The Rudolf Steiner Archive

14. The Yule Festival, the Symbols of Christmas, and the World-Historical Mood of the Anthroposophical Worldview

[ 1 ] The spirit, through whose assimilation the human soul continues to develop further and further in the course of the world, is eternal. But the way in which it takes root, the way in which it manifests itself in what human beings on earth are capable of feeling, loving, and creating—this way is always new from one epoch to the next. And this is precisely humanity’s task in the course of world history: to make possible for the Spirit the many successive forms through which it ascends the ladder to those perfections that we sense—and that we are actually meant only to sense—and which we should not seek to squeeze into overly precise concepts. When we think in this way about the Spirit and its development throughout human history, then eternity and the transitory appear before our inner eye. And in the particular instances of life, here and there, again and again, we can see how this eternal emerges within the transitory, how it manifests itself within the transitory, only to disappear again and assert itself in ever-new forms. What surrounds us here as a symbol of our Christmas, we can already perceive today as something belonging to past forms—the eternal in the outer world as seen in a symbol. For truly, when we go out in the second half of December in our present time, especially into the streets of the big city, and see out there the Christmas splendor and all that is meant to invite us into homes to celebrate Christmas, then it must already be painful to an eye that is still capable of aesthetic perception to see the items of the Christmas market spread out, with what—in essence—cannot rush through Christmas trees and Christmas symbols whizzing right through the middle of them: automobiles, electric trams, or the like. In a certain sense, as they are perceived today, these things no longer belong together. We likely feel this even more deeply when we then realize what this Christmas has become for many of the people in the big cities who wish to be the bearers of contemporary culture. A festival of gifts, a festival in which little remains of the warmth and profound emotional depth that existed in the not-too-distant past around this meaningful Christmas celebration: it has become a festival of gifts. Among the many things that seek to give us what we call our anthroposophical worldview, our anthroposophical way of thinking, there should surely be, once again, those deeply warm sentiments and feelings that once permeated the human soul during the high feast days of the old church year.

[ 2 ] And we should learn once again to understand how necessary it is for us—necessary for our souls—at certain times to feel our full connection with the great world from which humankind was born, in order to renew our intellectual, emotional, and moral powers. For such a festival, where all morality, where all humanity could be renewed, was once truly the Christian festival, radiating through its symbols a warmth that today’s sobriety, today’s prose of life, can scarcely conceive of anymore. For us, however, immersing ourselves in these symbols could be something that brings a little closer to our souls the sensations, the attitudes, and the feelings that we ourselves might have toward that Resurrection—which we sense as the anthroposophical Resurrection of humanity—and which we can therefore also have toward the birth of the anthroposophical spirit within our own souls. And there is indeed a kind of connection between the older ideas surrounding the Christian Nativity and the newer anthroposophical ideas about the birth of our anthroposophical concepts and attitudes—of the entire anthroposophical spirit—in the manger of our hearts: such a relationship exists. And perhaps today it is the anthroposophist who is best able to immerse himself in what has been felt throughout the ages, particularly in connection with the Christian Christmas celebration—a feeling that can be experienced anew when something similar is born from the atmosphere that already surrounds us today, from the atmosphere of contemporary materialism.

[ 3 ] But in seeking to experience Christmas from an anthroposophical perspective, we cannot limit ourselves merely to what the Christian Christmas was or is. Rather, wherever we look in the world and however far back into the past we gaze: something that can be compared, something that can be brought close in thought and feeling to the Christmas spirit—something of this kind has, in essence, existed everywhere. We do not want to go far today; we want only to consider the feelings and sensibilities that a person might have had in our regions—in the regions of Central Europe—before the introduction of Christianity, during times corresponding to those in which Christmas approaches today. Let us take a brief look back at those times before the introduction of Christianity in Europe, when, in a relatively harsh climate, our ancestors in Europe had to earn their livelihood primarily by living throughout the summer as a kind of pastoral or agricultural people, yet in intimate connection with the entire vast natural world through their sensations and feelings, in heartfelt worship of the sun’s rays, in fervent veneration—which was not mere thought, but feeling and devotion—in fervent devotion to the great world. And when the old shepherd or herdsman of Europe was out on his rugged pastures, often in the blazing sunlight, he perceived not merely the outwardly physical and natural; he felt an intimate connection of his entire being with what shone out to him in the physiognomy of nature. He lived in nature with his whole heart. Not only did the physical rays of the sun reflect light back into his eyes: in his heart, the sunlight kindled spiritually what was summer jubilation, summer exultation, and what, in essence, coalesced into those fires that later became the Midsummer bonfires of summer. There, all of nature wanted to exult from human hearts; the spirit of nature wanted to resound from human hearts.

