In 1913, Rudolf Steiner laid the foundation stone for the first Goetheanum, and at this foundation laying, Rudolf Steiner spoke a few lines with which I would like to begin today, and that is:
“Let us try to make clear to ourselves how the connection with the divine world existence, with willing, with feeling, and with divine-spiritual knowing has disappeared from the human soul. Let us try in this moment to recreate , deeply, deeply in our soul, what is felt out there in the countries of the East, North, West, and South today by the human souls whom we may recognize as the best, and who do not get beyond that which we can express with the words: an indefinite, inadequate longing and hope for the spirit.”
That is what Rudolf Steiner spoke in 1913. At that time, of course, the church was still flourishing, although perhaps already somewhat in decline, but if we think about how our parents, how our grandparents still stood in the church—yes, then we feel that at that time there was still a faith that truly comforted people. And one can say, in the present time, 100 years later—yes, this working of the church is actually completely over. Of course, it still exists, but we know, of course, that the churches are closed, that they partially open on Sundays, that there are almost no priests left, at least in our regions, that they have to distribute the work over multiple churches, that they have to work until they are 80 or something like that, they cannot stop at all, there are no new colleagues—that is how it is in our time.
And if Rudolf Steiner in his time already said that the soul, the human soul in the whole world, which can be counted as the West, that it had nothing more than an indefinite hoping and longing for the spirit, then we can say that in our time this hoping and longing is, on the one hand, less indefinite, but on the other hand, also less spread across humanity. And yes, I want to say what I said the last time: Actually, every human being is searching for anthroposophy, because all human beings are born from the spirit and have indeed forgotten it, but the spirit is, of course, still active. And the working of the spirit must be this indefinite or somewhat more definite longing and hope.
If we ask around in our time—and there is, for example, a possibility when a beloved person has died—then one can ask family members or friends: What do you think, is this person still there? There are many unbelievers around us, and if one asks: What do you think, is this person still there, so shortly after death, at the funeral, for example, then it is indeed the case that most people doubt. They do not usually say immediately: But no! They also do not say: Yes, of course! Some do say that, but most doubt, and they actually need anthroposophy the most, if one takes the word literally, —namely, that one can understand the human being not through an intellectual science, but through wisdom.
And then we can best truly begin with the human being. If we stand in life in this way, and we meet each other, this happens continuously, then we meet people whom we love, others to whom we are indifferent, and yet others whom we perhaps do not find sympathetic at all. Continuously there is an encounter with human beings, and then we can ask ourselves: When I stand before a human being, what actually is that, the human being? It seems to be a bodily appearance. But this bodily appearance makes me happy or unhappy, says all sorts of things, gives proof, provides evidence that this human being also has feelings, speaks words, has thoughts, does all kinds of things.
And in modern science, we then learn that all of this is a consequence of physicality, that the body is a kind of—yes, I do not want to say machine—but an entity that, because it is so complicated, also produces thoughts, produces feelings, produces impulses of will, just like a reflex: when one strikes the knee with a small hammer, then one has a reflex. In the same way, one can further consider the actions, the impulses of will of human beings, that these are also something like that—though more considered, but the considerations also, in turn, come from the body.
And then, of course, it is clear if one must think this way—and yes, we all have that within us, even if we think and feel and will spiritually, we have still had the upbringing to think, to believe that the human being is nothing more than his body. And if we think in this way, then death is truly a catastrophe, because it means that when the body ceases, when it no longer functions, then the human being is entirely and completely gone. Over. The only thing that remains then are the memories, and the more a person was loved, the stronger the memories probably are. If a person was a famous person, then there are very many people who have memories. But we also know, of course, that these memories fade away or become historical, and then they are actually no longer true either.
That brings fear of death, and this fear can actually only continue to exist if one does not think further about it and does not perceive what really happens when a person dies. It is, of course, not pleasant, because we have so much fear of looking at a corpse. As a physician, one must, and as a family member or friend, one must often do so as well, that one still dares, goes so far, that one visits and looks at the one who has just died. Then one sees the beloved body. What does one actually see then?
If one did not have so much fear, then one would see what one sees. Then one would truly grasp what one sees. If a machine stops working, then the machine remains exactly the same, whether it works or not, whether it is broken or not, it remains, the machine remains the same. Not so with a human being: when the human body stops, then a tremendous change takes place, and that is precisely what is terrifying, and it is a mixture—a mixture of this conception that it is over, definitive, that this person is gone, no longer exists, and on the other hand, that we do not dare to truly look at what we can actually perceive there.
We see, when a person has just died or died yesterday, then we see the body, and the body is still the body, the familiar body. Yet it is so terrifying. Why? Because something is no longer there that was there in life. Consciousness is gone, self-awareness is gone, and there is something else gone.
When a person sleeps, consciousness is also gone, and self-awareness is also gone. Where they are, that is something else, but at that moment, they are not with the body. In this sense, sleep and death are somewhat similar. And yet, it is something entirely different, because when a person sleeps, the body is still alive. When a person has died, then that is precisely the great difference. Not even so much that consciousness and self-awareness are no longer there. We know that from sleep. It is something else that is no longer there, and that is life itself.
Whoever would dare, just once, to feel very intensely what one can actually feel there—not run away from it, but let it penetrate oneself—that can also be done in memory. One does not need to say: “Yes, there is no one who has died just now.” There have already been people who have died. So, every human being knows what the sight of a corpse evokes.
One can remember that, and if one truly lets it penetrate oneself, then one gains a real sense of what is no longer there.
And in this way, one could really come to establish for oneself—through precise observation, through precise and intense feeling—one could come to recognize that what I see when I see a living human being is not something uniform, that it is not just a body, but that an entity enters my field of vision that is fourfold. What remains at death and then disintegrates is the actual physical body. The parts that are gone in sleep and also in death—consciousness and self-awareness—those are soul and spirit.
The great difference that arises at death is that life leaves the body. That is the life body, which is always with the body during life—a faithful companion, one could say—that also does not leave in sleep, it remains, and as long as it remains, the human being lives. But at death, it leaves the body, and that is truly death. And one could see that—one does not need to be clairvoyant, nor a dreamer, nor a scientist. One only needs one’s pure humanity, which is capable of perceiving, of having thoughts during this perception, of feeling, sensing, experiencing something.
That is something we all can do, but fear and anxiety make it impossible. One can, of course, say, as science speaks: “Yes,at death, the brain waves stop, the heart stops, and that is what disappears, and when that disappears, yes, then we have that corpse.” That is a seductive statement because it seems so logical and scientific.
But one can actually only say that if one does not dare to look at what one sees when one is truly with a deceased person. Every human being must be able to see that, to observe, to feel, that something has changed that did not occur throughout the entire life, but that now leads to the fact that the body can no longer continue. Although it is still completely intact in the first hours, it is not like a machine, where this dead body looks exactly the same as the living body.
One sees the difference.
That is, what I would like to present in this first hour—it is perhaps half an hour—as the first anthroposophical insight, as the first wisdom about the human being: the human being is a fourfold entity. He is physical body, etheric body, astral body, and I. More on that next time.
