THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 7

7. JESUS ATTITUDE TOWARDS LIFE AND DEATH




Now we must touch upon another topic which also throws light on the life of

Jesus: his attitude towards life in the obvious sense of the word.



In the total economy of human existence it is the spirit that makes it

possible to venture forth from the immediate world of things and one's own

nature and become creative. However, the growth of the spirit is not

without its dangers: it can cause difficulties in one's adaptation to life;

be a hindrance to bodily development and also to the unfolding of the

emotional life. Genius can lead either to the utmost limit of human

development or beyond it to a sheer pathological state. Religious genius is

no exception. We have, for example, the man with extraordinary religious

gifts who dies young. In such cases we refer to an early maturity or say

that he had an unearthly quality about him. Or there is the man who seems

to be a borderline case, the visionary who enjoys very poor health, the

mystic with a dangerous penchant for suffering, the man threatened by

demons, and so forth.



What is to be said about Jesus in this connection?



Is he a man in whom the spirit loomed so large that his very constitution

was devoured by it so that he died, as it were, from inside? Not at all.

Jesus gives an impression of perfect vigor. When he died he had, humanly

speaking, immeasurable possibilities left which could have been realized

had there been time and opportunity.



His personality and life are in no respect those of one who attains

perfection and then dies in the flower of youth; his life was destroyed

from outside, by violence. Jesus constantly gave the impression that he was

infinitely more as a being than was apparent on the surface; that he could

do more than he did, that he knew more than he revealed. His death showed

that he possessed incalculable reserves of strength and life.



What of the second type? Is Jesus one of those religious persons who are

borderline cases and, for that very reason, are able to comprehend and

perform the special tasks entrusted to them?



He is not this type either. In him we find no trace of that biological and

psychic instability we encounter so often in religious psychology and

pathology; nor of that oscillation in emotional states between an

extraordinary and unhuman exhilaration and a weakness and depression far

below the normal. The only scene that might suggest such a state is

Gethsemane, but this has a totally different meaning.



Nor can we induce this kind of psychic structure from his eschatological

consciousness, holding, for instance, that he first lived in expectation of

a colossal upheaval in the power of the Spirit, but that when this failed

to materialize he went to the other extreme and fixed his hopes upon a

dialectic of annihilation, hoping to gain through destruction what had not

been attainable the other way. Such an explanation would make sense only if

we could suppose a nature it would suit: and there is no trace of this at

all. The eschatological awareness of Jesus was of a totally different kind,

not to be explained in terms of the presuppositions of religious

psychology.



The essential character of Jesus shows no hint of melancholy, that

commonest of all pathological religious symptoms. He never knew a moment's

real depression. His repeated retreat into solitude was not the escape of

the melancholic from man and from the light of day: it was the result of a

longing for peace in the presence of God, especially at times of momentous

decision; and even more than this, it was the entry into that exclusive

relationship in which he knew he stood to him whom he called his Father.



Jesus was no visionary either, visited by apparitions of the supernatural

or the future, oppressing him at least as much as they exalt him. Nor was

he an apocalyptic so acutely conscious of God's threatening wrath that

everything around him, even his own life, seemed in imminent danger of

collapsing.



He gave the impression of perfect health. We never hear of his being ill or

having to be nursed, or of his being weakly or overworked and needing a

respite. He led the arduous life of an itinerant preacher, and there is no

hint that he ever had to exert every ounce of his strength in order to

carry on. The account which tells how he was too weak to carry the beam of

the cross to the place of execution (Mat. 27. 32), taken in conjunction

with what he had just gone through and with what was taking place within

him, does not contradict this fact. On the contrary, we cannot comprehend

how he was able to bear so much. The same is true of his rapid death (John

19. 33). As a rule it was a long time before a crucified person died; but

we do well to remember that death comes not only from the body, but also

from the spirit.



We have still to deal with the question of Jesus' relationship to death.

What is said here presupposes, of course, that the Gospels do not indulge

in fantasies. That they should have done so seems absurd, for they would

have had to choose either to portray a mythical figure, in which case the

unreality of the figure would have been immediately apparent, for mythical

figures have no psychology and are mere idealizations, whereas Jesus is

full of the most concrete life--or to invent a pattern of life quite

unknown to men, in which case improbabilities would occur at every turn.



If, then, we accept the Gospel narrative as true, we must admit that the

thought of death was not present in the mind of Jesus in the way in which

it is in our minds. Each time he spoke of his dying--he did this five

times--he connected this with his resurrection.



For us, death is simply the end. Our immediate awareness of life does not

penetrate beyond that. True, we say that the essential thing about our life

cannot come to an end with death. We express this in various presentiments,

metaphors and hopes; and the hope of eternal life is assured by faith in

revelation. With Jesus, however, the matter was quite different. He knew

that he was to die and accepted death: but he viewed it as a passage to an

existence involving both soul and body which would immediately follow after

death: "From that time Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to

Jerusalem and suffer many things from the elders and scribes and chief

priests; and be put to death, and the third day rise again" (Mat. 16. 21).

These are no casual words: they proceed from a general attitude, from an

original and unique mode of being in life.



To regard such sayings as retrospective explanations in the light of the

later Paschal experience of the disciples would be to distort everything.



For Jesus, the concept of death and resurrection which they express is

fundamental to his whole person. As soon as this idea is removed from the

picture it is not a real man who is left, much less the truer one one might

have thought would emerge when stripped of his mythological trappings--his

whole nature and reality vanish. The span of life of which he was directly

aware did not end for him, as it does for us, at the approach of death,

thereafter to be resumed again tentatively; it passed with perfect clarity

right through death. For him, death was not the end but a point of

transition; and not at all--to make the point quite clear--in the sense

that nothing led beyond death but hope. The way in which Jesus felt himself

to be alive, spiritually and bodily, was of such a kind that it reached far

beyond death. It saw this as an event within life itself. This total view

of life has, of course, nothing in common with any mythology or esoteric

certitude: it derived from the reality of God, the beginning and end of all

his existence.



The Christian conception of life, death and resurrection is based on Jesus'

knowledge of life. It is something more than an assurance of spiritual

indestructibility. It is the hope of an eternal human existence in God

himself. But the reality in and with whose accomplishment it is found to be

possible is Jesus' sense of life. Here again the decisive thing is not what

he says but what he is.



All this leads us to the conclusion that he lived and died in a different

way from us. And this reveals, in all its greatness and clarity, what we

have already met before when talking of his "health"; it is something more

than mere natural vitality or the spiritual will to live. It is a quality

of his psychosomatic existence for which there is no standard of measure

based on our natural knowledge.



We can perhaps get some hint of what this means from the power to endure

and to suffer, which can spring from personal love, or from the spirit's

pure will to create; or from a truly religious sense of duty and will-

power. In mere men, however, this "health" has to assert itself in spite of

the disorders and malformations which are found even in the healthiest of

us. But in Jesus there was nothing like this whatever. He was utterly sound

and alive, but in a special sense. An animal can be healthy in terms of its

own nature. Man who has turned from God would like to be healthy but he

cannot be. He was created to exist in dependence on God: this is his

health, which he lost once and for all by sin. That "health", by contrast,

which we commonly speak about, is altogether a problematic thing. One is

even tempted to say that it is more enigmatic than sickness; for what is it

after all but sickness so entrenched as to have become normal? The

ontological sickness of the fallen creature which disguises its own total

disorder under cover of a relative order? There is nothing like this in

Jesus. In him is the fullness of that which this confusion has upset:

existence from God, directed to God, life in the Pneuma of God. Therefore,

our notion of health, worked out inevitably on the basis of our experience,

does not apply to Christ. His state is altogether beyond our notions of

sickness and health.



It is St. John again who analyses and puts plainly into words what appears

in the Synoptics as a simple, and hence elusive, reality. In St. John's

Gospel our Lord says to the disciples: "I am . . . the life" (14. 6); and

to Martha: "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me,

although he be dead, shall live" (11. 25). This is a theological expression

of what the Synoptics present as an objective fact.



"Psychology", however, can do no more than indicate that we are in the

presence of something very special, of a state of affairs which is

expressed not merely in conceptual propositions, but in a living attitude;

in the way, that is, in which personality and life are built up; by means

of words which are the double of an existence or form of life to which

nothing in any other man corresponds.



Further than this psychology cannot go. It can only point out a direction

to follow and show how this human-superhuman reality, once accepted by

faith, appropriated in love, and put into practice in deed, makes possible

an attitude to life which man could never have achieved by himself. That is

to say, psychology can try to exhibit the Christian sense of life and

death. If it does this, it will once more reach its limit at the point

where the believer's "Christ in me" emerges, the point at which the real

"synergeia," accomplishment in and with Christ, begins.



The nature of Christ cannot be deduced from a study of the psychology of

the religious man in general and the Christian in particular. The Christian

can exist only in terms of a Christ who eludes psychological analysis as

long as this is honestly pursued. If it is not honestly pursued, however--

and as a general rule it is not--then it makes no sense at all and becomes

merely another tool in the hands of self-glorifying man who uses it to

prove that there never was a God-man.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 6

6. EMOTION IN THE LIFE OF JESUS




Another equally instructive question is that concerning the part played by

feeling in the life of Jesus.



In him we observe various kinds of emotional reaction. These show us that

he was not cold and aloof, either by nature or by self-discipline. Thus we

learn that he had pity on the people because of their suffering (Mat. 9.

