Science as a
Vocation
You wish me to
speak about 'Science as a Vocation.' Now, we political economists have
a
pedantic custom, which I should like to follow, of always beginning
with the
external conditions. In this case, we begin with the question: What are
the
conditions of science as a vocation in the material sense of the term?
Today
this question means, practically and essentially: What are the
prospects of a
graduate student who is resolved to dedicate himself professionally to
science
in university life? In order to understand the peculiarity of German
conditions
it is expedient to proceed by comparison and to realize the conditions
abroad.
In this respect, the
Everybody knows
that in
In the
Practically, this contrast
means that the
career of the academic person in
In the
These expectations
are such that the young academic in
Whether, in principle, one
should
habilitate every scholar who is qualified or whether one should
consider
enrollments, and hence give the existing staff a monopoly to
teach--that is an
awkward dilemma. It is associated with the dual aspect of the academic
profession, which we shall discuss presently. In general, one decides
in favor
of the second alternative. But this increases the danger that the
respective
full professor, however conscientious he is, will prefer his own
disciples. If
I may speak of my personal attitude, I must say I have followed the
principle
that a scholar promoted by me must legitimize and habilitate himself
with somebody
else at another university. But the result has been that one of my
best
disciples has been turned down at another university because nobody
there believed
this to be the reason.
A further difference between
In
Of late we can
observe distinctly that the German universities in the broad fields of
science
develop in the direction of the American system. The large institutes
of
medicine or natural science are 'state capitalist' enterprises, which
cannot be
managed without very considerable funds. Here we encounter the same
condition
that is found wherever capitalist enterprise comes into operation: the
'separation of the worker from his means of production.' The worker,
that is,
the assistant, is dependent upon the implements that the state puts at
his
disposal; hence he is just as dependent upon the head of the institute
as is
the employee in a factory upon the management. For, subjectively and in
good
faith, the director believes that this institute is 'his,' and he
manages its
affairs. Thus the assistant's position is often as precarious as is
that of any
'quasi-proletarian' existence and just as precarious as the position of
the
assistant in the American university.
In very important respects
German
university life is being Americanized, as is German life in general.
This
development, I am convinced, will engulf those disciplines in which the
craftsman personally owns the tools, essentially the library, as is
still the
case to a large extent in my own field. This development corresponds
entirely
to what happened to the artisan of the past and it is now fully under
way. As
with all capitalist and at the same time bureaucratized enterprises,
there are
indubitable advantages in all this. But the 'spirit' that rules in
these affairs
is different from the historical atmosphere of the German university.
An
extraordinarily wide gulf, externally and internally, exists between
the chief
of these large, capitalist, university enterprises and the usual full
professor
of the old style. This contrast also holds for the inner attitude, a
matter
that I shall not go into here. Inwardly as well as externally, the old
university constitution has become fictitious.
What has remained
and what has been essentially increased is a factor peculiar to the
university
career: the question whether or not such a private lecturer, and still
more an
assistant, will ever succeed in moving into the position of a full
professor or
even become the head of an institute. That is simply a hazard.
Certainly, chance
does not rule alone, but it rules to an unusually high degree. I know
of hardly
any career on earth where chance plays such a role. I may say so all
the more
since I personally owe it to some mere accidents that during my very
early
years I was appointed to a full professorship in a discipline in which
persons
of my generation undoubtedly had achieved more that I had. And, indeed,
I
fancy, on the basis of this experience, that I have a sharp eye for the
undeserved fate of the many whom accident has cast in the opposite
direction
and who within this selective apparatus in spite of all their ability
do not
attain the positions that are due them.
The fact that hazard rather
than ability
plays so large a role is not alone or even predominantly owing to the
'all-too-human'
factors, which naturally occur in the process of academic selection as
in any
other selection. It would be unfair to hold the personal inferiority of
faculty
members or educational ministries responsible for the fact that so many
mediocrities undoubtedly play an eminent role at the universities. The
predominance of mediocrity is rather due to the laws of human
co-operation,
especially of the co-operation of several bodies, and, in this case,
co-operation of the faculties who recommend and of the ministries of
education.
A counterpart are the events
at the papal
elections, which can be traced over many centuries and which are the
most
important controllable examples of a selection of the same nature as
the
academic selection. The cardinal who is said to be the 'favorite' only
rarely
has a chance to win out. The rule is rather that the Number Two
cardinal or the
Number Three wins out. The same holds for the President of the
No university teacher likes to
be
reminded of discussions of appointments, for they are seldom agreeable.
And yet
I may say that in the numerous cases known to me there was, without
exception,
the good will to allow purely objective reasons to be decisive.
One must be clear
about another thing: that the decision over academic fates is so
largely a
'hazard' is not merely because of the insufficiency of the selection by
the
collective formation of will. Every young person who feels called to
scholarship has to realize clearly that the task before him has a
double aspect.
He must qualify not only as a scholar but also as a teacher. And the
two do not
at all coincide. One can be a preeminent scholar and at the same time
an
abominably poor teacher. May I remind you of the outstanding teachings
like
Helmholtz or Ranke;
and they are not by any chance rare exceptions.
Now, matters are such that
German
universities, especially the small universities, are engaged in a most
ridiculous competition for enrollments. The landlords of rooming houses
in
university cities celebrate the advent of the thousandth student by a
festival,
and they would love to celebrate Number Two Thousand by a torchlight
procession. The interest in fees--and one should openly admit it--is
affected
by appointments in the neighboring fields that 'draw crowds.' And quite
apart
from this, the number of students enrolled is a test of qualification,
which
may be grasped in terms of numbers, whereas the qualification for
scholarship
is imponderable and, precisely with audacious innovators, often
debatable--that
is only natural. Almost everybody thus is affected by the suggestion of
the
immeasurable blessing and value of large enrollments. To say of a
docent that
he is a poor teacher is usually to pronounce an academic sentence of
death,
even if he is the foremost scholar in the world. And the question
whether he is
a good or a poor teacher is answered by the enrollments with which the
students
condescendingly honor him.
It is a fact that whether or
not the
students flock to a teacher is determined in large measure, larger than
one
would believe possible, by purely external things: temperament and even
the
inflection of his voice. After rather extensive experience and sober
reflection, I have a deep distrust of courses that draw crowds, however
unavoidable they may be. Democracy should be used only where it is in
place.
Scientific training, as we are held to practice it in accordance with
the
tradition of German universities, is the affair of an intellectual
aristocracy,
and we should not hide this from ourselves. To be sure, it is true that
to
present scientific problems in such a manner that an untutored but
receptive
mind can understand them and--what for us is alone decisive--can come
to think
about them independently is perhaps the most difficult pedagogical task
of all.
