power, or the admiration of men, or the attainment of his wish; if he thinks that his complaining constitutes a just claim upon anything temporal, a claim that becomes in- creasingly valid in proportion as his complaint becomes increasingly loud, then he still has a bitter cup to drink, humanly speaking, before the consolation can come to him.
Hence it is always a matter of considerable difficulty for any one to offer another a consolation of this nature.
150 For if a troubled soul were to make an appeal to a man for help, and he were to reply: "Indeed, I know where consolation may be had, an indescribable comfort; and what is more, this consolation gradually transforms it- self within your soul into the highest of human joys," the anxious individual would no doubt be willing to listen attentively. But when the speaker goes on to say: "Before this consolation can be yours, you must learn to understand that you are absolutely nothing in yourself. You must cut down the bridge of probabilities which seeks to connect the wish, the impatience, the desire, the expectation, with that which is wished, desired and ex- pected; you must renounce the intercourse which the worldly mind has with the future; you must retire into your self, not as into a fastness that still bids defiance to the world, while the individual keeps his most danger- ous enemy with him in the fortress, aye, while it was perhaps precisely on the advice of this enemy that he shut himself in— but a man must retire into himself so as to sink down into his own nothingness, making an absolute and unconditional surrender," there would doubtless be one or another who would go home sorrowful, like the rich young man of the many possessions, though himself having few possessions, and yet resembling the rich youth of the many possessions so much that it would have been quite impossible to tell them apart. Or if some anxious soul had run riot in overmuch deliberation, and had become the prisoner of his many thoughts, so that he could not act because it seemed to him that the consider- ations on either side balanced each other exactly; and another were to counsel him in these terms: "I know a way out of your difficulty which will give you full assur- ance of victory. Yield your wish and act; act in the con- MAN S NEED OF GOD 151 viction that even if the opposite of what you wish results from your action, you will nevertheless have conquered," there would doubtless be one or another who would turn his face away in impatience, because it seemed to him that such a victory was not to be distinguished from a defeat, and because such a way out seemed harder to en- dure than the doubting soul's multifarious unrest.
What then is man? Is he but another jewel in the great chain of being? Or has he no power, can he himself do nothing? And what is this power? What is the highest he can will? What will be the answer to this question, when the daring of youth and the power of manhood combine to ask, when this glorious union of courage and strength holds itself ready to sacrifice everything in order to realize the great ambition, and speaks of its purpose in terms of burning zeal: "If no one else in all the world has achieved it, I am nevertheless resolved to achieve it. If millions of men fell by the wayside and forgot the task, I will never- theless persist in striving— but what is the highest of hu- man tasks?" For our part we do not propose to cheat the highest aim of its true cost, nor do we intend to con- ceal the fact that it is seldom attained. For the highest of human tasks is for a man to allow himself to be com- pletely persuaded that he can of himself do nothing, abso- lutely nothing.
This is indeed a rare kind of greatness. It is not rare in the sense that only an exceptional individual is born to the purple, for everyone is born to it. It is indeed a rare kind of wisdom; but it is not rare in the sense that it is offered only to a few, since it is offered to all. Won- derful rarity, which is not debased through being offered to all, or in being shared by all! When a man turns his mind to outward things it may seem to him as if he could 152 accomplish what exceeds the measure of human astonish- ment, could achieve what would satisfy him as nothing else would, could realize what would concentrate upon it- self the jubilant admiration of men. But the rare and lofty greatness of which we here speak is not well suited to be admired. It cannot tempt the sensuous man. On the con- trary, it condemns as a fool every would-be admirer, who does not understand what it is that he admires. It bids him go home; or it judges him to be a deceitful soul, and bids him retire into himself.
