The Rudolf Steiner Archive

2. Theosophy and Antisophy

[ 1 ] Eight days ago, when I attempted here to examine the nature of spiritual scientific research and its relationship to the spiritual world, I took the liberty of pointing out how it comes as no surprise at all to those who are deeply immersed in this spiritual science—those who, in a certain sense, recognize their life’s goals in it—that this spiritual science encounters the most diverse forms of opposition, misunderstanding, and so on from the various perspectives of the present. Now, I certainly do not consider it my task to engage in a discussion—which would be of little fruit—of individual forms of opposition or individual viewpoints from which such misunderstandings and opposition arise; for there is another standpoint one can take toward this matter. This is to attempt, first of all, to uncover the roots of every possible form of opposition to spiritual science. If one understands these roots, then many individual instances of opposition can also be explained.

[ 2 ] Now, I do not in any way wish to equate what I have been presenting here for years as spiritual science with what is called “theosophy” by this or that group. For what is sometimes called theosophy today offers little incentive to agree with it in any way. But not from the standpoint of contemporary prejudices, not from the standpoint of any ambitious aspirations that have appropriated the name “theosophy,” but from a legitimate point of view, the spiritual science represented here can be called theosophical. And this justifies the topic of this evening, which aims to discuss the relationship between Theosophy and that which, within human nature itself, I might say, rebels against this theosophy—what one might describe as a mood in the human soul that is all too easily present, and which, out of passion, out of emotion, but often also out of a certain belief, feels compelled to turn against theosophy, and which shall be referred to here as antisophy.

[ 3 ] If you consider what was said eight days ago, you will recall how it was pointed out that spiritual science—or, let us say today, since spiritual science is to be understood as theosophical—that theosophy arrives at its insights not when the human soul simply remains where it stands in everyday life, but when this human soul, through its own impulse and its own activity, undergoes a process of development within itself. And this development can indeed be achieved. From the hints given in the first lecture of this winter, we have seen that through such a development the human soul arrives at an inner state quite different from that which it experiences in everyday life; that the way it perceives itself, the way it positions itself in the world, becomes entirely different from what it is in everyday life. Through the development referred to here, something is born, as it were, within the human soul—something that is like a higher self within the ordinary self, a higher self which, to use Fichte’s term, is endowed with higher senses—senses that perceive a real spiritual world, just as the soul perceives the natural physical world with the aid of the external senses. Everything in theosophical knowledge rests on the fact that this knowledge is not sought through the ordinary state of the soul, but through a state of the soul that must first be developed. One sees, however, immediately that a certain prerequisite underlies what has just been said—a prerequisite that, admittedly, ceases to be a major prerequisite for those who actually follow the path indicated in the description of this development. What appears to be a prerequisite becomes, for them, a genuine experience, an experienced fact. What appears to be a prerequisite is, in essence—no matter how much one may object to it or how much objection is raised against it—something that lives as a longing in every human soul; it seems to be a prerequisite that, if a person descends deeply enough into his or her soul, he or she will find within that soul something that binds him or her to the divine-spiritual foundation of existence. To find that point within one’s own self where the self-aware soul is rooted in the divine-spiritual foundation of the universe—that is, after all, the goal, the longing of every human soul. And everything that calls itself Theosophy—or at least is entitled to that name—fully and consciously professes this goal, this longing. Accordingly, “antisophy” could very easily be captured in an idea, in a concept. It would be opposition to everything that lives in the longing for the goal of grasping that deep point within the human soul where this human soul is connected to the eternal primordial sources of existence.

[ 4 ] How can such an antisophy develop in the human soul?

[ 5 ] At first glance, one might think it paradoxical or strange that opposition could arise against what one must surely recognize as the noblest aspiration of the human soul. But lo and behold: it is precisely spiritual science that shows that antisophy is not at all something entirely arbitrary in the human soul, but that, on the contrary, it is, in a certain sense, necessarily rooted in the human soul—that it belongs, in a certain sense, to nature and to the very essence of the human soul. The human soul is not, in fact, theosophically inclined from the outset; it is, in fact, antisophically inclined from the outset. One must delve into certain insights of spiritual science itself if one wishes to properly appreciate this seemingly paradoxical statement.

