10. Christ Is the Way
Chapter Ten
Prayer
Lord Jesus Christ, you who knew your destiny in advance and yet did not draw back; you who then let yourself be born in poverty and in lowliness and thereafter bore the world’s sin in poverty and in lowliness; a sufferer, hated, abandoned, mocked, spat upon, finally even forsaken by God, until you bowed your head in that ignominious death: oh, but you lifted it up again, you eternal victor—you who, in life, certainly did not conquer your enemies but, in death, even conquered death; you lifted up your head again, forever victorious, you who ascended into heaven! Would that we might follow you!
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Christ is the way. These are his own words, so it certainly must be the truth.
And this way is narrow. These are his own words, so it certainly must be the truth. Yes, even if he had not said it, it would still be the truth. Here you have an example of what it is to “preach” in the highest sense. For even if Christ had never said, “Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leads unto life,” look at him and you immediately see: the way is narrow. But this is, after all, an entirely different constant and penetrating proclamation of the fact that the way is narrow—that every single day, every hour, every moment his life expresses that the way is narrow—than if his life had not expressed it, and he then had proclaimed a few times: “The way is narrow.” In addition, here you see that the proclamation of what is Christian for half an hour, by a man whose life expresses the opposite every day, every hour of the day, every moment, is the greatest possible distance from the true proclamation of Christianity. Such a proclamation transforms what is Christian into its very opposite.
In that old hymn (“O great God, we praise you”), which names the various proclamations of the Word, there is no mention of the kind of proclamation that is an invention of a later time—“when Christianity has conquered completely.” It is said in the hymn that “the prophets made you (God) known”; they were the first in time. Next “the apostles proclaimed you.” They are the extraordinary ones: prophets and apostles. Now comes a whole host, a swarm of human beings—then both you and I are included, I can imagine—yes, now listen: “And the host of martyrs praised you solemnly in the hour of death.” And then it is over. This is the true proclamation of the doctrine that the way is narrow. The proclaimer does not mock himself, as would be the case if the way he himself went was easy, while he (perhaps touched, convincing, perhaps not without tears—though perhaps weeping also comes easily to him!) nevertheless proclaims that “the way” is narrow—that is, the way he does not go by.
No, the life of the proclaimer expresses the teaching: the way is narrow. There is only one way—the one by which the proclaimer goes, proclaiming that “the way” is narrow. There are not two ways, one easy, smooth, by which the proclaimer goes, proclaiming that “the way” is narrow—that is, the true way, the way he does not go by—so that his proclamation invites persons to follow Christ along the narrow way, while his life (and, naturally, it exerts much greater force) invites them to follow the proclaimer on the easy, smooth way. Is this Christianity? No, in Christian terms, life and proclamation are to express the same thing, this very thing: “the way” is narrow.
And this way, which is Christ, this narrow way is narrow in its beginning.
He is born in poverty and wretchedness. One is almost tempted to think that it is not a human being who is born here. He is born in a stable, swaddled in rags, laid in a manger, yet, amazingly enough, already as an infant plotted against by those in power, so that his poor parents must flee with him. That is, in truth, even a particularly narrow way. For, when one is highborn (for example, as an heir to the throne), yes, then it can very well happen that one becomes an object of persecution by the mighty. But to be born in a stable and swaddled in rags—that is destitution and poverty that can be urgent enough. But then one usually is exempt from the persecutions of the mighty.
But just as he does not seem destined for highness by his birth, so did it also remain about like it was at the beginning: he lives in poverty and in lowliness; he does not have a place where he can lay his head.
To be sure, this would already be just about enough so that, humanly speaking, it might be said that a way is narrow. And yet, this is doubtless the easiest part on the narrow way.
