must be possible to obtain an explanation free from mythology of
that process in the soul of a Christian which is called the need of
redemption, consequently a purely psychological explanation. Up to the
present, the psychological explanations of religious conditions and
processes have certainly been held in some disrepute, inasmuch as a
theology which called itself free carried on its unprofitable practice
in this domain; for here from the beginning (as the mind of its
founder, Schleiermacher, gives us reason to suppose) the preservation
of the Christian religion and the continuance of Christian theology
was kept in view; a theology which was to find a new anchorage in
the psychological analyses of religious "facts," and above all a new
occupation. Unconcerned about such predecessors we hazard the following
interpretation of the phenomenon in question. Man is conscious of
certain actions which stand far down in the customary rank of actions;
he even discovers in himself a tendency towards similar actions, a
tendency which appears to him almost as unchangeable as his whole
nature. How willingly would he try himself in that other species of
actions which in the general valuation are recognised as the loftiest
and highest, how gladly would he feel himself to be full of the good
consciousness which should follow an unselfish mode of thought! But
unfortunately he stops short at this wish, and the discontent at not
being able to satisfy it is added to all the other discontents which
his lot in life or the consequences of those above-mentioned evil
actions have aroused in him; so that a deep ill-humour is the result,
with the search for a physician who could remove this and all its
causes. This condition would not be felt so bitterly if man would only
compare himself frankly with other men,--then he would have no reason
for being dissatisfied with himself to a particular extent, he would
only bear his share of the common burden of human dissatisfaction and
imperfection. But he compares himself with a being who is said to be
capable only of those actions which are called un-egoistic, and to
live in the perpetual consciousness of an unselfish mode of thought,
_i.e._ with God; it is because he gazes into this clear mirror that his
image appears to him so dark, so unusually warped. Then he is alarmed
by the thought of that same creature, in so far as it floats before his
imagination as a retributive justice; in all possible small and great
events he thinks he recognises its anger and menaces, that he even
feels its scourge-strokes as judge and executioner. Who will help him
in this danger, which, by the prospect of an immeasurable duration of
punishment, exceeds in horror all the other terrors of the idea?
133.
Before we examine the further consequences of this mental state, let
us acknowledge that it is not through his "guilt" and "sin" that man
has got into this condition, but through a series of errors of reason;
that it was the fault of the mirror if his image appeared so dark and
hateful to him, and that that mirror was _his_ work, the very imperfect
work of human imagination and power of judgment. In the first place,
a nature that is only capable of purely un-egoistic actions is more
fabulous than the phœnix; it cannot even be clearly imagined, just
because, when closely examined, the whole idea "un-egoistic action"
vanishes into air. No man _ever_ did a thing which was done only
for others and without any personal motive; how should he be _able_
to do anything which had no relation to himself, and therefore
without inward obligation (which must always have its foundation in
a personal need)? How could the _ego_ act without _ego_ A God who,
on the contrary, is _all_ love, as such a one is often represented,
would not be capable of a single un-egoistic action, whereby one is
reminded of a saying of Lichtenberg's which is certainly taken from
a lower sphere: "We cannot possibly _feel_ for others, as the saying
is; we feel only for ourselves. This sounds hard, but it is not so
really if it be rightly understood. We do not love father or mother
or wife or child, but the pleasant sensations they cause us;" or, as
Rochefoucauld says: "_Si on croit aimer sa maîtresse pour l'amour
d'elle, on est bien trompé._" To know the reason why actions of love
are valued more than others, not on account of their nature, namely,
but of their _usefulness,_ we should compare the examinations already
mentioned, _On the Origin of Moral Sentiments._ But should a man desire
to be entirely like that God of Love, to do and wish everything for
others and nothing for himself, the latter is impossible for the reason
that he must do _very much_ for himself to be able to do something
for the love of others. Then it is taken for granted that the other
is sufficiently egoistic to accept that sacrifice again and again,
that living for him,--so that the people of love and sacrifice have an
interest in the continuance of those who are loveless and incapable