[ 6 ] If the spiritual researcher truly undergoes some of what was described in the previous lecture—if he achieves the shift in attitude, the altered state of his soul, that was characterized—then he enters a genuine spiritual world. Before his spiritual gaze, what might be called external nature or external sensory existence is, as it were, immediately obliterated; only a memory remains of what was experienced in ordinary consciousness, and a true, real spiritual world emerges—a spiritual world in which the human soul can be perceived not only during the period it lives through between birth or conception and death, but also during the period between death and the next birth. Attention was already drawn to repeated earthly lives in the last lecture. Human beings are thus referred to that existence in which they are a spirit among spirits, the state in which they find themselves after having laid aside their physical existence at death. And this world is experienced in the same way that external nature is experienced by the external senses; in this world, the soul encounters those forces that not only confront the human being in ordinary consciousness but also constitute that ordinary consciousness itself. Indeed, this is also the world that builds the instruments for ordinary consciousness and the entire physical body, including the entire nervous system. It becomes a truth for the spiritual researcher that we as human beings are not only built up from the forces lying in the hereditary line—those derived from our ancestors—but that intervening in the system of these physical forces is that which descends from spiritual-soul regions and constitutes a system of spiritual forces that take hold of the physical organization given to us by our father and mother, and within it plastically shape what we are to become in accordance with the previous earthly lives we have lived. Something like an expansion of memory arises through that spiritual science of which I spoke last time—an expansion of memory beyond the present earthly existence into regions of spiritual experience.

[ 7 ] When we view the world and human development in this way, a certain boundary that arises within this human life—a certain turning point—presents itself to the soul in a very special way. It is the turning point that lies in the earliest stages of human childhood development. There we see how, in the very earliest stages of childhood development, a human being lives something like a dreamlike existence—an existence that has yet to acquire the full clarity of self-consciousness and the full clarity of remembering experiences. The consciousness of early childhood is a dim one. Human beings, so to speak, sleep or dream their way into existence, and that which actually makes us feel like human beings—our developed inner life with its distinct center of self-consciousness—only emerges at a certain turning point in our childhood. What, from the perspective of spiritual science, actually exists prior to this turning point?

[ 8 ] When the spiritual researcher observes the child before it has reached this turning point, he sees how the spiritual forces that have descended from the spiritual world and taken hold of the organism—in order to shape it plastically in accordance with previous earthly lives—are fully at work on the entire organism. And because the totality of the spiritual forces that constitute the human soul pours itself into everything that lives and weaves within the organism—everything that forms and builds up the organism and organizes it so that it can later become the instrument of the self-conscious being—because, in other words, all the forces in the soul are used to build up this organism, therefore nothing remains that could in any way give rise to a distinct self-consciousness in the very earliest stages of childhood. All the soul’s powers are used to build up the organism; and a consciousness that is employed in the building up of the organic being can, at most, attain a dreamlike state, but is for the most part a sleeping consciousness.

[ 9 ] What, then, occurs for the human being at that turning point I have spoken of?

[ 10 ] The organism, the body itself, gradually offers more and more resistance. One could describe this resistance by saying: the body gradually solidifies within itself; in particular, the nervous system solidifies, no longer allowing itself to be shaped completely freely and flexibly by the soul forces, and thus offers resistance. This means that only part of the soul force can flow into the human organism; another part is, as it were, repelled and cannot find points of entry to work its way into this human organism. Perhaps I may use an image to illustrate what is actually happening here. Why is it that when we stand in front of a mirror, we can always see ourselves in the mirror? We can do so because the rays of light are reflected back by the mirror’s surface. We cannot see ourselves in plain glass because the rays of light pass right through it. So it is with the child in its earliest years: it cannot develop self-consciousness because all the soul forces present simply pass through, just as the rays of light pass through plain glass. Only from the moment when the organism has consolidated within itself is a portion of the soul’s power reflected back, just as the rays of light are reflected back by the mirror’s surface. Then the soul life is reflected within itself; and this soul life, reflecting within itself and experiencing itself, is what shines forth as self-consciousness. This is what constitutes our true human, essential experience in earthly life. And so, once the turning point described has occurred, we live within this reflected soul life.

[ 11 ] In light of this inner life, what does the development that the spiritual researcher undergoes actually mean?

