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The Father to the Son.
[XXIX.] Anhalt, 6th February, 1787.
… . Oh, thou insensate son! who has deluded thee, that thou no longer obeyest the truth, thou, before whose eyes Christ was pictured, and who now crucifiest him? You were so well started, who has held you back from obeying the truth? Such persuasion is not from Him who has called you; but a little leaven leavens the whole loaf. The same wickedness of heart which, four years ago, made you fear that through it you would be lost in the world, and which drove you into the congregation, alas! you have furthermore nourished in yourself, and it has now leavened your whole being, and is driving you out of the congregation. Oh! my son—my son! How deeply do you humble me! What sighs you call forth from my soul! And if the departed watch over us, oh! what a cruel disturber of the tranquillity of your blessed mother have you become, now that even your stranger stepmother is weeping over you.
Go forth, then, into the world, whose honours you are seeking. Try if its husks can satisfy your soul which refuses the divine cordial which Jesus bestows on all hearts that thirst for Him. Have you, then, never tasted one little drop of balsam from His wounds? And was it all hypocrisy and deception which you used to write, and which you have so often protested that you felt? But if it were truth, oh! then it will witness awfully against you on the last day, if you do not turn back again to the eternal merciful God. John, chap. xii. 48—50. Ep. to the Heb. chap. vi. 4–6.
Alas! into what a state of delusion has the wickedness of your heart plunged you! You believe that in the world you will find the way back again to the community to which you belonged (for, alas! in your heart you are no longer there); and equally contradictory are your objections, which you seem to think so strong. Nay, strong and powerful are the conceit and pride of your heart, but not so your arguments, which a child could refute. You mention that Jesus Himself never said that he was the Son of God, or, what is the same, that He was the true, eternal God; and yet it was for this confession that the High Priest, who, together with all the Jews, considered it blasphemy, condemned Him to death. You foolishly imagine that God created man for the pursuing of perfection, but not for perfection itself; consequently, God has created man in anger, and for eternal unhappiness, as He has given him a conception of something, and a craving after something to which in all eternity he can never attain. But no! it is not that which you call perfection, but it is the glorification of God which is the first, as it is the last end of all His works, and all His revelations; He is love, and whoever remains in the enjoyment of His love remains in God and God in him; this passage ought to have taught you that as God is one, so also He can have but one end, viz.: that His love, His praise, and His glorification shall constitute our present and future bliss, for He alone is all in all. But if the glorification of God shall at the same time constitute our happiness (for there can be but one end), then also must His love, His praise, and His glorification be our only and eternal concern, so that in it we shall find eternal joy, and the fulfilment of our wishes in all eternity. In order, however, that the bliss which God in His love has prepared for us, may become the sole object of our wishes, and in consequence our true happiness, you cannot but see, dear son, that our hearts must be entirely changed, and that we must return from multiformity to unity, and from love of the flesh and of self to the love of the one only loveable Being. Therefore, then, has God so first loved us, that He did not spare His son begotten of Himself, but gave him up a ransom for us—in order that when, through the power of His spirit, we have obtained faith in this, that the true God suffered death for us lost sinners, a new life may be generated in our dead bodies, a fire be kindled of grateful love, and entire devotion, and a zeal for the glorification of God which shall not be quenched through all eternity. Of this faith, as the source of love, and of the glorification of God, I wrote to you that it was the Godhead’s royal due, and that with full right, in order that not to the creature, even in the very smallest degree, but to God alone, be the honour of our happiness here, and our salvation hereafter. For therefore has He included everything in unbelief that He might have mercy on all. If then, my dear son, you be really earnestly anxious to possess this only saving faith, then seek it, pray for it on your knees to the great God and Creator, who as man bled for you on the cross; pray for it as for a gift that His mercy alone can bestow. But, if it be your own glory that you are seeking, if you disdain the God of your fathers, if you will go forth and serve strange gods, then make your own choice; but I and my house will serve the God who has ransomed us.
