I

“LOOK AT THE BIRDS OF THE AIR; CONSIDER THE LILY OF THE FIELD.”

BUT PERHAPS you say with “the poet” (and it very much appeals to you when the poet talks like this): “Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird, like the free bird, full of wanderlust, which flies far, far away over sea and land, so close to the sky, to far, faraway lands—alas for myself: I feel simply bound and yet again bound and nailed to the spot where daily worries and sufferings and difficulties make it clear to me that this is where I live—and for my whole life! Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird that, lighter than all earthly burdens, soars into the air, lighter than air—oh, would that I were like that light bird that, when it seeks a foothold, even builds its nest upon the surface of the sea—alas for myself, for whom even the least movement—if I merely move—makes me feel what a burden rests upon me! Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird, free from all considerations, like the little songbird that humbly sings, even though no one listens to it—or that sings proudly, even though no one listens to it. Alas for myself: I have not a moment or anything for myself, but am parceled out and must serve thousands of considerations! Oh, would that I were a flower, or would that I were like the flower in the meadow, happily enamored of myself, period—alas for myself, who feel in my own heart that division of the human heart: neither to be capable of selfishly breaking with everything, nor capable of lovingly sacrificing everything!”

So much for “the poet.” Listening superficially, it almost sounds as if he is saying what the gospel says—he indeed praises the happiness of the bird and the lily in the strongest terms. But now hear more. “Therefore, it is almost like cruelty for the gospel to praise the lily and the bird, saying: You shall be like them—alas for myself, I in whom the wish is so true, so true, so true—‘Oh, would that I were like a bird of the air, like a lily of the field.’ But it is of course impossible that I could become like them; that is precisely why the wish is so fervent, so wistful, and yet so burning in me. How cruel it is, then, for the gospel to speak like that to me; indeed, it is as if it wanted to force me to lose my mind: that I shall be what I feel altogether too deeply—just as deep as the wish for it is within me—that I am not and cannot be. I cannot understand the gospel; between us there is a difference of language that, if I were to understand it, would kill me.”

And that is how it always is with “the poet” in relation to the gospel; for him it is the same with respect to the gospel’s words about being a child. “Oh, would that I were a child,” says the poet, or “Would that I were like a child, ‘Alas, a child, innocent and happy’—alas, I have prematurely become old and guilty and sorrowful!”

Strange, for of course, it is said quite rightly that the poet is a child. And yet the poet cannot come to an understanding with the gospel. For the poet’s life is really based upon despair of being able to become what is wished for, and this despair begets the wish. But “the wish” is the invention of disconsolateness. For of course the wish provides momentary consolation, but upon closer inspection it can be seen that it does not in fact console. And therefore we say that the wish is the consolation that disconsolateness invents. Remarkable self-contradiction! Yes, but the poet is also this self-contradiction. The poet is the child of pain, whom the father nonetheless calls the son of joy. In the poet, the wish came into existence in pain; and this wish, this burning wish, gives joy to the human heart more than wine delights it, more than the earliest bud of spring, more than the first star that a person, weary of the day, greets in longing for the night, more than the last star in the sky to which a person bids farewell when day dawns. The poet is the child of eternity but lacks the earnestness of eternity. When he thinks of the lily and the bird, he weeps; as he weeps, he finds relief in weeping; “the wish” comes into existence, along with the eloquence of the wish: “Oh, would that I were a bird, the bird of whom I read in the picture book when I was a child; oh, would that I were a flower in the field, the flower that stood in my mother’s garden.” But if, with the gospel, one were to say to him, “This is in earnest, precisely this is the earnestness, that the bird is the teacher in earnest,” the poet would have to laugh—and he makes a joke of the bird and the lily, so wittily that he gets us all to laugh, even the most earnest person who has ever lived; but he does not move the gospel in the same way. The gospel is so earnest that all the poet’s sadness fails to change it even though it changes the most earnest person, so that for a moment he yields, goes along with the poet’s thoughts, sighs with him and says, “Dear fellow, it really is an impossibility for you. Well then, I dare not say ‘You shall.’” But the gospel does dare command the poet that he shall be like the bird. And so earnest is the gospel that the poet’s most irresistible invention does not cause it to smile.