36); that he "looked at and loved" a man in whom something special was

going on (Mark 10. 21); that he was irritated by the hypocrisy of those who

watched to see if he would heal the sick on the Sabbath: he looked "round

about on them with anger" (Mark 3. 5); that he expressed anger at the

stupidity of the disciples: "Do you not yet know or understand?" (Mark 8.

17); that he "rejoiced in the Holy Spirit" at the return of those whom he

had sent out (Luke 10. 21), and so on. Obviously the sick and the suffering

would never have come to him with such confidence; children would never

have approached him for a blessing had they not felt a warm sympathy

emanating from him. And the accounts about Gethsemane and Golgotha indicate

anything but an unimpressionable nature or the attitude of one who was a

stern ascetic, above all emotion.



And we could cite many other examples. In spite of this, however, the

impression we have of Jesus' nature is one of complete calm under all

conditions, a calm which has the same origin as his fearlessness.



This is revealed most clearly in connection with his mission. He proclaimed

publicly that the kingdom of God was about to come openly and that the

transformation of history, awaited by the prophets, was about to come to

pass. This depended, however, upon the acceptance of his message by those

who were being called. And so, it might be assumed, he must have been

experiencing great excitement, wondering whether this would happen. In

fact, we find no trace of this at all. His words and acts are not one whit

different from what they are at every moment, as dictated by the will of

the Father. When the moment of decision urges, Jesus does nothing to alter

the course of events or to ease their effects. This attitude is made

particularly clear once the decision has been taken. For example, the scene

at Caesarea Philippi shows that it does not arise from any lack of feeling

(Mat. 16. 21 ff.). When Jesus began to speak of the terrible things which

were to happen to him and Peter tried to remonstrate with him, we are told

that he turned and upbraided him (Mat. 16. 23). It was as though he could

not bear to hear anything that might upset his decision, and one feels how

his inner calm was being threatened by the horror of what was to happen.

All the more impressive, therefore, is the way in which his calm continues,

the way it lasts through all his experiences and enables him to go on

teaching and helping men, strengthening him never to allow himself to be

deflected by one hairbreadth from the perfect course of his mission, but,

moment by moment, to perform all that that mission requires.



Let us stress once more, however, that in all this there is no trace of the

imperturbability of the Stoic or the renunciation of a Buddha. Jesus is

fully alive, fully sentient, fully human. His deep calm and human warmth in

a situation which was becoming increasingly hopeless revealed what John

meant when he wrote: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you; not

as the world giveth, do I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled;

nor let it be afraid" (John 14. 27). These words are all the more

significant because they were spoken on the last occasion when he was with

his friends, just before the end.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 5

5. JESUS AND MEN




What was the attitude of Jesus towards men and women?



The New Testament shows him in various relationships: as a child to his

parents; as an adult to his widowed mother; as a kinsman to his relations.

He was the one awaited by his precursor, and the Master to his disciples.

The band of Twelve are marked off from the other disciples and live on

terms of special intimacy with him. Within the Twelve, the three who were

present at the raising of Jairus' daughter, the Transfiguration, and in

Gethsemane, are even closer to him than the rest. These are Peter, James

and John. The last of these is "the disciple whom Jesus loved" (John 13.

23; 21. 7).



He was bound by a special tie of friendship to the family at Bethany, and

within that family he was particularly attracted to Mary (Luke 10. 38 ff.).

He had another equally close attachment with Mary of Magdalen, who is found

beside his grave at Easter (John 20. 11 ff.).



Then there is the crowd: the people with their needs, their longing for

salvation, unreliable and changeable. A whole series of individuals can be

singled out from among them: those whom he had helped, such as the deaf-

mute, the cripple, the blind man, the grateful leper, the centurion and his

servant, and the woman with an issue of blood.



And there were many enemies, among whom, again, were such individuals as

the inhospitable Pharisee. There were people who wanted to embarrass or

hinder him, the disciple who betrayed him, and the individuals who took

part in the events of his last two days.



That is to say, there were human relationships of all kinds, which gave

scope to all kinds of different feelings of sympathy, attachment, animosity

and strife. Can we find some characteristic attitude of Jesus in all this?



He approached men with an open heart. He was almost always to be found in

the company of people. He had no house of his own where he could be alone:

he was a guest wherever he lived. We might almost say that he had no

"private life" at all. He was sensitive to men's needs and full of an

inexhaustible readiness to help them. We recall words like these: "Come to

me, all you that labor and are burdened; and I will refresh you" (Mat. 11.

28), or: "And seeing the multitudes, he had compassion on them; because

they were distressed and scattered abroad like sheep that have no shepherd"

(Mat. 9. 36); or the parable of the shepherd who had lost one animal from

his flock.



On the other hand, he was reserved towards men, even towards his closest

friends. He always remained peculiarly detached. John says: "Jesus would

not give them his confidence; he had knowledge of them all, and did not

need assurances about any man, because he could read men's hearts" (John 2.

24-5). He wanted nothing from men. Between him and men there was no

community of mutual interests, not even one of common work. We never find

him portrayed attempting to clarify an issue in common with his companions,

or seeking with them a way to become master of some situation. We do not

even find him working together with them. Apart from occasions devoted to

common worship, like the Paschal meal, he is never even seen praying with

them. And the only time he did look for comfort of human companionship, he

did not find it: "Could you not watch one hour with me?" (Mat. 26. 40).



And so a continual solitude enveloped Jesus. There were always men about

him, but among them he was alone.



His solitude arises because no one understands him. His enemies do not

understand, the multitude does not, but neither do his disciples. The depth

of this lack of understanding is revealed by a series of incidents. For

example, there is the shattering experience described in Mark 8. 14 ff.

They are together in a boat on the lake. He had been speaking about the

leaven of the Pharisees and they assume that he is talking about the

provisions they had forgotten to bring with them. So he says plainly: "Why

do you discuss the fact that you have no bread? Do you not yet know or

understand? Have you still your heart blinded? Having eyes, see you not?

And having ears, hear you not?" Then he reminds them of the recent miracle

of feeding the multitude. "How do you yet not understand?" Or, we can

recall the scenes when he was arrested and put to death; or the sense in

which they understood his message about the coming of the kingdom of God

right up to and including the time after Easter (Acts 1. 6).



This lack of understanding constitutes to a decisive degree Jesus' fate. To

see how deep that misunderstanding was, we have only to note the radical

change which took place in the attitude of the disciples after Pentecost.

Thus, the life of Jesus is lacking in every presupposition for being

understood. It is well to be quite clear in our minds just how much this

meant.



We gain the impression of a rigid isolation; a muteness in spite of much

speaking. For life only begins to unfold before us from the heart of the

other; and the word we speak is only perfected in the ear of one who

understands. It is this isolation of Jesus which St. John tries to express

in his Prologue in terms of the barrier which is raised up between him and

the world: "And the darkness did not comprehend it (the light). . . He

came unto his own and his own received him not" (John 1. 5, 11). Connected

with this is the impression we get of the futility, in the ordinary sense,

of the activity of Jesus. With most religious leaders in history, their new

message usually began to be felt, after a period of struggle, within their

own lifetime. By contrast, Jesus was to see no return at all; we are

reminded of the picture of the grain of wheat which must die before it can

bring forth fruit (John 12. 24); even in his disciples. This

misunderstanding did not arise merely because his message was too lofty,

but because it came from a God whom no one knew, and because between his

message and mankind there lay the indispensable revolution in values which

the Gospel calls "metanoia" (repentance). For this reason understanding

could only come through the Holy Spirit who was to be sent by that selfsame

God.



It might now be asked why this Spirit had not come sooner, in Jesus' own

lifetime; or why he who supported Jesus' being--see the account of the

baptism--and accomplished his words, had not been transmitted to his

audience. This is a circle which we are unable to break. People do not

understand because the Holy Spirit has not come to them. He does not come,

because they are not ready for him. Yet this very preparedness is itself a

gift of the Holy Spirit. Thus, normal thinking can find a way neither in

nor out. This is the mystery of the new beginning in God himself, and as

such it is inscrutable. But this much is certain: Jesus' message fell on

deaf ears.



It was his existence, even more than what he said, that remained

misunderstood, for it and his message were one. What his message was if we

consider it as doctrine and proclaimed potentiality is that he himself was

as an existent being. Let us take the concept of the focal point of

existence. This is the spiritual fulcrum on which men balance their lives,

the point of departure from which they approach both men and things and to

which they return from them again. The greater and more exalted the

personality, the deeper lies this focal point. Whether or not a man

understands other men depends upon his capacity for observation and

sympathy, upon his power to see things as a whole, and penetrate them; but

most of all it depends upon the extent to which his own depth of existence

is equal to or greater than that of others. We will have more to say about

the nature of Jesus' existence later; but we may say here that the

starting-point from which he looked upon, judged and confronted men,

rejoiced and suffered, are obviously unfathomably deeper than that of his

environment. For Jesus there was no such thing as a "we" in the sense of a

direct community of existence, but only in the sense of a sovereign love

which loves before others are capable of loving, and without their being

capable of reciprocating the love shown them. Scarcely a single act of

genuine communal existence is recorded in the Gospels; scarcely one true

"we" in the strict sense of the term. Not even in prayer is it ever

expressed. The resume of his message from the Father, and the basis of the

proper relationship to him, were given by Jesus in the prayer, Our Father.