[ 4 ] That was how people felt throughout the year. And that was how they felt—in close communion—with the animals they tended. Then came autumn, and then came the times when the winter grew harsh. I recall those times when harsh winters swept across the land—a harshness that people today have little mental image of. Then, with the exception of what was absolutely necessary, even the last of the livestock had to be slaughtered. Then all outward life fell silent; it was truly the case that something entered people’s hearts that could be called a kind of death, of darkness, in contrast to the mood that had pervaded those hearts throughout the summer. Those were the times when an echo of ancient clairvoyant powers was still truly present, precisely because of the unique character of the climate and nature in Central Europe. The people who had rejoiced and exulted in the summer, as if nature itself had rejoiced and exulted in their hearts, those very same people were able, in the winter, especially in the face of the approaching winter, become quiet and calm within themselves; they could allow to arise within themselves something of the mood that should overcome a person when, disregarding the entire external world, they withdraw into their own inner world to perceive and feel the inner divine.

[ 5 ] Nature itself, then, gave the ancient European people the opportunity to withdraw completely from life in the outer world and immerse themselves in their own inner world. As November approached, this descent into death and darkness was experienced, for weeks on end, as a festive season; it was perceived as the dawning of what was called the Yule festival. And what followed this mood was something that can truly show us how long, in essence, the memory of the ancient clairvoyant states of all peoples has remained alive, particularly in Central and Northern Europe. What followed during the time corresponding roughly to our January and February was that people felt their inner beings permeated with harbingers of the new natural jubilation, the new natural resurrection. They now perceived this as a harbinger of what they were to experience in the outer world, since snow still covered the pastures, since ice still clung to the trees, since out in nature there was still no sign of the announcement of the joyful power—which, prior to the announcement of the joyful power, is still a state of being fully at one with oneself, fully at rest within oneself. This transformed within the soul in such a way that the person was able to detach from themselves.

[ 6 ] This intermediate state, which our ancestors experienced as what we now call spring approached, was perceived in much the same way as a clairvoyant perceives his astral body when that astral body is not yet fully purified and cleansed. It was experienced as a filling of the spiritual horizon with all manner of animal forms. And these people sought to express this as well. For them, this marked a transition from the actual, profound festive mood of the approaching winter to the mood that would, in turn, take hold of the soul in summer. It symbolically imitates what the human astral body reveals—imitation through exuberant games, exuberant dances, and animal masks—this transition from resting entirely within oneself to the jubilant merging with the great outdoors. That is how it was.

[ 7 ] When we immerse ourselves in something like this, when we consider that the collective spirit and sensibility of the people were completely immersed in such a mood across vast, vast circles, then we understand how, even there, on this ground, there was a sense of sinking into the outer, physical darkness, into the outer, physical death of nature; how, however, it was still fully felt that it is precisely in this immersion into the physical death of nature, into physical darkness, that the highest light of the spirit can be bestowed. And how the mood of immersion into physical death is immediately transformed into an exuberant mood, which found expression in animal masks, in exuberant dances, and in exuberant music. However, the full realization had not yet taken hold that when human beings are to find the utmost, the highest light, they must seek it in the innermost depths; yet through the intimate, devoted connection with all the forces, with all the weaving and life of nature, a foundation had been created into which could be sunk what was to be proclaimed to humanity for its evolution through the Christ impulse. One needed, as it were, only to speak to the sensibilities and feelings of these people spread across the regions of Europe—though not in abstract, dry, philistine words, but in such a way that what one wished to say spoke to the heart through symbolism—one needed only to make it clear: Wherever you descend into darkness, into the death of outer nature, there you can—if you prepare your soul to perceive and feel in the right way—find an eternal, imperishable light. And this light has been brought into the development of humanity through what emerged within that development through the Mystery of Golgotha and the events in Palestine.

