Preparing for a Christian Life

"COME HITHER UNTO ME, ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST." (MATTHEW 11, 28.)¹

"COME TO ME, ALL OF YOU WHO WORK HARD AND CARRY HEAVY BURDENS. AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST." (MATTHEW 11:28.)¹

"Come hither!"—It is not at all strange if he who is in danger and needs help—speedy, immediate help, perhaps—it is not strange if he cries out: "come hither"! Nor it is strange that a quack cries his wares: "come hither, I cure all maladies"; alas, for in the case of the quack it is only too true that it is the physician who has need of the sick. "Come hither all ye who at extortionate prices can pay for the cure—or at any rate for the medicine; here is physic for everybody—who can pay; come hither!"

"Come here!" It is not at all strange if someone in danger who needs help cries out: "come here"! Perhaps they need help quickly, immediately. Nor is it strange that a quack advertises his remedies: "come here, I cure all illnesses". Sadly, with a quack, it is only too true that the doctor needs the sick. "Come here, all of you who can pay outrageous prices for the cure, or at least for the medicine. Here is medicine for everyone who can pay. Come here!"

In all other cases, however, it is generally true that he who can help must be sought; and, when found, may be difficult of access; and, if access is had, his help may have to be implored a long time; and when his help has been implored a long time, he may be moved only with difficulty, that is, he sets a high price on his services; and sometimes, precisely when he refuses payment or generously asks for none, it is only an expression of how infinitely high he values his services. On the other hand, he² who sacrificed himself, he sacrifices himself, here too; it is indeed he who seeks those in need of help, is himself the one who goes about and calls, almost imploringly: "come hither!" He, the only one who can help, and help with what alone is indispensable, and can save from the one truly mortal disease, he does not wait for people to come to him, but comes himself, without having been called; for it is he who calls out to them, it is he who holds out help—and what help! Indeed, that simple sage of antiquity³ was as infinitely right as the majority who do the opposite are wrong, in setting no great price, whether on himself or his instruction; even if he thus in a certain sense proudly expressed the utter difference in kind between payment and his services. But he was not so solicitous as to beg any one to come to him, notwithstanding—or shall I say because?—he was not altogether sure what his help signified; for the more sure one is that his help is the only one obtainable, the more reason has he, in a human sense, to ask a great price for it; and the less sure one is, the more reason has he to offer freely the possible help he has, in order to do at least something for others. But he who calls himself the Savior, and knows that he is, he calls out solicitously: "come hither unto me!"

In all other cases, however, you generally have to seek out the person who can help. Once found, he may be hard to reach. And if you reach him, you may have to plead for his help for a long time. Even after all that pleading, he may be hard to persuade. In other words, he puts a high price on his services. Sometimes he refuses payment or generously asks for none. Yet that very refusal only expresses how infinitely highly he values his services. By contrast, he² who sacrificed himself sacrifices himself here too. He himself seeks out those who need help. He is the one who goes around calling, almost pleading: "come here!" He alone can help, providing the only help that is indispensable, saving people from the one truly fatal disease. Yet he does not wait for people to come to him. Instead, he comes himself, without being called. For he is the one who calls to them and offers help. And what help! Indeed, that unassuming wise man of antiquity³ placed no great value on either himself or his teaching. In doing so, he was infinitely right, just as the majority who do the opposite are infinitely wrong. Even so, in a certain sense, he was proudly expressing the complete difference in kind between payment and his services. But his concern did not go so far as begging anyone to come to him. This was despite his uncertainty about what his help amounted to. Or should I say because of that uncertainty? For the more certain someone is that his help is the only help available, the more reason he has, humanly speaking, to charge a high price. And the less certain he is, the more reason he has to offer whatever help he might give for free. In that way, he can at least do something for others. But he who calls himself the Savior, and knows he is, calls out with concern: "come here to me!"

"Come hither all ye!"—Strange! For if he who, when it comes to the point, perhaps cannot help a single one—if such a one should boastfully invite everybody, that would not seem so very strange, man's nature being such as it is. But if a man is absolutely sure of being able to help, and at the same time willing to help, willing to devote his all in doing so, and with all sacrifices, then he generally makes at least one reservation; which is, to make a choice among those he means to help. That is, however willing one may be, still it is not everybody one cares to help; one does not care to sacrifice one's self to that extent. But he, the only one who can really help, and really help everybody—the only one, therefore, who really can invite everybody—he makes no conditions whatever; but utters the invitation which, from the beginning of the world, seems to have been reserved for him: "Come hither all ye!" Ah, human self-sacrifice, even when thou art most beautiful and noble, when we admire thee most: this is a sacrifice still greater, which is, to sacrifice every provision for one's own self, so that in one's willingness to help there is not even the least partiality. Ah, the love that sets no price on one's self, that makes one forget altogether that he is the helper, and makes one altogether blind as to who it is one helps, but infinitely careful only that he be a sufferer, whatever else he may be; and thus willing unconditionally to help everybody—different, alas! in this from everybody!

"Come here, everyone!" How strange! Suppose someone boastfully invited everyone, though in the end he might not be able to help even one person. Given human nature, such an invitation would not seem so very strange. But suppose a man is absolutely sure he can help and is also willing to help. Suppose he is willing to give everything he has and make every sacrifice. Even then, he generally keeps at least one condition: he chooses whom he intends to help. However willing we may be, we still do not care to help everyone. We do not care to sacrifice ourselves to that extent. But he is the only one who can truly help, and truly help everyone. He alone, therefore, can truly invite everyone. Yet he sets no conditions at all. Instead, he offers the invitation that seems to have been reserved for him since the beginning of the world: "Come here, everyone!" Ah, human self-sacrifice, even at your most beautiful and noble, when we admire you most, there is a greater sacrifice. It means giving up every concern for oneself, so that one's willingness to help contains not the slightest favoritism. Ah, such love places no value on oneself. It makes the helper forget entirely that he is the one helping. It makes him completely blind to who receives his help. His only concern, an infinitely careful one, is that the person is suffering, whatever else that person may be. And so he is willing to help everyone, without conditions. In this, alas, he differs from everyone!

"Come hither unto me!" Strange! For human compassion also, and willingly, does something for them that labor and are heavy laden; one feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, makes charitable gifts, builds charitable institutions, and if the compassion be heartfelt, perhaps even visits those that labor and are heavy laden. But to invite them to come to one, that will never do, because then all one's household and manner of living would have to be changed. For a man cannot himself live in abundance, or at any rate in well-being and happiness, and at the same time dwell in one and the same house together with, and in daily intercourse with, the poor and miserable, with them that labor and are heavy laden! In order to be able to invite them in such wise, a man must himself live altogether in the same way, as poor as the poorest, as lowly as the lowliest, familiar with the sorrows and sufferings of life, and altogether belonging to the same station as they whom he invites, that is, they who labor and are heavy laden. If he wishes to invite a sufferer, he must either change his own condition to be like that of the sufferer, or else change that of the sufferer to be like his own; for if this is not done the difference will stand out only the more by contrast. And if you wish to invite all those who suffer—for you may make an exception with one of them and change his condition—it can be done only in one way, which is, to change your condition so as to live as they do; provided your life be not already lived thus, as was the case with Him who said: "Come hither unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden!" Thus said he; and they who lived with him saw him, and behold! there was not even the least thing in his manner of life to contradict it. With the silent and truthful eloquence of actual performance his life expresses—even though he had never in his life said these words—his life expresses: "Come hither, unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden"! He abides by his word, or he himself is the word; he is what he says, and also in this sense he is the Word.⁴

"Come to me!" How strange! Human compassion also willingly does something for those who struggle and are weighed down. People feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give to charity, and build charitable institutions. If their compassion is heartfelt, they may even visit those who struggle and are weighed down. But inviting these people into their own homes would never do. Their entire household and way of life would have to change. For a person cannot live in abundance, or at least in comfort and happiness, while sharing a home with the poor and miserable. A person cannot live that way while having daily contact with those who struggle and are weighed down! To invite such people into your home, you must live exactly as they do. You must be as poor as the poorest, as lowly as the lowliest, and familiar with life's sorrows and sufferings. You must fully share the circumstances of those you invite, those who struggle and are weighed down. If you wish to invite someone who suffers, you must either change your circumstances to match theirs or theirs to match yours. Otherwise, the contrast will only make the difference stand out more. And if you wish to invite all who suffer, there is only one way. You must change your circumstances to live as they do. You may make an exception for one sufferer and change that person's circumstances. But you cannot do so for all. You must therefore live as they do, unless you already live that way. Such was the life of him who said: "Come to me, all of you who struggle and are weighed down!" That is what he said, and those who lived with him saw him. And look! Nothing in his way of life contradicted his words, not even the smallest thing. His life speaks with the silent, truthful eloquence of action. Even if he had never spoken these words, his life would still say: "Come to me, all of you who struggle and are weighed down"! He stands by his word, or rather, he himself is the word. He is what he says, and in this sense too, he is the Word.⁴

"All ye that labor and are heavy laden." Strange! His only concern is lest there be a single one who labors and is heavy laden who does not hear this invitation. Neither does he fear that too many will come. Ah, heart-room makes house-room; but where wilt thou find heart-room, if not in his heart? He leaves it to each one how to understand his invitation: he has a clear conscience about it, for he has invited all those that labor and are heavy laden.

"All of you who struggle and carry heavy burdens." How strange! His only concern is that even one person who struggles and carries heavy burdens might not hear this invitation. Nor does he fear that too many will come. Ah, room in the heart makes room in the house. But where will you find room in anyone’s heart, if not in his? He leaves each person free to decide how to understand his invitation. His conscience is clear, because he has invited all who struggle and carry heavy burdens.

But what means it, then, to labor and be heavy laden? Why does he not offer a clearer explanation so that one may know exactly whom he means, and why is he so chary of his words? Ah, thou narrow-minded one, he is so chary of his words, lest he be narrow-minded; and thou narrow-hearted one, he is so chary of his words lest he be narrow-hearted. For such is his love—and love has regard to all—as to prevent any one from troubling and searching his heart whether he too be among those invited. And he who would insist on a more definite explanation, is he not likely to be some self-loving person who is calculating whether this explanation does not particularly fit himself; one who does not consider that the more of such exact explanations are offered, the more certainly some few would be left in doubt as to whether they were invited? Ah man, why does thine eye see only thyself, why is it evil because he is good?⁵ The invitation to all men opens the arms of him who invites, and thus he stands of aspect everlasting; but no sooner is a closer explanation attempted which might help one or the other to another kind of certainty, than his aspect would be transformed and, as it were, a shadow of change would pass over his countenance.

But what does it mean to labor and carry heavy burdens? Why does he not explain more clearly, so we can know exactly whom he means? Why does he use so few words? Ah, you narrow-minded person, he uses so few words to avoid being narrow-minded. And you narrow-hearted person, he uses so few words to avoid being narrow-hearted. For his love considers everyone. His love keeps anyone from anxiously searching their heart to see whether they too are invited. And what about someone who insists on a more precise explanation? Isn't that person likely to be self-centered, calculating whether the explanation fits them especially well? Such a person does not consider what happens as more exact explanations are offered. The more explanations there are, the more certain it becomes that some few will doubt whether they are invited. Ah, why do you see only yourself? Why are you resentful because he is good?⁵ The invitation to everyone opens the arms of the one who invites, and so he stands with an unchanging expression. But suppose someone tried to explain more precisely, to give one person or another a different kind of certainty. Then his expression would change. It would be as though a shadow of change passed over his face.

"I will give you rest." Strange! For then the words "come hither unto me" must be understood to mean: stay with me, I am rest; or, it is rest to remain with me. It is not, then, as in other cases where he who helps and says "come hither" must afterwards say: "now depart again," explaining to each one where the help he needs is to be found, where the healing herb grows which will cure him, or where the quiet spot is found where he may rest from labor, or where the happier continent exists where one is not heavy laden. But no, he who opens his arms, inviting every one—ah, if all, all they that labor and are heavy laden came to him, he would fold them all to his heart, saying: "stay with me now; for to stay with me is rest." The helper himself is the help. Ah, strange, he who invites everybody and wishes to help everybody, his manner of treating the sick is as if calculated for every sick man, and as if every sick man who comes to him were his only patient. For otherwise a physician divides his time among many patients who, however great their number, still are far, far from being all mankind. He will prescribe the medicine, he will say what is to be done, and how it is to be used, and then he will go—to some other patient; or, in case the patient should visit him, he will let him depart. The physician cannot remain sitting all day with one patient, and still less can he have all his patients about him in his home, and yet sit all day with one patient without neglecting the others. For this reason the helper and his help are not one and the same thing. The help which the physician prescribes is kept with him by the patient all day so that he may constantly use it, whilst the physician visits him now and again; or he visits the physician now and again. But if the helper is also the help, why, then he will stay with the sick man all day, or the sick man with him—ah, strange that it is just this helper who invites all men!

"I will give you rest." How strange! Then the words "come to me" must mean: stay with me, I am rest. Or they mean that staying with me is rest. Other helpers say "come here" and must later say: "now go again." They explain to each person where to find the help they need. They point out where the healing herb grows that will cure them. Or they show them a quiet place to rest from work. Or they direct them to a happier continent where no one carries heavy burdens. But not this helper, who opens his arms and invites everyone. Ah, if all, all who struggle and carry heavy burdens came to him, he would hold them all to his heart. He would say: "stay with me now, for staying with me is rest." The helper himself is the help. Ah, how strange! He invites everyone and wants to help everyone. Yet he treats the sick as if his care were designed for each sick person individually. He treats each sick person who comes to him as if that person were his only patient. An ordinary doctor, by contrast, divides his time among many patients. Yet however many patients he has, they are still far, far from being all humanity. He prescribes medicine, explains what to do and how to use it, and then goes to another patient. Or, if the patient comes to him, he lets the patient leave. The doctor cannot sit all day with one patient. Still less can he gather all his patients in his home and sit all day with one without neglecting the others. For this reason, the helper and his help are not the same thing. The patient keeps the treatment the doctor prescribes with him all day, so he can use it constantly. Meanwhile, the doctor visits him now and then, or he visits the doctor now and then. But if the helper is also the help, then he will stay with the sick person all day. Or the sick person will stay with him. Ah, how strange that this very helper invites everyone!

COME HITHER ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

COME TO ME, ALL OF YOU WHO WORK HARD AND CARRY HEAVY BURDENS. I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

What enormous multiplicity, what an almost boundless diversity, of people invited; for a man, a lowly man, may, indeed, try to enumerate only a few of these diversities—but he who invites must invite all men, even if every one specially and individually.

What an enormous number of people are invited, and what an almost limitless variety! For a humble man may indeed try to list just a few of these differences. But whoever gives the invitation must invite everyone, even if each person must be invited separately and individually.

The invitation goes forth, then—along the highways and the byways, and along the loneliest paths; aye, goes forth where there is a path so lonely that one man only, and no one else, knows of it, and goes forth where there is but one track, the track of the wretched one who fled along that path with his misery, that and no other track; goes forth even where there is no path to show how one may return: even there the invitation penetrates and by itself easily and surely finds its way back—most easily, indeed, when it brings the fugitive along to him that issued the invitation. Come hither, come hither all ye, also thou, and thou, and thou, too, thou loneliest of all fugitives!

The invitation goes out, then, along the highways and the byways, and along the loneliest paths. Yes, it reaches even a path so lonely that only one person knows it exists. It reaches places where there is only one set of tracks, left by someone who fled with his misery. There are no other tracks. The invitation reaches even places where no path shows the way back. Even there, the invitation makes its way in and finds its own way back, easily and surely. Indeed, it finds its way back most easily when it brings the fugitive to the one who sent the invitation. Come here, come here, all of you. You too, and you, and you too, the loneliest of all fugitives!

Thus the invitation goes forth and remains standing, wheresoever there is a parting of the ways, in order to call out. Ah, just as the trumpet call of the soldiers is directed to the four quarters of the globe, likewise does this invitation sound wherever there is a meeting of roads; with no uncertain sound—for who would then come?—but with the certitude of eternity.

So the invitation goes out and remains open, calling out wherever the road divides. Ah, just as the soldiers’ trumpet call sounds in all four directions, this invitation sounds wherever roads meet. The call is not uncertain, for who would come then? Instead, the invitation sounds with the certainty of eternity.

It stands by the parting of the ways where worldly and earthly sufferings have set down their crosses, and calls out: Come hither, all ye poor and wretched ones, ye who in poverty must slave in order to assure yourselves, not of a care-free, but of a toilsome, future; ah, bitter contradiction, to have to slave for—assuring one's self of that under which one groans, of that which one flees! Ye despised and overlooked ones, about whose existence no one, aye, no one is concerned, not so much even as about some domestic animal which is of greater value! Ye sick, and halt, and blind, and deaf, and crippled, come hither!—Ye bed-ridden, aye, come hither, ye too; for the invitation makes bold to invite even the bed-ridden—to come! Ye lepers; for the invitation breaks down all differences in order to unite all, it wishes to make good the hardship caused by the difference in men, the difference which seats one as a ruler over millions, in possession of all gifts of fortune, and drives another one out into the wilderness—and why? (ah, the cruelty of it!) because (ah, the cruel human inference!) because he is wretched, indescribably wretched. Why then? Because he stands in need of help, or at any rate, of compassion. And why, then? Because human compassion is a wretched thing which is cruel when there is the greatest need of being compassionate, and compassionate only when, at bottom, it is not true compassion! Ye sick of heart, ye who only through your anguish learned to know that a man's heart and an animal's heart are two different things, and what it means to be sick at heart—what it means when the physician may be right in declaring one sound of heart and yet heart-sick; ye whom faithlessness deceived and whom human sympathy—for the sympathy of man is rarely late in coming—whom human sympathy made a target for mockery; all ye wronged and aggrieved and ill-used; all ye noble ones who, as any and everybody will be able to tell you, deservedly reap the reward of ingratitude (for why were ye simple enough to be noble, why foolish enough to be kindly, and disinterested, and faithful)—all ye victims of cunning, of deceit, of backbiting, of envy, whom baseness chose as its victim and cowardice left in the lurch, whether now ye be sacrificed in remote and lonely places, after having crept away in order to die, or whether ye be trampled underfoot in the thronging crowds where no one asks what rights ye have, and no one, what wrongs ye suffer, and no one, where ye smart or how ye smart, whilst the crowd with brute force tramples you into the dust—come ye hither!

It stands at the crossroads where worldly and earthly sufferings have set down their crosses, and calls out: Come here, all you poor and wretched people. You who live in poverty must slave away to secure a future, not of ease, but of toil. Ah, what a bitter contradiction! You must slave away to secure the very thing you groan under, the very thing you flee! You despised and overlooked people, whose existence concerns no one, yes, no one. They care more about some household animal, which they value more! You who are sick, lame, blind, deaf, or crippled, come here! You who are bedridden, yes, come here too. For the invitation dares to invite even the bedridden to come! You who have leprosy, come too. For the invitation breaks down all distinctions to bring everyone together. It seeks to make up for the suffering caused by differences between people. These differences make one person ruler over millions, surrounded by every gift of fortune. Yet they drive another into the wilderness. And why? Ah, the cruelty of it! Because, according to cruel human reasoning, he is wretched, indescribably wretched. But why? Because he needs help, or at least compassion. And why, then? Because human compassion is a wretched thing. It is cruel when compassion is needed most. And it is compassionate only when, at heart, it is not true compassion! You who are sick at heart, you learned only through anguish that a human heart differs from an animal’s heart. Only through anguish did you learn what it means to be sick at heart. A doctor may rightly declare your heart healthy, and yet you are sick at heart. You who were betrayed by faithlessness and made targets of mockery by human sympathy. For human sympathy is rarely slow to arrive. All you who have been wronged, hurt, and mistreated. All you noble people who, as anyone and everyone can tell you, deservedly receive ingratitude as your reward. For why were you simple enough to be noble? Why were you foolish enough to be kind, unselfish, and faithful? All you victims of cunning, deceit, slander, and envy, whom vile people targeted and cowards abandoned. Perhaps you have crept away to die and are now being sacrificed in remote, lonely places. Or perhaps you are being trampled underfoot in the crowds. There, no one asks what rights you have, or what wrongs you suffer. No one asks where you hurt or how you hurt. Meanwhile, the crowd tramples you into the dust with brute force. All of you, come here!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where death parts death and life. Come hither all ye that sorrow and ye that vainly labor! For indeed there is rest in the grave; but to sit by a grave, or to stand by a grave, or to visit a grave, all that is far from lying in the grave; and to read to one's self again and again one's own words which one knows by heart, the epitaph which one devised one's self and understands best, namely, who it is that lies buried here, all that is not the same as to lie buried one's self. In the grave there Is rest, but by the grave there is no rest; for it is said: so far and no farther, and so you may as well go home again. But however often, whether in your thoughts or in fact, you return to that grave—you will never get any farther, you will not get away from the spot, and this is very trying and is by no means rest. Come ye hither, therefore: here is the way by which one may go farther, here is rest by the grave, rest from the sorrow over loss, or rest in the sorrow of loss—through him who everlastingly re-unites those that are parted, and more firmly than nature unites parents with their children, and children with their parents—for, alas! they were parted; and more closely than the minister unites husband and wife—for, alas! their separation did come to pass; and more indissolubly than the bond of friendship unites friend with friend—for, alas! it was broken. Separation penetrated everywhere and brought with it sorrow and unrest; but here is rest!—Come hither also ye who had your abodes assigned to you among the graves, ye who are considered dead to human society, but neither missed nor mourned—not buried and yet dead; that is, belonging neither to life nor to death; ye, alas! to whom human society cruelly closed its doors and for whom no grave has as yet opened itself in pity—come hither, ye also, here is rest, and here is life!

The invitation stands at the crossroads, where death separates death from life. Come here, all of you who grieve and struggle in vain! There is indeed rest in the grave. But sitting beside a grave, standing beside it, or visiting it is far from lying in it. You may read your own words over and over, words you know by heart. You wrote the epitaph yourself and understand best who lies buried there. But reading those words is not the same as being buried yourself. In the grave there is rest, but beside the grave there is no rest. For you are told: this far and no farther, so you might as well go home again. But however often you return to that grave, in thought or in person, you will never get any farther. You will never move beyond that spot. Returning without moving beyond it is very painful and is certainly not rest. Come here, then. Here is the way forward. Here is rest beside the grave, rest from grief over loss, or rest within that grief. This rest comes through him who forever reunites those who have been separated. He unites them more firmly than nature unites parents with their children and children with their parents. For, alas, parents and children were separated. He unites them more closely than the minister unites husband and wife. For, alas, their separation did come. He unites them more permanently than the bond of friendship unites one friend with another. For, alas, that bond was broken. Separation reached everywhere, bringing sorrow and unrest. But here is rest! Come here too, all of you who have been assigned a home among the graves. Human society considers you dead, yet neither misses nor mourns you. You are unburied yet dead, belonging neither to life nor to death. Alas, human society has cruelly shut its doors on you, and no grave has yet opened in pity for you. Come here, you too. Here is rest, and here is life!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of sin turns away from the inclosure of innocence—ah, come hither, ye are so close to him; but a single step in the opposite direction, and ye are infinitely far from him. Very possibly ye do not yet stand in need of rest, nor grasp fully what that means; but still follow the invitation, so that he who invites may save you from a predicament out of which it is so difficult and dangerous to be saved; and so that, being saved, ye may stay with him who is the Savior of all, likewise of innocence. For even if it were possible that innocence be found somewhere, and altogether pure: why should not innocence also need a savior to keep it safe from evil?—The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of sin turns away to enter more deeply into sin. Come hither all ye who have strayed and have been lost, whatever may have been your error and sin: whether one more pardonable in the sight of man and nevertheless perhaps more frightful, or one more terrible in the sight of man and yet, perchance, more pardonable; whether it be one which became known here on earth or one which, though hidden, yet is known in heaven—and even if ye found pardon here on earth without finding rest in your souls, or found no pardon because ye did not seek it, or because ye sought it in vain: ah, return and come hither, here is rest!