But whether this task is or is not realized is not decided by
enrollment
figures. And--to return to our theme- this very art is a personal gift
and by
no means coincides with the scientific qualifications of the scholar.
In
contrast to
Hence academic
life is a mad hazard. If the young scholar asks for my advice with
regard to
habilitation, the responsibility of encouraging him can hardly be
borne. If he
is a Jew, of course one says, give up any hope. But one must
ask every other
man: Do you in all conscience believe that you can stand seeing
mediocrity
after mediocrity, year after year, climb beyond you, without becoming
embittered and without coming to grief? Naturally, one always receives
the
answer: 'Of course, I live only for my "calling."' Yet, I have found
that only a few persons could endure this situation without coming to
grief.
This much I deem necessary to say about the external conditions of the
academic
man's vocation. But I believe that actually you wish to hear of
something else,
namely, of the inward calling for science.
In our time, the
internal situation, in contrast to the organization of science as a
vocation,
is first of all conditioned by the facts that science has entered a
phase of
specialization previously unknown and that this will forever remain the
case.
Not only externally, but inwardly, matters stand at a point where the
individual can acquire the sure consciousness of achieving something
truly
perfect in the field of science only in case he is a strict specialist.
All
work that overlaps neighboring fields, such as we occasionally
undertake and
which the sociologists must necessarily undertake again and again, is
burdened
with the resigned realization that at best one provides the specialist
with useful
questions upon which he would not so easily hit from his own
specialized point
of view. One's own work must inevitably remain highly imperfect. Only
by strict
specialization can the scientific worker become fully conscious, for
once and
perhaps never again in his lifetime, that he has achieved something
that will
endure. A really definitive and good accomplishment is today always a
specialized accomplishment.
And whoever lacks the
capacity to put on blinders, so to speak, and to come up to the idea
that the
fate of his soul depends upon whether or not he makes the correct
conjecture at
this passage of this manuscript may as well stay away from science. He
will
never have what one may call the 'personal experience' of science.
Without this
strange intoxication, ridiculed by every outsider; without this
passion, this
'thousands of years must pass before you enter into life and thousands
more
wait in silence'--according to whether or not you succeed in making
this
conjecture; without this, you have no calling for science and
you should
do something else. For nothing is worthy of person as person unless he
can
pursue it with passionate devotion.
Yet it is a fact that
no amount of such enthusiasm, however sincere and profound it may be,
can
compel a problem to yield scientific results. Certainly enthusiasm is a
prerequisite of the 'inspiration' which is decisive. Nowadays in
circles of
youth there is a widespread notion that science has become a problem in
calculation, fabricated in laboratories or statistical filing systems
just as
'in a factory,' a calculation involving only the cool intellect and not
one's
'heart and soul.' First of all one must say that such comments lack all
clarity
about what goes on in a factory or in a laboratory. In both some idea
has to
occur to someone's mind, and it has to be a correct idea, if one is to
accomplish anything worthwhile. And such intuition cannot be forced. It
has
nothing to do with any cold calculation. Certainly calculation is also
an
indispensable prerequisite. No sociologist, for instance, should think
himself
too good, even in his old age, to make tens of thousands of quite
trivial
computations in his head and perhaps for months at a time. One cannot
with
impunity try to transfer this task entirely to mechanical assistants if
one
wishes to figure something, even though the final result is often small
indeed.
But if no 'idea' occurs to his mind about the direction of his
computations
and, during his computations, about the bearing of the emergent single
results,
then even this small result will not be yielded.
Normally such an
'idea' is prepared only on the soil of very hard work, but certainly
this is
not always the case. Scientifically, a dilettante's idea may have the
very same
or even a greater bearing for science than that of a specialist. Many
of our
very best hypotheses and insights are due precisely to dilettantes. The
dilettante differs from the expert, as Helmholtz has said
of Robert
Mayer, only
in that he lacks a firm and reliable work procedure. Consequently he is
usually
not in the position to control, to estimate, or to exploit the idea in
its
bearings. The idea is not a substitute for work; and work, in turn,
cannot
substitute for or compel an idea, just as little as enthusiasm can.
Both,
enthusiasm and work, and above all both of them jointly, can
entice the
idea.
Ideas occur to us when they
please, not
when it pleases us. The best ideas do indeed occur to one's mind in the
way in
which Ihering
describes it: when smoking a cigar on the sofa; or as Helmholtz
states of himself with scientific exactitude: when taking a walk on a
slowly
ascending street; or in a similar way. In any case, ideas come when we
do not
expect them, and not when we are brooding and searching at our desks.
Yet ideas
would certainly not come to mind had we not brooded at our desks and
searched
for answers with passionate devotion.
However this may be, the
scientific
worker has to take into his bargain the risk that enters into all
scientific
work: Does an 'idea' occur or does it not? He may be an excellent
worker and
yet never have had any valuable idea of his own. It is a grave error to
believe
that this is so only in science, and that things for instance in a
business
office are different from a laboratory. A merchant or a big
industrialist
without 'business imagination,' that is, without ideas or ideal
intuitions,
will for all his life remain a person who would better have remained a
clerk or
a technical official. He will never be truly creative in organization.
Inspiration in the field of science by no means plays any greater role,
as
academic conceit fancies, than it does in the field of mastering
problems of
practical life by a modern entrepreneur. On the other hand, and this
also is
often misconstrued, inspiration plays no less a role in science than it
does in
the realm of art. It is a childish notion to think that a mathematician
attains
any scientifically valuable results by sitting at his desk with a
ruler,
calculating machines or other mechanical means. The mathematical
imagination of
a Weierstrass is naturally quite differently oriented in meaning and
result
than is the imagination of an artist, and differs basically in quality.
But the
psychological processes do not differ. Both are frenzy (in the sense of
Plato's
'mania') and 'inspiration.'
Now, whether we
have scientific inspiration depends upon destinies that are hidden from
us, and
besides upon 'gifts.' Last but not least, because of this indubitable
truth, a
very understandable attitude has become popular, especially among
youth, and
has put them in the service of idols whose cult today occupies a broad
place on
all street corners and in all periodicals. These idols are
'personality' and
'personal experience.' Both are intimately connected, the notion
prevails that
the latter constitutes the former and belongs to it. People belabor
themselves
in trying to 'experience' life--for that befits a personality,
conscious of its
rank and station. And if we do not succeed in 'experiencing' life, we
must at
least pretend to have this gift of grace. Formerly we called this
'experience,'
in plain German, 'sensation'; and I believe that we then had a more
adequate
idea of what personality is and what it signifies.
