related saying at the sending forth of the Twelve, uses the formula, “He
that hath ears to hear, let him hear” (Mark iv. 23 and Matt. xi. 15),
thereby signifying that in this utterance there lies concealed a
supernatural knowledge concerning the plans of God, which only those who
have ears to hear—that is, the foreordained—can detect. For others these
sayings are unintelligible.
If this genuinely “historical” interpretation of the mystery of the
Kingdom of God is correct, Jesus must have expected the coming of the
Kingdom at harvest time. And that is just what He did expect. It is for
that reason that He sends out His disciples to make known in Israel, as
speedily as may be, what is about to happen. That in this He is actuated
by a dogmatic idea, becomes clear when we notice that, according to Mark,
the mission of the Twelve followed immediately on the rejection at
Nazareth. The unreceptiveness of the Nazarenes had made no impression upon
Him; He was only astonished at their unbelief (Mark vi. 6). This passage
is often interpreted to mean that He was astonished to find His miracle‐
working power fail Him. There is no hint of that in the text. What He is
astonished at is, that in His native town there were so few believers,
that is, elect, knowing as He does that the Kingdom of God may appear at
any moment. But that fact makes no difference whatever to the nearness of
the coming of the Kingdom.
The Evangelist, therefore, places the rejection at Nazareth and the
mission of the Twelve side by side, simply because he found them in this
temporal connexion in the tradition. If he had been working by
“association of ideas,” he would not have arrived at this order. The want
of connexion, the impossibility of applying any natural explanation, is
just what is historical, because the course of the history was determined,
not by outward events, but by the decisions of Jesus, and these were
determined by dogmatic, eschatological considerations.
To how great an extent this was the case in regard to the mission of the
Twelve is clearly seen from the “charge” which Jesus gave them. He tells
them in plain words (Matt. x. 23), that He does not expect to see them
back in the present age. The Parousia of the Son of Man, which is
logically and temporally identical with the dawn of the Kingdom, will take
place before they shall have completed a hasty journey through the cities
of Israel to announce it. That the words mean this and nothing else, that
they ought not to be in any way weakened down, should be sufficiently
evident. This is the form in which Jesus reveals to them the secret of the
Kingdom of God. A few days later, He utters the saying about the violent
who, since the days of John the Baptist, are forcing on the coming of the
Kingdom.
It is equally clear, and here the dogmatic considerations which guided the
resolutions of Jesus become still more prominent, that this prediction was
not fulfilled. The disciples returned to Him; and the appearing of the Son
of Man had not taken place. The actual history disavowed the dogmatic
history on which the action of Jesus had been based. An event of
supernatural history which must take place, and must take place at that
particular point of time, failed to come about. That was for Jesus, who
lived wholly in the dogmatic history, the first “historical” occurrence,
the central event which closed the former period of His activity and gave
the coming period a new character. To this extent modern theology is
justified when it distinguishes two periods in the Life of Jesus; an
earlier, in which He is surrounded by the people, a later in which He is
“deserted” by them, and travels about with the Twelve only. It is a sound
observation that the two periods are sharply distinguished by the attitude
of Jesus. To explain this difference of attitude, which they thought
themselves bound to account for on natural historical grounds, theologians
of the modern historical school invented the theory of growing opposition
and waning support. Weisse, no doubt, had expressed himself in direct
opposition to this theory.(273) Keim, who gave it its place in theology,
was aware that in setting it up he was going against the plain sense of
the texts. Later writers lost this consciousness, just as in the first and
third Gospel the significance of the Messianic secret in Mark gradually
faded away; they imagined that they could find the basis of fact for the
theory in the texts, and did not realise that they only believed in the
desertion of the multitude and the “flights and retirements” of Jesus
because they could not otherwise explain historically the alteration in
His conduct, His withdrawal from public work, and His resolve to die.
The thoroughgoing eschatological school makes better work of it. They
recognise in the non‐occurrence of the Parousia promised in Matt. x. 23,
the “historic fact,” in the estimation of Jesus, which in some way
determined the alteration in His plans, and His attitude towards the
multitude.