The invitation stands at the crossroads, where the road of sin turns away from the shelter of innocence. Ah, come here, you are so close to him. But take just one step in the opposite direction, and you are infinitely far from him. You may very well not yet need rest or fully understand what rest means. But still accept the invitation, so that he who invites you may save you from a desperate situation. Escaping that situation is so difficult and dangerous. Accept it also so that, once saved, you may stay with him who is the Savior of all, including innocence. For even if innocence could be found somewhere, entirely pure, why should innocence not also need a savior? Why should it not need him to keep it safe from evil? The invitation stands at the crossroads, where the road of sin turns toward still deeper sin. Come here, all of you who have strayed and become lost, whatever your error and sin may have been. Your sin may seem more forgivable to others and yet perhaps be more dreadful. Or your sin may seem more terrible to others and yet perhaps be more forgivable. Your sin may have become known here on earth, or remained hidden here but known in heaven. Perhaps you found forgiveness here on earth without finding rest in your souls. Or perhaps you found no forgiveness because you did not seek it, or because you sought it in vain. Even so, ah, return and come here. Here is rest!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of sin turns away for the last time and to the eye is lost in perdition. Ah, return, return, and come hither! Do not shrink from the difficulties of the retreat, however great; do not fear the irksome way of conversion, however laboriously it may lead to salvation; whereas sin with winged speed and growing pace leads forward or—downward, so easily, so indescribably easy—as easily, in fact, as when a horse, altogether freed from having to pull, cannot even with all his might stop the vehicle which pushes him into the abyss. Do not despair over each relapse which the God of patience has patience enough to pardon, and which a sinner should surely have patience enough to humble himself under. Nay, fear nothing and despair not: he that sayeth "come hither," he is with you on the way, from him come help and pardon on that way of conversion which leads to him; and with him is rest.

The invitation stands at the crossroads, where the road of sin turns away for the last time and disappears into damnation. Ah, turn back, turn back, and come here! Do not shrink from the difficulties of turning back, however great they may be. Do not fear the painful path of conversion, however hard the journey to salvation may be. Sin, by contrast, leads onward, or downward, at a flying and ever-increasing speed. The descent is easy, so indescribably easy. It is as easy as a horse’s descent when the horse no longer has to pull the carriage. Even with all its strength, the horse cannot stop the carriage from pushing it into the abyss. Do not despair over each relapse. The God of patience has enough patience to forgive each one. Surely a sinner should have enough patience to humble himself after each relapse. No, fear nothing and do not despair. The one who says "come here" is with you along the way. From him come help and forgiveness on the path of conversion that leads to him. And with him there is rest.

Come hither all, all ye—with him is rest; and he will raise no difficulties, he does but one thing: he opens his arms. He will not first ask you, you sufferer—as righteous men, alas, are accustomed to, even when willing to help—"Are you not perhaps yourself the cause of your misfortune, have you nothing with which to reproach yourself?" It is so easy to fall into this very human error, and from appearances to judge a man's success or failure: for instance, if a man is a cripple, or deformed, or has an unprepossessing appearance, to infer that therefore he is a bad man; or, when a man is unfortunate enough to suffer reverses so as to be ruined or so as to go down in the world, to infer that therefore he is a vicious man. Ah, and this is such an exquisitely cruel pleasure, this being conscious of one's own righteousness as against the sufferer—explaining his afflictions as God's punishment, so that one does not even—dare to help him; or asking him that question which condemns him and flatters our own righteousness, before helping him. But he will not ask you thus, will not in such cruel fashion be your benefactor. And if you are yourself conscious of your sin he will not ask about it, will not break still further the bent reed, but raise you up, if you will but join him. He will not point you out by way of contrast, and place you outside of himself, so that your sin will stand out as still more terrible, but he will grant you a hiding place within him; and hidden within him your sins will be hidden. For he is the friend of sinners. Let him but behold a sinner, and he not only stands still, opening his arms and saying "come hither," nay, but he stands—and waits, as did the father of the prodigal son; or he does not merely remain standing and waiting, but goes out to search, as the shepherd went forth to search for the strayed sheep, or as the woman went to search for the lost piece of silver. He goes—nay, he has gone, but an infinitely longer way than any shepherd or any woman, for did he not go the infinitely long way from being God to becoming man, which he did to seek sinners?

Come here, all of you, everyone. With him there is rest, and he will put no obstacles in your way. He does only one thing: he opens his arms. If you are suffering, he will not question you first, as righteous people sadly tend to do, even when willing to help. He will not ask, "Are you not perhaps the cause of your own misfortune? Have you nothing to blame yourself for?" It is so easy to fall into this very human error, judging someone's success or failure by appearances. For example, if someone has a physical disability, a deformity, or an unattractive appearance, we conclude that he is bad. Or if someone suffers setbacks that ruin him or lower his social standing, we conclude that he is morally corrupt. Ah, what an exquisitely cruel pleasure it is to feel righteous compared with someone who suffers. We explain his suffering as God's punishment, so that we do not even dare to help him. Or, before helping him, we ask that question that condemns him and flatters our own sense of righteousness. But he will not question you like that. He will not help you in such a cruel way. And if you are aware of your sin, he will not ask about it. He will not break the bent reed any further, but will raise you up, if you will only join him. He will not single you out as his opposite and keep you outside himself, making your sin seem still more terrible. Instead, he will give you a hiding place within himself. And hidden within him, your sins will be hidden. For he is the friend of sinners. As soon as he sees a sinner, he does more than stand still, open his arms, and say "come here." He stands and waits, as the father of the prodigal son did. Or he does more than stand and wait. He goes out searching, as the shepherd searched for the stray sheep, or the woman searched for the lost silver coin. He goes, indeed, he has already gone, an infinitely longer way than any shepherd or woman. For did he not travel the infinitely long way from being God to becoming human, in order to seek sinners?

COME HITHER UNTO ME ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

COME TO ME, ALL OF YOU WHO WORK HARD AND CARRY HEAVY BURDENS. I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

"Come hither!" For he supposes that they that labor and are heavy laden feel their burden and their labor, and that they stand there now, perplexed and sighing—one casting about with his eyes to discover whether there is help in sight anywhere; another with his eyes fixed on the ground, because he can see no consolation; and a third with his eyes staring heavenward, as though help was bound to come from heaven—but all seeking. Therefore he sayeth: "come hither!" But he invites not him who has ceased to seek and to sorrow.—"Come hither!" For he who invites knows that it is a mark of true suffering, if one walks alone and broods in silent disconsolateness, without courage to confide in any one, and with even less self-confidence to dare to hope for help. Alas, not only he whom we read about was possessed of a dumb devil.⁶ No suffering which does not first of all render the sufferer dumb is of much significance, no more than the love which does not render one silent; for those sufferers who run on about their afflictions neither labor nor are heavy laden. Behold, therefore the inviter will not wait till they that labor and are heavy laden come to him, but calls them lovingly; for all his willingness to help might, perhaps, be of no avail if he did not say these words and thereby take the first step; for in the call of these words: "come hither unto me!" he comes himself to them. Ah, human compassion—sometimes, perhaps, it is indeed praiseworthy self-restraint, sometimes, perhaps, even true compassion, which may cause you to refrain from questioning him whom you suppose to be brooding over a hidden affliction; but also, how often indeed is this compassion but worldly wisdom which does not care to know too much! Ah, human'compassion—how often was it not pure curiosity, and not compassion, which prompted you to venture into the secret of one afflicted; and how burdensome it was—almost like a punishment of your curiosity—when he accepted your invitation and came to you! But he who sayeth these redeeming words "Come hither!" he is not deceiving himself in saying these words, nor will he deceive you when you come to him in order to find rest by throwing your burden on him. He follows the promptings of his heart in saying these words, and his heart follows his words; if you then follow these words, they will follow you back again to his heart. This follows as a matter of course—ah, will you not follow the invitation?—"Come hither!" For he supposes that they that labor and are heavy laden are so worn out and overtaxed, and so near swooning that they have forgotten, as though in a stupor, that there is such a thing as consolation. Alas, or he knows for sure that there is no consolation and no help unless it is sought from him; and therefore must he call out to them "Come hither!"

"Come here!" For he assumes that those who struggle and carry heavy burdens feel their burdens and their struggles. He assumes they stand there now, bewildered and sighing. One looks around to see whether help is anywhere in sight. Another stares at the ground because he can see no comfort. A third stares toward heaven, as though help were bound to come from heaven. But all are searching. Therefore he says: "Come here!" But he does not invite anyone who has stopped searching and grieving. "Come here!" For the one who invites them knows a sign of true suffering. The sufferer walks alone and broods in silent despair, without the courage to confide in anyone. He has even less confidence to dare to hope for help. Alas, the man we read about was not the only one possessed by a devil that made him mute.⁶ No suffering has much depth unless it first makes the sufferer silent. Neither does love unless it makes the lover silent. For those who talk endlessly about their troubles neither struggle nor carry heavy burdens. See, then, how the one who invites does not wait for those struggling under heavy burdens to come to him. Instead, he calls them lovingly. For all his willingness to help might perhaps be useless unless he spoke these words and took the first step. For in calling out these words, "Come here to me!" he himself comes to them. Ah, human compassion! Sometimes, perhaps, you hold back from questioning someone you believe is brooding over a hidden sorrow out of admirable restraint. Sometimes, perhaps, you hold back even out of true compassion. But how often such compassion is merely worldly caution that does not care to know too much! Ah, human compassion! How often pure curiosity, not compassion, prompted you to pry into a sufferer's secret! And how burdensome you found it when he accepted your invitation and came to you! His coming was almost a punishment for your curiosity. But the one who speaks these redeeming words, "Come here!" is not deceiving himself when he speaks. Nor will he deceive you when you come to find rest by placing your burden on him. He follows his heart when he speaks these words, and his heart follows his words. If you then follow these words, they will lead you back to his heart. This follows naturally. Ah, will you not follow the invitation? "Come here!" For he assumes that those struggling under heavy burdens are exhausted, overwhelmed, and close to fainting. As though dazed, they have forgotten that comfort even exists. Alas, or he knows for certain that there is no comfort and no help unless they seek it from him. And so he must call out to them, "Come here!"

"Come hither!" For is it not so that every society has some symbol or token which is worn by those who belong to it? When a young girl is adorned in a certain manner one knows that she is going to the dance: Come hither all ye that labor and are heavy laden—come hither! You need not carry an external and visible badge; come but with your head anointed and your face washed, if only you labor in your heart and are heavy laden.

"Come here!" For doesn't every society have some symbol or badge worn by its members? When a young girl is dressed a certain way, you know she is going to the dance. Come here, all of you who struggle and carry heavy burdens. Come here! You do not need to wear a visible badge. Just come with your head anointed with oil and your face washed, if your heart struggles and carries heavy burdens.

"Come hither!" Ah, do not stand still and consider; nay, consider, consider that with every moment you stand still after having heard the invitation you will hear the call more faintly and thus withdraw from it, even though you are standing still.—"Come hither!" Ah, however weary and faint you be from work, or from the long, long and yet hitherto fruitless search for help and salvation, and even though you may feel as if you could not take one more step, and not wait one more moment, without dropping to the ground: ah, but this one step and here is rest!—"Come hither!" But if, alas, there be one who is so wretched that he cannot come?—Ah, a sigh is sufficient; your mere sighing or him is also to come hither.

"Come here!" Ah, do not stand still and think. No, think about this: every moment you stand still after hearing the invitation, you will hear the call more faintly. And so you move farther from the call, even though you are standing still. "Come here!" Ah, however tired and weak you may be from work, or from searching so long for help and salvation. Your search has brought you nothing so far. You may even feel as if you cannot take another step or wait another moment without collapsing. Ah, but take this one step, and here is rest! "Come here!" But what if, sadly, someone is so miserable that he cannot come? Ah, a sigh is enough. Simply sighing for him is also a way of coming here.

COME HITHER UNTO ME ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN, AND I SHALL GIVE YOU REST.

COME TO ME, ALL OF YOU WHO WORK HARD AND CARRY HEAVY BURDENS, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

Pause now! But what is there to give pause? That which in the same instant makes all undergo an absolute change—so that, instead of seeing an immense throng ofthem that labor and are heavy laden following the invitation, you will in the end behold the very opposite, that is, an immense throng of men who flee back shudderingly, scrambling to get away, trampling all down before them; so that, if one were to infer the sense of what had been said from the result it produced, one would have to infer that the words had been "procul o procul este profani," rather than "come hither"—that gives pause which is infinitely more important and infinitely more decisive: THE PERSON OF HIM WHO INVITES. Not in the sense that he is not the man to do what he has said, or not God, to keep what he has promised; no, in a very different sense.

Stop now! But what is there to make us stop? Something that, in an instant, changes everything completely. Instead of a vast crowd of those who labor and are burdened responding to the invitation, you will see the opposite. You will see a vast crowd fleeing in terror, scrambling to escape, trampling everything in their path. So, if you judged the meaning of the words by their effect, you would have to draw this conclusion: the words were "procul o procul este profani," rather than "come here." What makes us stop is something infinitely more important and infinitely more decisive: THE PERSON WHO GIVES THE INVITATION. Not because he is not the man to do what he has said. Nor because he is not God, able to keep what he has promised. No, in a very different sense.

Pause is given by the fact that he who invites is, and insists on being, the definite historic person he was 1800 years ago, and that he as this definite person, and living under the conditions then obtaining, spoke these words of invitation.—He is not, and does not wish to be, one about whom one may simply know something from history (i.e. world history, history proper, as against Sacred History); for from history one cannot "learn" anything about him, the simple reason being that nothing can be "known" about him.—He does not wish to be judged in a human way, from the results of his life; that is, he is and wishes to be, a rock of offense and the object of faith. To judge him after the consequences of his life is a blasphemy, for being God, his life, and the very fact that he was then living and really did live, is infinitely more important than all the consequences of it in history.

What gives us pause is that the one who invites us is a specific historical person. He insists on being the person he was 1800 years ago. He spoke these words of invitation as that specific person, living under the conditions of that time. He is not someone we can simply know something about from history, nor does he wish to be. Here, history means world history, or history proper, as distinct from Sacred History. For we cannot "learn" anything about him from history, simply because nothing can be "known" about him. He does not wish to be judged by human standards, on the basis of the results of his life. In other words, he is and wishes to be a stumbling block and the object of faith. To judge him by the consequences of his life is blasphemy. For he is God, and his life matters infinitely more than all its consequences in history. The very fact that he was alive then and truly lived is infinitely more important than all those consequences.

He that invites. Who is he? Jesus Christ. Which Jesus Christ? He that sits in glory on the right side of his Father? No. From his seat of glory he spoke not a single word. Therefore it is Jesus Christ in his lowliness, and in the condition of lowliness, who spoke these words.

The one who invites. Who is he? Jesus Christ. Which Jesus Christ? The one who sits in glory at his Father's right hand? No. From his seat of glory, he did not speak a single word. So the Jesus Christ who spoke these words was Jesus Christ in his lowliness, living in that humble condition.

Is then Jesus Christ not the same? Yes, verily, he is today, and was yesterday, and 1800 years ago, the same who abased himself, assuming the form of a servant—the Jesus Christ who spake these words of invitation. It is also he who hath said that he would return again in glory. In his return in glory he is, again, the same Jesus Christ; but this has not yet come to pass.

Is Jesus Christ not the same, then? Yes, indeed, he is the same today as yesterday and 1800 years ago. He is the same Jesus Christ who humbled himself, taking the form of a servant, and spoke these inviting words. He also said that he would return in glory. When he returns in glory, he is still the same Jesus Christ. But his return has not yet happened.

Is he then not in glory now? Assuredly, that the Christian believes. But it was in his lowly condition that he spoke these words; he did not speak them from his glory. And about his return in glory nothing can be known, for this can in the strictest sense be a matter of belief only. But a believer one cannot become except by having gone to him in his lowly condition—to him, the rock of offense and the object of faith. In other shape he does not exist, for only thus did he exist. That he will return in glory is indeed expected, but can be expected and believed only by him who believes, and has believed, in him as he was here on earth.

Is he not in glory now, then? Certainly, the Christian believes he is. But he spoke these words in his humble condition, not from his glory. And nothing can be known about his return in glory. In the strictest sense, his return can only be a matter of belief. But no one can become a believer without having come to him in his humble condition. He is the rock that causes people to stumble and the object of faith. He exists in no other form, for only in this form did he exist. His return in glory is indeed expected. But only someone who believes, and has believed, in him as he was on earth can expect and believe in his return.

Jesus Christ is, then, the same; yet lived he 1800 years ago in debasement, and is transfigured only at his return. As yet he has not returned; therefore he is still the one in lowly guise about whom we believe that he will return in glory. Whatever he said and taught, every word he spoke, becomes eo ipso untrue if we give it the appearance of having been spoken by Christ in his glory. Nay, he is silent. It is the lowly Christ who speaks. The space of time between (i.e. between his debasement and his return in glory) which is at present about 1800 years, and will possibly become many times 1800—this space of time, or else what this space of time tries to make of Christ, the worldly information about him furnished by world history or church history, as to who Christ was, as to who it was who really spoke these words—all this does not concern us, is neither here nor there, but only serves to corrupt our conception of him, arid thereby renders untrue these words of invitation.

Jesus Christ, then, is the same. Yet he lived in humiliation 1800 years ago and will be transformed in glory only when he returns. He has not yet returned. So he is still the one in humble form whom we believe will return in glory. Everything he said and taught, every word he spoke, becomes by that very fact untrue if we present it as spoken by Christ in his glory. No, Christ in glory is silent. The humble Christ is the one who speaks. The time between his humiliation and his return in glory is now about 1800 years. That interval may eventually be many times 1800 years. But that interval does not concern us, nor does what that interval tries to make of Christ. World history and church history give us worldly accounts of who Christ was, of who actually spoke these words. All of this is beside the point and does not concern us. It only corrupts our understanding of him and thereby makes these words of invitation untrue.

It is untruthful of me to impute to a person words which he never used. But it is likewise untruthful, and the words he used likewise become untruthful, or it becomes untrue that he used them, if I assign to him a nature essentially unlike the one he had when he did use them. Essentially unlike; for an untruth concerning this or the other trifling circumstance will not make it untrue that "he" said them. And therefore, if it please God to walk on earth in such strict incognito as only one all-powerful can assume, in guise impenetrable to all men; if it please him—and why he does it, for what purpose, that he knows best himself; but whatever the reason and the purpose, it is certain that the incognito is of essential significance—I say, if it please God to walk on earth in the guise of a servant and, to judge from his appearance, exactly like any other man; if it please him to teach men in this guise—if, now, any one repeats his very words, but gives the saying the appearance that it was God that spoke these words: then it is untruthful; for it is untrue that h e said these words.

I am being untruthful if I attribute words to someone who never used them. But I am also being untruthful if I misrepresent who he was when he spoke. If I give him an essentially different nature, his words become untrue, or it becomes untrue that he said them. I mean essentially different. A false account of some trivial circumstance does not make it untrue that "he" said those words. So suppose God chooses to walk on earth in such complete disguise as only someone all-powerful can assume. Suppose no human being can see through his disguise. Why he chooses to do so, and for what purpose, he himself knows best. But whatever the reason and purpose, his concealed identity certainly has essential significance. Suppose, I say, God chooses to walk on earth as a servant, looking exactly like any other man. Suppose he chooses to teach people in this form. Now suppose someone repeats his exact words, but presents them as words spoken by God. Then that account is untruthful, for it is untrue that h e said those words.

No. And why not? Because one cannot "know" anything at all about "Christ"; for he is the paradox, the object of faith, and exists only for faith. But all historic information is communication of "knowledge." Therefore one cannot learn anything about Christ from history. For whether now one learn little or much about him, it will not represent what he was in reality. Hence one learns something else about him than what is strictly true, and therefore learns nothing about him, or gets to know something wrong about him; that is, one is deceived. History makes Christ look different from what he looked in truth, and thus one learns much from history about—Christ? No, not about Christ; because about him nothing can be "known," he can only be believed.⁷

No. And why not? Because we cannot "know" anything at all about "Christ." For he is the paradox, the object of faith, and exists only for faith. But all historical information communicates "knowledge." So we cannot learn anything about Christ from history. For whether we learn little or much about him, what we learn will not reflect who he really was. So we learn something about him other than the strict truth. We therefore learn nothing about him, or we learn something false about him. In other words, we are deceived. History makes Christ appear different from who he truly was. So we learn much from history about Christ? No, not about Christ. For nothing about him can be "known." He can only be believed.⁷

Let me first ask another question: is any more absurd contradiction thinkable than wishing to prove (no matter, for the present, whether one wishes to do so from history, or from whatever else in the wide world one wishes to prove it) that a certain person is God? To maintain that a certain person is God—that is, professes to be God—is indeed a stumbling block in the purest sense. But what is the nature of a stumbling block? It is an assertion which is at variance with all (human) reason. Now think of proving that! But to prove something is to render it reasonable and real. Is it possible, then, to render reasonable and real what is at variance with all reason? Scarcely; unless one wishes to contradict one's self. One can prove only that it is at variance with all reason. The proofs for the divinity of Christ given in Scripture, such as the miracles and his resurrection from the grave exist, too, only for faith; that is, they are no "proofs," for they are not meant to prove that all this agrees with reason but, on the contrary, are meant to prove that it is at variance with reason and therefore a matter of faith.

Let me first ask another question: can you imagine a more absurd contradiction than wanting to prove that a particular person is God? For now, it makes no difference whether you want to use history or anything else in the world as proof. To claim that a particular person is God, that is, professes to be God, is a stumbling block in the purest sense. But what is a stumbling block? It is a claim that goes against all (human) reason. Now imagine proving such a claim! But to prove something is to show that it is reasonable and real. Can you, then, show that something is reasonable and real when it goes against all reason? Hardly, unless you want to contradict yourself. You can prove only that the claim goes against all reason. The proofs of Christ’s divinity given in Scripture, such as his miracles and resurrection from the grave, also exist only for faith. In other words, they are not "proofs." They are not meant to prove that all these things agree with reason. On the contrary, they are meant to prove that all these things go against reason and therefore are matters of faith.