The way is narrow in an entirely different sense, and from the very beginning. For his life is a story of temptation from the very start. It is not only a particular chapter of his life—the forty days—in which there is a story of temptation. No, his life (which is also a story of suffering) is a story of temptation. In every moment of his life, he is tempted—that is to say, he has this possibility in his power, to take his calling, his task, in vain. It is Satan who is the tempter in the desert, or else it is others who execute the role of the tempter, now the people, now the disciples, perhaps even at one time, especially in the beginning, the powerful tried to tempt him to make his calling and his task worldly—and then, in one way or another, he would have become something great in the world, a king and a ruler, his beloved disciples’ only wish. Then, after all, he could be tempted to give in a little for their sakes, instead of having to make them, humanly speaking, as ill fated as possible. Just as others, then, fight hard from the very beginning in order to become a king, a ruler, so has he from the very beginning had to guard with an infinitely greater effort against being made a king and a ruler.
What a narrow way! Narrow enough when the suffering is unavoidable, when there is no way out; a narrower way when in every moment of suffering (alas, and every moment was suffering!) is this—frightful!—possibility that almost is imposed on him, this possibility of so easily being able to obtain more than relief—victory and everything that a mortal heart could desire! Narrow way, which still so many a true follower has had to travel, even if on a smaller scale! The universally human is to aspire to becoming looked upon as someone great; and the universal forgery is to pretend to be something more than one is. Religious suffering begins differently. Through the relation to God, the one who is called feels powerful in this way—that he is simply not tempted by the aspiration of being looked upon as more. No, but in the same moment a mortal dread runs through him, because he understands that this kind of gift usually means certain downfall. And then the temptation is to say less about himself than what is true. No one, no one but God will be able to know it, and, if he does it, then joy and jubilation and glory are in store for him. For then he is victorious—therefore he precisely must guard against being victorious. Narrow way!
The way is narrow from the very beginning, because, from the very start, he foreknew his destiny. Oh, fearful weight of suffering right from the beginning! There was many a one, many a one, who went undauntedly, almost jubilantly, into battle with the world. He hoped that he would be victorious. It did not turn out that way; the situation took a different turn. Yet, even in that moment—when downfall seemed unavoidable most of all—even in that moment perhaps there was still in him a human hope that even now it could take a turn toward victory or a god-fearing hope that even now everything could take a turn toward victory, since all things are possible for God.
But Christ knew his destiny from the beginning, knew that it was unavoidable—after all, he himself willed it; after all, he himself went into it freely! Fearful knowledge from the very start! When the people, in the beginning of his life, shout at him with joy, he knew in that moment what it means: it is this people who will yell, “Crucify!” “Why, then, does he want to have anything to do with the people?” You dare to talk so presumptuously to the Savior of humankind! Once again, he now does a work of love for these people (and his entire life was nothing but a work of love), but, at the same moment, he knows what it means—that even this work of love is part of bringing him to the cross. Had he loved himself and stopping doing works of love, then perhaps his crucifixion would have become doubtful. “But, then, he certainly could have stopped doing that work!” You dare to talk so presumptuously to the Savior of humankind! Oh, narrow way! Narrow way, which still so many a true follower has had to travel, even if on a smaller scale!
For a human heart, it is a joyous feeling to be sure of the powers that have been granted to one. Thus there is a moment in the beginning when “the one who is called” tries out his strength, as it were, happy and thankful as a child for what has been granted to him. And, like a child, he perhaps asks for even more, albeit humbly, and it is given to him. And still more, which is given. He himself is almost overwhelmed; he says, “No, now I do not ask for more.” But it is as if there was a voice that said to him, “Oh, my friend, that is only a small part of what is granted to you.” Then he turns pale, the one who is called, he nearly collapses in a faint; he says, “Oh, my God, I do understand it. So, then, my destiny is already decided, my life dedicated to suffering, to be sacrificed. And by now I must be able to understand that!” Narrow way!
Yes, the way is narrow from the very beginning, because he knows from the very beginning that his word is to work against himself. Oh, the way can certainly be narrow where you still get permission to use all your strength in order to prevail while the opposition is outside yourself. Yet, when you are to use your strength in order to work against yourself, then it seems infinitely too little to say that the way is narrow. Indeed, if anything, it is impassable, blocked, impossible, mad! And yet, it is the way about which it holds true that Christ is the way; it is narrow in just this way. For the true, the good, that he wills—if he does not let it go, if he works for it with all his might, then he is working himself into certain downfall. And, on the other hand, if he inserts the whole truth too quickly, then his downfall will come too soon. Thus he, working against himself, must seem to enter into illusions for a time in order to secure the downfall all the more deeply. Narrow way! To go by this way is immediately, at the beginning, like dying! Omnipotently to try out, as it were, the powers of omnipotence, to be a human being and, in this way, fit to be able to suffer through all human sufferings—and then to have to use these powers of omnipotence in order to work against oneself, to know it right from the start—oh, a narrow way from the very beginning!