The whole history of “Christianity” down to the present day, that is to
say, the real inner history of it, is based on the delay of the Parousia,
the non‐occurrence of the Parousia, the abandonment of eschatology, the
progress and completion of the “de‐eschatologising” of religion which has
been connected therewith. It should be noted that the non‐fulfilment of
Matt. x. 23 is the first postponement of the Parousia. We have therefore
here the first significant date in the “history of Christianity”; it gives
to the work of Jesus a new direction, otherwise inexplicable.
Here we recognise also why the Marcan hypothesis, in constructing its view
of the Life of Jesus, found itself obliged to have recourse more and more
to the help of modern psychology, and thus necessarily became more and
more unhistorical. The fact which alone makes possible an understanding of
the whole, is lacking in this Gospel. Without Matt. x. and xi. everything
remains enigmatic. For this reason Bruno Bauer and Wrede are in their own
way the only consistent representatives of the Marcan hypothesis from the
point of view of historical criticism, when they arrive at the result that
the Marcan account is inherently unintelligible. Keim, with his strong
sense of historical reality, rightly felt that the plan of the Life of
Jesus should not be constructed exclusively on the basis of Mark.
The recognition that Mark alone gives an inadequate basis, is more
important than any “Ur‐Markus” theories, for which it is impossible to
discover a literary foundation, or find an historical use. A simple
induction from the “facts” takes us beyond Mark. In the discourse‐material
of Matthew, which the modern‐historical school thought they could sift in
here and there, wherever there seemed to be room for it, there lie hidden
certain facts—facts which never happened but are all the more important
for that.
Why Mark describes the events and discourses in the neighbourhood of the
mission of the Twelve with such careful authentication is a literary
question which the historical study of the life of Jesus may leave open;
the more so since, even as a literary question, it is insoluble.
The prediction of the Parousia of the Son of Man is not the only one which
remained unfulfilled. There is the prediction of sufferings which is
connected with it. To put it more accurately, the prediction of the
appearing of the Son of Man in Matt. x. 23 runs up into a prediction of
sufferings, which, working up to a climax, forms the remainder of the
discourse at the sending forth of the disciples. This prediction of
sufferings has as little to do with objective history as the prediction of
the Parousia. Consequently, none of the Lives of Jesus, which follow the
lines of a natural psychology, from Weisse down to Oskar Holtzmann, can
make anything of it.(274) They either strike it out, or transfer it to the
last “gloomy epoch” of the life of Jesus, regard it as an unintelligible
anticipation, or put it down to the account of “primitive theology,” which
serves as a scrap‐heap for everything for which they cannot find a place
in the “historical life of Jesus.”
In the texts it is quite evident that Jesus is not speaking of sufferings
after His death, but of sufferings which will befall them as soon as they
have gone forth from Him. The death of Jesus is not here pre‐supposed, but
only the Parousia of the Son of Man, and it is implied that this will
occur just after these sufferings and bring them to a close. If the
theology of the primitive Church had remoulded the tradition, as is always
being asserted, it would have made Jesus give His followers directions for
their conduct after His death. That we do not find anything of this kind
is the best proof that there can be no question of a remoulding of the
Life of Jesus by primitive theology. How easy it would have been for the
Early Church to scatter here and there through the discourses of Jesus
directions which were only to be applied after His death! But the simple
fact is that it did not do so.
