The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Tenth Lecture

[ 1 ] Ladies and gentlemen, as I am now given the opportunity to deliver these closing remarks for the educational course, let me first express my truly deep satisfaction that our friends in the Netherlands, who have made it their mission to foster the anthroposophical worldview, chose to organize this course. For organizing such a course always entails a great deal of hard work for the organizers. And we ourselves—who have our share of events to organize in Dornach—know best what it means to have to work behind the scenes on such occasions, and how much effort is required. You will therefore find it quite understandable that, before my departure from the Netherlands, I would like to express my most heartfelt thanks to those who have worked together to make this entire conference a reality. An educational course has come to fruition, and perhaps I may say a few words in these closing remarks about the place of the art of education within the entire anthroposophical movement.

[ 2 ] The art of education has developed within the anthroposophical movement; one might say it is something that did not enter this movement through an abstract intention, but rather emerged from within the movement out of a certain necessity. Very little within the anthroposophical movement has actually developed as naturally and organically as the art of education. The only things to have emerged in this self-evident way from the anthroposophical movement are eurythmy through Dr. Steiner, the medical work through Dr. Wegman, and indeed the art of education itself, of which I may say that it has emerged from the anthroposophical movement as a matter of destiny, just as the other two things, one might say, have emerged karmically. For the anthroposophical movement as such is, of course, the expression of something that corresponds to a human striving, because there has been a humanity on Earth.

[ 3 ] We need only look back at the development of humanity to those ancient times when places of mystery could be found here and there, where religion, art, and science were cultivated out of the experiences of the spirit, and we become aware of how, in those ancient, venerable places, people communed, so to speak, with the beings of the supersensible world in order to carry spiritual life into outer, physical life. We can proceed further through the history of human development, and time and again we find the urge to add the supersensible to what human beings can perceive with their senses. This is, in a sense, the perspective that opens up when we survey the history of human development and see how what lives today in anthroposophy is an eternal aspect of human striving. But as anthroposophy, it draws its life precisely from the longings and aspirations of the hearts and souls of people today. And it can certainly be said: At the turn of the 19th to the 20th century, it became possible—if one so desires—to receive revelations from the spiritual world that will in turn deepen humanity’s entire worldview.

[ 4 ] These revelations from the spiritual world—which today must be viewed differently from the ancient truths of the mysteries and must be in harmony with what humanity knows as science—constitute the content of anthroposophy. And anyone familiar with them knows that, given the conditions of our present age, many, many more people would come to anthroposophy if it were not for the immense prejudices—and especially preconceived notions—that block the path to anthroposophy for so many. But these are things that must be overcome. The small circle of anthroposophists will have to grow into an ever-wider circle. And when one considers all that is at work and alive there, one may perhaps—without in any way wishing to claim that anthroposophy is in and of itself a religious movement—hold before one’s mind the image of a historical process that cuts deep into the heart.

[ 5 ] Imagine that the Mystery of Golgotha actually took place. A hundred years after the Mystery of Golgotha, the most brilliant Roman writer, Tacitus, writes of Christ as if he were an almost unknown figure who met his death over in Asia. Where Roman education flourished—where Roman intellectual and cultural life set the tone at that time—people lived according to the traditions of the past millennia and knew nothing of Christ. And one can almost literally picture a significant fact: Up there is Roman civilization—in the arenas, in grand spectacles, in everything that takes place in Roman social life and Roman public life. Below, underground, are the spaces that exist as the catacombs; there, many people are already gathering—many people at the graves of those who, like themselves, were devoted to the Mystery of Golgotha. These people must keep this a secret. At most, what lives down there beneath the earth sometimes surfaces above ground when, in the arena, a Christian is smeared with pitch and burned, for the spectacle of the educated classes. So we have two worlds here: above, the old one, corresponding to the most glorious traditions of Roman civilization; below, we have what unfolds in secret beneath the earth. Take the most brilliant writer of this era—he could have written what he jotted down in his notes as nothing more than a brief remark on the origins of Christianity, even if his desk in Rome had been situated above a catacomb—he would have needed to know nothing of what happens down there!

