The Rudolf Steiner Archive

3. The Immortality of the Soul, the Forces of Destiny, and the Course of Human Life

[ 1 ] What makes it difficult to fully grasp spiritual science—as it is understood here—is that it must not only think about certain mysteries of life in a different way than ordinary consciousness does—mysteries of life that many people believe are completely beyond human understanding, and some even believe lie outside of reality—but that it arrives at a way of thinking that is, in its nature and in its entire form, different from the thinking of ordinary consciousness. Spiritual science arrives at a form of thinking that, as indicated in the last two lectures I have given here, must first be unfolded from ordinary consciousness, just as a flower must be unfolded from a plant that has not yet bloomed. One can say, however, that the development of human spiritual culture in the nineteenth century and up to the present day has given rise to many ideas and concepts that are on the path toward this spiritual science. Even if the corresponding endeavors within modern intellectual development diverge radically from this spiritual science, they nevertheless raise demands for the understanding of certain mysteries of life and the world that are moving along the path toward spiritual science. And here one may point in particular to an idea that has been widely discussed in recent times within certain circles—not only those in which Eduard von Hartmann, the well-known philosopher, popularized it, but also within other scholarly circles—namely, the idea, the concept of the unconscious, or, as one might perhaps better say, the subconscious in human soul life.

[ 2 ] Let’s see what is actually meant by this “unconscious” or “subconscious.” Although a wide variety of people interpret it in a wide variety of ways, ultimately what is meant boils down to this: that in the depths of the human soul there lies something which, by its very nature, actually constitutes the foundation of that human soul, but which cannot be reached by ordinary everyday consciousness, nor even by the ordinary consciousness of science. So one can say: Those who speak of the subconscious or unconscious in the human soul do so in such a way that one can see they are convinced that the true nature of the soul cannot be grasped through anything that a person can bring into their everyday consciousness—or even into ordinary scientific consciousness—through their ordinary thinking, feeling, and the penetration of their volitional impulses. One can say that, to the extent that this conception has just been characterized here, spiritual science can, in essence, agree with it. However, it is the very nature of spiritual science—as understood here—that it must, from a certain point of view, agree with various worldviews, yet it must follow the paths suggested by these worldviews in a different way than they do. And this brings us straight to something that the proponents of the subconscious or unconscious believe, but in which spiritual science must fundamentally differ from them. These advocates of the unconscious believe that what lies so unconsciously for ordinary consciousness deep within the soul—and constitutes the very essence of the human soul—must remain subconscious or unconscious under all circumstances; it can never rise into ordinary consciousness. Hence, Eduard von Hartmann—who, as mentioned, has made the unconscious most popular over the last half-century—holds the view that one cannot learn anything about the nature of the soul through direct knowledge, experience, or observation, any more than one can about the nature of nature itself. He believes that one can only infer the existence of the unconscious or subconscious, that one can only formulate hypotheses about it, and that one can draw such conclusions from the observations arising from the ordinary world—from everyday experiences or those of science—and then hypothetically form ideas about what the world of the unconscious or subconscious might look like. On this point, spiritual science cannot go along with this view. And that it cannot do so is something that those esteemed listeners who attended the recent lectures will have been able to glean from them. For it was explained there how spiritual science arrives precisely at the realization that, while this unconscious or subconscious indeed lies deep within the soul, beyond the reach of ordinary knowledge, it can nevertheless be brought to the surface under certain circumstances. It can be brought to the surface when that aspect of consciousness develops in the human being which, as I have shown in my book The Riddle of Man, can be called the “contemplative consciousness”—a further elaboration of Goethe’s term “contemplative power of judgment.” With this phrase about “contemplative judgment,” Goethe offered a significant and profound inspiration. In his time, this inspiration could not be fully developed simply because spiritual science had not yet reached the level it has today. But spiritual science regards it as its task not to generate all manner of fanciful constructs in the realm of the nebulous or the fanciful, but rather to develop, on a serious scientific foundation, precisely what Goethe inspired with his very significant phrase regarding “contemplative discernment.” The manner in which the human soul attains this “contemplative power of judgment” or “contemplative consciousness” is explained in my book How Does One Attain Knowledge of the Higher Worlds? or in other books of mine, to which I must refer here. But what underlies this “contemplative power of judgment” will, I hope, become apparent from a certain perspective, particularly in today’s lecture.

[ 3 ] If the humanities are thus compelled to follow the paths that the proponents of the unconscious wish to take in a different way than they themselves do, they are, on the other hand, in complete harmony precisely with the findings of modern natural science. And here, too, it is in a position to follow the path taken by this scientific research in a different way than the researchers themselves; to follow it in a different way precisely because it is more in harmony with the natural sciences than the scientific worldview is often with itself.