The subject of the Our Father is the "we" of the Christian: but Jesus never

repeated this prayer with his disciples, never included himself with this

"we". There is no place, as far as I can see, where he took the lead in

joining together with his disciples in prayer. Where he himself is seen to

pray, as for example at the end of the Last Supper, and still more

strikingly, in the Garden of Olives, he speaks and adopts an attitude which

no other man can imitate.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 4

4. JESUS AND MATERIAL THINGS




What attitude did Jesus adopt towards material things?



Did he even notice them? Obviously he did. This is proved by his parables

about the "lilies of the field" (anemones), the birds of the air, the

farmer and his kinship with the soil, the shepherd and his flock, the corn

and the threshing floor, bread, and salt, and lamps. They also show that he

was not indifferent to these things. He understood and appreciated them.



We must, of course, discount the sentimentality of legends and pious

writers. In order to understand his relation to material things we must go

back to the Old Testament views about God's creation. Things do not

constitute "nature" in the modern sense. They are God's handiwork, and

anything that happens is not some spontaneous natural process but proceeds

from the power of God. Jesus was always referring to this creating and

ruling God, completing the picture, however, by presenting him as the

Father, and showing that God's activity was the work of the Father's

Providence. This thought explains his attitude towards things. To him they

were not merely scientific, poetic, or cultural data; they were the

materials and tools of Providence.



Not only was Jesus perfectly at ease with all things; because his will was

at one with his Father's, he felt himself to be Lord of all things. He was

the one who had been sent. His will was not for his personal interests; it

was devoted entirely to the purposes of his mission. And so through

obedience to this mission, "all power in heaven and on earth" was given to

him, a power as great as that of the Father himself. This is a staggering

thought, but it is the view of Jesus. Yet this power is never apart from or

contrary to that of the Father: it is always joined with it, in obedience

to it. "My Father worketh until now; and I work" (John 5. 17). The saying:

"If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you shall say to this

mountain, Remove from hence hither, and it shall remove" (Mat. 17. 20) is

not a mere description of the limitless faith which his followers ought to

have, but of his own faith too, only we cannot speak of his having "faith"

in our sense of the word. He possesses, rather, that which evokes faith in

us and makes it possible, namely, his essential identification with the

truth and the will of the Father. That is why all things obey him.



When we look at his miracles in their true light, they reveal the peculiar

contact in reality that the will of Jesus has with material things. This

contact is not established through something in the way of "powers" of a

higher order, but flows from obedience, from his union with the Father's

will and the mighty course of sacred history, working itself out from hour

to hour. At the point of contact between the exercise of the Father's power

when he is forming the world that is to be, and the faith of men which

links them with Providence, Christ is at work.



What value did things have for Jesus? What use were they to him? Did he

enjoy them or prize them?



First of all, we must assert that he was not insensitive to the attraction

of things. Had he been so, then an experience like that of the temptation

in the wilderness (Mat. 4.

ff.) would not have made sense. "The kingdom

of this world" could be used as a temptation only for someone who was aware

of their "glory". Jesus was no ascetic. He said so himself in connection

with John the Baptist's way of life. Jesus fully recognized this way of

life; but he himself lived otherwise. Did they not even call him a "glutton

and a wine-bibber" (Mat. 11. 19)? An account such as that of the marriage

in Cana reveals anything but a contempt for things; and the same is true of

the story, also in St. John, of the anointing with precious oil at Bethany

(John 2. 1 ff.; 12. 1 ff.).On the other hand he himself mentions his lack

of a home and possessions (Mat. 8. 20; 19. 21). Nowhere does he show any

special interest in the value of things. Indeed, he warns us against the

danger of this, especially in his sayings about the rich, in the parable

about the needle's eye, and in the story about Lazarus the beggar.



We would, no doubt, be nearer the mark were we to say that he was

completely detached from things, not as a result of self-discipline and a

more spiritual view of things, but by nature. To him, things were simply

there, part of his Father's world. He used them when it was necessary to do

so, and took pleasure in them without making any special fuss over them.



Things represented no danger to him, as they do to men. But he does not

demand of men that they should dispense with all things, as any ascetic or

dualist system would. He asks men to free themselves from the thraldom of

things. This idea is expressed most tellingly in the story of the rich

young man (Mat. 19. 16 ff.). In answer to the question about what he should

do in order to have eternal life, Jesus told him to keep the commandments,

that is, to use things properly in obedience to the will of God; then all

would be right. However, as soon as the desire to do even more is aroused,

Jesus accepts this and even enters into the relationship of "love" for it.

This is not because a man wants to be rid of evil things, but because he

desires to attain greater freedom and love. And now Jesus says: "Go sell

what thou hast and give to the poor." Jesus does not by any means demand

that everybody should be poor. Many are to be: those, that is, who "are

able to take it". Among men, such people are to be witnesses to the

possibility of becoming free from all things; and as such they are to be a

help to those who retain possessions, enabling them to maintain freedom

while using them.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 3

3. JESUS VOLITION AND ACTION




What about Jesus' willing and doing?



There are men whose interest is to know truth, to examine it thoroughly,

and to explain it to others. Jesus was not one of these. He was concerned,

as we have seen, with a reality that was not yet complete but was destined

to be: with the reality of the sacred history of God and man; with the

fulfillment of a divine decree and the consummation of an eternal destiny;

with the coming of a new order of existence, that is, with willing and

doing. But how did he will? How did he act?



It is not easy to answer these questions either. Once again our only way

out is to make distinctions. Jesus did not exercise his will like a soldier

making an attack; nor like an engineer drawing up his plans, weighing the

possibilities, seeing and using all the means at his disposal; nor yet like

a reformer with a guiding principle and a practical program, or a workman

who has his task and performs it step by step. And we must distinguish,

too, when it comes to the means that he applied. Jesus did not use force

by, for instance, gathering men around him and going ahead. He employed no

hypnotism which, with his tremendous personality, he could easily have

done. He did not operate by making promises of any sort, holding out the

prospect of advantage in order to win agreement to his policy. He neither

threatened nor bluffed. He appealed neither to appetite nor imagination....

How, then, did he will and act?



His will was of great power. It was perfectly at one with itself, without

fear, prepared for anything that might happen, conscious that the stake was

the one thing of supreme importance--the decisive moment for the whole of

existence. It knew also that, in the absolute sense, the "time" had come.

At the same time it was completely calm, unhurried, not to be pressed. And

while his heart may have been filled with pain at the destruction of that

infinite possibility, this did not affect his behavior.



Jesus' will was in perfect union with the will of his Father who guides

sacred history and fixes the appointed "hours" for things. The basic

mystery of sacred history is this: God wills the coming of his kingdom and

his will makes all things possible. But this will addresses itself to man's

freedom and so can be rejected by man. As a result, the opportunity given

only once can be missed; guilt and misery can arise, and yet all things

remain encompassed by the will of God. This mystery permeated the volition

of Jesus. He was aware of the infinite demands of the moment and did all he

could to fulfill them. But the possibilities were measured not by human but

by divine standards; and so there was no anxiety, no uneasiness, no excited

activity. On the other hand, this resignation had nothing fatalistic about

it.



What was wrong remained wrong, and the missed opportunity was not offered

again. Yet appeal is made to a mystery which permits us to hope for all

things, because in it love and almighty power are one and the same.



This will is firmly oriented towards its goal. It follows no program that

has to be carried out: what must be done at each moment arises of itself

from the situation which develops at each step, depending upon the "hour

which has come" (John 2. 4; 7. 30; 8. 20). This will is so compelling that

Jesus says, in St. John, that it is like hunger for the food which

maintains life (4. 34). At the same time, he fully respects man's freedom.

He never does it violence, by suggestion or inspiration, fear or surprise.

The responsibility of the listener is always elicited and guided to the

point where it must pronounce its own Yes or No.



Jesus was governed by a mighty, unerring, indomitable will, but he had

neither "aims" nor "intentions". This will arose from no urge to create,

dominate, reform; it was rooted in that reality of which we have spoken

before. A work of God had come to maturity: "The kingdom of God is at hand"

(Mark 1. 15). His will is to open up the road to this, but with the help of

the truth of God which would be obscured by every act of mere human will,

and with the help of man's freedom which would be compromised by any act of

compulsion.



Will is inclined to isolate itself in its act of willing, to wrench reality

away from truth and dominate it by force. No such thing happened with

Jesus. His will was merely the obverse side of his knowledge, and his goal

was truth alone.



Here, too, must be sought the source of Jesus' fearlessness. This is not

merely an expression of individual temperament. It does not mean that he

had strong nerves, that he was cool-headed, resilient or enterprising; that

he viewed danger as an intensification of life or felt himself to be

carried along by fate. His fearlessness lay in his calm identification with

reality.



He presented reality, this reality which is sacred truth, each time it was

necessary, as the occasion demanded. He did so without fear, being himself

hidden in that reality, because all that he desired was that reality, and

he was ready to make any sacrifice for its sake. He did this, however, not

like some enthusiast or fanatic who fails to see the consequences of his

acts. He knew exactly what was going to happen. His courage came, rather,

from the fact that in him will and truth were one, so that the greatest

crisis which courage ever has to face, namely, when what is willed loses

all meaning and the will sinks into the void, could never arise for him. He

might suffer unimaginable torments; but the identity of his will with the

meaning of it all, with truth, could never be destroyed.