[ 8 ] It is characteristic that, over the course of the following centuries, it became possible for the Christ impulse to be felt most deeply and most heartfelt within Europe through the childlike Christ, through the birth of the Christ Child. If one wishes to assign humanity a task in evolution at all, how must one perceive this human task? Only in this way: that humanity has its origin in the divine-spiritual, that it can look back upon its divine-spiritual origin, but that it has descended ever deeper and deeper from this divine-spiritual origin, becoming ever more closely related to and interwoven with outer physical matter, the outer physical plane. But then one must realize how human beings can once again travel the path in reverse through the powerful impulse we call the Christ impulse. How they can turn back and, by overcoming what led them into the physical world, once again walk the path from below to above into the spiritual heights.

[ 9 ] When one feels this, one says to oneself: Just as this human “I” exists within the physical body, just as this human “I” is today, it has descended from divine-spiritual heights and feels interwoven and entangled in the world of the outer physical plane. But underlying this “I” is another: the innocent “I,” so to speak, in contrast to the “I” that has become guilty. Where, then, do we first encounter—at least approximately—that “I” which is not yet interwoven into the physical world? It is there where—when we look back on our own lives as they unfold between birth and death—we recall the moment when our sense of self first emerged at a certain point during our early years. The “I” is there, even if the person does not remember it; it is present and lives and weaves within us even where the mental image of self has not yet emerged—where this “I,” which looks around in the outer world, becomes interwoven with the physical plane; where the mental image of self is not yet present, but where the “I” is there in its childlike, innocent state; the “I” that can indeed stand as an ideal to be attained once more, only through being imbued with all that a person can experience in this school of physical life on Earth. And so the ideal can be felt in the human heart with inner warmth—even if the sober mind finds it difficult to put into words: Become as your “I” is when it has not yet developed a mental image of itself. Become what you could become if you were to take refuge in your childlike Self. The childhood Self then shines through everything your later Self acquires. — And as we perceive it as an ideal, it shines in Jesus of Nazareth, in whom Christ was later incarnated.

[ 10 ] From such feelings, we can understand how a deep impulse toward human growth and development could have gripped the hearts of the simplest people throughout Europe at the sight of the embodiment of the human being who had matured enough to receive Christ within himself. Thus we see that it was a genuine advance, a tremendous advance, when the sentiments associated with the celebration of Jesus’ birth were woven into the sentiments of the ancient Yule festival. It was a tremendous advance. We can perhaps describe this progress by saying: In that darkness, in which the soul initially sought to gather itself to prepare for the rejoicing and exultation of the new summer—in that darkness, the light of Christ Jesus was kindled.

[ 11 ] We can still sense an echo of what actually happened to the European population in what, for the 19th century—at least in its second half—was little more than a subject of scholarly research and collecting. We can still sense an echo in the old Christmas plays and nativity plays. Such Christmas plays were performed in a unique way as early as the Middle Ages around the Christmas season. Through them, the full range of emotional experience was evoked—everything that the soul could feel at this time—following the same patterns through which people of even earlier times, as the Yule festival approached, experienced what I described to you earlier. And when we turn our gaze from the ancient Yule festivals I have described to the Christmas plays of the Middle Ages, we truly sense what a warm impulse Christianity brought to the people of Europe. Yes, something very special has settled deep into their hearts and souls.