To a merely external contemplation man is indeed the jewel of creation. But all his glory is, as such, but ex- ternal, existing in and for and by outward things. Does not the eye aim its arrows outward every time passion or desire stretches the bowstring? Does not the hand seek to grasp some external thing, is not his arm out- stretched? Is not his mind attuned to a hymn of con- quest? But if he is unwilling to be a weapon in the service of unclarified cravings, aye, in the world's service, be- cause the world upon which he fixes his desire itself awakens this desire; if he is unwilling to be a stringed instrument played upon by unclarified moods, or rather, played upon by the world, because the movements of his soul are determined by the manner in which the world plucks the strings; if he does not wish to be a mirror that reflects the world or in which the world reflects itself; if he is unwilling to play this passive role, but desires first to control the eye before it marks out something that it desires to conquer, in order that the eye may be- long to him and not he to the eye; if he wills to lay hold of the hand before it is outstretched to seize some out- ward thing, in order that the hand may belong to him and not he to the hand; and if he wills this with such MAN S NEED OF GOD 153 earnestness that he does not hesitate if necessary to pluck out the eye, to cut off the hand, to close the windows of sense— then all is changed; the power is taken away from him and the glory. He no longer strives with the world, but with himself.
Behold him now. His powerful figure is held in a close embrace by another equally powerful figure. They en- fold one another so fast, they press upon one another with such equal suppleness and strength, that the wres- tling cannot even begin; for it is as if the other figure would instantly overwhelm him. But this other figure is himself. Thus he can do absolutely nothing, and even the weakest of men, untried in this struggle, can do far more than he. This struggle is not only exceed- ingly strenuous, but it is at the same time fearful; unless indeed he has plunged himself into the struggle of his own accord, following the dictates of his fancy, in which case it is not the struggle of which we here speak. When life under the providence of God forces a man out of the shelter and security of its routine and elects him to be strengthened in this annihilation, the experience is one which knows no illusion and permits no evasion. It is impossible to say that the individual might have more power under other circumstances; for when the individ- ual strives with himself, circumstances cannot decide the outcome.
This is man's annihilation, and this annihilation is his truth. This knowledge he will find it impossible to evade; for he is his own witness, his own accuser, his own judge. He is himself the only one who could bring consolation to bear, since he understands the need of the annihila- tion, and he is also the only one who cannot bring con- solation to bear, for he is himself the sole instrument 154 of his annihilation. To achieve an understanding of this annihilation is the highest task for every human being. To brood over this understanding, as over a treasure in- trusted to his keeping, intrusted to him by God Himself as the secret of the truth, is man's highest and most diffi- cult achievement. For the deceptive and falsifying inter- pretation of life is easy enough, so that a man becomes something at the expense of the truth. This is the high- est and most difficult task that a human being can per- form—but what do I say, not even this is in his power. Man can at the most will to understand that this fire only burns until the fire of the divine love lights the flames in that which the first fire could not consume.
In this way man becomes a helpless creature. For every other understanding of life, in terms of which he under- stands that he can help himself, is a misunderstanding; though the acceptance of such an interpretation may make him seem bold in the eyes of the world, bold through having the courage to remain in a misunder- standing, that is, by not having the courage to under- stand the truth.
But in the heavens above, my hearer, dwells the God who can do all things; or rather, He dwells everywhere, though men fail to perceive His presence. "O Lord, if Thou wert an impotent and lifeless body, like a fading flower; if Thou wert like a brook that runneth past; if Thou wert like a building that suffers decay with the pas- sing of time— then would men take note of Thee, then wouldst Thou be a suitable object to engage our low and brutish thoughts!" But now it is not so; and it is pre- cisely Thy greatness which makes Thee invisible. For Thou art too far removed from the thoughts of men in Thy wisdom that they should see Thee; and Thou art MAN S NEED OF GOD 155 too near men in Thy omnipresence to permit them to see Thee. Thou dost conceal Thyself from man in Thy good- ness, and Thy omnipotence causes him not to see Thee, for then he would himself become as nothing! But God in heaven can do all things, and man can do absolutely nothing.