The sufferings of which the prospect is held out at the sending forth are
doubly, trebly, nay four times over, unhistorical. In the first place—and
this is the only point which modern historical theology has
noticed—because there is not a shadow of a suggestion in the outward
circumstances of anything which could form a natural occasion for such
predictions of, and exhortations relating to, sufferings. In the second
place—and this has been overlooked by modern theology because it had
already declared them to be unhistorical in its own characteristic
fashion, viz. by striking them out—because they were not fulfilled. In the
third place—and this has not entered into the mind of modern theology at
all—because these sayings were spoken in the closest connexion with the
promise of the Parousia and are placed in the closest connexion with that
event. In the fourth place, because the description of that which is to
befall the disciples is quite without any basis in experience. A time of
general dissension will begin, in which brothers will rise up against
brothers, and fathers against sons and children against their parents to
cause them to be put to death (Matt. x. 21). And the disciples “shall be
hated of all men for His name’s sake.” Let them strive to hold out to the
“end,” that is, to the coming of the Son of Man, in order that they may be
saved (Matt. x. 22).
But why should they suddenly be hated and persecuted for the name of
Jesus, seeing that this name played no part whatever in their preaching?
That is simply inconceivable. The relation of Jesus to the Son of Man, the
fact, that is to say, that it is He who is to be manifested as Son of Man,
must therefore in some way or other become known in the interval; not,
however, through the disciples, but by some other means of revelation. A
kind of supernatural illumination will suddenly make known all that Jesus
has been keeping secret regarding the Kingdom of God and His position in
the Kingdom. This illumination will arise as suddenly and without
preparation as the spirit of strife.
And as a matter of fact Jesus predicts to the disciples in the same
discourse that to their own surprise a supernatural wisdom will suddenly
speak from their lips, so that it will be not they but the Spirit of God
who will answer the great ones of the earth. As the Spirit is for Jesus
and early Christian theology something concrete which is to descend upon
the elect among mankind only in consequence of a definite event—the
outpouring of the Spirit which, according to the prophecy of Joel, should
precede the day of judgment—Jesus must have anticipated that this would
occur during the absence of the disciples, in the midst of the time of
strife and confusion.
To put it differently; the whole of the discourse at the sending forth of
the Twelve, taken in the clear sense of the words, is a prediction of the
events of the “time of the end,” events which are immediately at hand, in
which the supernatural eschatological course of history will break through
into the natural course. The expectation of sufferings is therefore
doctrinal and unhistorical, as is, precisely in the same way, the
expectation of the pouring forth of the Spirit uttered at the same time.
The Parousia of the Son of Man is to be preceded according to the
Messianic dogma by a time of strife and confusion—as it were, the birth‐
throes of the Messiah—and the outpouring of the Spirit. It should be
noticed that according to Joel iii. and iv. the outpouring of the Spirit,
along with the miraculous signs, forms the prelude to the judgment; and
also, that in the same context, Joel iii. 13, the judgment is described as
the harvest‐day of God.(275) Here we have a remarkable parallel to the
saying about the harvest in Matt. ix. 38, which forms the introduction to
the discourse at the sending forth of the disciples.
There is only one point in which the predicted course of eschatological
events is incomplete: the appearance of Elias is not mentioned.
Jesus could not prophesy to the disciples the Parousia of the Son of Man
without pointing them, at the same time, to the pre‐eschatological events
which must first occur. He must open to them a part of the secret of the
Kingdom of God, viz. the nearness of the harvest, that they might not be
taken by surprise and caused to doubt by these events.
Thus this discourse is historical as a whole and down to the smallest
detail precisely because, according to the view of modern theology, it
must be judged unhistorical. It is, in fact, full of eschatological dogma.
Jesus had no need to instruct the disciples as to what they were to teach;
for they had only to utter a cry. But concerning the events which should
supervene, it was necessary that He should give them information.
Therefore the discourse does not consist of instruction, but of
predictions of sufferings and of the Parousia.
That being so, we may judge with what right the modern psychological
theology dismisses the great Matthaean discourses off‐hand as mere
“composite structures.” Just let any one try to show how the Evangelist
when he was racking his brains over the task of making a “discourse at the
sending forth of the disciples,” half by the method of piecing it together
out of traditional sayings and “primitive theology,” and half by inventing
it, lighted on the curious idea of making Jesus speak entirely of
inopportune and unpractical matters; and of then going on to provide the
evidence that they never happened.