Alas! my heart trembles with a fearful foreboding that the affectionate warnings of your father, who is tenderly concerned in your well-being, that my experiences and even your own, will prove fruitless; for your letter shows how strong is the delusion under which you are labouring. Thou only, O my God and Saviour! canst open the eyes of this poor blinded child. Oh! have mercy upon him, for the sake of Thy own dear merits, and such share of them as Thou hast already vouchsafed to him, that this may not prove utterly vain, and that it may not witness against him on the day of judgment!
And now, O son, whom I press with tears to my sorrowful heart! with heartrending grief I discard thee, for discard thee I must, as thou no longer worshippest the God of thy fathers, as thou no longer kneelest at the same altar with him—yet, once more, my son, before we part—oh! tell me, what has the poor, meek, and humble-hearted Jesus done to thee, that thou renouncest his strength and his divine peace? Did you find no consolation when you laid before Him your need, the anguish of your heart? And now, in return for the divine long-suffering and patience with which He listened to you, you deny Him? You break the promise which you so often pronounced: with Thee Jesus I will abide? Why wouldst thou leave Him?—hast thou never received the word of life from Him?
But I must hasten to take leave of you. God only knows with what feelings. Alas! not with those tears of joy gushing from a melted heart, with which you, three years ago, took leave of the world, and dedicated yourself to the Lord and to his congregation. O my son! forget not those tears—nor the tears of thankfulness and joy, which flowed from the eyes of your faithful and loving mother at the thought of what the Lord was doing for you—nor the earnest prayers with which the congregation received you into its bosom—nor either the tears of bitter grief, which you are now pressing from your father’s eyes. Whithersoever you go, let them be ever before your memory. But if it be possible (and why should it not be, as to God nothing is impossible), then listen to the entreaties of your father who prays: Turn back, my son, turn back! Human virtue is not to be perfect, but to turn back speedily from the path of error. O Lord Jesus, Shepherd of the human race! bring back to Thyself Thy straying lamb! Do it for the glory of Thy own name! Amen!
I shall not as yet write to Halle, because I hope that the blessing of the Lord may attend my words and my prayers.
Should you write to your uncle—to do which I give you my permission in case your thoughts are not changed—then regard yourself as having taken leave of me and of the congregation; but longer than a year and a half, reckoning from Easter next, I cannot let you study; in that time you must make yourself efficient for some tutorship or other.
I can add no more except the assurance that with sorrowing and heavy heart, I remain your deeply compassionate and loving father.
The Son to the Father.
[XXX.] Barby, 12th February, 1787.
TENDERLY BELOVED AND BEST OF FATHERS,
By this time you will have received the distressing letter. Oh! how often I have wished that I had been less honest, and that I had not disclosed my thoughts to any one, or at least that I had not sent off the letter to you! I should then have spared my good father all the pain and troublous consequences of this matter, the end of which God only knows. But once it must have been done, and now I am glad that I took courage, because I have since then been informed that I cannot be allowed to remain here longer than Easter. Do not write to Herrnhut, dearest father; it would be lost trouble. A dissenter like myself cannot be tolerated here; they fear that I may impart to others the dangerous poison, and wherever I may be I can no longer be considered as a member of the Brotherhood.
I wish, dear father, that you were as convinced as I am, that, under the present circumstances, this step cannot be otherwise than beneficial to me. With my views regarding the doctrines and the constitution of the Brotherhood, I could not at all events have felt tranquil, cheerful, and happy here. I should not be able to get rid of my doubts did I remain here, whereas, while studying theology at Halle, this may very probably occur. To you it will perhaps appear unlikely that in the very midst of so many heterodox teachers I should change my views; but if I know myself, this is the likeliest way for me to become convinced of error. It is the insufficiency of the proofs given here in support of certain doctrines, as well as the fact that the opinions of dissenters are either passed over in silence or mentioned without any reference to the reasons on which they are grounded, and also the absence of every opportunity for investigating these subjects myself, together with my natural predilection for whatever is evidently suppressed, that is the cause of my having gradually attained the point where I now am. In Halle all this will cease. I shall be in a position to prove everything, while the attractive manner in which it may be presented, will have no effect on me, as I have accustomed myself to divest everything that I read or hear of every ornament, and then to ponder over it. But what is more, I shall have my uncle there, to whom I may freely open all my thoughts, and with whom I may converse about them. This I can do to no one here. The labourers refuse to enter upon any argument with me or to undertake to refute me, and with my friends I am strictly forbidden to speak upon the subject.
