The results had been rather hard on the civilian population of the Duchy of Wuerttemberg. Among other consequences, the University of Tuebingen had closed down for the spring semester. Since staying in Tuebingen did not appear to be the best of options, any theologian who could get out of town had prudently withdrawn to Darmstadt. With a colloquy on the spring schedule, the Tuebingen Ensemble had just relocated again. After three months of exile from their classrooms, they would certainly be prepared to speak. At length.
* * *
Andreas Osiander had been a rather heterodox theologian—the Flacians had hated him. His grandson, Professor Lukas Osiander Jr., was one of the most vociferous spokesmen in favor of strict orthodoxy. He was a controversialist. He was a polemicist. He was willing to take on the Catholics and he did. He was willing to take on the Calvinists and he did. It was to be anticipated that he would relish a chance to confront not just the concept of open communion among different schools of Lutheranism, which was technically the subject of the colloquy, but more generally the dangerous underlying ideas of religious tolerance and separation of church and state. Professor Lukas Osiander Jr. was able to recognize the thin edge of a wedge when he saw one.
Cavriani winced—at the prospect of another two weeks of non-stop quotations, Ed presumed. “And, I suppose, the Jena faculty has welcomed these reinforcements with open arms?”
Ed shook his head. “Not so entirely as one might think. They’re orthodox here, of course, very orthodox. But, generally, their approach isn’t as confrontational as the Tuebingen style. Additionally, along the way, Osiander has attacked the works of Johann Arndt. He’s proclaimed that Arndt’s ‘True Christianity’ is contrary to the proper Lutheran doctrine of justification. Arndt was the pastor who inspired the dean of the Jena faculty to enter the ministry…”
“Ah.” Cavriani’s hand circumscribed a spiral in front of him. “Indeed, so much of life is like that. It’s not what you know, but whom you know.”
The colloquy came to order.
* * *
There could be no doubt about it: the theologians of Tuebingen knew really a lot about the doctrine of ubiquity. They appeared to know even more about the supposed or alleged errors that Philip Melanchthon had made in regard to the doctrine of ubiquity. They were prepared to pursue every detail of how these errors had been maintained by Melanchthon’s successors and followers since 1560.
It was not as if the communion question that was now plaguing St. Martin’s in the Fields in the County of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt was new. The Tuebingen delegation was prepared. As far as its members were concerned, they already had the answers, fully worked out. Wuerttemberg’s consistory in Stuttgart, which was basically the Tuebingen theological faculty wearing different hats, had been through this only a few years ago before—with a lot of publicity—in the case of that irritating, arrogant, hard-headed, and (God be praised) recently deceased native son of the duchy, the astronomer and mathematician Johannes Kepler.
Professor Osiander was loaded for bear, Ed thought.
“No minister of the church, who wants to be a true caretaker of God’s secrets, may admit a person in communion who outwardly boasts of the true evangelical religion, but in the articles of faith is not exact in all things.”
Ed looked for Gary Lambert, who was in his place on the bench, far enough around the curve of the anatomy theater from Ed to be visible. He was nodding solemnly, as if to say, “Of course!” Gary was the sole representative in Grantville of the Missouri Synod, the conservative American up-time branch of the Lutheran church.
“No one who maintains a formal membership in the Lutheran church, but who privately deviates from sound doctrine, obscuring it with dubious meanings and absurd speculations, both being confused and confusing others, may be admitted to communion.”
Ed frowned and penned a note to Cavriani. How do they know whether or not he’s deviating, if he does it privately?
Cavriani cocked his head, then scribbled. I suppose when they go to the pastor to make confession and pre-register for communion, he asks them.
Ed frowned again, grateful for the comparatively large blank spaces in the Concordia Triglotta that had resulted when the three different languages used more or fewer words to say the same thing. Catholics go to confession. Protestants don’t go to confession.