome oak desk and a library. In the evenings, the family gathered by the hearth, where they cooked meals with ingredients collected from the garden and local markets.
Roland Zumbühl’s picture of the cabin
The Zwinglis owed their comfort to the family's prominent status in town. Ulrich’s uncle, Bartholomew, was elected first priest of the local parish and was later appointed superintendent, or dean of the Wesen institution. Ulrich’s mother, Maragretha Melli, also hailed from a widely respected family, and her brother John, another man of the cloth, would soon be named the abbot of the Fischingen Monastery in Thurgovia. Ulrich, Sr. served as amtmann, the chief local magistrate of Wildhaus.
Thus, it should come as no surprise that Ulrich and his siblings were raised to be reputable, magnanimous, upstanding members of society. Ulrich, Sr. treated his children fairly and made certain not to inflate any child’s ego with preferential treatment. All of them were expected to complete their assigned chores, no matter how tedious, including assisting with farm work, as well as cooking, cleaning, and herding cattle.
To Ulrich and most of the youngsters, cattle herding was more of a rite of passage than it was a chore. Herders shepherded their flocks to select stretches of greenery to graze upon the pastures, with their annual journeys often culminating in the highest points of the Alps, such as the crest of Mount Sentis. Ulrich and the other youths voluntarily accompanied these herdsmen on their two-month excursions, filling the otherwise monotonous silence with melodious music made from instruments and their own voices. According to Zwingli's biographers, these excursions kindled his love for music and nature, as well as his spirituality. One of his childhood friends recalled, “I have often thought that as [Zwingli] approached heaven on those sublime elevations, he must have thence derived something celestial and divine.”
Excerpts from one of Zwingli's poems concerning the connection between God and nature, which he composed just a few years later, were presumably derived from his cattle-herding experiences, and they also hinted at his pensive disposition:
“Man is not alone of divine origin, but every creature, although some belong to a nobler order than others.
“But since all are God's, the nobler they are, the more they proclaim His power and glory.
“Do not the smallest animals, the marmots...through their habits and instincts declare the wisdom and providence of God?
“Do not even the things that are devoid of reason and feeling testify that the power, goodness...of God is ever present with them?
“...Even the mountains, those senseless, rugged, inert masses which give to the earth, as the bones to the flesh, form and solidity...
“Do they not proclaim the imperishable might, the infinite majesty of Jehovah?”
Although Ulrich quickly proved to be a bright, inquisitive child, many of his opinions were inevitably molded by those held by his progenitors. Well before the age of 10, he began to curl up at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on the passionate and often booze-fueled exchanges between his father and other senior members of the commune. As the village elders tipped back their goblets and ate skewered meats, they cursed the tyrannical powers that once kept the Old Swiss Confederacy under their oppressive thumbs and raised their drinks to the heroes who secured their independence. Like most children, Ulrich was fed stories about the fabled lionheart from Burglen, William Tell, and how he outwitted and slayed the heinous Austrian bailiff and despot, Albrecht Gessler. In time, Ulrich became so patriotic that he would leap up from his seat and fiercely berate anyone who dared to speak ill of his beloved country.
In addition to taking in what he heard from his father, Ulrich often sat at the feet of his wise grandmother, who showered upon him Biblical stories and riveting tales about martyrs who offered up their lives for God. It was presumably through these stories, as well as the sermons he heard in church every Sunday, that his faith was strengthened.
The maternal figures in his life handled the bulk of the discipline, instilling in him a steadfast moral compass. One of the family’s favorite aphorisms was that “lying ought to be punished more severely than theft.” Another one asserted, “Truth is the mother of all virtues.”
Ulrich’s maturity and intellect, both well beyond his years, were not lost on his guardians. Ulrich, Sr. was stunned by his son's insightfulness and advanced problem-solving capabilities. Unwilling to squander his son's academic potential, Ulrich, Sr. dispatched his son, along with a satchel filled with a few changes of clothes and other essentials, to his Uncle Bartholomew's school in Wesen, where the high-profile priest had recently been named dekan. Bartholomew was at once enchanted with his quick-witted and well-mannered nephew, and he opted to personally take Ulrich under his wing. The curriculum he designed for Ulrich was primarily centered on Latin, but the boy was also taught reading, writing, and simple arithmetic. Not long after his 10th birthday, Bartholomew came to the conclusion that he had depleted his reservoir, so he recommended that Ulrich, Sr. send the young boy to Basel for his secondary education.
Perhaps not surprisingly, Ulrich suffered a minor form of culture shock during his first few months in Basel. The unfamiliar, fast-paced city was a radical departure from the homespun beauty and quietude of the countryside. That said, the adaptable lad soon overcame his fear of the unknown – specifically, the clamorous click-clacking of printing presses and the congestion of horse carriages on the streets – and began to appreciate the seminal technology. Home to a prestigious namesake university, one of the foremost educational institutions in the state, Basel was also hailed as a place of enlightenment.
