Part 18

We shall consider the question of the possibility of this almost immediately: so much, however, is certain--that this necessity of a decision by man himself makes the matter far more complex and of far greater risk. The establishment of an independent spiritual life in man finds its chief enemy not in nature, but in the limitation and perversion of spiritual impulse through man's subordinating it to his own ends. The chief conflict is not between spirit and nature, but between real and false spirituality. Thus thought emerges in man, seeks a representation of the world and would in this attain to truth; but when this striving first appears, man is wont to treat himself as the central point of the whole, to measure the whole of infinity according to what it achieves in relation to him, and to see reflections of himself throughout its whole extent. And so we have the anthropomorphic way of thinking, the nature of which we have become aware of only through toil during the progress of the work of culture; a way of thinking from which it has needed even more toil to protect ourselves, and which, in forms often hardly noticeable, is ever ready to appear again and to draw the spiritual movement into its paths. With the emergence of the spiritual life, man becomes more free in relation to his environment; more free also in relation to the necessities of mere nature: his activity can exert itself more independently, concern itself with lofty aims, strive towards the infinite. But all this capacity becomes drawn into the service of the human; the wishes and the desires of the individual grow to an enormous extent. Since out of the struggle for existence, with its natural limitation, an interminable struggle for more existence arises, naïve self-preservation becomes transformed into an unrestricted egoism. That the more-than-human which appears in the domain of man should be employed to the advancement of the merely human is a danger that is present even at the highest stages of development: at one time man would prove his own power in the more-than-human; at another, and this more especially, he treats it as a means to attain his material welfare. Religion, for example, would reveal to man a new depth of reality, and so create a new life for him; and yet, how often even this new reality is degraded to a means for the preservation of his insignificant personality, and regarded as something which on his behalf guides the whole world aright!

The development of the spiritual life in the human sphere can thus be seen to be anything but a sure and steady progress; every step forward brings new dangers; unutterable confusion arises through the use and the perversion of the new in the interests of man. But, if the development of the spiritual life within man is thus an unceasing conflict against human error, this conflict, despite its exhibition of the littleness of man, is at the same time a witness to his greatness. For it shows not only that the spiritual movement needs the active co-operation of man, but also that there is a conflict within humanity itself against the perversion of the spiritual; that there must be more within man and operative in him than the narrowly human. Indeed, in nothing does man seem greater than in this development of a more-than-human within the domain of man, in this severe and untiring conflict with himself. How could this conflict arise and become the soul of universal history if man did not possess a life and being transcending his particularity, and if he did not realise more in himself than we at the first glance see in him? The error of Positivism is that, although it shows most clearly how this spiritual movement dissolves the forms of life as it is immediately experienced, it does not perceive and value the fact that, at the same time, a new life, an inner life emerges; that, indeed, the negation itself is possible only through a more comprehensive spiritual revelation. To consider the negative and the positive in their relation to each other, and to weigh them one against the other, is the indispensable condition for the adequate understanding of human life.

(b) _The Nature of Freedom_

The arousing of a new world to life within man is a problem and a task: it cannot be effected unless the spontaneity and self-determining activity that are distinctive of this world also manifest themselves within him. Further, it cannot be effected unless within man, who with the greater part of his being belongs primarily to nature, a deliverance from nature is accomplished and the centre of life is removed to its spiritual side; and this cannot happen without the co-operation of man. We need freedom, therefore, in two senses: as the presence of an independent inner life, and as man's capacity to change--and we cannot fail to recognise that these are closely related.

Now, the impressions and experiences of modern life are opposed to freedom in both of these senses; indeed, with apparently insuperable force they oppose freedom in every sense. Modern science most clearly shows that man belongs to a great world-whole and world-movement; his life and work seem to be completely determined through his relations in this whole; his whole life is subject to an irresistible destiny, and in all his undertakings and conduct he can only follow the course directed by it. This destiny assumes for us the most diverse forms; and through this diversity surrounds us on all sides. Through the power of heredity we enter life with a definite nature: in the family, the state, and the society a particular kind of environment surrounds us and gives to our nature its more detailed colouring: the age meets us with particular tendencies, takes us up into itself with a supreme power, and just as decidedly directs us towards certain ends as it diverts us from others.

