Take the story about the woman who laid the two pennies in the Temple chest, but let us make a little poetic change in the story. The two pennies were to her a great sum, which she had not accumulated all at once. She had saved for a long time in order to get them together; and for that she had treasured them wrapped up in a little cloth, in which to carry them when she went up to the Temple. However, a thief had noticed that she had these pennies, had stolen them from her, and had left a similar cloth in place of hers, which contained nothing —something the widow did not know. Hence she went up to the Temple, carrying, as she supposed, the two pennies, that is, nothing to the Temple chest: I wonder if Christ would still not have said what He did say of her, that “she gave more than all the rich”!
Still, mercy without money, what significance has it? Furthermore, the worldly arrogance of charity and benevolence finally goes.so far as to laugh at a mercy which has nothing! For it is already bad and revolting enough, this mercilessness of the earthly existence, that when the poor gives his last shilling, and then the rich comes and gives a hundred dollars, that then all see the hundred dollars, that is, that the rich by his gifts entirely obscures the gift of the poor—his mercy. But what madness, if what Christ says is still true, that the poor gave the most, what madness: that the one who gives less (the rich—and the great sum) obscures the one who gives more (the poor—and the small portion), moreover, even obscures the one who gives most! However, of course, the world does not say that; it says that the rich gave most, and why does the world say this? Because the world understands only about money—and Christ only about mercy. And just because Christ understood only about mercy, that is why He was so particular about the fact that the widow gave only two pennies; and just for this reason He would say that not even so much was needed, or that she might have given less, and even in giving the less have given more. Wonderful arithmetic! Or rather a wonderful kind of reckoning, not to be found in any arithmetic! He uses a remarkable expression about this widow, “that she gave of her poverty.” But the magnitude of the gift increases in proportion to the extent of the poverty, hence, contrary to what the world believes (that the magnitude of the gift is in proportion to the wealth), so the one who is even poorer than that widow, by giving one penny out of his poverty, gives even more than that widow, who still in comparison with all the rich gave most.
To the world this may seem the most tiresome kind of reckoning, where one penny can become so significant, can become the most significant gift. The world and the world’s charity would prefer to deal with great amounts, so great that they are astonishing; and one penny certainly does not astonish——just as little as mercy is one of the shining virtues. Eternally understood, however, this kind of reckoning is the only true one, and it is learned only from eternity, and by abandoning worldly and temporal illusions. For eternity has the keenest eye for and the most completely developed sense of mercy, but no sense at all of money, as little as eternity is in financial embarrassment, or has, according to the Word, the least use for money. Really this is something both to laugh at and to weep over! It would undeniably be an excellent invention on the part of laughter to imagine eternity in financial embarrassment: oh, but let us then weep a little over the fact that the temporal existence has so completely forgotten eternity, and forgotten that, eternally, money is less than nothing! Alas, many believe that the eternal is a delusion, money the actuality: whereas money is, in the understanding of eternity and truth, a delusion! Imagine eternity as you will; confess only that from what you have seen of the temporal existence, there is much of it that you would like to find again in eternity, that you would wish to see again the trees and flowers and stars, to hear again the song of birds and the rippling of brooks. But could it occur to you that there should be money in eternity? No, for then the kingdom of heaven itself would become a land of wretchedness; and therefore this cannot possibly occur to you, just as it cannot possibly occur to the one who believes that money is the actual, that there is an eternity. There is nothing of all you see that you can be so certain will never enter into heaven as: money. And on the contrary, there is nothing which is so certain of heaven as mercy. So you see that mercy infinitely has no relation to money. Yet money, money, money! That foreign prince may have said, when he turned his back on mighty Rome, “Here lies a city which is for sale, and only waits a buyer”: oh, how often has one not been tempted by despondency to turn his back on existence, with these words: “Here lies a world which is for sale, and only waits a buyer’’—insofar as one is not ready to say that the devil has already purchased it! What is the earnestness of life? If you have in truth propounded this earnest question to yourself, then remember how you answered it; or let me remind you of how you answered it. Earnestness is a man’s God-relationship. Everywhere where the thought of God is present in what a man does, thinks and says, there is earnestness, in that is there earnestness. But money is the world’s god; therefore it thinks that everything that has to do with money, or has some relation to money, is earnestness. Look at that noble, simple wise man of old; he would not take money for his instruction; and the apostle Paul preferred to work with his own hands rather than defile the Gospel and degrade his apostolic mission and falsify the proclamation of the Gospel, by taking money for it. How does the world judge about such things? However, let us not foolishly ask what the judgment of the world is about that noble, simple man and about the holy apostle, for now the world has learned to pronounce by rote a panegyric upon them. But if a single contemporary in this age were to do at this moment as those two did, how would his contemporaries judge him? They would judge that he was an eccentric, that he was visionary; they would judge that such a man lacks earnestness.” For to make money, that is earnestness; to make much money, even if it was by selling men, that is earnestness; to make much money by contemptible slander, that is earnestness. To proclaim some truth—if one also earns much money in so doing (for the fact of its being true is not taken into consideration, but only the fact that one makes money), that is earnestness. Money, money, that is earnestness.