You “shall” become a child again, and therefore, or to that end, you shall begin by being able to and by willing to understand the words that are as if directed at a child, and which every child understands—you shall understand the words as a child understands them: “You shall.” The child never asks about reasons; the child does not dare do so, neither does the child need to—and the one corresponds to the other, for precisely because the child does not dare do so, neither does it need to ask about reasons; because for the child it is reason enough that it shall—indeed, all reasons together would not be reason enough to the child to the degree that this is. And the child never says, “I cannot.” The child does not dare do so, and neither is it true—the one corresponds precisely to the other—for precisely because the child does not dare say, “I cannot,” it is not therefore true that it cannot, and it therefore turns out that the truth is that it can do it, for it is impossible to be unable to do it when one does not dare do otherwise: nothing is more certain—as long as it is certain that one does not dare do otherwise. And the child never looks for an evasion or an excuse, for the child understands the frightful truth that there is no evasion or excuse, there is no hiding place, neither in heaven nor on earth, neither in the parlor nor in the garden, where it could hide from this “You shall.” And when it is quite certain to a person that there is no such hiding place, then neither is there any evasion or excuse. And when one knows the frightful truth that there is no evasion or excuse—well, then one naturally refrains from finding it, for what is not cannot be found—but one also refrains from seeking it; and then one does what one shall. And the child never needs to spend a long time in deliberation, for when it shall—and perhaps immediately—then there is no occasion for deliberation; and even were this not the case, when, after all, it shall: Yes, even if one were to give it an eternity to deliberate, the child would not need it; the child would say, “Why all this time, when, after all, I shall?” And if the child were to take the time, it would surely use the time in another manner, for play, for enjoyment, and the like—for what the child shall, the child shall; that is unalterable and has absolutely nothing to do with deliberation.

Therefore, in accordance with the instructions of the gospel, let us in earnest regard the lily and the bird as teachers. In earnest, for the gospel is not so intellectually pretentious as to be unable to make use of the lily and the bird; but neither is it so worldly that it is only capable of regarding the lily and the bird mournfully or with a smile.

 

From the lily and the bird as teachers, let us learn

silence, or learn to keep silent.

For surely it is speech that places the human being above the animal, and if you like, far above the lily. But because the ability to speak is an advantage, it does not follow that there is no art in the ability to keep silent, or that it would be an inferior art. On the contrary, precisely because a human being has the ability to speak, for this very reason the ability to keep silent is an art; and precisely because this advantage of his tempts him so easily, the ability to keep silent is a great art. But this he can learn from the silent teachers, the lily and the bird.

“Seek first God’s kingdom and his righteousness.”

But what does it mean, what is it that I must do, what sort of effort is it of which it can be said that it seeks, that it aspires to, God’s kingdom? Shall I seek to secure a position that corresponds to my abilities and strengths, so that I can be effective in it? No, you shall first seek God’s kingdom. Shall I give all my fortune to the poor, then? No, first you shall seek God’s kingdom. Shall I go out and proclaim this teaching to the world, then? No, you shall first seek God’s kingdom. But then, in a certain sense is there in fact nothing I shall do? Yes, quite true, in a certain sense there is nothing. You shall in the deepest sense make yourself nothing, become nothing before God, learn to keep silent. In this silence is the beginning, which is first to seek God’s kingdom.

Thus, in a godly way, does one come in a certain sense backward to the beginning. The beginning is not that with which one begins but is that to which one comes, and one comes to it backward. Beginning is this art of becoming silent, for there is no art in keeping silent as nature is. And in the deepest sense, this becoming silent, silent before God, is the beginning of the fear of God, for as the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, so is silence the beginning of the fear of God. And as the fear of God is more than the beginning of wisdom, is “wisdom,” so is silence more than the beginning of the fear of God, is “the fear of God.” In this silence, the many thoughts of wishing and desiring fall silent in the fear of God; in this silence, the loquacity of thanksgiving falls silent in the fear of God.