And this way, which is Christ, this narrow way, then becomes narrower and narrower as it progresses, until the end, until death.
It becomes narrower. Therefore, it does not become easier little by little. No, a way that becomes easier little by little—that Christ is the way does not hold true about it. Human shrewdness and common sense go along such a way. One perhaps has more shrewdness, has a greater intellect than another person, therefore is capable of venturing further and holding out longer, but it constantly holds true that common sense and shrewdness can calculate that when suffering and exertion are endured for a longer or shorter time, then the way becomes easier, and one is still victorious in life. On the other hand, a way that becomes narrower and narrower until the end: shrewdness and common sense never go along that way—“that would be madness, after all.”
Yet, whether it is madness or shrewdness, it is like this: the narrow way becomes narrower.
“I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled!” That is a sigh—the way is narrow. A sigh! What is a sigh? A sigh means that there is something shut up inside, something that wants out but that still cannot or must not come out, something that wants to get air. A person sighs, then, and gets something off his chest (in order not to die) while he gasps for air in order not to die. “I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled!” How shall I describe this suffering! Let me try it, but right away let me recall the attempt beforehand and say that it is only a powerless nothing if it is to describe Christ’s suffering.
Imagine, then, a ship, but you can indeed imagine it infinitely greater than anything seen in actuality. Imagine—in order to say something anyway—that it could carry a hundred thousand people. It is wartime, in battle—and the battle plan requires that it must be blown up. Imagine the commanding officer who must ignite this fire! And this is really only a poor, meaningless illustration. For what are a hundred thousand persons compared with the human race, and what is being blown up all at once compared with the terror of the fire that Christ would ignite, which, exploding, would divide father and son, son and father, mother and daughter, daughter and mother, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, daughter-in-law and mother-in-law—and where the danger is not that of death but of the loss of eternal blessedness! “I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled!” The moment, after all, is not here yet, the terrible moment, while it really is not less terrible, the moment beforehand, when one sighs: “Oh, if only it would happen!”
“O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I suffer you?” That is a sigh. It is like when the sick person—not on his sick bed but on his death bed (for it is no mild illness; he has been given up!)—rises up a bit, lifting his head from the pillow and says: “What time is it?” Death is the certainty; the question is just: “How far off is it? What time is it?” The moment, after all, has not come yet, the terrible moment, while it really is not less terrible, the moment beforehand, when the suffering person sighs: “How long do I still have to hold on?”
For the last time, then, he is gathered with his apostles for the meal that, with all his heart, he had longed to eat with them before he dies. As always, he is defenseless. Defenseless. Yes, for he certainly could have defended himself in one respect. He could—and it would have been a kindness that, by now, we human beings would have had to admire immensely—he could have said to Judas: “Stay away; do not come to this meal; the sight of you is painful to me.” Or he could have asked one of the apostles—without really saying to him what he knew about Judas—to tell Judas that he should not come. But no! They are all assembled. Then he says to Judas: “What you are going to do, do quickly.” That is a sigh. But quickly! Even the most horrifying is less horrifying: but quickly! A sigh that breathes deeply and slowly: but quickly! It is as when one who has an immense task to shoulder, tired almost beyond his strength, nevertheless feels that he still has energy remaining for the next moment—“One more moment and perhaps I am incapacitated, no longer myself”—and therefore: but quickly! “What you are going to do, do quickly.”
So he rises from the table and goes out into the Garden of Gethsemane; there he sinks down—oh, that it would happen soon! He sinks down, destined to die—yes, was he actually any more a dying person on the cross than in Gethsemane! If the suffering on the cross was a fight to the death—oh, this spiritual warfare was even in life. Nor was it without blood, for his sweat fell like drops of blood to the earth.