What has been said thus far still does not enable us to understand the

meaning of those words on the cross: "My God, my God, why hast thou

forsaken me?" (Mat. 27. 46). To penetrate them we have to probe behind the

question and ask in what sense he can be said to have felt the burden of

responsibility for the guilt of the world on his shoulders and what

relation that gives him to divine justice; but we cannot go into this

here.[1]



We are now in a position to get some light on another question: Was Jesus

well-advised in his behavior?



In any case, we can affirm that he displayed no kind of mere cleverness.

There is no trace of any kind of tactics, no playing one man off against

another, no seizing an opportunity offered by a situation, no deliberately

concealing some things while exaggerating others or making inferential

remarks, or so forth. And this reveals something very significant about the

elevation of his personality. Cleverness is proper in its place: but it

does not seem to be a part of true greatness, especially in the

spiritually-minded, and, above all, the religious man.



Jesus' way of life displays none of those methods which men employ to

protect themselves in the battle for existence and to gain their ends, by

pitting subtlety against strength, cunning against superior power,

experience against great resources. In the sphere of Jesus' life there were

no peripheral values, but always and only the one sacred issue, the "one

thing necessary"--the glory of the Father and the salvation of the world.



Must we say, then, that Jesus' life was determined by noble and lofty

ideals?



Offhand we would be inclined to answer Yes; but then we might begin to be

assailed by doubt. These doubts certainly do not imply that there was in

Jesus' life anything mediocre or base, any concession to weakness,

cowardice or indolence, any departure from his absolute ideal. Even so, we

cannot classify his character as noble or lofty in the sense in which we

might apply these epithets to a hero or idealist.



For example, if "honor" is the strong, inexorable, yet sensitive and

vulnerable thing which it is in the lives of men who are characterized by

it; if it is a law which places men in a higher category than other men,

but at the same time exposes them to the continual danger and probability,

even, of total failure and disaster, then this is certainly not the

determining factor in the life of Jesus, as his behavior in its concluding

phase shows. But this is not because he is found wanting in honor in any

sense; it is because what is the decisive thing for him left honor far

behind. There was indeed "honor" in his life; but it was his Father's

honor, which gave rise to demands and entailed consequences which could not

possibly be measured by the common view.



The same sort of thing is true of the values of greatness or graciousness

or, indeed, any of the other aspects of "magnanimitas". Closer analysis

always proves that, in him, these values have not the importance they have

in other personalities dominated by them. And this is because the thing

which is decisive for him not only soars above the levels of this world,

but confronts this world and its values, judges them, and reveals the new

order of the unknown God, the "kingdom of God".



We cannot say, therefore, that lack of "prudence" or "cleverness" on the

part of Jesus revealed the noble folly of the perfect hero. He had nothing

in common either with Siegfried or with Parsifal; not because he was less

than they in any sense at all--an average, drab personality--but because he

lived at a depth which makes even these great luminaries appear somewhat

immature. Compared with him their brilliance pales.





ENDNOTES



1. See below, "Structures of Growth" Chap. 3, Part 2 ff.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter II, Section 1 & 2

II. ACTIONS, CHARACTERISTICS, ATTITUDES






1. INTRODUCTION



What then are we to make of the psychology of Jesus? Having prepared the

ground, we now ask this question aware of the difficulties involved. It is

obvious that we are not concerned here with experimental psychology or the

psychology of the conscious, or with any kind whatsoever of scientific

analysis of the psychic processes as such, but with an attempt to

understand, or to discover, the structure of the particular personality, to

see how it works, how it acts, and, above all, what its inner motivating

power is.



But even this is problematic when we are speaking about the person called

Jesus. Psychology is embarrassingly inquisitive. It seeks to probe those

things which the guardian-like inner personality prefers to keep hidden

because they are sensitive and deserve respect. Psychology is indiscreet

and tries to drag out into the open what modesty prefers to keep covered up

because it may cause shame. A secret urge to destroy is at work in

psychology and it knows that personality--a unique and inexplicable thing--

is in danger of falling apart once it is translated into universal concepts

and dissected.



This is true of every human person, especially of great and unusual

figures. But there is a type of mentality which cannot abide the

intellectual power and nobility of the great figure, and attempts to use

psychology against it. This is specially true of this figure who affects so

profoundly every man who encounters him. Psychology can be used as a means

of destroying his claims. We need only recall the painful attempts to

interpret Jesus as a pathological case. The scientific and literary works

dealing with the psychology of Jesus in this vein should be a warning to us

of the worst that can be done along these lines.



It need hardly be said, then, that our essay has nothing whatever in common

with such tendencies. We are prepared to confront something which is

greater than ourselves, and which, moreover, calls us to account, even

though we may not be able to stand up to the test.





2. JESUS THOUGHT



Let us begin with the psychic process most amenable to analytical

treatment--namely, thinking.



How did Jesus think? Of what kind are the thoughts he expressed?



If we compare his thoughts with those of other religious leaders, they

seem, for the most part, to be very simple, at least as expressed in the

Synoptic Gospels. It is true that if we take the word "simple" to mean

"easily penetrated" or "primitive", then this impression is dispelled on

closer analysis. The thought of Jesus is neither analytical nor synthetic:

it states basic facts; and states them in a way at once enlightening and

confusing. Very seldom, and then for the most part only in St. John, do his

thoughts reach a metaphysical plane. Even then they do nothing more than

state a plain fact. The only thing is that he happens to be speaking of the

sublimity and hiddenness of the existence of God, speaking of the mystery

of the Christian life. For the most part, the thought of Jesus, as

expressed in his sayings, remains close to the immediate reality of things,

of man and the latter's encounter with God. It is solidly realistic; but

the realism is that of the man who is stripped bare by the judge of God and

made new by his grace.



And so, Jesus speaks neither of the origin nor of the nature of the

universe. He takes it for granted that the universe was created by God and

finds its meaning in him; that it lies cradled in the hollow of his hand,

and that he is guiding it towards a blessed future.



Nor does Jesus speak expressly about the nature of God. He presupposes what

had been said about him in the revelation of the Old Testament, and passes

on to its fulfillment by making known the way in which God is a Person, the

way in which he can say "I" and "Thou" within himself. He does this, not

speculatively in philosophical or theological language, but in a concrete

way. He takes his stand within this divine life and speaks from it, as each

successive occasion arises. Jesus spoke with greatest conviction about the

Father, not revealing the ultimate mystery of this Fatherhood by explaining

how we ought to think about it and how it is related to human fatherhood,

but by telling us how this Father thinks and acts, and how man is to

interpret God's Fatherhood seriously. Man will then achieve a real,

existential encounter with God and come to the possession of the divine

nature. His last word on the Father was said in the form of a prayer. A

prayer is not doctrine but a guide to action. It exists, not to be thought

about, but to be acted upon. If this is done. the worshipper begins to

understand more clearly the nature of the One to whom he has turned.



Jesus was for ever speaking about Providence--again, not speculatively but

with direct reference to reality; so much so that we are almost tempted to

interpret his words as the simple pious man's philosophy of life, or even

as a kind of beautiful childish fairy-tale (cf. the image of the birds and

flowers in Mat. 6. 26, 28). The truth of the matter is that he presupposes

the whole Old Testament view of the relationship of God to the world. It is

a profoundly serious view and, for us today especially, of far-reaching

significance. Jesus totally disregards questions about the possibility of

God's providence, or about the precise relationship between the existence

of God and the course of world history. He adopts a different approach: he

provides us with a guide to the workings of providence, telling us in the

Sermon on the Mount: "Seek ye therefore first the kingdom of God and his

justice; and all these things shall be added unto you" (Mat. 6. 33). This

is no theoretical statement but a guide to the starting-point for action, a

signal to start off, and a promise that strength will be given us on the

way. And once a man has committed himself, he soon discovers that he is

caught up in a process which demands nothing less than the complete

reorientation of his whole life. To the extent that he does this, he

achieves a true vision of reality.



Much more could be said about Jesus' conception of man, his moral teaching,

and so on. Theoretical questions about the nature of existence play no part

in his thinking--as the latter is expressed in his words: what lies beyond

is unknown to us. It plays no part, not because it does not exist, but

because Jesus' thoughts are oriented towards reality.



His thought was not intended to be a research course, a scheme, a mere

intellectual construction or system, but to proclaim something which did

not yet exist but was to come--namely, the kingdom of God. It pointed to a

new reality and declared that it was meant for us. It made men cognizant of

the fact that in view of this new reality events had been preparing which

were now on the point of coming to pass. His thought is pre-speculative;

but in a way different from the child or primitive man who has yet felt no

need of facing the problem of truth in all its profundity. His thought is

demonstrative, somewhat like that of the scientist who says: Here is a

process in operation, something which has not yet been known, a possibility

you have not yet grasped, powers which have not yet been at your command--

be on the watch for them. Going deeper, we see the issue in another light

as something still more fundamental. This reality can only be created by

him, that is, by the Father through him. For example, the relationship of

being a child of God is made possible solely because of the existence of

Jesus. So then, he places himself at the very first movement in the

creation of this relationship. His words are therefore authoritative in the

fullest sense of the word. They are gift-bearing. Only because he lives,

acts and speaks, does what he is speaking about exist. Only then can we

begin to reflect about what has been discovered, about its nature and its

relation to what we already knew, and so on. What he does is prior to all

speculation because speculation is possible only as a result of what he

does.



