Love covers a multitude of sins. For it does not discover the sins; but the fact that it does not discover what still must exist, insofar as they can be discovered, that is hiding them.

The concept “multiplicity” is in itself indefinite. Thus we speak about all the multiplicity of creation, yet this same word signifies something very different, depending on who is speaking. A man who has spent his entire life in an out-of-the-way place, and has therefore acquired little taste for studying nature: how little does he know, and yet he speaks about the multiplicity of creation! A naturalist, however, who has traveled around the world, who has been almost everywhere, both above and beneath the surface of the earth, who has seen the much that he has seen; who has by the use of the telescope sometimes discovered otherwise invisible stars, sometimes by the use of the microscope has discovered otherwise invisible insects: what an astonishing variety he knows, yet he uses the same word, “the multiplicity of creation.” And further; while the naturalist rejoices at what he succeeded in seeing, he readily admits that there is no limit to discoveries, since there is no limit to the invention of instruments used in making these discoveries. Consequently the multiplicity of creation, with new instruments constantly being invented, becomes greater and greater, and can always appear to increase—while it still, all things considered, is comprehended in the phrase, “multiplicity of creation.” The same holds true about the multitude of sins, in that the word may signify very different things, depending on who the speaker is.

Consequently one discovers that the multitude of sins is constantly increasing; that is, through their discovery, it constantly seems to be increasing, naturally also by the help of the discoveries one makes about how cunningly, how suspiciously one acts in order to make discoveries. He who makes no discoveries, consequently hides the multitude of sins, for to him the multitude is less.

But discovery is something praiseworthy, something admirable, even if this admiration is sometimes forced to bring the heterogeneous together in a strange way; for one admires the naturalist who discovers a bird, but one also admires the dog that discovered purple. Still, we shall let this pass for what it is worth, but it is certain that the world admires and praises discoveries. And on the other hand one who makes no discoveries, or as good as none, is rated very low. We readily say about someone, in order to brand as an eccentric one who is wrapped up in his own thoughts, “He really does not discover anything.” And if we wish to designate one as being especially limited and stupid, we say, “He will certainly never invent gunpowder I”’—which certainly is not necessary in our time, since it has already been invented; so it would be an even more questionable matter if someone in our time were to think that he was the one who invented it. Oh, but the fact of having made some discovery is so admired by the world that one cannot forget the enviable lot: of the one who discovered gunpowder! Of course it is easy to see that the lover who discovers nothing looks very mediocre in the eyes of the world. For even in regard to evil, in regard to sin and the multiplicity of sin, one discovers that there is the smooth, cunning, obtrusive, perhaps half-corrupt observer, who really can make discoveries: that is highly regarded in the world. Even the youth the very moment that he steps out into life (for he would certainly object to having the world call him a fool) is most willing to disclose how he knows and has discovered evil. Even a woman in her earliest youth (for she would then object to having the world call her a little goose, or a rustic innocent), will readily disclose that she is vain of being a judge of character, naturally in the direction of evil. Moreover, it is incredible how the world has changed in comparison with old times: then there were some few who knew themselves; now all men are judges of character. And this is the curious thing; if someone had discovered how fundamentally humane almost every man is, he would scarcely dare to make his discovery known for fear of being laughed at; perhaps he might even fear that the community would feel insulted at the idea. On the other hand, if someone pretends that he has discovered how fundamentally paltry every man is, how envious, how selfish, how faithless, what abominations can dwell secretly in even the purest, that is, in the one who is regarded by fools and geese and rustic innocents as the purest: then he knows vaingloriously that he is welcome, that the world is longing to hear the results of his observations, his research, his stories. Thus have sin and evil acquired a greater power over men than one ordinarily imagines: it is so silly to be good, so intellectually stupid to believe the good, so provincial to betray ignorance, or that one is not an initiate—an initiate into the most intimate mysteries of sin,

Here we see very clearly how evil and sin in a great measure are the consequence of a vainglorious comparison of one’s self with the world and with other men. For one can be quite certain that the same men, just because they vaingloriously fear the judgment of the world, strive in their intercourse with others to be agreeable and interesting by betraying a sophisticated knowledge of evil. One can be quite certain that those same men, when they are alone in quiet meditation, where they do not need to be ashamed of the good, hold a very different view. But in intercourse with others, in society, when one is with many or at least a few, and hence where the company affords a comparison, a comparison-relation, of which vanity cannot possibly remain unconscious: each one tempts the other to disclose what he has discovered.