[ 12 ] This development, as I described it last time, is in fact, as I would like to say, a leap across an abyss. It is such that the spiritual researcher must leave behind the realm of the soul life that has been cast back, must leave behind everything that has emerged as soul life precisely after this turning point, and must penetrate into those creatively active, formative soul forces that exist prior to this turning point. But the spiritual researcher must plunge down into what is present in the human being before this turning point—in the earliest stages of childhood—with full consciousness, with the very consciousness he has cultivated within the reflected life of the soul. There he delves into those forces that build up the human organism in the earliest childhood, forces that can no longer be perceived later on because the organism transforms itself, as it were, into a mirror. The spiritual researcher’s development must indeed cross this abyss. From the soul life that has been cast back by organic nature, he must enter into the creative spiritual-soul life. He must, to use this philosophical expression, advance from the created to the creative. Then, as he plunges into those depths that lie, as it were, behind the organic mirror, he perceives something quite specific. He truly perceives the very point where the soul unites with the creative, cosmic source of existence. But beyond that, he perceives something else as well: he perceives that there is a purpose in this act of being cast back. Had the turning point not occurred—had the casting back not taken place—then human beings would never have been able to attain the full development of earthly consciousness, nor a clear sense of self-consciousness. In this respect, earthly life is the education toward self-consciousness. The spiritual researcher can penetrate the realm that is otherwise experienced by human beings only as a dream only by first acquiring the prerequisites for this within earthly life—that is, by cultivating self-consciousness—and then entering that realm with this self-consciousness, a realm that is otherwise experienced without self-consciousness. From this, however, it is evident that the most valuable thing a human being can acquire for earthly life—the waking self-consciousness, for the sake of which we actually enter into earthly life—is, for ordinary experience, cut off from the experience of the very roots of existence. In everyday life and in conventional science, a person lives within that which, after this turning point, permeates and interweaves their soul life. They must live within it in order to achieve their earthly goal. This does not mean, however, that as a researcher of the spirit they may not, so to speak, step out of it and look around in the other realm where their roots lie. — Perhaps I may also put it this way: Human beings must step out of the realm of creative nature in order to confront their own being—reflected back within themselves—and to find themselves in relation to the spiritual-soul nature that is connected to the sources of existence.

[ 13 ] As we can see, the human being is in fact, because of his earthly mission, set apart from that region in which, as a spiritual researcher, he must find what can be found within spiritual science. If human beings, without having undergone spiritual scientific training, were ever to confuse what they can experience in one region or the other, they would never be able to attain a truly clear sense of standing within the world during such moments of confusion. All human sensory existence is based on the fact that human beings are set apart from the realm where the sources and roots of existence lie, where the spiritual world is to be found in its innermost essence. And the more a person wants to live in the sensory world, the more clearly they want to place themselves within it and feel their way through it, the more they must step out of the higher world. What we possess as ordinary, everyday, practical knowledge derives its very strength and power precisely from that stepping out, as I have just described.

[ 14 ] Is it any wonder, then, that human beings initially learn to appreciate what they have by being set apart from the spiritual world? After all, in ordinary life they do not dwell within the spiritual world; they do not dwell within that which constitutes the source of their existence. And they had to be set apart from it in order to live their earthly existence in an appropriate manner. As a result, an appreciation for everything that is not connected to the source of existence naturally develops in human beings at first. An appreciation of knowledge develops, along with a clinging to everything that lies outside the source of existence. So it is only natural that a person who develops such an appreciation will reject anything that approaches them—something intended to convey a message from a world in which they are not initially present. For, in essence, they must regard it as something outside of which they naturally stand. Through the course of their life, people are therefore not attuned in their soul to recognizing that which, so to speak, binds them to the innermost core of the world, but rather to recognizing that which binds them within themselves, insofar as they stand outside this spiritual-soul root of the world. In ordinary life, human beings are attuned to the antisophic rather than the theosophic, and it would be naive to believe that ordinary life could be attuned to anything other than the antisophic. One can only become theosophically disposed when, like a recollection of a lost homeland, a longing first arises in the soul—and then, through sound understanding, an ever-increasing urge to penetrate the spiritual-soul root of the world itself. The theosophical disposition must first be acquired from the anti-theosophical disposition. In an age such as ours, this is, deep down, quite repugnant to many souls. In our age, where external culture has achieved such admirable accomplishments, something has developed that evokes a natural inclination toward external experience—a natural affinity for external experience—which suppresses the longing just mentioned. Precisely in light of our times, it is entirely understandable that the human soul is inclined toward antisophism. But one must indeed recognize, on the one hand, in the entire nature of human development and, on the other hand, precisely in what is manifesting itself in the present, the necessity of a theosophical deepening of humanity for our time. For the observer of human spiritual development sees many such things. Let us point out one thing that can show us how, in our time, an antisophical mood is, so to speak, something of a matter of course.

