10. “Stop Worrying, Let God Worry”: Worrywart of Wittenberg
Hostile natural and supernatural forces, mysterious and deadly epidemics, violent and malevolent fellow human beings, accidental or intentional fires—all haunted the imaginations and daily lives of early modern people,” writes Joel Harrington. This “precariousness of life,” however, belongs to all ages. “Fear and anxiety are woven into the very fabric of human existence. In that sense they link all of us across the centuries.”
But not all individuals are equally beset by fear and anxiety. “I am rich,” Luther once said, “God has given me my nun and three children: what care I if I am in debt, Katie pays the bills.” Katie, however, did worry. Fear and anxiety were woven into her very existence.
I resonate with Katie on so many levels and have come to realize we have much in common. I fantasize about spending a week or two with her. We would surely not sit around and talk. We would work. She too often viewed her servants as slackers. Not so with me. I could keep pace with her, no matter what the task, and our personalities would easily mesh. We both know how to talk back to a husband and to accomplish an awful lot in one day. We both know how cold an outhouse can be on a bitter winter morning. We know how to milk cows by hand, tend chickens, and wield an axe. True, I have no capability of brewing beer (as much as my husband would prefer that over my talking back), but in so many ways, she’s my sister. And not just because of our barbarian German ancestors. We are both worrywarts. In fact, on that score, we mirror each other. When it comes to worrying, I’m a champion. I can worry faster and more efficiently than anyone I know. And no one but Katie would have a clue what I’m talking about. I unconsciously rank by number my revolving worries—worries that are always circling back in one form or another.
Katie worried about money and crops and weather and plagues and house renovations and children. But more than anything else, she worried about Martin. Indeed, she was sick with worry in February 1546—and for good reason. His letter from Eisleben, dated February 7, chided her: “Leave me alone with your worry. I have a better comforter than you and all the angels. He lies in the manger and at the breast of a virgin, but at the same time sits at the right hand of God the Almighty Father. Therefore be at peace!” Eleven days later, he was dead.
My son is now in his forties, and I still haven’t stopped worrying about him. What’s wrong with me? If I confessed this to him, he’d be furious. Sure, he would say, maybe twenty-five years ago—when I learned from a friend that he was in the ER after a serious auto accident, the result of bad decisions. Maybe even a dozen years ago, he would say, but now? Get over it. Leave me alone, and let God do the worrying. I can’t, though most of the time these days he’s far lower on my list than he was in his late teens.
It’s February as I write. Income taxes are high on the list. So is flooding. We live in a flood plain, and spring floods are the norm. Kayaking back and forth to our “island” home is not a problem, but what about when the river decides to come right inside the house, as it did in the spring of 2013? So I worry. And I worry about our cottage, which is also on the river, more easily flooded than our house. I worry about squirrels getting into the attic of the cottage, causing our renter sleepless nights. I worry about our vehicle breaking down when we’re traveling, now with nearly three hundred thousand miles on it; I worry about the duct tape that’s holding the rear lights from falling off. I worry that John might die someday and leave me a widow. I worry about myself, that I might be diagnosed with brain cancer—or worse yet, Alzheimer’s. And so it goes.
Katie’s worries were not frivolous. She could easily list terrible tragedies—personal and public—that could be repeated in one form or another without warning. They were as real as the cancer diagnosis and death my husband faced with his two dearly departed wives. But does he worry? Not particularly. For Katie (and myself), however, worry is an ever-present shadow.
One wonders if Katie’s worry might have begun as a very young child. Think of a five-year-old whose mother dies and is soon expected to make room for a stepmother and a bunch of kids in a house already too crowded. How would she react? Is anything in life permanent? What will happen next? She would find out soon enough. The wagon is headed for an uncertain future filled with strangers and setbacks. The saddest story of Martin’s childhood is being thrashed by his mother for stealing a nut. More than one writer in the field of psychohistory has wondered what permanent scars Mommy Dearest might have inflicted. Luther is the perfect subject for such psychoanalysis because of his excesses and idiosyncrasies. In contrast, Katie seems almost too normal.