All this makes it quite clear that his thought eludes psychology. All we

can say is that it is clear, concise, utterly responsible, with no trace of

self or superfluity, concentrated solely on what is essential. He says--and

says because he has brought it about: This is so. This is happening. Do

this; power to do it has been given you. If you do this, things will turn

out thus, and so on. There can be no "psychology" about this sort of thing,

because it cannot be categorized. We are dealing with a revelation which is

initiatory and creative and therefore incapable of being made an object of

analysis. It is only from within this revelation, as for example about the

manner in which it is experienced or effected, that some kind of analysis

is possible.

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter I, Section 3

3. THE BASIC FIGURE




The more a man reveals his uniqueness as an individual and the greater the

influence he exerts on history, the more significant becomes the question:

What is the basic figure on which his personality and his life are modeled?

For over a thousand years the West has seen in the person of Jesus purely

and simply the sole canon of perfection; and for a great part of mankind

today that is still the situation. Even where this meaning is denied, the

denial itself is affected by it. If we examine the attitude of Friedrich

Nietzsche, for example--to cite only one of the most typical cases--we see

that both the general scheme and special features of the picture of man

which he paints are a contradiction of the conventional picture of Christ:

"Zarathustra" is, in fact, an anti-Gospel figure. The same thing holds true

of the war against Christian values in most sectors. Indeed, we might well

ask if any view of man could be possible in Europe for a very long time

yet, which was not colored in some way by Christ. And so our question

becomes all the more pertinent. To understand it better and to focus our

thoughts on what is essential, let us first of all consider some lives

which have come to be accepted as exemplary.



We shall begin with the man who has had more influence on determining the

Western image of the "spiritual man" than almost any other person--

Socrates.



Neither birth nor wealth was responsible for his fame. Intellectually, he

was a product of self-training and of the most remarkable cultural milieu

ever assembled in so small a space--the Athens of the fifth century B.C. He

was spurred on by an irrestrainable longing for the truth; he had a

powerful intellect and an extraordinarily keen critical faculty. In

addition, he had a great influence on younger men, which was felt by his

followers to be something uncanny. He was a religious man, with an

unquestioning consciousness of being led by God. While he tried to replace

traditional mythical notions by a system of contemplation enlightened by

philosophy, he nevertheless retained such a profound feeling for the

mystery of things that he did not openly rebel against his environment, but

remained faithful to its beliefs.



In this way, he lived a long life devoted to philosophical research and

inquiry, a life spent in awakening and training men's intellects. This

activity sprang from his own inner nature; it also took on the consecration

of a divine commission, for, as he acknowledged at the end of his life

before the supreme court, he knew that he had been called to such a life by

Apollo, the god of light and mind. Moreover, this mission bore fruit. He

could see its good effects all around him. In the constant struggle with

his adversaries he displayed his own superiority and he could rest assured

that the future would belong to him. He was surrounded by a host of

disciples, one of whom was Plato, a man of genius, to whom he had imparted

the best of his knowledge over a period of ten years. Finally, the inner

logic of his vocation led him to take his ultimate decision. At the age of

seventy, surrounded by his close friends, he died; and the manner of his

death set round his being and his work a final halo of unsullied light.



The figure of Socrates can be compared with that of another personality,

also from Greece, who belongs, not to history, but to legend. Nonetheless,

he expresses very clearly that elemental zest for life that is so typical

not only of the Greek but of universal man. The figure we have in mind is

Achilles.



Achilles was no thinker; he was a man of action--handsome, fearless,

passionate, skilled in all warlike pursuits and filled with a consuming

desire for glory.



He had once been asked whether he would prefer a long, but uneventful life,

or a short life which would make him the greatest in the hall of fame. He

chose the latter. His life was thus a blazing flame soon extinguished; but

for that very reason it was glorious, a symbol of that beauty which comes

to flower, not through plodding enterprise and care, not through labor and

endurance, not in any wide-stretching, fully traced arcs of life, but all

in the extravagance and transience of youth. As Homer depicts him--the poet

whom the Greeks regarded as more than a mere poet, rather as a teacher of

things divine and human--Achilles was the very expression and

personification of this zest for life.



The life of a Socrates or an Achilles proceeds directly from its own deep

point of origin and fulfills itself with a necessity which is at the same

time freedom, according to the law of its own nature. Everything that

influences it from without has to serve the creative purpose dictated by

the inner image. In contrast to this pattern we must cite another type of

existence belonging to the antipodes, as it were, of ancient life--

Epictetus, or, more precisely, the man whom Epictetus regards as a model,

that is, the Stoic.



Both Socrates and Achilles experienced existence as something bound up with

their own inner nature as something familiar. And so events and influences

which affected them neither introduced any alien elements nor distorted the

shape of their personalities as they unfolded. With the Stoic, on the other

hand, things are radically different. He is neither venturesome nor an

extrovert, neither borne along by a powerful urge nor protected by a hard

shell. He tends to be a contemplative, and certainly has a sensitive and

vulnerable nature. The processes of history, his fate, strike him as alien,

even hostile, and he has the greatest difficulty in coming to terms with

them. And so he retreats within the shell of his own nature, there to

become master of his fate, or at least to learn how to put up with it.



He does this, indeed, by saying that fundamentally nothing affects him at

all. This results in his thrusting his deepest self so far into the

background that not only outward events but even his own individual nature,

which is subject to change and decay, appear as something alien. He says

not only to fate, to possessions, family, power and honor, but even to

health, state of mind and basic endowments: "I am none of these . . ." What

remains as his ultimate true nature can scarcely be called an "image"; it

is more like a mathematical point, the focal center of his being, a

completely colorless self, invulnerable and indestructible. Everything that

happens to it is regarded as mere occurrence, as something completely

alien, something emerging from the realm of the unknown, uninvited and

meaningless, and with which one's true nature must not be allowed to come

in contact. For the Stoic, the basic process of human life is not

unfolding, but affirmation and conservation. It is true that,

involuntarily, a genuine figure is produced by this very process; a grim

and solitary form, outwardly calm, but ablaze inside with hidden passion,

desperately courageous and virile to the point of madness.



Between the extremes of pure self-development in a context of related

contingencies on the one hand, and sheer self-assertion in the face of a

hostile world on the other, we have the attitude which Virgil describes so

well in his picture of Aeneas. Here, fate is what determines the content

and meaning of personal existence.



Aeneas' ancestral home, Troy, was destroyed, a frightful disaster of which

he felt all the horror and pain. But at the same time he received the

assurance that, in spite of, or rather out of, this misfortune, he was

being called to found a new city and inaugurate a new glorious period in

history. And so he set out to face dangers and trials of every kind; not--

like Odysseus--to roam the world and taste its marvels, but to find the

spot where, according to divine decree, the new race was to be founded. His

life was that of a warrior, but his aim was not, like Achilles, to win a

warrior's renown, but to reach the place where his destined task was to be

fulfilled and the foundations laid for the future.



His personality had neither the creative power of a genius, nor the

brilliance of a hero's swiftly consumed flame, nor the grim courage of the

man who stands alone. It was narrow and restricted, but it was capable of

feeling, kindly and brave, and had an inflexible power of perseverance and

doggedness. What made up the life of Aeneas was not the self-expression of

his inner nature or the challenge of the world's glory, in the form of

discoveries or great deeds, but a divine vocation--fate, in the true sense

of the word. That is why he was called "pious"; because he was capable of

understanding and accepting the contingent as a divine command. Aeneas was

the mythical ancestor of the most realistic power in the ancient world, the

Roman empire. The consummation of this was reached in Augustus, the first

"emperor of the world".



Finally, to these figures from the Graeco-Roman world, we can add another

from the Far East, a religious figure--perhaps the greatest of all time,

and the only one who can seriously be mentioned along with Christ--namely

Buddha.



Buddha is curiously impersonal. His being is marked neither by a creative,

self-expressing urge, nor by daring deeds and the kind of activity which

makes history. He was dominated by an inexorable logic. We might almost say

that he was a law of being assumed into an inflexible will. If we

disregard, for the moment, the question of the truth of his message, we get

the impression that in his life the world reached transparency, not in the

positive sense that the world's totality was being revealed, as in a

microcosm, in a single human life, as in Shakespeare's plays for example,

or--in a different manner--in Goethe's genius, but in the form of a

discovery, a lifting of the veil. It became apparent that the world was

pain, guilt and illusion. Its deepest law was uncovered so that it could be

overcome--even abolished.



Buddha grew up as a king's son in a privileged position. His education was

such as to make him the perfect prince: he did and enjoyed all that makes

life worth living. Then one day he came upon those things that make a man

think: old age, suffering and death. These made him realize how meaningless

his former life had been. He therefore withdrew from everything and

embarked upon the search for reality. He went through the whole course of

ancient Indian yoga exercises, including this domain also in his universal

quest, and found that these things, too, did not lead to freedom. Finally,

he arrived at the knowledge that all existence is but an illusion arising

out of the will to live, and thought that he had found a way by which to

abolish or annihilate existence itself. This knowledge did not come to him

from some encounter with external things, nor yet as a grace from on high,

but was the final consequence of the fact that he is as he is and has done

what he has done; that means that his present life is the result of

countless previous incarnations. Thus Buddha closed the circle of

knowledge. He gathered a group of disciples about him, taught them so that

they would be able in their turn to hand on his doctrine, and organized

their communal life. Then, when he had had time to regulate everything, he

died at a ripe old age surrounded by his followers, a death that appeared

as the perfect consummation of his life.



