The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Fifth Lecture

[ 1 ] If one traces this stage of life—which is most decisive for education—from the change of teeth to sexual maturity, it can be further divided into individual, I would say, sub-stages, such that until about the age of 9, the child is not at all capable of distinguishing itself so strictly from its environment that even on an emotional level, the sense of the world and the sense of self are clearly separated within it. In this regard, our modern era does not always see things correctly. Today’s observer of human behavior looks at a child who bumps into a corner and begins to hit that corner. The modern observer then says: “The child imagines the table against which it bumped—in cultural-historical terms, this is called animism—to be alive, and because the child assumes the table is alive, it hits the table.” — That is not the case in reality. If one looks into the child’s soul, one finds that the child does not animate the table—nor does it animate living things in the way one must animate them at a later age—but just as the child sees the arm and the hand simply as limbs of its own being, so it sees a continuation of its own being in what happens outside. The child does not yet distinguish between the world and itself. And so it follows that, for—I would say—the first third of life, between the change of teeth and sexual maturity, one must be thoroughly mindful in teaching and upbringing to present everything to the child in such a way—through fairy tales and legends—that the child sees in everything something that is no different from its own being, something that is nothing but a continuation of its own being.

[ 2 ] On the other hand, the period between the ages of 9 and 10 marks an important developmental stage in a child’s life. This developmental stage comes a little earlier for some children and a little later for others; it is of paramount importance. One will notice that the child becomes somewhat restless, that with questioning eyes the child—and this really comes down to things one must sense—begins to approach the authority of the educator; that the child asks questions that strike one as surprising compared to what the child has asked—or not asked—in the past. The child enters a peculiar inner state. The most important thing here is not merely—I would say—to offer the child all sorts of admonitions in a pedantic, philistine manner, but above all to be able to truly empathize with the child on an emotional level. Something has taken hold in the child’s subconscious—of course in the subconscious, not in the sense that the child would clearly articulate it to itself—at this stage of life, which can be characterized as follows: Up until now, truth, goodness, and beauty have been, through and through, whatever the revered educational authority presented as true, good, and beautiful. The child is, of course, devoted to that authority. At this stage of life, somewhere between the ages of 9 and 10, something comes over the child that causes it—not in thought, for it does not yet think in intellectual terms, but in its feelings—to raise the entirely vague, dreamlike question: Yes, where does the teacher get this from, where does it come from; is the educator really the world? Up until then, he was; now this question arises: Does the world not extend even beyond the educator? — Whereas before he was spiritually transparent, and the child saw the world through him, he now becomes more and more opaque; the child asks, as if intuitively, why something is justified. Here one must tactfully find the right approach for the child through the way one behaves. What matters is not that one knows how to say a memorized phrase, but that one knows how to adapt to the situation out of an inner sense of tact. If, through an inner, intangible empathy with the child, one finds the right approach precisely during this stage of life, one might say that this has immense significance for the child’s entire life, right up until death. To have found, in this inner life situation within the teacher or educator, a person about whom one has the feeling: “This person speaks from the mysteries of the world”—this becomes more and more valuable. This is an essential part of didactics and methodology.

[ 3 ] At this point, the child begins to distinguish between the world and the self. Therefore, we can now move from botany—as I explained it yesterday—to zoology. If we approach it as I have described, we can meet the child’s sense of the world halfway.

[ 4 ] Then, in a third phase, around the age of 12—after reaching the middle of the 11th year of life—a child first develops an understanding of what is called a sense of causality. No matter how intelligently you explain to the child before the age of 12 that things have causes and effects, the child is, at this age, “causality-blind.” Just as the term “color blindness” was coined in reference to color, so too can the term “causality blindness” be coined. The connection between cause and effect only begins to take shape in human beings after the age of 12. Therefore, one can only begin to teach children about the physical-mineral realm—insofar as it goes beyond the pictorial and into the physical-chemical—between the ages of 11 and 12. Only then can it be introduced into the curriculum as a physical-chemical concept. It is certainly harmful, not beneficial, to discuss all manner of cause and effect in nature with a child before this age.