I hope, dear father, that you will consider these reasons valid, and that you will allow me to continue the study of theology, as in every case, if I do not change my opinions, I shall never accept any other than a scholastic appointment. What would be the result if I were to study medicine or law, which I dislike, and for which I feel myself quite unsuited? Even against my will my mind would constantly be drawn away from my professional studies, to ponder upon the subject so interesting to me. But how I am to manage to live in Halle is another question. My friend there has sent me the following list of the most necessary expenses:—Wood, annually, twelve florins; lodgings, with attendance, twenty-four florins: from these two items little or nothing can be struck off. Dinner, forty florins; but herein I shall be able to make a considerable reduction. Breakfast and supper, forty-eight florins; but as I never take coffee, and eat very little in the evening, I may be able to cut off at least the half of this. Hairdresser, eight florins; boot and clothes brushing, eight florins; laundress, eight florins; and in these calculations clothes, linen, fees to professors, and the necessary books, besides other miscellaneous expenses, are not included. The worst of all is, that I am very—very badly off for linen and clothes, that by Easter I shall have nothing left of my allowance here, and that I must, nevertheless, order several things, as I cannot possibly appear in Halle in the same trim as here.
And now, dearest father, be so kind as to inform me of your determination with as little delay as possible, that your poor dejected son may not be driven forth from here without knowing whither to turn his steps. You can hardly picture to yourself what I have suffered, as the labourers have intimated to me, that, under the circumstances, it was possible, and even probable, that you might throw me off entirely, and leave me to my fate, in which case they declared to me in advance, that I could reckon upon no pity, no mercy here, nor hope to be allowed to remain here. My blood boiled at hearing you judged so unjustly, so unkindly; but I suppressed my indignation. Oh! how many difficult and distressing scenes I shall still have to go through. I commend myself to Divine Providence, and to your prayers and your fatherly care, as
Your most dutiful Son, FRITZ.
[XXXI.] [No date.]
BEST, MOST BELOVED OF FATHERS,
Oh! could you picture to yourself the distressing, the miserable condition of your son! I was but too wretched beforehand, and now your letter has more than doubled my wretchedness. However, I recognise in it the tender heart of a father who still loves his apostate son and leaves no means untried to bring him back into the former path. But can there be anything more terrible to a son who so deeply loves and reveres his father, than such a position? Oh! how many bitter tears have flowed from my eyes! How many sleepless nights, how many joyless days, has the thought of your grief, which I feel as keenly as you do, cost me! It is torture to me to think that I am the cause of it, and yet that it is not in my power to relieve it. Oh, how often have I wished that I could still cling as trustingly and firmly to your faith as I used to do! For I did cling firmly to it. What I said I felt was not hypocrisy, I did really feel it; but it was only the natural effect of the novel circumstances amid which I was placed.
But, dearest father, I implore you, do not look at everything from the worst side; do not seek in my views everything exactly the reverse of what you think. You say that the glorification of God is the end of our being, and I say the perfection of the creature; is not this in the end the same thing? Is not the Creator more and more glorified the happier and the more perfect His creatures are? I also consider the glorification of God, the endeavour to become ever more pleasant in His sight, the first of duties; I also would regard myself as the most unfeeling, the most miserable of men, did I not feel the most sincere love and filial gratitude towards the all-good God, who, even in the midst of the painful circumstances that are now besetting me, lets me experience such far preponderating good. Why do you say, dearest father, that I no longer worship your God, but that I desire to serve stranger gods? Is it not one and the same God who has created you and me, and who sustains us, and whom we both reverence? Why can we no longer kneel before the same altar and pray to our common Father? Oh, woe is me! As what do you look upon your unhappy son? I entertain doubts regarding the doctrine of the Atonement and the divinity of Christ, and you speak as if I were denying God! And these doubts, moreover, are but the natural consequences of my position. How could I believe on mere assertion, that all the objections raised by our modern theologians, and supported by critical, exegetical, and philosophical reasons, were nought? How could I avoid reflecting on these matters, and, alas! how can I help that the result of my reflections has turned out so unhappily for myself! Is it, then, so very inconsistent to believe that doubts, which have been caused by the peculiarity of my position, would be likely to be dispersed by a change in this position?