[ 4 ] As for the question of the actual nature of the soul, the scientific view holds that this soul, as experienced by human beings in their ordinary consciousness, is entirely dependent on the human physical organization. And I have often indicated here that it would be a futile effort to oppose, from any standpoint, this view that the life of the soul—as experienced by human beings—is dependent on the physical organism. Nothing seems clearer—even if scientific research still has a long way to go in this regard—than the fact that it has demonstrated in a subtle way, even though the main points have long been known, how the course of the entire human life clearly shows this dependence of the soul’s development on the physical organism. One need only—and many finer facts could be pointed out—observe how, from childhood onward, a person develops organically as a living being, and how this physical development proceeds entirely in parallel with psychological development; just as the organs—which natural science, with some justification, attributes to the life of the soul as its instruments—develop, so too does this life of the soul grow. And when one adds the fact that the life of the soul is undermined by the deterioration of the health or the organic integrity of certain parts of the body, it becomes clear from all this just how correct the scientific worldview is in this area. It can also show us how, with the gradual decline of the forces that permeate the human body—that is, with aging—these spiritual forces diminish in exact parallel to the physical organization. Essentially, only dilettantism could raise any objection to this view, which is put forward by the scientific worldview. Those who believe that spiritual science does not take the findings of natural science into account are not actually judging spiritual science—as it is meant here—on its own merits, but rather the false image they have constructed of it in their imagination, which they then find to be at odds with the findings of modern natural science that they rightly regard as true. Thus, spiritual science is firmly grounded in the findings of the natural sciences. But I would like to add that, in an even deeper sense, spiritual science—precisely through its insights—is in harmony with these findings to a greater extent than the natural sciences themselves can demonstrate. This becomes particularly evident when one considers a form of spiritual experience that many people confuse with what is meant here by spiritual science. All manner of vague, mystical notions and experiences people have inevitably come to the fore when spiritual science is criticized, and people then confuse this spiritual science with these vague, confused mystical ramblings.

[ 5 ] When one examines in greater detail—particularly from the perspective of spiritual science—what has been called “mysticism” throughout the various ages, something very remarkable becomes apparent—not in every instance, but in many. One can turn to the most highly regarded mystics and clearly see in them how the modern scientific worldview is correct in often attributing little cognitive value to these mystical endeavors when it comes to the true mysteries of the soul and humanity. What mystics have experienced is certainly interesting and extraordinarily compelling when viewed correctly. And the objection here is not directed against the study or the objective, sound examination of mystical experiences from various eras, but rather against the fundamental nature of the matter itself; this is simply to be characterized. Mystics attempt—which is, after all, a valid path also in the sense of spiritual science, as I characterized it just now—through what they call “the union of the soul with the World Spirit or with the Divine” — however one wishes to describe it — to undergo a deeper experience, one that carries them beyond external sensory reality, unites them with the spiritual-divine, and, in a sense, lifts them out of the transitory into the sphere of the eternal. But how do they usually attempt this? Well, if one truly studies mystical development, one finds that they attempt it by refining their ordinary, everyday consciousness—by deepening it in a certain way, warming it, and infusing it with all manner of inner life—yet they remain within the bounds of this ordinary consciousness. Now spiritual science knows precisely from its own insights that the scientific view is correct—that this ordinary, everyday consciousness is entirely dependent on its instruments, on physical life. So if one deepens ordinary, everyday consciousness in a mystical sense—no matter how inward and refined one makes it—but remains within that same consciousness, then one achieves nothing other than something that is dependent on the physical organism. One can find mystics who, through sublime poetic beauty, through a marvelous flight of imagination, through a remarkable intuition for all manner of otherworldly things, uplift the human heart and refresh the human soul—so much so that, I might say, they leave one in a state of wonder through these very things. But ultimately, one must repeatedly awaken from this amazement with the feeling: yes, what is all of this, after all, other than—admittedly—a more intimate, and often, one might say, more refined form of imagination and thought that is bound to the physical constitution; only now it is not bound to it in the same way that a person is bound to it in everyday life, but rather is connected to the physical constitution through finer, more refined, and more highly developed powers. One can find amiable, respectable mystics of whom one must nevertheless say: their mystical experiences are nothing other than refined—or, shall we say, spiritualized—passions, emotions, and feelings, which are nonetheless similar to the passions, emotions, and feelings of ordinary life. Such mystics have merely trained their physical constitution through all manner of ascetic practices or predispositions to the point where this physical constitution perhaps directs their sensibilities in entirely different directions than is the case with ordinary people; yet, in the end, it is still the physical constitution. One can often see from the most impassioned discourses and outpourings of such mystics that, while they have turned away from the ordinary sensory life of the day and from their standing in the external world, they have nonetheless brought into this sensory life—into the ordinary life of passions and emotions—only in a spiritualized form, that which their imagination is capable of experiencing. — Therefore, the scientific thinker will, with some justification, call the experiences of such mystics abnormal, because they deviate from ordinary experience; he may call them unhealthy, but he will also be right in saying that they prove nothing against the dependence of human soul life on the physical constitution, no matter how mystically refined it may appear. In a sense, the physical constitution has merely been trained so that what otherwise manifests as crude sensuality expresses itself in the soul through mental images, metaphors, and symbols—behind which images, metaphors, and symbols, however, the connoisseur can find nothing other than a refined expression of ordinary emotional life.

[ 6 ] In contrast to this stands what spiritual science says, and in this regard it is entirely clear to those who profess belief in the subconscious or unconscious: No matter how mystically refined ordinary consciousness may be, no matter how much this ordinary consciousness is “spiritualized” — as it is often called — so that it brings about a feeling of union with the spirit, one cannot, within this ordinary consciousness, enter the sphere one is actually seeking when one wishes to speak of the deeper mysteries of the human soul. In particular, the trained observation of the spiritual researcher shows that everything a person can have and retain in their soul through ordinary experience—everything they turn into a memory—is bound to the physical organism. Thus, with everything a person experiences within themselves when they immerse themselves in their memories, they do not step outside this physical organization, and one may say: True spiritual-scientific self-observation shows precisely that the more faithfully memories retain these experiences, the more the activity of memory is bound to this physical organization. - Therefore, spiritual science must resort to methods entirely different from those developed by ordinary consciousness. Even if this ordinary consciousness exhibits a particular fidelity to memory—because the physical constitution functions well and experiences can be faithfully recalled after a long time—spiritual science must adopt methods other than those known to ordinary consciousness. And I have already pointed out in recent lectures what emerges from the observation of thought itself, and I would like to repeat this from a different perspective.

