The Man of the West

1. Behold the Man

Some ten years ago, I loved Christianity as an artistic phenomenon—Catholicism in particular. Nagasaki’s “Church of Our Lady of Japan” still remains in my memory. At the time I was no more than a crow busily picking up the seeds scattered by Hakushu Kitahara and Mokutaro Kinoshita. Then, several years later, I became interested in the Christians who had suffered martyrdom for their faith. The psychology of martyrs held for me the same morbid fascination as the psychology of all fanatics. Only lately have I begun to love the man called Christ whom four biographers have handed down to us. Today I can no longer look upon Christ as though he were merely a traveler passing along the road. Europeans, and certainly the young people of today, may laugh at this. Yet I, born at the end of the nineteenth century, have begun to fix my eyes upon the cross of which they have tired—indeed, the cross they would not hesitate to pull down. “My Christ,” born in Japan, does not necessarily gaze over the Sea of Galilee. Beneath a persimmon tree heavy with scarlet fruit, he can also see the inlet at Nagasaki. I shall therefore disregard historical and geographical fact. (At least, this is not a journalistic attempt to evade difficulty. If I chose to proceed solemnly, five or six lives of Christ would readily do the work for me.) Nor have I room to record faithfully every word and deed of Christ. I shall simply write down “my Christ” as I have felt him. Even the stern Christians of Japan will perhaps overlook a Christ written by a man who sells his pen for a living.

2. Mary

Mary was an ordinary woman. But one night the Holy Spirit came upon her, and suddenly she gave birth to Christ. We may feel something of Mary in every woman, and something of her in every man as well. No—we may feel a little of Mary even in the fire burning in the hearth, the vegetables in the field, an unglazed jar, or a bench made of solid rock. Mary is not “the Eternal Feminine.” She is simply “that which eternally seeks to protect.” The life of Mary, Christ’s mother, also passed through a “vale of tears.” Yet with patience upon patience she walked through that life. Worldly wisdom, folly, and virtue lived together within it. Nietzsche’s rebellion was directed against Mary even more than against Christ.

3. The Holy Spirit

We may feel something of the Holy Spirit in the wind and in a flag. The Holy Spirit is not necessarily “that which is holy.” It is simply “that which eternally seeks to surpass.” Goethe always gave this spirit the name Daemon, and was always on guard against being seized by it. Yet the children of the Holy Spirit—all the Christs—live in danger of one day being seized by it. The Holy Spirit is neither devil nor angel. It is, of course, distinct from God. At times we see it walking beyond good and evil. Beyond good and evil—though Lombroso, fortunately or unfortunately, discovered it walking upon the brains of the mentally ill.

4. Joseph

Joseph the carpenter, Christ’s father, was in truth Mary herself. That fact explains why he is held in less reverence than she. However favorably we regard him, Joseph was, in the end, the first of the superfluous men.

5. Elizabeth

Mary was a friend of Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth, the wife of Zacharias, who gave birth to John the Baptist. That a poppy happened to bloom among the wheat was, after all, nothing but chance. Yet the power that governs our lives was at work there too.

6. The Shepherds

Mary’s conception through the Holy Spirit was assuredly scandalous enough to set the shepherds talking. From that moment, beautiful Mary, the mother of Christ, began to climb the road of human suffering.

7. The Wise Men

The wise men of the East saw the appearance of Christ’s star, placed gold, frankincense, and myrrh in their treasure boxes, and went to offer them. Yet among all the learned men, they numbered only two or three. The others did not notice that Christ’s star had appeared. Moreover, one of those who did notice—the oldest of them all—stood upon a high platform, looked up at the brilliantly suspended star, and pitied Christ from afar.

“Again!”