Prior to their marriage, when Martin accused Katie of being proud, one wonders if such a trait might have actually been a well-developed defense mechanism. Katie alone was responsible for the course of her life. Unlike her husband, she does not appear to have had a strong sense of God’s sovereign will over her life. She was in charge of getting things done in the large household and in making decisions that would ensure financial security—collecting rent from boarders, buying and selling land. God was not going to do that. She was in charge of keeping her children and husband healthy—and alive—projects not always successful, despite her best efforts. And so she worried.
We cannot assume that worries were necessarily a negative factor in her capable daily routine. In fact, Graham Davey writes in Psychology Today that “there is good evidence that in most people worrying is associated with a problem-focused coping style (that is, a willingness to approach and deal with problems), and it’s also associated with an information-seeking coping style.” Most people admit to worrying but say that it helps them “think constructively” about problems they are facing.
The record of Katie’s activities and accomplishments would lead us to believe that much of her worry could be listed in the constructive category. But even constructive worry can cause sleep loss, and she had no sleep to spare. Household matters and farmwork amid the perils of bad weather would have been enough cause for worry, but when the terror of the times was added, a weaker woman might have suffered a breakdown. Unlike in North America today, where plagues and wars and terrorism are often a world away, her world of anxieties were only a village or a room away: floods, famine, bitter winters, plague, pestilence, lawlessness, war. Added to such normal fears in the sixteenth century was that an enemy might assassinate (or execute) her husband for his taunting defense of his religious convictions.
So she worried. She worried about making ends meet, considering her husband’s less-than-stable income and his fiscal carelessness. She worried about his safety; he was a marked man before she married him. She worried about his health—almost continual afflictions of one variety or another, some more serious than others. She must have also worried about her own health, considering her near-death experience at the time of her last pregnancy and miscarriage. She worried about the children, and with good reason, ever mindful of the terrible loss of her two daughters, baby Elizabeth and teenager Magdalena. And she worried about the kids’ lifestyles and habits. And after her husband’s death, her worries multiplied. She was a worrywart.
Luther had a ready solution for her worries: he admonished her to read his small catechism, as well as John’s gospel, chiding her for her choosing to worry and treating God as though he were not “almighty.” Apparently imagining he could impress her with God’s almightiness and calm her nerves, he assured her that God “could create ten Doctor Martins in case the old one should drown in the Saale”—as though she’d want ten Martins. One was indeed enough.
Why spend energy worrying about his poor health and her inability to care for him so far away? He has someone who is far superior to her, as his letter from Eisleben had made clear: “I have a caretaker who is better than you and all the angels . . . who sits even so at the right hand of God the Father Almighty.” And he adds: “Therefore, be content.” Or, as an earlier translator worded Luther’s command, “Tranquillize thyself, then.”
Essentially, his message is, “Just buck up and be content, Katie.” And if that doesn’t work, he tells her he would comfort her in person—were he able to get out of his sick bed and come home to her. Knowing her worries, he consoled her by saying how tenderly he would love her if he were there with her.
How little times have changed since the sixteenth century when it comes to giving advice to those who worry—except that back then, Katie could not Google her worries away. Simple enough for the twenty-first-century Christian. Enter the words christians and worry. I found numerous websites displayed from top to bottom on the menu screen.
John MacArthur, on his Grace to You website, emphasizes sin over consolation: “We all have to admit that worry is a common temptation in life—for many it is a favorite pastime.” Really? For Katie (and for me too), it would not be our idea of fun. But he goes on. Like certain other pastimes, “worry is a sin. It is neither insignificant, nor inconsequential. And for the Christian, it is absolutely contrary to faith in Christ.” MacArthur’s next four words makes any kind of consolation seem out of place: “Jesus categorically prohibited worry.” So there, Katie.