First, then, let us take up the proofs from history. "Is it not 1800 years ago now that Christ lived, is not his name proclaimed and reverenced throughout the world, has not his teaching (Christianity) changed the aspect of the world, having victoriously affected all affairs: has then history not sufficiently, or more than sufficiently, made good its claim as to who he was, and that he was—God?" No, indeed, history has by no means sufficiently, or more than sufficiently, made good its claim, and in fact history cannot accomplish this in all eternity. However, as to the first part of the statement, it is true enough that his name is proclaimed throughout the world—as to whether it is reverenced, that I do not presume to decide. Also, it is true enough that Christianity has transformed the aspect of the world, having victoriously affected all affairs, so victoriously indeed, that everybody now claims to be a Christian.

First, then, let us consider the evidence from history. "Has it not now been 1,800 years since Christ lived? Is his name not proclaimed and honored throughout the world? Has his teaching (Christianity) not transformed the world, triumphantly influencing all its affairs? Has history not proved sufficiently, or more than sufficiently, who he was, and that he was God?" No, history has certainly not proved this sufficiently, or more than sufficiently. In fact, history cannot prove that he was God, even in all eternity. But the first part of the statement is true enough: his name is proclaimed throughout the world. Whether his name is honored, I do not presume to judge. It is also true enough that Christianity has transformed the world, triumphantly influencing all its affairs. So complete is Christianity's triumph, indeed, that everyone now claims to be a Christian.

But what does this prove? It proves, at most, that Jesus Christ was a great man, the greatest, perhaps, who ever lived. But that he was God—stop now, that conclusion shall with God's help fall to the ground.

But what does this prove? At most, it proves that Jesus Christ was a great man, perhaps the greatest who ever lived. But that he was God? Stop right there. With God's help, that conclusion will fall apart.

Now, if one intends to introduce this conclusion by assuming that Jesus Christ was a man, and then considers the 1800 years of history (i.e. the consequences of his life), one may indeed conclude with a constantly rising superlative: he was great, greater, the greatest, extraordinarily and astonishingly the greatest man who ever lived. If one begins, on the other hand, with the assumption (of faith) that he was God, one has by so doing stricken out and car celled the 1800 years as not making the slightest difference, one way or the other, because the certainty of faith is on an infinitely higher plane. And one course or the other one must take; but we shall arrive at sensible conclusions only if we take the latter.

Now, suppose you begin by assuming that Jesus Christ was a man. Then you consider the 1800 years of history (that is, the consequences of his life). You may indeed reach a conclusion that keeps rising in praise: he was great, greater, the greatest. He was, extraordinarily and astonishingly, the greatest man who ever lived. If, on the other hand, you begin with the assumption of faith that he was God, those 1800 years become irrelevant. They make not the slightest difference either way, because the certainty of faith stands on an infinitely higher level. You must take one course or the other. But we will reach sensible conclusions only if we take the second.

If one takes the former course one will find it impossible—unless by committing the logical error of passing over into a different category—one will find it impossible in the conclusion suddenly to arrive at the new category "God"; that is, one cannot make the consequence, or consequences, of—a man's life suddenly prove at a certain point in the argument that this man was God. If such a procedure were correct one ought to be able to answer satisfactorily a question like this: what must the consequence be, how great the effects, how many centuries must elapse, in order to infer from the consequences of a man's life—for such was the assumption—that he was God; or whether it is really the case that in the year 300 Christ had not yet been entirely proved to be God, though certainly the most extraordinarily, astonishingly, greatest man who had ever lived, but that a few more centuries would be necessary to prove that he was God. In that case we would be obliged to infer that people in the fourth century did not look upon Christ as God, and still less they who lived in the first century; whereas the certainty that he was God would grow with every century. Also, that in our century this certainty would be greater than it had ever been, a certainty in comparison with which the first centuries hardly so much as glimpsed his divinity. You may answer this question or not, it does not matter.

If you take the first approach, you cannot suddenly arrive at the new category "God" in your conclusion. You can do so only by making the logical error of moving into a different category. In other words, the consequence or consequences of a man's life cannot suddenly prove that the man was God. If this method were valid, you should be able to answer the following question satisfactorily. What must the consequences be, how great must the effects be, and how many centuries must pass? When could you conclude from the consequences of a man's life, as the argument assumes, that he was God? Or was Christ not yet fully proved to be God in the year 300? Was he then certainly the most extraordinary, astonishing, and greatest man who had ever lived? But would proving that he was God require a few more centuries? If so, we would have to conclude that people in the fourth century did not regard Christ as God. Still less would people in the first century have regarded him as God. Yet the certainty that he was God would grow with every century. We would also have to conclude that this certainty was greater in our century than ever before. Compared with our certainty, people in the first centuries would hardly have glimpsed his divinity. You may answer this question or not. It makes no difference.

In general, is it at all possible by the consideration of the gradually unfolding consequences of something to arrive at a conclusion different in quality from what we started with? Is it not sheer insanity (providing man is sane) to let one's judgment become so altogether confused as to land in the wrong category? And if one begins with such a mistake, then how will one be able, at any subsequent point, to infer from the consequences of something, that one has to deal with an altogether different, in fact, infinitely different, category? A foot-print certainly is the consequence of some creature having made it. Now I may mistake the track for that of, let us say, a bird; whereas by nearer inspection, and by following it for some distance, I may make sure that it was made by some other animal. Very good; but there was no infinite difference in quality between my first assumption and my later conclusion. But can I, on further consideration and following the track still further, arrive at the conclusion: therefore it was a spirit—a spirit that leaves no tracks? Precisely the same holds true of the argument that from the consequences of a human life—for that was the assumption—we may infer that therefore it was God.

In general, can examining the gradually unfolding consequences of something lead to a conclusion fundamentally different from our starting assumption? Isn't it sheer madness, assuming we are sane, to let our judgment become so confused that we choose the wrong category? And if we begin with that mistake, how can we later draw a conclusion from the consequences? How can we conclude that we are dealing with an entirely different category, indeed, an infinitely different one? A footprint is certainly the result of some creature having made it. Now I may mistake the track for a bird's, for example. But by examining the track more closely and following it some distance, I may establish that another animal made it. Very well, but there was no infinite difference in kind between my first assumption and my later conclusion. But can I examine the track more closely and follow it still further, then conclude: therefore, a spirit made it? A spirit that leaves no tracks? Exactly the same applies to the argument that we can draw a conclusion from the consequences of a human life. The starting assumption was that the life was human. Yet the conclusion is: therefore, it was God.

Is God then so like man, is there so little difference between the two that, while in possession of my right senses, I may begin with the assumption that Christ was human? And, for that matter, has not Christ himself affirmed that he was God? On the other hand, if God and man resemble each other so closely, and are related to each other to such a degree—that is, essentially belong to the same category of beings, then the conclusion "therefore he was God" is nevertheless just humbug, because if that is all there is to being God, then God does not exist at all. But if God does exist and, therefore, belongs to a category infinitely different from man, why, then neither I nor any one else can start with the assumption that Christ was human and end with the conclusion that therefore he was God. Any one with a bit of logical sense will easily recognize that the whole question about the consequences of Christ's life on earth is incommensurable with the decision that he is God. In fact, this decision is to be made on an altogether different plane: man must decide for himself whether he will believe Christ to be what he himself affirmed he was, that is, God, or whether he will not believe so.

Is God, then, so like a human being? Is the difference so small that I can reasonably begin by assuming Christ was human? And besides, did Christ himself not declare that he was God? On the other hand, suppose God and human beings are so alike and so closely related. Suppose they essentially belong to the same category of beings. Then the conclusion "therefore he was God" is still pure nonsense. Because if being God means no more than that, then God does not exist at all. But if God does exist, he therefore belongs to a category infinitely different from human beings. In that case, neither I nor anyone else can begin by assuming Christ was human and conclude that he was God. Anyone with a little logical sense will easily see the problem. The consequences of Christ's life on earth have no bearing on the decision that he is God. In fact, that decision must be made on an entirely different level. Each person must decide whether to believe Christ was what he himself declared he was, namely God, or not.

What has been said—mind you, providing one will take the time to understand it—is sufficient to make a logical mind stop drawing any inferences from the consequences of Christ's life: that therefore he was God. But faith in its own right protests against every attempt to approach Jesus Christ by the help of historical information about the consequences of his life. Faith contends that this whole attempt is—blasphemous. Faith contends that the only proof left unimpaired by unbelief when it did away with all the other proofs of the truth of Christianity, the proof which—indeed, this is complicated business—I say, which unbelief invented in order to prove the truth of Christianity—the proof about which so excessively much ado has been made in Christendom, the proof of 1800 years: as to this, faith contends that it is—blasphemy.

What has been said is enough to stop a logical thinker from concluding that Christ was God from his life's consequences. That is, mind you, if the reader takes the time to understand the argument. But faith itself objects to every attempt to approach Jesus Christ through historical information about the consequences of his life. Faith insists that this whole attempt is blasphemous. Unbelief rejected all the other proofs of Christianity's truth but left one proof untouched. Indeed, this is a complicated business. Unbelief itself, I say, invented that remaining proof to establish the truth of Christianity. Christendom has made such an excessive fuss over this proof, the proof of 1800 years. As for this proof, faith insists that it is blasphemy.

With regard to a man it is true that the consequences of his life are more important than his life. If one, then, in order to find out who Christ was, and in order to find out by some inference, considers the consequences of his life: why, then one changes him into a man by this very act—a man who, like other men, is to pass his examination in history, and history is in this case as mediocre an examiner as any half-baked teacher in Latin.

For a man, the consequences of his life are more important than his life itself. Suppose, then, you try to work out who Christ was by drawing conclusions from the consequences of his life. By doing so, you turn him into a man who, like other men, must pass history’s examination. And in this case, history is as mediocre an examiner as any half-trained Latin teacher.

But strange! By the help of history, that is, by considering the consequences of his life, one wishes to arrive at the conclusion that therefore, therefore he was God; and faith makes the exactly opposite contention that he who even begins with this syllogism is guilty of blasphemy. Nor does the blasphemy consist in assuming hypothetically that Christ was a man. No, the blasphemy consists in the thought which lies at the bottom of the whole business, the thought without which one would never start it, and of whose validity one is fully and firmly assured that it will hold also with regard to Christ—the thought that the consequences of his life are more important than his life; in other words, that he is a man. The hypothesis is: let us assume that Christ was a man; but at the bottom of this hypothesis, which is not blasphemy as yet, there lies the assumption that, the consequences of a man's life being more important than his life, this will hold true also of Christ. Unless this is assumed one must admit that one's whole argument is absurd, must admit it before beginning—so why begin at all? But once it is assumed, and the argument is started, we have the blasphemy. And the more one becomes absorbed in the consequences of Christ's life, with the aim of being able to make sure whether or no he was God, the more blasphemous is one's conduct; and it remains blasphemous so long as this consideration is persisted in.

But how strange! People want to use history, meaning the consequences of his life, to conclude that therefore, therefore he was God. Yet faith insists on exactly the opposite: anyone who even begins this argument is guilty of blasphemy. The blasphemy does not lie in assuming, as a hypothesis, that Christ was a man. No, the blasphemy lies in the thought underlying the whole undertaking. Without that thought, no one would ever begin the argument. And those making the argument are fully and firmly convinced that the thought also holds true for Christ. The thought is that the consequences of his life are more important than his life. In other words, that he is a man. The hypothesis is: let us assume that Christ was a man. That hypothesis is not yet blasphemy. But beneath the hypothesis lies a further assumption. The consequences of a man's life are more important than his life, and the same must hold true for Christ. Unless people assume this, they must admit that their whole argument is absurd. They must admit its absurdity before beginning, so why begin at all? But once they make that assumption and begin the argument, we have blasphemy. The more people focus on the consequences of Christ's life to establish whether he was God, the more blasphemous their conduct becomes. And their conduct remains blasphemous as long as they persist in examining those consequences for that purpose.

Curious coincidence: one tries to make it appear that, providing one but thoroughly considers the consequences of Christ's life, this "therefore" will surely be arrived at—and faith condemns the very beginning of this attempt as blasphemy, and hence the continuance in it as a worse blasphemy.

A curious coincidence: people try to make this claim seem true. If you thoroughly consider the consequences of Christ's life, you will surely arrive at this "therefore". But faith condemns even beginning that attempt as blasphemy. So faith condemns continuing the attempt as an even worse blasphemy.

"History," says faith, "has nothing to do with Christ." With regard to him we have only Sacred History (which is different in kind from general history), Sacred History which tells of his life and career when in debasement, and tells also that he affirmed himself to be God. He is the paradox which history never will be able to digest or convert into a general syllogism. He is in his debasement the same as he is in his exaltation—but the 1800 years, or let it be 18,000 years, have nothing whatsoever to do with this. The brilliant consequences in the history of the world which are sufficient, almost, to convince even a professor of history that he was God, these brilliant consequences surely do not represent his return in glory! Forsooth, in that case it were imagined rather meanly! The same thing over again: Christ is thought to be a man whose return in glory can be, and can become, nothing else than the consequences of his life in history—whereas Christ's return in glory is something absolutely different and a matter of faith. He abased himself and was swathed in rags—he will return in glory; but the brilliant consequences in history, especially when examined a little more closely, are too shabby a glory—at any rate a glory of an altogether incongruous nature, of which faith therefore never speaks, when speaking about his glory. History is a very respectable science indeed, only it must not become so conceited as to take upon itself what the Father will do, and clothe Christ in his glory, dressing him up with the brilliant garments of the consequences of his life, as if that constituted his return. That he was God in his debasement and that he will return in glory, all this is far beyond the comprehension of history; nor can all this be got from history, excepting by an incomparable lack of logic, and however incomparable one's view of history may be otherwise.

"History," says faith, "has nothing to do with Christ." Concerning Christ, we have only Sacred History, which differs in kind from general history. Sacred History tells of his life and work in humiliation, and also tells us that he declared himself God. He is the paradox that history will never be able to absorb or turn into a general logical argument. He is the same in his humiliation as in his exaltation. But the 1800 years, or even 18,000 years, have absolutely nothing to do with this. The remarkable effects of his life on world history are almost enough to convince even a history professor that he was God. Yet these remarkable effects surely do not represent his return in glory! Indeed, that would be a rather paltry way to imagine his return! Once again, Christ is treated as a man whose return in glory can only consist of his life's historical effects. His return can never become anything more on that view. Yet Christ's return in glory is something entirely different, and a matter of faith. He humbled himself and was wrapped in rags. He will return in glory. But the remarkable effects of his life on history offer too shabby a glory, especially when examined more closely. At any rate, this glory is entirely unlike his own. So faith never speaks of these historical effects when speaking of his glory. History is certainly a very respectable field of study. But history must not grow so conceited that it takes on the Father's task of clothing Christ in glory. History must not dress him in the splendid garments of his life's effects, as if those effects constituted his return. He was God in his humiliation, and he will return in glory. Both truths lie far beyond history's understanding. Nor can either truth be drawn from history without an unparalleled failure of logic, however unparalleled one's historical insight may otherwise be.

How strange, then, that one ever wished to use history in order to prove Christ divine.

How strange, then, that anyone ever wanted to use history to prove that Christ was divine.

No, by no means, but rather the opposite; for else Christ were but a man.

No, not at all. Quite the opposite, because otherwise Christ would be merely a man.

There is really nothing remarkable in a man having lived. There have certainly lived millions upon millions of men. If the fact is remarkable, there must have been something remarkable in a man's life. In other words, there is nothing remarkable in his having lived, but his life was remarkable for this or that. The remarkable thing may, among other matters, also be what he accomplished; that is, the consequences of his life.

There is really nothing remarkable about a man having lived. Millions upon millions of men have certainly lived. If the fact that a man lived is remarkable, something in his life must have been remarkable. In other words, merely having lived is not remarkable, but some particular feature of his life was. Among other things, what made his life remarkable may also be what he accomplished, meaning the consequences of his life.

But that God lived here on earth in human form, that is infinitely remarkable. No matter if his life had had no consequences at all—it remains equally remarkable, infinitely remarkable, infinitely more remarkable than all possible consequences. Just try to introduce that which is remarkable as something secondary and you will straightway see the absurdity of doing so: now, if you please, whatever remarkable is there in God's life having had remarkable consequences? To speak in this fashion is merely twaddling.

But God living here on earth in human form is infinitely remarkable. Even if his life had had no consequences at all, his life on earth would remain equally remarkable, infinitely remarkable. His life would still be infinitely more remarkable than all possible consequences. Just try treating the remarkable fact itself as secondary, and you will immediately see how absurd that is. Now, please, what is remarkable about God's life having remarkable consequences? Talking like that is just nonsense.

No, that God lived here on earth, that is what is infinitely remarkable, that which is remarkable in itself. Assuming that Christ's life had had no consequences whatsoever—if any one then undertook to say that therefore his life was not remarkable it would be blasphemy. For it would be remarkable all the same; and if a secondary remarkable characteristic had to be introduced it would consist in the remarkable fact that his life had no consequences. But if one should say that Christ's life was remarkable because of its consequences, then this again were a blasphemy; for it is his life which in itself is the remarkable thing.

No, what is infinitely remarkable is that God lived here on earth. That fact is remarkable in itself. Suppose Christ's life had had no consequences at all. If anyone then claimed that his life was therefore not remarkable, that claim would be blasphemy. For his life would still be remarkable. And if a second remarkable feature had to be added, it would be that his life had no consequences. But if someone said Christ's life was remarkable because of its consequences, that claim would also be blasphemy. For his life itself is what is remarkable.

There is nothing very remarkable in a man's having lived, but it is infinitely remarkable that God has lived. God alone can lay so much emphasis on himself that the fact of his having lived becomes infinitely more important than all the consequences which may flow therefrom and which then become a matter of history.

There is nothing very remarkable about a man having lived, but it is infinitely remarkable that God has lived. Only God can place so much emphasis on himself that his having lived becomes infinitely more important than all the consequences that may follow. Those consequences then become part of history.

Let us imagine a man, one of the exalted spirits, one who was wronged by his times, but whom history later reinstated in his rights by proving by the consequences of his life who he was. I do not deny, by the way, that all this business of proving from the consequences is a course well suited to "a world which ever wishes to be deceived." For he who was contemporary with him and did not understand who he was, he really only imagines that he understands when he has got to know it by help of the consequences of the noble one's life. Still, I do not wish to insist on this point, for with regard to a man it certainly holds true that the consequences of his life are more important than the fact of his having lived.

Let us imagine a man of great spirit, wronged by his own age but later vindicated by history. The effects of his life proved who he was. By the way, I do not deny that judging by such effects suits "a world which ever wishes to be deceived." Someone who lived at the same time as this noble man failed to understand who he was. If that person later learns who the man was through the effects of his life, he only imagines he understands. Still, I do not want to press this point. For when it comes to a human being, the effects of his life certainly matter more than his having lived.

Let us imagine one of these exalted spirits. He lives among his contemporaries without being understood, his significance is not recognized—he is misunderstood, and then mocked, persecuted, and finally put to death like a common evil-doer. But the consequences of his life make it plain who he was; history which keeps a record of these consequences re-instates him in his rightful position, and now he is named in one century after another as the great and the noble spirit, and the circumstances of his debasement are almost completely forgotten. It was blindness on the part of his contemporaries which prevented them from comprehending his true nature, and wickedness which made them mock him and deride him, and finally put him to death. But be no more concerned about this; for only after his death did he really become what he was, through the consequences of his life which, after all, are by far more important than his life.

Let us imagine one of these great spirits. He lives among the people of his time, but they do not understand him or recognize his importance. He is misunderstood, then mocked, persecuted, and finally put to death like an ordinary criminal. But the effects of his life make clear who he was. History records these effects and restores him to his rightful place. Now, century after century, he is remembered as a great and noble spirit. The circumstances of his humiliation are almost completely forgotten. The people of his time were too blind to understand his true nature. Their wickedness led them to mock and ridicule him, and finally put him to death. But do not worry about any of this anymore. For only after his death did he truly become what he was, through the effects of his life. Those effects, after all, are far more important than his life.

Now is it not possible that the same holds true with regard to Christ? It was blindness and wickedness on the part of those times⁸—but be no more concerned about this, history has now re-instated him, from history we know now who Jesus Christ was, and thus justice is done him.

Now, isn't it possible that the same is true of Christ? The people of that time were blind and wicked⁸. But don't worry about that anymore. History has now restored his standing. From history, we now know who Jesus Christ was, and so justice has been done to him.

Ah, wicked thoughtlessness which thus interprets Sacred History like profane history, which makes Christ a man! But can one, then, learn anything from history about Jesus? (cf. B) No, nothing. Jesus Christ is the object of faith—one either believes in him or is offended by him; for "to know" means precisely that such knowledge does not pertain to him. History can therefore, to be sure, give one knowledge in abundance; but "knowledge" annihilates Jesus Christ.

Ah, what wicked thoughtlessness to treat Sacred History like ordinary history and make Christ a man! But can we, then, learn anything about Jesus from history? (cf. B) No, nothing. Jesus Christ is the object of faith. We either believe in him or are offended by him. For "to know" means precisely that such knowledge does not apply to him. History can therefore certainly give us abundant knowledge. But "knowledge" destroys Jesus Christ.

Again—ah, the impious thoughtlessness!—for one to presume to say about Christ's abasement: "Let us be concerned no more about his abasement." Surely, Christ's abasement was not something which merely happened to him—even if it was the sin of that generation to crucify him; was surely not something that simply happened to him and, perhaps, would not have happened to him in better times. Christ himself wished to be abased and lowly. His abasement (that is, his walking on earth in humble guise, though being God) is therefore a condition of his own making, something he wished to be knotted together, a dialectic knot which no one shall presume to untie, and which no one will untie, for that matter, until he himself shall untie it when returning in his glory.

Again, what godless thoughtlessness to dare say of Christ's humiliation: "Let us no longer concern ourselves with his humiliation." Surely, Christ's humiliation was not something that merely happened to him, even if crucifying him was that generation's sin. Surely, his humiliation was not simply something that perhaps would not have happened to him in better times. Christ himself wanted to be humbled and lowly. His humiliation meant walking on earth in a humble form, though he was God. His humiliation was therefore a condition he chose for himself, a knot he wanted tied. This knot of contradictions is one that no one should dare untie. And indeed, no one will untie the knot until Christ himself unties it when he returns in his glory.