8. Herod

Herod was a great machine. Such machines, relying upon violence to save a certain amount of trouble, are always necessary to us. Fearing Christ, he slaughtered all the infants of Bethlehem. Naturally, among them there must also have been Christs other than Christ. Herod’s hands may have been dyed crimson with their blood. We cannot help feeling repelled by those hands. Yet our revulsion is the revulsion we feel toward a guillotine from centuries ago. We can neither hate Herod nor, certainly, despise him. Rather, we can only pity him. Herod sits forever upon his throne with his melancholy face held straight, looking down upon the land of Bethlehem among its olives and fig trees, without having left behind so much as a single line of verse….

9. The Bohemian Spirit

The infant Christ went to Egypt, and later “withdrew into the region of Galilee and dwelt in a town called Nazareth.” We may find children like him in the families of naval officers transferred to Sasebo or Yokosuka. Before it lay in his own character, Christ’s bohemian spirit may already have lain hidden in such circumstances.

10. The Father

After living in Nazareth, Christ must have learned that he was not Joseph’s son—or that he was the son of the Holy Spirit. Yet the latter was by no means a more momentous discovery than the former. From that time Christ, the “Son of Man,” was truly born a second time. Strindberg, “the son of a servant,” first rebelled against his family. That was his misfortune and, at the same time, his happiness. It was probably the same with Christ. In that loneliness he was fortunate enough to encounter a Christ born before him—John the Baptist. Within ourselves we too feel the shadows that filled Christ’s heart before he met John. John ate wild honey and locusts and lived in the wilderness. Yet his wilderness was not entirely without sunlight—at least when compared with the dim wilderness inside Christ himself….

11. John

John the Baptist was a Christ unable to understand Romanticism. His dignity still gleams there like unrefined metal. That is probably also why he did not equal Christ. John, who baptized Christ, was sturdy as an oak. But John in prison had already lost the strength of an oak swelling through trunk, branch, and leaf. His final cry, like Christ’s last cry, always moves us:

“Was it you who were Christ, or was it I?”

John’s final cry—no, it was not merely a cry. Though the stout oak was withering, its outward form still spread its branches. Had even that strength of spirit been absent, Christ, then only in his twenties, would never have spoken so coldly:

“Go and tell John what you see me doing now.”

12. The Devil

After fasting for forty days, Christ debated the Devil face to face. To debate the Devil, we too require some form of fasting. Some of us will yield to his temptation in that debate; others will resist and preserve themselves. Yet it is also possible to pass through life without ever debating the Devil. First Christ rejected bread, though he did not forget to add the qualification that man cannot live by bread alone. He next rejected the Devil’s idealistic advice that he rely upon his own power, while preparing the dialectical answer, “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.” Finally he rejected “all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.” This may appear the same as rejecting bread. But in rejecting bread he had merely rejected practical desire. In this third reply, Christ rejected every earthly dream that ceaselessly arises within us. This logical duel, which surpassed logic, was unquestionably Christ’s victory. Jacob’s wrestling with the angel was probably a duel of the same kind. In the end the Devil had no choice but to bow his head before Christ. Yet he did not forget that Christ was the child of a woman called Mary. This debate with the Devil has since acquired tremendous significance, but in Christ’s life it cannot necessarily be called the decisive event. Many times in his life he said, “Get thee behind me, Satan.” Indeed, Luke, one of his biographers, recorded the episode and then added: “When the Devil had ended every temptation, he departed from him for a season.”

13. The First Disciples

Christ had shown his genius when he was only twelve. Yet even after his baptism no one became his disciple. Walking from village to village, he must have felt lonely. At last, however, four disciples—and all four of them fishermen—came to walk at his right and left. Christ’s love for them runs through his entire life. Surrounded by them, he rapidly became an ancient journalist gifted with a sharp tongue.

14. Child of the Holy Spirit

Christ became an ancient journalist. At the same time he became an ancient bohemian. His genius continued to leap, and his life trampled the social conventions of an age, even while he occasionally fell into hysterical fits among disciples who did not understand him. Yet for Christ himself it was, in the main, filled with joy. How much passion must he have felt in his own poetry? The Sermon on the Mount is the ardent product of a man in his twenties. He felt that no predecessor could equal him. This genius for journalism, rising like the sea, naturally drew enemies. Yet they could not help fearing Christ. That was because they—who knew more of life than Christ and therefore feared life—could not grasp the measure of this genius.