As we move down the menu, David Peach offers “7 Tips for Christians” in his top-titled article “How to Stop Worrying: 7 Tips for Christians.” (1.2K people Like his tips.) We have no reason to assume Katie would have Liked his tips any more than she liked her husband’s tips. But perhaps Katie would appreciate the next item on the menu, Jill Briscoe’s testimony—“Why Can’t I Stop Worrying?”
I am a worrier. Yes, I know. I’m a Christian and Christians aren’t supposed to worry. To give you an idea of how long this has been going on, our eldest son’s first words were, “Oh dear!” That was well over 40 years ago. I’d been a Christian worker for many years when he said that, and I was a missionary to boot!
As we scroll further down the menu, Christianity Today weighs in with an essay by the editors titled “How Can I Overcome My Tendency to Worry?” Next is Today’s Christian Women, with five strategies for “winning over worry” by Ginger Kolbaba. And then there is Joyce Meyer, “The Cause and Cure for Worry,” an article found on her own website.
At this point, it is not difficult to imagine that Katie, looking at her computer screen amid all her worries, would just say, I’ve got work to do.
She truly did have work to do, and if there is any common denominator in her various duties, it was to protect her family—those who were nearest and dearest to her. Her husband’s health was not good. As early as Martin’s stay at the Wartburg Castle, he had complained of an assortment of ailments, and as he grew older, chronic disorders were simply part of his life.
And if health concerns were not enough to create distractions, the hopeful political and religious gains had gone in reverse or reared up and galloped headlong into danger. To see her husband distressed over his legacy and threatened on every side by enemies caused Katie many worrisome days and nights. Martin also feared for the Reformation’s staying power, and he was well aware of his own health limitations. He had written as much to Katie on a number of occasions when he was felled by illness while out of town. Their very tight marriage partnership did not allow him to keep secrets, even regarding his own health. Yet he knew it would only make her worry even more.
Indeed, the political situation was threatening their very way of life in Wittenberg. In the summer of 1545, little more than six months before he died, Luther wrote to Katie of his despair. She understood. He had few friends left, and he emphasized that he wished to move elsewhere without even returning home. The great Reformer was persona non grata in his own hometown.
Then he asked her to dispose of much of which she had put her whole heart into: “I would like you to sell garden, land, house, and courtyard; and then I shall restore the large house to my most gracious lord.” Luther knows his days are numbered, and this is in preparation for Katie’s widowhood. Concerned about his own longevity, he wrote that he was hopeful that his prince benefactor would continue to support him as long as he lived.
The future is very uncertain regarding money matters. Martin is hopeful but is also concerned about his salary, whether there will be adequate pension for Katie: “For I trust my most gracious lord would continue my salary for at least one year of my closing life.” He knows how much she is worrying, and he’s worried as well. Aware of his own enemies in Wittenberg, he was even more concerned about those who would not tolerate her after he died, which he feared would be soon. He desired that she get things in order before that time—especially to get out of “this Sodom” of Wittenberg.
Imagine Katie reading such a letter from a man who tells her not to worry—to let God do the worrying. He knows he is dying; he adores her; he wants to make the transition to widowhood as smooth as it could possibly be considering the circumstances. If only she had the confidence in God that he had. How he must have stormed heaven on her behalf. He knew it was not enough to badger her to be a good Christian.
Besides quoting Scripture to her, however, Martin had other means of trying to calm Katie’s nerves, the most obvious being humor. We want to think he could hear her voice through the distance and feel the vibrations of her hearty laugh. Why else would he have written the comical letter of February 10, 1546, now only eight days before his death:
To the saintly worrying Lord Katherine . . .
We thank you heartily for being so worried that you can’t sleep, for since you started worrying about us, a fire broke out near my door and yesterday, no doubt due to your worry, a big stone, save for the dear angels, would have fallen and crushed us like a mouse in a trap. If you don’t stop worrying, I’m afraid the earth will swallow us. Haven’t you learned the Catechism and don’t you believe? Pray and let God worry. “Cast your burden on the Lord.” We are well except that Jonas banged his ankle. He is jealous of me and wanted to have something the matter with him, too. We hope soon to be released from this assignment and come home.