[ 5 ] But with this, I would say, the methodological framework for history instruction is also established; for history can be approached in two ways: either by, so to speak, mentally painting the individual figures of history—portraying personalities in images. History should be taught in this way alone until the age of 12. Anything else hardens the human being, making him, so to speak, spiritually sclerotic. If, before the age of 11, you speak in history lessons of how earlier epochs prepare the way for later ones through certain impulses, you create a kind of spiritual sclerosis in the child. People who are able to observe such things will often be able to say of those who have now grown old: “This person was taught about causality in history far too early.” And even at this stage of life, this often carries over into the physical realm according to the same laws I have discussed. And physical sclerosis, which occurs in old age, can also be attributed—among other causes—to the fact that the child was exposed to too much causality during childhood.

[ 6 ] These connections must be taken into account. And it is precisely for such connections that understanding is absolutely essential. They represent a cultural challenge that leads our civilization back to what once existed out of an instinctive understanding of human nature—an understanding we can no longer rely on because we live in an age of reason. You see, if we go back to earlier historical epochs, even to ancient Greece, the terms “educator” and “healer” were extremely closely related, for it was understood that human beings are, in fact, beings who, upon entering earthly-physical life, do not yet stand at their full height; he is a being who must first be brought to his full potential. This is the sound aspect of the mental image of the Fall: that human beings actually enter physical earthly existence in a subhuman state. If they did not enter in a subhuman state, we would have just as little need to educate them as we do the spider, which also does not need to be educated in order to weave webs later on. With human beings, one must first nurture everything within them, because they must first be brought to full humanity. And if this is correctly understood—that human beings must first be guided physically, psychologically, and spiritually toward becoming fully human—then one also realizes that this must occur according to the same laws by which an abnormally functioning human nature must be brought back onto the right track. Healing a person who possesses not full humanity but rather a damaged humanity is an activity similar to education. Only when one once again recognizes the kinship—the natural and spiritual kinship—between the two will one be able to enrich pedagogy in the proper way through an ethical physiology.

[ 7 ] It is remarkable how late, but also how thoroughly, such mental images have been lost; so that, for example, you can still read about them in Herder: in Herder’s *Ideas on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind*, written in the 18th century, you will find a description, written with true inner devotion, of all that can be learned from illness regarding the contemplation of the inner human being. When a person becomes ill, it is an interruption in the normal course of their being, and the way in which they become ill—and the way in which they recover from illness—leads one into the laws of human nature. And Herder is actually quite enthralled by the opportunity to learn about the inner fabric of human existence not only from cases of physical illness but even from cases of mental illness. There is still a clear awareness of this interconnectedness between medicine and pedagogy. The times are still so close to us when the old principles held: You must heal—that is, educate—the human being who enters the world sick because of sin—when this principle was still in force. Certainly, it is expressed in radical, extreme terms, but there is something healthy underlying it. This, in turn, must be recognized as a cultural imperative so that this thorough abstraction—which has also taken hold in education—may cease, and so that we may truly move beyond such things as I have experienced in practice.

[ 8 ] I recently had to give a tour of the Waldorf School to a man who even holds a leading position in the field of education. We also discussed the individual characteristics of some of the students; and this man summarized what he had observed in a remarkable way. He said: “But if that is to be the case, then teachers would have to study medicine.” — I said, “You can’t judge it that way at all. If it is necessary to incorporate a certain amount of medical knowledge into pedagogy, then that is simply what must be done. It is impossible to say that it must be so simply on the basis of some traditional reasons.” It must happen; it must become a cultural imperative that cultural medicine and cultural pedagogy are indeed brought closer together so that they can enrich one another. All the things that must be demanded today are, in many respects, quite inconvenient, but after all, life itself has gradually become quite inconvenient, and healing it will also turn out to be quite an inconvenient undertaking.