Then he rises, strengthened: “Your will be done, Father in heaven!”
Then he kisses Judas—have you heard the like of it!—then he is seized, accused, condemned! It was an ordinary legal proceeding; it was human justice! There was a people whom he had done well by; truly he had willed nothing for himself. Every day of his life and every thought was sacrificed for this people—those who shout, “Crucify him; crucify him!” Then there was a prefect, who feared the emperor, a cultured man who therefore did not neglect the importance of “washing his hands”—and then he was condemned. Oh, human justice! Yes, in calm weather, when everything is going its smooth way, then a little bit of justice may take place. But every time the extraordinary arrives—oh, human justice! Oh, human culture, to what extent are you actually different from what you most abhor—rudeness, the coarseness of the masses? That you do the same as the crowd, but you are careful with the form, not to do it with unwashed hands—oh, human culture!
Then he is nailed to the cross—and so only one sigh more, then it is over. One sigh more, the deepest, the most terrifying: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This humiliation is the last of the suffering. You will find weak suggestions of the same thing in his followers—in the stricter sense, the blood witnesses. They have appealed to God and for God’s assistance; abandoned by all, they have been strong and felt strong through God’s assistance—yes, what a miracle! Then comes a moment at the end, and the sigh goes: “God has forsaken me.” “Therefore you are right, my enemies; now shout with joy. All that I have said was not true; it was a fantasy. Now it is revealed: God is not with me; he has forsaken me.” Oh, my God! And indeed he—he had claimed to be the Father’s only begotten Son, one with the Father. One with the Father—but if they are one, how then can the Father forsake him at any moment! And yet, he says: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Therefore it was not true that he was one with the Father, after all. Oh, an extremity of superhuman suffering. Oh, a human heart would have broken a little sooner. Only the God-man must suffer this suffering in full. Then he dies.
Now remember, my listener, what it was we said at the beginning: this way is narrow—is it not?
Still we go further; and Christ is the way. Christ is the way: he climbs the mountain; a cloud takes him away from the disciples’ sight; he ascends into heaven—and he is the way!
Perhaps you are saying, “Yes, and there should have been talk about this today, not what you have talked about, almost as if it were Good Friday.” Oh, my friend, are you the kind of person that can get into a certain mood precisely on the hour and date? Or do you assume that it is Christianity’s intention that we should be like that or, even better, that we should combine the various things of Christianity as far as possible? That he is the narrow way ought to be recalled precisely on Ascension Day. For otherwise we could easily take the Ascension in vain. Remember, the way was narrow until the end; death comes in between—then the Ascension follows. It was not midway that he ascends into heaven; it was not even at the end of the way. For the way ends on the cross and in the grave. The Ascension is not a simple continuation of what came before, truly no! And a narrow way, which even in this life becomes easier and easier, it never soars so high—even when it soars highest to victory—never so high that it becomes an Ascension. But every living person is indeed—if he is on the right way at all, and not on a wrong way—he is indeed on the narrow way.
That is why the Ascension, and that Christ is the way, certainly should be talked about. Oh, but with the Ascension it is so easy to surpass, if only we reach there, and we reach there least of all by only wanting to think about the Ascension, even if you also let yourself be uplifted by the thought of his Ascension.
He ascends into heaven: never has anyone been victorious in this way! A cloud took him away from their sight: never has any triumphant person been lifted up from the earth in this way! They saw him no more: never has the end for anyone else been such a triumph! He sits at the right hand of power—so does the triumph not end with the Ascension? No, it begins with it: never has anyone triumphed in this way! He is coming again with a host of angels—so does the triumph not end with him taking the place at the right hand of the Almighty? No, it was only the end of the beginning: oh, eternal conqueror!
My listener, along which way are you going in life? Keep in mind what I say to myself—that it is not valid of every narrow way that Christ is that way, nor that it leads to heaven.