[ 12 ] Things aren’t the same as they used to be. In the 19th century, it was merely an object of interest to scholarly collectors. Nevertheless, there was something touching about it if one had known the older generation of German philologists—specialists in German language, folklore, and mythology—who, rather than with indifference, delved into what had survived from earlier centuries as Christmas plays in various regions with love, with deep love. I myself had an old friend who was such a collector; for a long time in the 1850s and sixties of the past century, who had long conducted research there on the Germanic population that had been driven from the west into the Hungarian east, and who was familiar with the unique charms of the customs and language of both the Spiš Germans—who were still living in northern Hungary at the time but have since been Magyarized—and others like them. He also learned once that Christmas plays were still performed in a remote village near Pressburg. And he—I mean my old friend Karl Julius Schröer—went there and tried to get to the bottom of what from ancient times still lived on among the people. He later told me many things about the wonderful impressions he had gained there from the last remnants of Christmas plays dating back to much, much earlier times. There was an old man in one village. A custom had been passed down in his family that, when the Christmas season approached, they would gather those in the village who were suited to perform a Christmas play—a play in which the Christmas story itself was to be presented in a simple manner, the story that the Gospels tell us as the Christmas story, the story of Herod and the Three Kings. But if one wants to understand what is truly unique about such Christmas plays, then one must have some idea of what life was like among the common people in times long past. That is now over, and it should not be brought back. If I were to describe what is at stake here, I could really say nothing other than this: Does not the snowdrop have a specific time of year when it blooms, or the lily of the valley or the violet a specific time when it inserts itself into the entire macrocosm? Certainly, in a greenhouse you can make them bloom at other times, but it actually feels wrong to perceive the blooming violet out of place at a time other than when it is set within the entire macrocosm. There is little appreciation for such things in our present age, but there was something similar surrounding people in earlier times. What people were able to feel during certain periods of the Middle Ages, as autumn and the Christmas season approached, as the dark nights set in—what people were able to feel then was that their inner experiences were woven into everything living in nature; that these experiences harmonized with the snow outside, the snowflakes, and the icicles on the trees—what could be felt then could only be felt during the Christmas season. It was a very special atmosphere; it was something that gave the soul strength and healing power for the entire year. It truly renewed the soul; it was a real power. If, decades ago, one could still observe the last remnants of these feelings here and there, those feelings would already have come to meet you. And I would like to say, based on my own entirely external experience on the physical plane, that one could still find even the most wayward, the most good-for-nothing lads who, at least when the days grew shorter, did not dare to be irreverent in their souls. Those who usually fought the most fought the least, and those who fought little did not fight at all during the Christmas season. It was a real power that lived within their souls. And the period of the weeks surrounding Holy Christmas was steeped in this entire world of feeling.

[ 13 ] For what did people feel there? What they felt there was truly, condensed into sensations and emotions: the descent of humanity from divine-spiritual heights to the lowest point on the physical plane. The reception of the Christ impulse, the reversal of humanity’s path, the ascent to divine-spiritual heights. — That is what one sensed in everything connected with the Christ event. That is why people were likely eager not only to depict the Christian events, but—just as the calendar links Adam and Eve’s Day on December 24 with Jesus’ birthday on December 25—they would stage a “Paradise Play” followed immediately by the “Christ Birthday Play,” symbolizing the impulse of humanity’s ascent back up to the divine-spiritual heights. This was deeply felt when the name “Eve!” rang out from the “Paradise Play”—the mother of humanity, from whom people descended, who then descended into the valley of physical life. One heard this on one of the days, and on the next day, the reversal of humanity’s path. This is already hinted at in that phrase intended to express this reversal: “Ave Maria!” “Ave” was perceived as the reversal of “Eve”: “Ave” — “Eve.” It touched people’s hearts deeply when they heard such things, such as the words that rang out countless times to their ears and hearts from the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th centuries onward, and which they understood.

[ 14 ] So we would say something like the following:

Ave maris stella Dei mater alma Atque semper virgo Felix coeli porta. Sumens illud Ave Gabrielis ore Funda nos in pace Mutans nomen Evae!