The foretelling of the sufferings that belong to the eschatological
distress is part and parcel of the preaching of the approach of the
Kingdom of God, it embodies the secret of the Kingdom. It is for that
reason that the thought of suffering appears at the end of the Beatitudes
and in the closing petition of the Lord’s Prayer. For the πειρασμός which
is there in view is not an individual psychological temptation, but the
general eschatological time of tribulation, from which God is besought to
exempt those who pray so earnestly for the coming of the Kingdom, and not
to expose them to that tribulation by way of putting them to the test.
There followed neither the sufferings, nor the outpouring of the Spirit,
nor the Parousia of the Son of Man. The disciples returned safe and sound
and full of a proud satisfaction; for one promise had been realised—the
power which had been given them over the demons.
But from the moment when they rejoined Him, all His thoughts and efforts
were devoted to getting rid of the people in order to be alone with them
(Mark vi. 30‐33). Previously, during their absence, He had, almost in open
speech, taught the multitude concerning the Baptist, concerning that which
was to precede the coming of the Kingdom, and concerning the judgment
which should come upon the impenitent, even upon whole towns of them
(Matt. xi. 20‐24), because, in spite of the miracles which they had
witnessed, they had not recognised the day of grace and diligently used it
for repentance. At the same time He had rejoiced before them over all
those whom God had enlightened that they might see what was going forward;
and had called them to His side (Matt. xi. 25‐30).
And now suddenly, the moment the disciples return, His one thought is to
get away from the people. They, however, follow Him and overtake Him on
the shores of the lake. He puts the Jordan between Himself and them by
crossing to Bethsaida. They also come to Bethsaida. He returns to
Capernaum. They do the same. Since in Galilee it is impossible for Him to
be alone, and He absolutely must be alone, He “slips away” to the north.
Once more modern theology was right: He really does flee; not, however,
from hostile Scribes, but from the people, who dog His footsteps in order
to await in His company the appearing of the Kingdom of God and of the Son
of Man—to await it in vain.(276)
In Strauss’s first Life of Jesus the question is thrown out whether, in
view of Matt. x. 23, Jesus did not think of His Parousia as a
transformation which should take place during His lifetime. Ghillany bases
his work on this possibility as on an established historical fact. Dalman
takes this hypothesis to be the necessary correlative of the
interpretation of the self‐designation Son of Man on the basis of Daniel
and the Apocalypses.
If Jesus, he argues, designated Himself in this futuristic sense as the
Son of Man who comes from Heaven, He must have assumed that He would first
be transported thither. “A man who had died or been rapt away from the
earth might perhaps be brought into the world again in this way, or one
who had never been on earth might so descend thither.” But as this
conception of transformation and removal seems to Dalman untenable in the
case of Jesus, he treats it as a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the
eschatological interpretation of the title.
But why? If Jesus as a man walking in a natural body upon earth, predicts
to His disciples the Parousia of the Son of Man in the immediate future,
with the secret conviction that He Himself was to be revealed as the Son
of Man, He must have made precisely this assumption that He would first be
supernaturally removed and transformed. He thought of Himself as any one
must who believes in the immediate coming of the last things, as living in
two different conditions: the present, and the future condition into which
He is to be transferred at the coming of the new supernatural world. We
learn later that the disciples on the way up to Jerusalem were entirely
possessed by the thought of what they should be when this transformation
took place. They contend as to who shall have the highest position (Mark
ix. 33); James and John wish Jesus to promise them in advance the thrones
on His right hand and on His left (Mark x. 35‐37).
He, moreover, does not rebuke them for indulging such thoughts, but only
tells them how much, in the present age, of service, humiliation, and
suffering is necessary to constitute a claim to such places in the future
age, and that it does not in the last resort belong to Him to allot the
places on His left and on His right, but that they shall be given to those
for whom they are prepared; therefore, perhaps not to any of the disciples
(Mark x. 40). At this point, therefore, the knowledge and will of Jesus
are thwarted and limited by the predestinarianism which is bound up with
eschatology.