The ability to speak is the human being’s superiority over the animal, but in relation to God wanting to speak can easily become corrupting for the human being, who is able to speak. God is in heaven, the human being is on earth: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. God is infinite wisdom, what the human being knows is idle chatter: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. God is love; the human being is—as one says to a child—even a little fool with respect to his or her own well-being: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. Only in much fear and trembling can a human being talk with God, in much fear and trembling. But to speak in much fear and trembling is difficult for another reason, for as anxiety causes the voice to falter in a physical sense, so also does great fear and trembling surely cause the voice to fall mute in silence. This is known by the person who prays rightly, and this is perhaps exactly what the person who did not pray rightly has learned in prayer. There was something that was very much on his mind, a matter that was so important for him to have God understand properly; he was afraid that he might have forgotten something in his prayer—alas, and if he had forgotten it, he was afraid that God would not have remembered it on his own: therefore, he wanted to gather his thoughts and pray truly fervently. And then, if he in fact prayed truly fervently, what happened to him? Something strange and wonderful happened to him: gradually, as he became more and more fervent in prayer, he had less and less to say, and finally he became entirely silent. He became silent. Indeed, he became what is, if possible, even more the opposite of talking than silence: he became a listener. He had thought that to pray was to talk; he learned that to pray is not only to keep silent, but to listen. And that is how it is: to pray is not to listen to oneself speak, but is to come to keep silent, and to continue keeping silent, to wait, until the person who prays hears God.

That is why, in serving as one’s upbringing, the words of the gospel, “Seek first God’s kingdom,” muzzle a person’s mouth, as it were, by answering every question he poses—about whether this is what he shall do—with “No, you shall first seek God’s kingdom.” And this is why one can paraphrase the gospel’s words as follows: “You shall begin by praying, not as though—as we have of course shown—prayer always begins with silence, but because when prayer has properly become prayer, it has become silence. Seek first God’s kingdom, that is: Pray!” If you were to ask—indeed, if in your questioning you went through every individual thing, asking: “Is it this that I shall do, and if I do it, is this, then, seeking God’s kingdom?”—the answer must be: “No, you shall first seek God’s kingdom.” But to pray, that is, to pray rightly, is to become silent, and that is to seek first God’s kingdom.

You can learn this silence from the lily and the bird. That is, their silence is no art, but when you become silent like the lily and the bird, then you are at the beginning, which is first to seek God’s kingdom.

How solemn it is out there under God’s heaven with the lily and the bird—and why? Ask “the poet.” He replies, “Because there is silence.” And he longs to be out in that solemn silence, away from the worldliness of the human world, where there is so much talk—away from all the worldly life of humanity, which merely demonstrates in a sorry way that it is speech that distinguishes human beings from animals. “Because,” the poet would say, “if that is really a way in which to distinguish oneself—no, then I find the silence out there very, very much preferable. I prefer it—no, there is no comparison—it distinguishes itself as infinitely above human beings, who are capable of speech.” For the poet thinks he perceives the voice of God in the silence of nature. Not only does he not think that he perceives the voice of God in the busy talk of human beings, he does not even think that he can perceive that humanity has kinship with divinity. The poet says, “Speech is the human being’s advantage over the animal, to be sure—if he is able to keep silent.”

