This is Martin Luther’s centenary year – he nailed his notorious 95 Theses to the church door in Wittenberg in 1517 – and the Holy Father has enjoined us to see Luther in a positive light. Francis has been receiving Lutheran pilgrims from Finland and has himself visited Sweden as part of a Lutheran reconciliation.
The Pope underlines that Martin Luther was seeking to reform the Church, which surely needed a few reforms: the 95 Theses acted as a major point of debate over the corrupt selling of indulgences. Luther had a valid mission.
I’m all for making common cause with Lutherans, and for acting ecumenically with all Christians. And I am told by scholars that Luther’s translation of the Bible into vernacular German was a magnificent achievement. Even those of us who have only café German (“noch ein Kaffee, bitte”) can appreciate the majestic cadence of his version of the opening of John’s gospel: “Im Anfang war das Wort, und das Wort war bei Gott, und Gott war das Wort.”
I also like Luther’s famous defence of conscience: “Here I stand. I can do no other.” It is a worthy defence of the principle of conscientious objection.
But let’s not go into overdrive with this Luther love-in. The guy wasn’t perfect: the Economist magazine blames him for encouraging the German nation to be too obedient to civil authority. He also stands accused of fomenting anti-Semitism and encouraging the destruction of synagogues. Luther blamed his last illness on Jewish people “staring” at him, which is not only bigoted and irrational – but bonkers.
And in an age which exalts “gender equality”, he was no champion of women. He closed down the convents, believing that nuns developed far too much power if they weren’t under the control of a male authority. He believed that every woman should be married, so as to be subjected to a husband. He said that if a woman faced death in childbirth, well, then, let her put up with it. Better maternal care was some time in the future, and not perhaps theologically addressed until Pius XII did so in the 1950s. So, yes, recognise Luther’s historical role in reform. But the portrait should be warts and all.
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Harriet Harman, the Labour MP, was for some time the acting leader of the Labour Party. She seemed a sensible and level-headed steward of Her Majesty’s Opposition, and I don’t know why they didn’t leave her in place. She would almost certainly have been a more successful party leader than the present incumbent (she’s a niece of the late Lady Longford, who was proud of HH’s abilities and dedication).
But was it really admirable of Ms Harman to name a dead, Indian-born academic as having allegedly offered her a “better degree” at York University in exchange for sexual favours?
Ms Harman says she was “repulsed” by the episode. She’s entitled to write about it in her autobiography as an example (as she sees it) of the obstacles encountered by female students. But was it necessary to name a dead man, which caused some pain to his ex-wife (who claims that such an occurrence was completely uncharacteristic of her husband)? Harriet Harman could have alluded to the experience, as she remembered it, without identifying someone who had not been convicted of any misdemeanour and cannot now offer a defence. Sad for his family that his name will now always be associated with a sexually exploitative attitude to a female student. And unkind.
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The “special relationship” between the United Kingdom and the United States was a phrase coined by Winston Churchill soon after the Second World War. Churchill certainly felt that link personally: he had an American mother who cast an enduring spell over his life and memories. His strong association with Franklin D Roosevelt during the Second World War naturally endorsed the “special relationship” that he felt.
Donald Trump may also believe there is such a “special relationship”, as he had a British mother: the Scots-born Mary Anne MacLeod, from the island of Lewis in the Hebrides.
Some have doubted that a “special relationship” exists. Perhaps it does, but only on the maternal side.
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