Ladies and gentlemen. In the
field of
science only he who is devoted solely to the work at hand has
personality. And this holds not only for the field of science; we know
of no
great artist who has ever done anything but serve his work and only his
work.
As far as his art is concerned, even with a personality of Goethe's
rank, it
has been detrimental to take the liberty of trying to make his 'life'
into a
work of art. And even if one doubts this, one has to be a Goethe in
order to
dare permit oneself such liberty. Everybody will admit at least this
much: that
even with a person like Goethe, who appears once in a thousand years,
this
liberty did not go unpaid for. In politics matters are not different,
but we
shall not discuss that today. In the field of science, however, the
person who
makes himself the impresario of the subject to which he should be
devoted, and
steps upon the stage and seeks to legitimate himself through
'experience,'
asking: How can I prove that I am something other than a mere
'specialist' and
how can I manage to say something in form or in content that nobody
else has
ever said? -- such a person is no 'personality.' Today such conduct is
a crowd
phenomenon, and it always makes a petty impression and debases the one
who is
thus concerned. Instead of this, an inner devotion to the task, and
that alone,
should lift the scientist to the height and dignity of the subject he
pretends
to serve. And in this it is not different with the artist.
In contrast with
these preconditions which scientific work shares with art, science has
a fate
that profoundly distinguishes it from artistic work. Scientific work is
chained
to the course of progress; whereas in the realm of art there is no
progress in
the same sense. It is not true that the work of art of a period that
has worked
out new technical means, or, for instance, the laws of perspective,
stands
therefore artistically higher than a work of art devoid of all
knowledge of
those means and laws, if its form does justice to the material, that
is, if its
object has been chosen and formed so that it could be artistically
mastered
without applying those conditions and means. A work of art which is
genuine
'fulfillment' is never surpassed; it will never be antiquated.
Individuals may
differ in appreciating the personal significance of works of art, but
no one
will ever be able to say of such a work that it is 'outstripped by
another
work. which is also 'fulfillment.'
In science, each of us knows
that what he
has accomplished will be antiquated in ten, twenty, fifty years. That
is the
fate to which science is subjected; it is the very meaning of
scientific
work, to which it is devoted in a quite specific sense, as compared
with other
spheres of culture for which in general the same holds. Every
scientific
'fulfillment' raises new 'questions'; it asks to be
'surpassed' and
outdated. Whoever wishes to serve science has to resign himself to this
fact.
Scientific works certainly can last as 'gratifications' because of
their
artistic quality, or they may remain important as a means of training.
Yet they
will be surpassed scientifically--let that be repeated--for it is our
common
fate and, more, our common goal. We cannot work without hoping that
others will
advance further than we have. In principle, this progress goes on
endlessly.
And with this we come to inquire into the meaning of science.
For, after
all, it is not self-evident that something subordinate to such a law is
sensible and meaningful in itself.
Why does one
engage in doing something that in reality never comes, and never can
come, to
an end? One does it, first, for purely practical, in the broader sense
of the
word, for technical, purposes: in order to be able to orient our
practical
activities to the expectations that scientific experience places at our
disposal. Good. Yet this has meaning only to practitioners. What is the
attitude of the academic person towards his vocation--that is, if he is
at all
in quest of such a personal attitude ? He maintains that he engages in
'science
for science's sake' and not merely because others, by exploiting
science, bring
about commercial or technical success and can better feed, dress,
illuminate,
and govern. But what does he who allows himself to be integrated into
this
specialized organization, running on endlessly, hope to accomplish that
is
significant in these productions that are always destined to be
outdated? This
question requires a few general considerations.
Scientific progress
is a fraction, the most important fraction, of the process of
intellectualization which we have been undergoing for thousands of
years and
which nowadays is usually judged in such an extremely negative way. Let
us
first clarify what this intellectualist rationalization, created by
science and
by scientifically oriented technology, means practically.
Does it mean that we, today,
for
instance, everyone sitting in this hall, have a greater knowledge of
the
conditions of life under which we exist than has an American Indian or
a
Hottentot? Hardly. Unless he is a physicist, one who rides on the
streetcar has
no idea how the car happened to get into motion. And he does not need
to know.
He is satisfied that he may 'count' on the behavior of the streetcar,
and he
orients his conduct according to this expectation; but he knows nothing
about
what it takes to produce such a car so that it can move. The savage
knows
incomparably more about his tools. When we spend money today I bet that
even if
there are colleagues of political economy here in the hall, almost
every one of
them will hold a different answer in readiness to the question: How
does it
happen that one can buy something for money--sometimes more and
sometimes less
? The savage knows what he does in order to get his daily food and
which
institutions serve him in this pursuit. The increasing
intellectualization and
rationalization do not, therefore, indicate an increased and
general
knowledge of the conditions under which one lives.
It means something
else, namely, the knowledge or belief that if one but wished one could
learn
it at any time. Hence, it means that principally there are no
mysterious
incalculable forces that come into play, but rather that one can, in
principle,
master all things by calculation. This means that the world is
disenchanted.
One need no longer have recourse to magical means in order to master or
implore
the spirits, as did the savage, for whom such mysterious powers
existed.
Technical means and calculations perform the service. This above all is
what
intellectualization means. This process of disenchantment, which has
continued
to exist in Occidental culture for millennia, and, in general, this
'progress,'
to which science belongs as a link and motive force.
Now, do they have
any meanings that go beyond the purely practical and technical? You
will find
this question raised in the most principled form in the works of Leo
Tolstoi.
He came to raise the question in a peculiar way. All his broodings
increasingly
revolved around the problem of whether or not death is a meaningful
phenomenon.
And his answer was: for civilized person death has no meaning. It has
none
because the individual life of civilized man, placed into an infinite
'progress,' according to its own imminent meaning should never come to
an end;
for there is always a further step ahead of one who stands in the march
of
progress. And no person who comes to die stands upon the peak which
lies in
infinity. Abraham, or some peasant of the past, died 'old and satiated
with
life' because he stood in the organic cycle of life; because his life,
in terms
of its meaning and on the eve of his days, had given to him what life
had to offer;
because for him there remained no puzzles he might wish to solve; and
therefore
he could have had 'enough' of life. Whereas civilized man, placed in
the midst
of the continuous enrichment of culture by ideas, knowledge, and
problems, may
become 'tired of life' but not 'satiated with life.' He catches only
the most
minute part of what the life of the spirit brings forth ever anew, and
what he
seizes is always something provisional and not definitive, and
therefore death
for him is a meaningless occurrence. And because death is meaningless,
civilized life as such is meaningless; by its very 'progressiveness' it
gives
death the imprint of meaninglessness. Throughout his late novels one
meets with
this thought as the keynote of the Tolstoyan art.
