By Julianna Dotten
It was the eve of All Saints’ Day in medieval Germany, and a coarsely-dressed monk wandered the streets of Wittenburg, weaving through the usual pressing throngs of peasants, beggars, and an occasional nobleman. Martin Luther didn’t seem to notice; he only fingered the yellowed parchment in his hand and murmured under his breath. Reaching the cathedral door, Luther forced through the crowd waiting for entrance, pulled a hammer out of the recesses of his cloak, and tacked his parchment alongside a few other tattered notices still clinging to the door. He stepped back, eyed his work, and returned home.Read More