of sacrifice, and, in order to exist, the highest morality would be
obliged positively to _compel_ the existence of un-morality (whereby
it would certainly annihilate itself). Further: the conception of a
God disturbs and humbles so long as it is believed in; but as to how
it arose there can no longer be any doubt in the present state of the
science of comparative ethnology; and with a comprehension of this
origin all belief falls to the ground. The Christian who compares his
nature with God's is like Don Quixote, who under-valued his own bravery
because his head was full of the marvellous deeds of the heroes of
the chivalric; romances,--the standard of measurement in both cases
belongs to the domain of fable. But if the idea of God is removed, so
is also the feeling of "sin" as a trespass against divine laws, as a
stain in a creature vowed to God. Then, perhaps, there still remains
that dejection which is intergrown and connected with the fear of the
punishment of worldly justice or of the scorn of men; the dejection of
the pricks of conscience, the sharpest thorn in the consciousness of
sin, is always removed if we recognise that though by our own deed we
have sinned against human descent, human laws and ordinances, still
that we have not imperilled the "eternal salvation of the Soul" and its
relation to the Godhead. And if man succeeds in gaining philosophic
conviction of the absolute necessity of all actions and their entire
irresponsibility, and absorbing this into his flesh and blood, even
those remains of the pricks of conscience vanish.
134.
Now if the Christian, as we have said, has fallen into the way of
self-contempt in consequence of certain errors through a false,
unscientific interpretation of his actions and sensations, he must
notice with great surprise how that state of contempt, the pricks of
conscience and displeasure generally, does not endure, how sometimes
there come hours when all this is wafted away from his soul and he
feels himself once more free and courageous. In truth, the pleasure in
himself, the comfort of his own strength, together with the necessary
weakening through time of every deep emotion, has usually been
victorious; man loves himself once again, he feels it,--but precisely
this new love, this self-esteem, seems to him incredible, he can only
see in it the wholly undeserved descent of a stream of mercy from on
high. If he formerly believed that in every event he could recognise
warnings, menaces, punishments, and every kind of manifestation of
divine anger, he now finds divine goodness in all his experiences,
--this event appears to him to be full of love, that one a helpful
hint, a third, and, indeed, his whole happy mood, a proof that God is
merciful. As formerly, in his state of pain, he interpreted his actions
falsely, so now he misinterprets his experiences; his mood of comfort
he believes to be the working of a power operating outside of himself,
the love with which he really loves himself seems to him to be divine
love; that which he calls mercy, and the prologue to redemption, is
actually self-forgiveness, self-redemption.
135.
Therefore: A certain false psychology, a certain kind of imaginative
interpretation of motives and experiences, is the necessary preliminary
for one to become a Christian and to feel the need of redemption. When
this error of reason and imagination is recognised, one ceases to be a
Christian.
136.
OF CHRISTIAN ASCETICISM AND HOLINESS.--As greatly as isolated thinkers
have endeavoured to depict as a miracle the rare manifestations of
morality, which are generally called asceticism and holiness, miracles
which it would be almost an outrage and sacrilege to explain by the
light of common sense, as strong also is the inclination towards
this outrage. A mighty impulse of nature has at all times led to a
protest against those manifestations; science, in so far as it is
an imitation of nature, at least allows itself to rise against the
supposed inexplicableness and unapproachableness of these objections.
So far it has certainly not succeeded: those appearances are still
unexplained, to the great joy of the above-mentioned worshippers of the
morally marvellous. For, speaking generally, the unexplained _must_
be absolutely inexplicable, the inexplicable absolutely unnatural,
supernatural, wonderful,--thus runs the demand in the souls of all
religious and metaphysical people (also of artists, if they should
happen to be thinkers at the same time); whilst the scientist sees
in this demand the "evil principle" in itself. The general, first
probability upon which one lights in the contemplation of holiness
and asceticism is this, that their nature is a _complicated_ one,
for almost everywhere, within the physical world as well as in the
moral, the apparently marvellous has been successfully traced back to
the complicated, the many-conditioned. Let us venture, therefore, to
isolate separate impulses from the soul of saints and ascetics, and
finally to imagine them as intergrown.