It is quite mistaken, however, to speak as modern theology does, of the
“service” here required as belonging to the “new ethic of the Kingdom of
God.” There is for Jesus no ethic of the Kingdom of God, for in the
Kingdom of God all natural relationships, even, for example, the
distinction of sex (Mark xii. 25 and 26), are abolished. Temptation and
sin no longer exist. All is “reign,” a “reign” which has gradations—Jesus
speaks of the “least in the Kingdom of God”—according as it has been
determined in each individual case from all eternity, and according as
each by his self‐humiliation and refusal to rule in the present age has
proved his fitness for bearing rule in the future Kingdom.
For the loftier stations, however, it is necessary to have proved oneself
in persecution and suffering. Accordingly, Jesus asks the sons of Zebedee
whether, since they claim these thrones on His right hand and on His left,
they feel themselves strong enough to drink of His cup and be baptized
with His baptism (Mark x. 38). To serve, to humble oneself, to incur
persecution and death, belong to “the ethic of the interim” just as much
as does penitence. They are indeed only a higher form of penitence.
A vivid eschatological expectation is therefore impossible to conceive
apart from the idea of a metamorphosis. The resurrection is only a special
case of this metamorphosis, the form in which the new condition of things
is realised in the case of those who are already dead. The resurrection,
the metamorphosis, and the Parousia of the Son of Man take place
simultaneously, and are one and the same act.(277) It is therefore quite
indifferent whether a man loses his life shortly before the Parousia in
order to “find his life,” if that is what is ordained for him; that
signifies only that he will undergo the eschatological metamorphosis with
the dead instead of with the living.
The Pauline eschatology recognises both conceptions side by side, in such
a way, however, that the resurrection is subordinated to the
metamorphosis. “Behold, I shew you a mystery,” he says in 1 Cor. xv. 51
ff.; “we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in
the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound,
and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”
The apostle himself desires to be one of those who live to experience the
metamorphosis and to be clothed with the heavenly mode of existence (2
Cor. v. 1 ff.). The metamorphosis, however, and the resurrection are, for
those who are “in Christ,” connected with a being caught up into the
clouds of heaven (1 Thess. iv. 15 ff.). Therefore Paul also makes one and
the same event of the metamorphosis, resurrection, and translation.
In seeking clues to the eschatology of Jesus, scholars have passed over
the eschatology which lies closest to it, that of Paul. But why? Is it not
identical with that of Jesus, at least in so far that both are “Jewish
eschatology”? Did not Reimarus long ago declare that the eschatology of
the primitive Christian community was identical with the Jewish, and only
went beyond it in claiming a definite knowledge on a single point which
was unessential to the nature and course of the expected events, in
knowing, that is, who the Son of Man should be? That Christians drew no
distinction between their own eschatology and the Jewish is evident from
the whole character of the earlier apocalyptic literature, and not least
from the Apocalypse of John! After all, what alteration did the belief
that Jesus was the Son of Man who was to be revealed make in the general
scheme of the course of apocalyptic events?
From the Rabbinic literature little help is to be derived towards the
understanding of the world of thought in which Jesus lived, and His view
of His own Person. The latest researches may be said to have made that
clear. A few moral maxims, a few halting parables—that is all that can be
produced in the way of parallels. Even the conception which is there
suggested of the hidden coming and work of the Messiah is of little
importance. We find the same ideas in the mouth of Trypho in Justin’s
dialogue, and that makes their Jewish character doubtful. That Jesus of
Nazareth knew Himself to be the Son of Man who was to be revealed is for
us the great fact of His self‐consciousness, which is not to be further
explained, whether there had been any kind of preparation for it in
contemporary theology or not.
The self‐consciousness of Jesus cannot in fact be illustrated or
explained; all that can be explained is the eschatological view, in which
the Man who possessed that self‐consciousness saw reflected in advance the
coming events, both those of a more general character, and those which
especially related to Himself.(278)