Thus we are trained from our earliest childhood, disciplined in the ungodly worship of money. Let me cite an example, the first that offers among thousands and thousands—for there are not more herring ahead of the boat that works its way through a shoal of herring, than there are actual examples of training in the worship of money. Imagine, then, a household where the head of the family has issued orders that the next day (which consequently is Sunday) they must all go to church together. But what happens? Sunday morning when it is time to go, the girls are found not to have finished dressing. Then what does the father say, the—earnest father, who earnestly trains his children to worship money? Yes, he naturally says nothing, or as good as nothing, for here there is no occasion for a warning or a reprimand; he says, to be sure, “If the girls are not ready, they will have to stay at home, that is all there is to it.” But imagine, just imagine, how terrible it would have been, if it had been the theater, and the girls had not been ready at the proper time. Imagine then how this—earnest father would have taken on, and why? Because they had wasted so much moneywhile, on the contrary, by remaining home one Sunday, they had even saved the collection money. Now, however, the girls will get a severeearnest, fatherly reprimand; now it is a great fault, a great sin, not to have been ready—and therefore that earnest father who brings up his children with earnestness, must not allow a second offense to go unpunished. For the fact that it is disobedience on the part of the girls, is the least of it—in that case the fault would be just as great on Sundays; no, the serious thing was that the money was wasted. Lo, one is called to be a father, one is expected to have a fatherly dignity and to make a responsible use of this dignity; he is expected to educate his children. Now this may be educating, but one does not train human beings in this manner, but only fools and monsters!
But if a man has this conception about money, what conception can he have about the mercy which has no money? Such a mercy must be regarded as a kind of madness, an illusion. Yet then, too, must eternity and Christianity be regarded as a kind of madness, an illusion. A pagan emperor may have said that one should not smell of money. On the contrary, Christianity teaches how rightly to smell of money. It teaches that money as such smells bad. Therefore is some powerful perfume needed to drive out the stench. Have mercy: let it be present in giving money; without it money has a bad odor. Lo, even a beggar can say this, and he ought to become just as immortal by his expression as that emperor—and capitalist. Mercy is the most powerful perfume. If prayer is the offering of the lips and acceptable to God, then mercy is truly the offering of the heart, and is, as the Scriptures say, a sweet savor in God’s nostrils. Oh, never forget in your thoughts about God, that He has not the slightest understanding of money!
My hearer, if you were a speaker, which task would you choose: the one of speaking to the rich about practicing charity, or the one of speaking to the poor about being merciful? I certainly know which I would choose, or rather which I would have chosen—if only I were a speaker. Oh, there is something so indescribably conciliatory in speaking to the poor about practicing mercy! Oh, how necessary it is, if not for the sake of the poor, then for your own sake, something you can readily verify. For if you only try it, you will see that your ideas about it will constantly reverse themselves, as if it would do no good to speak to the poor about mercy, since they have nothing to give, and therefore one ought to speak to the rich about mercy to the poor. Thus if the poor is indigent in his poverty, and then the world rejects his idea that he might be able to practice mercy, so he is pointed out, abandoned, as a pitiful object of charity, who at most can bow in humble gratitude —while the rich are so kind in practicing mercy! Merciful God, how unmerciful!
So the speech is addressed to you, the poor and the wretched! Oh, be merciful! Preserve that heart in your bosom which in spite of poverty and wretchedness, still has sympathy for the wretchedness of others; that heart which before God has confidence to know that one can be merciful, moreover, that one can be merciful to the highest degree, in a remarkable and superior sense, even though one has nothing to give.