[ 9 ] The point is, therefore, that one should not begin the actual mineral-based approach until between the ages of 11 and 12; history should also be taught in such a way that imagery is provided up to this age, and only then should one begin to address the causal and active elements in history through a synthesizing historical perspective, and allow students to gain an overview only between the ages of 11 and 12. The correctness of this methodology can be seen everywhere in the fact that, as soon as one introduces causal analysis of historical events to children too early, they do not listen at all; but when one does so at the right moment, one is met with the child’s inner joy and active engagement.

[ 10 ] In fact, it is impossible to educate and teach without this inner presence. Everywhere, however, the focus will be on considering how a person must be educated so that we become aware of how to actually send them out into life once they reach sexual maturity. For even with those children who will then become young ladies and young gentlemen and move on to secondary schools—at the Waldorf School, we have a system in which we guide children beyond the elementary school grades all the way to university entrance qualifications; we teach in 12 grades up to the age of 18, 19—one must be fully aware that, after reaching sexual maturity, we are dealing with human beings who have just been sent out into life, and whom we must approach in a completely different way than in the preceding stage of life. For human beings must be educated, as far as possible, in such a way that the intellectual aspect, which awakens with sexual maturity, can find nourishment within their own human being. If a person has previously absorbed an inner richness through imitation, on the basis of authority, and through imagery, then what they have absorbed in this way can be transformed into intellectual thought once they have reached sexual maturity. They will now be faced with the task of thinking about what they previously willed and felt. And to ensure that this intellectual thinking does not begin too early, the utmost care must be taken in teaching and upbringing. For a person does not arrive at an experience of freedom when it is forced upon them, but only when it awakens within them. Yet it must not awaken amid spiritual poverty. If a person has not previously absorbed anything through imitation and modeling—so that it can be drawn up from the depths of the soul into thought—then, upon reaching sexual maturity, the person will seek to unfold in thought; and the consequence of this is that, having absorbed nothing through imitation and modeling, they will find nothing upon which to unfold, and their thinking will, so to speak, grasp at nothing. This leaves them feeling adrift; it leads them, at that stage of life when they should actually already be somewhat established within themselves, to get involved in all sorts of frivolous pursuits, imitating this and that, indulging himself, and—during his rowdy, boisterous years—imitating whatever happens to please him at the moment—usually something that does not please others, who are focused on the practical aspects of life—because, as a child, he was not kept alive through proper imitation. Thus we see many people, after reaching sexual maturity, wandering about, leaning on this or that, thereby numbing their inner experience of freedom.

[ 11 ] At every stage of life, it is essential to ensure that education is not limited to that particular stage, but is directed toward the entirety of human life on earth—and even beyond. For the most beautiful way to first approach the immortal human being is to experience for oneself, after reaching sexual maturity, how that which has poured into the soul through imitation in images now emancipates itself from the soul and rises into the spirit, and to feel how it passes from temporal activity into eternal activity, which then extends through birth and death. In this emergence of that which has rightly flowed into the human soul through education, one experiences immortality; for one experiences, above all else, clearly through experience that one was something before descending into the physical world. And what one was before descending into the physical world is connected to what arises from what has been imitated in a religious sense and taken in pictorially; in this way, one approaches the core of immortality through experience. I speak of the “core of immortality” in accordance with today’s linguistic conventions, because even where the belief in immortality is still held, we have only half the picture. Today we speak of immortality—which does indeed exist—only out of certain selfish feelings; that is, of the fact that we do not perish through death but continue on; yet we do not speak of the other side, of non-birth. The ancients, who were instinctively enlightened, still possessed these two aspects of eternity: immortality and non-birth. Only those who understand both truly understand eternity. This eternity is experienced when one is properly educated. And here again we are confronted with a reality where materialism should not be considered solely from its theoretical perspective.