O best of fathers, if you but knew how sincere I am herein! it is not love of the world that has inspired me with the wish to leave the congregation (which departure, were it even not my wish, has now, alas! become a melancholy necessity), but the conviction that were I to abide in it, I should never be able to get rid of my doubts. For I am debarred from the possibility of examining for myself in how far the objections of the innovators may or may not be well founded, as I am forbidden to read anything of the kind, and no one here will even refute my own objections. Your refutation of my doubts as to the divinity of Christ has not convinced me. Everything depends upon what was at that time understood by the words υἱὸς Θεοῦ. That unity with the Divine Being was not always meant, results clearly from the fact that the Apostles frequently used these words in reference to the Christians. That the High Priest declared it to be a blasphemous expression is no better proof, for he allowed himself to make use of the vilest means to bring an accusation against Christ.
Believe me, dearest father, removal into a freer sphere, where I shall be able to investigate all these questions thoroughly, will be the best, indeed the only means of reclaiming me. Let me take away the consolation with me, that I am still in possession of your paternal affection, and that you still entertain the hope that, although your son may never again return to the community of the Brethren (for I must confess that there is much in the doctrines and the constitution of the latter, which is not likely ever again to be approved of by me), he may, nevertheless, return to a firm faith in true Christianity; for I am quite conscious, that a sceptic can never enjoy that undisturbed tranquillity of soul which is the lot of a believing Christian.
Before I received your letter, I had already written to my uncle in Halle to make preliminary inquiries; and now that you know that it cannot be otherwise, I hope you will beg him to take me under his protection; and if he cannot afford me material aid, at least to assist me with advice. Allow me to kiss your hands respectfully, and once more to implore you earnestly and sorrowfully to continue your love to your afflicted son.
Stubenrauch to Schleiermacher.
[XXXII.] Halle, 17th February, 1787.
… . The painful anxiety which the contents of your last has caused me, equals the pleasure which I usually derive from your letters. Your open-hearted candour I entirely approve of; but as you foresaw many difficulties yourself, I cannot but wish that you had disclosed your state of mind to me before you communicated on the subject with your superiors in Barby. For in truth, now that your resolution is formed, I know not what to advise. I will, however, frankly state what I think about the matter.
As I was so entirely unprepared for the principal intelligence conveyed in your letter —for you had not in your former letters given expression to any divergence of opinion as to the chief doctrines of the Brethren—I must openly confess to you, that I cannot help suspecting that, perhaps, wounded sensibility has in some way or other induced you to take this sudden resolution. This does not, however, imply that I blame you or that I am displeased with you; for I must first know whether this sensibility is wrong or exaggerated, and whether the insult has been real or merely imaginary, &c. &c. You complain of doubts that assail you. If these doubts were the cause of the depression of spirits and indisposition under which you suffered last summer, and which I took for hypochondria, I must say I wish you had had confidence enough in me to make me acquainted with them at the time. If I be not mistaken, I have already expressed to you, in one of my letters, that there are certain theories, appertaining to theology and to philosophy, regarding which a general uniformity of opinion cannot be expected; and that we must be content if we come as near to truth as is necessary for our progress in well-doing, and for our inward tranquillity. Therefore, if the doctrine of the depravity of human nature as held in the congregation, seems to you exaggerated, I would beg you to reflect whether you will be likely to find any church or sect, the majority of the members of which think exactly like yourself on this and other points. I apprehend that you must already have met with great divergence of views on various points of this nature, in the theological works that you have read. However, if certain feelings, which you do not experience, be much insisted upon, you, no doubt, do much better to state this openly than to play the hypocrite. But, at the same time, I would beg you to examine without partiality, whether you have not previously had such feelings, sensations, or conceptions (for the exact term cannot matter), and whether you can with truth affirm that, what you then believed that you felt, was in reality a delusion. I almost fear that it may be your rapid progress in mathematics that has induced the doubts of which you complain, by leading you to expect the same unfailing certainty in regard to theological truth and doctrines as is obtained in regard to mathematical problems. At all events, I hope with you, that your doubts may ultimately be set at rest. But, whether it be absolutely necessary for this consummation, that you should withdraw from the congregation, that I must leave to your own further consideration. I can by no means give my advice for or against… . .
