By the time Johann Sebastian Bach was born in 1685, the position of the organ as a focal point of the Lutheran church seemed unassailable, as integral as altar and pulpit. Today, alongside the congregational chorale, the organ is the sound of Lutheranism, a connection exemplified in Bach’s Clavierübung III (1739). This collection of large and small preludes on Martin Luther’s ‘catechism chorales’ cemented the intimate connection of vocal chorale and its elaboration on the organ. But for much of the 200 years between Luther’s Reformation and Bach’s appointment to the Thomaskirche in Leipzig in 1723, the instrument’s spiritual role was far from assured.
In the century that followed the publication of the Ninety-five Theses in 1517, as theologians struggled to define what it meant to be Lutheran in opposition to not only Catholicism but other Protestantisms such as Calvinism, debates around the organ droned on. The organ, as its critics were keen to point out, cannot speak: its music was textless excess, and worryingly connected to the fripperies of papist worship. It was, in essence, a meaningless, centuries-old remnant of Catholic ceremony. Luther himself had expressed concern regarding the organ’s ‘mute pipes’; he and his followers placed prime importance on the word, heard and understood, exemplified musically by the vernacular chorales that often used language lifted directly from Luther’s German Bible. But Luther would change his mind. Debate around the organ, its music and its place within the church would play a crucial role in the formation of a distinctly Lutheran identity.
God’s gift?
Martin Luther’s split with Rome set off a heated debate over church practices. Despite broad agreement between Reformers regarding the fundamental importance of the vernacular word, various other points of doctrine caused arguments. Distinct strands of Protestantism began to emerge, each clinging to their own strict interpretation of Scripture. Coalescing around the Swiss theologians Huldrych Zwingli (1484-1531) and Jean Calvin (1509-64), the Reformed Calvinist tradition was increasingly defined in opposition to Lutheranism. Lutherans and Calvinists disagreed on many aspects of theology, from practical issues such as church furnishings, to more fundamental questions regarding God’s presence in the Eucharist, predestination and the need for exorcism during baptism. Calvinists argued that the continued presence of images within the church was inappropriate; the organ was caught up in the ensuing debate over idolatry.
The use of music in church was a particularly sensitive topic. Luther and his followers embraced music as a creatura (creation of God) that should be harnessed in all its brilliance for worship – Luther famously said that music was God’s greatest gift next to theology – but the Calvinists approached music with suspicion. Fearing misuse, they adhered to a narrower reading of Scripture that permitted only the singing of psalm texts in worship and in strict unison (with all voices singing the melody). No harmonic decoration by voices singing complementary parts was allowed. Calvinists were also sceptical of instruments, which they considered a relic of Old Testament worship inappropriate for the modern church. The organ, therefore, presented a problem: a luxury troublingly close to papist excess, ostensibly contributing little to the new emphasis on understanding God’s word. While Lutherans embraced the organ, Calvinists rejected it emphatically.
The waves of iconoclasm that followed the Reformation were not restricted to statues and paintings. Organs were a vulnerable target, not least because they were visually lavish, often adorned with painted wings and statues. In November 1530 a referendum held in the city of Ulm saw its citizens convert to Protestantism and its church become Lutheran. The wrecking of the organ in Ulm Cathedral became a cautionary tale for later Lutheran narratives, assuming almost mythical status and becoming emblematic of the potential horror of extremism devolving into iconoclasm. Sermon writers and authors of popular devotional texts alike relished the story of the desecration of Ulm well into the 17th century: carthorses were chained to the organ to remove its largest pipes with brute force. Once melted down, the organ’s metal was put to unspecified, but assuredly sacrilegious, use. Christoph Frick, writing in the popular devotional Music-Büchlein (1631), bewailed the fate of such ‘poor organs’ treated as ‘abominations’. The Lutheran theologian Jakob Andreae worried that such wanton violence would frighten people away from Protestantism entirely. Amid the increasing confrontations between Lutherans and Calvinists, the tale of Ulm became a potent reminder of the violence and destruction of the early Reformation. That Lutheran authors chose to juxtapose the Ulm iconoclasts with sensational stories of the Ottoman prohibition of Christian music shows how tense the issue had become: the destruction of organs mentioned in the same breath as the greatest threat to Christendom.
Fierce theological debate at the 1586 Colloquy of Montbéliard – in which the Lutheran Jakob Andreae and Calvinist Theodore Beza debated the finer points of doctrine – confirmed the Reformation’s deep divides. Lutheran fears of the encroaching Calvinist threat were further stoked in 1596 by the adoption of Calvinist practice in Anhalt, where a desire to ‘purify’ the service resulted in several waves of iconoclasm. When a flurry of horrified Lutheran pamphlets rejected the position of the Anhalters – with particular reference to their violent destruction – the stakes were clear: the organ was now emblematic of the freedom to worship in the Lutheran tradition. As one writer insisted, the destruction of so much beauty was surely ‘a prelude to worldly and spiritual warfare’.