[ 12 ] As I have already hinted: The fact that all sorts of monists are running around spreading all sorts of materialistic theories can be bad. But that is not the worst of it. What is least harmful is merely what people think; what is worst is what pours into life itself, what becomes life. And since materialistic thinking has also taken hold of the art of education, people are actually being educated in such a way that they cannot experience this elevation of what is acquired temporally through education into the eternal. As a result, they lose their connection to their eternal part. To people who have been properly educated, no matter how much materialism you preach to them in a materialistic way, it will not affect them very deeply, for they will say: “Yes, I do indeed feel that I am immortal; unfortunately, you have overlooked that with your proofs.” What matters everywhere is that not merely thinking, but life itself, be grasped. And the fact that so much importance is placed today on theories and worldviews disseminated through concepts and ideas is—as paradoxical as it sounds—a sign, a symptom of the materialism of our age. For a true spiritual vision does not stem from the material. Just take a look—if you delve more deeply into anthroposophy—at how anthroposophy engages with psychology and physiology, and how it speaks of material things and processes down to the finest details. Anthroposophical physiology speaks of the activity of the liver, the spleen, and the lungs in a completely different way than today’s abstract physiology, which believes it is observing facts but considers these very facts in much the same way that a person who finds a magnet might consider that fact. He finds this magnet together with someone else who knows what a magnet is; he himself does not know—he does not know that there are forces within it that are hidden. He says to himself: “I’ll take this with me; it’s the right horseshoe for a horse.” — The other person says: “You can’t use that as a horseshoe; it’s a magnet.” - So he laughs at it. That is how people today, who come from the natural sciences, laugh when one speaks to them from spiritual perspectives about the liver, spleen, heart, and so on; when one tells them that something spiritual lives within them. But whoever laughs at this also lacks the ability to delve deeply into physical, material reality. And the worst thing about materialism is not at all that it fails to understand the spirit; that will balance itself out later. The worst thing is that it knows nothing about matter and how it works, because it cannot find the spirit within matter. Never has there been an age more ignorant of the material aspect within human beings than our own, because one cannot find this material aspect in human beings without delving into the spiritual. And so one might say: In life, the very falsity of materialistic education becomes apparent precisely when a person cannot feel their eternal aspect within themselves—simply experience it inwardly. They will come to experience death as an event in life, not as the end of life, if they are educated in a methodologically correct way—that is, if the principles of education are derived from human nature itself. But then one comes to understand the entire relationship between the educator and the child—and later, the young person—in such a way that one knows: it is not merely the external that is at work here; rather—as I have already discussed in relation to the very young child—it is the imponderables, the incalculable and the intangible that are at work.

[ 13 ] One must take this into account when dealing with something like—as was also mentioned in response to a question—punishment as a means of discipline. After all, it can’t be a matter of whether one should punish or not. How can one deal with certain things that children get up to if, for example, one were to do away with punishment entirely? Whether or not to punish is, I would say, a very individual question. There are children who respond to something entirely different from punishment, and there are children who simply won’t respond at all without it. However, the nature of the punishment will always depend somewhat on whether the teacher has one temperament or another. One must be clear that one is dealing with human beings, not with a sculptor’s carvings; one must take their nature into account. But the children themselves must also be taken into account. And there’s really no need to talk so much about whether a slap or two should be administered now and then. In this case, the “how much” matters far more than the “what.” It all comes down to the fact that only a punishment meted out with full composure and inner calm on the part of the teacher is actually effective, whereas if it is administered out of the teacher’s anger, it cannot be effective at all. Through self-discipline, the teacher can, of course, achieve a great deal in this regard. Otherwise, it can happen that when a child makes a mess, the teacher gets angry and starts scolding the child next to them, who has also become angry at that child: “You shouldn’t get angry right away!” — Then the child says: “Even grown-ups get angry when they encounter inconveniences.” — The teacher says: “You mustn’t get angry, or I’ll throw the inkwell at your head.” — When punishment is meted out in this way out of a fit of anger, then eventually what once happened in a school setting occurs again: A teacher came among the children she was teaching, who were still of a moderate age. The children were playing. The teacher said: “But what kind of racket are you making? What are you up to? Why are you so loud? Why are you shouting so much?”—Until one child finally spoke up and said: “You’re the only one shouting.” —It is absolutely crucial that the state of mind of the one who punishes or admonishes plays the most important role in the act of punishment or admonishment. Therefore, even when a child has misbehaved, one can exercise caution: first, ignore the child’s misbehavior in front of the child, and sleep on it for a night. The next day, the matter is addressed. By then, the educator has at least regained the necessary inner calm. In this way—whether a reprimand or a punishment is to be administered—a more appropriate effect will be achieved under all circumstances than if the matter had been dealt with in a fit of anger. Certainly, this approach also has its downsides, but one must weigh the pros and cons and not fall into one-sidedness.