Hail, Star of the Sea, Divine young Mother And ever-virgin, You blessed gate of heaven. Receiving that “Hail Mary” As a gift from Gabriel, You became for us the foundation of peace, By transforming The name of Eve!

[ 15 ] And in what was performed as the “Paradise Plays,” one sensed something that must have been steeped in a Christmas-like, sacred atmosphere. Yes, one felt this deeply, and one may well say this among anthroposophists: Does it not remind us somewhat of the way—though this is, of course, something greater—in which one confronts the truth in the Mysteries, when we hear descriptions of the way the performers in the Christmas plays rehearsed, prepared themselves, and conducted themselves before and during the Christmas plays? We know that the Mysteries are conceived in such a way that one does not receive the truth in a sober manner, which can be permeated by any human mood. It is absurd for anyone who senses something of the _sanctity of truth_ to believe that the truth could truly be found in the prosaic, sober lecture halls of the present day. People no longer have any concept that the truth must be sought with a purified, pure, and prepared soul; that a soul cannot find the truth unless it has first been sanctified in its innermost being and prepared for it through its feelings. Today, when truth has become the most prosaic thing for materialism, people no longer have any concept of this. In the Mysteries, one approached the truth after the soul had undergone trials to test its purity, its freedom, and its fearlessness. And one might say: Does this not remind us of when the old man whom Karl Julius Schröer met demanded that the singers he gathered adhere to the old rules? Anyone who has lived among the people in the village knows what the first rule means. The first rule was that during all the preparations that were to be made, none of the participants was allowed to go to a young woman. In the village, that means something extraordinary; it signifies being fully immersed in the piety of what one had set out to do. No one was allowed to sing a roguish song while rehearsing—that was the second rule. No one was allowed to desire anything other than to strive for a good, honorable way of life—that was the third rule. And the fourth rule was that in all matters, one had to follow the person entrusted with the tradition of the Christmas play, a tradition that people were reluctant to relinquish.

[ 16 ] In the second half of the 19th century, people collected these things because those old sentiments had simply faded away. Later, however, I once again encountered something of that deep reverence, of that immense fervor with which those scholars—who were still somewhat intertwined with the people and had, for example, remained in the scattered linguistic enclaves of Hungary—collected the old games and songs. When I was in Sibiu around Christmas time—where the high school teachers had been very active in collecting such games—I came across the “Herod Play.” And so, in the second half of the 19th century, one could still, so to speak, get to know the collectors of what was alive in the soil I have characterized in relation to the Yule festivals. Let us not imagine something theoretical, but rather this warm, magical breath of Christmas spirit, as it lived in these Christmas plays. Through this, we also gain an understanding of human regeneration, of humanity’s belief in the divine and spiritual through the Christ impulse. Such rehearsals of Christmas plays—oh, that was something that could truly be very instructive for us today, when the concept of how art springs from piety, from religion, from wisdom, has long since been lost. Today, when people in the arts are so eager to see something detached from everything else—when art, for example, has degenerated into formalism—today we could learn a great deal from the very way in which art was once a flowering of humanity. As simple as it appeared in these Christmas plays, it was a flowering of the very essence of the human being. First, the boys who performed the plays had to be devout; first, they had to absorb, in their whole being, something like an essence of the entire Christmas spirit. But then they had to learn to speak rhythmically in a strictly regulated manner. Today, when we have lost the art of speech in the old sense altogether, when we no longer have any idea of the immense role that rhyme plays or the role that rhythm plays—how every movement of these men, who otherwise wielded flails, how every gesture of these men was rehearsed down to the very last detail, how they were completely immersed for weeks in rhythm, in intonation, and in devotion to what they were meant to portray—one could learn an infinite amount from this for a true understanding of art, especially today, when, for example, we have forgotten artistic speech to such an extent that we hardly speak for anything other than meaning, whereas back then, in these Christmas plays, the very charm lay in the fact that rhythm, tone, gesture—the whole person—spoke. It was truly a magnificent sight, even to see the very last ruins.