The essence of his being cannot, perhaps, be better characterized than in

the three names constantly given him in the texts: the Vigilant, the

Perfect, the Teacher of Gods and Men.



The personalities we have been describing are quite different from each

other, but they have one thing in common: greatness. Where we are dealing

with this category, terrible things may indeed befall a man--one has but to

think of Atreus or Oedipus--but, nonetheless, his whole life is on the

princely scale and shines bright, no matter what the horror. He may suffer

humiliation like Hercules, but he will still wrestle his way through to

triumph while still in this life. The stature of his life is measured by

the standards of worth. He does not have to face everything possible, but

only what is fitting. And if, as in the case of the Stoic, "everything

possible" can befall him, then it is regarded simply as non-existent and is

pushed aside by the inner core of self. Even when things are at their worst

the rule of congruity still applies. Only one who is no true man, who is at

the mercy of the commonplace, a mere slave, has to suffer anything

incongruous.



But what about Jesus? We note simply that he himself claimed unquestionably

to be the one who was sent, the bringer of salvation, the exemplar of the

true life; that Paul declared him to be the manifestation of God (2 Cor. 4.

4; Col. 1. 15; Heb. 1. 3), and John described him as the Word made flesh,

both meaning thereby that his was the most meaningful and purposeful life

that ever was.



If ever a life was normative in character it was his. What was the pattern

of his life?



As we have said, Jesus was born the latter-day descendant of a once royal

line. His birth, however, brought him no privilege, power, property or

education. It served only to emphasize the more his social status as that

of an impecunious artisan. In particular, it was of no positive value to

him later in life. He neither relied upon it as a pretext to claim

anything, nor did he seek to restore its ancient power. Furthermore, it did

not in any sense form a background to give greater relief to a life of

self-abnegation. And yet his royal lineage was significant in the sense

that because of it Jesus is most intimately bound up with antecedent sacred

history; and its stored-up heritage of attitudes and reactions were

expressed in his life, chiefly, by making his position ambiguous and

causing his true character to be mistaken.



The first thirty years of his life were spent in complete obscurity. All

that we hear about them is the short episode of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem

at the age of twelve, when he became for the first time subject to this

obligation. The whole period is marked neither by deep study, significant

encounters, nor great deeds. We hear nothing about any great religious

events. The only historical event recorded is the pilgrimage; all the rest

that we find in apocryphal sources is mere legend. All we can say is that

he led the life everyone else in similar circumstances led.



Then his public ministry began. He preached that the kingdom of God had

arrived and was clamouring for admittance. He preached the renewal of life

in the Spirit; that a revolution in history through God's creative power

was at hand, a revolution whose nature had been foreshadowed by the oracles

of the prophets; but that everything depended upon acceptance of the

message by the Chosen People. At first he was successful: the people,

including many who were influential, turned to him. A band of disciples

began to follow him, men who, humanly speaking, had nothing at all

extraordinary about them. Soon, however, a serious crisis arose. His

various opponents, formerly at loggerheads with each other, began to unite

in a common front. He was accused on the basis of a complete

misrepresentation of the whole tenor of his teaching. The self-

contradictory charge was made, on the one hand, that he was blasphemous;

and, on the other, that he was preparing a revolt against Caesar. The trial

was conducted in utter disregard of legal forms and ended in his

condemnation. Certainly no more than three, possibly less than two, years

after the start of his public ministry, he suffered death, an agonizing

death, and of a kind to discredit him for all time.



The catastrophe was so complete that the crowd whom he had helped and who

had shown such enthusiasm for him earlier, abandoned him, as did also a

great many of his disciples. It was actually a member of the closer circle

of the Twelve who betrayed him. At his arrest they all fled. The disciple

whom he himself had called "the Rock" and regarded as the first of his

followers, denied him--before a despised slave-girl of a portress,

moreover, and even confirmed his denial by an oath.



After the death of Jesus, there occurred the event that broke all

precedents, namely Easter. Humanly speaking, however, it in no wise made

good the destruction of all his work. Though he had won through to glory

and power, he did not seek to avenge himself on his adversaries, or crush

those who had opposed him; nor did he triumph over those elements which had

rejected him. The event simply served as a great turning-point in history:

it was the starting-point for a whole new historical process which was to

be set in operation at Pentecost.



Then at length, in the name of this figure and by the power of the Spirit,

the final conquest of the whole world for God was set in motion.



How, now, can we characterize this life?



Was it the kind we have described as the unfolding of some great figure?

Quite obviously it was not. What happened had nothing to do with any

"unfolding": the concept is not appropriate. Nor did any "figure" emerge,

to use the term in its proper sense. This concept is equally inappropriate.

Nothing happened which in any sense opened up vistas of final

"accomplishment". We witness, rather, a movement towards disintegration.



We have only to imagine what it would have been like had Jesus lived

longer--fifty, seventy, or even ninety years! As things were, after the

peaceful period of childhood, youth and early manhood, there were left to

him only three years or perhaps a little more than one year of activity and

self-witness.



Was his death the climax of a life of heroic deeds? No; it had neither the

character of a mighty assault against an overwhelmingly powerful foe, nor

of a fire which consumes by its ardor a man's very substance. Still less

was it a case of an over-generous spirit dashing itself in vain against the

triviality of its environment. Christ knew and declared that the

fulfillment of his goal was possible--but only through a free response on

the part of those who were called: and the latter withdrew or even opposed

him, not because he was asking more than the times could comprehend, but

because they were unwilling to make a definite religious and moral

commitment.



Can his life perhaps be regarded as an example of self-assertion amidst a

storm of opposition? No, because what happened to him was totally at

variance with the nature of the Son of God; many things, such as the story

of the fish and the didrachma (Mat. 17. 23, 24-26), illustrate this. It was

distressing, unworthy and incomprehensible. The issue must not be allowed

to become clouded as a result of the later significance which his life

acquired. The cross has been placed upon the crowns of kings, but it was

once a sign of death and ignominy. There were motives enough for adopting a

stoic attitude; he did not do so. Jesus never made the slightest gesture of

detaching himself from a hostile, degrading, senseless world; of repelling

what he could not avoid, as having no part in him, or of retreating within

himself. What he had to contend with was wrong in every way, but he

accepted it and, indeed, took it to heart, we might even say.



His attitude is one that had never been seen before, and one that cannot

exist except where the norm of his person is accepted.



Aware that he had been sent by the Father, and filled with a desire to obey

the Father's will in all things, he accepted everything that happened to

him. We see in action a union with the will of God that drew everything

that happened into the deepest intimacy of the love of God. By the very

fact that everything became an expression--or, more precisely, an

instrument--of this love, earthly things acquired for God himself a meaning

of which no myth had ever dreamt.



What of the kind of life exemplified by a man like Aeneas, who felt that a

divine commission was being fulfilled in a long life of patient suffering

and struggle, and that life was a blend of adventure and action determined

by that mission? This type is not that of our picture either. From the

point of view of the ultimate goal to be reached, the events in the life of

Jesus were not in the least necessary. His goal could have been achieved

equally well--and from the viewpoint of worldly considerations, much more

logically--by other means. True, Jesus was charged with a mission of utmost

importance, but what were its terms of reference? In the last analysis, all

we can say is that he was to come among men and enter our historical world

as the One sent from God, to take upon himself the burden not only of his

personal existence, but of existence itself, and live it out with a

transparency of knowledge and a depth of feeling which could have no other

source than this mission received from his Father. He was to set reality in

motion and thus release all the potentialities inherent in it. He was to

bear the consequences of his incarnation and thereby create a new starting-

point for existence. In the final analysis, it would not be of great

importance what actually did happen, so long as it was the proper thing

required by the situation at that precise moment.



We could turn the statement round and say that, no matter how much blame

attaches to those who caused Jesus to suffer what he did, for Jesus himself

it was the right thing, ordained by God and, therefore, eternally right.

Jesus himself expressed the matter in this way: Woe to them by whom

offenses come! Woe to those who create the conditions which lead to the

misrepresentation! But for Jesus himself, "offense" is the very situation

in which he must fulfill the Father's will. He expressed this idea by

referring to his "hour". Jesus' life was not the expressing of a

"personage"; he did not live according to some divinely constructed plan

spread out before his eyes, but by the will of the Father as he encountered

it at every step he took in going to meet his "hour". Those steps were not

taken following a definite program, but were, in each case, the result that

followed from what had gone before and from the attitude taken up by the

various people involved. Thus, union was achieved, at each stage, between

the directing will of the Father and his own obedient will, and from this

union his own actions followed.



As soon as Jesus' nature becomes clearer to us, we see that the category of

"personality" does not fit him at all. Personality is a figure, in the

sense of a man "modeled in the round" both as regards the basic structure

of his nature and the actual course of his life: it is both the foundation

and limitation of existence. Modern interpretations of Jesus have tended to

turn him into a "personality", with the result that they completely lose

sight of his most characteristic feature. He was something quite different.

That is not to say that Jesus was a disintegrated person without either law

of being or place in existence. This is not to say that he was a mere piece

of flotsam to which anything could happen because his life had no distinct

bearing of its own; mere human rubbish at the disposal of any power that

tried to use it for its own purposes. It means, rather, that Jesus was

clearly above and beyond any "figure". The various patterns of human life

begin only on the hither side of his pattern of life.[1]



Granted that there is a logical thread running through the life of Jesus,

it is one that is at variance with all accepted norms; one that makes

manifest what is wholly "other"; one that reveals the mind and outlook of a

religious reality so different from all worldly values that it proclaims

itself precisely in its exploding of all worldly standards. The reality

which it stands for is represented by the Beatitudes, or by the joy which

Jesus felt when the apostles returned (Luke 10. 21 f.). To say this is, in

the last analysis, only to repeat what has already been said, that the

nature of Jesus was no ordinary "figure", in the accepted sense of the

word.



