Humor, of course, has numerous functions. It is in part a survival mechanism. Mocking danger and laughing in the face of tragedy are proven ways of coping with hard and difficult situations. Undoubtedly, this played a significant role in Luther’s own penchant for poking fun. Yet I think there is probably a theological reason for Luther’s laughter too. Humor often plays on the absurd, and Luther knew that this fallen world was not as it was designed to be and was thus absurd and futile in a most significant and powerful way.

The Protestant Reformation that began on Oct. 31, 1517, often seems distant from us—but the concerns Martin Luther voiced 500 years ago are still very much with us. The medieval Roman Catholic Church tried to structure life and death in a way that seemed eminently fair. We’d go to heaven or hell based on our deeds, and many people would end up in a purgatorial middle for a long time, but by giving money to the Church we could lessen our own time in purgatory (and that of parents or other loved ones as well).

Luther busted apart that illusion of control. Westminster Theological Seminary professor Carl Trueman’s Luther on the Christian Life (Crossway) shows that “the tragedy and the comedy of fallen humanity is that we have such a laughable view of ourselves: one that would aspire to tell God who and what He must be.” The following excerpt, reprinted by permission of the publisher, shows how Luther taught that God is God, and His supposed foolishness is far wiser than our wisdom. —Marvin Olasky

Conclusion: Life As Tragedy, Life As Comedy

We are beggars: this is true. —Martin Luther

Over twenty years ago, I was being interviewed for what would prove to be my first tenured appointment at a university. Halfway through the ordeal, one of the interviewers asked me, “If you were trapped on a desert island, who would you want with you—Luther or Calvin?” My response was rea­sonably nuanced for a reply to an unexpected question: “Well, I think Cal­vin would provide the best theological and exegetical discussion, but he always strikes me as somewhat sour and colorless. Luther, however, may not have been as careful a theologian, but he was so obviously human and so clearly loved life. Thus, I’d have to choose Luther.” Later that day, I was offered the position of lecturer in medieval and Reformation theology.

Whether my answer to that particular question played a key role in the panel’s decision, I know not. But that was the moment when I started on a career of teaching Luther’s theology to generations of students on both sides of the Atlantic, and this story seems an appropriate segue into this conclusion. Writing this book has not quite been as traumatic as being marooned on a desert island with the man from Wittenberg, but there are similarities. As a Presbyterian, I do not have any friends who share quite my passion for Luther’s theology; and I have realized as never before that his theological writings can be as infuriating as they are enlightening and entertaining.

Having spent my entire professional life reading and teaching Luther, I think it appropriate to close by reflecting on what I have learned in writing this particular book that has surprised or impressed me and has signifi­cance for the church today.

The first of these is Luther’s great stress upon the priority and objec­tivity of God’s revelation. When one reads Luther intensively, one is inevi­tably struck by his vision for the priority and awe-inspiring power of God as he acts in his Word. The Word is powerful, creative, destructive, and re-creative. The human response is as nothing before the Word’s dramatic and powerful priority over all being. Whether the topic is God’s spoken word the moment he suddenly brought the vast created cosmos into being from nothing, or the Word spoken from countless pulpits last Sunday, the objective power of God stands at the very heart of Luther’s theology and indeed his view of reality. Only after one has grasped this does so much of his thought start to make any sense. This objectivity of God’s action comes to its dramatic climax on the cross at Calvary. There, in the God who is clothed in human flesh and who dies cursed upon the tree, we see not only God’s grace toward fallen humanity revealed in all its glory, but also every human thought and word about God brought into judgment and turned on its head. Power becomes weakness and weakness becomes power. The di­vine love, which we assume is responsive, is shown to be creative. Salvation is shown to be not an act of cooperation between God and the Christian but a sovereign act of God himself.

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