Chapter 1

The Wanted Poster

When I was ten years old, I saw a burning.

Forgive me, but I need to tell you about it so you will understand why I got so scared when I saw my master’s name on a wanted poster tacked to the door of the Wittenberg church.

That burning was the first time I had ever seen a person die. They said he was a heretic—that he did not believe the truth about God and the church. But I found it hard to believe.

It happened early on a cloudy Tuesday morning. My papa is a shoemaker. (That’s why I’m called Karl Schumacher—you know, son of the village shoemaker.) He had sent me to deliver the mayor’s boots.

Papa had repaired them, and they were black and shiny. They looked great, as Papa’s work always does. But when I knocked on the mayor’s door, he was very upset. He grabbed me by the ear and said, "Get in here, boy, and help me get the boots on. I haven’t got all day. I can’t be late for the burning."

I’d heard that there was going to be a burning, and I also knew that Mama wouldn’t want me going near it. But I was curious, and I figured this was my chance to see one without her knowing. So I helped the mayor with his boots and then followed him to the town square in the center our little village of Duben, Germany. There the constable had everything prepared, and a crowd had gathered. I tried to fade in among the other people hoping no one would notice me and tell Mama. As it turned out, everyone was so captivated by the burning that they probably wouldn’t have noticed me even if I had stepped on their toes.

As soon as the mayor arrived, the constable struck a spark to the tinder of a huge woodpile and lit the fire. Then the two of them disappeared into the courthouse. They stayed there so long that I almost gave up and went home—Papa would be wondering why I was delayed. Even the fire would have burned down if several of the village people hadn’t thrown more sticks on it. Someone in the growing crowd called, "Bring him out! We haven’t got all day, ya know." Soon others picked up the cry until everyone was chanting, "Bring him out! Bring him out! Bring him out!" I was saying it too, but that was before I knew what a burning was like.

Some older boys, about fifteen (my age now), were standing nearby talking about burnings. "It’s just like singeing the hair off hogs. ’Cept with a heretic, it ain’t hair that gets burned away, it’s heresy." They all laughed and pushed each other, pretending to throw one another into the fire.

Finally the mayor, the constable, and two helpers came out and ordered everyone to clear a path between the courthouse steps and the fire. At first nobody moved; everyone wanted a front row spot, I suppose. The constable had to poke them with the blunt end of his spear before they would move. Then the churchmen came out dressed in their fine red robes. I didn’t know any of them. They were not from our town and had come as judges to conduct the heretic’s trial. Finally the constable went back in and came out leading the heretic, whose hands were tied behind his back. Following them was our village priest, who looked in worse shape than the heretic—head hanging down, hair all mussed. He looked like a wild man.

I recognized the heretic as the man I’d seen preaching in the marketplace once or twice. He was also from out of town. People said he only came to our village to make converts.

He was tall and thin, with a long scraggly beard that grew mostly from his chin and very little on his cheeks. He didn’t look nearly as old as Papa, but he was half bald. As he came down the steps and through the crowd, he gazed very calmly at all the people, and at one point he stared right at me and smiled. I can still see his eyes—deep-set and very light blue, almost chalk colored. I think . . . I hope I smiled back.

I had heard about people being "burned at the stake." But there was no stake for this burning. Instead the heretic was made to lie down with his back on an old ladder. There he was tied securely. The fire was again built up with fresh bundles of brush until it was roaring high.

All this time our village priest knelt beside the heretic. I was close enough to hear him pleading with the heretic to repent and save his life. When I looked, tears were pouring down our priest’s face as he fumbled with the cross around his neck. It’s hard to watch a grown-up cry. But the heretic just smiled and said, "I’m sorry, Father. I cannot unless I am shown by God’s Word to be wrong." What he was supposed to be wrong about, I had no idea. To disagree with the church on anything was enough.

Then the constable and his men tipped the ladder up and balanced it on one end. The heretic was tied to the other end with his back toward the fire. It was shocking how he looked like Jesus Christ Himself as he hung there above the crowd. Then one of the judges asked if he had any final things to say and warned him that he could still save his life if he would change his mind.