[ 17 ] Once the Christmas holidays were over, the Three Kings would go around—at no other time than the period after Christmas. I still remember seeing the Three Kings walking around in the villages myself. They went from house to house. They had a star attached to a pair of scissors. It was flung far and wide by pulling the scissors apart. This flinging was in harmony with the rhythm of these Three Kings, who were dressed in the most primitive manner, yet who, through the very way they carried the appropriate items among the people at the right time—and through their selfless devotion to this task—created a full festive atmosphere. Our time can no longer understand this at all, unless a mood for it can once again be awakened—so that what is to awaken within us as a life of the spirit, through anthroposophy, is transformed into art and presented to us—something akin to plays that transcend time, as they must in relation to the present; yet these, too, cannot be tied to specific festive seasons, but must relate solely to the eternal—the eternal aspect of the human soul that is not bound to any season.

[ 18 ] What became a reality for those souls could come to life within us: the Christ impulse at a specific time. Yes, in a certain sense we are already deeply immersed in an age in which materialism has taken such a firm hold on all spheres of the outer world that entirely different impulses are needed to renew this Christ impulse than the simple impulses that were at work in the Middle Ages. A renewal of the human inner life is necessary—as anthroposophy strives to bring about—a drawing forth of the deepest forces of the human soul, forces quite different even from those we encountered in the Christmas symbols and in the Christmas customs. And just as truly as we can learn through our anthroposophy to feel what passed through our hearts like a magical breath during the performances of the “Paradeis” and “Christ” plays—in all that moved our hearts during these festive seasons—just as truly as we can feel this through anthroposophy, so sincerely must we face the other fact: that the eternal Spirit must express itself in ever-new forms throughout human evolution. Therefore, the sight of the Christmas symbols should inspire us to embrace, in the spirit of Christmas, what the world-historical mood of the anthroposophical way of thinking can be in our hearts.

[ 19 ] For whoever perceives the mysteries of Christmas Eve in the right way looks forward with hope to what is to follow Christmas as a second festival; he looks forward to Easter, the festival of the Resurrection, when that which is born at Christmas will be victorious. And so we are convinced of the necessity that all spiritual life, indeed all cultural life, must be permeated and saturated by what we call anthroposophical mental images, feeling, thinking, and willing. In the future, my dear friends, there will either be Spiritual Science, or there will be no science at all—only an external technical practice. In the future, there will be a religion permeated by anthroposophy, or there will be no religion at all, but only external churchgoing. In the future, there will be art permeated by anthroposophy, or there will be no arts at all, for arts that seek to be detached from the life of the human soul will have a short, ephemeral existence. Thus we look toward something that shines before us with the same certainty as the prophecy given to us by Theodora in The Gate of Initiation concerning the renewal of the vision of Christ. With precisely the same certainty, the resurrection of the anthroposophical spirit in science, religion, art, and all of human life stands within our souls. The great Easter festival of humanity stands before our intuitive soul.

[ 20 ] We can understand that there are still manger scenes, that there are still solitary—even quite solitary—places where that which is to rise among humanity is still born in the form of a child. In the Middle Ages, people were led into homes and shown the nativity scene—a reenactment of the stable with the ox and the donkey, the infant Jesus, his parents, and the shepherds. They were told: There lies the hope for the future of humanity. — Let us allow what we nurture, what we strive for within our anthroposophical workplaces, to become the modern, new nativity scenes in which, under the guidance of the one we call Christ Jesus, the new spirit arises—still in the form of a child today, still at the stage of being born in the individual anthroposophical branches of work, in the nativity scenes, yet bearing within itself the pledge that it will be victorious, that through it we as human beings may celebrate the great Easter festival of humanity, the festival of humanity’s resurrection in a new spirit—the spirit we seek to sense, the spirit we strive for as the anthroposophical spirit.