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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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."
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?
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.