But the ability to keep silent is something you can learn out there in the company of the lily and the bird, where there is silence and also something of divinity in that silence. There is silence out there, and not only when everything keeps silent in the silence of night, but also when a thousand strings are in motion all day long and everything is a sea of sound, as it were—and nonetheless there is silence out there: each one in particular does it so well that not one of them, and none of them all together, do anything to break the solemn silence. There is silence out there. The forest keeps silent; even when it whispers, it is nonetheless silent. For the trees, even where they stand most closely together, keep their word to one another—which human beings do so infrequently, despite having given their word that “This will remain between us.” The sea keeps silent; even when it rages loudly, it is nonetheless silent. At first, you perhaps hear incorrectly, and you hear it rage. If you rush away bearing that message, you do the sea an injustice. On the other hand, if you take your time and listen more carefully, you will hear—how amazing!—you will hear the silence, for uniformity is of course also silence. When the silence of evening descends upon the countryside, and you hear the distant lowing of cattle from the meadow, or you hear the familiar voice of the dog from the farmer’s house, it cannot be said that this lowing or the dog’s voice disturbs the silence—no, this is a part of the silence, it has a secret, and thus a silent, understanding with the silence; it increases it.

Let us now look more closely at the lily and the bird from whom we are to learn. The bird keeps silent and waits: it knows, or rather it fully and firmly believes, that everything takes place at its appointed time. Therefore the bird waits, but it knows that it is not granted to it to know the hour or the day; therefore it keeps silent. “It will surely take place at the appointed time,” the bird says. Or no, the bird does not say this, but keeps silent. But its silence speaks, and its silence says that it believes it, and because it believes it, it keeps silent and waits. Then, when the moment comes, the silent bird understands that this is the moment; it makes use of it and is never put to shame. This is also how it is with the lily, it keeps silent and waits. It does not ask impatiently, “When is the spring coming?” because it knows that it will come at the appointed time; it knows that it would not benefit in any way whatever if it were permitted to determine the seasons of the year. It does not say, “When will we get rain?” or “When will we have sunshine?” or “Now we have had too much rain,” or “Now it is too hot.” It does not ask in advance how the summer will be this year, how long or short; no, it keeps silent and waits—that is how simple it is, but nonetheless it is never deceived, something that of course can only happen to shrewdness, not to simplicity, which does not deceive and is not deceived. Then the moment comes, and when the moment comes, the silent lily understands that now is the moment, and makes use of it. Oh, you profound teachers of simplicity, should it not also be possible to encounter “the moment” when one is speaking? No. Only by keeping silent does one encounter the moment. When one speaks, even if one says only a single word, one misses the moment. Only in silence is the moment. And this is surely why it so rarely happens that a human being properly comes to understand when the moment is and how to make proper use of the moment—because he cannot keep silent. He cannot keep silent and wait; this perhaps explains why the moment never comes for him at all. He cannot keep silent; this perhaps explains why he did not notice the moment when it came for him. Even though it is pregnant with rich significance, the moment does not send forth any herald in advance to announce its arrival; it comes too swiftly for that; indeed, there is not a moment’s time beforehand. Nor, no matter how significant it is in itself, does the moment come with commotion or shouting; no, it comes softly, on lighter feet than the lightest tread of any creature, for it comes with the light step of the sudden; it comes stealthily. Therefore one must be utterly silent if one is to perceive that “now it is here.” And at the next moment it is gone. Therefore one must be utterly silent if one is to succeed in making use of it. But of course everything depends upon “the moment.” And this is surely the misfortune in the lives of many, of far the greater part of humanity: that they never perceived “the moment,” that in their lives the eternal and the temporal were exclusively separated. And why? Because they could not keep silent.