[ 15 ] Diogenes Laertius tells us how, on one occasion, the ancient Greek sage Pythagoras—who was regarded as a very wise man by Leon, the ruler of Phlius—was asked by Leon how he actually approached life and how he felt about it. Pythagoras is said to have replied as follows: “It seems to me that life is like a festival. Some people come to participate as competitors in the games; others come as merchants seeking profit; but there is a third kind of people who come only to watch the proceedings. They come neither to participate personally in the games nor for the sake of profit, but simply to watch the proceedings. That is how life appears to me as well: some pursue their pleasure, others pursue their profit; but then there are those like me, who call themselves philosophers as seekers of truth. They are there to observe life; they feel as if they have been transported from a spiritual homeland into the earthly world, observe life, and then return to that spiritual homeland.

[ 16 ] Of course, one must take such a statement as a metaphor, as a figure of speech. And one would probably only gain a complete understanding of Pythagoras’s view if one were to add something supplementary; without it, this statement could very easily be interpreted as if philosophers were merely the gawkers and good-for-nothings of life. For, of course, Pythagoras means that philosophers, through their contemplation, can benefit their fellow human beings not only by inspiring them to contemplate as well, but also by seeking that which is not immediately tied to the practical benefits of life. But this is precisely what, as it is developed further and further within itself, leads to the very root of existence; so that what is perceived, as it were, “without utility,” is what leads to the eternal in the human soul. This is what one would have to add. But Pythagoras intended to express something specific: that in what is not placed within the development of the human soul for external benefit, but is instead deepened within itself, one finds the impulse to immerse oneself in the eternally imperishable; that one must therefore develop something in the soul that cannot be directly applied in external life, but which the human soul develops out of an inner impulse, out of inner longing and determination. The recognition of such a striving is found in the distant past of European spiritual life in the teachings of Pythagoras.

[ 17 ] Let us now turn our attention to a phenomenon of recent times, which I mention not to highlight philosophical curiosities, but because it is truly indicative of the nature of intellectual life in our time.

[ 18 ] A worldview known as pragmatism has spread from America to Europe—and is also valued by certain individuals in Europe. This worldview appears quite peculiar when compared to what Pythagoras demands of a worldview. Whether anything that the human soul expresses as its insight is true or false in relation to anything other than that human soul is, in essence, not at all the question posed by this worldview of pragmatism; rather, it asks only whether a thought that a person forms as a worldview is fruitful and useful for life. Thus, pragmatism does not ask whether anything is true or false in any objective sense, but rather, for example, the following. Let us take one of the most significant concepts for human beings: Should a person believe that there is a unified self within them? After all, they do not perceive this unified self. What they do perceive is the succession of sensations, perceptions, ideas, and so on. But it is useful to conceive of this succession of sensations, perceptions, and ideas as if a unified self were present; this brings order to one’s perception, enables a person to carry out what they do from the depths of their soul as if from a single mold, and prevents life from becoming fragmented. Or let us turn to the highest idea. Pragmatism is not at all concerned with the truth content of the concept of God; rather, it asks: Should one embrace the idea of a divine being? And it arrives at the answer: It is good to embrace the idea of a divine being, for if one did not embrace the idea that the world is governed by a divine primordial being, the soul would remain desolate and barren; it is therefore good for the soul to embrace this idea. — Here, the value of a worldview is interpreted in a manner entirely opposite to that of Pythagoras. For Pythagoras, a worldview is meant to interpret that which is not considered part of the utility of life. At present, however, a worldview is spreading—and there is every prospect that it will capture many minds—which states outright—and in practice has already done so—that what is valuable is that which is conceived as if it were there to ensure that life proceeds in the most beneficial way for human beings!