His case is, therefore, not the same as that of a man who, through the injustice inflicted on him by his times, was not allowed to be himself or to be valued at his worth, while history revealed who he was; for Christ himself wished to be abased—it is precisely this condition which he desired. Therefore, let history not trouble itself to do him justice, and let us not in impious thoughtlessness presumptuously imagine that we as a matter of course know who he was. For that no one knows; and he who believes it must become contemporaneous with him in his abasement. When God chooses to let himself be born in lowliness, when he who holds all possibilities in his hand assumes the form of a humble servant, when he fares about defenseless, letting people do with him what they list: he surely knows what he does and why he does it; for it is at all events he who has power over men, and not men who have power over him—so let not history be so impertinent as to wish to reveal who he was.

His case, therefore, is not like that of a man whom his age treated unjustly. Such a man was not allowed to be himself or valued for his worth, but history revealed who he was. Christ himself, however, wanted to be humbled. This was precisely the condition he desired. So let history not trouble itself to do him justice. And let us not thoughtlessly and irreverently presume that we know who he was as a matter of course. For no one knows who he was. Anyone who believes who he was must become his contemporary in his humiliation. When God chooses to be born into lowliness, he surely knows what he is doing and why. He knows when he, who holds all possibilities in his hand, takes the form of a humble servant. He knows when he goes about defenseless, letting people do whatever they please with him. For in any case, he has power over people, not people over him. So let history not be so presumptuous as to try to reveal who he was.

Lastly—ah the blasphemy!—if one should presume to say that the percussion which Christ suffered expresses something accidental! If a man is persecuted by his generation it does not follow that he has the right to say that this would happen to him in every age. Insofar there is reason in what posterity says about letting bygones be bygones. But it is different with Christ! It is not he who by letting himself be born, and by appearing in Palestine, is being examined by history; but it is he who examines, his life is the examination, not only of that generation, but of mankind. Woe unto the generation that would presumptuously dare to say: "let bygones be bygones, and forget what he suffered, for history has now revealed who he was and has done justice by him."

Finally, what blasphemy if anyone should dare to say that the persecution Christ suffered was merely a matter of chance! If a man is persecuted by his generation, he has no right to claim he would be persecuted in every age. To that extent, later generations have reason to say we should let bygones be bygones. But with Christ, things are different! By choosing to be born and to appear in Palestine, he does not submit himself to history’s judgment. Instead, he is the one who judges. His life is the test, not only of that generation, but of all humanity. Woe to the generation that would arrogantly dare to say: "Let bygones be bygones, and forget what he suffered. For history has now revealed who he was and has done him justice."

If one assumes that history is really able to do this, then the abasement of Christ bears an accidental relation to him; that is to say, he thereby is made a man, an extraordinary man to whom this happened through the wickedness of that generation—a fate which he was far from wishing to suffer, for he would gladly (as is human) have become a great man; whereas Christ voluntarily chose to be the lowly one and, although it was his purpose to save the world, wished also to give expression to what the "truth" suffered then, and must suffer in every generation. But if this is his strongest desire, and if he will show himself in his glory only at his return, and if he has not returned as yet; and if no generation may be without repentance, but on the contrary every generation must consider itself a partner in the guilt of that generation: then woe to him who presumes to deprive him of his lowliness, or to cause what he suffered to be forgotten, and to clothe him in the fabled human glory of the historic consequences of his life, which is neither here nor there.

If we assume that history can really do this, then Christ’s humiliation becomes merely something that happened to him. In other words, he becomes a man, an extraordinary man who suffered because of that generation’s wickedness. He would then have been far from wanting to suffer such a fate. He would gladly have become a great man, as any human might. But Christ freely chose to be lowly. Although his purpose was to save the world, he also wanted to show what the "truth" suffered then. He wanted to show what the truth must suffer in every generation. But suppose this is his deepest desire, and he will reveal his glory only when he returns. Suppose he has not yet returned. And suppose no generation may be free from repentance. Instead, every generation must see itself as sharing in that generation’s guilt. Then woe to anyone who dares to strip him of his lowliness or make people forget his suffering. Woe to anyone who clothes him in the mythical human glory of his life’s historical consequences. That glory is beside the point.

But precisely this is the misfortune, and has been the misfortune, in Christendom that Christ is neither the one nor the other—neither the one he was when living on earth, nor he who will return in glory, but rather one about whom we have learned to know something in an inadmissible way from history—that he was somebody or other of great account. In an inadmissible and unlawful way we have learned to know him; whereas to believe in him is the only permissible mode of approach. Men have mutually confirmed one another in the opinion that the sum total of information about him is available if they but consider the result of his life and the following 1800 years, i.e. the consequences. Gradually, as this became accepted as the truth, all pith and strength was distilled out of Christianity; the paradox was relaxed, one became a Christian without noticing it, without noticing in the least the possibility of being offended by him. One took over Christ's teachings, turned them inside out and smoothed them down—he himself guaranteeing them, of course, the man whose life had had such immense consequences in history! All became plain as day—very naturally, since Christianity in this fashion became heathendom.

But this is precisely the misfortune in Christendom, and always has been: Christ is neither one nor the other. He is neither the one he was while living on earth nor the one who will return in glory. Instead, he is someone we have learned about from history in an unacceptable way: someone of great importance. We have come to know him in an unacceptable and illegitimate way. Yet faith in him is the only permitted way to approach him. People have reassured one another that everything about him can be known simply by considering the results of his life. They need only consider his life and the following 1,800 years, that is, the consequences. Gradually, as this view became accepted as the truth, all substance and strength was drained from Christianity. The paradox lost its force. People became Christians without noticing, without even noticing the possibility of taking offense at him. They adopted Christ's teachings, turned them inside out, and smoothed them down. Christ himself guaranteed those teachings, of course, the man whose life had such immense consequences in history! Everything became as clear as day. Naturally enough, since Christianity had become paganism in the process.

There is in Christendom an incessant twaddling on Sundays about the glorious and invaluable truths of Christianity, its mild consolation. But it is indeed evident that Christ lived 1800 years ago; for the rock of offense and object of faith has become a most charming fairy-story character, a kind of divine good old man.⁹ People have not the remotest idea of what it means to be offended by him, and still less, what it means to worship. The qualities for which Christ is magnified are precisely those which would have most enraged one, if one had been contemporaneous with him; whereas now one feels altogether secure, placing implicit confidence in the result and, relying altogether on the verdict of history that he was the great man, concludes therefore that it is correct to do so. That is to say, it is the correct, arid the noble, and the exalted, and the true, thing—if it is he who does it; which is to say, again, that one does not in any deeper sense take the pains to understand what it is he does, and that one tries even less, to the best of one's ability and with the help of God, to be like him in acting rightly and nobly, and in an exalted manner, and truthfully. For, not really fathoming it in any deeper sense, one may, in the exigency of a contemporaneous situation, judge him in exactly the opposite way. One is satisfied with admiring and extolling and is, perhaps, as was said of a translator who rendered his original word for word and therefore without making sense, "too conscientious,"—one is, perhaps, also too cowardly and too weak to wish to understand his real meaning.

In Christendom, Sundays bring endless chatter about Christianity’s glorious, priceless truths and gentle comfort. But it is painfully clear that Christ lived 1800 years ago. The stumbling block and object of faith has become a charming fairy-tale character, a kind of divine kindly old man.⁹ People have not the slightest idea what it means to take offense at him, still less what worship means. They praise Christ for precisely the qualities that would have enraged them most if they had lived alongside him. Now, however, they feel completely safe, trusting the outcome without question. They rely entirely on history’s verdict that he was the great man, and therefore conclude that praising him is right. In other words, an action is right, noble, exalted, and true, if he is the one doing it. But people do not make any serious effort to understand what he actually does. Still less do they try, with all their ability and God’s help, to act like him: rightly, nobly, loftily, truthfully. Because they lack that deeper understanding, they may judge him in exactly the opposite way under the pressures of living alongside him. They are content to admire and praise him. Perhaps they are "too conscientious," as someone once said of a translator who translated word for word and produced nonsense. Perhaps they are also too cowardly and too weak to want to understand his real meaning.

Christendom has done away with Christianity, without being aware of it. Therefore, if anything is to be done about it, the attempt must be made to re-introduce Christianity.

Christendom has done away with Christianity without realizing it. So, if anything is to be done about this, we must try to reintroduce Christianity.

He who invites is, then, Jesus Christ in his abasement, it is he who spoke these words of invitation. It is not from his glory that they are spoken. If that were the case, then Christianity were heathendom and the name of Christ taken in vain, and for this reason it cannot be so. But if it were the case that he who is enthroned in glory had said these words: Come hither—as though it were so altogether easy a matter to be clasped in the arms of glory—well, what wonder, then, if crowds of men ran to him! But they who thus throng to him merely go on a wild goose chase, imagining they know who Christ is. But that no one knows; and in order to believe in him one has to begin with his abasement.

The one who invites us, then, is Jesus Christ in his humiliation. He is the one who spoke these words of invitation. He does not speak them from his glory. If he did, Christianity would be paganism, and Christ’s name would be taken in vain. For that reason, the invitation cannot come from his glory. But suppose Christ, enthroned in glory, had said these words: Come here. Suppose he spoke as though being embraced by glory were such an easy thing. Well, what wonder would there be if crowds rushed to him! But those who crowd around him like this are only on a wild goose chase. They imagine they know who Christ is. But no one knows who Christ is. And to believe in him, you must begin with his humiliation.

He who invites and speaks these words, that is, he whose words they are—whereas the same words if spoken by some one else are, as we have seen, an historic falsification—he is the same lowly Jesus Christ, the humble man, born of a despised maiden, whose father is a carpenter, related to other simple folk of the very lowest class, the lowly man who at the same time (which, to be sure, is like oil poured on the fire) affirms himself to be God.

The one who invites us and speaks these words is the one whose words they truly are. As we have seen, if anyone else speaks the same words, that is a falsification of history. The speaker is that same lowly Jesus Christ, a humble man born to a despised young woman. His father is a carpenter, and his relatives are ordinary people of the very lowest class. Yet this lowly man also declares himself to be God. That claim, of course, is like pouring oil on the fire.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ who spoke these words. And no word of Christ, not a single one, have you permission to appropriate to yourself, you have not the least share in him, are not in any way of his company, if you have not become his contemporary in lowliness in such fashion that you have become aware, precisely like his contemporaries, of his warning: "Blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in me.¹⁰" You have no right to accept Christ's words, and then lie him away; you have no right to accept Christ's words, and then in a fantastic manner, and with the aid of history, utterly change the nature of Christ; for the chatter of history about him is literally not worth a fig.

The lowly Jesus Christ spoke these words. You have no right to claim any of Christ's words, not a single one, unless you meet him in his lowliness as his contemporary. Without this, you have no share in him at all and do not belong with him in any way. You must become aware, just as his contemporaries did, of his warning: "Blessed is anyone who does not take offense at me.¹⁰" You have no right to accept Christ's words and then deny who he is. You have no right to accept Christ's words and then, through fantasy and history, completely change Christ's nature. For history's chatter about him is literally not worth a fig.

It is Jesus Christ in his lowliness who is the speaker. It is historically true that h e said these words; but so soon as one makes a change in his historic status, it is false to say that these words were spoken by him.

Jesus Christ is speaking in his lowly condition. It is historically true that he said these words. But as soon as someone changes his historical status, it becomes false to say he spoke these words.

This poor and lowly man, then, with twelve poor fellows as his disciples, all from the lowest class of society, for some time an object of curiosity, but later on in company only with sinners, publicans, lepers, and madmen; for one risked honor, life, and property, or at any rate (and that we know for sure) exclusion from the synagogue, by even letting one's self be helped by him—come hither now, all ye that labor and are heavy laden! Ah, my friend, even if you were deaf and blind and lame and leprous, if you, which has never been seen or heard before, united all human miseries in your misery—and if he wished to help you by a miracle: it is possible that (as is human) you would fear more than all your sufferings the punishment which was set on accepting aid from him, the punishment of being cast out from the society of other men, of being ridiculed and mocked, day after day, and perhaps of losing your life. It is human (and it is characteristic of being human) were you to think as follows: "no, thank you, in that case I prefer to remain deaf and blind and lame and leprous, rather than accept aid under such conditions."

Here, then, was this poor, lowly man, with twelve poor men as his disciples, all from society’s lowest class. For a while, he attracted curiosity. But later, his only companions were sinners, tax collectors, lepers, and people considered mad. For merely accepting his help meant risking your honor, life, and property. At the very least, you risked exclusion from the synagogue, and that we know for certain. Come here now, all you who struggle and carry heavy burdens! Ah, my friend, suppose you were deaf and blind and lame and leprous. Suppose your suffering combined all human miseries, something never seen or heard of before. Even then, if he wanted to help you through a miracle, you might fear the punishment more than all your suffering. Such fear would be human. The punishment for accepting his help was being cast out of human society and ridiculed and mocked, day after day. Perhaps you would even lose your life. It would be human (and characteristic of being human) to think: "no, thank you, in that case I prefer to remain deaf and blind and lame and leprous, rather than accept help under such conditions."

"Come hither, come hither, all, ye that labor and are heavy laden, ah, come hither," lo! he invites you and opens his arms. Ah, when a gentlemanly man clad in a silken gown says this in a pleasant, harmonious voice so that the words pleasantly resound in the handsome vaulted church, a man in silk who radiates honor and respect on all who listen to him; ah, when a king in purple and velvet says this, with the Christmas tree in the background on which are hanging all the splendid gifts he intends to distribute, why, then of course there is some meaning in these words! But whatever meaning you may attach to them, so much is sure that it is not Christianity, but the exact opposite, something as diametrically opposed to Christianity as may well be; for remember who it is that invites!

"Come here, come here, all of you who work hard and carry heavy burdens, ah, come here." Look, he invites you and opens his arms. Ah, suppose a refined man in a silk robe says these words in a pleasant, musical voice. His words echo pleasantly through the beautiful vaulted church. This man in silk casts honor and respect on all who listen to him. Ah, suppose a king in purple and velvet says these words, with a Christmas tree behind him. On the tree hang all the splendid gifts he intends to give away. Why, then of course these words mean something! But whatever meaning you may give them, one thing is certain: their meaning is not Christianity, but its exact opposite. That meaning is as utterly opposed to Christianity as anything could be. For remember who is inviting you!

And now judge for yourself—for that you have a right to do; whereas men really do not have a right to do what is so often done, viz. to deceive themselves. That a man of such appearance, a man whose company every one shuns who has the least bit of sense in his head, or the least bit to lose in the world, that he—well, this is the absurdest and maddest thing of all, one hardly knows whether to laugh or to weep about it—that he—indeed, that is the very last word one would expect to issue from his mouth; for if he had said: "Come hither and help me," or: "Leave me alone," or: "Spare me," or proudly: "I despise you all," we could understand that perfectly—but that such a man says: "Come hither to me!" why, I declare, that looks inviting indeed! And still further: "All ye that labor and are heavy laden"—as though such folk were not burdened enough with troubles, as though they now, to cap all, should be exposed to the consequences of associating with him. And then, finally: "I shall give you rest." What's that?—he help them? Ah, I am sure even the most good-natured joker who was contemporary with him would have to say: "Surely, that was the thing he should have undertaken last of all—to wish to help others, being in that condition himself! Why, it is about the same as if a beggar were to inform the police that he had been robbed. For it is a contradiction that one who has nothing, and has had nothing, informs us that he has been robbed; and likewise, to wish to help others when one's self needs help most." Indeed it is, humanly speaking, the most harebrained contradiction, that he who literally "hath not where to lay his head," that he about whom it was spoken truly, in a human sense, "Behold the man!"—that he should say: "Come hither unto me all ye that suffer—I shall help!"

Now judge for yourself, for you have the right to do so. But people have no right to do what they so often do: deceive themselves. Consider a man who looks like this. Everyone with the least bit of sense, or the least bit to lose in the world, avoids his company. Yet he says something so absurd and mad that one hardly knows whether to laugh or cry. His words are the very last words anyone would expect to hear from him. If he had said, "Come here and help me," or "Leave me alone," or "Spare me," we could understand perfectly. We could even understand him saying proudly, "I despise you all." But for such a man to say, "Come to me!" Well, I declare, that certainly sounds inviting! And he goes further: "All you who struggle and carry heavy burdens." As though such people did not have enough troubles already! As though, on top of everything, they should now face the consequences of associating with him! And then, finally: "I will give you rest." What? He will help them? Ah, I am sure even the most good-natured joker of his day would have to say: "Surely, helping others was the very last thing he should have attempted, given his own condition! Why, it is much like a beggar telling the police he has been robbed. For someone who has nothing, and has never had anything, contradicts himself by telling us he has been robbed. Wishing to help others when you yourself need help most is just as contradictory." Indeed, from a human point of view, his offer is the most harebrained contradiction. He literally has "nowhere to lay his head." Of him it was truly said, in a human sense, "Look at the man!" Yet he should be the one to say: "Come to me, all you who suffer. I will help!"

Now examine yourself—for that you have a right to do. You have a right to examine yourself, but you really do not have a right to let yourself without self-examination be deluded by "the others" into the belief, or to delude yourself into the belief, that you are a Christian—therefore examine yourself: supposing you were contemporary with him! True enough he—alas! he affirmed himself to be God! But many another madman has made that claim—and his times gave it as their opinion that he uttered blasphemy. Why, was not that precisely the reason why a punishment was threatened for allowing one's self to be aided by him? It was the godly care for their souls entertained by the existing order and by public opinion, lest any one should be led astray: it was this godly care that led them to persecute him in this fashion. Therefore, before any one resolves to be helped by him, let him consider that he must not only expect the antagonism of men, but—consider it well!—even if you could bear the consequences of that step—but consider well, that the punishment meted out by men is supposed to be God's punishment of him, "the blasphemer"—of him who invites!

Now examine yourself, for you have the right to do so. But you have no right to let "the others" deceive you into believing you are a Christian without examining yourself. Nor do you have the right to deceive yourself into that belief. So examine yourself: suppose you were living at the same time as him! True, he claimed to be God, alas! But many other madmen have made that claim. And people in his time judged his words to be blasphemy. Wasn't that precisely why anyone who accepted his help was threatened with punishment? The established order and public opinion showed a godly concern for people's souls, lest anyone be led astray. That godly concern led them to persecute him in this way. So before anyone decides to accept his help, let them consider that they must expect more than human hostility. Think carefully! Even if you could bear the consequences of that step, consider this carefully too. The punishment people inflict is supposed to be God's punishment of him, "the blasphemer", the very one offering help!

Come hither now all ye that labor and are heavy laden!

Come here now, all of you who work hard and are weighed down by burdens!

How now? Surely this is nothing to run after—some little pause is given, which is most fittingly used to go around about by way of another street. And even if you should not thus sneak out in some way—always providing you feel yourself to be contemporary with him—or sneak into being some kind of Christian by belonging to Christendom: yet there will be a tremendous pause given, the pause which is the very condition that faith may arise: you are given pause by the possibility of being offended in him.

What now? Surely this is nothing worth chasing. You are given a brief pause, best used to take a detour down another street. But suppose you do not sneak away like that, assuming throughout that you see yourself as his contemporary. And suppose you do not sneak into being some kind of Christian simply by belonging to Christendom. Even then, you will be given a tremendous pause, the very pause that makes it possible for faith to arise. What gives you pause is the possibility of taking offense at him.

But in order to make it entirely clear, and bring it home to our minds, that the pause is given by him who invites, that it is he who gives us pause and renders it by no means an easy, but a peculiarly difficult, matter to follow his invitation, because one has no right to accept it without accepting also him who invites—in order to make this entirely clear I shall briefly review his life under two aspects which, to be sure, show some difference though both essentially pertain to his abasement. For it is always an abasement for God to become man, even if he were to be an emperor of emperors; and therefore he is not essentially more abased because he is a poor, lowly man, mocked, and as Scripture adds,¹¹ spat upon.

But I want to make one thing entirely clear and bring it home to us. The one who invites us is himself the one who makes us hesitate. He makes following his invitation not at all easy, but especially difficult. For we have no right to accept the invitation without also accepting the one who invites us. To make this entirely clear, I will briefly review his life from two perspectives. These perspectives do differ somewhat, though both concern his humiliation. For God to become human is always a humiliation, even if he were to become an emperor of emperors. So he is not essentially more humiliated because he is a poor, lowly man, mocked and, as Scripture adds,¹¹ spat upon.

And now let us speak about him in a homely fashion, just as his contemporaries spoke about him, and as one speaks about some contemporary—let him be a man of the same kind as we are, whom one meets on the street in passing, of whom one knows where he lives and in what story, what his business is, who his parents are, his family, how he looks and how he dresses, with whom he associates, "and there is nothing extraordinary about him, he looks as men generally look"; in short, let us speak of him as one speaks of some contemporary about whom one does not make a great ado; for in living life together with these thousands upon thousands of real people there is no room for a fine distinction like this: "Possibly, this man will be remembered in centuries to come," and "at the same time he is really only a clerk in some shop who is no whit better than his fellows." Therefore, let us speak about him as contemporaries speak about some contemporary. I know very well what I am doing; and I want you to believe that the canting and indolent world-historic habit we have of always reverently speaking about Christ (since one has learned all about it from history, and has heard so much about his having been something very extraordinary, indeed, or something of that kind)—that reverent habit, I assure you, is not worth a row of pins but is, rather, sheer thoughtlessness, hypocrisy, and as such blasphemy; for it is blasphemy to reverence thoughtlessly him whom one is either to believe in or to be offended in.

Now let us speak about him in an ordinary, familiar way, just as his contemporaries did. Let us speak as we would about someone living among us. Let him be a man like us, someone we pass on the street. We know where he lives and on what floor, what his work is, who his parents and family are. We know how he looks and dresses, and whom he spends time with, "and there is nothing extraordinary about him, he looks like anyone else". In short, let us speak of him as someone living among us whom we make no fuss about. For when we live alongside thousands upon thousands of real people, there is no room for a subtle distinction like this: "Perhaps this man will be remembered centuries from now," and "at the same time, he is really only a shop clerk, no better than his fellow workers." So let us speak about him as people speak about someone living in their own time. I know very well what I am doing, and I want you to believe what I say next. We have a pious, lazy habit of always speaking reverently about Christ from the perspective of world history. After all, we have learned all about him from history. We have heard so much about his having been someone truly extraordinary, or something of that kind. That reverent habit, I assure you, is worth nothing at all. Rather, it is sheer thoughtlessness and hypocrisy, and therefore blasphemy. For it is blasphemy to thoughtlessly revere someone whom we must either believe in or take offense at.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ, a humble man, born of a maiden of low degree, whose father is a carpenter. To be sure, his appearance is made under conditions which are bound to attract attention to him. The small nation among whom he appears, God's Chosen People as they call themselves, live in anticipation of a Messiah who is to bring a golden period to land and people. You must grant that the form in which he appears is as different as possible from what most people would have expected. On the other hand, his appearance corresponds more to the ancient prophecies with which the people are thought to have been familiar. Thus he presents himself. A predecessor has called attention to him, and he himself fastens attention very decidedly on himself by signs and wonders which are noised abroad in all the land—and he is the hero of the hour, surrounded by unnumbered multitudes of people wheresoever he fares. The sensation aroused by him is enormous, every one's eyes are fastened on him, every one who can go about, aye even those who can only crawl, must see the wonder—and every one must have some opinion about him, so that the purveyors of ready-made opinions are put to it because the demand is so furious and the contradictions so confusing. And yet he, the worker of miracles, ever remains the humble man who literally hath not where to lay his head.