Yet there are times when even the absolutely worldly-minded man makes an exception, sometimes judges a little more leniently the one who discovers nothing. Suppose that two shrewd men of affairs had some decision to make to which they did not wish to have witnesses, but they were unable to arrange it otherwise, so that their conference must take place in a room where a third party was present—and this third party, as they knew, was very much in love, happy in the first days of love: is it not true that one of the businessmen might say to the other, “Well, it doesn’t matter if he is present, he won’t hear anything”? They would say it with a smile, and by this smile they would pay tribute to their own astuteness; but they would still have a kind of respect for the lover who discovers nothing.

And now the lover! For whether the world laughs at him, whether it ridicules him, whether it pities him, or whatever the world says about him, it is certain that concerning the multitude of sins, he discovers nothing, not even this laughter, this ridicule, this pity; he discovers nothing, and he sees but very little. He discovers nothing; we here make a difference between discovering as a conscious act, as a deliberate attempt to find out something, and the involuntary seeing or hearing something. He discovers nothing. And yet, whether one laughs at him or not, whether or not one ridicules him: fundamentally one has an inward respect for him, because resting in, engrossed in his love he discovers nothing.

The lover discovers nothing, hence he conceals the multitude of sins which would be exposed through the discovery. The life of the lover is an expression of the apostolic precept of being a child in malice. That which the world really admires as shrewdness is an understanding of evil—wisdom is essentially the understanding of the good. The lover has no understanding of evil and does not wish to have; he is and remains, he wishes to be and to continue to be in this respect a child. Place a child in a den of thieves (but the child must not remain there so long that it becomes itself perverted), hence let it remain there only a very short time; then let it come home and tell of all its experiences: you will see that the child, who (like every child) is a good observer and has an excellent memory, will tell everything with the utmost detail, yet in such a way that in a sense the most important things are omitted, so that one who did not know that the child had been among bandits, would least suspect it from the child’s narrative. What is it then which the child omits? What is it that the child did not discover? It is the evil. And yet the child’s description of what it saw and heard is absolutely accurate. What is it then the child lacks? What is it that so frequently makes a child’s narration the most profound mockery of its elders? It is the sense of evil, and that the child lacks the sense of evil, so that the child finds no pleasure in wishing to understand it. Herein the lover resembles the child. But as a basis of all understanding there must first and foremost be an understanding between the one who will understand and the thing which shall be understood. Therefore, too, the understanding of evil (however much it wishes to delude itself and others into thinking that it can preserve its purity, that it has a pure understanding of evil) is still in understanding with the evil; if this understanding did not exist, if the intelligent man did not take pleasure in understanding it, then he would abominate the understanding of it, would prefer not to understand it. Even if this sense of evil indicates nothing else, it is still a dangerous curiosity about evil; or it is a cunning search for an excuse for its own fault in spreading evil by the aid of knowledge; or it is the false reckoning which exaggerates a man’s feeling of importance by the help of his knowledge about another man’s corruption.

But let one set a strict guard upon himself; for if out of curiosity one offers evil the little finger, it soon takes the whole hand. And it is most dangerous of all to have ready a stock of excuses; and to become better, or to seem to be better, through comparison with the badness of others, is to become better in a bad way. However, if even this understanding discovers the multitude of sins, what discoveries must not the even more confidential understanding, which is really in a covenant with evil, be able to make! As the jaundiced see everything as yellow, so such a man discovers, as he sinks deeper and deeper, an increasing manifold of sin about him. His eye is alert and trained, not for the understanding of truth, hence for untruth; consequently his sight is prejudiced more and more, so that increasingly defiled, he sees evil in everything, impurity even in what is purest—and this sight (O terrible thought!) is still to him a kind of consolation, for it is important to him to discover as boundless a multitude as possible. At last there are no limits to his discovery; for now he discovers sin even where he himself knows that there is none; he discovers it by the help of backbiting, slander, the fabrication of lies, in which he has trained himself so long that he at last believes it. Such a man has discovered the multitude of sins!