[ 19 ] We see that human development has unfolded in such a way that the very opposite of what was regarded as the hallmark of a true worldview—so to speak, at the dawn of European philosophical thought—is now considered the hallmark of a correct worldview. This is the path that the development of humanity has taken in its mindset—from Pythagorean “theosophy” to modern pragmatic “antisophy.” For this pragmatism is thoroughly antisophy—it is antisophy precisely because it views all concepts that the soul can form about anything lying outside the sensory world from the standpoint of practical value and utility for the sensory world. That is what is significant, and that is the other point I must mention: that in our present time, something is making its way into people’s souls—a sort of prevalence of the antisophic mood. How widespread today is what Du Bois-Reymond, once a brilliant representative of the natural sciences, developed as his “Ignorabimus” speech at a naturalists’ conference in Leipzig (1872)! Du Bois-Reymond admits—and he develops this idea with extraordinary wit—that what is to be called science in the proper sense can only concern itself with the laws of the external world, the world of space and time, and can never lead to an understanding of even the slightest element of the life of the soul as such. Later, Du Bois-Reymond even spoke of “seven mysteries of the universe” — the nature of matter and force, the origin of motion, the first emergence of life, the purposeful organization of nature, the emergence of simple sensory perception and consciousness, rational thought and the origin of language, and free will —, which he says science cannot grasp because science is, by its very nature, confined to a realm that must be that of “naturalism.” And characteristically, Du Bois-Reymond concluded his discussions in 1872 by stating: one would have to delve into something entirely different—rather than the realm of science—if one wished to comprehend even the slightest element of the life of the soul. Let them, then, try the only way out: that of supernaturalism. And he added these significant words, which are not intended as proof—for anyone who examines his arguments can see for themselves that they are not proof of anything derived from this or that source, for which this or that reason is given—but are added as something he asserts in a wholly dogmatic manner, stemming from his inner state of mind: It is simply that where supernaturalism begins, science ends.

[ 20 ] What does such an addition to the other statement mean—that in order to grasp even the simplest mental element, one must resort to supernaturalism—when one adds: “Except that where supernaturalism begins, science ends”? One can make a peculiar discovery—which, admittedly, I can present today only as a kind of assertion, but which will be fully elucidated by much of what follows in the subsequent lectures—one can make a remarkable discovery when one surveys what scientific life is like today. And to say at least a few words right here in this second lecture of the series against a misunderstanding that crops up time and again, I would like to note that none of these lectures are in any way intended to be opposed to contemporary science, but rather that they are presented from the standpoint of full recognition of this contemporary science—insofar as it remains within its own boundaries. I must say this because, time and again—I will not specify the nature of the claims—assertions arise that these lectures are being delivered in an anti-scientific spirit. But that is not the case. Nevertheless, although everything said here is based on a complete recognition of the great, brilliant, and admirable achievements of modern science, it must be pointed out that it can be rigorously demonstrated: Nowhere in the vast realm of scientific life is there even the slightest justification for the claim that science ends where supernaturalism begins! There is no justification. One discovers that such a claim is made without any justification whatsoever—out of an act of will, out of a feeling, out of a state of mind, out of an anti-philosophical disposition. And why, this must be the next question, is such a claim made? Here, once again, spiritual science can provide a kind of insight.

[ 21 ] Such a mood is, in fact, outwardly comprehensible precisely as a “mood” from everything that has been discussed today. However, in order to address the spiritual-scientific explanation of what has been characterized above, I must make a few assumptions. There is much within the human soul that can be described as subconscious soul experiences—experiences that unfold in such a way that they are certainly present in the soul and shape our inner life, yet do not fully rise into the clear consciousness of the day. There are depths of human soul life that do not play out in concepts, ideas, or acts of will—at least not in the conscious ones—but only in character, in the nature of volition, and in the imprint of human soul life. There is such a thing as a subconscious inner life; and everything that can exist in conscious inner life—and that plays a role there—also exists in the subconscious. Emotions, passions, sympathies, and antipathies—which we clearly feel in our souls in a conscious way in everyday life—can also exist in the subconscious regions, but they are not perceived there; rather, they act in the soul like a force of nature, just as, for example, digestion takes place unconsciously in the organism, — except that they are psychological rather than physical. There is an entire realm of subconscious soul life. And much of what a person asserts in life—what he believes and thinks—he does not believe or think on the basis of premises of which he is fully conscious; rather, he believes, thinks, and maintains these views out of his subconscious soul life, because emotions and inclinations of which he is unaware compel him to do so. Even the best representatives of external, empirical psychology today have already come to the conclusion that what a person asserts does not lie, in its entirety, within mere reason—that is, within what a person consciously surveys. There is an entire branch of contemporary experimental psychology devoted to this subject. Stern is a representative of this school of thought, which seeks to demonstrate how even in the most scientific assertions, a person’s views are colored and tinged by their sympathies and antipathies, their inclinations and emotions. And even purely external psychology will gradually prove that it is a prejudice to believe that one can truly, in everyday life or in ordinary science, take in everything that leads one to formulate one’s assertions. Thus, even for external psychology or the study of the soul, it is by no means an absurd claim today to unhesitatingly characterize the discovery just mentioned by saying: When someone says, “Where supernaturalism begins, science ends”—a sentiment expressed as a fundamental attitude by Du Bois-Reymond, but one that is also shared by countless people today who are completely unaware of it—it is no wonder that this is perceived as emerging from the subconscious life of the soul. But how does it emerge? What compels the soul to assert as a dogma: “Where supernaturalism begins, science ends”? What was at work in Du Bois-Reymond’s subconscious life back then, and what is at work today in the subconscious lives of thousands upon thousands of people who set the tone in society, when this statement is uttered or felt as if it were subconsciously underlying their thinking? Spiritual science provides the following answer.