[ 14 ] Now we see that with a method of education and instruction such as that based on anthroposophical principles, one must, so to speak, “read” the child’s age. One must see more in a human being than scientific thinking is willing to acknowledge today. Certainly, scientific thinking has made marvelous progress, but when it comes to human nature, it is as if one were looking at a text and merely describing the letters. It is useful to describe the letters, and it is even beautiful, but that is not the point; one must read. The point is not to describe the individual organs and their psychological functions according to today’s methods, but rather to be able to read within the human being. But this act of reading works as follows for the teacher and the student: Yes, you see, if someone picks up a book—no matter how interesting—and cannot read it, but only looks at the letters, they will not be stirred to much inner activity. Just think: if someone picks up a very interesting novel and can only describe the letters, nothing will happen within them. Similarly, nothing happens within a person from an educational standpoint if they can only describe the individual organs, the members of the soul. If they can read, every child becomes a “spiritual text” for the educator. And this transformation into a “spiritual text” can certainly still occur even in very large classes. And if that is the case, one can simply discern it through inner intuition: Before the age of 9 or 10, the child will not yet be able to distinguish between the world and the “I,” nor will it be able to write anything resembling an essay on its own. It will actually be able to reproduce, at most, only what is presented to it in the form of fairy tales or legends. Only after this age can one slowly begin to reach the child through images and thoughts, prompting them to write down what they have freely imagined and felt. But that inner structure of thought, which is necessary to move on to essay writing, does not actually develop until around the age of 12. So it is only then that one can begin to transition to essay-style writing. If one begins this too early—I am discussing this because a question has been raised in this regard—the result is that one does not lead the child to mental sclerosis, but rather to mental rickets, to an inner incapacity and weakness in later life on earth.

[ 15 ] Only when one is truly able to relate to people in such a way as to gain an individual understanding of each person in every single case—only then can one educate and teach in a way that enables people to integrate themselves socially, in the appropriate and correct manner, into the world to which they belong—a world into which they must become more and more, ever more deeply, at home as long as they dwell on earth; then this process of becoming part of life will also be able to take place in the right way after death, for there it is a condition of life in the spiritual world that lies beyond death. A person becomes hardened if they do not embrace the opportunity to relate to others in a truly human way; they become hardened toward the life that awaits them after death. This, in turn, is one of the dark sides of our age: that people have actually lost the ability to relate to one another in a truly human way. This loving empathy toward others is absent today. One can already see this in the fact that there is so much talk of social demands. Why is there so much talk of social demands? Because the social norms—that shared, empathetic feeling with others—have been so greatly lost. When strong demands arise in an age, one should always look to these strong demands to see what people are lacking in that age, what they do not have; for that is what they are demanding. Social life is lacking; that is why the social ideal emerges so vehemently in this age. But this education in social matters is precisely what has largely remained untouched, even though it has often been discussed by very enlightened minds. This is what has, after all, receded further and further into the background. In many respects, people today, even as adults, pass each other by without understanding one another. It is a terrible pity, it is heartbreaking, how people today pass each other by without understanding one another. Today one can find communities that are engaged in this or that common endeavor, that have been working together for years—yet in reality, the people do not know one another at all; they have no idea what the other person is like on the inside, because a living interest, a living devotion, and a living empathy for the other person have not developed. But this does occur when, at the right stage of life, the principle of imitation—and, accordingly, the principle of authority—has been instilled in all aspects of teaching and upbringing. And this social feeling, this understanding of other people, depends intimately on whether one has a sense for the spiritual in the world.