But the lover discovers nothing. There is something so infinitely solemn and yet also so childlike, something which recalls a childish game, when the lover by discovering nothing at all, hides the multitude of sins; something that recalls a childish game; for that is the way we play with a child. We play that we cannot see the child who is standing in front of us, or the child plays that it cannot see us, and this the child finds indescribably amusing. The childlikeness here is that the lover, as in the game, with his eyes wide open, cannot see what is happening just in front of him; the solemnity consists in the fact that it is the evil which he cannot see. We all know that orientals honor a demented person, but this lover, who is worthy of honor, is, as it were, a demented person. We all know that in the old times they made, and rightly, a great distinction between the two kinds of madness, one was a distressing sickness, and one bemoaned such a misfortune; the other was called a divine madness. If we may for once be excused for using the pagan word “divine”: it is a divine kind of madness, lovingly not to be able to see the evil which lies just in front of one. Truly, it is really necessary in these clever times, which have so much understanding of evil, that we should make some effort to learn to honor this madness; for unfortunately it is all too frequent in these times that such a lover, who has a great understanding of the good but does not wish to understand the evil, is looked upon as a madman.

Imagine, to mention the supreme example, imagine Christ at the moment when He was silent before the Counsel; imagine the infuriated mob, imagine the group of dignitaries—and then imagine how many a glance they directed towards Him, their eyes upon Him, only waiting for Him to look at them so that their glance might convey their mockery, their contempt, their pity, their insults, to the accused! But He discovered nothing; lovingly He concealed the multitude of their sins. Imagine how many an abusive epithet, how many insults, how many taunts were shouted at Him—and each participant was so terribly insistent that his voice should be heard, so that, above all, it might not seem that he had been so indescribably stupid as to have missed the opportunity, as not to have been there participating in common with everyone else, hence as the true instrument of public opinion, in insulting, in injuring, in mistreating an innocent man! But He discovered nothing; lovingly He hid the multitude of their sins—by discovering nothing.

And He is the pattern; the lover has learned from Him, when he discovers nothing and thereby hides the multitude of sins, when like a worthy disciple, “forsaken, hated, bearing his cross,” he walks between mockery and pity, between insults and lamentations, and yet lovingly discovers nothing—in truth more wonderful than when the three men walked unscathed in the fiery furnace. Still, ridicule and insults really do no harm, if the one insulted does not harm himself by discovering them, that is, by becoming resentful. For if he is resentful he discovers the multitude of sins. If you really wish to illustrate more clearly how the lover by discovering nothing hides the multitude of sins, then sometime do away with love. Imagine that the lover had a wife who loved him. Therefore, just because she loved him, she would discover how many sinned against him; she would, affronted, with resentment in her soul, discover every mocking glance; with bruised heart she would hear the insults—whereas he, the lover, would discover nothing. And when the lover, insofar as he could not avoid seeing and hearing some things, would still have the excuse ready for the aggressor, that he himself was at fault: then his wife would not be able to discover any fault in him, but only the more, how many had sinned against him. Do you see now, as you consider what his wife and with truth discovered, do you see how true it is that the lover who discovers nothing, hides a multitude of sins? Imagine this applied to all the relationships of life, and you will admit that the lover really hides a multitude of sins.

Love covers a multitude of sins; for what it cannot avoid seeing or hearing, it hides by keeping silent, by a lenient explanation, by forgiveness.

Through silence it hides the multitude of sins.