What stand should one take?
Has
'progress' as such a recognizable meaning that goes beyond the
technical, so
that to serve it is a meaningful vocation? The question must be raised.
But
this is no longer merely the question of man's calling for science,
hence, the problem of what science as a vocation means to its devoted
disciples. To raise this question is to ask for the vocation of science
within
the total life of humanity. What is the value of science?
Here the contrast
between the past and the present is tremendous. You will recall the
wonderful
image at the beginning of the seventh book of Plato's Republic: those
enchained cavemen whose faces are turned toward the stone wall before
them.
Behind them lies the source of the light which they cannot see. They
are concerned
only with the shadowy images that this light throws upon the wall, and
they
seek to fathom their interrelations. Finally one of them succeeds in
shattering
his fetters, turns around, and sees the sun. Blinded, he gropes about
and
stammers of what he saw. The others say he is raving. But gradually he
learns
to behold the light, and then his task is to descend to the cavemen and
to lead
them to the light. He is the philosopher; the sun, however, is the
truth of
science, which alone seizes not upon illusions and shadows but upon the
true
being.
Well, who today views science
in such a
manner ? Today youth feels rather the reverse: the intellectual
constructions
of science constitute an unreal realm of artificial abstractions, which
with
their bony hands seek to grasp the blood-and-the-sap of true life
without ever
catching up with it. But here in life, in what for Plato was the play
of
shadows on the walls of the cave, genuine reality is pulsating; and the
rest
are derivatives of life, lifeless ghosts, and nothing else. How did
this change
come about?
Plato's passionate
enthusiasm in The Republic must, in the last analysis, be
explained by
the fact that for the first time the concept, one of the great
tools of
all scientific knowledge, had been consciously discovered. Socrates had
discovered it in its bearing. He was not the only person in the world
to
discover it. In
The second great
tool or scientific work, the rational experiment, made is appearance at
the
side of this discovery of the Hellenic spirit during the Renaissance
period.
The experiment is a means of reliably controlling experience. Without
it,
present-day empirical science would be impossible. There were
experiments
earlier; for instance, in
What did science mean to these
persons
who stood at the threshold of modern times ? To artistic experimenters
of the
type of Leonardo and the musical innovators, science meant the path to
true
art, and that meant for them the path to true nature. Art was
to be
raised to the rank of a science, and this meant at the same time and
above all
to raise the artist to the rank of the doctor, socially and with
reference to
the meaning of his life. This is the ambition on which, for instance,
Leonardo's
sketch book was based. And today? 'Science as the way to nature' would
sound
like blasphemy to youth. Today, youth proclaims the opposite:
redemption from
the intellectualism of science in order to return to one's own nature
and
therewith to nature in general. Science as a way to art? Here no
criticism is
even needed.
But during the
period of the rise of the exact sciences one expected a great deal
more. If you
recall Swammerdam's
statement, 'Here I bring you the proof of God's providence
in the anatomy of a louse,' you will see what the scientific worker,
influenced
(indirectly) by Protestantism and Puritanism, conceived to be his task:
to show
the path to God. People no longer found this path among the
philosophers, with
their concepts and deductions. All pietist theology of the time, above
all
Spener, knew that God was not to be found along the road by which the
Middle
Ages had sought him. God is hidden, His ways are not our ways, His
thoughts are
not our thoughts. In the exact sciences, however, where one could
physically
grasp His works, one hoped to come upon the traces of what He planned
for the
world. And today? Who--aside from certain big children who are indeed
found in
the natural sciences-- still believes that the findings of astronomy,
biology,
physics, or chemistry could teach us anything about the meaning of
the
world? If there is any such 'meaning,' along what road could one come
upon its
tracks? If these natural sciences lead to anything in this way, they
are apt to
make the belief that there is such a thing as the 'meaning' of the
universe die
out at its very roots.
And finally, science as a way
'to God'?
Science, this specifically irreligious power? That science today is
irreligious
no one will doubt in his innermost being, even if he will not admit it
to
himself. Redemption from the rationalism and intellectualism of science
is the
fundamental presupposition of living in union with the divine. This, or
something similar in meaning, is one of the fundamental watchwords one
hears
among German youth, whose feelings are attuned to religion or who crave
religious experiences. They crave not only religious experience but
experience
as such. The only thing that is strange is the method that is now
followed: the
spheres of the irrational, the only spheres that intellectualism has
not yet
touched, are now raised into consciousness and put under its lens. For
in
practice this is where the modern intellectualist form of romantic
irrationalism leads. This method of emancipation from intellectualism
may well
bring about the very opposite of what those who take to it conceive as
its
goal.
After Nietzsche's devastating
criticism
of those 'last men' who 'invented happiness,' I may leave aside
altogether the
naive optimism in which science--that is, the technique of mastering
life which
rests upon science, has been celebrated as the way to happiness. Who
believes
in this?--aside from a few big children in university chairs or
editorial
offices. Let us resume our argument.
Under these internal
presuppositions,
what is the meaning of science as a vocation, now after all these
former
illusions, the 'way to true being,' the 'way to true art,' the 'way to
true
nature,' the 'way to true God,' the 'way to true happiness,' have been
dispelled? Tolstoi has given the simplest answer, with the words:
'Science is
meaningless because it gives no answer, the only question important for
us:
"what shall we do and how shall we live?"' That science does not give
an answer to this is indisputable. The only question that remains is
the sense
in which science gives 'no' answer, and whether or not science might
yet be of
some use to the one who puts the question correctly.
Today one usually
speaks of science as 'free from presuppositions.' Is there such a
thing? It
depends upon what one understands thereby. All scientific work
presupposes that
the rules of logic and method are valid; these are the general
foundations of
our orientation in the world; and, at least for our special question,
these
presuppositions are the least problematic aspect of science. Science
further
presupposes that what is yielded by scientific work is important in the
sense
that it is 'worth being known.' In this, obviously, are contained all
our
problems. For this presupposition cannot be proved by scientific means.
It can
only be interpreted with reference to its ultimate meaning,
which we
must reject or accept according to our ultimate position towards life.