[ 7 ] Ordinary thinking, as I said, is indeed the starting point for all research in the humanities, and only those who, through a true observation of this thinking, have already made clear to themselves just how true and real it is that this thinking already leads beyond the sensory-physical realm—that it is itself already a spiritual reality—can find this starting point. But one cannot stop at this point. One cannot stop at acknowledging that this thinking, as it arises in ordinary life, is the ultimate reality. Even then it is not the ultimate, when it appears to have become most spiritualized, namely in the images of memory. That is why I said: Everything that a person can think, feel, and will in ordinary life does not lead to a knowledge of the essence of the soul when it is observed or experienced. Rather—and this is just one of the many steps that must be taken in the inner life of the soul; you will find others in the books mentioned—a person must develop their thinking and unfold their imagination in such a way that their personality, or let us say their subjectivity, is no longer present in this thinking; for one is present in it as long as consciousness remains ordinary, and the physical organism plays a role in this. If we take our thinking only so far that images develop and are sought—images that can be retained and resurface—then we have achieved nothing more than what comes about through the instruments of the physical organism. One must therefore, as I put it, develop this thinking in such a way that one is no longer present in this development. But this requires having the patience and perseverance not to believe that the great questions of the world can be resolved in the blink of an eye, that one need only set about them each time to get to the bottom of these world mysteries or form an opinion about them; it requires something entirely different. It requires the mysteries of the entire course of human life. It requires the patience to cultivate such inner methods whose essence cannot be grasped in an instant, but which can develop only when one leaves them to the process of development they undergo over the course of a human life.

[ 8 ] I have suggested that this is called the “meditative life” when one brings certain ideas—preferably those that one can clearly grasp, so that no unconscious or other reminiscences of life surface in the process—into one’s soul, into one’s consciousness, and truly experiences these ideas from every angle with a calm mind. Now, if one does not merely observe how, in ordinary consciousness, these images can be brought back into memory just as they are—if one does not merely pay attention to how they, so to speak, remain true to their own form—but if one goes so far as to, in a sense, let these images out of ordinary consciousness by no longer being present during their unfolding. For one will always find—if one has only enough perseverance and patience—that the images sink down into the depths of human consciousness, where, as one might trivially say, one knows nothing more of them; then one will be able to experience how they resurface in memory. At first, spiritual research cannot make sense of all this. But something else takes place. For those who develop their inner spiritual life in the spirit of the books mentioned, it becomes apparent that the images upon which consciousness has rested in a corresponding way do indeed resurface as memories after months, years, just like the others, as memories; yet these ideas return to the person not as a faithful memory would present them, but in such a way that they have now shaped not his physical but his spiritual life—transforming it in a certain area into something else. These ideas, then, do not resurface in the same form in which we sent them down into the subconscious; rather, they resurface and make themselves known in such a way that one must say to oneself: They have not worked within what is your personal self, but within what lies beneath the conscious personal self; there they have unfolded their power and now appear in a fundamentally different form. One can therefore say: When the idea that one has held, faithfully preserved, and faithfully revived encounters once again what has become of it—without our consciousness being present in the process—that is, what has emerged from it as a result of its having worked in some deeper layers without our involvement, then this encounter between the image of ordinary consciousness and the image that emerges from the subconscious transforms the former in such a way that one can see its effective power for human soul life. This encounter shows how human beings are immersed in a realm of life that is entirely different from that of physical-sensory reality; how, in the depths of the soul life, there truly exists something unconscious or subconscious to ordinary existence; and how it can be brought to the surface through appropriate methods and, unlike ordinary memory, penetrate into consciousness.

[ 9 ] Spiritual science therefore takes the view that, through appropriate attention to our inner life, the unconscious can rise into consciousness—but should do so only once it has completed its work and reached its full development within the unconscious. Through this, however, spiritual science arrives at what is called “contemplative consciousness.” For what is actually experienced is comparable to the transition from ordinary dream life to waking consciousness. In dream life, what do we experience? We experience the inner, subjective images that we, while dreaming, take for reality. Upon waking, we know through our direct contact with external reality that the dream has brought us only images—and, as closer observation reveals, images that arise from our inner organic being; images that, while depicting this inner organic being in symbols, nonetheless arise from within us. And no one will be tempted to believe that, in a dream, one could become aware of what a dream actually is; no one can dream what a dream is. On the other hand, when one emerges from the dream into ordinary consciousness and attempts to explain the dream from the perspective of ordinary consciousness, one comes to understand its fantastical, chaotic, and pictorial nature. It is the same when one ascends in the manner described from ordinary consciousness to intuitive consciousness. There one enters—just as one emerges from a dream into physical-sensory reality—from external physical-sensory reality into the—the term is debatable—higher, spiritual reality. One awakens into another world, a world that now sheds just as much light on the ordinary physical-sensory world as the world of ordinary consciousness sheds light on the world of dreams. In this way, spiritual science comes not only to think differently about the mysteries of the world and the soul, but above all, it comes to the realization that, in order to enter the spiritual worlds, a consciousness different from ordinary consciousness must first be drawn forth from the depths of the soul. Today I can present only certain findings and my reflections on them, but much has already been said in numerous lectures here to substantiate these findings, and further information can be found in the relevant literature.