Does it not seem to you, my hearer, that these two, God and man, are well suited to one another? But if they are so suited to one another, the only remaining question is wnether you will consent to be glad over this wonder- ful piece of good fortune, namely that you two are so well suited to one another. Or would you rather be as one who is not at all suited to God, or as one who can himself do something, and hence is not altogether suited to God? For you can neither change God nor could you wish to change Him, so that He should not be able to do all things. It may perhaps seem hard to become as nothing; but even in human affairs we nevertheless speak other- wise. For if misfortune came and taught two human beings that they were suited to one another either in friendship or in love, how slight does not the distress that misfortune brought them seem to be in comparison with the joy that the same misfortune also brought them, namely, the discovery that they were suited to one an- other! And if two human beings in the very hour of death made the discovery that they were suited to one another for all eternity, what importance could they possibly at- tach to the brief if bitter moment of separation which is called death, in comparison with an eternal under- standing!
It is in this sense that man is great; and he arrives at the highest pitch of perfection when he becomes suited to God through becoming absolutely nothing in himself.
i56 But let us beware lest we admire this greatness frivo- lously, or take our admiration of it in vain. Did not Moses as the Lord's messenger address himself to a degenerate people for the sake of emancipating them from them- selves, from their slavish minds, and from their slavery under a tyrant's yoke? What are even the greatest of heroic achievements over against what we call the works of Moses; for what is it to level mountains and to fill up rivers in comparison with letting a darkness fall upon the whole face of Egypt! But these were only so-called the works of Moses; he could do absolutely nothing of him- self, and the deeds were the Lord's. The difference is worth noting. Moses does not form resolutions or outline plans, while the wise men in council listen to him atten- tively, because they recognize this leader as the wisest among them; Moses can do nothing. If the people were to say to him: "Go to Pharaoh, for your word is strong, your voice is triumphant in persuasion, your eloquence irre- sistible," would not Moses have to answer: "Ye fools! I can do nothing at all, I cannot even sacrifice my life for your sakes, unless the Lord so wills it. I can only refer everything to God." He makes his appearance before Pharaoh, but what is his weapon? It is the weapon of the impotent: prayer; and he does not know what will happen even at the moment when his last words have already reached heaven. He merely believes that whatever hap- pens will be for the best. He returns to his people; but if they make as if to praise him and offer him their grati- tude, he will doubtless reply: "I can do nothing at all." Or when the people are overcome by thirst in the desert, and appeal to Moses for help, saying, "Take your staff and bid the rock give forth water to drink," Moses will doubtless answer: "What is my staff other than a stick?"
man's need of god 157 And if the people continue to press, saying: "But in your hand this staff is a mighty instrument," then Moses will doubtless say: "I really cannot do anything; but since the people so desire it, and since I cannot myself endure the sight of their misery when they languish from thirst, I will smite the rock, though I have no faith that the water will gush forth"— and the rock gave no water. So Moses does not know beforehand whether the staff he holds in his hand is to be the finger of the Almighty, or merely a stick of wood; of this he is ignorant even in the very moment that he brings it down upon the rock. He knows it only afterwards, just as he always sees merely the back of the Lord. Humanly speaking, the weakest individual in all Israel has more power than Moses; for the weakest person in the land still thinks that there is something that he can do, while Moses knows that he can do absolutely nothing. In one moment to be as if stronger than the strongest, stronger than all others, stronger than the whole world, inasmuch as the wonder is performed through him; in the next, or rather the same moment, to be weaker than the weakest, insofar as even the weakest person still clings to the belief that there is at least something that he can do— such greatness will not tempt the ambition of the vain soul, provided it takes the time to understand wherein the greatness consists; for in the absence of such an understanding it would doubtless be prompt, in nauseous cowardice, to wish itself in Moses' place.