Here is the lowly Jesus Christ, a humble man, born to a young woman of low social standing. His father is a carpenter. To be sure, he appears under circumstances bound to draw attention to him. The small nation among whom he appears call themselves God's Chosen People. They await a Messiah who will bring a golden age to their land and people. You must admit that he appears in a form as different as possible from what most people would have expected. On the other hand, his appearance fits more closely with the ancient prophecies the people are thought to have known. This is how he presents himself. Someone who came before him has drawn attention to him. He himself draws attention very deliberately to himself through signs and wonders reported throughout the land. And he is the hero of the hour, surrounded by countless crowds wherever he goes. The excitement he arouses is enormous. Everyone's eyes are fixed on him. Everyone who can walk, yes, even those who can only crawl, must see this wonder. And everyone must have an opinion about him. So the suppliers of ready-made opinions struggle to keep up, because demand is so frantic and the contradictions so confusing. And yet he, the miracle worker, remains the humble man who literally has nowhere to lay his head.

And let us not forget: signs and wonders as contemporary events have a markedly greater elasticity in repelling or attracting than the tame stories generally re-hashed by the priests, or the still tamer stories about signs and wonders that happened—1800 years ago! Signs and wonders as contemporary events are something plaguy and importunate, something which in a highly embarrassing manner almost compels one to have an opinion, something which, if one does not happen to be disposed to believe, may exasperate one excessively by thus forcing one to be contemporaneous with it. Indeed, it renders existence too complicated, and the more so, the more thoughtful, developed, and cultured one is. It is a peculiarly ticklish matter, this having to assume that a man who is contemporaneous with one really performs signs and wonders; but when he is at some distance from one, when the consequences of his life stimulate the imagination a bit, then it is not so hard to imagine, in a fashion, that one believes it.

And let us not forget: signs and wonders happening in our own time have far greater power to repel or attract. They do far more than the tame stories priests keep repeating. They do far more than the still tamer stories about signs and wonders that happened 1,800 years ago! Signs and wonders happening in our own time are troublesome and intrusive. They almost force us to take a position, putting us in a deeply awkward situation. If we are not inclined to believe, being forced to live alongside such events may make us extremely angry. Indeed, such events make life too complicated. And the more thoughtful, intellectually developed, and cultured we are, the more complicated they make life. It is a particularly delicate matter to accept that a man living in our own time really performs signs and wonders. But when he is at some distance from us, the situation changes. When the effects of his life stir our imagination a little, we can more easily imagine that we somehow believe.

As I said, then, the people are carried away with him; they follow him jubilantly, and see signs and wonders, both those which he performs and those which he does not perform, and they are glad in their hope that the golden age will begin, once he is king. But the crowd rarely have a clear reason for their opinions, they think one thing today and another tomorrow. Therefore the wise and the critical will not at once participate. Let us see now what the wise and the critical must think, so soon as the first impression of astonishment and surprise has subsided.

As I said, then, the people are swept away by him. They follow him joyfully and see signs and wonders, both those he performs and those he does not perform. They rejoice in the hope that the golden age will begin once he is king. But crowds rarely have a clear reason for their opinions. They think one thing today and another tomorrow. So wise and critical people will not join in right away. Let us now see what wise and critical people must think once their initial astonishment and surprise have faded.

The shrewd and critical man would probably say: "Even assuming that this person is what he claims to be, that is, something extraordinary—for as to his affirming himself to be God I can, of course, not consider that as anything but an exaggeration for which I willingly make allowances, and pardon him, if I really considered him to be something extraordinary; for I am not a pedant—assuming then, which I hesitate to do, for it is a matter on which I shall at any rate suspend my judgment—assuming then that he is really performing miracles: is it not an inexplicable mystery that this person can be so foolish, so weak-minded, so altogether devoid of worldly wisdom, so feeble, or so good-naturedly vain, or whatever else you please to call it—that he behaves in this fashion and almost forces his benefactions on men? Instead of proudly and commandingly keeping people away from himself at a distance marked by their profoundest submission, whenever he does allow himself to be seen, at rare occasions: instead of doing so, think of his being accessible to every one, or rather himself going to every one, of having intercourse with everybody, almost as if being the extraordinary person consisted in his being everybody's servant,¹² as if the extraordinary person he claims to be were marked by his being concerned only lest men should fail to be benefited by him—in short as if being an extraordinary person consisted in being the most solicitous of all persons. The whole business is inexplicable to me—what he wants, what his purpose is, what end he has in mind, what he expects to accomplish; in a word, what the meaning of it all is. He who by so many a wise saying reveals so profound an insight into the human heart, he must certainly know what I, using but half of my wits, can predict for him, viz. that in such fashion one gets nowhere in the world—unless, indeed, despising prudence, one consistently, aims to make a fool of one's self or, perchance, goes so far in sincerity as to prefer being put to death; but anyone, one desiring that must certainly be crazy. Having such profound knowledge of the human heart he certainly ought to know that the thing to do is to deceive people and then to give one's deception the appearance of being a benefaction conferred on the whole race. By doing so one reaps all advantages, even the one whose enjoyment is the sweetest of all, which is, to be called by one's contemporaries a benefactor of the human race—for, once in your grave, you may snap your fingers at what posterity may have to say about you. But to surrender one's self altogether, as he does, and not to think the least of one's self—in fact, almost to beg people to accept these benefactions: no, I would not dream of joining his company. And, of course, neither does he invite me; for, indeed, he invites only them that labor and are heavy laden."

The shrewd, critical man would probably say: "Suppose this person is what he claims to be, someone extraordinary. Of course, I can only regard his claim to be God as an exaggeration. If I really thought him extraordinary, I would willingly make allowances for that exaggeration and forgive him. After all, I am not a pedant. Still, I hesitate to suppose he is extraordinary, and in any case I will withhold judgment. But suppose he really does perform miracles. Isn't it an inexplicable mystery that he can behave so foolishly? How can he be so weak-minded, so completely lacking in worldly wisdom, so feeble, or so foolishly vain in his kindness? Call his behavior whatever you like. How can he act this way, almost forcing his good deeds on people? He should proudly command people to keep their distance, showing the deepest submission whenever he appears, which should be rarely. Instead, think how he makes himself available to everyone. Or rather, he goes to everyone himself and mixes with everybody. He acts almost as if being extraordinary meant being everyone's servant,¹² as if his extraordinary status had one defining feature: his only concern is that people might fail to benefit from him. In short, he acts as if being extraordinary meant being more concerned for others than anyone else. "The whole business makes no sense to me. What does he want? What is his purpose? What goal does he have in mind? What does he expect to accomplish? In a word, what does it all mean? So many of his wise sayings reveal a profound understanding of the human heart. Surely, then, he must know what I can predict for him with only half my wits. Acting this way gets you nowhere in the world. Unless, of course, you reject caution and deliberately set out to make a fool of yourself. Or perhaps you take sincerity so far that you would rather be put to death. But anyone who wants that must certainly be crazy. With his profound understanding of the human heart, he certainly ought to know what to do. You deceive people, then make your deception look like a good deed done for the whole human race. That way, you gain every advantage, including the sweetest pleasure of all: being called humanity's benefactor by your contemporaries. Once you're in your grave, you can snap your fingers at whatever future generations may say about you. "But to give himself up completely, as he does, without the slightest thought for himself! To practically beg people to accept his good deeds! No, I would not dream of joining his company. And of course, he does not invite me either. Indeed, he invites only those who struggle and are weighed down by their burdens."

Or he would reason as follows: "His life is simply a fantastic dream. In fact, that is the mildest expression one can use about it; for, when judging him in this fashion, one is good-natured enough to forget altogether the evidence of sheer madness in his claim to be God. This is wildly fantastical. One may possibly live a few years of one's youth in such fashion. But he is now past thirty years. And he is literally nothing. Still further, in a very short time he will necessarily lose all the respect and reputation he has gained among the people, the only thing, you may say, he has gained for himself. One who wishes to keep in the good graces of the people—the riskiest chance imaginable, I will admit—he must act differently. Not many months will pass before the crowd will grow tired of one who is so altogether at their service. He will be regarded as a ruined person, a kind of outcast, who ought to be glad to end his days in a corner, the world forgetting, by the world forgot; providing he does not, by continuing his previous behavior, prefer to maintain his present attitude and be fantastic enough to wish to be put to death, which is the unavoidable consequence of persevering in that course. What has he done for his future? Nothing. Has he any assured position? No. What expectations has he? None. Even this trifling matter: what will he do to pass the time when he grows older, the long winter nights, what will he do to make them pass—why, he cannot even play cards! He is now enjoying a bit of popular favor—in truth, of all movable property the most movable—which in a trice may turn into an enormous popular hatred of him.—Join his company? No, thank you, I am still, thank God, in my right mind."

Or he would reason like this: "His life is simply a wild dream. In fact, that is the mildest way to describe his life. Such a judgment kindly overlooks all the evidence of sheer madness in his claim to be God. His life is wildly unrealistic. Someone might live like that for a few years in his youth. But he is now over thirty. And he is literally nothing. Before long, he will inevitably lose all the respect and standing he has gained among the people. You might say their respect is the only thing he has gained for himself. Anyone who wants to stay in the people's good graces must act differently. I admit that relying on their favor is the riskiest gamble imaginable. Within a few months, the crowd will tire of someone who is so completely at their service. People will see him as a ruined man, a kind of outcast. He should be glad to spend his last days in a corner, forgetting the world and forgotten by the world. That is, unless he prefers to keep behaving as before and maintain his present position. He might be wild enough to want to be put to death. Death is the unavoidable result of continuing on that course. What has he done for his future? Nothing. Does he have a secure position? No. What prospects does he have? None. Take even this trivial matter: how will he pass the time when he grows older? How will he get through the long winter nights? Why, he cannot even play cards! Right now, he enjoys a little popular favor. Truly, of all movable property, popular favor is the most movable. In an instant, that favor may turn into enormous public hatred of him. Join him? No, thank you. Thank God, I am still in my right mind."

Or he may reason as follows: "That there is something extraordinary about this person—even if one reserves the right, both one's own and that of common sense, to refrain from venturing any opinion as to his claim of being God—about that there is really little doubt. Rather, one might be indignant at Providence's having entrusted such a person with these powers—a person who does the very opposite of what he himself bids us do: that we shall not cast our pearls before the swine; for which reason he will, as he himself predicts, come to grief by their turning about and trampling him under their feet. One may always expect this of swine; but, on the other hand, one would not expect that he who had himself called attention to this likelihood, himself would do precisely¹³ what he knows one should not do. If only there were some means of cleverly stealing his wisdom—for I shall gladly leave him in undisputed possession of that very peculiar thought of his that he is God—if one could but rob his wisdom without, at the same time, becoming his disciple! If one could only steal up to him at night and lure it from him; for I am more than equal to editing and publishing it, and better than he, if you please. I undertake to astonish the whole world by getting something altogether different out of it; for I clearly see there is something wondrously profound in what he says, and the misfortune is only that he is the man he is. But perhaps, who knows, perhaps it is feasible, anyway, to fool him out of it. Perhaps in that respect too he is good-natured and simple enough to communicate it quite freely to me. It is not impossible; for it seems to me that the wisdom he unquestionably possesses, evidently has been entrusted to a fool, seeing there is so much contradiction in his life.—But as to joining his company and becoming his disciple—no, indeed, that would be the same as becoming'a fool oneself." Or he might reason as follows: "If this person does indeed mean to further what is good and true (I do not venture to decide this), he is helpful at least, in this respect, to youths and inexperienced people. For they will be benefited, in this serious life of ours, by learning, the sooner the better, and very thoroughly—he opens the eyes even of the blindest to this—that all this pretense of wishing to live only for goodness and truth contains a considerable admixture of the ridiculous. He proves how right the poets of our times are when they let truth and goodness be represented by some half-witted fellow, one who is so stupid that you can knock down a wall with him. The idea of exerting one's self, as this man does, of renouncing everything but pains and trouble, to be at beck and call all day long, more eager than the busiest family physician—and pray why? Because he makes a living by it? No, not in the very least; it has never occurred to him, as far as I can see, to want something in return. Does he earn any money by it? No, not a red cent—he has not a red cent to his name, and if he did he would forthwith give it away. Does he, then, aspire to a position of honor and dignity in the state? On the contrary, he loathes all worldly honor. And he who, as I said, condemns all worldly honor, and practices the art of living on nothing; he who, if any one, seems best fitted to pass his life in a most comfortable dolce far niente—which is not such a bad thing—: he lives under a greater strain than any government official who is rewarded by honor and dignity, lives under a greater strain than any business man who earns money like sand. Why does he exert himself thus, or (why this question about a matter not open to question?) why should any one exert himself thus—in order to attain to the happiness of being ridiculed, mocked, and so forth? To be sure, a peculiar kind of pleasure! That one should push one's way through a crowd to reach the spot where money, honor, and glory are distributed—why, that is perfectly understandable; but to push forward to be whipped: how exalted, how Christian, how stupid!"

Or he may reason as follows: "There is really little doubt that this person is extraordinary. Still, I reserve the right to withhold judgment on his claim to be God, as common sense also demands. Rather, one might resent Providence for entrusting such a person with these powers. He does the very opposite of what he tells us to do: not to cast our pearls before swine. So, as he himself predicts, he will come to grief when the swine turn and trample him underfoot. One can always expect such behavior from swine. But he himself warned of that danger. One would not expect him to do precisely¹³ what he knows one should not do. If only there were some clever way to steal his wisdom without becoming his disciple! I would gladly leave him undisputed possession of his very peculiar idea that he is God. If only one could sneak up to him at night and coax his wisdom out of him! I am more than capable of editing and publishing his wisdom, and better than he can, if you please. I promise to astonish the whole world by making something altogether different of his wisdom. I can clearly see something wonderfully profound in what he says. The only misfortune is that he is the man he is. But perhaps, who knows, it might still be possible to trick him out of his wisdom. Perhaps he is also good-natured and simple enough to share his wisdom freely with me. It is not impossible. He unquestionably possesses wisdom, but that wisdom seems to me to have been entrusted to a fool. There are so many contradictions in his life. But join his company and become his disciple? No, indeed, that would mean becoming a fool oneself." Or he might reason as follows: "If this person really means to advance goodness and truth, he is at least helpful to young and inexperienced people. I do not venture to decide whether he does. In this serious life of ours, young people will benefit from learning a lesson, the sooner and more thoroughly the better. He opens even the blindest eyes to that lesson. All this pretense of wanting to live only for goodness and truth contains a considerable amount of foolishness. He proves how right the poets of our time are when they portray truth and goodness through some half-wit. The fellow is so thickheaded that you could knock down a wall with him. Imagine working as hard as this man does, giving up everything except pain and trouble. Imagine being at everyone's beck and call all day, more eager to serve than the busiest family doctor. And why, may I ask? Because he makes a living from it? No, not at all. As far as I can see, wanting something in return has never occurred to him. Does he earn any money from it? No, not a penny. He has no money to his name, and if he did, he would immediately give it away. Does he then seek an honored and distinguished position in the state? On the contrary, he hates all worldly honor. As I said, he condemns all worldly honor and practices the art of living on nothing. If anyone seems ideally suited to spend his life in comfortable dolce far niente, or pleasant idleness, he does. And pleasant idleness is not such a bad thing. Yet he lives under greater strain than any government official rewarded with honor and distinction. He lives under greater strain than any businessman making money hand over fist. Why does he work so hard? Or rather, why ask a question whose answer is beyond doubt? Why should anyone work so hard just to gain the happiness of being ridiculed, mocked, and so on? Certainly, a peculiar kind of pleasure! Pushing through a crowd to reach the place where money, honor, and glory are handed out is perfectly understandable. But pushing forward to be whipped: how noble, how Christian, how stupid!"

Or he will reason as follows: "One hears so many rash opinions about this person from people who understand nothing—and worship him; and so many severe condemnations of him by those who, perhaps, misunderstand him after all. As for me, I am not going to allow myself to be accused of venturing a hasty opinion. I shall keep entirely cool and calm; in fact, which counts for still more, I am conscious of being as reasonable and moderate with him as is possible. Grant now—which, to be sure. I do only to a certain extent—grant even that one's reason is impressed by this person. What, then, is my opinion about him? My opinion is, that for the present, I can form no opinion about him. I do not mean about his claim of being God; for about that I can never in all eternity have an opinion. No, I mean about him as a man. Only by the consequences of his life shall we be able to decide whether he was an extraordinary person or whether, deceived by his imagination, he applied too high a standard, not only to himself, but also to humanity in general. More I cannot do for him, try as I may—if he were my only friend, my own child, I could not judge him more leniently, nor differently, either. It follows from this, to be sure, that in all probability, and for good reasons, I shall not ever be able to have any opinion about him. For in order to be able to form an opinion I must first see the consequences of his life, including his very last moments; that is, he must be dead. Then, and perhaps not even then, may I form an opinion of him. And even granting this, it is not really an opinion about him, for he is then no more. No more is needed to say why it is impossible for me to join him while he is living. The authority he is said to show in his teaching can have no decisive influence in my case; for it is surely easy to see that his thought moves in a circle. He quotes as authority that which he is to prove, which in its turn can be proved only by the consequences of his life; provided, of course, it is not connected with that fixed idea of his about being God, because if it is therefore he has this authority (because he is God) the answer must be: yes—if! So much, however, I may admit, that if I could imagine myself self living in some later age, and if the consequences of his life as shown in history had made it plain that he was the extraordinary person he in a former age claimed to be, then it might very well be—in fact, I might come very near, becoming his disciple."

Or he will reason as follows: "You hear so many rash opinions about this person from people who understand nothing and worship him. And you hear so many harsh judgments from people who may, after all, misunderstand him. As for me, I will not let anyone accuse me of rushing to judgment. I will stay completely cool and calm. More importantly, I know I am being as reasonable and moderate toward him as possible. Suppose, then, that this person impresses one's reason. Admittedly, I grant that only to a certain extent. Even so, what is my opinion of him? My opinion is that, for now, I can form no opinion of him. I do not mean his claim to be God. I can never, in all eternity, have an opinion about that. No, I mean an opinion of him as a man. Only the consequences of his life will let us decide whether he was an extraordinary person. Or perhaps his imagination deceived him into setting too high a standard, both for himself and for humanity in general. I cannot do more for him, however hard I try. If he were my only friend or my own child, I could judge him no more leniently or differently. "Of course, it follows that I will probably never be able to have any opinion of him, and with good reason. To form an opinion, I must first see the consequences of his life, including his very last moments. In other words, he must be dead. Only then, and perhaps not even then, may I form an opinion of him. Even then, my opinion would not really be about him, because he would no longer exist. That alone explains why I cannot join him while he is alive. The authority he is said to show in his teaching cannot carry decisive weight with me. For surely it is easy to see that his reasoning goes in a circle. He cites as his authority the very thing he has to prove. And that can be proved only by the consequences of his life. This assumes, of course, that his authority is not tied to his fixed idea that he is God. For if he has this authority because he is God, the answer must be: yes, if! "Still, I can admit this much. Suppose I could imagine myself living in some later age. Suppose history had shown the consequences of his life. And suppose those consequences clearly showed that he was the extraordinary person he had once claimed to be. Then it might very well happen. In fact, I might come very close to becoming his disciple."

An ecclesiastic would reason as follows: "For an impostor and demagogue he has, to say the truth, a remarkable air of honesty about him; for which reason he cannot be so absolutely dangerous, either, even though the situation looks dangerous enough while the squall is at its height, and even though the situation looks dangerous enough with his enormous popularity—until the squall has passed over and the people—yes, precisely the people—overthrow him again. The honest thing about him is his claim to be the Messiah when he resembles him so little as he does. That is honest, just as if some one in preparing bogus paper-money made the bills so poorly that every one who knows the least about it cannot fail to detect the fraud.—True enough, we all look forward to a Messiah, but surely no one with any sense expects God himself to come, and every religious person shudders at the blasphemous attitude of this person. We look forward to a Messiah, we are all agreed on that. But the governance of the world does not go forward tumultuously, by leaps and bounds; the development of the world, as is indicated by the very fact that it is a development, proceeds by evolution, not by revolution. The true Messiah will therefore look quite different, and will arrive as the most glorious flower, and the highest development, of that which already exists. Thus will the true Messiah come, and he will proceed in an entirely different fashion: he will recognize the existing order as the basis of things, he will summon all the clergy to council and present to them the results accomplished by him, as well as his credentials—and then, if he obtain the majority of the votes when the ballot is cast, he will be received and saluted as the extraordinary person, as the one he is: the Messiah.¹⁴

A clergyman would reason as follows: "For an impostor and demagogue, he has a remarkably honest air about him, to tell the truth. So he cannot be all that dangerous, either. Granted, things look dangerous enough while the storm is at its height, and his enormous popularity looks dangerous enough. But then the storm passes, and the people, yes, the very same people, bring him down again. What makes him honest is his claim to be the Messiah when he resembles the Messiah so little. That is honest in the same way as making counterfeit banknotes so poorly that anyone with the slightest knowledge spots the fraud. True enough, we all look forward to a Messiah. But surely no one with any sense expects God himself to come. And every religious person shudders at this man's blasphemous attitude. We look forward to a Messiah. We all agree on that. But the world is not governed through turmoil and sudden leaps. The world's development, as the very word 'development' suggests, proceeds through evolution, not revolution. So the true Messiah will look quite different. He will come as the most glorious flower, the highest development of what already exists. That is how the true Messiah will come, and he will act in an entirely different way. He will recognize the existing order as the foundation. He will call all the clergy together for a council and present his achievements and credentials to them. Then, if he wins a majority of the votes, he will be welcomed and hailed as the extraordinary person he is: the Messiah.¹⁴

"However, there is a duplicity in this man's behavior; he assumes too much the role of judge. It seems as if he wished to be, at one and the same time, both the judge who passes sentence on the existing order of things, and the Messiah. If he does not wish to play the role of the judge, then why his absolute isolation, his keeping at a distance from all which has to do with the existing order of things? And if he does not wish to be the judge, then why his fantastic flight from reality to join the ignorant crowd, then why with the haughtiness of a revolutionary does he despise all the intelligence and efficiency to be found in the existing order of things? And why does he begin afresh altogether, and absolutely from the bottom up, by the help of—fishermen and artisans? May not the fact that he is an illegitimate child fitly characterize his entire relation to the existing order of things? On the other hand, if he wishes to be only the Messiah, why then his warning about putting a piece of new cloth unto an old garment.¹⁵ For these words are precisely the watchwords of every revolution since they are expressive of a person's discontent with the existing order and of his wish to destroy it. That is, these words reveal his desire to remove existing conditions, rather than to build on them and better them, if one is a reformer, or to develop them to their highest possibility, if one is indeed the Messiah. This is duplicity. In fact, it is not feasible to be both judge and Messiah. Such duplicity will surely result in his downfall.¹⁶ The climax in the life of a judge is his death by violence, and so the poet pictures it correctly; but the climax in the life of the Messiah cannot possibly be his death. Or else, by that very fact, he would not be the Messiah, that is, he whom the existing order expects in order to deify him. This duplicity has not as yet been recognized by the people, who see in him their Messiah; but the existing order of things cannot by any manner of means recognize him as such. The people, the idle and loafing crowd, can do so only because they represent nothing less than the existing order of things. But as soon as the duplicity becomes evident to them, his doom is sealed. Why, in this respect his predecessor was a far more definitely marked personality, for he was but one thing, the judge. But what confusion and thoughtlessness, to wish to be both, and what still worse confusion, to acknowledge his predecessor as the judge—that is, in other words, precisely to make the existing order of things receptive and ripe for the Messiah who is to come after the judge, and yet not wish to associate himself with the existing order of things!"