Here amid his droll humor, he slips in Scripture and the hope they will be reunited soon, while not denying his serious illness. In many ways, it is Luther at his best.
Everyday worries like Katie’s are the very concerns of our own day. I’m old enough to remember back in the 1970s when interest rates on savings accounts ranged between 15 and 20 percent. That sounds great, except for the fact that inflation was running wild. It’s easy to imagine that such money matters are unique to modern life. But in a letter to Catharine Jonas in the spring of 1542, Luther had written, “Everything is going well here [in Wittenberg] except that the treasury and taxation has run wild. Otherwise, living is so cheap as never before, a sack of corn for three groats.” We understand why taxation would be a worry to Katie the landowner, but why should cheap living be a cause for concern? It is easy to forget she was at times a producer as well as a consumer—a seller of sacks of corn as well as a buyer.
Luther continues in this letter to Catharine with information we would consider very private today—and perhaps what Katie would have considered private back then. After his usual reference to her—“my Katie, now lord of Zülsdorf, greets you kindly”—he divulges details of her financial portfolio: “She lets herself be rated at nine thousand gulden, including the Black Cloister.” Who knew women had credit scores back in the sixteenth century? And why would the husband disclose in a letter the details of such personal information? Was he too proud of her to keep silent—a woman to whom he had bragging rights? Ever thinking about his own demise, he qualifies her financial security by adding, “She will not have an annual income of one hundred gulden from the property after my death. But my gracious lord [the Elector] has kindly given more than I asked.”
Katie worried about how she would support herself after Martin’s death. He, if not being worried, did show concern for the matter—even though they were well-to-do by standards of the day. But just as it is today, those with financial portfolios worry more than those who have no investments to worry about.
If we were to sum up Katie’s worries, we could take a line from one of Martin’s friends: she was “the partner of his calamities.” Luther’s calamities came in many forms, and Katie was his wife, his partner. But was she really a partner in his great religious calamities? At times he sought to make her so. In fact, in 1540, he claimed that she was the one who convinced him to write against Erasmus. But Luther did not just take to task his religious adversaries’ beliefs and writings. He viciously attacked them personally. He likened Erasmus to Judas Iscariot and implied he was no more than an atheist. “I vehemently and from the very heart hate Erasmus,” he seethed, and the very mention of his name at table “sent Luther into a paroxysm of loathing.”
But why Erasmus, who had himself strongly criticized the church? Why Erasmus, a man who “loved peace,” who was a “scholar and critic, more fitted for the study than for the crowd”? Did Katie incite him? That would be a claim that is hard to swallow. Richard Marius goes on to assess the two men: “The temperaments of the two men were radically different.” And what might have troubled—and worried—Katie on many occasions was how lethal her husband’s anger often was, as Marius points out: “The intensity of this hatred [for Erasmus] is striking, even in Luther, for whom hatreds seemed as common as rocks in a quarry.”
How often the worrywart Katie must have wished her husband would settle down and not throw so many needlessly provocative rocks. The figurative rocks were hurled back at him, but did she fear the day was coming when rock throwing and attacks against him would be far more than figurative? And how did she feel when sitting at table when his personality turned into a paroxysm of loathing, a pathological convulsion of rage? She was wise enough to know that such rage affected not only his reputation but also his physical health. Trying to change his inner fury and frenzied demeanor would have been beyond her capability. So she worried—as any loving wife would have.