But if this view of life, namely, that being in need of God constitutes man's highest perfection, makes it more difficult to live, it does so only in so far as it considers man from the point of view of his perfection, and seeks to stimulate men to view themselves in this light; for 158 through this view of life a man learns to know himself. And the life of each human being who does not know himself, is in a deeper sense mere delusion. The failure to discover whatever talents have been entrusted to him, the consequent mission to seek their development to the greatest possible extent in accord with the circumstances of his life, so that the roots of his life may penetrate ever deeper into the fibres of existence— such self-delusion is doubtless seldom encountered. Men rarely fail in this. They avoid dealing frivolously with themselves and their powers; they are not like a happily gifted child who does not know how much is entrusted to it, or a thoughtless youth of great wealth who does not understand the signifi- cance of riches. What we call a man's self has a value like the value of money. Whoever knows himself knows how much he is worth to the last penny, and understands how to invest himself so as to yield the maximum return. If he does not know how to do this, then he does not know him- self and is deceived, as the worldly wise will doubtless tell him, and persist in telling him step by step as his life un- folds itself. They will tell him that he does not extract the joy of life from the spring-time of youth; that he does not value himself truly, in accordance with what riches are really his; that he fails to see that men will take him at his own valuation; that he has not known how to make himself significant, and thus to make life significant for himself. Ah, but even if a man knew himself ever so well after this fashion, if he thoroughly understood how to put himself out at interest— could he on this account be said really to know himself? But if he does not know himself his life is in a deeper sense delusion. And in this worldly-wise age of ours, is it really so very rare a thing for a man to involve himself in such delusion?
MAN S NEED OF GOD 159 The prudential self-knowledge we have just described —what is its nature? Is it not a knowledge of a man's self in its relation to something else? But is it a knowledge of a man's self in its relation to himself? This means that in spite of its seeming trustworthiness such self-knowl- edge is ultimately a very dubious thing, lacking in any solid foundation, since it concerns only a relation be- tween a doubtful self and a doubtful other. This other could suffer alteration, so that someone else became stronger, richer, more beautiful; and his own self could suffer alteration, so that he became poor, ugly, impotent; and such a change might take place at any instant. If this other, in relation to which he calculates his wealth, is taken away he is deceived. And if it is something that can be taken from him, he is deceived even if it is not actually taken from him, because the entire meaning of his life was based upon a something of this precarious nature. There is no deception when that which can dis- appoint us does disappoint us, but rather must we say that there is a deception when it does not.
Such self-knowledge is thus very imperfect, and is far from regarding man from the point of view of his per- fection. For it would surely be a strange sort of perfection of which one must finally, after having praised it in per- haps the strongest possible terms, say that it is at the same time a delusion. Along this road one cannot reach a point of view which has regard to man's perfection; and in or- der even to begin to consider man from the point of view of his perfection one must emancipate oneself from all such considerations. This is difficult enough, just as it is difficult to rouse oneself from a dream without con- tinuing the dream, dreaming that one is now awake. In a certain sense it is also a complicated task, because a i6o man's real self seems so distant from him that the entire world appears to him to be nearer than his self. And it is also a terrifying occupation, because the deeper self- knowledge begins with that which one who refuses to understand it must call an anxiety-breeding deception. For instead of the entire world he gets merely himself; instead of being master of his fate he becomes a needy petitioner; instead of being able to do everything he can do nothing at all. Ah, how difficult here again not to fall into dreams, dreaming that one does all this of himself. When man turns about, so as to confront himself in order to acquire an understanding of himself, it is as if he blocked the way for that first self of which we have been speaking. He interferes with its movement out- wards, with its yearning for the surrounding world which is its object, and with its pursuit of it; he calls the first self away from external things. For the purpose of in- ducing the first self to acquiesce in this recall, the deeper self makes the surrounding world reveal itself as it really is, namely as uncertain and precarious. It is indeed the truth that the world about us is unstable, every moment admitting of a change to its very opposite. The man has never lived who by the exercise of his power or by the magic of his wish could hold this variableness within the bonds of restraint. The deeper self thus proceeds to pic- ture the outer world, with its elusiveness and its muta- bility, in such terms that it no longer seems desirable to the first self. Either the first self must contrive to slay the deeper self, to plunge it into oblivion, when all is lost; or it must admit that the deeper self is right. For to assert stability of that which constantly changes is a contradic- tion. As soon as it is admitted that it is of the nature of the outer world to change, it follows that it may change man's need of god 161 at any moment. However much the first self may shrink from this acknowledgment, there has never lived so clever a phrase-maker or so subtle a sophist that he can refute the eternal insistence on this point of the deeper self. There is only one way out, and that is to silence the deeper self by letting its voice be drowned in the roar of the world's changes.