[ 6 ] Let us fast-forward a few centuries. What had once spread so brilliantly in Rome has now vanished; Christian civilization has emerged across the face of the earth, where Roman culture once prevailed. Christianity is beginning to spread throughout Europe. When one holds such a picture before one’s eyes, one sees how things actually unfold in the development of humanity. And often, when one considers the present age, one might say to oneself: The anthroposophists—though they do not burrow into the earth today; that is not customary today, otherwise they would have to do so; they find themselves in premises that are, outwardly, as splendid and beautiful as those here—but ask yourself whether those people who today, out there, call the conventional civilization their own know any more about what is happening here than the Romans knew about what was taking place down in the catacombs of Rome. One can no longer speak so literally; the situation has shifted more into the spiritual realm, but is otherwise the same. And if one then thinks a few centuries further ahead in one’s mind, one may, if nothing else, at least have the courageous hope that the picture might change. Admittedly, those who know as little about anthroposophy today as the Romans knew about Christianity will find all this very fanciful; but no one can be effective in the world who cannot look courageously upon the path opening up before them. And anthroposophists would like to look courageously upon the path opening up before them. That is why such images arise.

[ 7 ] However, one must also sometimes take a look at all the judgments being made about anthroposophy today. It has gradually come to the point where hardly a week goes by without some book critical of anthroposophy being published. The opponents take anthroposophy very seriously. They refute it every few days—not so much from different perspectives, since they aren’t very inventive—but they do refute it. Yes, it is interesting to see how anthroposophy is treated from this perspective. One finds highly learned people—or people who ought to have a sense of responsibility—writing books in various fields. They then cite what they have read about anthroposophy: often not a single book among them comes from anthroposophists themselves; instead, they base their knowledge entirely on works by opponents.

[ 8 ] For example, there was once a form of Gnosticism of which, apart from the difficult-to-understand and sparse *Pistis Sophia* text, hardly anything actually survives. All those who write about Gnosticism today—or, since this field plays a significant role at present, pass judgment on it—know little about Gnosticism; they believe they are explaining something about Gnosticism when they say it originated in Greek culture. I often find myself wondering what it would be like if the same were true of anthroposophy—if it were known only through its opponents, and if, as many sometimes wish, all anthroposophical writings were burned; then people would know anthroposophy the way they know Gnosticism today. But it is interesting that today very many people say of anthroposophy that it is a rehash of Gnosticism. They do not know anthroposophy because they do not want to recognize it, and they do not know Gnosticism because they cannot recognize it, for there is no external document about it. But people speak this way. It is a negative force that can also point in a certain direction. However, it can only point to the fact that courage and strength must be present so that anthroposophy does not one day suffer the same fate as Gnosticism, but rather so that it may unfold its full potential. When one sees this, one always looks with a certain deep satisfaction upon all the individual initiatives that come about, such as this conference here; for it is from such things that what is needed to ensure that anthroposophy continues to have a powerful effect is then brought together. Anthroposophy has, I would say, only glimpsed into this educational course through small windows. Reference has been made to a number of things that could demonstrate how anthroposophy engages with reality, how it truly looks into immediate practical life. Because everything that is real is also spiritualized, one can only recognize reality if one has an eye for the spiritual. But it was not possible to speak here about anthroposophy in the strict sense. On the other hand, however, we were able to speak specifically about one area where anthroposophy can bear fruit: the field of education.

[ 9 ] In the field of eurythmy, for example, fate really did play a role, to a greater or lesser extent. Today, someone might look at it as if the idea had simply come about one day that eurythmy had to exist. That was not the case; rather, there was a family that had lost their father. There were a number of children, and the mother was worried about how she would provide for them. She wanted the children to amount to something. At that time, the anthroposophical movement was still small. The question arose for me: what could become of these children? It was in this context that the first steps were taken toward developing something related to eurythmy. This was done in the very narrowest sense. And so the first eurythmy instructions came into being. Fate had spoken: it had emerged from the fact that anthroposophy existed, and that someone within the anthroposophical community had sought a life’s work. And soon afterward—it didn’t take long at all—the first people who had learned eurythmy at that time became teachers and spread it further. And so eurythmy—which Dr. Steiner took under her wing—became what it is today. One might well conclude: eurythmy was not sought out—eurythmy sought out anthroposophy.