Even in earlier times all this was not ignored, so far as the individual aspects are concerned; but the Modern Age was the first to conceive the problem as a whole, and with this it has pursued the idea of determination even into the inner structure of the life of the soul, with the demonstration that here also nothing is spontaneous, nothing unmeditated, but that even down to the most primary impulse everything depends upon something else, and proceeds from definite relations. From this point of view the idea of freedom, and in particular that of a freedom of choice, appears to be only a remnant of an unscientific way of thinking. The fact that man feels--as an immediate impression--free in cases of hesitation between different possibilities has lost its power to convince the individual of the Modern Age. For the new mode of thought has evolved point for point along with an increasing divergence from the naïve manner of representation, and it has won its greatest victories in opposition to this manner of representation. The revolution that Copernicus accomplished in the representation of the world has become typical of the whole of modern work; and as regards our problem also, dissent from ordinary opinion is less a cause for doubt than a recommendation.

However, our attitude in regard to this problem has, indeed, been essentially changed by modern thought. There can be no further talk of a vague freedom of the will, of a capacity to act in one manner or another unaffected by anything that preceded and by the whole environment; the fact of the subjection of man to a destiny, both external and internal, is forced upon us with overwhelming power. Whether the idea of freedom in every sense is shown to be invalid is another question; perhaps the problem is not so much solved as put on one side. In any case, if a fundamental problem--one that has been discussed from the earliest times--is suddenly declared to be finally solved, the suspicion must soon arise that the solution appears to be self-evident only because certain presuppositions which are in no way self-evident are implicitly assumed in it.

The surrender of every kind of freedom meets in the first place with the suspicion that thereby far more is lost than we think or intend; that much is lost to which it is impossible to surrender all claim. Great trouble is taken to prove that the denial of freedom by no means does away with the possibility of an ethical moulding of life. Yet it might be shown without difficulty that, in attempts of this kind, either the freedom, rejected in its ordinary sense, finds entrance again altered and deepened--as, for example, in the philosophy of Spinoza--or the ethic that remains after freedom has been denied retains only the name, and in itself signifies something merely mechanical. But why do we insist upon the ethical; why does so much depend upon its continuance? For this reason: that upon it depends whether life merely _happens to_ us or also _from_ us; whether we are simply parts of a rigid world-mechanism or self-determining co-operators in the building up of reality. If the former hypothesis is true, we are no more than the platform upon which events become connected; and we can possess no other unity than a summation of the multiplicity. A unity of this kind could not possibly attain to independence and transcendence; could not make an inner judgment upon events; could not take up a conflict in opposition to the condition of life as it is immediately experienced. The conception of conduct would inevitably be degraded to that of mere occurrence. We should cease to have inner unity and be comprehensive selves; we should not be able to speak of disposition and conviction: for it is of the essence of all these things that they cannot be imparted, but must arise newly and spontaneously just in the individual, and for this a concentration of life, an elevation to self-conscious and self-determining activity, is necessary.

Where inner unity and such an activity are lacking, a true present does not exist. For if, through the all-dominant relation of cause and effect, that which comes later proceeds in certain sequence from that which came earlier, our whole existence is only a stream of occurrences, and that which is called present is nothing more than the point of transition from the past to the future. Now, a real present can be reached from such an apparent present only if an independent task originates at this point, and a decision has to be made: the more our whole life and being here become a problem again, the more securely might we trust to the possibility of advancing beyond all previous achievement, and of a spontaneous breaking forth of new powers, the more will our life be transformed into a genuine present. A genuine present does not exist within the sequence, but above it; it cannot come to us opportunely, but must be attained through our own activity: it is our own work. It is, therefore, not a common and equal possession, but is differently constituted according to the individual. The present is the more real and comprehensive for us the more spiritual power we evolve and the more spiritual content we give to life. Thus the present is not a mere point in the succession of times, a mere ripple in the stream of appearances, but involves a counteraction to this flow; its formation is to be accomplished only by the placing of life in the region of the spontaneous, the independent, the time-transcendent.

All the losses in individual matters are, however, only appearances and parts of a universal loss that the surrender of freedom involves. This loss is no other than that of an independent nature-transcending spiritual life in general. Spontaneity is no subsidiary quality, the disappearance of which might only involve a modification; with it, the spiritual life as a whole stands or falls. The experience of history also shows clearly enough that that which has in any way reached a spiritual height never persists by simply existing, but that, if it is not to degenerate rapidly, it must proceed ever anew from spontaneous creative activity. The law of nature, that everything remains in its existent state of rest or motion until it is acted upon from without, is not true of the spiritual: of it nothing abides that is not continually brought forth anew.