"However, there is a duplicity in this man's behavior. He takes too much upon himself as a judge. He seems to want to be both the judge who condemns the existing order and the Messiah. If he does not want to act as judge, why does he isolate himself so completely? Why does he keep away from everything connected with the existing order? And if he does not want to be the judge, why his fantastic escape from reality to join the ignorant crowd? Why does he show a revolutionary's arrogance in despising all the intelligence and effectiveness found in the existing order? And why does he start over completely, from the very bottom, with the help of fishermen and artisans? Might his being an illegitimate child aptly characterize his whole relationship with the existing order? On the other hand, if he wants only to be the Messiah, why warn against sewing new cloth onto an old garment?¹⁵ Those words are precisely the watchwords of every revolution. They express a person's dissatisfaction with the existing order and desire to destroy it. In other words, they reveal his wish to sweep away existing conditions rather than build on them. A reformer would build on those conditions and improve them. Someone who truly is the Messiah would develop those conditions to their fullest potential. This is duplicity. In fact, being both judge and Messiah is impossible. Such duplicity will surely bring about his downfall.¹⁶ The climax of a judge's life is a violent death, and the poet rightly portrays it that way. But the climax of the Messiah's life cannot possibly be his death. Otherwise, his death would itself prove that he was not the Messiah. The Messiah is the one the existing order expects and intends to worship as divine. The people, who see him as their Messiah, have not yet recognized this duplicity. But the existing order cannot possibly recognize him as the Messiah. The people, that idle, loafing crowd, can recognize him only because they are anything but representatives of the existing order. But as soon as his duplicity becomes clear to them, his doom is sealed. Why, in this respect his predecessor was a far more clearly defined figure. He was only one thing: the judge. But what confusion and thoughtlessness to want to be both! And what even worse confusion to acknowledge his predecessor as the judge, yet refuse any association with the existing order! Acknowledging his predecessor as judge means precisely preparing the existing order to receive the Messiah who is to follow the judge!"

And the philosopher would reason as follows: "Such dreadful or, rather, insane vanity, that a single individual claims to be God, is a thing hitherto unheard of. Never before have we been witness to such an excess of pure subjectivity and sheer negation. He has no doctrines, no system of philosophy, he knows really nothing, he simply keeps on repeating, and making variations on, some unconnected aphoristic sentences, some few maxims, and a couple of parables by which he dazzles the crowd for whom he also performs signs and wonders; so that they, instead of learning something, or being improved, come to believe in one who in a most brazen way constantly forces his subjective views on us. There is nothing objective or positive whatever in him and in what he says. Indeed, from a philosophical point of view, he does not need to fear destruction for he has perished already, since it is inherent in the nature of subjectivity to perish. One may in all fairness admit that his subjectivity is remarkable and that, be it as it may with the other miracles, he constantly repeats his miracle with the five small loaves,¹⁷ viz., by means of a few lyric utterances and some aphorisms he rouses the whole country. But even if one were inclined to overlook his insane notion of affirming himself to be God, it is an incomprehensible mistake, which, to be sure, demonstrates a lack of philosophic training, to believe that God could reveal himself in the form of an individual. The race, the universal, the total, is God; but the race surely is not an individual! Generally speaking, that is the impudent assumption of subjectivity, which claims that the individual is something extraordinary. But sheer insanity is shown in the claim of an individual to be God. Because if the insane thing were possible, viz. that an individual might be God, why, then this individual would have to be worshipped, and a more beastly philosophic stupidity is not conceivable."

And the philosopher would reason as follows: "Such dreadful, or rather insane, vanity is unheard of: a single individual claims to be God. Never before have we witnessed such an extreme of pure subjectivity and sheer negation. He has no doctrines, no philosophical system. He really knows nothing. He simply repeats and varies a few disconnected, aphoristic sentences, a few maxims, and a couple of parables. With these he dazzles the crowd, for whom he also performs signs and wonders. So instead of learning anything or becoming better people, they come to believe in him. And he constantly forces his subjective views on us in the most brazen way. There is nothing objective or positive at all in him or in what he says. Indeed, from a philosophical standpoint, he need not fear destruction, because he has already perished. For subjectivity, by its very nature, must perish. One may fairly admit that his subjectivity is remarkable. Whatever may be true of the other miracles, he constantly repeats his miracle with the five small loaves,¹⁷ that is, he stirs the whole country with a few lyrical statements and some aphorisms. But suppose one were inclined to overlook his insane notion of declaring himself God. Even then, believing that God could reveal himself as an individual is an incomprehensible mistake. That mistake certainly shows a lack of philosophical training. The human race, the universal, the whole, is God. But the human race is surely not an individual! Generally speaking, subjectivity makes the insolent assumption that the individual is something extraordinary. But an individual's claim to be God is sheer insanity. For suppose such an insane thing were possible, that an individual could be God. Then that individual would have to be worshipped. And no more brutish philosophical stupidity is conceivable."

The astute statesman would reason as follows: "That at present this person wields great power is undeniable—entirely disregarding, of course, this notion of his that he is God. Foibles like these, being idiosyncrasies, do not count against a man and concern no one, least of all a statesman. A statesman is concerned only with what power a man wields; and that he does wield great power cannot, as I have remarked, be denied. But what he intends to do, what his aim is, I cannot make out at all. If this be calculation it must be of an entirely new and peculiar order, not so altogether unlike what is otherwise called madness. He possesses points of considerable strength; but he seems to defeat, rather than to use, it; he expends it without himself getting any returns. I consider him a phenomenon with which—as ought to be one's rule with all phenomena—a wise man should not have anything to do, since it is impossible to calculate him or the catastrophe threatening his life. It is possible that he will be made king. It is possible, I say; but it is not impossible, or rather, it is just as possible, that he may end on the gallows. He lacks earnestness in all his endeavors. With all his enormous stretch of wings he only hovers and gets nowhere. He does not seem to have any definite plan of procedure, but just hovers. Is it for his nationality he is fighting, or does he aim at a communistic revolution? Does he wish to establish a republic or a kingdom? With which party does he affiliate himself to combat which party, or does he wish to fight all parties?

The shrewd statesman would reason as follows: "There is no denying that this person currently holds great power. Of course, I am setting aside his notion that he is God. Such quirks are personal peculiarities. They do not count against a man and are no one’s concern, least of all a statesman’s. A statesman cares only about how much power a man holds. And as I have said, there is no denying that he holds great power. But I cannot make out at all what he intends to do or what his goal is. If he is acting strategically, his strategy must be entirely new and peculiar, not so very different from madness. He has considerable strengths, but he seems to undermine his power rather than use it. He spends his power without gaining anything himself. I consider him a phenomenon that a wise man should have nothing to do with. That ought to be the rule with all phenomena. For no one can predict his actions or the catastrophe threatening his life. It is possible that he will be made king. Possible, I say, but it is not impossible that he may end up on the gallows. Or rather, that outcome is just as possible. He lacks seriousness in everything he attempts. For all his enormous wingspan, he merely hovers and gets nowhere. He seems to have no definite plan of action, but merely hovers. Is he fighting for his nation, or does he aim at a communist revolution? Does he want to establish a republic or a kingdom? Which party does he side with, and which party does he oppose? Or does he want to fight all parties?

"I have anything to do with him?—No, that would be the very last thing to enter my mind. In fact, I take all possible precautions to avoid him. I keep quiet, undertake nothing, act as if I did not exist; for one cannot even calculate how he might interfere with one's undertakings, be they ever so unimportant, or at any rate, how one might become involved in the vortex of his activities. Dangerous, in a certain sense enormously dangerous, is this man. But I calculate that I may ensnare him precisely by doing nothing. For overthrown he must be. And this is done most; safely by letting him do it himself, by letting him stumble over himself. I have, at least at this moment, not sufficient power to bring about his fall; in fact, I know no one who has. To undertake the least thing against him now, means to be crushed one's self. No, my plan is constantly to exert only negative resistance to him, that is, to do nothing, and he will probably involve himself in the enormous consequences he draws after him, till in the end he will tread on his own train, as it were, and thus fall."

"Me, have anything to do with him? No, that would be the last thing on my mind. In fact, I take every possible precaution to avoid him. I stay quiet, do nothing, and act as if I don't exist. For no one can predict how he might interfere with their plans, however unimportant those plans may be. Or at least, no one can predict how they might get caught up in the whirlwind of his activities. This man is dangerous, in a certain sense enormously dangerous. But I figure I may trap him precisely by doing nothing. For he must be brought down. And the safest way is to let him bring himself down, to let him trip over himself. At least for now, I don't have enough power to bring him down. In fact, I know no one who does. To make even the slightest move against him now means being crushed yourself. No, my plan is to keep resisting him only passively, that is, by doing nothing. He will probably get entangled in the enormous consequences he leaves in his wake. In the end, he will step on his own trailing robe, so to speak, and fall."

And the steady citizen would reason as follows (which would then become the opinion of his family): "Now, let us be human, everything is good when done in moderation, too little and too much spoil everything, and as a French saying has it which I once heard a traveling salesman use: every power which exceeds itself comes to a fall—and as to this person, his fall is certainly sure enough. I have earnestly spoken to my son and warned and admonished him not to drift into evil ways and join that person. And why? Because all people are running after him. That is to say, what sort of people? Idlers and loafers, street-walkers and tramps, who run after everything. But mightily few of the men who have house and property, and nobody who is wise and respected, none after whom I set my clock, neither councillor Johnson, nor senator Anderson, nor the wealthy broker Nelson—oh no! they know what's what. And as to the ministry who ought to know most about such matters—ah, they will have none of him. What was it pastor Green said in the club the other evening? 'That man will yet come to a terrible end,' he said. And Green, he can do more than preach, you oughtn't to hear him Sundays in church so much as Mondays in the club—I just wished I had half his knowledge of affairs! He said quite correctly, and as if spoken out of my own heart: 'Only idlers and loafers are running after that man.' And why do they run after him? Because he performs some miracles. But who is sure they are miracles, or that he can confer the same power on his disciples? And, in any case, a miracle is something mightily uncertain, whereas the certain is the certain. Every serious father who has grown-up children must be truly alarmed lest his sons be seduced and join that man together with the desperate characters who follow him—desperate characters who have nothing to lose. And even these, how does he help them? Why, one must be mad to wish to be helped in this fashion. Even the poorest beggar is brought to a worse estate than his former one, is brought to a pass he could have escaped by remaining what he was, that is, a beggar and no more."

And the respectable citizen would reason as follows (and his family would then adopt his opinion): "Now, let us be human. Everything is good in moderation. Too little and too much spoil everything. I once heard a traveling salesman quote a French saying: any power that overreaches itself will fall. And as for this man, his downfall is certainly assured. I have spoken earnestly to my son. I have warned him and urged him not to go astray and join that man. And why? Because everyone is running after him. But what sort of people? Idlers and loafers, streetwalkers and tramps, who run after anything. Very few men with homes and property follow him. And nobody wise and respected follows him. None of the people whose judgment I rely on do. Not councillor Johnson, senator Anderson, or the wealthy broker Nelson. Oh no! They know what's what. And the clergy, who ought to know most about such matters, will have nothing to do with him. What did pastor Green say at the club the other evening? 'That man will come to a terrible end yet,' he said. And Green can do more than preach. You should hear him less on Sundays in church and more on Mondays at the club. I only wish I had half his knowledge of the world! He put it quite correctly, just as if he were speaking my own thoughts: 'Only idlers and loafers are running after that man.' And why do they run after him? Because he performs some miracles. But who is sure those deeds are miracles, or that he can give his disciples the same power? And in any case, a miracle is a very uncertain thing, while what's certain is certain. Every serious father with grown children must be truly alarmed that his sons might be led astray. They might join that man and the desperate characters who follow him, people who have nothing to lose. And even these people, how does he help them? Why, you would have to be mad to want help like that. Even the poorest beggar ends up worse off than before. He ends up in a situation he could have avoided by remaining what he was, a beggar and nothing more."

And the mocker, not the one hated on account of his malice, but the one who is admired for his wit and liked for his good nature, he would reason as follows: "It is, after all, a rich idea which is going to prove useful to all of us, that an individual who is in no wise different from us claims to be God. If that is not being a benefactor of the race then I don't know what charity and beneficence are. If we assume that the characteristic of being God—well, who in all the world would have hit on that idea? How true that such an idea could not have entered into the heart of man¹⁸—but if we assume that it consists in looking in no wise different from the rest of us, and in nothing else: why, then we are all gods. Q. E. D. Three cheers for him, the inventor of a discovery so extraordinarily important for mankind! Tomorrow I, the undersigned, shall proclaim that I am God, and the discoverer at least will not be able to contradict me without contradicting himself. At night all cats are gray; and if to be God consists in looking like the rest of us, absolutely and altogether like the rest of mankind: why, then it is night and we all are..., or what is it I wanted to say: we all are God, every one of us, and no one has a right to say he isn't as well off as his neighbor. This is the most ridiculous situation imaginable, the contradiction here being the greatest imaginable, and a contradiction always making for a comical effect. But this is in no wise my discovery, but solely that of the discoverer: this idea that a man of exactly the same appearance as the rest of us, only not half so well dressed as the average man, that is, a poorly dressed person who, rather than being God, seems to invite the attention of the society for the relief of the poor—that he is God! I am only sorry for the director of the charitable society that he will not get a raise from this general advancement of the human race but that he will, rather, lose his job on account of this, etc."

And the mocker would reason as follows. Not the mocker hated for his malice, but the one admired for his wit and liked for his good nature: "After all, here is a splendid idea that will prove useful to us all. Someone who is no different from us claims to be God. If that doesn't make him a benefactor of humanity, I don't know what charity and generosity are. Suppose that being God means, well, who in the world would have thought of such an idea? How true that such an idea could never have entered the human heart¹⁸. But suppose being God means looking no different from the rest of us, and nothing else. Why, then we are all gods. Q. E. D. Three cheers for the man who made such an extraordinarily important discovery for humanity! Tomorrow I, the undersigned, will announce that I am God. At least the discoverer won't be able to contradict me without contradicting himself. At night all cats are gray. And if being God means looking like the rest of us, absolutely and entirely like everyone else, then it is night. And we all are... or what was I going to say? We all are God, every one of us. And no one has any right to say he isn't as well off as his neighbor. "This is the most ridiculous situation imaginable, because the contradiction here is the greatest imaginable. And a contradiction always produces a comic effect. But the discovery isn't mine at all. It belongs entirely to the discoverer. His idea is that a man who looks exactly like the rest of us is God. Only this man isn't half as well dressed as the average person. In other words, he is a poorly dressed person. Rather than being God, he seems to call for the attention of the society for the relief of the poor. Yet he is God! I only feel sorry for the director of the charitable society. He won't get a raise from this general promotion of the human race. Instead, he'll lose his job because of it, etc."

Ah, my friend, I know well what I am doing, I know my responsibility, and my soul is altogether assured of the correctness of my procedure. Now then, imagine yourself a contemporary of him who invites. Imagine yourself to be a sufferer, but consider well to what you expose yourself in becoming his disciple and following him. You expose yourself to losing practically everything in the eyes of all wise and sensible and respected men. He who invites demands of you that you surrender all, give up everything; but the common sense of your own times and of your contemporaries will not give you up, but will judge that to join him is madness. And mockery will descend cruelly upon you; for while it will almost spare him, out of compassion, you will be thought madder than a march-hare for becoming his disciple. People will say: "That h e is a wrong-headed enthusiast, that can't be helped. Well and good; but to become—in all seriousness—his disciple, that is the greatest piece of madness imaginable. There surely is but one possibility of being madder than a madman, which is the higher madness of joining a madman in all seriousness and regarding him as a sage."

Ah, my friend, I know very well what I am doing. I know my responsibility, and I am completely certain that my approach is right. Now imagine living at the same time as the man who invites you. Imagine that you are suffering. But think carefully about what you risk by becoming his disciple and following him. You risk losing practically everything in the eyes of all wise, sensible, and respected people. The man who invites you demands that you surrender everything, give it all up. But the common sense of your time and your contemporaries will not let you go. They will judge you mad for joining him. And you will face cruel mockery. People will almost spare him out of pity, but they will think you utterly mad for becoming his disciple. People will say: "He is a misguided fanatic, and nothing can be done about that. Fair enough. But becoming his disciple in all seriousness is the greatest madness imaginable. Surely there is only one way to be madder than a madman. That is the greater madness of joining a madman in all seriousness and regarding him as a wise man."

Do not say that the whole presentation above is exaggerated. Ah, you know (but, possibly, have not fully realized it) that among all the respectable men, among all the enlightened and sensible men, there was but one—though it is easily possible that one or the other of them, impelled by curiosity, entered into conversation with him—that there was but one among them who sought him in all seriousness.¹⁹ And he came to him—in the night! And as you know, in the night one walks on forbidden paths, one chooses the night to go to places of which one does not like to be known as a frequenter. Consider the opinion of the inviter implied in this—it was a disgrace to visit him, something no man of honor could afford to do, as little as to pay a nightly visit to—but no, I do not care to say in so many words what would follow this "as little as."

Do not say that everything presented above is exaggerated. Ah, you know this, though perhaps you have not fully realized it. Among all the respectable men, all the enlightened and sensible men, only one sought him in earnest.¹⁹ Though one or another of the others may well have spoken with him out of curiosity. And that one man came to him at night! And as you know, people take forbidden paths at night. People choose the night to visit places they do not want to be known to frequent. Consider what this says about their opinion of the man who invited them. Visiting him was a disgrace, something no man of honor could afford to do. He could no more afford it than to pay a nighttime visit to... But no, I do not care to spell out what would follow this "as little as."

Come hither to me now all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Come to me now, all of you who work hard and carry heavy burdens. And I will give you rest.

His end was what all the wise and the sensible, the statesmen and the citizens and the mockers, etc., predicted it would be. And as was later spoken to him, in a moment when, it would seem, the most hardened ought to have been moved to sympathy, and the very stones to tears: "He saved others; let him save himself,²⁰" and as it has been repeated thousands upon thousands of times, by thousands upon thousands: "What was it he spoke of before, saying his hour was not yet come²¹—is it come now, perchance?"—It has been repeated, alas, the while the single individual, the believer, shudders whenever considering—while yet unable to refrain from gazing into the depth of what to men is a meaningless absurdity—shudders when considering that God in human guise, that his divine teaching, that these signs and wonders which might have made a very Sodom and Gomorrha reform its ways, in reality produced the exact opposite, and caused the teacher to be shunned, hated, despised.

His end was just what all the wise and sensible people had predicted. So had the statesmen, citizens, mockers, and others. Later, they said to him: "He saved others. Let him save himself,²⁰" At that moment, it would seem, even the most hardened should have felt sympathy, and the very stones wept. And thousands upon thousands have repeated thousands upon thousands of times: "What was he saying before about his hour not having come yet²¹? Has it come now, perhaps?" Alas, these words have been repeated while the individual believer shudders at the thought of what happened. Yet the believer cannot help gazing into the depths of what seems to people a meaningless absurdity. The believer shudders to think that God in human form, his divine teaching, and these signs and wonders produced the exact opposite. They might have led even Sodom and Gomorrha to change their ways. Instead, they caused the teacher to be shunned, hated, and despised.

Who he is, one can recognize more easily now when the powerful ones and the respected ones, and all the precautionary measures of those upholding the existing order, have corrected any wrong conception one might have entertained about him at first—now when the people have lost their patience to wait for a Messiah, seeing that his life, instead of rising in dignity, lapsed into ever greater degradation. Who, pray, does not recognize that a man is judged according to the society in which he moves—and now, think of his society! Indeed, his society one might well designate as equivalent to being expelled from "human society"; for his society are the lowest classes of the people, with sinners and publicans among them, people whom everybody with the slightest self-respect shuns for the sake of his good name and reputation—and a good name and reputation surely are about the least one can wish to preserve. In his company there are, furthermore, lepers whom every one flees, madmen who can only inspire terror, invalids and wretches—squalor and misery. Who, then, is this person that, though followed by such a company, still is the object of the persecution of the mighty ones? He is one despised as a seducer of men, an impostor, a blasphemer! And if any one enjoying a good reputation refrains from expressing contempt of him, it is really only a kind of compassion; for to fear him is, to be sure, something different.

Who he is can be recognized more easily now. The powerful and respected, and all the precautions taken by defenders of the established order, have corrected any initial misconceptions. Now the people have lost patience waiting for a Messiah. They see that his life, instead of gaining dignity, has sunk into ever greater degradation. Who, really, does not know that a man is judged by the company he keeps? And now, think of his company! Indeed, keeping his company might well amount to being expelled from "human society". His companions are the lowest classes of the people, including sinners and tax collectors. Anyone with the slightest self-respect avoids such people to protect their good name and reputation. And surely a good name and reputation are the very least anyone could wish to preserve. His company also includes lepers whom everyone flees, madmen who inspire only terror, the sick and the wretched. Nothing but squalor and misery. Who, then, is this man who, despite having such followers, is still persecuted by the powerful? He is despised as someone who leads people astray, an impostor, a blasphemer! And if anyone with a good reputation holds back from expressing contempt for him, the restraint is merely a kind of pity. For fearing him is, of course, something quite different.

Such, then, is his appearance; for take care not to be influenced by anything that you may have learned after the event—as, how his exalted spirit, with an almost divine majesty, never was so markedly manifest as just them. Ah, my friend, if you were the contemporary of one who is not only himself "excluded from the synagogue" but, as you will remember, whose very help meant being "excluded from the synagogue"—I say, if you were the contemporary of an outcast, who in every respect answers to that term, (for everything has two sides): then you will scarcely be the man to explain all this in terms directly contrary to appearances;²² or, which is the same thing, you will not be the "single individual" which, as you well know, no one wants to be, and to be which is regarded as a ridiculous oddity, perhaps even as a crime.