Furthermore, the nature of the
relationship of scientific work and its presuppositions varies widely
according
to their structure. The natural sciences, for instance, physics,
chemistry, and
astronomy, presuppose as self-evident that it is worth while to know
the
ultimate laws of cosmic events as far as science can construe them.
This is the
case not only because with such knowledge one can attain technical
results but
for its own sake, if the quest for such knowledge is to be a
'vocation.' Yet
this presupposition can by no means be proved. And still less can it be
proved
that the existence of the world which these sciences describe is worth
while,
that it has any 'meaning,' or that it makes sense to live in such a
world.
Science does not ask for the answers to such questions.
Consider modern
medicine, a practical technology which is highly developed
scientifically. The
general 'presupposition' of the medical enterprise is stated trivially
in the
assertion that medical science has the task of maintaining life as such
and of
diminishing suffering as such to the greatest possible degree. Yet this
is problematical.
By his means the medical person preserves the life of the mortally ill
man,
even if the patient implores us to relieve him of life, even if his
relatives,
to whom his life is worthless and to whom the costs of maintaining his
worthless life grow unbearable, grant his redemption from suffering.
Perhaps a
poor lunatic is involved, whose relatives, whether they admit it or
not, wish
and must wish for his death. Yet the presuppositions of medicine, and
the penal
code, prevent the physician from relinquishing his therapeutic efforts.
Whether
life is worth while living and when--this question is not asked by
medicine.
Natural science gives us an answer to the question of what we must do
if we
wish to master life technically. It leaves quite aside, or assumes for
its
purposes, whether we should and do wish to master life technically and
whether
it ultimately makes sense to do so.
Consider a discipline
such as aesthetics. The fact that there are works of art is given for
aesthetics. It seeks to find out under what conditions this fact
exists, but it
does not raise the question whether or not the realm of art is perhaps
a realm
of diabolical grandeur, a realm of this world, and therefore, in its
core,
hostile to God and, in its innermost and aristocratic spirit, hostile
to the
brotherhood of human. Hence, aesthetics does not ask whether there should
be
works of art.
Consider
jurisprudence. It establishes what is valid according to the rules of
juristic
thought, which is partly bound by logically compelling and partly by
conventionally given schemata. Juridical thought holds when certain
legal rules
and certain methods of interpretations are recognized as binding.
Whether there
should be law and whether one should establish just these rules--such
questions
jurisprudence does not answer.
It can only state: If one
wishes this
result, according to the norms of our legal thought, this legal rule is
the
appropriate means of attaining it.
Consider the
historical and cultural sciences. They teach us how to understand and
interpret
political, artistic, literary, and social phenomena in terms of their
origins.
But they give us no answer to the question, whether the existence of
these
cultural phenomena have been and are worth while. And they do
not answer
the further question, whether it is worth the effort required to know
them.
They presuppose that there is an interest in partaking, through this
procedure,
of the community of 'civilized persons.' But they cannot prove
'scientifically'
that this is the case; and that they presuppose this interest by no
means
proves that it goes without saying. In fact it is not at all
self-evident.
Finally, let us
consider the disciplines close to me: sociology, history, economics,
political
science, and those types of cultural philosophy that make it their task
to
interpret these sciences. It is said, and I agree, that politics is out
of
place in the lecture-room. It does not belong there on the part of the
students. If, for instance, in the lecture-room of my former colleague
Dietrich
Schaefer in Berlin, pacifist students were to surround his desk and
make an
uproar, I should deplore it just as much as I should deplore the uproar
which
anti-pacifist students are said to have made against Professor
Foerster, whose
views in many ways are as remote as could be from mine. Neither does
politics,
however, belong in the lecture-room on the part of the docents, and
when the
docent is scientifically concerned with politics, it belongs there
least of
all.
To take a practical political
stand is one
thing, and to analyze political structures and party positions is
another. When
speaking in a political meeting about democracy, one does not hide
one's
personal standpoint; indeed to come out clearly and take a stand is
one's
damned duty. The words one uses in such a meeting are not means of
scientific
analysis but means of canvassing votes and winning over others. They
are not
plowshares to loosen the soil of contemplative thought; they are swords
against
the enemies: such words are weapons. It would be an outrage, however,
to use
words in this fashion in a lecture or in the lecture-room. If, for
instance,
'democracy' is under discussion, one considers its various forms,
analyzes them
in the way they function, determines what results for the conditions of
life
the one form has as compared with the other. Then one confronts the
forms of
democracy with non-democratic forms of political order and endeavors to
come to
a position where the student may find the point from which, in terms of
his
ultimate ideals, he can take a stand. But the true teacher will beware
of
imposing from the platform any political position upon the student,
whether it
is expressed or suggested. 'To let the facts speak for themselves' is
the most
unfair way of putting over a political position to the student.
Why should we abstain from
doing this? I
state in advance that some highly esteemed colleagues are of the
opinion that
it is not possible to carry through this self-restraint and that, even
if it
were possible, it would be a whim to avoid declaring oneself. Now one
cannot
demonstrate scientifically what the duty of an academic teacher is. One
can
only demand of the teacher that he have the intellectual integrity to
see that
it is one thing to state facts, to determine mathematical or logical
relations
or the internal structure of cultural values, while it is another thing
to
answer questions of the value of culture and its individual
contents and
the question of how one should act in the cultural community and in
political
associations. These are quite heterogeneous problems. If he asks
further why he
should not deal with both types of problems in the lecture-room, the
answer is:
because the prophet and the demagogue do not belong on the academic
platform.
To the prophet and
the demagogue, it is said: 'Go your ways out into the streets and speak
openly
to the world,' that is, speak where criticism is possible. In the
lecture-room
we stand opposite our audience, and it has to remain silent. I deem it
irresponsible to exploit the circumstance that for the sake of their
career the
students have to attend a teacher's course while there is nobody
present to
oppose him with criticism. The task of the teacher is to serve the
students
with his knowledge and scientific experience and not to imprint upon
them his
personal political views. It is certainly possible that the individual
teacher
will not entirely succeed in eliminating his personal sympathies. He is
then
exposed to the sharpest criticism in the forum of his own conscience.
And this
deficiency does not prove anything; other errors are also possible, for
instance, erroneous statements of fact, and yet they prove nothing
against the
duty of searching for the truth. I also reject this in the very
interest of
science. I am ready to prove from the works of our historians that
whenever the
person of science introduces his personal value judgment, a full
understanding
of the facts ceases. But this goes beyond tonight topic and
would
require lengthy elucidation.