Following the same line of thought, we may say that the life of Jesus is

"Truth"; it is pure life without reservation or subterfuge; it is absolute

harmony with the living reality of God. This identification with Truth was

also an identification with the power of Truth and compelled those who

encountered him to reveal their thoughts without reserve, to "disclose the

secrets of the heart", as Simeon said at the presentation in the temple.



What can happen, then, in a human life which is determined by all this? The

answer must be: Anything and everything. The question as to what can or

cannot happen can never be answered by asking in turn what would be

intrinsically great or small, proper or improper, constructive or

destructive, fulfilling or frustrating. Everything can happen, even that

which at first sight seems to be utterly inconsistent with holiness or

divinity.



The reality of Jesus is of the kind which orders existence, literally

conditions it, to reveal all its potentialities. For this reason it is not

confined to one special form of existence, but is capable of appealing to

every form, of entering every form, of transforming every form of

existence.





ENDNOTES



1. One might well ask if we have not in him, purely and simply,

an example of the tragic figure of the prophet. This must be

denied categorically. His figure was not like one of theirs. To

begin with, it is striking that, unlike the Old Testament

prophets, Jesus did not establish his authority by appealing to

his calling. It is even more significant that he boldly claimed,

unlike any of the prophets, to be the one model, rule standard

and way. Hence his mighty: "But I say unto you . . ." instead of

the typically prophetic: "Thus saith the Lord."

Shrugging Before the Manger

The problem many of us have with Christmas isn’t that we expect too much of it but that we expect much too little

Shrugging Before the Manger

THE HUMANITY OF CHRIST: Contributions to a Psychology of Jesus by Romano Guardini - Chapter I, Section 2

2. THE KIND OF LIFE




In this environment is set the figure of Jesus; here he lived out his life.



His ancestry is traced back to the ancient royal family, both in the

genealogies and in isolated remarks (Mat. 1. 1 ff.; Luke 3. 23 ff)- This

royal line had now lost all its power, possessions and significance, so

that this late descendant lived in complete obscurity.



He grew up, not in true poverty, but in humble circumstances nevertheless,

in the house of a simple craftsman--a carpenter- Jesus general behavior

bears witness to the fact that he was accustomed to great simplicity,

though we must not forget that he feels quite at ease among well-to-do

people, and shows, for example, what he thought of the behavior of Simon

the Pharisee, who had invited him but did not think it necessary to extend

him the least token of hospitality (Luke 7. 44 ff).



We do not hear of his having had any special intellectual training. The

puzzlement expressed on several occasions over where he got his knowledge

of the Scriptures and his wisdom shows that he cannot have had any formal

education (Mat. 13. 54; Mark 1. 22; Luke 2. 47; John7. 15).



Jesus' way of life is that of an itinerant religious teacher. He goes from

place to place as outward occasion--a festival pilgrimage or spiritual

necessity--his "hour"--demands. He often stays in one place for quite some

time, visiting the surrounding district and then coming back to it again.

Thus, for example, at the start of his ministry, at Capharnaum (Mat. 8. 5

and 9. 35), or at its end, in Bethany (Mat. 21. 17--18; 26. 6). This

pattern of life derived from the nature of his mission, not from a personal

wanderlust. We can deduce this from the answer he made to the scribe who

said he would follow him: "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have

nests: but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head" (Mat. 8. 20). From

his audience he gathered around himself a band of the more receptive whom

he instructed in the deeper meaning of his message. From among these,

again, he made another selection of the Twelve. The importance of this

selection is underscored by the fact that the chosen are mentioned by name

(Mark 3. 14 ff. et par.); and it is also recorded that he spent the

previous night in prayer (Luke 6. 12).



The small inner circle, called "the Twelve" for short (Luke 8. 1, etc.),

are especially close to him. We may recall the intimate bond which existed

in ancient times between the philosopher or religious teacher and his

disciples. The Twelve are always about him. Wherever he is invited, they go

too. He shares food and lodging with them. After he has spoken they cluster

around inquiring into the meaning of what he has said. And he tells them

expressly that all is made clear to them, whereas the multitude will have

to be content with parables (Mat. 13. 11 ff.). He sends them out to test

their strength; he tells them what to preach, what to take with them, and

how to conduct themselves on their journey; and he gives them power to

perform signs. On their return he calls for their report, and the whole

scene reveals how deeply he was involved in their activities (Mark 6. 7-13,

30-l; and cf. Mat. 10-11. 6, 25-9; Luke 10. 1-22).



Within the band of the Twelve there is a more select group still,

consisting of the Three: Peter, James and John. They are present on all

important occasions, such as the raising of Jairus' daughter, the

transfiguration on the mountain, and at Gethsemane (Mark 5. 37; 9. 2; 14.

33). There was a specially close link between John and his Master, so close

in fact that he was able to describe himself as the disciple "whom Jesus

loved" (John 3. 23; 19. 26).



A number of women can be discerned within the wider circle of disciples.

They are those whom he has helped in bodily or spiritual ills, or who have

attached themselves to him for religious reasons (Mat. 27. 55-6; Mark 16.

1; Luke 8. 1-2). Some are well-to-do and look after his material needs.



St. John's remark that one of the Twelve, Judas Iscariot, kept the common

purse (John 12. 6), answers the question: What did Jesus and his companions

live on? Each member of the group no doubt contributed something to the

common upkeep; but in addition those who were impressed by the Master's

message helped out as well. We learn, too, that alms were dispensed from

the common purse (John 13. 29).



Besides this we learn that Jesus had friends with whom he could stay.

Considering his manner of life and the highly developed hospitality of the

East, this was only natural. He had especially close ties with the

household of Lazarus, Martha and Mary of Bethany (Luke 10. 38 ff.; John

11).



A characteristic element in Jesus' circle is constituted by the "publicans

and sinners", people ostracized by the accepted standards of society

because of their way of life. With him, however, they find understanding

and love, and they, in turn, are especially devoted to him. His association

with them, however, caused the shadow of suspicion to fall on him in the

eyes of the devotees of the Law and of respectable citizens (Mat. 9. 9 ff.;

11. 19; 21. 31; etc.).



We now approach the question: What attitude did the various strata of

society and groups in the land adopt towards him?



It was the common people who from the first responded enthusiastically to

his person and his message. They could see that he did not speak "like

their scribes"--formally, technically, incomprehensibly--but with vitality,

from observation and experience; not theoretically, but "as one having

power", so that they felt the dynamic power of his words and the mysterious

Reality which lay behind the words (Mat. 7. 28-9; Luke 4. 32). They sensed

also that his attitude to them was different from that of the members of

the influential classes. In the eyes of the Sadducees, they were just a

rabble; to the Pharisees, they were the despised masses who "do not know

the Law" (John 7. 49). By contrast, the attitude of Jesus made them feel

that his concern for them was genuine. Words like those of the Beatitudes

in the Sermon on the Mount have a primarily religious meaning. But they

were in marked contrast to the standards of the wealthy, the powerful and

the educated, and were therefore interpreted by the people as signs of

sympathy for the distressed, the oppressed and the ignorant. This feeling

was strengthened by the fact that Jesus was always ready to help the poor,

the suffering and the outcast. Sayings like "Come to me, all who labor and

are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest" (Mat. 11. 28) have reference

first of all to his Messianic mission, but they also express his boundless

readiness and power to be of service.



On the other hand, Jesus is no popular hero in the narrow sense of the

word; certainly not in any sense of his being a champion of the lowly and

simple against the wealthy and the educated. Certain sayings which seem to

suggest this (Luke 6. 24 ff.; 16. 19 ff; Mat. 19. 23 ff.) in reality have

nothing to do with social attitudes of this kind; still less do they imply

any tactics of rousing the people against their rulers. In the same way,

his relationship with the "publicans and sinners" does not mean that he is

in revolt against law and morality, or that he favors moral decadence. His

championing of the outcast is stressed because no one had ever done such a

thing before. The reason for it lay not in any inner fellow-feeling but in

the fact that "they that are in health, need not a physician, but they that

are ill" (Mat. 9. 12), and because they, too, are "sons of Abraham" (Luke

19. 9). Jesus is moved by the spirit of One who knows that he is sent to

every man, regardless of his condition. But once this has been made clear,

it must also be admitted that Jesus has a special tenderness for the poor

and the outcast. This flowed from the ultimate purpose behind his entire

mission, which was to upset all systems based on the standards of the

world, in order to proclaim the unknown God and his kingdom. The poor, the

suffering, the outcast are, through their very existence, forces of

discharge capable of shattering the established order.



Furthermore, he did not allow the people to draw too close to him, and

withdrew when the approaches were too pressing. He knew that the religious

motives which inspired such enthusiasm could be confused, shallow and

earthly, and that they might cause his message, especially his message

concerning the Kingdom of God and redemption, to be seen in a false light

(John 2. 23 ff; 6. 15ff.).