[ 22 ] In human life, we are very familiar with an emotion that we describe as fear, terror, or anxiety. When this emotion of fear or terror arises in everyday life, it is something every human soul experiences. There are also very interesting, objective scientific studies today on emotions such as fear, terror, and anxiety; for example, I recommend that everyone take a look at the excellent studies by the Danish researcher Lange on emotional states; among these are studies on fear, anxiety, and so on. When we experience terror in everyday life—especially when the terror reaches a certain intensity—something occurs that gently numbs a person, so that they no longer have complete control over their body. One becomes “frozen with terror,” one’s facial expression changes, but all sorts of specific physical symptoms accompanying terror also manifest. These accompanying symptoms have already been described quite well by conventional science, as, for example, by the researcher mentioned above. Such terror affects the very vascular system of the human being and manifests symptomatically within it. Physically altered states—and especially the need to hold onto something externally—occur during a moment of terror. “I’m going to fall over,” many who have been terrified have said. This points more deeply to the nature of fright than is commonly supposed. It stems from the fact that when the soul experiences fright, the organism undergoes changes. The organism’s forces are concentrated, as it were, spasmodically on the nervous system; the nervous system becomes, so to speak, overloaded with soul force; as a result, certain blood vessels tense up, and this tension cannot then be released.

[ 23 ] But now spiritual science steps in and examines the human soul when it is engaged in the activities of thinking and imagining, which are directed toward external nature, toward the external world. For one can indeed examine the nature of that kind of activity in which a soul finds itself—a soul that leaves the rest of the body at rest, in a certain state, and directs its outward-focused thinking toward external experimentation and observation. When one considers the image of such a person from a spiritual scientific perspective, it is exactly the same as that of a person who is in a state of mild shock. As paradoxical as this statement may sound: the diversion of the soul’s forces from the entire organism brings about something very similar to shock, to a numbing caused by shock. That “coolness” of thought which one must cultivate in scientific observation is, as paradoxical as it may sound, akin to shock, to fear—namely, to dread; and a dedicated researcher who is truly immersed in his research thoughts is, when his thoughts are directed outward, or when he is reflecting on something in the external world, in a state akin to fear.

[ 24 ] What distinguishes a state of surrender to the external world from spiritual-scientific development is that the latter is based on the soul’s activities being detached from the brain alone, so that what is caused by a one-sided, convulsive exertion of the soul’s activity—and by allowing one aspect of bodily activity to take precedence at the expense of the other—does not occur. And this state, akin to fear, produces what I characterized earlier. Of course, anyone can deny this fear I am now speaking of, for it occurs in the subconscious. But it is all the more certainly present there. In a certain sense, the researcher who directs his gaze outward is perpetually, continuously immersed in such a state of mind that the same thing prevails in the subconscious regions of his inner life as prevails consciously in a soul that is in fear. And now I will say something that sounds simple, that is not meant to be simple, but that may, precisely because of its simplicity, help foster understanding. When someone is in fear, they can very easily fall into a state of mind that can be described with the words: “I must hold on to something; I need something to hold on to, for otherwise I will fall!” This is the state of mind of the scientific researcher, as it has just been described: He must concentrate on one-sided thinking; he subconsciously develops fear and needs external, sensory-based matter to hold on to, so that he does not sink into the subconscious fear which, if it does not progress toward theosophy, finds nothing to hold on to, and which otherwise—like the fearful person who wants to hold on to some object—clings to matter. “Give me something in the external material world that I can hold on to!” This sentiment lives in the subconscious of the ordinary scientist. This leads to the subconscious tendency to accept as science only that which allows no room for fear, because one clings to the materialistic conception of the world. And this is what the anti-sophic attitude implies: Where supernaturalism begins, science ends—that is, what one can hold onto comes to an end.