137.
There is a _defiance of self,_ to the sublimest manifestation of which
belong many forms of asceticism. Certain individuals have such great
need of exercising their power and love of ruling that, in default of
other objects, or because they have never succeeded otherwise, they
finally ex-cogitate the idea of tyrannising over certain parts of their
own nature, portions or degrees of themselves. Thus many a thinker
confesses to views which evidently do not serve either to increase
or improve his reputation; many a one deliberately calls down the
scorn of others when by keeping silence he could easily have remained
respected; others contradict former opinions and do not hesitate to
be called inconsistent--on the contrary, they strive after this, and
behave like reckless riders who like a horse best when it has grown
wild, unmanageable, and covered with sweat. Thus man climbs dangerous
paths up the highest mountains in order that he may laugh to scorn his
own fear and his trembling knees; thus the philosopher owns to views
on asceticism, humility, holiness, in the brightness of which his own
picture shows to the worst possible disadvantage. This crushing of
one's self, this scorn of one's own nature, this _spernere se sperm,_
of which religion has made so much, is really a very high degree of
vanity. The whole moral of the Sermon on the Mount belongs here;
man takes a genuine delight in doing violence to himself by these
exaggerated claims, and afterwards idolising these tyrannical demands
of his soul. In every ascetic morality man worships one part of himself
as a God, and is obliged, therefore, to diabolise the other parts.
138.
Man is not equally moral at all hours, this is well known. If his
morality is judged to be the capability for great self-sacrificing
resolutions and self-denial (which, when continuous and grown habitual,
are called holiness), he is most moral in the _passions;_ the higher
emotion provides him with entirely new motives, of which he, sober
and cold as usual, perhaps does not even believe himself capable. How
does this happen? Probably because of the proximity of everything
great and highly exciting; if man is once wrought up to a state of
extraordinary suspense, he is as capable of carrying out a terrible
revenge as of a terrible crushing of his need for revenge. Under the
influence of powerful emotion, he desires in any case the great, the
powerful, the immense; and if he happens to notice that the sacrifice
of himself satisfies him as well as, or better than, the sacrifice
of others, he chooses that. Actually, therefore, he only cares about
discharging his emotion; in order to ease his tension he seizes the
enemy's spears and buries them in his breast. That there was something
great in self-denial and not in revenge had to be taught to mankind by
long habit; a Godhead that sacrificed itself was the strongest, most
effective symbol of this kind of greatness. As the conquest of the most
difficult enemy, the sudden mastering of an affection--thus this denial
_appears_; and so far it passes for the summit of morality. In reality
it is a question of the confusion of one idea with another, while the
temperament maintains an equal height, an equal level. Temperate men
who are resting from their passions no longer understand the morality
of those moments; but the general admiration of those who had the same
experiences upholds them; pride is their consolation when affection
and the understanding of their deed vanish. Therefore, at bottom even
those actions of self-denial are not moral, inasmuch as they are not
done strictly with regard to others; rather the other only provides
the highly-strung temperament with an opportunity of relieving itself
through that denial.
139.
In many respects the ascetic seeks to make life easy for himself,
usually by complete subordination to a strange will or a comprehensive
law and ritual; something like the way a Brahmin leaves nothing
whatever to his own decision but refers every moment to holy precepts.
This submission is a powerful means of attaining self-mastery: man
is occupied and is therefore not bored, and yet has no incitement to
self-will or passion; after a completed deed there is no feeling of
responsibility and with it no tortures of remorse. We have renounced
our own will once and for ever, and this is easier than only renouncing
it occasionally; as it is also easier to give up a desire entirely than
to keep it within bounds. When we remember the present relation of
man to the State, we find that, even here, unconditional obedience is
more convenient than conditional. The saint, therefore, makes his life
easier by absolute renunciation of his personality, and we are mistaken
if in that phenomenon we admire the loftiest heroism of morality.