[ 10 ] Even with regard to—I would say—the most immediately apparent aspect of science, this human science must now, just as it is in agreement with the natural sciences, once again diverge from the natural sciences alone. This humanistic science, as it seeks to present itself today, is fully grounded in the same scientific conscience and the same scientific spirit as modern natural science. But it cannot remain at the level of thinking developed by natural science. Therefore, as things stand today, the scholar of the humanities will have a solid foundation above all when he has developed his thinking, his imagination, and his perception of the world in accordance with the most rigorous concepts of the natural sciences—and these are today the concepts that are permeated as much as possible by mathematics: the concepts of physics, chemistry, and even mechanics. Things will be different one day when the biological sciences—physiology—have advanced as far in their own right as the inorganic natural sciences have. Yet the researcher in the humanities cannot stop at thinking about the world in the same way that the natural sciences think about it. He can only, so to speak, discipline his thinking by training it in the rigorous thinking of science. And when he has trained himself—I would say, to allow himself nothing in his thinking other than what can stand up to the intellectual rigor of the natural sciences—he will have laid the best foundation as a researcher in the humanities. Hence it also becomes apparent that this humanities discipline, in its very nature, must in many ways be compared to what occurred with the rise of the modern scientific way of thinking. I have often pointed out how, with the Copernican worldview, people had to learn to rethink their relationship to the external world, and how what Copernicus asserted must initially have seemed absurd to people because it contradicted the phenomena of the external sensory world. When it is objected specifically against spiritual science that it contradicts the observations of the external sensory world, one must repeatedly point out that astronomy, for example, achieved its great advances precisely because it did not stop at what the external senses reveal, but boldly went beyond them by regarding precisely what the external senses reveal as an illusion. If one were to recognize the inner essence of such a revolution, particularly in the field of natural science, then one would raise far fewer unfounded objections to spiritual science—as, unfortunately, still happens today. But today I would like to raise another point in which spiritual science must be recognized as similar to the progress of natural science within the Copernican worldview. Copernicus had to, one might say, completely turn our thinking about the planetary world upside down in order to take into account what had to be taken into account. Here the Earth stands still, and the Sun circles around it—that is what ordinary sensory perception told people. Even if the Copernican worldview must undergo some correction, if we wish to make progress, we cannot think of the Earth as standing at the center of the planetary system with the Sun circling around it; rather, we must completely turn the fact—which presents itself to the senses as an apparent fact—on its head: we must place the Sun at the center of the planetary system and have the planets revolve around the Sun. It is well known that certain circles long refused to accept the Copernican worldview. Only because it has become so familiar today do people no longer reflect on how grotesque it must have appeared to many who viewed it from other perspectives. After all, one had to develop entirely new concepts; one had to get used to having ideas different from those that had been part of ordinary thinking for centuries.

[ 11 ] Now, in the field of the humanities, it is somewhat more difficult to grasp the analogous process within their own domain, but this is precisely because the humanities today find themselves in the same position that the Copernican worldview was in at the time of its emergence. The concepts that spiritual science must develop are, after all, quite unfamiliar today, and with regard to a certain aspect of human soul life, they must, I would say, follow a path similar to that taken by the Copernican worldview. What seems clearer to ordinary spiritual life and ordinary observation—as clear as the fact, to the senses, that the sun revolves around the Earth—is that a human being is born with a soul, goes through the course of life, that his soul or “I” changes gradually over the course of this life, accompanying it, and that as the human being reaches the ages of 7, 13, 15, 18, 20, and 25 years old—has accompanied this life’s course as it progresses through the years. In a sense, as one walks through life from birth to death, one sees the soul being, just as if it were walking alongside. Spiritual science reveals it to be entirely different. Spiritual science reveals the remarkable fact—which will be elaborated upon in the following lectures—that what we call the soul, to which the concept of immortality is linked, does not at all participate in the course of life in the ordinary sense. Just as the sun does not, in the ordinary sense, travel around the Earth in its celestial course, so too does the human “I,” or the human soul, not travel the path from birth to death. So the reality is entirely different. It only appears different because we are not accustomed to observing it in this way. The reality is quite different:

[ 12 ] In later life, we can recall events back to a certain point that lies a few years after our birth. Up to this point, the “I” or soul being accompanies the process of development. Then it—if I may use the expression, for it is accurate—comes to a standstill in time, remaining stationary in time just as the sun does in space, and the course of life does not carry the “I” along with it, but continues to move, just as the planets orbit the sun, while the “I” or soul remains at rest at the point I have indicated. The course of life reflects back to the soul, which has remained at rest, whatever flows through it. The concept is so difficult to grasp only because it is easier to imagine resting in space than resting in time. But when one considers that, for certain circles, the Copernican worldview did not become acceptable until 1827, one can also assume that spiritual science can take its time until people are able to conceive that resting in time is just as possible as resting in space. One might say: the soul simply remains at rest within itself, and life continues on until death, with experiences merely reflecting back upon that which remains at the aforementioned point in time. But this is connected to something else: that what we actually call the soul-being does not at all step out into those events and facts connected with bodily life; that the soul, in its true essence, remains within the spiritual realm. It therefore does not enter into the ordinary course of life, because this course of life flows into sensory-physical events. The soul remains behind, holding itself back in the spiritual realm. Now, ordinary consciousness proceeds entirely in tandem with the ordinary course of life, with the ordinary flow of life between birth and death; it proceeds within it in such a way that it manifests in accordance with the physical organs. But the deeper, true soul-being does not, as such, pour itself into this physical being, but remains within the spiritual realm. This, however, already implies that knowledge or insight into this soul-being cannot be attained at all in the ordinary course of life, which is dependent on the external world; rather, this knowledge and insight can only be attained when consciousness, in the manner described, withdraws from itself—when, to repeat this one example once more — the thought that has remained in consciousness now encounters the thought working in the subconscious. But then something significant occurs: gradually, this subconscious activity pours forth over the entire course of human life, insofar as it has been lived, and the human being, in his inner experience, truly knows himself to be at the starting point of his earthly life, before the boundary to which memory extends; he knows himself to be standing within spiritual life, yet set apart from the time in which ordinary consciousness unfolds. Therefore, no mysticism of the kind I characterized earlier—which seeks to introduce into the consciousness that unfolds in time an experience more subtle than the ordinary one—can reach the soul being. Rather, this soul-being can only be attained when time as such is overcome, when the soul ascends into that realm that emerges before the onset of memory—or perhaps better said: when the human being, with his inner experience, ascends beyond this point in time, developing the soul in order to find there, for the first time, the soul as it truly is in its inner essence.