I ask only: How should a
devout Catholic,
on the one hand, and a Freemason, on the other, in a course on the
forms of
church and state or on religious history ever be brought to evaluate
these
subjects alike?
This is out of the question.
And yet the
academic teacher must desire and must demand of himself to serve the
one as
well as the other by his knowledge and methods. Now you will rightly
say that
the devout Catholic will never accept the view of the factors operative
in
bringing about Christianity which a teacher who is free of his dogmatic
presuppositions presents to him. Certainly! The difference, however,
lies in
the following: Science 'free from presuppositions,' in the sense of a
rejection
of religious bonds, does not know of the 'miracle' and the
'revelation.' If it
did, science would be unfaithful to its own 'presuppositions.' The
believer
knows both, miracle and revelation. And science 'free from
presuppositions'
expects from him no less--and no more than acknowledgment that if the
process can be explained without those supernatural interventions,
which an
empirical explanation has to eliminate as causal factors, the process
has to be
explained the way science attempts to do. And the believer can do this
without
being disloyal to his faith.
But has the contribution of
science no
meaning at all for a person who does not care to know facts as such and
to whom
only the practical standpoint matters? Perhaps science nevertheless
contributes
something.
The primary task
of a useful teacher is to teach his students to recognize
'inconvenient'
facts--I mean facts that are inconvenient for their party opinions. And
for
every party opinion there are facts that are extremely inconvenient,
for my own
opinion no less than for others. I believe the teacher accomplishes
more than a
mere intellectual task if he compels his audience to accustom itself to
the
existence of such facts. I would be so immodest as even to apply the
expression
'moral achievement,' though perhaps this may sound too grandiose for
something
that should go without saying.
Thus far I have
spoken only of practical reasons for avoiding the imposition of a
personal
point of view. But these are not the only reasons. The impossibility of
'scientifically' pleading for practical and interested stands except in
discussing the means for a firmly given and presupposed end--rests upon
reasons
that lie far deeper.
'Scientific' pleading is
meaningless in
principle because the various value spheres of the world stand in
irreconcilable conflict with each other. The elder Mill, whose
philosophy I
will not praise otherwise, was on this point right when he said If one
proceeds
from pure experience, one arrives at polytheism. This is shallow
formulation
and sounds paradoxical, and yet there is truth in it. If anything, we
realize
again today that something can be sacred not only in spite of its not
being
beautiful, but rather because and in so far as it is not beautiful. You
will
find this documented in Isaiah 53 and in Psalm 21. And, since Nietzsche, we realize that
something can
be beautiful, not only in spite of the aspect in which it is not good,
but
rather in that very aspect. You will find this expressed earlier in the
Fleurs
du mal, as Baudelaire named his volume of poems. It is commonplace
to
observe that something may be true although it is not beautiful and not
holy
and not good. Indeed it may be true in precisely those aspects. But all
these
are only the most elementary cases of the struggle that the gods of the
various
orders and values are engaged in. I do not know how one might wish to
decide
'scientifically' the value of French and German culture; for here, too,
different gods struggle with one another, now and for all times to
come.
We live as did the ancients
when their
world was not yet disenchanted of its gods and demons, only we live in
a different
sense. As Hellenic person at times sacrificed to Aphrodite and at other
times
to Apollo, and, above all, as everybody sacrificed to the gods of his
city, so
do we still nowadays, only the bearing of person has been disenchanted
and
denuded of its mystical but inwardly genuine plasticity. Fate, and
certainly no
'science,' holds sway over these gods and their struggles. One can only
understand what the godhead is for the one order or for the other, or
better,
what godhead is in the one or in the other order. With this
understanding,
however, the matter has reached its limit so far as it can be discussed
in a
lecture-room and by a professor. Yet the great and vital problem that
is
contained therein is, of course, very far from being concluded. But
forces other
than university chairs have their say in this matter.
What person will
take upon himself the attempt to 'refute scientifically' the ethic of
the
Sermon
on the Mount? For instance, the sentence, 'resist no evil,' or
the image
of turning the other cheek? And yet it is clear, in mundane
perspective, that
this is an ethic of undignified conduct; one has to choose between the
religious dignity which this ethic confers and the dignity of manly
conduct
which preaches something quite different; 'resist evil--lest you be
co-responsible for an overpowering evil.' According to our ultimate
standpoint,
the one is the devil and the other the God, and the individual has to
decide
which is God for him and which is the devil. And so it goes throughout
all the
orders of life.
The grandiose
rationalism of an ethical and methodical conduct of life which flows
from every
religious prophecy has dethroned this polytheism in favor of the 'one
thing
that is needful.' Faced with the realities of outer and inner life,
Christianity
has deemed it necessary to make those compromises and relative
judgments, which
we all know from its history. Today the routines of everyday life
challenge
religion. Many old gods ascend from their graves; they are disenchanted
and
hence take the form of impersonal forces. They strive to gain power
over our
lives and again they resume their eternal struggle with one another.
What is
hard for modern man, and especially for the younger generation, is to
measure
up to workaday existence. The ubiquitous chase for
'experience' stems
from this weakness; for it is weakness not to be able to countenance
the stern
seriousness of our fateful times.
Our civilization destines us
to realize
more clearly these struggles again, after our eyes have been blinded
for a thousand
years--blinded by the allegedly or presumably exclusive orientation
towards the
grandiose moral fervor of Christian ethics.
But enough of these questions
which lead
far away. Those of our 'youth are in error who react to all this by
saying,
'Yes, but we happen to come to lectures in order to experience
something more
than mere
analyses and statements of
fact.' The
error is that they seek in the professor something different from what
stands
before them. They crave a leader and not a teacher. But we are placed
upon the
platform solely as teachers. And these are two different things, as one
can
readily see. Permit me to take you once more to
The American boy
learns unspeakably less than the German boy. In spite of an incredible
number
of examinations, his school life has not had the significance of
turning him
into an absolute creature of examinations, such as the German. For in
Fellow students!
You come to our lectures and demand from us the qualities of
leadership,
and you fail to realize in advance that of a hundred professors at
least
ninety-nine do not and must not claim to be football masters in the
vital
problems of life, or even to be 'leaders' in matters of conduct.
Please,
consider that an individual's value does not depend on whether or not
he has
leadership qualities. And in any case, the qualities that make a person
an
excellent scholar and academic teacher are not the qualities that make
him a
leader to give directions in practical life or, more specifically, in
politics.