“Oh, be merciful I” See, here it is again, and who does not immediately and involuntarily think of the poor, of the cry of the beggars to the rich, “Be merciful” P—however incorrect this expression is, since it is charity which is asked for. And therefore we speak correctly, we who say to the poor, to the poorest of all: “Oh, be merciful!” Finally let not this envious pettiness of earthly existence so corrupt you as to make you forget that you can be merciful; so corrupt you that a false bashfulness stifles the best in you! A false bashfulness—yes, for until the true comes, oh, that it might always come, but in any case, it ought to come with money; if you get money, and then consequently can give, then, not till then, have you anything to be ashamed of. Be merciful, be merciful toward the rich! Remember, you have mercy in your power, while he has money! Do not misuse this power; do not be so unmerciful as to cry to heaven for punishment upon his lack of mercy! Moreover, we know well how little the world cares about the sigh of the poor to God when it accuses the rich, and yet this air-borne sigh, this ignored word, is the most important of all: but yet, yet, although not unacquainted with the loud scream—I blow all that away, if only no poor man may with justice accuse me in secret before God. Oh, be merciful! If the rich man is stingy and close, or, even if he is not stingy about money, is yet taciturn and repellent: then do you be rich in mercy and compassion. For compassion works wonders; it makes the two pennies into a great sum when the poor widow gives them; it makes the sparse gift into a greater amount, when the poor mercifully does not reproach the rich; it makes the churlish giver less guilty, when the poor mercifully conceal it. Oh, how many has not money made unmerciful! Shall money also have the power to make those unmerciful who have no money? Then the power of money has completely triumphed. But if the power of money has completely triumphed, then, too, is mercy absolutely abolished.
Mercy is able to do nothing. The sacred stories have among other things this remarkable quality that in all their simplicity, they still always get everything said that should be said. Such is also the case in the Gospel about the rich and the poor man. Neither the misery of Lazarus nor the luxury of the rich is minutely painted and described; yet there is one detail added that is well worth our attention. It is said that Lazarus was laid at the rich man’s door full of sores, but the dogs came and licked his sores. What is it that the rich man represents? Merciless-ness, or more exactly, inhuman mercilessness. In order to illustrate the lack of mercy, we may place a merciful man by his side. This is what was done in the story of the good Samaritan, who by contrast throws light upon the Levite and the priest. But the rich man was cruel; therefore the evangelist uses dogs for illustration. What a contrast! We shall not exaggerate and say that a dog can be merciful; but in contrast to the rich man, it is as if the dogs were merciful. And this is the horrifying thing, that when the rich man had refused mercy, then the dogs had to be merciful. But there is something else to be found in this comparison between the rich man and the dogs. The rich man certainly had it in his power to do something for Lazarus. The dogs could do nothing; and yet it seems as if the dogs were compassionate.
Notice, that this is just what we are speaking about in this meditation. It naturally follows that if the compassionate can do anything, then he is only too glad to. But it is not upon this that we shall focus our attention; on the contrary, it must be focused on the fact that one can be compassionate without being able to do the least thing. And this is of great importance, since the fact of being able to be compassionate is a far greater perfection than being able to do something.
Suppose it had not been one man traveling from Jericho to Jerusalem, but two, and that they were both attacked by robbers, disabled, and that no traveler came by—suppose then, that the one of them could do nothing but groan, while the other forgot and overcame his own suffering in order to speak soothing and friendly words, or, in what involved great pain, he dragged himself to a little water in order to fetch the other a refreshing drink. Or suppose they had both been deprived of speech, but one of them in his silent prayer sighed to God for the other one, too: would he not then have been compassionate? If someone has cut my hands off, I cannot play the zither, and if someone has cut my leg off, then I cannot dance; and if I lie crippled on the shore, then I cannot throw myself into the sea to save another man’s life; and if I myself lie with a broken arm or leg, then I cannot rush into the flames to save another’s life: but I can be compassionate everywhere.
I have often thought about how an artist might represent compassion, but I am satisfied that it cannot be done. As soon as an artist has done it, it becomes doubtful whether what he has represented is compassion or something else. Compassion is certainly shown when the poor gives the half-shilling and yet all that he owns, when the helpless can do nothing and yet is compassionate. But the artist would prefer to portray the gift, consequently the charity, and would rather portray that which looks best painted, the great achievement. Try to paint this: a poor woman, who gives the other person the only bread she has—and you will certainly find that you cannot portray the most important thing; you can express that it is one loaf, but not that it is the only one she owns. The Danish people are familiar with the dangers of the sea. There is a picture which represents a brave sailor who was responsible for the pilot boat’s so frequently having saved human lives. His picture is shown, and below at one side a wreck, and on the other side a pilot boat. You see this can be painted. And it is glorious to steer like an angel of salvation, through the breakers, and to do it bravely, courageously, and, if you like, compassionately. Oh, but have you never seen, have you never imagined the wretchedness of those who, perhaps from childhood or from later in life, have been so unhappily scolded, so ill-treated, that they are not able to do anything, anything at all, are perhaps scarcely able to express their sympathy in clear words: shall we now be unmerciful enough to add this new cruelty to all their misery, to deny them the power of compassion—because it certainly cannot be represented, since such a subject cannot be portrayed except as an object of compassion! And yet it is certain that the compassion of such people is the most beautiful and the truest, and is worth more because they have not been so dulled by their own suffering that they have lost sympathy with others.