A pious man has said that it costs a human being just as much or even more hardship to go to hell as to come into heaven. Therefore perdition’s way is a narrow way. But Christ is not that way, and it does not lead to heaven either. There is sufficient unrest and anxiety and agony on this way. As far as it goes, this way is truly narrow, the way to perdition, the way that—unlike the other ways we have talked about (the way that is narrow in the beginning and becomes easier and easier; the narrow way that becomes narrower and narrower)—is recognizable in that it seems so easy at the start but becomes more and more terrible. For it is so easy to step to the dance of desire, but, when it is further along, and it is desire that dances with the person against his will: that is an onerous dance! And it is so easy to give rein to the passions—daring speed, one can hardly follow with the eye!—until the passions, after having taken the reins given to them, sweep him away with even more daring speed! The person himself hardly dares to see where they are leading! And it is so easy to allow a sinful thought to creep into the heart—no seducer was as skillful as a sinful thought! It is so easy. Here it does not hold true as usual—that it is the first step that costs. Oh, no, it costs nothing at all. Just the opposite: the sinful thought pays for itself in costly decisions. It costs nothing at all—until the end, when you have to pay dearly for this first step that did not cost anything at all. For if the sinful thought enters in, it exacts a terrible payment. Most often sin enters into a person like a sycophant, but, when the person has become the slave of sin, it is the most terrible slavery—a narrow, an exceedingly narrow, way to perdition!
Again, there are also other narrow ways about which it does not unconditionally hold true that Christ is that way or that they lead to heaven. There are human sufferings enough, only all too many—sickness and poverty and being unappreciated, and who can name all these sufferings! Of course, everybody who goes along such a way also goes along a narrow way. Truly we should not talk in lofty tones, as if these sufferings amounted to nothing—oh, but you, my friend, certainly do know what Christianity is, and let me simply remind you about it. That which distinguishes the Christian narrow way from the common human narrow way is the voluntary. Christ was not one who coveted earthly goods but who had to be content with poverty; no, he chose poverty. He was not one who craved human honor and esteem but who had to be content with living in lowliness or perhaps unappreciated and slandered; no, he chose debasement. This is the narrow way in the strictest sense. The common human sufferings are not the narrow way in the strictest sense, yet the way truly can be narrow enough, and you also can strive to go along this narrow way of human sufferings in a Christian manner. If you go along it in a Christian manner, it really does lead to heaven, where he went, he the one who ascended.
Still, it is true that people have doubted the Ascension.
Yes, who has doubted? I wonder if any of their lives have borne the marks of “imitation”? I wonder if any of them have forsaken all things in order to follow Christ? I wonder if any of them were marked by persecution—and when “imitation” is a given, persecution follows. No, not one of them. But when people abolished “imitation” and in turn rendered persecution an impossibility, which, however, in the thieves’ jargon that we human beings mutually speak did not sound like an accusation against an erring century’s declining Christianity (God forbid!)—no, it sounded like a tribute to an enlightened century’s matchless advance in tolerance; when they so reduced being Christian that being Christian almost became nothing—and so there was not anything to persecute either: then all sorts of doubts came up in that idleness and smugness. And doubt and who doubts became important, and people themselves became important by doubting—just as one formerly became important by giving all of one’s goods to the poor (what we truly do not approve of but nevertheless understand better). In this way, one now became (presumably in order to establish the true concept of “the meritorious” in place of the misunderstanding of the Middle Ages, which one piously detested) self-important by doubting. And while one doubted everything, one thing was still beyond all doubt: by this claim (“We must doubt everything”) one secured oneself a—nothing less than doubtful, no, an extremely firm—position in society, as well as great honor and esteem among persons.
Accordingly, some doubted. But then, in turn, there were some who sought to disprove doubt by reasons. In fact, the connection is surely this: first, people tried to prove the Christian with reasons or to apply reasons in relation to the Christian. And these reasons—they gave birth to doubt, and doubt became the stronger. That is, the proof for what is Christian really lies in “imitation.” People took that away. Then they felt a need for “reasons,” but these reasons, or that there are reasons, is already a kind of doubt—and so doubt rose up and lived on reasons. People did not notice that the more reasons one brings in, the more one nourishes doubt, and the stronger it becomes, so that to present reasons to doubt in order to kill it is just like offering a hungry monster one wishes to destroy the tasty food it loves most. No, one should not present reasons to doubt—at least not if one’s intention is to kill it—but, as Luther did, one should command it to shut up and, to that end, keep quiet and include no reasons.