15. Women

Many women loved Christ. Mary Magdalene above all, having met him once, forgot that seven demons had tormented her and came to feel a poetic love that transcended even her profession. It was the power of this love that enabled her to see him first after his life had ended. Christ too loved many women, and Mary Magdalene above all. Their poetic love remains fragrant today, like an iris in bloom. Seeing her must often have consoled him in his loneliness. Later ages—or rather, the men of later ages—were cold toward their poetic love, except when it supplied an artistic subject. But the women of later ages were always jealous of this Mary.

“Why did the Lord Christ not show his resurrection first of all to his mother, the Virgin Mary?”

That was the most hypocritical sigh women had handed down through the years.

16. Miracles

Christ sometimes worked miracles. Yet for him they were easier than creating a single metaphor, and partly for that very reason he felt an aversion to miracles. Also for that reason—because he felt his mission as Christ lay in teaching his way. Working miracles, as Rousseau would loudly insist in later times, could only obstruct the teaching of that way. Yet his “little lambs” always wanted miracles, and one time in three Christ could not help granting their wish. His human, all-too-human character reveals itself on this side as well. But whenever Christ performed a miracle, he invariably disclaimed responsibility.

“Your faith has healed you.”

Yet this was at the same time a scientific truth. On another occasion, compelled to perform a miracle because a woman afflicted by a long illness touched his garment, Christ felt power leave him. Such a sensation plainly explains why he always hesitated somewhat to perform miracles. Christ was a far keener rationalist than the Christians of later ages, and even than his own twelve disciples.

17. The Transgressor

Beautiful Mary, Christ’s mother, was not always a mother to him. Those he loved most were the people who followed his way. Ablaze with passion, Christ did not hesitate boldly to declare this feeling before a great crowd. Standing forlorn outside the door and hearing his words, Mary must have been deeply grieved. Within ourselves we feel Mary’s suffering, even when we also feel Christ’s passion within us. Yet Christ himself must sometimes have pitied Mary, when he ceased to see the shining gate of heaven and looked instead upon Jerusalem as it truly was….

18. Christianity

Christianity is a poetic religion rich in paradoxes that even Christ himself could not practice. For the sake of his genius, he laughingly cast away life itself. It was only natural that Wilde should discover in him the first of the Romantics. According to his teaching, even Solomon “in all his glory was not arrayed” like a single lily blown by the wind. His way consisted simply in living poetically, taking no thought for tomorrow. To what end? To enter the heaven of the Jews, of course. Yet no heaven can escape continual change. The Christian heaven, full of roses that smelled of soap, eventually vanished into the air. In its place we have created several heavens of our own. Christ was the first to awaken in us a longing for heaven. His paradoxes also produced innumerable theologians and mystics in later ages. Their arguments could only have left Christ staring in bewilderment, though some of them were more Christian than Christ himself. In any case, Christ pointed beyond this present world. In him we will always feel that for which we seek—the sound of a trumpet driving us along an infinite road. At the same time, in him we cannot help feeling that which never ceases to torment us—the suffering of the world that modernity has only lately succeeded in expressing.

19. The Journalist

We can see only what is close to ourselves. At least, only what is close to us can press itself upon us. Like every journalist, Christ grasped this fact by intuition. Brides, vineyards, donkeys, workmen—his teaching never failed to make use of the things before his eyes. “The Good Samaritan” and “The Return of the Prodigal Son” are masterpieces of his poetry. Later Christian journalists—the pastors who use nothing but abstract language—cannot ever have considered the power of Christ’s journalism. Compared with them, and even with the Christs of later ages, he was in no way an inferior journalist. For that reason his journalism stands shoulder to shoulder with the classics of the West. He was truly a journalist who added new fuel to an ancient flame.

