His pious disposition and
the conservative strain in his nature revolted against the hasty and
superficial manner in which Carlstadt reasoned.
It may be assumed that much in his own feelings, at that particular
time, made him suspicious that the Devil might be using this dubious
question to tempt the children of God, and yet at this very moment, in
his confinement, he had special sympathy for the poor monks behind
monastery walls. He searched the Scriptures. He had soon disposed of
the marriage of priests, but there was nothing in the Bible about
monks. "The Scripture is silent; man is uncertain." And then he was
struck by the ridiculous idea that even his nearest friends might
marry. He writes to the cautious Spalatin, "Good Lord! Our
Wittenbergers want to give wives to the monks too. Well, they are not
going to hang one on my neck;" and he gives the ironical warning,
"Look out that you do not marry too." But the problem still occupied
him incessantly. Life is lived rapidly in such great times. Gradually,
through Melanchthon's reasoning, and, we may assume, after fervent
prayer, he found certainty. What settled the matter, unknown to
himself, must have been the recognition that the opening of the
monasteries had become reasonable and necessary for a more moral
foundation of civil life. For almost three months he had struggled
over the question. On the first of November, 1521, he wrote the letter
to his father already cited.
The effect of his words upon the people was incalculable.
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