It is sometimes the case that two lovers wish to keep their relationship secret. Suppose now that at the moment they confessed their love for each other and promised each other secrecy, there happened quite accidentally to be a third party present, but this intruder was an honest and kindly man who could be relied on, and that he pledged them his silence: would not the love of the two be concealed and continue to be so? But this is the way the lover behaves when he inadvertently, quite accidentally, never because he has tried to, becomes cognizant of a man’s sin, of his fault, of how he had offended, or how he had been overtaken in a fault: the lover keeps silent, and hides a multitude of sins.

Say not that “the multitude of sins still remains equally great whether one keeps silent or tells about them, since the silence certainly does not take them away merely because no one mentions them’; rather answer the question: “Does not the one who discloses his neighbor’s faults and sins, increase the multitude of sins?” Even if it be true that the multitude of sins remains equally great whether I keep silent about them or not, when I keep silent, I am still doing my part to conceal them. And, furthermore, do we not say that rumor really increases them? We mean thereby that rumor makes the guilt greater than it actually is. Still, I am not thinking of this now. It is in quite a different sense that we may say that the rumor which tells of the neighbor’s fault, increases the multitude of sins. Let one not take too thoughtlessly the knowledge of a neighbor’s faults, as if it were quite proper if it was once decided that what was said was true. Truly not every witness as to what is true concerning a neighbor’s faults, is therefore without guilt; and just through being made a witness to a neighbor’s fault, one may easily himself become guilty. So rumor grows, or the one who tells of his neighbor’s fault, increases the multitude of sins. The fact that men through rumor, through village gossip, are accustomed inquisitively, frivolously, enviously, maliciously perhaps, to learn of their neighbor’s faults, that is debasing to men. It would certainly be desirable if men once more learned how to be silent. But if there must be talk, and consequently inquisitive and frivolous talk, then let it be about stuff and nonsense—the neighbor’s fault is and ought to be too serious a matter; inquisitively, frivolously, enviously, to talk about that is, therefore, a sign of depravity. But he who, by telling of his neighbor’s faults, helps to pervert men, he increases the multitude of sins. It is unfortunately only too certain that every man has a strong propensity for seeing his neighbor’s faults, and perhaps for making them even greater in telling about them. If there were nothing more to this (alas, but there is) than, to use the mildest expression possible, a kind of nervousness which makes one so weak in this temptation, in this excitement of being able to tell something bad about one’s neighbor, in securing to one’s self for a moment breathless attention by the help of such an interesting story! But that which is already pernicious enough as a nervous desire which cannot keep silent, is sometimes in a man a horrible, devilish passion developed on the most terrible scale. Is any robber, any thief, any bandit, in short, any criminal, at bottom so depraved as the man who has made it his task, his despicable occupation, on the greatest possible scale, more vociferously than any word of truth ever sounds, extending far over the whole land as anything profitable rarely does, intruding into every corner where the word of God scarcely enters, to proclaim his neighbor’s fault, his neighbor’s weaknesses, his neighbor’s sins; to obtrude on everyone, even the most unstable youth, this defiling knowledge—is there really any criminal so fundamentally depraved as such a man, even if it were so, even if the evil he told about were true! Even if it were so; but it is inconceivable that one who had the earnestness of eternity could be strict in verifying that the evil he described was unconditionally true, and so could be willing to sacrifice his life in this—abhorrent service of truth: the telling of evil. In our prayers to God we pray that God will not lead us into temptation; but if it should happen, and if it should happen that I fell into temptation—merciful God, yet one favor, that my sin and my guilt might be such as the world rightly regards as abominable and rebellious! The most terrible thing of all must still be to incarnate guilt, heaven-crying guilt, to incarnate guilt and again guilt and new guilt day in and day out—and simply not notice it, because one’s whole environment, because existence itself, had changed into an illusion, which confirmed one in thinking that it was nothing, that it not only was not guilt, but that it was almost meritorious!