[ 16 ] There was a time when humans knew little about the Earth; the tools they used were simple and primitive. The way they artistically reproduced things was sometimes ingenious, but extraordinarily primitive. We live in an age in which humankind possesses complex tools for mastering nature, in which humankind meticulously imitates even the smallest, most minute details in works of art and so on. But what is missing today is the ability to immerse oneself in the spirit of nature, in the spirit of the cosmos, in the totality of the universe. That must be regained.

[ 17 ] Above all, in astronomy we no longer look into the connections between humanity and the universe. When one looks at a plant: it takes root in the soil, emerges from the seed, unfurls its first leaves, then the stem, unfurls further leaves and the flower, and finally contracts again into the seed. Goethe described this by saying: In the plant, there is expansion into the vastness, unfolding, stretching, and then contraction again. — Goethe could not yet go far enough. He described this expansion and contraction of the plant. He could not reach the point where he would have realized why this is so: plant growth is subject to the forces of the moon and the sun. Whenever the forces of the sun are at work, the plant expands, unfolding its leaves into the vastness; whenever the forces of the moon are at work, plant life contracts, unfolding the stem or even the seed, into which the entire plant life is drawn together as if into a single point. And so, when we perceive expansion and contraction in the Goethean sense, we can see in them the alternation of solar and lunar forces, and we are led out into the vastness of the universe, into the cosmic realm. And when we see in the plant how the stars act, we detach ourselves from clinging to the external.

[ 18 ] Just as the forces of the sun and moon act upon plants, they influence human beings in an even more complex way. Once again, one gains a mental image of how human beings are not merely citizens of the Earth, but citizens of the cosmos. Today, people know that they eat cabbage, eat game, drink this or that, that they live in connection with earthly things, and that these things continue to exert their influence within them. They still know this because they perceive these things. But they do not know how they are connected to the starry worlds in a spiritual-soulful way, how there are contracting forces in the lunar aspect and expanding forces in the solar aspect, how these are more or less correctly balanced within the human being, how melancholic soul dispositions are rooted in the lunar aspect and sanguine soul dispositions in the solar aspect, and how a harmonious balance is achieved through cosmic influences.

[ 19 ] Examining this in detail neither undermines the concept of freedom nor, on the other hand, leads in any way to fantasy. For all of this can be viewed as precisely as mathematics; only, mathematics remains abstract, yet true; whereas this leads human beings to draw their spiritual nourishment from the radiance of the host of stars. This becomes a force within the human being, an impulsiveness. By connecting in this way with the spirit of the universe, the human being becomes a whole person and receives the impulse no longer to pass by others without understanding, but to encounter them as human beings. The more one merely describes matter and applies that description to human beings, the more one freezes the life of the soul; the more one allies oneself with the spirit, the more one’s heart opens to others. Thus, through an education that enables one to discover the spiritual within human beings, love for humanity, compassion for others, and service to humanity in the true sense of the word are established.