The surrender of freedom, therefore, means no less than the inner destruction of the spiritual life. And before we submit to this we shall feel compelled to make a more careful inquiry, to see whether the arguments against freedom are really so cogent as they are represented. They do exert a compelling force, but only so long as their presuppositions are admitted and held to be unassailable. That they are not unassailable will become evident as soon as we clearly recognise their nature and implications.

If the world forms a closed and "given" system, in which every particular is determined completely by its position in the whole, there is no place for spontaneity. The question of freedom has no meaning for man if he belongs solely and entirely to such a world, and within it has only to weigh aims one against another. But in accordance with the results of our investigation we contest these two presuppositions most decidedly. To an investigation that begins with the life-process as the basis of its treatment, it is certain that a "given" world never can be primary, but only secondary. That it may attain to an inner present it needs a life that is not itself "given," but with its activity encompasses a multiplicity, unifies, and makes it definite; for anything to be experienced as "given" a self-conscious and self-determining activity is necessary. If this self-determining activity can struggle upwards to complete power and consciousness only slowly, still it is the first and the sustaining world; and at the same time it can never be asserted that the forms of its life are only ideas and appearances. Life is not formed from existing individual points, and does not pass between such points, but all multiplicity is sustained by an active whole, and from this whole animated ever anew. This active whole may not be conceived as dependent upon another, and it is quite capable of advance. We have endeavoured to show that the matter is not one of subtleties of thought, but of different natures of the world and of activity; and that with the attainment of independence a new world emerges. We have also shown that in us the new world must first wrestle with another, to which we primarily belong; that inner changes must take place in us; and that, if all our toil is not to be in vain, the relation of the two worlds must be changed.

Man, therefore, has a special significance in that the two worlds meet together within him, and in that there can be no change in their relation to each other at this point without his co-operation. The problem of his life concerns more than his conduct, it extends to his being; the question is, how far the different worlds may become his own world, his life. The matter is one of shifting the centre of life from the position in which it is in immediate experience. Thus, the tension and the conflict involve the ultimate elements: each of the worlds has its own tasks and evaluations; things do not affect man with a given and fixed value, but they receive their value first from their relation to the main course upon which his life enters; and so all conflict concerning particular matters implies a decision concerning the whole. Of course, such a decision is not being made from moment to moment; and more especially, it is not made simply by reflection, but it is involved in the whole of life. Only that which in him, in endeavour and work, participates in such decision is true life; individual acts of external conduct only bring to expression that which has happened and still continues to happen inwardly and in the whole.

In all this the possibility of an inner elevation is presupposed. Everyone who strives for an inner development of man; everyone who, with clear insight into the meanness of the general condition of human affairs, unswervingly continues to strive for the advancement of humanity, relies on this possibility: without it there is no hope of a development and a growth of one's own life, of an elevation of it above the condition in which it is first experienced. And so without this possibility endeavour loses all its true tension, and all that we are able to accomplish in ourselves and in others is no more than a dexterous use of existent forces. But is this condition of the matter, spiritually discerned, more than a mere discipline?

It is true that the possibility of an elevation has its fixed conditions; it necessitates particular convictions with regard to the world and to man. We must view the world as being still in a state of flux and regard man as not being simply a closed and limited individual. The infinite spiritual life must be present as a whole to him, and arouse a new world to life in him; his conduct must be rooted in the power and content of the infinite life: only thus can we understand that in man also a movement begins and a change is brought about. And so it remains ever an inderivable, original phenomenon, which we must acknowledge as a fact, that a spontaneous life breaks forth in man, a new and relatively independent life-centre originates. We always come back in the long run to original phenomena; the origin of living being in general is also an original phenomenon. May we deny the fact of such original phenomena, because they make our representation of the world less uniform and simple? To do so would be nothing else than to make our previously formed conceptions the measure of reality; it would be a new, specifically modern anthropomorphism.

