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He had official business to attend to for his duke, Friedrich II, with “Doctor Martin” and John Bugenhagen (“Pomeranus”), theologian and priest of the Wittenberg castle Church. Schwenckfeld’s personal goal, however, was to discuss with Luther the breakthrough he and Valentine Crautwald believed they had achieved on the meaning of the Lord’s Supper.

Schwenckfeld would not have approached Luther with trembling, for he himself had the prestige of a nobleman; still, he must have had great respect for the powerful doctor of Wittenberg whose writings were shaking all Europe and had been decisive in his own life (he had been converted after reading Luther). It was during the Peasant’s War, a trying time for Luther; it must have taken a degree of courage on Schwenckfeld’s part to approach Luther on this topic at this time. He therefore must have traveled through the crisp, chilly Saxon landscape in deep thought and expectation.

Previously, Schwenckfeld had written to Luther laying out twelve arguments for his understanding of the Supper; he had received no reply. His conception was based upon an interpretation that his colleague Crautwald—a scholar in the original languages of Scripture—claimed he had received in a “revelation.” The debate about the Lord’s Supper turned upon only a few of Jesus’ words in the original Greek. It is hard for most of us today to fathom the enormous importance these men placed upon the differences made by the order in which these few words were translated, and the resulting shifts of meaning.

Schwenckfeld believed his interpretation was divinely sent, and he hoped that Luther would recognize in his doctrine a solution to the debate that was causing serious strife and discord among Christians. He was deeply concerned about division in the Body of Christ, and he yearned for unity and peace among believers.

The varying interpretations of the central rite of Christianity caused a great dilemma. Religious practice hinged on these, and it seemed impossible that there could be more than one correct understanding. And, of course, each group eventually became sure that their way was the right way, and that all others were of the devil.

Schwenckfeld eventually championed a “Middle Way,” a “Royal Road” of peace between Catholic and Protestant poles. Because of the discord he saw among those who claimed to be Christians, he halted the practice of Communion among his followers. (Schwenckfeld’s “spiritualism”—his belief that physical and spiritual things are incompatible allowed him to take this extreme step.) His followers did not practice Communion again for centuries after his death.

The meetings were polite, and the picture we get of Luther from Schwenckfeld’s own account (written down each evening at the inn where he lodged) is of a courteous man willing to freely discuss and penetrate to the heart of the matter. The picture we get of Schwenckfeld from his own account is of a sincere, earnest man whose intention was to find harmony; to stand his ground and not compromise the truth, but not to create discord.

Months later, however, when Luther had firmly concluded that Schwenckfeld’s ideas were wrong, he treated Schwenckfeld differently, even referring to him later in his Tabletalk as “Schweinfeld” (from the German schwein for “pig”). Once Luther decided someone was wrong, he apparently viewed them as an enemy of Christ and in league with the devil. He decided that Schwenckfeld’s ideas were dangerous to the Faith, and exhorted Schwenckfeld not to publish his errors and lead others astray. Schwenckfeld was branded a schwaermer—a madman.

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