Among the ruling classes, the Pharisees, who were in closest touch with

public life and all its manifestations, paid immediate attention to him. At

once they became suspicious and began to work against him. They sensed the

thoroughgoing contrast between him and them in spirit and mentality, and in

their attitudes towards God and man. He himself often treated them openly

as adversaries. This is obvious everywhere, especially in the famous

invectives (Mat. 12. 22 ff.; 15. 1 ff.; 22. 15 ff.; 23. 13 ff.; etc.). Yet,

his struggle with them was not one of uncompromising opposition. He

recognized their function (Mat. 23. 1-3), appeared before them too as their

Messiah, and, whenever they showed a glimmer of understanding the truth,

received them (John 3. 1 ff.).



For a long time the Sadducees took no notice of him. Only at the every end,

when a crisis was imminent, did they become sufficiently disturbed to join

forces briefly with their former despised enemies in a common action

against him (Mat. 22. 23 ff.; Acts 4. 1; 5. 17 ff.).



We read that Herod had heard of the new teacher and taken an interest in

him (Luke 9. 7-9)--besides, he always had shown his interest in anything to

do with religion, e.g. in his dealings with John the Baptist (Mark 6. 20

ff.). Then he became suspicious and Jesus was informed of his intention to

kill him, whereupon Jesus indicated clearly enough what he thought of him

when he called him "this fox" (Luke 13. 31 ff.). Jesus did not come into

personal contact with him until the trial, and then the meeting went badly

enough (Luke 23. 6 ff.)



At first the Roman governor was completely unaware of his existence. He,

too, was first forced to concern himself with Jesus at his trial. John,

with his customary eye for involved human detail, has given us an

impressive account of their meeting (18. 28 ff.).



We still have to emphasize the peculiar sympathy which Jesus showed for

pagans. This was made clear, for example, when he met the Roman centurion

or the Syro-Phoenician woman (Mat. 8. 5 ff.; Mark 7. 24 ff.); likewise, in

what he had to say on Tyre, Sidon and Sodom (Mat. 11. 20 ff.). Even his

behavior towards Pilate has a frankness unspoiled by any kind of prejudice.



The same is true of his attitude towards the half-pagan Samaritans--as

indicated by his parable of the man who fell among thieves, or his story of

the ten lepers (Luke 10. 30 ff.; 17. 11 ff.), or his reprimand to the two

disciples who wanted to call down the vengeance of heaven upon the

inhabitants of a village of Samaria because they would not give hospitality

to the travelers. As this last instance shows, he certainly did not intend

to reject the Samaritans (Luke 9. 51 ff.).



Something must now be said about his personal habits.



He had no fixed teaching center either near the temple or in a rabbinical

school, but moved about from place to place. We have already noted that

this way of life was not a manifestation of wanderlust. The instructions he

gave the disciples he sent out may safely be taken to reflect, with certain

limitations, the kind of life he himself led and the experiences he had

gained by it (Mat. 10. 5 ff.). He taught wherever opportunity arose--in the

synagogues, where, moreover, every adult Jew had a right to speak (Mat. 4.

23, etc.); in the porticos and courts of the temple (Mat. 21. 21 ff.; 21.

21-24. 1); in market-place and street (Mat. 9. 9 ff.); in houses (Mark 7.

17); at the well where people came to draw water (John 4. 5 ff.); by the

seashore (Mark 3. 9); on hill-slopes like the one that has given its name

to the Sermon on the Mount (Mat. 5. 1 ff.); in the fields (Mat. 12.1); in

the "wilderness", that is, in uncultivated places (Mark 8. 4), and so on.



When he was invited to a meal, he accepted (John 2. 1 ff.) even though his

host was not kindly disposed toward him (Luke 7. 36 ff.). He healed the

sick wherever he encountered them, and also went to their homes (Mark 1. 29

ff.).



But then he would withdraw once more from the crowd, even from his

disciples and nearest friends, to retreat into solitude. His public

ministry began with a long fast and communing with God in the wilderness

(Mat. 4. 1 ff.). Time and again it is recorded that he went off alone to

pray (Mat. 14. 23). He did this particularly before important events like

the choosing of the apostles (Luke 6. 12 ff.), the transfiguration (Luke 9.

18, 28), and at Gethsemane before his Passion (Mat. 26. 36 ff.).



In all matters relating to custom and ritual, in the first place, he

conformed to the Law like everyone else.



At the same time, however, he definitely set himself above the Law. He did

this not merely in the sense that he expounded the Law more intelligently

and more spiritually than the fanatics, as we see in his clashes on various

occasions over the law of the Sabbath (Mat. 12. 9 ff., etc.), but

radically. He looked upon the Law as something over which he had power:

"The Son of man is lord of the sabbath" (Mat. 12. 8), and if Lord of the

Sabbath, then Lord of the whole Law, of which the Sabbath was one of the

most important parts. His anticipation of the Paschal meal by one day is

likewise a sign of this lordship over the Law. At the Last Supper itself,

this claim is made even more forcefully: not merely because he introduced

into and instituted in this sacred rite himself, but because he annulled

the rite itself and with it the whole old Covenant and announced the "new

Covenant" and the new memorial feast (Luke 9 9. 20).



At this point we might ask about Jesus' outward appearance and manner. This

is a difficult question to pose.



To ask what someone looked like, how he spoke or acted, is to presuppose a

detachment which in fact we never find anywhere in the atmosphere which has

surrounded the figure of Jesus for nearly two thousand years. When the

question has been raised, however, as for example in connection with the

various traditions concerning his true image, it seems to have had very

minor importance. The question is also hard to put because the records,

which are interested in quite other matters, make no direct comment on

these details. They are concerned with Christ's importance in God's

economy, his importance for the salvation of man. They concentrate on the

absolute in his nature, compared with which all that is relative must

yield. Thus, the image of Jesus has always been severely stylized. Any

personal note we may discover is in each case attributable to an individual

who has made it his interest. It will be found to reflect a particular kind

of religious experience, or a special ideal of human perfection represented

by some person or period as realized in the Redeemer. We need only point,

in this connection, to the works of religious painters and poets.



So we shall not attempt to offer any solution, but will merely suggest

where perhaps it might be found.



What sort of general impression does Jesus make if we compare him with the

great figures by whom God revealed his will in the Old Testament, with

Moses or Elias, for example?



The first thing which strikes us is his great calmness and meekness. We are

apt to associate a certain weakness with these words. Was Jesus weak? Is he

a figure of that tenderness which belongs to a late period in history when

contrasted with the moods of earlier ages? Does he seem like some highly

sensitive, vulnerable character of a later age, restricted by his very

depth of understanding, so different from the creative and aggressive

figures of early times? Is he merely the kind one, the all-compassionate

one? Is he only the one who suffers and patiently accepts the burden of

destiny and life?



Unfortunately art and literature have often presented him in some such

guise; but the truth is quite otherwise.



The impression which Jesus obviously made upon his contemporaries was that

of some mysterious power. The accounts show that all who saw him were

caught, and indeed shaken, by his nature. They felt that his words were

full of power (Mat. 7. 29; Luke 4. 36). His actions--apart from special

occasions--reveal a spiritual energy which marked itself off completely

from all human standards, so that, when describing his nature, men turned

to the familiar concept of the prophet (Mat. 16. 14; Luke 7. 16). But on

occasion this energy burst forth in an overwhelming display of power, as in

the episode with Peter after the miraculous catch of fish (Luke 5. 8), or

during the storm on the lake (Mat. 8. 23 ff. et par.). There is not a trace

of hesitant reflection, sensitive reserve, diffidence, or passive

spinelessness. He was filled with a power capable of any outburst or

violence; but this power was controlled, nay transformed, by a moderation

which took its source in his innermost being, by a deep goodness and

kindness, and by a sublime freedom.



We could express the idea thus: Jesus is the personification of a

marvelously pure "humanity", not in spite of his enormous spiritual power,

but precisely because of it.



This unity of power and humanity--taking the word in its purest sense--is

one of the most prominent features of the figure of Jesus, especially as it

emerges in the accounts of the first three Gospels. His willpower, his

awareness of mission, his readiness to accept its consequences, and finally

the mighty power of the Spirit--all this is translated into pure humanity

so completely and creatively, that we can describe his significance by

saying: He is able to bring men to understand and put into effect what is

meant by true humanity, even though--or because--he is more than a mere

man.



To put it another way: unobtrusiveness is of the very essence of the

"happening" we call Jesus.



We have only to compare his outward activity with other biblical or non-

biblical happenings to see how the mighty word, bold gesture, powerful

deed, fantastic situation, and the like, are alien to him. Strange as it

may seem, the character of the extraordinary is missing even in his

miracles. These are certainly great; many of them, like raising the dead,

feeding the multitude, or walking on water, are tremendously impressive.

But even these have something about them which makes them seem, one might

almost say, "natural". This "humanity" of which we spoke reappears as

unobtrusiveness.



Jesus' manner must have been very simple, his attitude so natural that

people hardly noticed it. His actions proceeded quietly from the needs of

the situation. There was nothing incredible about them. His words, too, had

this unobtrusive quality about them. If we compare them with the words of

an Isaiah, or a Paul, they strike us as being extremely moderate and brief.

Compared with the sayings of a Buddha, they seem brief to the point of

bluntness, and almost commonplace.



Admittedly, we receive this impression only if we think of his words in a

purely philosophical, aesthetic or contemplative sense. If we consider them

in the situation in which they were uttered and take them seriously, we

then realize the power revealed in them, which goes far beyond "depth",

"wisdom", or "sublimity": they touch the chords of existence itself.