[ 13 ] These are all difficult concepts, but the difficulty does not lie in the fact that the human soul is incapable of grasping them, but simply in the fact that, over the course of centuries, people have become accustomed to thinking differently. Therefore, in seeking to develop methods of spiritual science, a person need not, in the sense of conventional mysticism, seek union with the spiritual through ordinary consciousness; rather, what he seeks must be an object for him; he must approach it with the awareness that it is, in fact, something foreign to ordinary life, that it remained as it was before this ordinary life of the soul began. Then, when a person recognizes his inner soul being in this way, he has, in essence, come to understand the soul in such a way that he now knows: This soul has contributed, by passing through birth with the forces it already possessed in the spiritual realm, to the shaping of the entire life, right down to the physical organization, by uniting its power with what the person has acquired through physical heredity. In this way, the human being attains the immortality of the soul.

[ 14 ] For the spiritual sciences, the question of the mystery of immortality takes on a different form than the one usually ascribed to it. People always assume, when they raise this question, that they can answer it by phrasing it this way: Is the soul, with its ordinary thinking, feeling, and willing, such that it preserves any part of this as immortal? Just as this thinking, feeling, and willing exists in ordinary life, it does so precisely because it must make use of the body’s instruments. When these bodily instruments are laid aside as the soul passes through the gate of death, the form of thinking, feeling, and willing naturally ceases to be an inner experience accessible to ordinary consciousness. In contrast, what is hidden from ordinary soul observation lives within every human being—just as things are hidden that can only be explored through the natural sciences—yet this can be approached in the sketch-like manner described, and it remains, so to speak, at the threshold of memory. It can take in the events of the ordinary course of life by reflecting them back. And when what lies within this ordinary life—that which is bound to the physical instruments—is taken from the human being as he passes through the gate of death, that which has never stepped out of the spiritual world will also pass through the gate of death. That which carries itself through has not developed within ordinary consciousness, but has developed in the subconscious, which can only be brought to the surface in the manner described.

[ 15 ] Thus, the question raised for spiritual science takes on a different form: the spiritual researcher, above all, shows the path to finding the true nature of the soul, and by showing this path, the immortality of the soul emerges as a truth through the very nature of that true soul. Just as one need not prove that the rose is red once one has led someone to the rose and they have it before them, so too one need not prove through all manner of hypotheses and conclusions that the soul is immortal if one shows the path by which a person finds the soul in such a way that they see: it works the mortal out of itself; it is the creator of the mortal; the mortal is its manifestation—if one can point to immortality as a quality of this soul-being, just as one points to redness as a quality of the rose. This is precisely the point: the very nature of the question changes completely when spiritual science, in its true form, approaches this mystery of the soul.