20. Jehovah

What Christ repeatedly preached was, of course, the God of heaven. “It was not God who made us; it was we who made God.” These words of the materialist Gourmont may delight our hearts. They cut the chain hanging from our waist, yet at the same time fasten a new chain there—and this new chain may be stronger than the old. God has descended from a vast cloud into the minute workings of the nervous system. Under every name, he remains enthroned there. Christ must often have seen this God before his eyes. (It is unthinkable that a Christ who had not met God should have met the Devil.) His God, like every god, bore a strongly social coloration. Nevertheless, he must have been the “Lord God” born together with us. For this God—for poetic justice—Christ continued to fight. All his paradoxes spring from that source. Later theology tried to interpret those paradoxes in the least poetic fashion possible and left behind countless tedious books that no one has ever read. Voltaire now seems almost comical as he brandishes his sword to kill the god of “theology.” Yet the “Lord God” did not die, and neither did Christ. So long as moss grows on concrete walls, God will always look down upon us. Dante cast Francesca into hell, yet at some moment he had already rescued her from the flames. Whoever has repented even once—whoever has possessed one beautiful instant—has entered “life without end.” Perhaps it is facts like these that so readily cause God to be called sentimental.

21. Homeland

“A prophet is not accepted in his own country.” For Christ, that may have been the first cross. In the end he had to make all Judea his homeland. Today trains, automobiles, steamships, and airplanes make the whole world a homeland for every Christ. And naturally every Christ must also have been rejected by his homeland. It was France, not America, that accepted Poe.

22. The Poet

Christ felt a single lily to be more beautiful than Solomon “in all his glory.” (Probably none of his disciples was ever as entranced as he by the beauty of a lily.) Yet when speaking with those disciples he did not hesitate to break the courtesies of conversation and say something savage: “Do you not understand that nothing entering a man from outside can defile him? It does not enter his heart but his belly, and passes into the privy; thus all foods are cleansed.”…

23. Lazarus

When Christ heard of Lazarus’s death, he shed tears unlike any he had shed before—perhaps tears he had never before allowed anyone to see. Lazarus returned from death because of this sentimentality in Christ. Why did the man who disregarded his mother Mary weep before the sisters of Lazarus, Martha and Mary? Whoever understands this contradiction understands the egotism of genius in Christ—and in every Christ.

24. The Wedding Feast at Cana

Though Christ loved women, he did not concern himself with living in union with a woman. This belongs to the same order of fact as Muhammad permitting union with four women. Neither man could entirely transcend his age—or his society. Yet it is certain that Christ’s love of freedom above all things was also at work. The supermen of later ages had to wear masks among the dogs. Christ, however, counted even wearing a mask among the forms of bondage. The secret of so-called “happiness at the fireside” must naturally have been clear to him. The American Christ—Whitman—was another who chose this freedom. In his poems we often feel Christ. Christ still looks down, laughing heartily, upon Cana’s feast with its dancers, bouquets, and instruments. In exchange for that freedom, however, there must have been a certain loneliness he had to redeem.

25. A Dialogue on the Mountain Near Heaven

On a high mountain Christ spoke with Christs born before him—Moses and Elijah. This was perhaps an event of deeper significance than his battle with the Devil. A few days earlier, he had foretold to his disciples that he would go to Jerusalem and be crucified. His meeting with Moses and Elijah proves that he stood in a spiritual crisis. His face “shone like the sun and his garments became white as light,” not merely because the two earlier Christs descended before him. At no time in his life was he more solemn. His biographers left no record of their dialogue, but the question he cast at them was, “How ought we to live?” Christ’s life was to be short. At this moment, only just thirty, he suffered the necessity of settling the final account of his life. Moses, as Napoleon observed, was a general skilled in strategy. Elijah too may have possessed greater political genius than Christ. Moreover, today is not yesterday: the Red Sea no longer rises like a wall, and no fiery chariot comes down from heaven. As Christ debated with them, he must have felt more and more keenly that his ugly death was drawing near. On the mountain close to heaven, only masses of rock rose in sunlight clear as ice. Yet in the deep valley below, pomegranates and figs must have given off their fragrance, and smoke may have climbed faintly from the houses. Christ too must have felt a longing for this life in the lower world. But whether he wished it or not, his road climbed toward an empty heaven. The star that announced his birth—or the Holy Spirit that fathered him—would not grant him peace. “As they came down from the mountain, Jesus commanded them—Peter, James, and his brother John—not to tell anyone what they had seen until the Son of Man had risen from the dead.” Speaking on that mountain near heaven with “the great dead” who preceded him was something Christ truly wished to preserve in secret, in his diary alone.