The bird keeps silent and suffers. However much heartache it has, it keeps silent. Even the melancholic mourning dove of the desert or of solitude keeps silent. It sighs three times and then keeps silent, sighs again three times, but is essentially silent. For what it is it does not say; it does not complain; it accuses no one; it sighs only to fall silent again. Indeed, it is as if the silence would cause it to burst; therefore it must sigh in order to keep silent. The bird is not free of suffering, but the silent bird frees itself from what makes the suffering more burdensome: from the misunderstood sympathy of others; frees itself from what makes the suffering last longer: from all the talk of suffering; frees itself from what makes the suffering into something worse than suffering: from the sin of impatience and sadness. Do not think that the bird is just being a bit duplicitous by keeping silent when it suffers; do not think that, however silent it is in relation to others, the bird is not in fact silent in its innermost being, that it complains over its fate, accuses God and human beings, and lets its “heart in sorrow sin.” No, the bird keeps silent and suffers. Alas, the human being does not do this. But why is it, indeed, that human suffering, compared with that of the bird, seems so frightful? Is it not because the human being can speak? No, not because of that, for that is of course an advantage, but because a human being cannot keep silent. No, the situation is not as the impatient person—and even more emphatically, the despairing person—believes he understands it to be, when he (and this itself is a misuse of speech and of the voice) when he says or cries: “Would that I had a voice like that of the storm, that I could express all my suffering as I feel it!” Ah, that would be but a poor remedy; to the degree he did this, he would only feel his suffering all the more strongly. No, but if you could keep silent, if you had the silence of the bird, the suffering would surely become less.

And as with the bird, so with the lily: it keeps silent. Even though it stands and suffers while it withers, it keeps silent. The innocent child cannot dissemble—nor is it required that it do so, and it is the child’s good fortune that it cannot, for truly, the art of dissembling is purchased dearly. It cannot dissemble and can do nothing about the fact that its color changes and that it thereby betrays something we of course know from this pallid change of color: that it is suffering; but it remains silent. It would like to stand erect in order to conceal what it suffers, but it lacks the strength, the self-mastery, for this: its head nods, exhausted and bent; the passerby—if, in fact, any passerby has sympathy enough to notice it!—the passerby understands what this means, it is eloquent enough. But the lily keeps silent. This is how it is with the lily. But how is it that human suffering, compared with that of the lily, seems so frightful? Is it not because the human being can speak? If the lily could speak, and if—alas, like the human being—it had not learned the art of keeping silent, would not its suffering also become frightful? But the lily keeps silent. For the lily, to suffer is to suffer, neither more nor less. But precisely when to suffer is neither more nor less than to suffer, the suffering is narrowed and simplified and diminished as much as possible. The suffering cannot become less, for of course it is, and thus it is what it is. But on the other hand, the suffering can become infinitely greater when it does not remain exactly what it is, neither more nor less. When the suffering does not become greater or less, that is, when the suffering is only the definite thing it is, even if it were the greatest suffering, it is the least it can be. But when it becomes indefinite how great the suffering is, the suffering becomes greater; this indefiniteness increases the suffering infinitely. And this indefiniteness emerges precisely because of the human being’s dubious advantage of being able to speak. On the other hand, the definiteness of suffering—the fact that it is neither more nor less than it is—is attained only by being able to keep silent, and you can learn this silence from the bird and the lily.

Out there with the bird and the lily there is silence. But what does this silence express? It expresses respect for God, for the fact that it is he who rules and he alone to whom wisdom and understanding belong. And just because this silence is respect for God, is worship—as it can be in nature—this silence is so solemn. And because this silence is solemn in this way, a person perceives God in nature—so what wonder is it, indeed, that everything keeps silent out of respect for him! Even if he does not speak, the fact that everything keeps silent out of respect for him of course affects one as if he spoke.

What you can learn, however, from the silence out there with the lily and the bird without the help of any “poet,” what only the gospel can teach you, is that it is earnestness, that it shall be earnestness, that the lily and the bird shall be the teachers, that you shall imitate them, learn from them in all earnestness, that you shall become silent as the lily and the bird.

And indeed, this is already earnestness—when it is properly understood, not as by the dreaming poet or by the poet who lets nature dream of him—this: that out there with the lily and the bird you perceive that you are before God, which most often is quite entirely forgotten in talking and conversing with other people. For when just two of us talk together, even more so when we are ten or more, it is so easily forgotten that you and I, that we two, or that we ten, are before God. But the lily, who is the teacher, is profound. It does not involve itself with you at all; it keeps silent, and by keeping silent it wants to signify to you that you are before God, so that you remember that you are before God—so that you also might earnestly and in truth become silent before God.