Should you persevere in your determination, you cannot, certainly, maintain yourself and attend the university for less than from 160 to 180 dollars a year. There are already so many candidates awaiting vacancies on the foundation for free boarding for members of the Reformed Church, that I hardly believe you could be admitted before the end of the year. And what would be your prospects as regards promotion? Under the circumstances, I know nothing better to advise than that you should devote yourself more especially to the scholastic or academic profession; otherwise, if I understand rightly the present state of our ecclesiastical affairs, you may remain a long time without preferment. Therefore, once more, I say reflect maturely, and let me soon know the result of your reflections.
[XXXIII.] Halle, 16th March, 1787.
MY VERY DEAR NEPHEW,
I need not, I am sure, expatiate upon the heartfelt pity that I feel for you in your present position; for that such would be my feelings, the whole character of my mind and opinions, such as they have been revealed to you in former letters, must have convinced you. That your dear good father would be much grieved I could easily conceive; but I did not anticipate that he would have added so much to your distress by his manner of looking upon the matter. I rejoice, however, that in spite of the severity of his letter, you do not misjudge his paternal love, and to this, indeed, you must attribute those expressions which are most calculated to increase your melancholy; for, being the first outburst of a disappointment that came upon him so unexpectedly, they bear the impress of his deepest distress; and at such a moment it is but natural that he should exaggerate every danger, and see nothing but misfortune. In a letter, which I have addressed to him, I have endeavoured to calm your dear good father, and have, more especially, tried to console him with the hope that, when more at peace, you may ultimately shake off your doubts… . .
In the meantime take courage, and seek, more especially, consolation in sincere, earnest, and humble prayer to God, imploring Him to guide you to the truth, and then you may be assured He will allow you to find it.
With your answer to my former letter I am quite satisfied. I think you were right in openly confessing the truth to your superior, and feel certain that had you availed yourself of subterfuges, you would not have been able to sustain them. That you have refrained from all proselytizing I fully believe; but I am surprised that they are not better prepared at Barby, and more especially in the seminary, to bear with gentleness with such honest doubters as may at times be found among the students, and to give them time and opportunities to recover from their errors, without forcing them directly to leave’ the Congregation.
As you write that you are coming here at Easter to continue your studies, I presume that you have commissioned some one to look out for lodgings for you. As yet, I have not written to your father about your stay here and its probable duration, because I did not wish him to think that I was writing at your instigation. As regards all arrangements concerning your future studies, we will settle these verbally; but my advice is still that you should specially devote yourself to scholastic studies, and as you are accustomed to read and to think for yourself, and have also, most likely, already acquired a good foundation in several sciences, I would further advise that you should only attend the most indispensable lectures, which limitation will be very necessary, even should you be enabled to remain here two years.
And now, once more, rely upon God, and upon your good conscience and faithful love of truth, and endeavour to master your distress. I sincerely hope that you may also soon receive a cheering letter from your dear father; this, I am sure, would be the best balm for your grief, and would contribute more than anything else to calm you.
The Father to the Son.
[XXXIV.] Anhalt, 19th March, 1787.
MY DEAR MUCH-TO-BE-PITIED SON!