Imagine a widow in her poverty; she has but one daughter, but nature has been a stepmother to this daughter, has denied her almost every gift that might make her a comfort to the mother—imagine that this unfortunate girl, who groans under the heavy burden, yet in proportion to the tiny ability granted her is inexhaustible in devising ways to do the little, the nothing, she can do to ease her mother’s life. Lo, this is compassion! No rich man would squander a thousand dollars to have an artist paint it, for it cannot be painted. But every time the distinguished benefactor, who assists the mother, comes to them, the poor girl stands embarrassed; for “he” can do so much—his compassion obscures that of the girl! Oh, well, that is the way it looks in the eyes of the world, perhaps, too, in the eyes of a painter and a connoisseur.
So the speech is addressed to you, you wretched one, who can do simply nothing: do not forget to be compassionate! Be merciful; this consolation, that you can be compassionate, to say nothing of the fact that you are compassionate, is far greater than if I could guarantee that the most powerful will show you compassion. Be merciful toward us more fortunate ones! Your sorrow-filled life is like a dangerous indictment of the loving Providence; you have it in your power, therefore, to frighten the rest of us; be merciful! Truly, how much compassion from such an unfortunate one do not the mighty and the happy certainly need! Which is more compassionate, capably to relieve the needs of others, or by suffering quietly and patiently, mercifully to take pains not to disturb the joy and happiness of others? Which of these two loves more: the happy who sympathizes with another’s suffering, or the unhappy who truly sympathizes with others’ joy and happiness? “But the principal consideration is still the fact that the needy must be helped in every way, and that everything possible must be done to relieve the needy.” So speaks the well-intentioned temporal existence, and it can never speak otherwise. On the contrary, eternity says: there is only one danger, the danger that no compassion is shown; even if all necessity were relieved, it is not therefore decided that it is done through compassion, and if this were not the case, then would the wretchedness arising from the fact that it was done without compassion, be greater than that from any temporal need.
The principal trouble is that the world does not understand eternity. Temporal existence has a temporal, and insofar a hasty conception of the need, and also a sensual conception about the greatness of the gift, and about being able to do something to relieve the need. “The poor, the wretched man might die—consequently it is of the utmost importance that he should be helped.” No, answers eternity, the most important thing is that compassion be shown him, or that the assistance is the assistance of compassion. “Raise money, build us hospitals, that is of the utmost importance!” No, says eternity, the most important thing is compassion. That a man dies is, eternally understood, no misfortune, but it is unfortunate if no compassion is shown. There also hangs, remarkably enough, beneath that picture which represents a wreck on one side and a pilot boat on the other, there hangs the picture: “Poverty—and Violent Death; Prosperity—and Natural Death,” hence death on both sides. And eternity holds it unshakably true that compassion is the more important. No thinker can be so persistent in this thought as eternity is; no thinker is so calm, so undisturbed by momentary appearances and momentary dangers as eternity, which seems to emphasize that it is still more important that help be afforded in every possible way; no thinker is so calm, so untroubled, as eternity. And no thinker is so certain that men must at last give in and accept his opinion as eternity is, for it says: only wait, we shall talk this over in eternity, and there the talk will be solely about compassion, and solely about the difference: merciful—not-merciful. Oh, that I might show the face eternity will put on when the rich man in reply to the question as to whether he has been merciful, answers: “I have given away a hundred thousand dollars to the poor!” For eternity will look at him surprised, as one who cannot get it into his head what the rich man is talking about; and then eternity will again submit the question: Have you been merciful? Imagine a man who went out to a mountain to talk with it about his affairs; or that a man had dealings with the wind about his own achievements: eternity will no more understand what the rich man is talking about concerning the hundred thousand dollars, and what the powerful men mean by saying that they have done everything, than the mountain or the wind would understand what was said to them.