It is pure accident if a teacher also possesses this quality, and it is
a
critical situation if every teacher on the platform feels himself
confronted
with the students' expectation that the teacher should claim this
quality. It
is still more critical if it is left to every academic teacher to set
himself
up as a leader in the lecture-room. For those who most frequently think
of
themselves as leaders often qualify least as leaders. But irrespective
of
whether they are or are not, the platform situation simply offers no
possibility of proving themselves to be leaders. The professor
who feels
called upon to act as a counselor of youth and enjoys their trust may
prove
himself a person in personal human relations with them. And if he feels
called
upon to intervene in the struggles of worldviews and party opinions, he
may do
so outside, in the market place, in the press, in meetings, in
associations,
wherever he wishes. But after all, it is somewhat too convenient to
demonstrate
one's courage in taking a stand where the audience and possible
opponents are
condemned to silence.
Finally, you will
put the question: 'If this is so, what then does science actually and
positively contribute to practical and personal "life"?' Therewith we
are back again at the problem of science as a 'vocation.'
First, of course,
science contributes to the technology of controlling life by
calculating
external objects as well as man's activities. Well, you will say, that,
after
all, amounts to no more than the greengrocer of the American boy. I
fully
agree.
Second, science
can contribute something that the greengrocer cannot: methods of
thinking, the
tools and the training for thought. Perhaps you will say: well, that is
no
vegetable, but it amounts to no more than the means for procuring
vegetables.
Well and good, let us leave it at that for today.
Fortunately, however,
the contribution of science does not reach its limit with this. We are
in a
position to help you to a third objective: to gain clarity. Of
course,
it is presupposed that we ourselves possess clarity. As far as this is
the
case, we can make clear to you the following:
In practice, you
can take this or that position when concerned with a problem of
value--for
simplicity's sake, please think of social phenomena as examples. If you
take
such and such a stand, then, according to scientific experience, you
have to
use such and such a means in order to carry out your
conviction
practically. Now, these means are perhaps such that you believe you
must reject
them. Then you simply must choose between the end and the inevitable
means.
Does the end 'justify' the means? Or does it not? The teacher can
confront you
with the necessity of this choice. He cannot do more, so long as he
wishes to
remain a teacher and not to become a demagogue. He can, of course, also
tell
you that if you want such and such an end, then you must take into the
bargain
the subsidiary consequences which according to all experience will
occur. Again
we find ourselves in the same situation as before. These are still
problems
that can also emerge for the technician, who in numerous instances has
to make
decisions according to the principle of the lesser evil or of the
relatively
best. Only to him one thing, the main thing, is usually given, namely,
the end.
But as soon as truly 'ultimate' problems are at stake for us this is
not the
case. With this, at long last, we come to the final service that
science as
such can render to the aim of clarity, and at the same time we come to
the
limits of science.
Besides we can and
we should state: In terms of its meaning, such and such a practical
stand can
be derived with inner consistency, and hence integrity, from this or
that
ultimate value position. Perhaps it can only be derived from one such
fundamental position, or maybe from several, but it cannot be derived
from
these or those other positions. Figuratively speaking, you serve this
god and
you offend the other god when you decide to adhere to this position.
And if you
remain faithful to yourself, you will necessarily come to certain final
conclusions that subjectively make sense. This much, in principle at
least, can
be accomplished. Philosophy, as a special discipline, and the
essentially
philosophical discussions of principles in the other sciences attempt
to
achieve this. Thus, if we are competent in our pursuit (which must be
presupposed here) we can force the individual, or at least we can help
him, to
give himself an account of the ultimate meaning of his own conduct.
This
appears to me as not so trifling a thing, even for one's own personal
life.
Again, I am tempted to say of a teacher who succeeds in this: he stands
in the
service of 'moral' forces; he fulfills the duty of bringing about
self-clarification and a sense of responsibility. And I believe he will
be the
more able to accomplish this, the more conscientiously he avoids the
desire
personally to impose upon or suggest to his audience his own stand.
This proposition, which I
present here,
always takes its point of departure from the one fundamental fact, that
so long
as life remains immanent and is interpreted in its own terms. Life is
an
unceasing struggle of these gods with one another. Or speaking
directly, the
ultimately possible attitudes toward life are irreconcilable, and hence
their
struggle can never be brought to a final conclusion. Thus it is
necessary to
make a decisive choice.
Whether under
conditions, science is a worth while 'vocation' for somebody, and
whether
science itself has an objectively valuable 'Vocation' are again
judgments about
which nothing can be said in the lecture-room. To affirm the value of
science
is a presupposition for teaching there. I personally by my very work
answer in
the affirmative, and I also do so from precisely the standpoint that
hates
intellectualism as the worst devil, as youth does today, or usually
only
fancies it does. In that case the word holds for these youths: 'Mind
you, the
devil is old; grow old to understand him.' This does not mean age in
the sense
of the birth certificate. It means that if one wishes to settle with
this
devil, one must not take to flight before him as so many like to do
nowadays.
First of all, one has to see the devil's ways to the end in order to
realize
his power and his limitations.
Science today is a 'vocation'
organized
in special disciplines in the service of self-clarification and
knowledge of
interrelated facts. It is not the gift of grace of seers and prophets
dispensing sacred values and revelations, nor does it partake of the
contemplation of sages and philosophers about the meaning of the
universe.
This, to be sure, is the inescapable condition of our historical
situation.
We cannot evade it
so long as we remain true to ourselves. And if Tolstoi's question
recurs to
you: as science does not, who is to answer the question 'What shall we
do, and,
how shall we arrange our lives?' or, in the words used here tonight:
'Which of
the warring gods should we serve? Or should we serve perhaps an
entirely
different god, and who is he?' Then one can say that only a prophet or
a savior
can give the answers. If there is no such man, or if his message is no
longer
believed in, then you will certainly not compel him to appear on this
earth by
having thousands of professors, as privileged hirelings of the state,
attempt
as petty prophets in their lecture-rooms to take over his role. All
they will
accomplish is to show that they are unaware of the decisive state of
affairs:
the prophet for whom so many of our younger generation yearn simply
does not
exist. But this knowledge in its forceful significance has never become
vital
for them. The inward interest of a truly religiously 'musical' person
can never
be served by veiling to him and to others the fundamental fact that he
is
destined to live in a godless and prophetless time by giving him the
seat of armchair
prophecy. The integrity of his religious organ, it seems to me, must
rebel
against this.