Your last letter, which I received yesterday, I cannot at present fully answer; but I deplore your delusion, and pray to God that He will not deliver you over to yourself, but that He will show His divine mercy by soon guiding you back to the truth.
I shall write to your uncle to-day concerning you, and beg him, if possible, to admit you into his house, and to his table. If he will consent to this, you will have many reasons for congratulating yourself, and among other advantages, you will enjoy there an opportunity of practising the French language, which is now so indispensable. But even should you not be admitted into his house, I hope you will always honour and obey your deceased mother’s brother as a father.
You have not acted prudently in addressing yourself to the young W——; he is the son of a wealthy man, and cannot, therefore, serve you as a standard. When you write next, let me know exactly what amount of serviceable clothes, body-linen, and bed-linen you still have, and also what would be the cheapest means of conveyance for yourself and luggage to Halle, and what it will cost. That your teachers draw back from you in a certain measure, is not astonishing; it is their duty to take care that the one mangy sheep do not contaminate the whole flock. Should you feel a desire to spread your opinions, you may look upon this as a decided proof that pride, egotism, and intolerance have taken possession of you; but may God preserve you from this. You cannot say with the apostles: The love of Christ impels us. Therefore tremble and pray to God to give you light.
The conduct of young Mr. Von S——, in Halle, gives great satisfaction here; cultivate his acquaintance when you go thither, but with proper reserve, and with due consideration for his rank. Ah! my dear son, may God preserve you from pride; pray for this without ceasing; and be assured that your father who loves you so tenderly, can better than any one else warn you against the many dangerous rocks that beset your path; but in order to enable him to do so, you must open your whole heart to him. Continue to regard me, dear son, as your best earthly friend, and conceal nothing from me, in order that I may be able to advise and aid you.
When I shall be more at leisure than at present—I have to start to-morrow on a journey of ten days—I will answer you more fully. As soon as you have secured a lodging in Halle, you had better transport yourself and your things thither in the cheapest mode possible. I will take care that by Easter the necessary means for your support shall be in the hands of your uncle.
Answer my letter carefully, so as not to pass over anything; and may the Lord in His mercy never desert you, is the earnest prayer of your very affectionate father.
Stubenrauch to Schleiermacher.
[XXXV.] Halle, 30th March, 1787.
… . I have just received the enclosed from your father, and hasten to forward it to you. It is not, and indeed could not be, an answer to my letter. Your father wishes us to admit you into our house. With all my heart, if you can bear to be cramped, for we have very little spare room… . . The room destined for you is very small; but, perhaps, it may, nevertheless, please you; because you will be so close to your nearest relatives. I shall write to your dear father to-day, as his peace of mind seems to depend upon our being able to receive you. I will also write him, what I believe to be true, that you can nowhere live cheaper than here, and that I hope that everything will turn out well… . .
The Son to the Father.
[XXXVI.] Barby, 12th April, 1787.
MOST BELOVED FATHER,
You will easily understand what a consolation and a comfort your last letter has been to me. You still love your poor son so tenderly, you provide for him in such a fatherly manner, he is the subject of your prayers. Oh! that I could now already send you the joyful tidings of my conversion, instead of being obliged to refer you to the future, begging you not to give up all hope. God, who is the Father of all, will watch over and guard me, and will direct everything for the best. Be assured, best of fathers, that my heart shall always lay open before you; what can be more essential to me in my new and unknown career, than your fatherly advice, and the superintendence of my dear uncle, who will have opportunities of observing me close by, and who may thus be able to discover those defects in me which may escape my own notice. This is one reason why I am so pleased at the thought of living in his house. You have at once, dear father, put your finger on my most dangerous enemy—pride. Though I see how foolish it is to be proud of gifts which do not depend upon myself, and although I fully recognise that I have not turned these gifts to as much account as I might have done, there is, nevertheless, cause for me to watch myself narrowly in this respect.
Many kind remembrances to my dear mother, whom I heartily thank for her affectionate sympathy, while I regret that so melancholy an event has caused the first motherly tears that she has shed on my account to be tears of sorrow and not of joy… . .