26. Like Little Children

One of Christ’s paradoxical teachings was: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.” There is nothing sentimental in these words. Through them Christ reveals that he himself was closer to a child than anyone else. At the same time, he makes clear his own position as a child of the Holy Spirit. In Tasso, Goethe sang of his own suffering as another such child. “To be like a little child” is to return to the age of kindergarten. According to Christ’s words, only those unable to endure life without another’s protection may enter the golden gate. His contempt for worldly wisdom has also slipped into the saying. His disciples must honestly have been astonished by the child standing before him. (The pictures of Christ with a child that repel us do so because of the hypocritical sentimentality of later ages.)

27. Toward Jerusalem

Christ became the prophet of his age. At the same time, the prophet within him—or the Holy Spirit that fathered him—naturally began to toy with him. We may feel him even in a moth burned by a candle flame. The moth burns simply because it was born a moth; Christ was no different. Shaw gave a thunderous sneer to the Christ who went to Jerusalem to be crucified. But before Christ rode a donkey into Jerusalem, he was already carrying his cross. It must have been close to a fate against which he could do nothing. There too he was a genius and, in the end, still the “Son of Man.” This fact also teaches us how the word “Messiah,” layered with centuries of meaning, ruled Christ. Riding his donkey along a road spread with tree branches, struck by cries of “Hosanna! Hosanna!”, he was himself and at the same time every prophet of Israel. One Christ born after him was said to have met the resurrected Christ on the distant road to Rome and been challenged, “Where are you going?” Had Christ himself refused to go to Jerusalem, some earlier prophet would likewise have challenged him: “Where are you going?”

28. Jerusalem

After entering Jerusalem, Christ fought his final battle. It lacked freshness, but it was filled with a certain violence. He cursed a fig tree beside the road simply because, betraying his expectation, it bore no fruit. Even the man who cherished all things here wielded his destructive power in a half-hysterical state.

“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

These were no longer the words of the young Christ blazing with passion. They were the words of a mature Christ addressing a life that had begun to take revenge upon him—though, as a poet, he naturally valued heaven above life. What lay within them was not merely worldly wisdom. Since the age of Moses, human folly had not changed at all, and Christ must have been sick of it. His irritation drove him into Jehovah’s temple, where he “cast out those who bought and sold, overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves.”

“This temple too will soon be destroyed.”

For the sake of this Christ, a woman poured fragrant oil upon his head. He ordered his disciples not to rebuke her. And then—the feelings of Christ facing the cross slipped into his gentle words toward men who did not understand him. Still scented with the oil—surely an unusual event for a man so often covered in road dust—he spoke quietly to them.

“This woman has poured oil upon me to prepare me for burial. I will not always be with you.”

The olives of Gethsemane are more tragic than the cross at Golgotha. There, summoning all his strength, Christ tried to struggle with himself—and with the Holy Spirit within him. The cross of Golgotha was gradually casting its shadow over him. He understood this completely. But his disciples—even Peter—could not understand how he felt. Christ’s prayer still has the power to press upon us today:

“My Father, if it is possible, take this cup away from me. Yet if you say it cannot be otherwise, let your will be done.”

Every Christ prays in this way in the deserted middle of the night. At the same time, the disciples of every Christ fail to understand the heart that is “sorrowful even unto death” and sleep beneath the olive trees….