[ 16 ] What has been only sketchily hinted at here will become a little clearer—through a sort of oblique illumination, one might say—if one casts a glance at something that plays such a significant role in human life, but which, as has often been said, seems completely inaccessible to most philosophers in terms of intellectual or scientific consideration: when one casts a sideways glance at what is called human fate. To many, human fate—as it appears in the succession of events that befall people—seems like a mere sum of coincidences; to many, it appears as a predetermined necessity, as a necessity of providence. All these conceptions, however, approach the riddle of fate once again from the standpoint of ordinary consciousness. And no matter how mystically profound these conceptions may be, one does not come any closer to such riddles through them. That is why, last time, precisely in relation to the question of fate, I showed how one must first prepare oneself in the right way to approach this question of human fate. This must be repeated once more from a certain perspective so that we can speak more precisely about the question of the forces of destiny. I said: If a person, as a researcher of the spiritual, devotes themselves inwardly to certain developments—one type of which I have shown in the development of thinking—then this inner development signifies for them a genuine rising above ordinary consciousness; not merely a mystical deepening of this ordinary consciousness, but a rising above it, an ascent to that which does not enter into ordinary consciousness at all. Then it takes a great deal of patience and perseverance to carry this inner development further and further. It need not impair outer life in the least. Those people are poor spiritual researchers who, through spiritual research, become useless and impractical for ordinary life. They show that, at heart, they are still thoroughly materialistic in nature. For whoever is torn away from ordinary life—whoever is torn away from a firm grounding in life, from life’s duties and tasks, in short, from the practice of life—by a certain kind of spiritual research, demonstrates that they have not grasped the essence of true spiritual research; for this takes place in the spiritual realm, in that which cannot in any way come into direct conflict with ordinary life. And anyone who believes that they can, let us say, “starve themselves” their way up into the spiritual world, or reach the spiritual world through some other external, material means, demonstrates precisely that, despite seeking the spirit, they are entirely permeated by materialistic notions. But when a person follows the path of true spiritual research—or even simply true spiritual science—by penetrating and absorbing into their soul what spiritual research brings to light, then at the right moment what the person experiences inwardly gradually becomes for them a matter of inner destiny, a turning point in their inner destiny. He experiences an inner permeation that carries him into the sphere of the spiritual—so vividly, so intensely—that this experience, which takes place entirely without interfering with his outer experience, becomes a turning point in his destiny that is greater and more significant than any turning point in outer life, no matter how significant. Indeed, it is precisely in this that the significance of being deeply immersed in spiritual science is revealed—that it can thus become a turning point in a person’s destiny. This does not mean that a person’s soul must become numb to other twists of fate; a person can still fully feel what unfolds as external destinies—not only their own but also those of others—even after having experienced this higher twist of fate that takes place purely within. Anyone who becomes numb to external life and external fate—or who, for example, would even allow their compassion and empathy for the external world and for people to become dulled as a result—is not on the right path. But for those who, as can happen with a good upbringing, find themselves standing in a spiritual world while fully immersed in social life, there may still come a moment when, having found the inner path to that which does not enter the sensory world, may experience this inner experience as a turning point in fate that is greater and more profound than the most terrible misfortune or the most joyful turn of fate that might otherwise befall them in life. But the fact that such a turning point in destiny can occur deepens the mind and internalizes the human soul; it endows it with powers that, although they always lie dormant in the soul, are not usually brought to the surface.

[ 17 ] The soul is prepared, above all, for one thing: Since the soul has thus experienced a destiny purely inwardly, so that it now faces this destiny solely with the soul forces that can be experienced inwardly, the human being becomes so intimately acquainted with the greatest twist of fate that he gains a standard of understanding for external destiny. After all—to put it simply—one needs a standard for everything in life. The standard for judging fate is attained not by initially observing the dark courses of fate merely through all manner of speculation or fantasy, but by observing a course of fate as clear as the one one experiences by having developed, step by step in one’s inner soul life, the strength to have witnessed everything. One sees: This is how it has come to be over the years; this is how we have gradually created within ourselves an inner, true conviction—achieved without self-deception—of the spiritual world in which we live, act, and exist. We were present at the turning point of destiny; it does not confront us as something that remains obscure, something we can only rejoice in or suffer from, but rather it confronts us in bright inner clarity. And so, only when we have developed within our souls the powers that meet us in bright inner clarity can we illuminate what remains obscure with inner light; only then can we also contemplate the course of external fate. This course of external fate is obscure to ordinary consciousness. But ordinary consciousness has, in fact, become a contemplative consciousness for the consideration of the question of destiny precisely by allowing such a turning point in destiny to occur. With regard to the question of fate, this consciousness has transformed itself into a contemplative consciousness. Only through this does one acquire what is necessary to approach the question of fate in such a way that it can be clarified in the manner intended. This, however, reveals that, no matter how much one contemplates fate with ordinary consciousness, any assertion about this fate remains, so to speak, hypothetical or an empty, fanciful assumption. For it becomes evident that fate, as it appears externally to ordinary consciousness, appears only in its manifestation, in its intrusion into ordinary consciousness; yet this fate works upon the human soul in the subconscious, so that this human soul—which, as I have indicated, never departs from the spiritual world—lives in the stream of fate within the subconscious. It lives in the stream of destiny in such a way that its entanglement with destiny is just as little apparent to ordinary consciousness as what surrounds the dreamer as physical reality in the external world is to the dreamer.

[ 18 ] When the observing consciousness trains itself to develop the powers of consciousness necessary for this, one comes to view the question of destiny with entirely different “eyes of the spirit”—to use Goethe’s expression. The soul then comes to view the interconnections entangled in what we call a twist of fate in a completely different way than they are viewed in ordinary consciousness. One recognizes only then what one must focus one’s attention on in the question of fate—that is, when one has been prepared for this through being inwardly moved by a purely spiritual twist of fate. Let us take any twist of fate that might easily occur in our outer life. As a typical example of what we encounter in outer life, one could describe the following—it is entirely possible that it might unfold in this way, for example: A person is fully prepared, let us say, for some outer profession, for some outer work. His aptitudes indicate that he could be fully up to this work, that he could be of great benefit to the world and to humanity through the performance of his external work. Things have, so to speak, progressed to the point where the position to which this person is to be appointed has already been identified. Everything is in place—the person himself is prepared, and those who can offer him the position have become aware of what he is capable of achieving; everything is in place. Then, just—I would say—before this person receives the official notification that he is being appointed to the position, some accident occurs that renders him incapable of fulfilling that role. — There we have a typical twist of fate. I am not saying that this person I am referring to must die immediately, but he would be unable, in the ordinary course of life, to actually attain what had been so well prepared from all sides. A stroke of fate befalls him.