[ 10 ] And take the field of medicine. Dr. Wegman has been a member of the Anthroposophical Society for as long as the Society has actually existed. From her beginnings as a healer, she developed a tendency to work in the field of medicine within the anthroposophical movement. As a true anthroposophist, she turned her attention to medicine. Thus, the medical aspect has, in turn, grown out of anthroposophy and is present in it today only because this very growth came about through a particular individual.

[ 11 ] And so it went. Once the flames of the World War had died down, people thought of all sorts of things: Now, they believed, something truly great must come; now, because they had experienced so much misery, people must find the courage to do something truly great, to completely transform themselves. Grand ideals were conceived. All writers, even those who had previously written about other subjects, wrote about the “future of the state” or the “future of the social order,” and so on. Everyone turned their attention to the question of what would now become of humanity. Much of this also arose and then disappeared within the realm of anthroposophy. Only in the field of education had there actually been little of substance up to that point. My little booklet *The Education of the Child from the Perspective of Spiritual Science*, which was written quite early in the anthroposophical movement, was there—containing all sorts of instructions, but actually already encompassing an entire system of pedagogy. It was not regarded as anything other than a guide for mothers who wished to raise their children in the spirit of this little book. People kept asking: Should this child be dressed in blue, should that one be dressed in red; should this one be given a yellow bedspread, that one a red one? — People also asked what one child should eat and so on. A lovely endeavor in terms of education, but it didn’t go very far.

[ 12 ] Out of all these confusing ideals, the idea emerged in Stuttgart, through Emil Molt, to found a school for the children of the workers at the Waldorf-Astoria cigarette factory. And Emil Molt, who is here with us today, had the idea of entrusting me with the leadership of this school. It could not help but become anthroposophical. That was a given. Fate simply could not have it any other way. The school was founded with 150 children from the Waldorf-Astoria factory. It was staffed with teachers drawn from the anthroposophical movement. Under the Württemberg school law, it was possible to appoint as teachers those deemed suitable; for the only requirement was that those who were to become teachers demonstrate that they were generally fit for such a role. All of this took place before the great liberation of humanity brought about by the Weimar National Assembly. Since that time, it would no longer have been possible to proceed in this free manner. But this allowed us to get started, and it will surely be possible to have the lower grades as well, at least for a few years.

[ 13 ] Yes, that’s how anthroposophy came to the school; one could also say, the school came to anthroposophy. And in just a few years, this school grew to the point where it now has children from all walks of life, children from all social classes as well; all kinds of people would like to send their children to the Waldorf School—both anthroposophists and non-anthroposophists. People develop some interesting views there. Parents, of course, love their children more than anything, and naturally they want to send them to an excellent school. Here’s an example of what can happen. There are opponents of anthroposophy living in Stuttgart—vehement opponents, opponents with well-founded reasons, since they are scientific opponents who know that anthroposophy is such silly, unscientific nonsense—and yet they send their children to the Waldorf School. They even find that the Waldorf School is excellent for their children. Recently, two such people visited the Waldorf School and said: “But this Waldorf School really is good; we can see it in our children; it’s just a shame that it was founded on the basis of theosophy.”—Well, the entire Waldorf School wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for anthroposophy. But you see, some people’s judgment is like saying: “He’s an excellent dancer—it’s just a shame he has to stand on two legs.”—That’s the logic of the opponents. One can’t help but say that the Waldorf School is good; for nothing in this school is designed to turn it into a school based on a particular worldview. For example, with regard to religious instruction, our policy is that Catholic children are taught by the Catholic priest, and Protestant children by the Protestant pastor; and only because there are a large number of children in Germany who do not belong to any religious community did we have to establish optional religious instruction for them—otherwise, these children would have been left without any religious instruction at all. It is very difficult for me to find teachers for this, because these non-denominational religious education classes are overcrowded; nor do we compel any child to attend them, for we simply want to be a modern school. We want only practical principles for teaching and education. We do not want to bring anthroposophy into the school, because we are not a sect; we want what is universally human. But it is not our fault that the children are leaving Protestant and Catholic religious education classes and coming to our independent ones. It is not our fault, but they come. And so we must continually ensure that this independent religious education continues to thrive.

