"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!"
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,
he[2] 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 antiquity[3]
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!"
"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 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]
"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.
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.
"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!