[ 19 ] Well, when one looks at the course of human life in this way from the perspective of ordinary consciousness—even if one believes one is doing it differently—one still ends up looking at what preceded a particular event in the course of life. After all, we view the world in such a way that we always link effect to cause and, in turn, effect to cause—that is, we always trace back from the later to the earlier. Now, when a person is prepared to recognize this turning point in fate—one that can teach us something—it becomes apparent that, in that turning point, we are dealing with a convergence of two sequences. Here, in the typical example cited, we are dealing on the one hand with the fact that a person has become something, thereby compelling events in the outer world to focus on him or her. Another series of events arises, which intersects with this first series of events. It is precisely when one observes such fateful events that one learns to recognize that it is, in the highest sense, correct and excellent to view the course of human life in the same way as natural processes, by observing how what comes later follows from what came before. But one also learns to recognize that this perspective is only a highly one-sided one. One comes to realize that if one wishes to view existence in its entirety, one cannot—and must not—consider only the continuous, growing, ascending currents of events, but must also take into account the descending current—the current that always cuts through, intersects, and devastatingly strikes the ascending current. Then one comes to be led, through the meeting of the two currents, to the point where the spirit reveals itself. For the human being has not become someone else, even though, on the one hand, he has himself experienced a crossing of what he has become; two currents of life have come together, but the human being has not become someone else. And it is precisely this—that one encounters with one’s soul forces this crossing of the two life currents—that shows one how, at the very moment when something fateful is to work upon the human soul, it must withdraw from outer life. In this way, one enters into the innermost realm of the soul, which, however, is not at all absorbed into external sensory life. By grasping existence where it not only reveals itself but where it disappears from external manifestation, one finds the path into the realm from which the soul never emerges, and in which destiny works upon it.

[ 20 ] And now, having taken this line of thought to its logical conclusion, one realizes that it is indeed inherent in the nature of the soul that fate relates to the soul in the way I have just shown. For suppose it were the case that the human soul, in full consciousness and with fully developed concepts—just as it approaches external sensory reality and explains it through scientific concepts—would also approach the chain of fate in the same way. What would follow from this? It would follow that the soul would remain inwardly dead, that it would face fate—I might say—with the same composure, not to say indifference, with which it confronts the statements made by natural science. But this is not how the human soul faces fate. I am not merely developing notions of finality here. Anyone who examines the methods of what is being presented here will see that I am not falling back on teleological or finalistic notions, but that I am posing the question as follows: What is necessary to the essence of the soul? — just as one might ask: To what extent is the root necessary to the entire life of the plant?

[ 21 ] Insofar as the soul is subject to fate, it does not experience this fate at all through concepts based on cognition, but rather experiences it in such a way that affects, sensations, feelings of joy, and feelings of suffering arise within this soul, and that these sensations are not accompanied by concepts as clear as those one otherwise has in cognition. But if such clear concepts were to hover over them, they would be precisely the kind of concepts that operate only within the sphere of ordinary consciousness—that is, within the sphere bound to the body. Precisely because the experience of fate is set apart from these ideas bound to the body, and because it is driven by sensations and feelings, by the impulses of the will that either advance or meet with resistance, this experience of fate remains in the subconscious—or, to put it more accurately, is channeled down into the subconscious. As a result, the experience of fate works on the soul outside of consciousness in the same way that the experiences of the external world around the dreamer unfold without—at least not directly—penetrating into his consciousness.

[ 22 ] The way in which a person experiences his sufferings and joys is what causes his destiny to be channeled into the deeper subconscious regions of the soul’s life—those regions from which the soul’s life never emerges at all. Thus, in the course of life, a person is driven by his destiny beneath the threshold of ordinary consciousness. But down there, where ordinary consciousness—which is rooted in and directed toward ordinary life—cannot reach, there is order; down there, the experiences of destiny shine back upon the soul, which has come to a halt at the boundary of sensation. There, fate itself is constantly shaping our soul, so that the way in which a person is immersed in their fate can be understood by them just as little through ordinary consciousness as the dreaming consciousness can understand what is happening externally, in a sensory-physical sense, in the room where the dreaming takes place. Fate connects with the soul beneath the threshold of consciousness. Yet there it becomes evident, whatever the nature of this fate may be, that it is intimately connected with the soul, that it is precisely the agent shaping our inner life. It is one of these workers who ensures that what we experience in the course of life between birth and death is carried over to the soul that passes through birth and death in repeated earthly lives, so that this soul is carried through this entire life—which extends across repeated earthly lives—by deeds, forces, and effects that do not reach into ordinary consciousness. There we see the connection between human destiny and the human soul. There, through destiny itself, we reach the subconscious causes, the eternal causes of the human soul. And only where immortality reigns does destiny also reign in its true form. And it is carried there by the fact that in ordinary life we are so at the mercy of fate that we do not penetrate it with understanding. Because we experience it through our emotions and feelings, fate itself is carried into that region where it can work upon the immortal part of the soul.

[ 23 ] And so fate—it sounds pedantic, almost philistine—proves to be the great teacher throughout the entire course of life. But that is how it is. Fate carries us forward. And it is true what certain individuals—who were prepared for it by a life course particularly suited to this end—feel about the interconnectedness of the human course of destiny. I would like to read you one such example verbatim. Goethe’s friend Knebel was driven in his later years to ideas about fate that truly did not arise from speculation or philosophical flights of fancy, but rather—I would say—as if they were beamed up from what otherwise takes place in the subconscious life of the soul when fate is at work upon the soul. Knebel says:

[ 24 ] “Upon closer observation, one will find that in the lives of most people there is a certain pattern that is, as it were, predetermined for them by their own nature or by the circumstances that guide them. No matter how varied and changeable the circumstances of their lives may be, in the end a coherent whole emerges that reveals a certain consistency within itself. —The hand of a certain destiny, however hidden its workings may seem, reveals itself precisely, whether moved by external forces or internal impulses: indeed, even conflicting motives often align with its direction. However confusing the course may be, its purpose and direction always become apparent.”