Now you will be
inclined to say: Which stand does one take towards the factual
existence of
'theology' and its claims to be a 'science'? Let us not flinch and
evade the
answer. To be sure, 'theology' and 'dogmas' do not exist universally,
but
neither do they exist for Christianity alone. Rather (going backward in
time),
they exist in highly developed form also in Islam, in Manicheanism, in
Gnosticism, in Orphism, in Parsism, in Buddhism, in the Hindu sects, in
Taoism,
and in the Upanishads, and, of course, in Judaism. To be sure their
systematic
development varies greatly. It is no accident that Occidental
Christianity --in
contrast to the theological possessions of Jewry--has expanded and
elaborated
theology more systematically, or strives to do so. In the Occident the
development of theology has had by far the greatest historical
significance.
This is the product of the Hellenic spirit, and all theology of the
West goes
back to it, as (obviously) all theology of the East goes back to Indian
thought. All theology represents an intellectual rationalization of
the
possession of sacred values. No science is absolutely free from
presuppositions, and no science can prove its fundamental value to the
person
who rejects these presuppositions. Every theology, however, adds a few
specific
presuppositions for its work and thus for the justification of its
existence.
Their meaning and scope vary. Every theology, including for instance
Hinduist
theology, presupposes that the world must have a meaning, and
the
question is how to interpret this meaning so that it is intellectually
conceivable.
It is the same as with Kant's
epistemology. He took for his point of departure the presupposition:
'Scientific truth exists and it is valid,' and then asked: 'Under which
presuppositions of thought is truth possible and meaningful ? ' The
modern
aestheticians (actually or expressly, as for instance, G. V. Lukacs)
proceed
from the presupposition that 'works of art exist,' and then ask: 'How
is their
existence meaningful and possible?'
As a rule, theologies,
however, do not
content themselves with this (essentially religious and philosophical)
presupposition. They regularly proceed from the further presupposition
that
certain 'revelations' are facts relevant for salvation and as such make
possible a meaningful conduct of life. Hence, these revelations must be
believed in. Moreover, theologies presuppose that certain subjective
states and
acts possess the quality of holiness, that is, they constitute a way of
life,
or at least elements of one, that is religiously meaningful. Then the
question
of theology is: How can these presuppositions, which must simply be
accepted be
meaningfully interpreted in a view of the universe? For theology, these
presuppositions as such lie beyond the limits of 'science.' They do not
represent 'knowledge,' in the usual sense, but rather a 'possession.'
Whoever
does not 'possess' faith, or the other holy states, cannot have
theology as a
substitute for them, least of all any other science. On the contrary,
in every
'positive' theology, the devout reaches the point where the Augustinian
sentence holds: I believe not because of irrationality, but in
spite of
absurdity.
The capacity for
the accomplishment of religious virtuosos--the 'sacrifice of
intellect'--is the
decisive characteristic of the positively religious man. That this is
so is
shown by the fact that in spite (or rather in consequence) of theology
(which
unveils it) the tension between the value-spheres of 'science' and the
sphere
of 'the holy' is unbridgeable. Legitimately, only the disciple offers
the
'sacrifice of intellect' to the prophet, the believer to the church.
Never as
yet has a new prophecy emerged (and I repeat here deliberately this
image which
has offended some) by way of the need of some modern intellectuals to
furnish
their souls with, so to speak, guaranteed genuine antiques. In doing
so, they
happen to remember that religion has belonged among such antiques, and
of all
things religion is what they do not possess. By way of substitute,
however,
they play at decorating a sort of domestic chapel with small sacred
images from
all over the world, or they produce surrogates through all sorts of
psychic
experiences to which they ascribe the dignity of mystic holiness, which
they
peddle in the book market. This is plain humbug or self-deception. It
is,
however, no humbug but rather something very sincere and genuine if
some of the
youth groups who during recent years have quietly grown together give
their
human community the interpretation of a religious, cosmic, or mystical
relation, although occasionally perhaps such interpretation rests on
misunderstanding of self. True as it is that every act of genuine
brotherliness
may be linked with the awareness that it contributes something
imperishable to
a super-personal realm, it seems to me dubious whether the dignity of
purely
human and communal relations is enhanced by these religious
interpretations.
But that is no longer our theme.
The fate of our
times is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization and,
above
all, by the 'disenchantment of the world.' Precisely the ultimate and
most
sublime values have retreated from public life either into the
transcendental
realm of mystic life or into the brotherliness of direct and personal
human
relations. It is not accidental that our greatest art is intimate and
not
monumental, nor is it accidental that today only within the smallest
and
intimate circles, in personal human situations, in pianissimo, that
something is pulsating that corresponds to the prophetic pneuma, which
in former times swept through the great communities like a firebrand,
welding
them together. If we attempt to force and to 'invent' a monumental
style in
art, such miserable monstrosities are produced as the many monuments of
the
last twenty years. If one tries intellectually to construe new
religions
without a new and genuine prophecy, then, in an inner sense, something
similar
will result, but with still worse effects. And academic prophecy,
finally, will
create only fanatical sects but never a genuine community.
To the person who cannot bear
the fate of
the times, one must say: may he rather return silently, without the
usual publicity
build-up of renegades, but simply and plainly. The arms of the old
churches are
opened widely and compassionately for him. After all, they do not make
it hard
for him. One way or another he has to bring his 'intellectual
sacrifice'--that
is inevitable. If he can really do it, we shall not rebuke him. For
such an
intellectual sacrifice in favor of an unconditional religious devotion
is
ethically quite a different matter than the evasion of the plain duty
of
intellectual honesty, which sets in lacks the courage to clarify one's
own
ultimate standpoint and rather facilitates this duty by feeble relative
judgment. In my eyes, such religious return stands higher than the
academic
prophecy, which does not clearly realize that in the lecture-rooms of
the university
no other virtue holds but plain intellectual honsety. It, however,
compels us
to state that for the many who today tarry for new prophets and
saviors, the
situation is the same as resounds in the beautiful Edomite watchman's
song of
the period of exile that has been included among Isaiah's oracles:
He
calls to me
out of Seir, Watchman, what of the night? Watchman, what of the night?
The
watchman said, The morning comes, and also the night; if you will
inquire,
inquire, and come again.
The people to whom
this was said has enquired and tarried for more than two millennia, and
we are
shaken when we realize its fate. From this we want to draw the lesson
that
nothing is gained by yearning and tarrying alone, and we shall act
differently.
We shall set to work and meet the 'demands of the day,' in human
relations as
well as in our vocation. This, however, is plain and simple, if each
finds and
obeys the demon who holds the fibers of his very life.
Navigating
Uncertainties
Montgomery College's Planetarium home page
Web page by Dr. Harold Alden Williams.
Last changed 10:20PM October 1, 2008.