That, then, is how he appears. Be careful not to let anything you learned afterward influence you. For example, you may have learned that his noble spirit never showed such almost divine majesty as at that moment. Ah, my friend, suppose you lived at the same time as someone who was himself "excluded from the synagogue". As you will remember, even receiving his help meant being "excluded from the synagogue". I say, suppose you lived at the same time as an outcast who fits that description in every respect. (For everything has two sides.) Then you would hardly be the one to explain all this in a way directly opposed to appearances.²² Or, to put it another way, you would not be the "single individual". As you well know, no one wants to be that individual. Being that individual is considered a ridiculous oddity, perhaps even a crime.

And now—for they are his society chiefly—as to his apostles! What absurdity; though not—what new absurdity, for it is quite in keeping with the rest—his apostles are some fishermen, ignorant people who but the other day followed their trade. And tomorrow, to pile one absurdity on the other, they are to go out into the wide world and transform its aspect. And it is he who claims to be God, and these are his duly appointed apostles! Now, is he to make his apostles respected, or are perhaps the apostles to make him respected? Is he, the inviter, is he an absurd dreamer? Indeed, his procession would make it seem so; no poet could have hit on a better idea. A teacher, a sage, or whatever you please to call him, a kind of stranded genius, who affirms himself to be God—surrounded by a jubilant mob, himself accompanied by some publicans, criminals, and lepers; nearest to him a chosen few, his apostles. And these judges so excellently competent as to what truth is, these fishermen, tailors, and shoe-makers, they do not only admire him, their teacher and master, whose every word is wisdom and truth: they do not only see what no one else can see, his exaltedness and holiness, nay, but they see God in him and worship him. Certainly, no poet could invent a better situation, and it is doubtful if the poet would not forget the additional item that this same person is feared by the mighty ones and that they are scheming to destroy him. His death alone can reassure and satisfy them. They have set an ignominious punishment on joining his company, on merely accepting aid from him; and yet they do not feel secure, and cannot feel altogether reassured that the whole thing is mere wrong-headed enthusiasm and absurdity. Thus the mighty ones. The populace who had Idolized him, the populace have pretty nearly given him up, only in moments does their old conception of him blaze forth again. In all his existence there is not a shred the most envious of the envious might envy him to have. Nor do the mighty ones envy his life. They demand his death for safety's sake, so that they may have peace again, when all has returned to the accustomed ways, peace having been made still more secure by the warning example of his death.

And now, what about his apostles? They are, after all, his main companions. What absurdity! Though this is no new absurdity, since it fits perfectly with all the rest. His apostles are a few fishermen, ignorant people who were practicing their trade only the other day. And tomorrow, to pile one absurdity on another, they are to go out into the world and transform it. And he claims to be God, with these men as his duly appointed apostles! Now, is he supposed to make his apostles respected? Or are the apostles perhaps supposed to make him respected? Is he, the one who invites people, an absurd dreamer? Indeed, his procession would make him seem so. No poet could have thought of a better idea. Here is a teacher, a wise man, or whatever you choose to call him. He is a kind of stranded genius who declares himself to be God. A cheering mob surrounds him, and some tax collectors, criminals, and lepers accompany him. Closest to him are a chosen few, his apostles. And what wonderfully qualified judges of truth these fishermen, tailors, and shoemakers are! They do not merely admire him as their teacher and master, whose every word is wisdom and truth. They do not merely see his greatness and holiness, which no one else can see. No, they see God in him and worship him. Certainly, no poet could invent a better situation. And a poet might well forget one further detail: the powerful fear this same man and plot to destroy him. Only his death can reassure and satisfy them. They have made joining his company, or merely accepting his help, punishable by a disgraceful penalty. Yet they do not feel safe. They cannot feel entirely certain that the whole affair is merely misguided enthusiasm and absurdity. So much for the powerful. The common people once idolized him, but they have almost entirely abandoned him. Only at moments does their old image of him flare up again. There is not a single thing in his entire life that even the most envious person could envy. Nor do the powerful envy his life. They demand his death for their own safety, so that they can have peace again once everything returns to normal. The warning example of his death will have made that peace even more secure.

These are the two phases of his life. It began with the people's idolizing him, whereas all who were identified with the existing order of things, all who had power and influence, vengefully, but in a cowardly and hidden manner, laid their snares for him—in which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it well. Finally the people discover that they had been deceived in him, that the fulfillment he would bring them answered least of all to their expectations of wonders and mountains of gold. So the people deserted him and the mighty ones drew the snare about him—in which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it well. The mighty ones drew the snare together about him—and thereupon the people, who then saw themselves completely deceived, turned against him in hatred and rage.

These are the two phases of his life. His life began with the people idolizing him. Meanwhile, all who stood for the existing order, all who had power and influence, plotted revenge against him. But they did so secretly and cowardly, laying traps for him. Was he caught in those traps, then? Yes, but he was well aware of them. Finally, the people discovered that they had been mistaken about him. What he would bring them fulfilled, least of all, their expectations of wonders and mountains of gold. So the people deserted him, and the powerful tightened the trap around him. Was he caught in the trap, then? Yes, but he was well aware of it. The powerful tightened the trap around him. And then the people, who now saw themselves as completely deceived, turned against him in hatred and rage.

And—to include that too—compassion would say; or, among the compassionate ones—for compassion is sociable, and likes to assemble together, and you will find spitefulness and envy keeping company with whining soft-headedness: since, as a heathen philosopher observed long ago, no one is so ready to sympathize as an envious person—among the compassionate ones the verdict would be: it is really too bad that this good-hearted fellow is to come to such an end. For he was really a good sort of fellow. Granting it was an exaggeration to claim to be God, he really was good to the poor and the needy, even if in an odd manner, by becoming one of them and going about in the company of beggars. But there is something touching in it all, and one can't help but feel sorry for the poor fellow who is to suffer such a miserable death. For you may say what you will, and condemn him as strongly as you will, I cannot help feeling pity for him. I am not so heard-hearted as not to feel compassion.

And, to include compassion too, here is what compassion would say. Or rather, here is the verdict among compassionate people. For compassion is sociable and likes to gather in groups. And you will find spite and envy keeping company with whiny sentimentality. As a pagan philosopher observed long ago, no one is so ready to sympathize as an envious person. Among compassionate people, the verdict would be: it really is too bad that this good-hearted fellow should end up like this. For he really was a good sort of fellow. Admittedly, claiming to be God was an exaggeration. But he really was good to the poor and needy, even if he showed his goodness in an odd way. He became one of them and went around with beggars. But there is something touching about it all. You can't help feeling sorry for the poor fellow who is going to die such a miserable death. For whatever you may say, and however strongly you may condemn him, I cannot help pitying him. I am not so hard-hearted that I feel no compassion.

We have arrived at the last phase, not of Sacred History, as handed down by the apostles and disciples who believed in Christ, but of profane history, its counterpart.

We have reached the final phase, not of Sacred History as passed down by the apostles and disciples who believed in Christ. Instead, we have reached the final phase of secular history, the counterpart to Sacred History.

Come hither now, all ye that labor and are heavy laden; that is, if you feel the need, even if you are of all sufferers the most miserable—if you feel the need of being helped in this fashion, that is, to fall into still greater suffering, then come hither, he will help you.

Come here now, all of you who struggle and are weighed down by burdens. That is, come if you feel the need, even if you are the most miserable of all sufferers. If you feel the need to be helped by falling into even greater suffering, then come here. He will help you.

Let us forget for a little while what, in the strictest sense, constitutes the "offense"; which is, that the inviter claims to be God. Let us assume that he did not claim to be more than a man, and let us then consider the inviter and his invitation.

Let us set aside for a moment what, in the strictest sense, causes the "offense". The person offering the invitation claims to be God. Let us assume he claimed to be no more than a man. Then let us consider him and his invitation.

The invitation is surely inviting enough. How, then, shall one explain the bad relation which did exist, this terribly wrong relation, that no one, or practically no one, accepted the invitation; that, on the contrary, all, or practically all—alas! and was it not precisely all who were invited?—that practically all were at one in offering resistance to the inviter, in wishing to put him to death, and in setting a punishment on accepting aid from him? Should one not expect that after an invitation such as he issued all, all who suffered, would come crowding to him, and that all they who were not suffering would crowd to him, touched by the thought of such compassion and mercy, and that thus the whole race would be at one in admiring and extolling the inviter? How is the opposite to be explained? For that this was the outcome is certain enough; and the fact that it all happened in those remote times is surely no proof that the generation then living was worse than other generations! How could any one be so thoughtless as to believe that? For whoever gives any thought to the matter will easily see that it happened in that generation only because they chanced to be contemporaneous with him. How then explain that it happened—that all came to that terribly wrong end, so opposite to what ought to have been expected?

The invitation is surely inviting enough. How, then, can we explain the terrible response it received? No one, or practically no one, accepted the invitation. Instead, all, or practically all, united in resisting the one who invited them. Alas, had not everyone been invited? Yet practically everyone wanted to put him to death and make accepting his help punishable. After such an invitation, shouldn't we expect all who suffered to come crowding to him? And shouldn't all who were not suffering also crowd to him, moved by such compassion and mercy? Shouldn't the whole human race unite in admiring and praising the one who invited them? How can we explain the opposite response? For that was certainly the outcome. And surely the fact that everything happened so long ago does not prove that generation was worse than other generations! How could anyone be so thoughtless as to believe that? Anyone who thinks about the matter will easily see why that generation responded as it did. It was only because they happened to live at the same time as he did. How, then, can we explain what happened? How did everything turn out so terribly wrong, so contrary to what we should have expected?

Well, in the first place, if the inviter had looked the figure which purely human compassion would have him be; and, in the second place, if he had entertained the purely human conception of what constitutes man's misery—why, then it would probably not have happened.

Well, suppose, first, that the inviter had looked as purely human compassion would want him to look. And suppose, second, that he had shared the purely human view of what makes people miserable. Then it probably would not have happened.

In the first place: According to this human conception of him he should have been a most generous and sympathetic person, and at the same time possessed of all qualifications requisite for being able to help in all troubles of this world, ennobling the help thus extended by a profound and heartfelt human compassion. Withal (so they would imagine him) he should also have been a man of some distinction and not without a certain amount of human self-assertion—the consequence of which would be, however, that he would neither have been able, in his compassion, to reach down to all sufferers, nor yet to have comprehended fully what constitutes the misery of man and of mankind.

First: According to this human view of him, he should have been an exceptionally generous and sympathetic person. He should also have had all the abilities needed to help with all the troubles of this world. Deep and heartfelt human compassion should have made his help all the more noble. At the same time, they would imagine him as a man of some distinction, with some degree of self-assertion. But that distinction and self-assertion would have limited his compassion’s reach. He would not have been able to reach down to all who suffer. Nor would he have fully understood what makes up the misery of human beings and humanity as a whole.

But divine compassion, the infinite unconcern which takes thought only of those that suffer, and not in the least of one's self, and which with absolute unconcern takes thought of all that suffer: that will always seem to men only a kind of madness, and they will ever be puzzled whether to laugh or to weep about it. Even if nothing else had militated against the inviter, this alone would have been sufficient to make his lot hard in the world.

But divine compassion is infinitely unconcerned with itself, thinking only of those who suffer. With complete disregard for itself, it cares for all who suffer. Such compassion will always seem to people like nothing but madness. They will always be unsure whether to laugh or weep over it. Even if nothing else had worked against the one offering the invitation, this compassion alone would have made his life in the world hard.

Let a man but try a little while to practice divine compassion, that is, to be somewhat unconcerned in his compassion, and you will at once perceive what the opinion of mankind would be. For example: let one who could occupy some higher rank in society, let him not (preserving all the while the distinction of his position) lavishly give to the poor, and philanthropically (i.e. in a superior fashion) visit the poor and the sick and the wretched—no, let him give up altogether the distinction of his position and in all earnest choose the company of the poor and the lowly, let him live altogether with the people, with workmen, hodmen, mortar-mixers, and the like! Ah, in a quiet moment, when not actually beholding him, most of us will be moved to tears by the mere thought of it; but no sooner would they see him in this company—him who might have attained to honor and dignity in the world—see him walking along in such goodly company, with a bricklayer's apprentice on his right side and a cobbler's boy on his left, but—well, what then? First they would devise a thousand explanations to explain that it is because of queer notions, or obstinacy, or pride, or vanity that he chooses this mode of life. And even if they would refrain from attributing to him these evil motives they will never be reconciled with the sight of him—in this company. The noblest person in the world will be tempted to laugh, the moment he sees it.

Just let a man try practicing divine compassion for a little while, with a certain unconcern in his compassion. You will immediately see what people would think. For example, take someone who could hold a higher position in society. Let him do more than give generously to the poor while keeping all the privileges of his position. Let him do more than visit the poor, the sick, and the miserable as a philanthropist (that is, as their superior). No, let him give up his social standing altogether and sincerely choose the company of the poor and lowly. Let him live entirely among ordinary people, with laborers, brick carriers, mortar mixers, and the like! Ah, in a quiet moment, when we are not actually looking at him, the very thought will move most of us to tears. But suppose people actually saw him in this company, a man who might have gained honor and status in society. Suppose they saw him walking along in such fine company, a bricklayer's apprentice on his right, a cobbler's boy on his left. Well, what then? First, they would invent a thousand explanations for his choice of life. They would put it down to strange ideas, stubbornness, pride, or vanity. And even if they avoided assigning him these bad motives, they would never accept seeing him in this company. Even the noblest person in the world will be tempted to laugh the moment he sees the sight.

And if all the clergymen in the world, whether in velvet or in silk or in broadcloth or in satin, contradicted me I would say: "You lie, you only deceive people with your Sunday sermons. Because it will always be possible for a contemporary to say about one so compassionate (who, it is to be kept in mind, is our contemporary): I believe he is actuated by vanity, and that is why I laugh and mock at him; but if he were truly compassionate, or had I been contemporary with him, the noble one—why then!" And now, as to those exalted ones "who were not understood by men"—to speak in the fashion of the usual run of sermons—why, sure enough, they are dead. In this fashion these people succeed in playing hide and seek. You simply assume that every contemporary who ventures out so far is actuated only by vanity; and as to the departed, you assume that they are dead and that they, therefore, were among the glorious ones.

And if all the clergymen in the world contradicted me, whether dressed in velvet, silk, broadcloth, or satin, I would say: "You lie. You only deceive people with your Sunday sermons. Because anyone can always say of such a compassionate person: I believe he is driven by vanity. That is why I laugh at him and mock him. But if he were truly compassionate, or if I had lived alongside him, that noble man, well, then!" Remember, this compassionate person is living among us now. And now, what about those exalted people "who were not understood by others," as the usual sermons put it? Well, of course, those people are dead. This is how these preachers manage to play hide-and-seek. You simply assume that anyone living among us who dares to go so far is driven only by vanity. As for those who have died, you assume they are dead and therefore must have been among the glorious ones.

It must be remembered, to be sure, that every person wishes to maintain his own level in life, and this fixed point, this steady endeavor, is one of the causes which limit human compassion to a certain sphere. The cheese-monger will think that to live like the inmate of a poorhouse is going too far in expressing one's sympathy; for the sympathy of the cheese-monger is biased in one regard which is, his regard of the opinion of other cheese-mongers and of the saloon-keepers. His compassion is therefore not without its limitations. And thus with every class—and the journalists, living as they do on the pennies of the poor, under the pretense of asserting and defending their rights, they would be the first to heap ridicule on this unlimited compassion.

Of course, we must remember that everyone wants to maintain their own standing in life. This fixed goal, this constant effort, is one reason human compassion reaches only so far. A cheese seller will think that living like someone in a poorhouse takes sympathy too far. For the cheese seller’s sympathy is biased by concern for what other cheese sellers and saloon keepers think. The cheese seller’s compassion therefore has its limits. The same is true of every class. And journalists live on the pennies of the poor while pretending to assert and defend the poor’s rights. Those journalists would be the first to ridicule such unlimited compassion.

To identify one's self wholly and literally with him who is most miserable (and this, only this, is divine compassion), that is to men the "too much" by which one is moved to tears, in a quiet Sunday hour, and about which one unconsciously bursts into laughter when one sees it in reality. The fact is, it is too exalted a sight for daily use; one must have it at some distance to be able to support it. Men are not so familiar with exalted virtue to believe it at once. The contradiction seen here is, therefore, that this exalted virtue manifests itself in—reality, in daily life, quite literally the daily life. When the poet or the orator illustrates this exalted virtue, that is, pictures it in a poetical distance from real life, men are moved; but to see this exalted virtue in reality, the reality of daily life, here in Copenhagen, on the Market Square, in the midst of busy every-day life—! And when the poet or the orator does touch people it is only for a short time, and just so long are men able to believe, almost, in this exalted virtue. But to see it in real life every day—! To be sure, there is an enormous contradiction in the statement that the most exalted of all has become the most every-day occurrence!

To identify yourself wholly and literally with the most miserable person (this, and only this, is divine compassion) is "too much" for people. Such compassion moves them to tears in a quiet Sunday hour. Yet they burst into laughter without realizing it when they see such compassion in real life. The truth is, the sight is too noble for everyday life. People need some distance from such compassion to bear the sight. They are not familiar enough with such noble virtue to believe in it at once. So the contradiction is that this noble virtue appears in reality, in daily life, quite literally in daily life. When a poet or speaker portrays this noble virtue at a poetic distance from real life, people are moved. But to see this noble virtue in reality, in everyday life, here in Copenhagen, on the Market Square! To see it in the middle of busy, everyday life! And when the poet or speaker does move people, the feeling lasts only a short time. For just that long, people can almost believe in this noble virtue. But to see such virtue in real life every day! There is indeed an enormous contradiction in saying that the noblest thing of all has become the most everyday occurrence!

Insofar, then, it was certain in advance what would be the inviter's fate, even if nothing else had contributed to his doom. The absolute,²³ or all which makes for an absolute standard, becomes by that very fact the victim. For men are willing enough to practice sympathy and self-denial, are willing enough to strive for wisdom, etc.; but they wish themselves to determine the standard and to have that read: "to a certain degree." They do not wish to do away with all these splendid virtues. On the contrary, they want—at a bargain and in all comfort—to have the appearance and the name of practicing them. Truly divine compassion is therefore necessarily the victim so soon as it shows itself in this world. It descends on earth out of compassion for mankind, and yet it is mankind who trample upon it. And whilst it is wandering about among them, scarcely even the sufferer dares to flee to it, for fear of mankind. The fact is, it is most important for the world to keep up the appearance of being compassionate; but this it made out by divine compassion to be a falsehood—and therefore: away with divine compassion!

So the inviter’s fate was already certain, even if nothing else had contributed to his doom. The absolute,²³ or anything that sets an absolute standard, becomes a victim for that very reason. People are willing enough to show compassion and self-denial, to seek wisdom, and so on. But they want to set the standard themselves, and they want it to read: "to a certain degree." They do not want to abolish all these splendid virtues. On the contrary, they want the appearance and reputation of practicing them, at a bargain and in complete comfort. Truly divine compassion therefore necessarily becomes a victim as soon as it appears in this world. Divine compassion comes down to earth out of compassion for humanity, yet humanity tramples on it. And while divine compassion wanders among people, even those who suffer scarcely dare to seek its help, for fear of others. The fact is, the world places the greatest importance on keeping up the appearance of compassion. But divine compassion exposes that appearance as a lie. And therefore: away with divine compassion!

But now the inviter represented precisely this divine compassion—and therefore he was sacrificed, and therefore even those that suffered fled from him; for they comprehended (and, humanly speaking, very exactly), what is true of most human infirmities, that one is better off to remain what one is than to be helped by him.

But now the man offering the invitation embodied precisely this divine compassion. That is why he was sacrificed, and why even those who suffered fled from him. For they understood something true of most human weaknesses. And from a human perspective, their understanding was very accurate. They understood that one is better off remaining as one is than being helped by him.

In the second place: the inviter likewise had an other, and altogether different, conception than the purely human one as to what constitutes man's misery. And in this sense only he was intent on helping; for he had with him neither money, nor medicine, nor anything else of this kind.

Second: the one offering the invitation also understood human misery in a completely different way from a purely human perspective. And he intended to help only with misery as he understood it. For he had no money, medicine, or anything else of that kind with him.

Indeed, the inviter's appearance is so altogether different from what human compassion wold imagine it that he is a downright offense to men. In a purely human sense there is something positively cruel—something outrageous, something so exasperating as to make one wish to kill that person—in the fact of his inviting to him the poor and the sick and the suffering, and then not being able to do anything for them, except to promise them remission of their sins. "Let us be human, man is no spirit. And when a person is about to die of starvation and you say to him: I promise you the gracious remission of your sins—that is revolting cruelty. In fact it is ridiculous, though too serious a matter to laugh about."

Indeed, the one offering the invitation looks nothing like what human compassion would imagine. He is an outright offense to people. From a purely human perspective, there is something positively cruel and outrageous about his invitation. It is so infuriating that it makes you want to kill him. He invites the poor, the sick, and the suffering to come to him. Yet he can do nothing for them except promise forgiveness of their sins. "Let us be human. A human being is not a spirit. When someone is about to starve to death, you tell him: I promise you gracious forgiveness of your sins. That promise, in those circumstances, is revolting cruelty. In fact, it is ridiculous, though the matter is too serious to laugh about."

Well (for in quoting these sentiments I wish merely to let offended man discover the contradiction and exaggerate it—it is not I who wish to exaggerate), well then, the real intention of the inviter was to point out that sin is the destruction of mankind. Behold now, that makes room, as the invitation also made room, almost as if he had said procul, o procul este profani, or as if, even though he had not said it, a voice had been heard which thus interpreted the "come hither" of the invitation. There surely are not many sufferers who will follow the invitation. And even if there were one who, although aware that from this inviter no actual wordily help was to be expected, nevertheless had sought refuge with him, touched by his compassion: now even he will flee from him. For is it not almost a bit of sharp practice to profess to be here out of compassion, and then to speak about sin?

Well, I quote these views only to let the offended person discover the contradiction and exaggerate it. I am not the one who wants to exaggerate. Well then, the inviter’s real intention was to show that sin destroys humanity. Now look, that certainly clears some space, just as the invitation cleared some space. It is almost as if he had said Stay away, stay far away, you unholy ones. Or, even though he had not said those words, it is as if a voice had been heard. The voice gave that meaning to the invitation’s "come here". Surely not many sufferers will accept the invitation. And suppose one sufferer had sought refuge with him, moved by his compassion. Suppose this sufferer knew that no actual worldly help could be expected from the inviter, but came anyway. Now even that sufferer will flee from him. For isn’t it almost a kind of trickery to claim to be here out of compassion, and then talk about sin?