Oh, there are criminals whom the world does not call criminals, whom it rewards and almost honors—and yet, yet would I rather, which God forbid! but I would rather enter into eternity with three repented-of murders on my conscience than as a worn-out slanderer with this horrible, interminable burden of offense, which had been accumulating year after year, which had been spreading itself to an almost inconceivable degree, which had laid men in the grave, embittered the most intimate relationships, injured the most innocent compassion, defiled youth, led astray and perverted both old and young, in short, extended itself on a scale which even the most vivid imagination can form no conception of—this horrible burden of offense, which I still had never found time to begin to repent of, because the time must be used in committing new offenses, and because the infinitude of the offenses had secured me wealth, influence, everything but esteem and, above all, an enjoyable life!

We still make a difference, with respect to incendiarism, whether the one who sets fire to a house, knows that it is occupied by a number of people or that it is vacant: but through scandal to set, as it were, a whole community on fire, that is not even regarded as a crime. We still quarantine against the plague—but that plague, which is worse than the oriental pestilence, the slander which perverts the soul and mind, that we open our house to, we pay money in order to be defiled, we greet as a welcome guest that which brings defilement!

Say, then, whether it is not true, that the lover by keeping silent about his neighbor’s faults hides a multitude of sins, when you consider how by telling them, one increases them.

By an extenuating explanation, the lover hides the multitude of sins. There is always an explination for something being what it is. The fact or the facts underlie the situation, but the explanation swings the balance. Every event, every word, every act, in short, everything, may be explained in many ways; as someone has falsely said that clothes make the man, so one can truly say that the explanation makes the object of the explanation into what it is. As regards another man’s words, deeds, modes of thought, and so on, there is no such certainty, so that to accept them really indicates choosing. The interpretation, the explanation is therefore, just because a different explanation is possible, a choice. But if there is a choice, then it constantly lies in my power, if I am the lover, to choose the more extenuating explanation. If, then, this milder or more extenuating explanation explains what others frivolously, overhastily, hardheartedly, enviously, maliciously, in short, unlovingly, as a matter of course, explain as guilt, if the extenuating explanation explains this in another way, then it takes away now one fault, now another, and thus makes the multitude of sins less, or conceals it.

Oh, if men would rightly understand what a beautiful use they could make of their imagination, their acuteness, their ingenuity, their ability to co-ordinate, by using it in every possible way to discover an extenuating explanation: then would they increasingly taste one of the most beautiful joys in life; it could become to them a passionate pleasure and need, which would cause them to forget everything else.

Do we not see this in other relationships, how, to mention this one instance, the hunter with every year becomes more and more passionately devoted to the chase? We do not commend his choice, but we are not speaking about that; we are speaking only about how with every passing year, he devotes himself more and more passionately to this occupation And why does he do this? Because with every year his experience increases, he becomes more and more resourceful, he overcomes more and more difficulties, so he, the old, experienced hunter, now knows trails no one else knows, knows how to track the game where no one else is able to, now has signs that no one else understands how to make use of, now has discovered a more ingenious method of setting traps, so that he is fairly certain of always succeeding in having a good hunt, even when everyone else is unsuccessful.