This freedom, with its requirement of a world of inner life that introduces new contents, and also that we belong in some way to this world, is by no means a capacity to make a decision capriciously at any moment; it is not a denial of the power of necessity. Of course, it implies that there may be some kind of counteraction to this necessity; and that if this counteraction can attain success only as a result of the activity of life as a whole, even the individual moment need not be a matter of indifference. For, as the spiritual life has always to win its own height anew, so the present in its relations is not a mere consequence of the past: times of temptation can come repeatedly when all that which has been achieved becomes doubtful again; but times of elevation also come when an advance is made beyond that previously achieved. It is not possible for us simply to reject the present existence and all the conditions which constrain us, and to choose for ourselves a new kind of existence, instead of the one we have; from that it is impossible to free ourselves: in all further endeavour we have to take it into account, to make our peace with it. Nevertheless, life can attain to a transcendent point of view, from which the world of sense becomes the object of judgment and of adaptation; from which, to be regarded as completely ours, it needs acknowledgment and appropriation by us; and from which it is seen not to constitute our whole life, as that which is ultimate. Indeed, the tendencies within us which are concerned with nature, first reach their highest through such acknowledgment and appropriation by us: placed on a spiritual basis they lose their rigid exclusiveness and become unified; our particular nature no longer constitutes our whole being, but becomes the central point of a more comprehensive life, which extends further and further to infinity.

Our life, therefore, is a conflict between fate and freedom, between being "given" and spontaneity; and this conflict may be followed through all life's divisions. The conflict appears primarily in the individual in the development towards personality and spiritual individuality. For, as personality, unless life has a spontaneous source, is an empty word, so also spiritual individuality does not come to anyone, but has first to be won by the work of life essentially elevating that which destiny brings: so far, it is our own work; but it is not entirely our own work, because that which comes to us from nature, and the condition of life gives us fixed points of support and points out a certain course. Similarly, peoples have in their nature, environment, and history definite conditions of their being, from which they cannot withdraw. But spiritual creation and inward greatness do not grow simply out of these conditions, however favourable they may be, but out of a spontaneous activity which takes up that which has been presented to it, gives it a central point, and from this develops it. The deciding question is always whether and how far individuals and peoples attain to and preserve such a self-determining activity. This activity alone makes it possible for life to be unified inwardly; for its elements to be distinguished and separated, and for some to be brought into prominence and others relegated to the background; for life to be made secure and elevated, and as the result of all for a spiritual individuality to be formed. The same thing holds good of the condition of a particular time, and man's relation to it. At first man appears to be a child of his age, a slave of his age. But by the spiritual life he is able to win an independence of the age, and to make himself its lord. Again, he cannot free himself from the problems of the age; he cannot alter them just as he likes, cannot divert into an opposite direction the power which they exert upon him. But there is always an "either--or," either submission to the succession of experience, or the beginning of an opposition from spiritual self-determining activity: in this, also, the possibility of calling new powers to life presents itself. From this spiritual point of view activity centred upon the concerns of the particular age is no longer regarded as the whole life; the particular age with its work is comprehended in an infinite life. As through all its different stages and constituents, so ultimately humanity as a whole also carries on a struggle for a spiritual being, an advance to a new level. Humanity may not be regarded as something finished; it must evolve to a nature other than its present one, bring about a transformation of its life, and win a spiritual individuality: the life of humanity is in a state of motion and it must become self-determined.

The idea of freedom thus reveals far-reaching prospects and the greatest tasks; it manifests its truth and power in taking possession of common experiences and illuminating them, and in the arousing and re-organisation of our life. With the acknowledgment and the adequate appreciation of freedom, with the revelation of its universal relations, man is elevated in the most essential manner, for it manifests the new world as active in the midst of his life and capable of appropriation by him: it calls him to independent co-operation in the conflict of the worlds; it gives to the simply human and the apparently commonplace an incomparable greatness. However powerful destiny may be, it does not determine man entirely; for, even in beginning opposition to it there is a liberation from it. However mean man's activity, it carries in it a decision between worlds; however vanishing the moment, it is not entirely lost. True, the idea of freedom involves definite presuppositions: it involves, indeed, a profession of faith concerning life and reality as a whole, a profession of faith that contradicts every form of Naturalism and Intellectualism, and, in opposition to their representations of the world, champions another. But this profession of faith does not concern this problem only; it is involved in our work as a whole, and so the whole may support and confirm it.

(c) _The Beginnings of the Independent Spiritual Life_