In any case it is more difficult to carry one's personality through
without vacillation and unclearness than to liberate one's self from it
in the above-mentioned manner; moreover, it requires far more spirit
and consideration.
140.
After having found in many of the less easily explicable actions
manifestations of that pleasure in _emotion per se,_ I should like
to recognise also in self-contempt, which is one of the signs of
holiness, and likewise in the deeds of self-torture (through hunger and
scourging, mutilation of limbs, feigning of madness) a means by which
those natures fight against the general weariness of their life-will
(their nerves); they employ the most painful irritants and cruelties
in order to emerge for a time, at all events, from that dulness and
boredom into which they so frequently sink through their great mental
indolence and that submission to a strange will already described.
141.
The commonest means which the ascetic and saint employs to render
life still endurable and amusing consists in occasional warfare with
alternate victory and defeat. For this he requires an opponent, and
finds it in the so-called "inward enemy." He principally makes use
of his inclination to vanity, love of honour and rule, and of his
sensual desires, that he may be permitted to regard his life as a
perpetual battle and himself as a battlefield upon which good and evil
spirits strive with alternating success. It is well known that sensual
imagination is moderated, indeed almost dispelled, by regular sexual
intercourse, whereas, on the contrary, it is rendered unfettered and
wild by abstinence or irregularity. The imagination of many Christian
saints was filthy to an extraordinary degree; by virtue of those
theories that these desires were actual demons raging within them
they did not feel themselves to be too responsible; to this feeling
we owe the very instructive frankness of their self-confessions. It
was to their interest that this strife should always be maintained in
one degree or another, because, as we have already said, their empty
life was thereby entertained. But in order that the strife might
seem sufficiently important and arouse the enduring sympathy and
admiration of non-saints, it was necessary that sensuality should be
ever more reviled and branded, the danger of eternal damnation was so
tightly bound up with these things that it is highly probable that for
whole centuries Christians generated children with a bad conscience,
wherewith humanity has certainly suffered a great injury. And yet here
truth is all topsy-turvy, which is particularly unsuitable for truth.
Certainly Christianity had said that every man is conceived and born
in sin, and in the insupportable superlative-Christianity of Calderon
this thought again appears, tied up and twisted, as the most distorted
paradox there is, in the well-known lines--
"The greatest sin of man
Is that he was ever born."
In all pessimistic religions the act of generation was looked upon as
evil in itself. This is by no means the verdict of all mankind, not
even of all pessimists. For instance, Empedocles saw in all erotic
things nothing shameful, diabolical, or, sinful; but rather, in the
great plain of disaster he saw only one hopeful and redeeming figure,
that of Aphrodite; she appeared to him as a guarantee that the strife
should not endure eternally, but that the sceptre should one day be
given over to a gentler _dæmon._ The actual Christian pessimists had,
as has been said, an interest in the dominance of a diverse opinion;
for the solitude and spiritual wilderness of their lives they required
an ever living enemy, and a generally recognised enemy, through whose
fighting and overcoming they could constantly represent themselves to
the non-saints as incomprehensible, half--supernatural beings. But when
at last this enemy took to flight for ever in consequence of their
mode of life and their impaired health, they immediately understood
how to populate their interior with new dæmons. The rising and falling
of the scales of pride and humility sustained their brooding minds as
well as the alternations of desire and peace of soul. At that time
psychology served not only to cast suspicion upon everything human, but
to oppress, to scourge, to crucify; people _wished_ to find themselves
as bad and wicked as possible, they _sought_ anxiety for the salvation
of their souls, despair of their own strength. Everything natural with
which man has connected the idea of evil and sin (as, for instance,
he is still accustomed to do with regard to the erotic) troubles and
clouds the imagination, causes a frightened glance, makes man quarrel
with himself and uncertain and distrustful of himself. Even his dreams
have the flavour of a restless conscience. And yet in the reality