29. Judas

Later ages came to set an evil halo shining above Judas. Yet Judas was not necessarily worse than the other twelve disciples. Even Peter denied three times that he knew Christ before the cock crowed. Judas’s sale of Christ was probably no different from politicians today selling their leader. Papini too counted Judas’s betrayal among the great mysteries. But Christ clearly stood at a point where anyone might sell him. The chief priests must have counted several possible Judases besides Judas himself. Judas merely possessed the various conditions needed to become their instrument, with chance naturally added to those conditions. Later ages made Christ the “Son of God.” At the same time they discovered the Devil inside Judas. Yet after selling Christ, Judas hanged himself from a poplar tree. The fact that he had been Christ’s disciple—that he had heard the voice of God—may perhaps be seen there too. Judas hated himself more than anyone. Christ upon the cross must have tormented him, of course, but the sneers of the chief priests who used him must also have enraged him. “Do what you mean to do.”

These words of Christ to Judas overflow with contempt and pity. Christ, the “Son of Man,” may have felt a Judas within himself as well. Unfortunately, Judas did not understand Christ’s irony.

30. Pilate

Pilate appeared in Christ’s life by mere accident. In the end, he is no more than a pronoun. Later ages gave this official a legendary coloring, but Anatole France alone was not deceived by it.

31. Barabbas Rather Than Christ

Barabbas rather than Christ—it is the same today. Barabbas must have plotted rebellion, and he must also have killed people. But the crowd could naturally understand his deeds. Nietzsche compared the later Barabbases to dogs in the street. The people surely felt hatred and anger toward what Barabbas had done. Toward what Christ had done, however, they probably felt nothing. If they felt anything, it was what they believed themselves socially obliged to feel. Their spiritual slaves—the soldiers whose bodies alone were strong—placed a crown of thorns on Christ, clothed him in purple, and cried, “Hail, King of the Jews!” Christ’s tragedy is all the more wretched for standing at the center of such comedy. Spiritually, Christ must truly have been King of the Jews. But the dogs who do not believe in genius—or rather, who believe genius easy to discover—mocked the true King of the Jews under that title. “To the governor’s great amazement, Jesus made no reply, not even to a single charge.” As his biographer recorded, Christ probably answered neither their interrogation nor their ridicule. More than that, it is certain that he could not answer. Barabbas, however, would have raised his head and answered everything plainly. Barabbas rebelled only against his enemies. Christ rebelled against himself—against the Mary within himself. His was a more fundamental rebellion than Barabbas’s and, at the same time, a “human, all-too-human” rebellion.

32. Golgotha

Christ upon the cross was, in the end, nothing other than the “Son of Man.”

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Hero worshippers will naturally sneer at these words. Those who are not children of the Holy Spirit will find in them only the wages of his own deeds. “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” was, in fact, no more than Christ’s scream. Yet because of that scream Christ came closer to us. It also taught us the tragedy of his life with greater reality.

33. Pietà

Aged Mary, Christ’s mother, mourns before the body of Christ. It is not necessarily sentimental that a picture of this kind is called a Pietà. Yet painters who wish to paint the Pietà must paint Mary alone.

34. Christ’s Friend

Christ had twelve disciples but not a single friend. If he had even one, it was Joseph of Arimathea. “When evening had come, Joseph of Arimathea, an honored councillor, arrived. This man too awaited the kingdom of God. He went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.” Mark, said to be older than Matthew, left this deeply meaningful passage in his life of Christ. Its tone is entirely different from the phrase that calls the disciples merely “those who followed and served him.” Joseph was probably a Christ with more worldly wisdom than Christ himself. The fact that he “went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus” shows the depth of his sympathy. At that moment Joseph, the cultivated councillor, was candor itself. Later ages are far colder toward him than toward Pilate or Judas. Yet he may have understood Christ better than the twelve disciples did. It was the cruelly beautiful Salome who placed John’s head upon a platter. After Christ’s life ended, however, Joseph of Arimathea stood among those who buried him. In that, Christ found a measure of happiness denied even to John. Had Joseph not become a councillor—well, like every question beginning “if,” perhaps it need not be asked. Yet beneath a fig tree or before an inlaid cup, he must sometimes have remembered his friend Christ.