In Basel, Ulrich attended the St. Theodore School, studiously adhering to the courses laid out by the master of the institution, Magistrate Gregory Bunzli. Under Bunzli himself, Ulrich studied advanced Latin, mainly focusing on grammar, and he also took classes in music and dialectics. He was especially drawn to the latter subject, his first-ever introduction to the art of debate. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins whenever he verbally squashed his opponents with logical, sound arguments was a feeling like no other, and he would spend the rest of his life chasing it. With such zeal, Ulrich’s prowess in competitive discourse grew greater with each day, and he was regularly selected to represent St. Theodore in national and city-wide debate competitions.
Naturally, Ulrich’s record of victories was almost unmatched, which drew the ire and envy of his peers. Another childhood friend, Oswald Myconius, explained that Ulrich “excelled beyond his years, as happens in the case of those who are naturally inclined to any art.”
Once again, it did not take long for Ulrich to outgrow St. Theodore's, and as such, Ulrich, Sr. and Bartholomew deliberated over a more suitable school for the young scholar, who was now approaching the age of 13. They ultimately settled upon a new institution in Berne – the “first learned school” in the state – founded by the humanist and poet Lupulus (also known as Heinrich Woelflin).
As such, he continued his secondary education in Berne, arriving in the spring of 1497. Under Lupulus's tutelage, Ulrich was trained in classical literature, which fostered his interest in the field. Shortly thereafter, he began to dabble in poetry, and he soon made a habit of dipping his quill into ink and penning his own verses whenever inspiration struck him. Myconius noted, “Here, [Zwingli] was admitted into the sanctuary of the classic writers, and acquired elegance of speech and a knowledge and judgment of the world...[mastering] the theory of poetry...he was able to write poems himself and to cleverly criticize those written by others.”
Curiously, Ulrich’s stellar performance in school attracted the attention of an unlikely group of individuals: the Dominican monks of Berne. A scout from the monastery was reportedly making his rounds one Sunday when he was stopped in his tracks by the divine vocals of a young man drifting out of a nearby church. The scout slipped inside the chapel and found 14-year-old Ulrich crooning the bewitching solo. Intrigued, the scout pressed his sources for information about the boy, and upon learning of his other talents, he reported back to his superiors at the monastery immediately. A few days later, the Dominican monks extended to Ulrich an invitation to join their monastery, where he would begin training as a novice. In a bid to reel in what they assumed was an impressionable teenager, they took Ulrich on a grand tour of the premises, parading the priceless relics, miracle-producing idols, and other gifts bestowed upon them by their sister churches and allowing him a taste of their splendid ceremonies. The monks were perfectly hospitable hosts, but the Dominicans apparently harbored hidden motives. Ellen Gould White, author of The Conflict of the Ages Story – The Great Controversy, explained, “The Dominicans of Berne saw that if they could win [over] this talented young scholar, they would secure both gain and honor. His extreme youth, his natural ability as a speaker and writer, and his genius for music and poetry, would be more effective than all their pomp and display in attracting the people to their services and increasing the revenues of their order.”
The extravagance and posturing exhibited by the Dominicans had little effect on the spiritual teen, but he was certainly titillated by the thought of devoting his life to God. Even so, before he could even entertain this notion, Ulrich, Sr., who had been apprised of the turn of events by concerned colleagues, abruptly sent for his son to return home. Why Ulrich, Sr. was so adamant on Ulrich’s homecoming remains a matter of dispute. Some say that he merely feared for his son's welfare and wanted to extract him from the latent, but soon-to-be explosive tension between the Dominicans and Franciscans in Berne. Others claim that the superstitious Zwingli patriarch wanted to remove his son from the unholy grounds, which was reportedly inhabited by an “escaped soul from purgatory.” Either way, Ulrich, Sr. was bothered enough by the monks' fixation on his son that he yanked him out of Berne and ceased his studies mid-semester.
In the autumn of 1498, Ulrich entered the University of Vienna, this time choosing philosophy as his major instead of classical literature. In addition to scholastic philosophy, Ulrich took classes in physics, astronomy, and various literature-related subjects.
Little else is known about his time in this university apart from the meaningful friendships he forged during his time here. His inner circle included: Faber, the son of a blacksmith; Henry Loreti, a fellow poet; and Joachim Vadian, a dauntless statesman in-the-making who often challenged his equally assertive friend in political debates. On top of his studies and the recreational activities the group of friends enjoyed on weekends, Ulrich continued to hone his singing skills, and he could also play a variety of instruments.