[ 20 ] But just as everything is both a beginning and an end within the organism, so it is within the entire spiritual being. One cannot understand the world without cultivating an understanding of human nature, without looking into human beings themselves. For the human being is a mirror of the world; all the mysteries of the universe are contained within the human being. The stationary fixed stars are at work within human beings, as are the moving planets and the elements of nature. To understand human nature—to see what is essential within human beings—means, at the same time, to find one’s proper place in the world. Therefore, I would say, a golden rule should run through all education and instruction, and everything that the educator and teacher does for those being educated and instructed should be life-giving—something life-giving, something similar to the way blood, in the physical sense, animates the physical organism: so, from a spiritualized worldview, the lifeblood of the soul should flow into the soul of the educator. Then, in his work, he will fully imbue his methodology and didactics with this spiritual lifeblood, and these will no longer be reducible to abstract principles. Then there will be something alive within the educator that I would like to describe with the words I wish to conclude with, as a kind of education in life:

To devote oneself to the material world,
Means to grind one's soul to dust.

To find oneself in spirit,
means to connect people.

To see oneself in others,
Means to build worlds.

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Question and Answer

following a lecture titled “Pedagogy and Medicine” by Dr. Kolisko

Question: What harm does the requirement to remain seated for long periods of time cause?

[ 21 ] The harmful consequences will manifest in what might be described as a kind of nervousness in the child; for the etheric body does not remain calm. Even if the physical body remains constantly still, a disharmony will continually arise between the astral body and the physical body, and the result will be that, later on, disturbances will occur in all metabolic processes—including circulatory disorders—and the like. For the teacher and educator who understands human nature, it will simply become clear on its own how far they should go in requiring children to sit still, or how lenient they can be.

Question: The educational treatment of moral defects during adolescence, such as a tendency to lie.

[ 22 ] It is precisely in the case of such moral defects that one will find oneself having to apply the interplay of medical and pedagogical thinking that I have just described to you. What manifests as a moral defect—which can initially be described in a wide variety of ways—often stems from very specific pathologies, from very specific defects, and from pathological developmental processes within the organism. It should actually be obvious—and this need not be elaborated further—that the human being, at his or her core—in that which is the eternal essence of his or her being—cannot be prone to such defects; that such defects are connected, on the one hand, with what exists as physical organization, and also with what exists because the human being appears in repeated earthly lives and carries conditions from earlier earthly lives into subsequent ones. When assessing moral defects—let us say, a tendency to lie—the first step will be to determine whether there is any physical weakness in the organism due to a diseased organ or the like. Then one must conclude: Because of this “instrument”—if I may put it that way—which is defective, the child is simply not able to develop as much strength as, let us say, is required for truthfulness to come to the fore. A tendency to lie very often stems from a weakness; one must determine where this weakness has its root.

[ 23 ] So, first of all, one will have to apply medical reasoning. If nothing unusual is found in this regard, one will then actually begin to consider the possibility that there are certain defects present within the psychological shell—so to speak. In this case, the aim will be to influence, through psychological treatment, even those manifestations that arise from physical defects. The aim will be to generate certain impulses in the child that work toward truthfulness. For example, we have achieved very good results with children who lie by creating stories in which the very act of lying is reduced to absurdity, where the liars revealed in the story come to harm through apparent twists of fate. If the child is presented with such stories in the most varied forms—very vivid depictions, preferably in such a way that one can, so to speak, feel the emotions—such as when someone, for example, cracks their skull open because they are a liar, or when the act of lying is reduced to absurdity in some other vivid way—this alone can yield positive results. More generally, success is also achieved when one consistently highlights the appeal of truthfulness in contexts such as those discussed in these lectures regarding moral education in general.

Question: How do Waldorf school teachers respond when a child asks, “Is this a true story?”

[ 24 ] Such things will happen; but in most cases, you’ll do the right thing by asking yourself: Did I tell the story in such a way that the child felt I myself believe in the truth of the legend? — There really are intangible factors at work here. If you tell a fairy tale with the attitude: “I’m incredibly smart; a smart person doesn’t believe in fairy tales; the child is incredibly stupid, so I can tell him fairy tales”—you don’t always have to say this to yourself explicitly, but simply by feeling this way, you won’t have any effect on the child at all. But if you yourself feel the imagery of the fairy tale as a truth—and you can—then you’ll tell the story in such a way that, precisely through this sense of truth in the narrative, you can overcome such things as well.