Did she wonder if he would go over the edge, not only in his angry outbursts, but also in his attacks of dark despair—his black dog? It happens—then and now. As I write, I’m reminded of a prominent minister in my own denomination, who for a lengthy period of time was the pastor of a church only blocks from my home. He was active at the yearly synod meetings, eager to engage with any controversial issue, confidently striding across the stage to the microphone to make his articulate and sharply worded case. He was hardly a Martin Luther, but one who surely did not shy away from the public forum and was thoroughly capable of holding his own in any argument. Did his wife worry about him? She knew things no observer from afar or even his closest colleagues would have known. After he retired from full-time ministry, he and his wife moved away. Shortly afterward, it became public knowledge (after he had gone missing) that he had only days before been released from a health facility due to depression. When his body was found more than a year later, empty pill bottles were close by.
What a tragedy! Christian psychobabble tells us that worry is sin, that depression is sin—and thus it’s typically hidden from those who would use it to discredit another. One of Martin Luther’s good attributes is that he did not cover up his dark depression, though he was seriously afflicted throughout his life. He suffered from severe and often acute depression (manifested by intense sweating), and by 1527, according to Richard Marius, he “was already showing symptoms of the heart disease that eventually killed him. He had chest pains, dizzy spells, and indigestion and sometimes fainted.” He was considerably overweight, despite Katie’s pleading for him to watch his diet.
What was going on in his “tortured mind”? The dark depression had manifested itself in the summer of 1527, as he wrote in a letter to Philip Melanchthon: “I almost completely lost Christ and I was plunged into the waves and tempests of desperation and blasphemy against God.” The depression continued to erupt in 1528, 1529, and beyond. “When we survey Luther’s illnesses after 1527,” writes Martin Brecht, “it is obvious that in the meantime he had become an unstable man.”
If only Katie had written down her own feelings and assessment, and if only they had been saved for posterity. Surely she was at times beside herself with worry. Unlike his down-to-earth, practical wife, Luther regarded physical problems in spiritual terms and believed the best response was prayer. But Katie’s very practical mind-set must have desperately wished there were an herb—or a modern-day pill—to calm his nerves. Yet, “for a man whose habits were manifestly unhealthful, he lived to a remarkable age, dying in his sixty-third year.”
“Luther was to make more of Satan as the years went along,” writes Richard Marius. This was true in his early years, “but the preoccupation with Satan seems not to have been so intense, so personal” then. “In time Satan became for Luther a personalized expression of the powers of darkness, a brother to death.” Indeed, “Luther appears to have been hypersensitive to death’s terrors . . . For whatever reason, he was unable to build up the wall of denial that allows most of us to lead relatively ‘healthy-minded’ lives.”
Katie and his friends were fully aware, she having observed his terrors in person. In fact, he would turn to her in the middle of the night while he was stricken and beg her, “Forbid me to have such temptations.” Had she not seen the chilling effects of such night terrors (daytime as well), we might picture her rolling over with a dismissive, “Whatever.” But she knew how serious his despair was and how significantly his physical health was affected. How long did she lie awake worrying?
When we seek to assess the psychological and spiritual differences between Katie and Martin, we see that he is what many regard as a spiritual giant. But emotionally he seems to have been significantly weaker than she. Her spirituality was pragmatic. She truly was a worrywart, but often with good reason. If someone wishes to hold that against her and point out this sin, she would ignore the slight and go about her hectic schedule. She worried as she worked, all the while turning her worry into strategies to keep her family financially afloat and alive and well.
What Katie did not need was her husband or any self-appointed critics ordering her not to worry or telling her that worrying is sin and to just stop sinning. What she did need was her husband’s assurance of love and good humor. And we hope she sometimes sensed the soft-spoken counsel of Jesus. Perhaps she had moments to pause and hear his words of consolation:
Do not worry, dear Katie, about how you’re going to feed forty hungry mouths or brew enough beer for all those who come to table, how you’re going to finish mending or washing all those piles of laundry, or even how you’re going to keep that fragile and overwrought husband of yours from going over the edge. Take a little time out for yourself; try not to worry about the morrow, for you know that each day has enough trouble of its own. Slow down and smell the lilies of the field. They toil not and neither do they spin, and just look at them blowing so easily in the breeze. Come unto me, dear Katie, you who labor and are so heavy laden. I will give you rest.