Indeed, it is a piece of cunning, unless you are altogether certain that you are a sinner. If it is tooth-ache which bothers you, or if your house is burned to the ground, but if it has escaped you that you are a sinner—why, then it was cunning on his part. It is a bit of sharp practice of him to assert: "I heal all manner of disease," in order to say, when one approaches him: "the fact is, I recognize only one disease, which is sin—of that I shall cure all them 'that labor and are heavy laden,' all them that labor to work themselves free of the power of sin, that labor to resist the evil, and to vanquish their weakness, but succeed only in being laden." Of this malady he cures "all" persons; even if there were but a single one who turned to him because of this malady: he heals all persons. But to come to him on account of any other disease, and only because of that, is about as useful as to look up an eye-doctor when you have fractured your leg.

Indeed, it is a trick, unless you are absolutely certain that you are a sinner. Suppose a toothache troubles you, or your house has burned to the ground. But suppose you have failed to notice that you are a sinner. Well, then he has tricked you. It is a bit of deception for him to declare: "I heal every kind of disease," only to tell you when you approach him: "the fact is, I recognize only one disease, and that is sin. I will cure all those 'who struggle and are weighed down' by sin. They struggle to free themselves from sin's power, to resist evil, and to overcome their weakness. But their struggle only leaves them weighed down." He cures "all" people of this disease. Even if only one person turned to him because of this disease, he heals all people. But suppose you come to him because of some other disease, and only because of that disease. Coming to him then is about as useful as seeing an eye doctor when you have broken your leg.

With its invitation to all "that labor and are heavy laden" Christianity has entered the world, not—as the clergy whimperingly and falsely introduce it—as a shining paragon of mild grounds of consolation; but as the absolute. God wills it so because of His love, but it is God who wills it, and He wills it as He wills it. He does not choose to have His nature changed by man and become a nice, that is to say, humane, God; but He chooses to change the nature of man because of His love for them. Neither does He care to hear any human impertinence concerning the why and wherefore of Christianity, and why it entered the world: it is, and is to be, the absolute. Therefore all the relative explanations which may have been ventured as to its why and wherefore are entirely beside the point. Possibly, these explanations were suggested by a kind of human compassion which believes it necessary to haggle a bit—God very likely does not know the nature of man very well, His demands are a bit exorbitant, and therefore the clergymen must haggle and beat Him down a bit.²⁴ Maybe the clergy hit upon that idea in order to stand well with men and reap some advantage from preaching the gospel; for if its demands are reduced to the purely human, to the demands which arise in man's heart, why, then men will of course think well of it, and of course also of the amiable preacher who knows how to make Christianity so mild—if the Apostles had been able to do that the world would have esteemed them highly also in their time. However, all this is the absolute. But what is it good for, then—is it not a downright torment? Why, yes, you may say so: from the standpoint of the relative, the absolute is the greatest torment. In his dull, languid, sluggish moments, when man is dominated by his sensual nature, Christianity is an absurdity to him since it is not commensurable with any definite "wherefore?" But of what use is it, then? Answer: peace! it is the absolute. And thus it must be represented; that is, in a fashion which makes it appear as an absurdity to the sensual nature of man. And therefore is it, ah, so true and, in still another sense, so true when the worldly-wise man who is contemporaneous with Christ condemns him with the words: "he is literally nothing"—quite true, for he is the absolute. And, being absolute, Christianity has come in the world, not as a consolation in the human sense: in fact, quite on the contrary, it is ever reminding one how the Christian must suffer in order to become, or to remain, a Christian—sufferings which he may, if you please, escape by not electing to be a Christian.

Christianity entered the world with its invitation to all "who labor and are weighed down." It did not come as a shining example of gentle comfort, as the clergy whiningly and falsely present it. It came as the absolute. God wills this out of love, but God is the one who wills it, and on his own terms. He does not choose to let human beings change his nature and make him a nice, meaning humane, God. Instead, he chooses to change human nature because of his love for human beings. Nor does he care to hear any human insolence about the reasons for Christianity or why it entered the world. Christianity is, and must be, the absolute. So all the relative explanations anyone may have offered for its purpose and origin are entirely beside the point. Possibly, these explanations arose from a kind of human compassion that thinks a little bargaining is necessary. God very likely does not understand human nature very well. His demands are a little excessive, so the clergy must bargain with him and get him to lower them.²⁴ Maybe the clergy thought of this to win people's approval and gain some advantage from preaching the gospel. Suppose Christianity's demands are reduced to purely human demands, the demands that arise in the human heart. Then people will naturally think well of Christianity. And naturally, they will also like the pleasant preacher who knows how to make Christianity so gentle. If the Apostles had been able to do that, the world would have thought highly of them in their time. Yet all this is the absolute. But what good is it, then? Is it not sheer torment? Yes, you may say so. From the standpoint of the relative, the absolute is the greatest torment. In our dull, listless, sluggish moments, when our sensual nature rules us, Christianity seems absurd. For Christianity cannot be measured against any specific "what for?" But what use is Christianity, then? The answer is: quiet! Christianity is the absolute. And Christianity must be presented that way, so that it appears absurd to human sensual nature. And so, ah, how true, and how true in yet another sense, are the words of the worldly-wise contemporary who condemns Christ: "he is literally nothing." Quite true, for he is the absolute. And as the absolute, Christianity has entered the world not as a comfort in the human sense. In fact, quite the opposite. Christianity constantly reminds us how a Christian must suffer to become, or remain, a Christian. These are sufferings that, if you like, a person can escape by choosing not to be a Christian.

There is, indeed, an unbridgeable gulf fixed between God and man. It therefore became plain to those contemporary with Christ that the process of becoming a Christian (that is, being changed into the likeness of God) is, in a human sense, a greater torment and wretchedness and pain than the greatest conceivable human suffering, and moreover a crime in the eyes of one's contemporaries. And thus will it always be; that is, if becoming a Christian in reality means becoming contemporaneous with Christ. And if becoming a Christian does not have that meaning, then all your chatter about becoming a Christian is a vanity, a delusion and a snare, and likewise a blasphemy and a sin against the Holy Ghost.

There is, indeed, a gulf between God and humanity that cannot be bridged. So those who lived at the same time as Christ came to understand what becoming a Christian meant. Becoming a Christian means being changed into the likeness of God. In human terms, becoming a Christian brings greater torment, misery, and pain than the greatest human suffering imaginable. It is also a crime in the eyes of those living at the same time. And becoming a Christian will always mean this, if it truly means living as Christ’s contemporary. If becoming a Christian does not mean that, then all your chatter about becoming a Christian is empty. It is a delusion and a trap, as well as blasphemy and a sin against the Holy Ghost.

For with regard to the absolute there is but one time, viz. the present. He who is not contemporaneous with the absolute, for him it does not exist at all. And since Christ is the absolute, it is evident that in respect of him there is but one situation: contemporaneousness. The three, or seven, or fifteen, or seventeen, or eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since his death do not make the least difference, one way or the other. They neither change him nor reveal, either, who he was; for his real nature is revealed only to faith.

For in relation to the absolute, there is only one time: the present. For anyone who does not share that present with the absolute, the absolute does not exist at all. And since Christ is the absolute, there is only one way to relate to him: as his contemporary. Whether three, seven, fifteen, seventeen, or eighteen hundred years have passed since his death makes no difference at all. Those years neither change him nor reveal who he was, for his true nature is revealed only to faith.

Christ, let me say so with the utmost seriousness, is not an actor; neither is he a merely historical personage since, being the paradox, he is an extremely unhistorical personage. But precisely this is the difference between poetry and reality: contemporaneousness.²⁵ The difference between poetry and history is no doubt this, that history is what has really happened, and poetry, what is possible, the action which is supposed to have taken place, the life which has taken form in the poet's imagination. But that which really happened (the past) is not necessarily reality, except in a certain sense, viz., in contrast with poetry. There is still lacking in it the criterion of truth (as inwardness) and of all religion, there is still lacking the criterion: the truth FOR YOU. That which is past is not a reality—for me, but only my time is. That which you are contemporaneous with, that is reality—for you. Thus every person has the choice to be contemporaneous with the age in which he is living—and also with one other period, with that of Christ's life here on earth; for Christ's life on earth, or Sacred History, stands by itself, outside of history.

Let me say this with the utmost seriousness: Christ is not an actor. Nor is he merely a historical figure. Because he is the paradox, he is a profoundly unhistorical figure. But precisely this distinguishes poetry from reality: being present at the same time.²⁵ The difference between poetry and history is surely this: history is what really happened, while poetry is what is possible. Poetry presents actions imagined as having happened, a life that has taken shape in the poet's imagination. But what really happened (the past) is not necessarily reality, except in the limited sense of contrasting with poetry. The past still lacks the standard of truth understood as inwardness, and of all religion: the truth FOR YOU. What is past is not a reality for me. Only my own time is. What you live alongside is reality for you. So everyone can choose to live alongside the age they inhabit, and also alongside one other period: Christ's life here on earth. For Christ's life on earth, or Sacred History, stands alone, outside history.

History you may read and hear about as a matter of the past. Within its realm you can, if you so care, judge actions by their results. But in Christ's life here on earth there is nothing past. It did not wait for the assistance of any subsequent results in its own time, 1800 years ago; neither does it now. Historic Christianity is sheer moonshine and un-Christian muddle-headedness. For those true Christians who in every generation live a life contemporaneous with that of Christ have nothing whatsoever to do with Christians of the preceding generation, but all the more with their contemporary, Christ. His life here on earth attends every generation, and every generation severally, as Sacred History; his life on earth is eternal contemporaneousness. For this reason all learned lecturing about Christianity, which has its haunt and hiding-place in the assumption that Christianity is something which belongs to the past and to the 1800 years of history, this lecturing is the most un-Christian of heresies, as every one would readily recognize if he but tried to imagine the generation contemporaneous with Christ as—lecturing! No, we must ever keep in mind that every generation (of the faithful) is contemporaneous with him.

You may read and hear about history as something past. Within history, you can judge actions by their results, if you wish. But nothing in Christ's life here on earth belongs to the past. His life did not wait for support from later results in his own time, 1800 years ago. Nor does his life need that support now. Historical Christianity is pure nonsense and un-Christian confusion. For true Christians in every generation live as contemporaries of Christ. They have nothing whatsoever to do with Christians of the previous generation. Instead, they have all the more to do with their contemporary, Christ. His life here on earth accompanies every generation, and each generation individually, as Sacred History. His life on earth is eternally contemporary. For this reason, all scholarly lecturing about Christianity is the most un-Christian of heresies. Such lecturing finds its home and hiding place in an assumption: Christianity belongs to the past and to 1800 years of history. Everyone would readily recognize this heresy if they only tried to imagine Christ's own generation giving lectures! No, we must always remember that every generation (of the faithful) is contemporary with him.

If you cannot master yourself so as to make yourself contemporaneous with him and thus become a Christian; or if he cannot, as your contemporary, draw you to himself, then you will never be a Christian. You may, if you please, honor, praise, thank, and with all worldly goods reward, him who deludes you into thinking that you are a Christian; nevertheless—he deceives you. You may count yourself happy that you were not contemporaneous with one who dared to assert this; or you may be exasperated to madness by the torment, like that of the "gadfly,²⁶" of being contemporaneous with one who says this to your face: in the first case you are deceived, whereas in the second you have at least had a chance to hear the truth.

If you cannot master yourself enough to become his contemporary and so become a Christian, you will never be a Christian. The same is true if he cannot draw you to himself as your contemporary. If you please, you may honor, praise, and thank someone who fools you into thinking you are a Christian. You may reward him with all your worldly goods. Still, he deceives you. You may count yourself lucky not to have lived alongside someone who dared to make this claim. Or you may be driven mad by the torment of living alongside someone who says this to your face. His tormenting you is like the torment of the "gadfly,²⁶" In the first case, you are deceived. In the second, you have at least had a chance to hear the truth.

If you cannot bear this contemporaneousness, and not bear to see this sight in reality—if you cannot prevail upon yourself to go out into the street—and behold! it is God in that loathsome procession; and if you cannot bear to think that this will be your condition also if you kneel and worship him: then you are not essentially a Christian. In that case, what you will have to do is to admit the fact unconditionally to yourself, so that you may, above all, preserve humility, and fear and trembling, when contemplating what it means really to be a Christian. For that way you must proceed, in order to learn and to practice how to flee to grace, so that you will not seek it in vain; but do not, for God's sake, go to any one to be "consoled." For to be sure it is written: "blessed are the eyes which see the things that ye see,²⁷" which word the priests have on the tips of their tongues—curiously enough; at times, perhaps, even to defend a worldly finery which, if contemporary with Christ, would be rather incongruous—as if these words had not been said solely about those contemporaries of his who believed. If his exaltation had been evident to the eyes so that every one without any trouble could have beheld it, why then it would be incorrect to say that Christ abased himself and assumed the guise of a servant, and it would be superfluous to warn against being offended in him; for why in the world should one take offense in an exalted one arrayed in glory? And how in the world will you explain it that Christ fared so ill and that everybody failed to rush up admiringly to behold what was so plain? Ah no, "he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him" (Isaiah 53, 2²⁸); and there was to all appearances nothing remarkable about him who in lowly guise, and by performing signs and wonders, constantly presented the possibility of offense, who claimed to be God—in lowly guise; which therefore expresses: in the first place, what God means by compassion, and by one's self needing to be humble and poor if one wishes to be compassionate; and in the second place, what God means by the misery of mankind. Which, again, in both instances is extremely different from what men mean by these things and which every generation, to the end of time, has to learn over again from the beginning, and beginning in every respect at the same point where those who were contemporary with Christ had to start; that is, to practice these things as contemporaries of Christ. Human impatience and unruliness is, of course, of no avail whatsoever. No man will be able to tell you in how far you may succeed in becoming essentially a Christian. But neither will anxiety and fear and despair help one. Sincerity toward God is the first and the last condition, sincerity in confessing to one's self just where one stands, sincerity before God in ever aiming at one's task. However slowly one may proceed, and if it be but crawling—one is, at any rate, in the right position and is not misled and deceived by the trick of changing the nature of Christ who, instead of being God, is thereby made to represent that sentimental compassion which is man's own invention; by which men instead of being lifted up to heaven by Christianity, are delayed on their way and remain human and no more.

If you cannot bear to imagine yourself living alongside Christ, or seeing this scene in reality, consider what that means. Suppose you cannot bring yourself to go out into the street and look: there is God in that loathsome procession! Suppose you cannot bear to think that you will share his fate if you kneel and worship him. Then you are not a Christian in the essential sense. In that case, you must admit the fact to yourself without reservation. Above all, you must preserve humility, and fear and trembling, as you consider what being a Christian really means. You must proceed this way to learn and practice how to turn to grace, so that you do not seek grace in vain. But for God's sake, do not go to anyone to be "consoled." For it is indeed written: "blessed are the eyes that see what you see,²⁷" words the priests always have ready. Curiously enough, they perhaps sometimes even use these words to defend worldly finery. Yet that finery would look quite out of place alongside Christ. They speak as if these words had not been addressed solely to those of his contemporaries who believed. Suppose his exalted status had been plainly visible, so that everyone could have seen it without any difficulty. Then it would be wrong to say that Christ humbled himself and took on the appearance of a servant. And there would be no need to warn people against taking offense at him. For why on earth would anyone take offense at an exalted figure clothed in glory? And how would you explain why Christ suffered so badly? Why did everyone fail to rush up in admiration to see what was supposedly so plain? Ah, no, "he had no form or majesty, and when we saw him, no beauty that would make us desire him" (Isaiah 53:2²⁸). To all appearances, there was nothing remarkable about him. In his humble appearance, and through his signs and wonders, he constantly presented people with the possibility of taking offense. He claimed to be God, yet appeared humble and lowly. This shows, first, what God means by compassion. It also shows that anyone wishing to be compassionate must themselves be humble and poor. Second, it shows what God means by humanity's misery. In both cases, God's meaning differs profoundly from what human beings mean by these things. Every generation, until the end of time, must learn these lessons again from the beginning. In every respect, each generation must begin at the same point as those who lived alongside Christ. That means practicing these things as people living alongside Christ. Human impatience and rebellion are, of course, no help at all. No one can tell you how far you may succeed in becoming a Christian in the essential sense. But anxiety, fear, and despair will not help either. Honesty before God is the first and last requirement. You must honestly admit to yourself exactly where you stand. And before God, you must honestly keep striving toward your task. However slowly you move, even if you only crawl, you are at least in the right position. You are not being misled and deceived by the trick of changing Christ's nature. Through that trick, Christ no longer represents God, but the sentimental compassion that human beings themselves have invented. Instead of being lifted to heaven by Christianity, people are held back on their way. They remain human and nothing more.

"And what, then, does all this signify?" It signifies that every one, in silent inwardness before God, is to feel humility before what it means to be in the strictest sense a Christian; is to confess sincerely before God what his position is, so that he may worthily partake of the grace which is offered to every one who is not perfect, that is, to every one. And it means no more than that. For the rest let him attend to his work and find joy in it, let him love his wife, rejoicing in her, let him raise his children to be a joy to him, and let him love his fellow-men and enjoy life. God will surely let him know if more is demanded of him, and will also help him to accomplish it; for in the terrifying language of the law this sounds so terrible because it would seem as if man by his own strength were to hold fast to Christ, whereas in the language of love it is Christ that holds fast to him. As was said, then, God will surely let him know if more is demanded of him. But what is demanded of every one is that he humble himself in the presence of God under the demands of ideality. And therefore these demands should be heard, and heard again and again in all their absoluteness. To be a Christian has become a matter of no importance whatever—a mummery, something one is anyway, or something one acquires more readily than a trick. In very truth, it is high time that the demands of ideality were heard.

"And what, then, does all this mean?" It means that everyone, in silent reflection before God, should feel humbled by what being a Christian truly means. Each person should sincerely confess before God where he stands. Then he may worthily receive the grace offered to everyone who is not perfect, which means everyone. And it means no more than that. Beyond that, let him attend to his work and find joy in it. Let him love his wife and rejoice in her. Let him raise his children to be a joy to him. And let him love his fellow human beings and enjoy life. God will surely let him know if more is demanded of him, and will also help him do it. For in the terrifying language of the law, this demand sounds so terrible for a reason. It seems as if a person must hold fast to Christ through his own strength. But in the language of love, Christ is the one who holds fast to him. As already said, God will surely let him know if more is demanded of him. But everyone is required to humble himself before God under the demands of the ideal. So these demands should be heard again and again, in all their absoluteness. Being a Christian has become something utterly unimportant, an empty performance. It is something you already are anyway, or something you can pick up more easily than a trick. Truly, it is high time the demands of the ideal were heard.

"But if being a Christian is something so terrifying and awesome, how in all the world can a man get it into his head to wish to accept Christianity?" Very simply and, if you so wish, quite according to Luther: only the consciousness of sin, if I may express myself so, can force one—from the other side, grace exerts the attraction—can force one into this terror. And in the same instant the Christian ideal is transformed, and is sheer mildness, grace, love, and pity. Looking at it any other way, however, Christianity is, and shall ever be, the greatest absurdity, or else the greatest terror. Approach is had only through the consciousness of sin, and to desire to enter by any other way amounts to a crime of lèse-majesté against Christianity.

"But if being a Christian is so terrifying and awe-inspiring, how on earth can anyone want to accept Christianity?" The answer is very simple and, if you like, entirely in keeping with Luther. Only an awareness of sin can force someone into this terror, if I may put it that way. From the other side, grace draws them in. And at that very moment, the Christian ideal changes into pure gentleness, grace, love, and compassion. Viewed in any other way, however, Christianity is and always will be either the greatest absurdity or the greatest terror. The only way into Christianity is through an awareness of sin. Wanting to enter by any other way amounts to a crime against Christianity’s sovereign majesty.

But sin, or the fact that you and I, individually, are sinners, has at present either been done away with, or else the demands have been lowered in an unjustifiable manner, both in life—the domestic, the civic, as well as the ecclesiastic—and in science which has invented the new doctrine of sin in general. As an equivalent, one has hit upon the device of helping men into Christianity, and keeping them in it, by the aid of a knowledge of world-historic events, of that mild teaching, the exalted and profound spirit of it, about Christ as a friend, etc., etc.—all of which Luther would have called stuff and nonsense and which is really blasphemy, aiming as it does at fraternizing impudently with God and with Christ.

But sin, the fact that you and I are individually sinners, has now either been dismissed or its demands unjustifiably lowered. This has happened in family, civic, and church life, and in scholarship, which has invented a new doctrine of sin in general. In place of personal sin, people have devised a way to bring others into Christianity and keep them there. They rely on knowledge of world history, Christianity’s gentle teaching, its lofty and profound spirit, Christ as a friend, etc., etc. Luther would have called all of this stuff and nonsense. And all of it is really blasphemy, since it aims at treating God and Christ with shameless familiarity.

Only the consciousness of being a sinner can inspire one with absolute respect for Christianity. And just because Christianity demands absolute respect it must and shall, to any other way of looking at it, seem absurdity or terror; just because only thereby can the qualitative and absolute emphasis fall on the fact that it is only the consciousness of being a sinner which will procure entrance into it, and at the same time give the vision which, being absolute respect, enables one to see the mildness and love and compassion of Christianity.

Only the awareness that you are a sinner can inspire absolute respect for Christianity. And precisely because Christianity demands absolute respect, from any other perspective it must and will seem absurd or terrifying. Only in this way can the decisive and absolute emphasis fall on one fact: only awareness of being a sinner opens the way into Christianity. At the same time, this awareness gives you the vision that comes with absolute respect. Through this vision, you can see Christianity’s gentleness, love, and compassion.

The poor in spirit who acknowledge themselves to be sinners, they do not need to know the least thing about the difficulties which appear when one is neither simple nor humble-minded. But when this humble consciousness of one's self, i. e., the individual's, being a sinner is lacking—aye, even though one possessed all human ingenuity and wisdom, and had all accomplishments possible to man: it will profit him little. Christianity will in the same degree rise terrifying before him and transform itself into absurdity or terror; until he learns, either to renounce it, or else, by the help of what is nothing less than scientific propædeutics, apologetics, etc., that is, through the torments of a contrite heart, to enter into Christianity by the narrow path, through the consciousness of sin.

The poor in spirit who acknowledge themselves as sinners need not know anything about certain difficulties. These difficulties arise when someone is neither simple nor humble. But suppose someone lacks this humble awareness of being a sinner as an individual. Even if he had all human ingenuity and wisdom, and every accomplishment possible for a human being, he would gain little. To that same degree, Christianity will loom terrifyingly before him and become absurdity or terror. This will continue until he learns either to reject Christianity or to enter it by the narrow path. To enter, he must have the help of nothing less than scholarly preparation, apologetics, and so on. That is, he must pass through the anguish of a repentant heart and enter Christianity through the awareness of sin.