Luther's Fortress Against the Dark

Martin Luther knew darkness intimately. The great Reformer suffered crushing bouts of what he called Anfechtung — spiritual despair so heavy he could barely rise from his bed. In those seasons at Wittenberg, Luther felt abandoned, convinced that God had turned His face away. His wife Katharina once found him so despondent she dressed in black mourning clothes. When Luther asked who had died, she replied, "God, apparently — given how you're carrying on."

Her rebuke broke through. But it was music that became Luther's lifeline. He would pick up his lute and begin to sing, sometimes through tears. He composed hymns not from triumph but from trenches. His thundering A Mighty Fortress Is Our God was forged in the furnace of affliction, a declaration aimed as much at his own trembling heart as at the church.

Luther once wrote, "The devil cannot endure singing." He understood something profound: when we cannot sing, God still does.

This is the staggering promise of Zephaniah 3:17 — that the Lord your God is in your midst, mighty to save, and He will rejoice over you with singing. Not someday. Not when you've pulled yourself together. Right now, in the middle of your deepest night, the Almighty is not pacing heaven in disappointment. He is singing over you. The God who spoke galaxies into existence opens His mouth — and what comes out is a love song with your name in it.