Adiaphora
Luther had initially included the organ in his critique of worship under the papacy, likening its droning pipes to those who offered superficial prayers, but this position did not last. Prompted by his horror at iconoclastic violence, and by how far some – notably the Wittenberg professor Andreas Karlstadt – were willing to go in the name of reform, Luther began to retreat from his earlier criticisms. With organs facing destruction in Zwingli’s Zürich, Luther reconsidered. His own love of music surely played a role in his deliberations. Writing in 1524, in a preface to the Geistliche Gesangbüchlein, Luther stated that:
the Gospel should not destroy and blight the arts, as some of the pseudo-religious claim … I should like to see all the arts, especially music, used in the service of God, who gave and made them.
By 1526 Luther had come to believe that organ music played a vital role in drawing the laity into the church and was a key part of moving them to joyful worship. In the preface to his Deutsche Messe he wrote that to help the young and spiritually immature:
one must read, sing, preach, write, and compose … and if it would help matters along, I would have all the bells pealing, and all the organs playing, and have everything ring that can make a sound.
Organs thus became part of the Lutheran fabric, like so many elements repurposed from Catholicism. Philip Melanchthon, Luther’s friend and fellow scholar at Wittenberg University, labelled such elements adiaphora, or ‘indifferent things’: liturgical objects and traditions that were not commanded by Scripture but which could enhance worship when used with the right intention.
Adiaphora were, therefore, optional: a compromise applied to objects from organs and bells to church vestments. The difficulty with accepting such tradition-laden objects as ‘indifferent’, however, was that it ran counter to the actual experience of worship, particularly in the case of the organ, the music of which was integral to the liturgical structure. The congregation therefore needed to learn a new way of listening to the organ to ensure they would not mishear its contribution.
Organic developments
As the 17th century approached, the organ faced increasing criticism from Calvinist quarters. Their issue was not just with the organ’s presence in liturgy, but with all excessive figural music. Choral motets and artful elaborations of chorales were equally suspect, and were to be replaced with the simple singing of the psalms. This allowed for a close focus on the text, without distractions of harmony or music. For Lutheran commentators, the organ came to represent the Calvinist rejection of music, their aggressive removal a physical manifestation of the misguided Calvinist approach. As Frick suggested, the Calvinists misunderstood God as ‘a God of sorrowfulness and a sour-seeming monk, with whom they curry favour with their condemnation of the true gift of God [music]’.
This in turn informed debates around what constituted adiaphora. If an element of religious expression – such as the organ – came under threat, its continued presence was no longer a matter of indifference. Either it mattered, or it did not. In the face of Calvinist iconoclasm, safeguarding the organ became a means of proclaiming a Lutheran identity. Where Calvinists suggested that the organ appealed to man’s vanity rather than serving God, symbolic of a small, weak faith, Lutherans embraced the organ and its sound as an emblem of their religious community.
The emergence of the Lutheran organ sermon around 1600 as a published genre was part of this project. Celebrating the inauguration of a new instrument, the organ sermon typically elaborated on a psalm verse. It became an excuse to rehearse the correct uses and abuses of music in true worship, alongside passionate defences of the organ itself, with biblical and historical precedents for its prominence. These ranged from establishing the organ’s Greek origins to emphasising its noble lineage in German lands through King Pippin and Charlemagne. Both minimised the organ’s association with the papacy. The printing of the sermon was a record of the faithfulness of the parish, exemplified by their great investment in the building of an organ for worship.
Organ sermons typically trod a careful line between criticism of indulgent Catholic practice and rejection of extreme Calvinistic reform. For Lutheran theologians, creating a new tradition that established continuity with early Christian practice – while bypassing the corruption of papist association – was vital. Many later writers drew inspiration from the innovative De Organographia (1619), written by theorist, composer and organist Michael Praetorius as part of his music treatise Syntagma Musicum. Praetorius’ passionate history of the organ provided pastors with an authoritative source for preaching. It included an assertion that King David must have had several organs in the temple, in addition to his harp. It also extolled recent developments by organ builders, not least the inspired discovery of new and beautiful sounds that just happened to coincide with Luther’s liberation of the Bible 100 years earlier. Praetorius’ list of celebrated organs in Germany bore witness to the great faith of Lutheran congregations, even if some pastors saw the order as an affront. Conrad Dieterich was astounded that Ulm Cathedral’s new organ only came second on the list: ‘Had Praetorius seen it with his own eyes, he would have placed our organ above that at Constance.’
Intentional listening
But the retelling of stories as to how the organ had ended up in German churches could only go so far, especially where worries over the congregation’s active response to the instrument were concerned. A frequent Calvinist complaint countered in organ sermons was that frivolous organists misused the instruments, traversing the keyboards with fashionable dances and secular tunes during the liturgy, a practice Lutherans insisted was strictly forbidden. But critique cut deeper than incursions of the secular into the sacred. In 1586 the Calvinist theologian Theodore Beza made a statement at Montbéliard that would become famous: the organ cannot speak. Without text, the listeners merely hear the harmony and understand nothing from it: music appeals to the ear, not the mind.