We regard it as a burdensome, but yet in another respect, a satisfying and fascinating occupation to be the servants of justice who track down guilt and crime. We are astonished at such knowledge of the human heart, at their knowledge of all, even the most sophistical excuses and inventions, how they can remember from year to year, all, even the most trivial circumstances, just in order, if possible, to secure a clue; at how, if they only glance at the circumstances, they can, as it were, adjure them so they will provide the proof against the guilty; how nothing is too humble to attract their attention, insofar as it might contribute to enlightening their understanding of crime. We admire him when such an officer of justice, by bearing with what he calls a really hardened and thoroughgoing hypocrite, at last succeeds in wresting away his disguise and making his guilt evident. Ought it not to be just as satisfying, just as fascinating, by bearing with what one calls an occasional unseemly conduct, to discover that it was really something quite different, something well-intentioned! Let the judge be appointed by the state, let the officers of justice work to discover guilt and crime: the rest of us are neither called on to be the judge nor the officer of justice, but, on the contrary, we are called by God to love, hence by the help of the extenuating explanation, to cover the multitude of sins. Imagine such a lover, equipped by nature with the most glorious capacities, which every judge must envy him, but all these capacities employed with a zeal and an endeavor which would do honor to a judge, in the service of love, in order to train himself in the art, in order to practice the art, the art of interpretation, which by the help of an extenuating explanation, conceals the multitude of sins! Imagine his rich, his blessed experience, considered in its noblest sense; what a knowledge he has of the human heart; how many noteworthy and touching incidents he has seen, in which, no matter how complicated they seemed, he still succeeded in discovering the good, or even the better, because he had for a long, long time held his judgment in suspense, until quite definitely a little circumstance came to light which led him to a clue; how by swiftly and boldly centering his whole attention on a quite different aspect of the matter, he had had the good fortune to discover what he was looking for; how by thoroughly exploring the man’s life-relationships, by obtaining the most meticulous enlightenment about his condition, he finally triumphed in his explanation! Hence, he “came upon the trail,” “he had the good fortune to find what he sought,” “he triumphed in his explanation”—alas, is it not strange that whenever these words are read outside of their context, almost every man involuntarily connects them with the uncovering of a crime: we are all so much more apt to think about discovering evil than about discovering good. So the state appoints the judges and the civil officers for the purpose of discovering and punishing the evil. As to the rest, we form associations for the praiseworthy purpose of relieving the poor, educating the orphans and lifting up the fallen: but, in addition to these worthy undertakings, to get by means of the extenuating explanation only a little power, even if it were very little, over the multitude of sins—for this purpose no association has been created!

However, how the lover by means of the extenuating explanation hides the multitude of sins, we do not care to pursue further at this time, since in the two preceding reflections we have considered that love believes all things and hopes all things. But lovingly to believe all things and lovingly to hope all things are the two principal expedients which love, that lenient interpreter, uses for the extenuating explanation which hides a multitude of sins.

Through forgiveness love covers a multitude of sins.

Silence really takes nothing away from the multitude of notorious sins. The extenuating explanation takes away some from the multitude by showing that this or that was not really sin; forgiveness takes away that which still cannot be denied as being sin. So love strives in every way to hide the multitude of sins; but forgiveness is the most outstanding way.

In one of the preceding pages we were reminded of the expression “multiplicity of creation”; let us again employ it for the purpose of illustration. When we say that the investigator discovers a multitude of things, while in comparison with him, the ignorant, who also speak about the multiplicity of creation, certainly know very little: then, consequently, the ignorant do not know that this and that exists, but it exists for all that; it is not taken away by nature because of their ignorance; it is only that in their ignorance it does not exist for them. It is different concerning the relation of forgiveness of sins to the multitude of sins; forgiveness takes the forgiven sins away.

This is a wonderful thought, hence also the thought of faith; for faith always lays hold on that which is not seen. I believe that the visible has come into existence from that which is not seen; I see the world, but the invisible I do not see, I believe it. So there is also in “forgiveness—and sin” a relation of faith, which one more rarely notices. What here is the invisible? The invisible is, that forgiveness takes away that which still exists; the invisible is, that that which is seen, yet still is not seen; for when it is seen it is evidently invisible so that it is not seen. The lover sees the sin he forgives, but he believes that forgiveness takes it away. This cannot be seen, since the sin can be seen; and, on the other hand, if the sin could not be seen, then neither could it be forgiven. As one, therefore, through faith believes the invisible in the visible, so the lover through forgiveness believes the visible away. Both premises are true. Blessed the believer, he believes what he cannot see; blessed the lover, he believes that away which he still can see.