[ 25 ] This, however, points to something that must understandably exist in an age in which the very nature, the very essence of the age, demands, in many respects, a immersion in external observation and in external nature. This points to something that does not live within the individual personally, but rather lives truly in all those who today develop an antisophical disposition—whether this manifests itself in the assertion that “Theosophy is something that goes beyond science; there is no certainty in it; it leaves the secure ground of science,” or whether it manifests itself when someone says: “What people advocate as theosophy only leads to internal or external nonsense; surely nothing in this field is certain in the scientific sense, but one must develop a mere belief that comes from here or there.” Whether someone says: “My family order will be torn apart if a member of the family professes Theosophy,” or whether another says: “If I devote myself to Theosophy, the joys of life will be spoiled for me”—all these things are, of course, not true, but they are said out of a certain frame of mind: they are a veiled expression of an anti-theosophical sentiment. And this anti-theosophical sentiment is understandable. For to the truly theosophically minded person—who knows that the human soul, for its own salvation and well-being, must always seek connection with the world to which it is bound at its deepest roots—nothing is more understandable than this anti-theosophical sentiment. Any kind of opposition, any kind of misunderstanding, even any kind of abuse or agitation directed against theosophy is, after all, understandable—entirely understandable. And anyone who might voice such misunderstandings, such opposition, and the like should always bear in mind that, no matter how—let us say the worst—he may rage, be angry, or vent his frustration against Theosophy, none of it will seem the slightest bit incomprehensible or surprising to the theosophically minded person, because the latter can indeed understand him. The person with a theosophical sensibility differs from him only in that the one who struggles or rages in this way usually does not know why he is doing so, because the sources of this lie in the subconscious, which of its own accord stirs up the anti-theosophical mood; whereas the theosophically minded person can at the same time know that this anti-theosophical mood is the most natural thing in the world as long as one has not grasped what the noblest aspiration of the human soul is. When one is in an antisophical mood, one does not demonstrate that one has judged well or thought logically, but only that one has not yet taken the step toward understanding that Theosophy speaks from the very sources of existence.

[ 26 ] And even those who are not spiritual researchers can understand this theosophy, can fully embrace it, and make it—in a spiritual sense—the living elixir of their soul life. Why? Because what the spiritual researcher experiences, as it were, beyond ordinary sensory experience, can be expressed in the same language used to describe the experiences of everyday life and everyday science. That is precisely the aim of these lectures: to speak the same language—not the external language, but the language of thought—for the spiritual realms as is spoken in external science. However, one can experience the strangest things—for example, that among those who oppose theosophy out of an antisophical attitude, one cannot recognize the language they use for external life and external science when they speak about the spiritual realm.

[ 27 ] What theosophy can be for human beings is to give them the possibility of a connection with the primordial source of their existence, and then to point them to that point where the depths of their soul are connected with the depths of the world. Because in theosophy, a person grasps the divine-creative forces that organize him, that come into being with him and take hold of his body to shape it plastically, thus, through Theosophy, the human being stands within that world force which can give not only the body but also the soul health and strength, security and hope, and everything it needs for life. Just as, through Theosophy, a person penetrates into the creative source of existence in relation to all that lies beyond the physical world, so too does he penetrate into the creative source of existence with regard to his moral life. Existence is elevated—elevated in the best sense of the word. Through theosophy, a person feels their purpose and their worth, but also feels their tasks and duties in the world, because they find themselves truly connected to that of which they are otherwise only an unconscious part. Life outside this source—life in antisophy—desolates the soul’s existence. Fundamentally, all spiritual desolation, all pessimism, all doubt about existence, all inability to cope with one’s duties—indeed, all lack of moral impulses—springs from an antisophical attitude toward life. Theosophy is not meant to offer admonitions or the like, but rather to point to the truth inherent in life. Whoever recognizes this truth will find within it the impulses of life, both in the external and moral realms. Theosophy, so to speak, restores the human soul to the state it must have; for it gives the soul that which makes it feel as if it were truly transported into a foreign land into which it was destined to come. For Theosophy is not hostile to the earth. When a person comes to understand themselves through it, they understand themselves in such a way that, from a foreign land—where they must be in order to attain their full human significance—they must ascend once more into the world where their roots lie, where their true home is. And from this recognition of home, from this sense of belonging that theosophy can provide, the soul draws courage to face life, insight into life, and clarity regarding its duties and the impulses of life—which, under an anti-theosophical mindset, always remain dark and dull, even if one believes them to be as bright and clear as can be. Theosophy truly creates the very mood that—if the word is not misused—can become a monistic state of mind, a feeling of oneness with the Spirit that interweaves and permeates the world. And knowing oneself to be within this Spirit is theosophy—such a knowing of oneself within this Spirit that one knows: What lives and weaves within me is pulsed through and empowered by the Spirit that flows through all existence.