of things this suffering from what is natural is entirely without
foundation, it is only the consequence of opinions _about_ things. It
is easily seen how men grow worse by considering the inevitably-natural
as bad, and afterwards always feeling themselves made thus. It is the
trump-card of religion and metaphysics, which wish to have man evil and
sinful by nature, to cast suspicion on nature and thus really to _make_
him bad, for he learns to feel himself evil since he cannot divest
himself of the clothing of nature. After living for long a natural
life, he gradually comes to feel himself weighed down by such a burden
of sin that supernatural powers are necessary to lift this burden, and
therewith arises the so-called need of redemption, which corresponds to
no real but only to an imaginary sinfulness. If we survey the separate
moral demands of the earliest times of Christianity it will everywhere
be found that requirements are exaggerated in order that man _cannot_
satisfy them; the intention is not that he should become more moral,
but that he should feel himself as _sinful as possible._ If man had not
found this feeling _agreeable_--why would he have thought out such an
idea and stuck to it so long? As in the antique world an immeasurable
power of intellect and inventiveness was expended in multiplying the
pleasure of life by festive cults, so also in the age of Christianity
an immeasurable amount of intellect has been sacrificed to another
endeavour,--man must by all means be made to feel himself sinful and
thereby be excited, _enlivened, en-souled._ To excite, enliven, en-soul
at all costs--is not that the watchword of a relaxed, over-ripe,
over-cultured age? The range of all natural sensations had been gone
over a hundred times, the soul had grown weary, whereupon the saint
and the ascetic invented a new species of stimulants for life. They
presented themselves before the public eye, not exactly as an example
for the many, but as a terrible and yet ravishing spectacle, which took
place on that border-land between world and over-world, wherein at that
time all people believed they saw now rays of heavenly light and now
unholy tongues of flame glowing in the depths. The saint's eye, fixed
upon the terrible meaning of this short earthly life, upon the nearness
of the last decision concerning endless new spans of existence, this
burning eye in a half-wasted body made men of the old world tremble to
their very depths; to gaze, to turn shudderingly away, to feel anew the
attraction of the spectacle and to give way to it, to drink deep of it
till the soul quivered with fire and ague,--that was the last _pleasure
that antiquity invented_ after it had grown blunted even at the sight
of beast-baitings and human combats.
142.
Now to sum up. That condition of soul in which the saint or embryo
saint rejoiced, was composed of elements which we all know well,
only that under the influence of other than religious conceptions
they exhibit themselves in other colours and are then accustomed to
encounter man's blame as fully as, with that decoration of religion
and the ultimate meaning of existence, they may reckon on receiving
admiration and even worship,--might reckon, at least, in former ages.
Sometimes the saint practises that defiance of himself which is a
near relative of domination at any cost and gives a feeling of power
even to the most lonely; sometimes his swollen sensibility leaps from
the desire to let his passions have full play into the desire to
overthrow them like wild horses under the mighty pressure of a proud
spirit; sometimes he desires a complete cessation of all disturbing,
tormenting, irritating sensations, a waking sleep, a lasting rest in
the lap of a dull, animal, and plant-like indolence; sometimes he seeks
strife and arouses it within himself, because boredom has shown him its
yawning countenance. He scourges his self-adoration with self-contempt
and cruelty, he rejoices in the wild tumult of his desires and the
sharp pain of sin, even in the idea of being lost; he understands how
to lay a trap for his emotions, for instance even for his keen love
of ruling, so that he sinks into the most utter abasement and his
tormented soul is thrown out of joint by this contrast; and finally,
if he longs for visions, conversations with the dead or with divine
beings, it is at bottom a rare kind of delight that he covets, perhaps
that delight in which all others are united. Novalis, an authority on
questions of holiness through experience and instinct, tells the whole
secret with naïve joy: "It is strange enough that the association of
lust, religion, and cruelty did not long ago draw men's attention to
their close relationship and common tendency."
143.