Who can believe this? The lover. But why is forgiveness so rare? Is it not because faith in the power of forgiveness is so little and so rare? Even a better man, who is by no means inclined to bear malice or spite, and far from being unforgiving, is often heard to say: “I could readily forgive him, but I don’t see how that can help.” Oh, it is not seen! Still, if you have ever yourself needed forgiveness, then you know what forgiveness can do: why do you speak with so little experience or with such unkindness about forgiveness? For there is something really unkind in saying: “I do not see how my forgiveness can help him.” We are not saying that as if a man should become self-important through having it in his power to be able to forgive another man, far from it. This would also be unkindness; truly there is a way to forgive which perceptibly increases the guilt instead of diminishing it. Only love has—I know it seems like jesting, but let us speak thus, only love is resourceful enough through its forgiveness to take the sin away. When I am oppressed by the thought of forgiveness (the fact that I.am slow to forgive, or that being able to forgive makes me feel self-important), then no miracle takes place. But when love forgives, the miracle of faith takes place (and since every miracle is one of faith, what wonder, therefore, that along with faith miracles, too, are abolished!): so that which is seen, yet through being forgiven, is not seen.

It is erased, it is forgiven and forgotten, or, as the Scriptures say about what God forgives, it is hidden behind His back. But that which is forgotten, one is not ignorant of, for one is ignorant only of that which one does not know and never has known; what one has forgotten that one has known. Forgetting is in this highest sense the opposite not of remembering but of hoping; for hoping is in reflection to give existence; forgetting is in reflection to take existence from that which still exists, to erase it. The Scriptures teach that faith lays hold on things not seen, but they also say that faith is the substance of things hoped for: which means that that which is hoped for is, as it were, the unseen, that which does not exist, that to which, on the contrary, hope through reflection gives existence. Forgetting, when God does it in relation to sin, is the opposite of creating; for creating is bringing forth from nothing; forgetting is resolving back into nothing. What is hidden from my eyes, that I have never seen; but what is hidden behind my back, that I have seen. And just in this way does the lover forgive: he forgives, he forgets, he erases the sin; affectionately he turns toward the one he forgives; but when he turns toward him he cannot see what is lying behind his back. That it is impossible to see what lies behind one’s back is easy to understand, as also that this expression is also rightly the invention of love; but, on the other hand, it is perhaps then difficult to become the lover who by the aid of forgiveness puts the other’s fault behind his own back. It is generally easy for men to place the guilt, even of a murder, upon another man’s conscience; but by the aid of forgiyeness to put his guilt behind his own back, that is difficult. However, not for the lover; for he hides the multitude of sins.

Do not say, “The multitude of sins remains equally great, whether the sin is forgiven or not, since forgiveness neither takes from nor adds to.” Rather answer the question: “Does not the one who unlovingly refuses his forgiveness increase the multitude of sins, not only by the fact that this, his unforgivingness, becomes one sin more, which nevertheless is true and ought then to be taken into account?” Still, we shall not emphasize this at this time But is there not a secret relationship between sin and forgiveness? When a sin is not forgiven, it demands punishment; it cries to men or to God for punishment; but when a sin cries for punishment, then it looks quite different, far greater than when the same sin is forgiven. Is this only an optical illusion? No, it is actually so. It is, to use a rather imperfect figure, not an optical illusion that a sore which has looked dreadful, after the doctor has drained and treated it, looks far less dreadful, although it is, nevertheless, the same sore. What does the one who refuses forgiveness do? He increases the sin, he makes it seem greater. And next, forgiveness takes the life from the sin; but denying forgiveness nourishes the sin. Therefore, even if no new sin appears, if the same old sin still persists, the multitude of sins is really increased. When a sin persists, a new sin really comes, for sin increases through sin; the fact that sin persists is really a new sin. And this new sin you might have prevented by lovingly forgiving, by taking away the old sin, as the lover does who hides a multitude of sins.

Love covers a multitude of sins; for love prevents the sin from coming into existence, strangles it at birth.

Even though with respect to one or another undertaking, a work one wishes to accomplish, one has everything in readiness: one must still wait for one thing, the occasion. So, too, with sin; when it is in a man, it waits for an occasion to manifest itself.