On the other hand, those whose lives were marked by “imitation” have not doubted the Ascension. And why not? In the first place, because their lives were too strained, too devoted in daily sufferings, to be able to sit in idleness and consort with reasons and doubt, playing odds and evens. For them, the Ascension stood firm; however, perhaps they came to think about or to dwell on it even more rarely—because, on the narrow way, their lives were so active. It is as with a soldier, who owns a magnificent uniform. He knows well that he has it, but he almost never looks at it, because his whole life is passed in daily combat and valor, and therefore he wears a daily uniform in order to move around properly.
See, in this way, those whose lives were marked by imitation were convinced that their Lord and Master ascended into heaven. And, again, it was imitation that contributed to this conviction. That they had to bear all these daily agonizing sufferings, that they had to give all these sacrifices, all this opposition, scorn and mockery and sneering and bloody cruelty of human beings, all this forced on “the imitator,” the need that, just as the Ascension disrupts or conflicts with the laws of nature (that, after all, is doubt’s objection), disrupts the merely human grounds of comfort (how should these even be able to comfort the one who must suffer because he is doing the good!), needs another kind of comfort, needs the Ascension of their Lord and Master, and faithfully presses through to the Ascension.
It is always like this with need in a human being. From the one eating comes something to eat: where the need is, there it itself generates, as it were, that which it needs. And the imitators truly needed his Ascension in order to endure the life they led—indeed, that is why it is also certain. But one who sits in idleness through good days or busily is on the go in busyness from morning to night but has never suffered anything for the sake of truth, he actually has no need. It is more like something he imagines, or something he lets himself imagine for money; he occupies himself with this Ascension almost as with a curiosity—and so, naturally, he doubts. He has no need either. Or he thinks up some reasons, or another person is so good to let him have three reasons—yes, his need really is not very great either!
And now you, my listener, what are you doing? Are you doubting the Ascension? If so, then do as I do; say to yourself: “Yes, one should not make a fuss over such a doubt; I know from where it comes and of what it comes—namely, that I must have spared myself concerning ‘imitation,’ that my life is not strenuous enough in this direction, that I am too much in clover, that I spare myself the dangers that are bound up with witnessing for truth and against untruth.” Just do that! But, above all, do not become self-important by doubting. There is—I assure you!—not any basis for it either, since all such doubt actually is self-implicating. No, make a confession to yourself and to God, and, you will see, one of two things will happen: either you will be moved to venture further out in the direction of “imitation”—and then certainty about the Ascension comes immediately; or you will humble yourself, confess that you have spared yourself, that you have become a pushover of a preacher, and then at least you will not allow yourself to doubt but humbly will say: “If God wants to be so gracious to treat me like a child, who almost entirely is spared from the sufferings of ‘imitation,’ then I at least will not be a naughty child, who doubts the Ascension on top of that.”
Oh, when you live admired, flattered, esteemed, in abundance, you are tempted to say many a word and to take part in much that you perhaps really would rather stop doing and that you (remember this!) still have to make an accounting for——and, moreover, the Ascension so easily slips out of your mind. When you think about it at some point, perhaps you even doubt and say: “An Ascension, after all, goes against all laws of nature, against the spirit in nature—but only the nature spirit!” But when it is for a good cause—for otherwise it does not help, and, if it is like that, the circumstances are indeed also in conflict with all merely human notions: to suffer because one does good, because one is in the right, because one is loving—when it is for a cause that you live forsaken, persecuted, derided, in poverty: you will see that you do not doubt his Ascension, because you need it.
And not even that much is needed in order to bring doubt to a standstill. For if you do humble yourself before God because your life is not marked as that of an imitator in the stricter sense, if you humble yourself under that, then you will not make so bold as to doubt. How should you be able to set about reporting with a doubt, when the answer would have to be: first, go and become an imitator in the stricter sense. Only an imitator has the right to speak up—and not one of these has doubted.