Why Ulrich chose to exit the university halfway into his second year in the university is unclear. Some say he was expelled for unknown reasons, while others say he had begun to outperform his professors and felt it would be more productive to seek higher learning elsewhere. Regardless of the reasons, in 1500 or 1502 (according to different sources), Ulrich enrolled at the University of Basel, this time reverting to his classical literature major and choosing humanism as his minor. Rather than devote all of his hours to his own education, he applied for and was hired as a tutor for classical literature and Latin in the local St. Martin school. At the University of Basel, Ulrich and his classmates were assigned Peter Lombard’s Sentences, the philosophical works of Aristotle, and theological texts written by Duns Scotus and St. Thomas Aquinas, all of which were translated into Latin. Though well-versed in Latin, the perceptive university student found the state's decision to distribute these texts in a foreign language counterproductive. Still, Ulrich chose not to voice his objections and resumed his studies as planned. Meanwhile, he took the initiative to read up on the controversial Greek Sophists on his own time. He did not necessarily agree with the views held by these ancient philosophers, but he considered it imperative to understand the positions of those he disagreed with, and in turn he learned how to better reinforce his own arguments. He was awarded a bachelor's degree two years later.
Ulrich began the next chapter of his educational career at the same institution, pursuing a master's degree in the field of scholastic theology. Scriptural pedagogy aside, the 20-year-old continued to expand on his secular talents - by then, he had become something of a musical aficionado, proficient at the lute, flute, violin, dulcimer, hunting horns, and piano. Peers and professors alike crowded around his door in the dormitories, eager to catch a snippet of the spellbinding melodies that floated out of his instruments. Those unable see his private concerts could see him perform during church services at the end of each week. In hindsight, his passion for music can only be described as ironic, given what was to come.
Unlike many young adults, Ulrich did not reinvent himself to please his peers. Instead, he maintained his exceptional grades and was crowned victor of every debate he partook in. Be that as it may, the jealousy and resentment he once aroused in his peers transformed into feelings of admiration, and those around him were now magnetized by his intelligence, charisma, cool temper, and good humor.
By the spring of 1505, Ulrich was plagued with doubts about his chosen course. The shortcomings of the local clergymen were becoming increasingly apparent and more difficult to ignore. The amateur theologian disapproved of their loose, misguided, and often erroneous interpretations of the gospel, as well as their shallow sermons. More importantly, Ulrich was troubled by the corruption of these holy men, and he was horrified by their use of the Bible to justify wicked acts such as war. Furthermore, he found the clerics' insistence upon delivering their sermons in Latin unacceptable, decrying the practice as “a mere loss of time” which he believed led to the perversion of Scripture. In short, while his loyalties still lay with the papacy, he was thoroughly disappointed with and discouraged by the ecclesiastical system.
The jaded young man would have most likely parted ways with the field altogether had it not been for Thomas Wyttenbach, who he met in November of 1505. Wyttenbach, an esteemed and dynamic professor visiting from Tubingen, was a lettered master of the liberal arts, but he was also a highly regarded pundit of Scripture, one on a campaign to revive the true meaning of God's teachings. Rather than skip out on church services altogether, he urged his disciples to swallow the sermons of their local preachers with a grain of salt and to broaden their horizons by researching and deciphering the sacred tenets woven into true Scripture. To Wyttenbach, Christians were straying further and further from the light with each passing day, and yet, his optimism remained intact. Wyttenbach declared, “The time is not distant when this [new-age] scholastic theology will be done away with, and the ancient doctrine of the Church will be restored...”
Wyttenbach
Ulrich was mesmerized by Wyttenbach's oratory skills and his resolution to propagate ideas that were widely regarded as inflammatory. He also credited Wyttenbach with revealing to him one significant truth: Christ “was the only mediator between God and man, in whose atoning sacrifice is the only hope of remission of sins.”
Some time during the first week of Wyttenbach's lectures, Ulrich made the acquaintance of Leo Juda for the first time. Juda, the son of a priest, was frail and slight in stature, but his physical flaws were overshadowed by his brilliant mind and electric personality. Like Ulrich, Juda held strong, contentious opinions about the deteriorating state of the Church, largely shaped by the death of his uncle, who died defending the cross. Their rapidly blossoming friendship was rounded out by their mutual passion for music - when they weren't raving about Wyttenbach's ideas, they were unwinding with musical sessions in Ulrich’s quarters. As some biographers have put it, Juda was the Melanchthon to Ulrich’s Luther.
Leo Juda
Through it all, Ulrich soldiered on with his studies and was rewarded his master's degree in 1506. At this point, if he wanted to fight the system, he had to be a part of it.