[ 28 ] Nevertheless, the greatest minds in the development of humanity felt a kinship with this theosophy, even if they did not always rise to the level of what, at the beginning of the twentieth century—for the world’s development continues to advance—can be presented as an understanding of the world. When Fichte, with sharply defined lines of thought, attempts to present the nature of the human “I” throughout entire books, and when what emerges for him—arising from lines of thought entirely different from those discussed here—as a mood crystallizes, as it were, into the words: “The human being who truly experiences himself in his ‘I’ experiences himself within the spiritual world”—then that is a theosophical mood, a theosophical world-consciousness. Then that is something which, arising from this theosophical world-consciousness, has precisely in Fichte given rise to those beautiful words that appear as a necessary consequence of the theosophical world-consciousness. It is truly magnificent how Fichte, in his lectures “On the Vocation of the Scholar,” coined a few sentences in which what he had thought about so much—and which appears like a theosophical mood—crystallizes into words: When I have recognized myself in my “I,” standing within the spiritual world, then I have also recognized myself in my calling! We would say: that the “I” has found the point where, in its own being, it is connected to the roots of the world’s existence. And Fichte goes on to say: “I boldly lift my head up toward the looming mountain range, and toward the raging waterfall, and toward the crashing clouds swimming in a sea of fire, and say: I am eternal and defy your power! Let it all come crashing down upon me, and you, Earth, and you, Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult, and all you elements, foam and rage and grind to dust in the wild struggle the last speck of solar dust of the body I call my own—my will alone, with its firm plan, shall hover boldly and coldly above the ruins of the universe. For I have seized my destiny, and it is more enduring than you; it is eternal, and I am eternal like it.” This is a statement that springs from a theosophical mindset. On another occasion, while writing the preface to his “The Scholar’s Vocation,” he spoke these significant words against the antisophical spirit: “That ideals cannot be realized in the real world, we others perhaps know as well as they do, perhaps even better. We merely assert that reality must be judged by them and, by those who feel the strength within themselves to do so, must be modified. ‘Suppose’—so says Fichte; I might not presume to say this so readily if it were not Fichte who said it—‘even if they could not convince themselves of this, they lose very little in the process, once they are what they are; and humanity loses nothing in the process. This merely makes it clear that they alone are not factored into the plan for the ennoblement of humanity. Humanity will undoubtedly continue on its path; as for them, may benevolent nature take charge and grant them, at the right time, rain and sunshine, wholesome nourishment, and the undisturbed circulation of their vital fluids—and, in the process, wise thoughts!”

[ 29 ] So says Fichte. And one feels a kinship with the theosophical spirit; even though, as I said, spirits of bygone eras could not speak about the spiritual world in such concrete terms as is possible today, one still feels a kinship with these figures who possessed this theosophical sensibility, this theosophical spirit. That is why, even as I say such bold things in these lectures, I always feel, in every word and every sentence, in harmony with Goethe—and especially in harmony with Goethe in the theosophical spirit that fully and vividly permeates everything he thought and wrote; so that he was also able to utter a fitting remark regarding the theosophical and antisophical mood—a remark with which I shall take the liberty of concluding today’s reflection on “Theosophy and Antisophy.” Goethe had heard a rather antisophical remark that originated from a brilliant, eminent mind, Albrecht von Haller. But Albrecht von Haller essentially lived in a particularly antisophical spirit, even though he was a great natural scientist of his time; nevertheless, it is an antisophical statement when he says:

No creative spirit
Can penetrate the depths of nature.
Blessed is he to whom she shows
Only her outer shell!

[ 30 ] Goethe perceived this—even though he did not use the terms “theosophical” and “antisophical”—as an antisophical sentiment. And he characterizes—somewhat drastically, but with words intended to reject such a way of thinking—the impression that Haller’s “antisophic” term made on him, expressing the idea that, under such a way of thinking, the soul would, so to speak, have to lose itself, lose the strength and dignity given to it in order to know itself:

“Into the heart of nature—”
O you philistine! —
“No creative spirit penetrates,”
Me and my brothers and sisters
May you never
Recall such words;
We think, place by place
We are within.
“Blessed is he to whom she shows
Only the outer shell!”
I’ve heard that repeated for sixty years,
I curse it, but secretly;
Tell me a thousand, a thousand times:
She gives everything abundantly and gladly;
Nature has neither core
Nor shell,
She is everything at once;
Examine yourself above all else,
Whether you are core or shell.