This was an accusation that Lutherans took seriously as it struck at the heart of a vital tenet of Protestantism: understanding the word. Text was everywhere in the Lutheran church. Paintings bore didactic labels with scriptural references, and some altars replaced images entirely with text. Lutheran organ cases often depicted Jubal, the inventor of piped instruments in Genesis, alongside the questionable interpretation of Psalm 150 exhorting worshippers to ‘praise him with strings and organs’.
The emphasis on the word did not, however, equate to an emphasis on reading. Lutheranism was an aural faith, which required the congregation to listen attentively and receptively; music provided a second aural dimension to worship, with the power to direct listeners towards a receptive, faithful attitude. Rather than a distraction from intellectual work, preachers suggested good music opened hearts and minds – and perhaps even inspired pastors to livelier preaching.
The intimate connection of organ and pulpit as cornerstones of a sonic faith is evident in the emergence of the Kanzelaltar in the 1580s. This distinctly Lutheran architectural design placed organ, pulpit and altar directly above one another as a single focal point, allowing the merging of heavenly music and earthly exposition to direct the faithful. In 1621 Pastor Hieronymus Theodoricus published Corona Templi (‘Crowns of the Temple’), a pair of sermons celebrating the two ‘most beautiful adornments’ of a church: the pulpit and organ. Together these two objects symbolised both reasoned teaching and understanding, and the joy of worship that comes from faith truly understood. According to Theodoricus:
where there is no true word of God, there can be no true sermon; so too there can be no spiritual, beautiful song or music, indeed there can be no true church … and so give thanks to God that in these dangerous times he allows this crown for our church, that we may hear not only his holy, blessed Word, but also delicate chorales and figural song, alongside the lovely voices of the newly built organ.
Believing and singing were tautologies, since true inner faith would inevitably overflow into outward musical expression.
Christoph Frick admonished his readers in 1631 not to ‘gawp up at the organ and its sound’ but to understand it as a joyful expression of praise to God that should move their hearts to express the same. The moral character and faith of the organist was integral, too. They needed to play with devotion: Pastor Conrad Dieterich insisted he could hear the difference between instrumental music played with or without understanding (and that the organist should listen carefully to the sermon to achieve the former). Contemporary metaphors likened the organist to the organ’s heart, imparting faithful understanding and true belief, or its tongue, which grants reason, turning animalistic sounds into speech, with the keys the teeth, and the pipes like little mouths. The striking decision by Praetorius to print the text of Latin hymns and chorales in his organ compositions appears to reflect the idea of the organ projecting meaning through every note of its music. Several of his pieces in Hymnodia Sionia (1610) are fully texted, granting each note literal meaning and continuously reminding the organist of the theological content behind their performance.
Instrument of devotion
In a statement of support for the organ issued in 1597 (part of their Necessary Answer to the Anhalt problem), theologians at Wittenberg University suggested listeners ought to be able to recognise its music as being of a devout genus. The use of familiar chorale melodies would, they thought, trigger a recall of the text and underlying devotional substance. There are very few records indicating how organists selected sounds in performance: isolated notes in handcopied manuscripts of pieces, occasional indications in printed music, suggestions embedded deep in De Organographia. Yet a striking number of those that are accessible indicate sound selection designed to emphasise a chorale melody within a texture, guiding the listener and suggesting this was a fundamental task for the organist. Chorales themselves could be subjects for sermons. Cyriacus Spangenberg’s popular collection of devotional sermons, Cithara Lutheri (‘The Harp of Luther’, 1571), rigorously expounded upon Luther’s own chorale texts in place of a Bible verse.
This focus on the organ led theologians and music theorists alike to suggest that instrumental music could be inherently valuable for the practice of devotion. Sermons about the organ’s spiritual merit frequently included celebrations of instrumental music’s power to aid the believer: in addition to encouraging children to learn their chorales and sing them at home, parents were advised that learning the keyboard or lute could inspire meditation on heavenly things. Collections of lute music – which hold some of the earliest examples of extended fantasies on chorale melodies – were intended for private consumption, where the player had time to hear and meditate on the contents at home, developing skills that would heighten their ability to listen to the organ in church. The combination of sacred and secular pieces in printed music collections reveals this practice of domestic devotion. As the preface to many a collection suggested, music had the power to drive away the devil.
These debates, held on the eve of the Thirty Years War, established the organ as a fundamental player in the Lutheran liturgy. Occasional rumbles of discontent would continue, even as Lutheran organ-building blossomed in the late-17th century with the work of Arp Schnitger, who filled Lutheran churches across northern Germany with magnificent instruments in the aftermath of the war’s destruction. His instruments – none of which are more celebrated than the organ in Hamburg’s Jakobikirche – have become synonymous with the modern idea of the German Baroque organ. But it was the enduring potency of texts from this earlier period, such as Praetorius’ De Organographia, that ensured the sacred place of the organ itself would never be called into question so vehemently again. Bach would inherit a tradition in which, to paraphrase Luther, organ music was gratefully accepted as one of God’s greatest gifts.
Anna Steppler is Junior Research Fellow in Music at Peterhouse, Cambridge and a professional organist.