35. Resurrection

Renan attributed the sight of Christ’s resurrection to Mary Magdalene’s imagination. To her imagination—yet it was Christ who gave her imagination its leap. A mother who has lost her child often sees the child resurrected, reborn as something else: perhaps a feudal lord, perhaps a duck upon a pond, perhaps a lotus flower. Yet Christ showed himself after death to people besides Mary. This fact must reveal how many people loved him. He rose after three days, but after losing his body he needed much longer to move the whole world. The man who contributed most was Paul, a journalist who felt Christ’s genius throughout his entire body. As centuries passed, those who crucified Christ gradually recognized his resurrection, just as people recognized the resurrection of Shakespeare. Yet even the Christ after death certainly underwent continual transformation. Fashion, which rules all things, went on ruling Christ as well. The Christ loved by Clare was not the Christ revered by Pascal. But after his resurrection the dogs continued to make him an idol and, in Christ’s own name, to exercise tyranny. That is why the Christs born after Christ became his enemies. Yet they too, on the road to Damascus, inevitably saw the Holy Spirit in the midst of their enemies.

“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me? It is never easy to kick against a goad.”

We merely stand within the boundless waste of life. Nothing but sleep can give us peace. Every naturalist dissects this fact with the cruelty of a surgeon. Yet the children of the Holy Spirit have always left something beautiful upon such a life—something that “eternally seeks to surpass.”

36. The Life of Christ

The life of Christ, like the life of every genius, was naturally a life burning with passion. He was ruled more by his father, the Holy Spirit, than by his mother, Mary. The tragedy upon the cross lay precisely there. Goethe, one of the Christs born after him, wished “to go quickly to hell rather than grow old slowly.” Yet he did grow old slowly and, as Strindberg said, became a mystic in his later years. Within this poet, the Holy Spirit lived in balance with Mary. The name “the great pagan” is not altogether wrong. In life itself, Goethe was indeed greater than Christ, and naturally greater still than the other Christs. The star announcing his birth must have shone rounder than the star announcing Christ’s. Yet we love Goethe not because he was a child of Mary. Children of Mary fill the wheat fields and the benches. Indeed, there must be many in barracks, factories, and prisons. We love Goethe simply because he was a child of the Holy Spirit. At some point in our lives, we will all be together with Christ. Goethe too repeatedly plucked Christ’s beard in his poetry. Christ’s life was wretched, yet it symbolized the lives of the children of the Holy Spirit born after him. (Even Goethe was no exception.) Christianity may perish; at the very least, it is changing without cease. But the life of Christ will always move us. It is a ladder cruelly broken while climbing from heaven down to earth, still leaning in the driving rain that lashes from a darkened sky….

37. The Man of the East

Nietzsche called religion “hygiene.” Not religion alone: morality and economics are also forms of “hygiene.” They will naturally keep us healthy until the day we die. The “man of the East” generally tried to found this hygiene upon nirvana. At times Lao-tzu exchanges greetings with the Buddha in the land where nothing exists. Yet East and West are not divided as sharply as the colors of our skin. That is why the life of Christ—or the lives of the many Christs—moves us. The song saying, “From ancient times all heroic men have returned to the mountain hollows,” has always been handed down among us. Yet the cry “The kingdom of heaven is at hand” also refuses to let us remain seated. There Lao-tzu debates the young Confucius—or the Christ of China. Savage life will always cause every Christ some measure of suffering. The “men of the East,” who wished to become grasses and trees in an age of peace, are no exception. Christ said, “Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” His words contain a terrible truth of which even he was probably unaware. Unless we become foxes or birds, we do not easily find a roost.

(July 10, 1927)