[ 25 ] This did not arise from speculation or from a philosophy of fate, but is a result that the soul itself has drawn forth from the realm where fate is at work within it. Therefore, as a rule, only those who are fully engaged—not merely in their own lives, but with compassionate involvement in the destinies of many people—will, at a certain point in their life’s journey, see such a view of fate emerge from the depths of their soul.

[ 26 ] Well, questions of science—including the humanities—do not depend on any external events; questions of science and questions of knowledge follow their own course. Rather, external life, in many of its particularities, is shaped by what science brings to light. But on the other hand—and this can also be observed in the natural sciences—certain external circumstances contribute to people being able to properly appreciate and fully grasp insights. One need only recall how the transits of Venus, which occur only twice a century, must be awaited until they take place; how the external circumstances must align for a specific insight to emerge in a certain field. So it may also be with regard to the questions of the humanities, which pertain to the life of the soul. And although this does not strictly speaking belong to spiritual science, the sensibility of those living in our fateful times can nevertheless be directed toward how our time, in the deepest sense of the word, brings to people in their souls what spiritual science is able to offer.

[ 27 ] The ancient Heraclitus, the great Greek philosopher, whose isolated yet profoundly significant flashes of insight have penetrated through the ages since his lifetime, once said, referring to the life of dreams: “When it comes to the world of dreams, every person has their own world.” A wide variety of people can sleep in one room, and each can dream the most diverse things; there, each has their own dream world. The moment they wake up, they are all in a shared external environment. There, this shared environment inspires a great image of the soul; there, they are united. — People are part of an even greater, more meaningful unity—despite everything that might be said against it, for what is said against it is only apparent—when they look toward what the contemplative consciousness brings forth from the spiritual world. There, people come together, and it is only an illusion to believe that one person asserts this and another that. One person may calculate correctly while another may be wrong; yet the method of calculation remains correct nonetheless. In a higher sense, people find themselves in unity when they ascend into the beholding consciousness and enter the spiritual world. But external circumstances can also lead people to a certain unity in life. Then—I would say, just as astronomical research is undertaken for the transits of Venus, which, however, are of little consequence because they touch less upon the depths of the human soul—then these experiences can be stimulating for that which strives toward the unity of life: for spiritual science. And we are, after all, living in our time amid a series of fateful events that unites people—let us say, for now, since this affects us most directly—the people of Central Europe in a completely different way than they are otherwise united from outside. Shared experiences of destiny—which one person perceives as their destiny in one way, another in another—flow over human souls, flow over human bodies, flow over human lives. This can be an inspiration—and will hopefully be an inspiration—to guide people, out of this difficult, fateful time, toward the profound paths of spiritual science. And one may well think: Although spiritual science always has something of the utmost importance to say to people regarding the eternal questions—in our time, when so many fates are being decided, when fate stands before the entire soul of the age with such a terrible question—the questions of fate and the soul arise in a particularly profound way. Spiritual science, because it appeals to that which not only exists in life but, because it endures in the spiritual world, also carries this life through the course of human existence, Spiritual science can thus give people special strengths and powers to navigate all the twists and turns of fate—with an awareness of what fate means for immortality and eternal life—and to find their way through life in an appropriate manner, waiting to see what will be born from this fateful time. If one learns to understand destiny, then one also learns—when necessary—to face destiny with true, not numbing, peace of mind; with that peace of mind that is strength. And the soul often acts more powerfully in its stillness than it can when it is carried along on the waves of external life, itself rocking up and down with those waves.

[ 28 ] And perhaps it is precisely the awareness of the soul’s standstill in the course of our lives—however abstract this notion may still seem today—that is capable of penetrating into the fundamental forces of the human mind, and there becoming a great source of inspiration for that mind—one that does not dull it, but rather strengthens it. For—as is shown to us in particular by the turn that the question of immortality and destiny has taken in light of today’s reflections—just as it is incorrect to say of someone who has a magnet in front of them: “That’s just a piece of iron shaped like a horseshoe and nothing more, and you’re a fantasist if you believe there are special forces within it”—just as it is wrong to regard as a fantasist someone who cannot immediately demonstrate these forces through the attraction of the iron but merely asserts them, to regard them as a fantasist—so it is wrong to regard as a fantasist anyone who speaks of the outer life, as it unfolds in physical-sensory existence, in such a way that this life is not merely what it appears to be to the outer senses, but that it is permeated, illuminated, and infused by the spiritual, in which the soul is rooted and weaves its web. For the words of Heraclitus remain true—let me conclude with this—affirming, when correctly understood, that which is the innermost nerve of spiritual science, affirming that only the one who is able to perceive the spirit in the radiance of the senses truly knows the world:

[ 29 ] “Eyes and ears are witnesses to what is happening in the world, witnesses to humanity; but they are poor witnesses to those people whose souls do not understand the language—the true language—of the eyes and ears.”

[ 30 ] Spiritual science seeks to speak the true language of the eyes and ears, and thereby to find the path into that which, for ordinary consciousness, the eyes and ears are unable to reveal—into that from which life itself springs and weaves. That is why human beings, too, will flourish and be most effective in their own work when they are conscious that, as eternal beings, they not only originate from this eternal source of life but are always immersed within it.