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Near Stotterheim, Germany, July 2, 1505

Claps of thunder split the clouds, and bolts of lightning burst the skies. A rainstorm brewed above the German landscape. It was a typical afternoon shower, the kind that cools the soil after the sun has baked it. But for young Martin Luther, the experience was explosive and terrifying.

"The storm will kill me!" he screamed, stumbling to the ground. Waves of rain scourged him in the soggy pasture. His life was full of storms, showers of conviction by day and tempests of depression by night. Swirling clouds of guilt and shame hung above his head, and no matter how fast he ran, no matter how far he went, he could never escape the fact that he was a raw and weary sinner, running away from a good and righteous God. Luther questioned everything. Why am I on this earth? What will I do with my life? Is there a plan for me? After receiving a master of arts degree in Erfurt, Germany, he planned to follow his father's wishes and study law. He had the mechanics of a fine lawyer — a sharp mind, an honest heart and a strong command of grammar, rhetoric and Aristotelian logic. Yet Luther's heavenly Father had other plans for him — plans of transformation, education and reformation.

Perhaps God will send the storm away if I swear an oath to him, Luther thought. I would rather be alive and oath-bound than dead and hell-bound! Against the roar of the wind, Luther yelled, "I will become a monk!" It was an oath that would change his life forever.

Wartburg Castle, Eisenach, Germany, 1996

The steps of Luther led us along a windy path. He was a man on the move — running for his life, fleeing affliction, kidnapped by his friends. My father and I followed him from Eisleben where he was born, to Eisenach and Erfurt where he studied, to Wittenberg where he taught, and finally to the Wartburg Castle where he translated the Greek New Testament into the German vernacular.

Bats, bats, bats! Soaring, swooping and screeching. The annoying vampires of the night flew tirelessly outside our hotel window, untouched by the weight of gravity and unbound by the laws of civilization. Sleep was certainly out of the question, and I put a pillow over my head, praying for a little peace and quiet. "God, give me a break from the bats!"

Luther knew these bats. They tormented him, too, while he was here. Late at night as he wrote by the light of a candle, the little demons distracted him from the work of the Lord. My father and I had come to the Wartburg Castle of our own volition, but Luther had been kidnapped by his friend, Frederick III of Saxony, and brought to this place against his will for protection.

And did he ever need it! Nailing his ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenberg had struck a nerve, shall we say, with the Catholic authorities. He was excommunicated by the pope and outlawed by the emperor, and many would have liked to see him burn for his beliefs. Luther insisted on sola fides (faith alone), sola gratia (grace alone) and sola scriptura (Scripture alone) — doctrines that invited harsh criticism from those who were endorsing indulgences and merit-based salvific teachings. For these reasons, he sat in seclusion from May 1521 until March 1522, far from the dangers of cruelty, torture and death.

Wartburg Castle is nestled in the heart of the Thuringian Forest. Its mas sive walls tower over the steeples of Eisenach, a small German town where the great musician Johann Sebastian Bach was born and the great novelist Fritz Reuter died. The castle hill was fortified as early as 1067. Over the next two hundred years, it was embellished and frequented by poets, musicians and artists. It became the seat of a lively court, a place of enjoyment with a festive atmosphere of entertainment and relaxation.

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April (Web-only) 2009, Vol. 53