The heretic looked around, and then shouted so loudly everyone could hear, "I have only this to say." And then he began to sing in as clear and beautiful a tenor voice as I’ve ever heard.

In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust.
Let me never be brought to confusion.
Deliver me in thy righteousness,
And forgive those who plot my ruin.

They allowed him to sing it twice, then let the ladder fall back so that the heretic landed squarely in the fire. Sparks flew up everywhere, and some of the burning sticks flipped out toward the crowd causing some people to jump back out of the way. But there in the flames, instead of screaming in pain, the heretic continued to sing until he had no more breath. And then, as the fire burned through the cords that bound his arms, he miraculously raised one hand toward heaven. It stayed there until it looked like a charred branch from an old tree.

I can tell you that the smell of burning flesh was something awful. I’ll never forget it. In fact, I get sick just remembering it.

I learned from his execution that more than just bad people could be condemned here in Germany, or anywhere in the Holy Roman Empire for that matter. Anyone who could praise God while he burned and not curse those who had put him into the flames must have had the Spirit of Christ within him. And I think others felt the same. From the moment he began singing until we all drifted away to our homes, there was not one word spoken, not even by those older boys who thought they knew so much.

Ever since then, whenever anyone mentions the burning that happened in Duben, it’s with the respect you’d expect for a saint—no mocking, no laughing. And our village priest? The next day he wandered off muttering to himself and has never been heard from since.

So now maybe you can understand why I got so worried when I saw my master’s name on that wanted poster on the church door. In big, bold letters the poster called him heretic! But even though my master, Doctor Martin Luther, is one of the most famous teachers in the empire, that wouldn’t keep him from burning if he were tried and convicted for heresy.

Door.jpg (13447 bytes)

I don’t live in my home town of Duben anymore. As the youngest son, there was no room for me in my father’s shoe business, and I wanted an education rather than a trade, anyway. To get my education I came here to the German city of Wittenberg and asked Doctor Luther to take me on as his servant. I run his errands, keep his clothes and quarters clean, and serve as his stable boy when he travels. In return he lets me sit in on his lectures at the university, and he even tutors me in the evenings if he isn’t too tired. It’s the perfect situation for me. And maybe someday I’ll even become a regular student.

But this particular day as I was coming down the street after returning a horse and a cart we had borrowed to visit some nearby villages, I noticed a new poster tacked to the church door. The poster wasn’t a single sheet of paper. Actually, it was more like a booklet, what people call a bull. In Wittenberg that door is the city’s most reliable source for news. All the official notices get put up there for everyone to read. That’s the door where Doctor Luther posted his famous ninety-five theses three years ago; they were his arguments against the church’s false doctrines and practices. The paper was his way of protesting the evil practices in the church and was saying they had to change. Of course, the church officials didn’t like it.

But what caught my eye this time was my master’s name. I read quickly. It was dated June 15, 1520—five months ago—and was from the pope, the top official of the Roman Catholic Church. It seemed to say that Doctor Luther would be kicked out of the church unless he went to Rome and repented of his heretical writings and ideas.

Go to Rome? Repent? That was just a nice way of saying that the church had already condemned him! I read on. The notice forbade anyone from defending Luther’s writings or helping him in any way. My heart began beating faster. This was a formal Bull of Excommunication! He was being kicked out of the church, and anyone who helped him would be condemned too.

I tried to think through what this meant. Doctor Luther might be famous, and he might be a very good teacher, but unless he changed his mind about the importance of God’s Word—and I knew he wouldn’t—he wasn’t safe.

I scanned the street to see if anyone was watching. People were going about their own business, not paying any attention to me . . . except for a girl about my age standing by a fruit stall in the street. I’d never seen her before. She was dressed better than a common peasant girl, but she carried a basket, so she had probably come to market. She had unusually long black hair that hung freely and waved in the breeze. Most girls her age covered their heads. Enough of that, I told myself. This was no time to gawk at a pretty girl. When she turned away, I tore the poster from the door and quickly rolled it up. Then I stuffed it inside my tunic as I raced toward the university.

My master was in danger. But in helping him, so was I.