Is it compassionate to give hundreds of thousands to the poor? No. Is it compassionate to give half a shilling to the poor? No. Compassion depends on how it is given. But then the hundred thousand and the half-shilling are of no consequence. That is, I can see compassion just as much in the one as the other; that is, compassion can be, and can be as perfectly manifest in the half-shilling as in the hundred thousand which is given. But if I can really see compassion as well in the half-shilling as in the hundred thousand, then I can really see it better in the half-shilling; for the hundred thousand have an accidental significance which easily attracts the sensual attention to itself, and thereby confuses me in seeing the compassion. Is it compassion when the one who can do everything does everything for the wretched? No. Is it compassion when the one who can do practically nothing, does this nothing for the wretched? No. Compassion depends on how all this and this nothing is done. But then I can equally well see compassion in this everything and in this nothing; and if this is so, then I can really see it best in this nothing, for the being able to do everything is a glittering externality; it has an accidental kind of significance, which still reacts strongly upon the sensual in me, easily attracts my attention to itself, and interferes with my sense of compassion.
Let me continue the illustration. If you wished to observe the movements and the circles which a stone produces when it is thrown into the water: would you journey to those foreign parts where the mighty waterfall dashes roaring down, and there cast in the stone, or would you throw it out into the swelling sea? No, you would do neither. For although the stone would produce movements and create circles here as everywhere, you would be prevented from seeing them. Therefore you would do exactly the opposite; you would seek a quiet little pool, really the smaller the better, and now undisturbed by anything irrelevant, you could really center your attention on the movements you wished to observe.
What do you understand by a significant man? Is it indeed a man who has significant inward worth? If you now seriously desire to absorb yourself in the observation of such a man, would you prefer to see him in the midst of great wealth, or decked out with stars and ribbons? Or would you not think that this precisely interfered with your completely centering your mind on the contemplation of his significant inwardness? So with mercy. Mercy is the true significance. The hundred thousand or the worldly doing of everything, is the significant gift, the significant assistance. But the one significance is that one which must be regarded; the other significance, that one which must be left out of account. And because of distrust of yourself, you wish that away which you must disregard—alas, while the world believes it far easier to pay attention to mercy when it gives a hundred thousand than when it gives a halfshilling, and consequently thinks it easier to see the compassion by looking at that which must be disregarded, if one really wishes to see the compassion.
Still, let us not forget that compassion may be shown in both instances, in the half-shilling and in the hundred thousand, in the everything of the powerful and in the nothing of the wretched. But even if it is conceded that compassion is present, you will still easily convince yourself that the greater, the more astonishing the gift is, the more wonderful the help is, the more there is something which will hinder you from completely dwelling on the compassion. It is told of the apostle Peter, that one day when he went up into the Temple, he met a lame man who begged alms of him. But Peter said to him: “Silver and gold I have none, but that which I have I give you: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk.” And he took him by the right hand and lifted him up. And immediately the man’s legs and ankles became strong, and he leaped up, stood, and walked about. Who would dare doubt that this was an act of compassion, and, more, it was a miracle? But a miracle immediately attracts attention to itself, and thereby in part away from the compassion, which is never more apparent than when it can do nothing at all; for then there is simply nothing at all to hinder seeing quite definitely and exactly, what compassion is. Eternity alone understands about compassion; if you therefore wish to learn to understand compassion, you must learn it from eternity. But if you wish to understand the eternal, then there must be quiet about you, while you absolutely center your attention on inwardness. Alas, the hundred thousand, they make a noise, at least they are easily able to make a noise; you are, as it were, stunned by the thought of being able to give a hundred thousand as easily as you give four shillings; your mind is diverted, you begin to think of the glorious circumstance of being able to do good on such a scale. But then the eternal is disturbed: that the glorious, the blessed, the most blessed condition is to be compassionate.
And now power and might! This again easily confuses the mind; you are amazed at external things. But if you are amazed, then you may be certain that it is not compassion that you see, for compassion does not arouse amazement. What is there, indeed, to be amazed over when even the most wretched, and he best of all, can practice mercy? Oh, compassion, if you in truth see it, it does not awaken amazement; it touches you, it makes, because it is inwardness, the most intimate impression upon you. But when is the inwardness ever more distinct than when there is nothing external in it, or when the external through humility and insignificance, is rather like an opposition, and, sensually understood, literally is a hindrance to seeing the inwardness? And when this is the case with respect to compassion, then we have the mercy which is the subject of the discourse, the mercy which is a work of love, even if it has nothing to give, and is able to do nothing.
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