The occasions can be very diversified. The Scripture says that sin takes occasion by the commandment or by the prohibition. Just the fact that something is commanded or prohibited becomes then the occasion; not as if the occasion brought forth sin, for the occasion never produces anything. The occasion is like a middleman, a broker, only helpful in the turnover; it occasions only that which has already been brought about, that which in another sense already existed, namely, as possibility. The commandment, the prohibition tempts, just because it wishes to constrain the evil, and now if sin takes occasion it takes it, because the prohibition is the occasion. Thus the occasion is, as it were, nothing, a swift something which walks between the sin and the prohibition; in a certain sense it belongs to both, while in another sense, it is as if it did not exist, although, however, again nothing, which is actually existent, came into existence without an occasion.

The commandment, the prohibition is the occasion. In an even more distressing sense, sin in others is the occasion which produces sin in everyone who comes in contact with it. Oh, how often has not an unconsidered, a thoughtless, casually dropped word, been sufficient to furnish an occasion for sin! How frequently has not a frivolous glance caused the multitude of sins to become greater! To say nothing of when a man lives under daily circumstances where he sees and hears nothing but sin and ungodliness: what a rich occasion for the sin in him, how easy the transposition between this, giving occasion and taking occasion! When the sin in a man is encompassed by sin, is it not as if it were in its own element? Nourished by the perpetual occasion, it thrives and grows (if one may be allowed to speak of thriving in connection with evil); it becomes more and more malignant; it takes on a more and more definite form (if one may speak about gaining form in connection with evil, since evil is a lie and a deception, hence without form). It consolidates itself more and more, even though its life is hovering over the abyss, hence without a foothold.

Still, everything which is occasion contributes, insofar as the occasion to sin is taken advantage of, to increase the multitude of sins.

But there is one environment which absolutely does not give and is not an occasion for sin: that is love. When a man’s sin is encompassed by love, then it is outside its own element; it is like a beleaguered city whose every connection with its own people is cut off; it is like a man who has been addicted to drink; when placed upon a scanty ration he loses his strength, vainly waiting an occasion to become intoxicated. It is certainly true, it is possible (for what cannot a depraved man divert to his own depravity!), that sin can make love the occasion for resentment, can rage against it. However, sin cannot in the long run hold out with love; such advantage as it has is generally at the beginning; just as when the drunkard in the first days, before the medical treatment has had the necessary time to make its effects felt, rages with the strength of his infirmity. And next, if there were really a man such that even love—must give up, no, love never does that, but a man who, continually without love, took occasion to sin: just because there is one incorrigible, it does not necessarily follow that there are not many who are healed. So it continues to be exactly and absolutely true that love does cover a multitude of sins.

Oh, the magistrate must often devise very ingenious means to hold a criminal prisoner, and a physician often employs great ingenuity in formulating coercive methods for restraining a demented person: in connection with sin there is no environment so coercive, but also no coercive environment so saving, as love. How often was not the wrath that smoldered within a man only awaiting an occasion; how often was it not stifled because love gave it no occasion! How often did not the evil passion which in the sensual apprehension of curiosity sat on the lookout, spying for an occasion, perish; how often did it not perish at birth because love gave it no occasion, and lovingly watched to see that no occasion should be given! How often did it not free its soul from that resentment, which was so assured of and so prepared, moreover so set upon being able to find ever new occasions to be resentful of the world, of God, of everything; how often did it not find alleviation in a milder mood because love gave no occasion at all for resentment! How often this conceited and defiant mood, which, believing itself injured and misunderstood, therefore took occasion to become even more conceited, desired only a new occasion to prove that it was right, melted away; how often it again died down, because love so soothing, so mildly discutient, simply gave no occasion to the sick conceit! How often did it not go back to what it had contemplated, just to see if it might not succeed in finding an occasion which would justify it, and how often it returned, because love simply gave no occasion for finding an excuse—for the evil! Oh, how many crimes have not been prevented, how many evil purposes defeated, how many desperate resolutions consigned to oblivion, how many sinful thoughts halted on the way to becoming deeds, how many rash words repressed in time, because love gave no occasion! Woe to the man by whom the offense cometh; blessed the lover who by refusing to furnish the occasion covers a multitude of sins!

---

← Volume II. IV. Love Seeketh Not Its Own · Contents · Volume II. VI. Love Abideth →