[ 14 ] And so, little by little, the Waldorf School is growing—it now has about 800 children and 40 to 50 teachers—not beyond our capacity, but beyond our financial means. Today, it is truly in dire financial straits. And it hasn’t even been six weeks since it was still unclear whether the Waldorf School would even be able to survive financially beyond June 15. We have here a prime example of how difficult it is today to make ends meet with what, in such an eminent sense, proves to be spiritually justified, in the face of the terrible economic conditions that prevail, particularly in Central Europe. And time and time again, every month, we are gripped by the deepest concern precisely for the economic survival of the Waldorf School. Fate has it that we must work with financial hardship always hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles. But we must work according to the principle that the Waldorf School has been established for eternity. It requires a very strong dedication on the part of the teaching staff—who have no way of knowing whether they might find themselves out on the street in three months’ time—to work with such inner intensity.

[ 15 ] But anthroposophical pedagogy has, as a matter of destiny, grown out of the anthroposophical movement. Precisely what we least sought within the anthroposophical movement is what flourishes best. I would like to say: What the gods have given us—not what has been made by human beings—is what flourishes best. And it will be understandable that something like the art of education must have grown particularly dear to the hearts of anthroposophists. For what, after all, is the most beautiful thing in the world? It is, after all, the human being in the making. To see this human being arrive in the physical world from the spiritual realms through birth, to see how, in an indeterminate way, what lives within him has been brought down, how what lies in his features and movements becomes ever more definite; to behold in the right way this working of divine forces, these divine revelations through the human form into the physical world—this has something profoundly religious about it. No wonder, then, that where one seeks the most genuine, truest, and most intimate humanity—as on anthroposophical ground—one regards the mystery of the growing human being with sacred, religious fervor and seeks to meet it with all the work one does.

[ 16 ] This is what, from the deepest stirrings of the soul, inspires enthusiasm for the art of education within the anthroposophical movement. Therefore, one can certainly say: The art of education stands within the anthroposophical movement like a creation that cannot be nurtured within this movement in any other way than with the most devoted love. - And that is how it is nurtured. It is nurtured with the most devoted love. That is why one can also say that the Waldorf school has already found a place in the hearts of all who know it; and everything that flourishes there does so in a way that reveals an inner necessity. I would like to point out two facts here.

[ 17 ] Some time ago—not too long ago—a conference of the Anthroposophical Society took place in Stuttgart. At the conference, a wide variety of requests were put forward from all sides regarding what should be done in this or that area. And since other people in the world today are so clever, the anthroposophists are naturally clever as well; they sometimes share in the cleverness of the world. Thus, many a motion was brought forward, but one was particularly interesting—it came from those who were currently in the twelfth grade at the Waldorf School; a genuine motion addressed to the Anthroposophical Society. It was signed by all the 12th-grade students and read something like this: We have now been educated at the Waldorf School in such a way that we recognize this as true human education; now we dread the prospect of entering an ordinary college. Couldn’t the Anthroposophical Society also establish an anthroposophical college? For we would like to attend a college where we are educated just as naturally as we are now at the Waldorf School.”—This interpellation struck an idealistic chord at that gathering, and the people even passed a resolution to establish an anthroposophical college. Some money was also raised, which then melted away from millions of marks to mere pfennigs during the period of inflation. But there were people who believed that such a thing could be done—done before the Anthroposophical Society had become so powerful that it passes judgment. We could certainly train doctors, theologians, and so on, but what are they supposed to do then? No one recognizes them. But it is, after all, a very interesting testimony that reveals the inner necessity already felt by children’s hearts. What emerged in this interpellation was not unnatural. — But let’s continue. When our students were about to complete their final year for the first time, we were compelled to take the following step. In order for these young people to connect with “dead” culture—we had been able to give them only “living” culture, but now they had to connect with “dead” culture, which meant they had to take the high school graduation exam—we had to structure the final year so that our students could take the high school graduation exam. However, this completely disrupted our curriculum, and we on the teaching staff found it incredibly difficult to structure the final year in such a way that we had to gear our entire curriculum toward the exam. We did it. When I visited the class—it really wasn’t easy for me at all, because on the one hand the students were yawning because they had to study what they would later need to know for the exam; on the other hand, I sometimes wanted to include something they didn’t need to know but that the students wanted to learn. I always had to tell them: “But you don’t have to mention that on the exam.” It really is a challenge. And then came the exams. They went reasonably well. But we had—forgive me for using such a trivial word—a hangover, so to speak, among the teaching staff and in the faculty meetings. We said to ourselves: Now that we’ve established the Waldorf School; now that we should be crowning it with the final school year, we can’t carry out our intentions—what the school was meant to be. And so, despite everything, we decided to strictly follow the curriculum through the final school year, through the end of 12th grade, and at the same time to suggest to parents and students that they add another year afterward so that the students could then take their exams. The students, in particular, are undertaking this with the greatest dedication, truly wanting to come to terms with what is intended and desired at the Waldorf School. We have actually encountered no opposition. The only thing we have been asked is that Waldorf School teachers now conduct this exam preparation.

[ 18 ] One can see how difficult it is to actually place something that is supposed to arise from mere knowledge of the human being within today’s so-called reality. If one is not a dreamer who fails to recognize that one must reckon with reality, then one faces a particularly difficult challenge. And so, on the one hand—I would say as something that is naturally cherished—the art of education stands within the anthroposophical movement; yet, on the other hand, the anthroposophical movement itself faces immense difficulties within today’s general social order when it seeks to realize, precisely in the cherished field of education, what it recognizes as an innermost necessity. This, too, must be viewed with a lively sense of reality. For do not think for a single moment that it would occur to me to mock those who, deep down, say to themselves: “It’s not really that bad; it’s all just a charade, because things are going quite well at other schools, too.” — No, that is not the point! I am well aware of how much work, effort, and even spirit goes into today’s school system. I can certainly appreciate that. But unfortunately, people today think too short-sightedly. They fail to see the connections between what education has become over the course of the last few centuries and what is rushing toward us in social life—destructive, devastating, and ruinous. The fact that anthroposophy knows what the conditions for cultural growth into the future are—this alone compels it to develop the methods you find in the field of education. What is at stake is humanity itself, the possibility of moving forward, not of regressing.

[ 19 ] This characterizes, on the one hand, how the art of education is embedded within the anthroposophical movement; but on the other hand, it is precisely because this art of education lies at its heart that the anthroposophical movement, in turn, faces difficulties in the public sphere of contemporary life. So when a situation arises—as is the case here—where an ever-wider circle of people is willing to listen to what anthroposophy has to say in the field of education, then one is, I would say, grateful to the spirit of the times for making it possible to speak about something that is so close to one’s heart. One can, of course, only ever offer a few suggestions. Especially in this course, I was able to offer only a few suggestions. And, strictly speaking, offering these suggestions does not accomplish all that much, for our anthroposophical pedagogy is the practice of education and teaching. It comes to life only when it is put into practice; for it seeks to be nothing other than life itself. It does not, in essence, want to be described, but rather to be experienced. That is why, when one intends to inspire what is to be brought to life, one tries to employ every possible art of language to show precisely how the art of anthroposophical education seeks to have a life-giving effect. Certainly, I may have succeeded very poorly in this regard during this course; but I have tried. And so it is precisely the pedagogical aspect that has, as a matter of destiny, grown out of anthroposophy. Many people today still approach anthroposophy in such a way that they want only a worldview for their heart and soul—a kind of religious deepening for the soul—and they view with suspicion the fact that anthroposophy extends into various fields: the artistic, the medical, the educational, and so on. But there is no other way, for anthroposophy is meant to be life itself. It seeks to work out of life and back into life. And if these lectures on the art of education have succeeded even a little in showing that anthroposophy is not some sectarian fantasy, but rather something that, in a sense, seeks to present itself with mathematical sobriety as soon as one enters the spiritual realm, then that very mathematical sobriety inspires enthusiasm—for enthusiasm is a word connected with the spirit— and one cannot help but become enthusiastic, even if one is entirely mathematically sober, when one has to speak and act in relation to the spiritual; so even if anthroposophy is still regarded by some today as mere fanaticism—one will see that it is firmly grounded in reality: it aims to be a way of life in the broadest sense of the word. And perhaps this can be demonstrated best today in a field such as education.

[ 20 ] If I have been able to offer some inspiration in this direction to even a few of the souls who were here, I am already satisfied. And the best collaboration will emerge when, through the joint efforts of all those who have been inspired even a little, what these lectures sought to inspire finds a practical application in daily life.