And you shall become silent before God like the lily and the bird. You shall not say, “The lily and the bird, of course they can keep silent; after all, they cannot speak.” You must not say this; you must say nothing whatever; you must not make the least attempt to render instruction in silence impossible—instead of keeping silent in earnest—by foolishly and meaninglessly jumbling silence together with speaking, perhaps as the subject of speaking, so that nothing comes of the silence, but instead a speech comes into existence, a speech about keeping silent. Before God, you shall not become more important to yourself than a lily or a bird—but when it becomes earnestness and truth that you are before God, the latter will follow from the former. And even if what you want to accomplish in the world were the most amazing feat: you shall acknowledge the lily and the bird as your teachers and before God you are not to become more important to yourself than the lily and the bird. And even if the entire world were not large enough to contain all your plans when you unfold them, with the lily and the bird as teachers, you shall learn before God to be able simply to fold all your plans together into something that occupies less space than a point, and makes less noise than the most insignificant trifle: in silence. And even if what you suffered in the world were as agonizing as anything ever experienced, you shall acknowledge the lily and the bird as your teachers and not become more important to yourself than the lily and the bird are to themselves in their little cares.

This is how it is when the gospel means in earnest that the bird and the lily shall be the teachers. It is otherwise with the poet or with the person who—precisely because earnestness is lacking—does not become utterly silent in the presence of the lily and the bird, but becomes a poet. True enough, the speech of the poet is very different from ordinary human speech, so solemn that in comparison with ordinary speech it is almost like silence, but it is not in fact silence. Nor does “the poet” seek silence in order to become silent, but the reverse, in order to speak—as a poet speaks. Out there in the silence the poet dreams of the exploit—which, however, he will not carry out, because the poet is of course not a hero. And he becomes eloquent—perhaps he becomes eloquent precisely because he is the unhappy lover of the exploit, whereas the hero is its happy lover. Thus, because the privation makes him eloquent, as privation essentially makes the poet, he becomes eloquent: this, his eloquence, is the poem. Out there in the silence he sketches great plans for reshaping the whole world and making it happy, great plans that are never realized—no, they of course become the poem. Out there in the silence he broods over his pain, makes everything—indeed, even the teachers, the lily and the bird, must serve him instead of teaching him—he makes everything echo his pain, and this echo of pain is the poem, for a cry pure and simple is no poem, but the infinite echo of the cry in itself is the poem.

Thus the poet does not become silent in the silence of the lily and the bird, and why not? Simply because he reverses the relationship and makes himself into something more important in comparison with the lily and bird, even imagining that he is meritorious for having, as is said, lent words and speech to the bird and the lily—whereas the task was that he himself learn silence from the lily and the bird.

Oh, but would that the gospel might succeed, with the help of the lily and the bird, in teaching you, my listener, earnestness, and in teaching me to make you utterly silent before God! Would that in the silence you might forget yourself, forget what you yourself are called, your own name, the famous name, the lowly name, the insignificant name, in order in silence to pray to God, “Hallowed be your name!” Would that in silence you might forget yourself, your plans, the great, all-encompassing plans, or the limited plans concerning your life and its future, in order in silence to pray to God, “Your kingdom come!” Would that you might in silence forget your will, your willfulness, in order in silence to pray to God, “Your will be done!” Yes, if you could learn from the lily and the bird to become utterly silent before God, what, then, wouldn’t the gospel be able to help you do—then nothing would be impossible for you. But if the gospel, with the help of the lily and the bird, has merely taught you silence, how much has it not helped you already! For as the fear of God, as is said, is the beginning of wisdom, so is silence the beginning of the fear of God. Go to the ant and become wise, says Solomon; go to the bird and the lily and learn silence, says the gospel.

“Seek first God’s kingdom and his righteousness.” But the expression of the fact that one is seeking first God’s kingdom is precisely silence, the silence of the lily and the bird. The lily and the bird seek God’s kingdom and absolutely nothing else; all the rest will be added unto them. But then, are they not seeking God’s kingdom first if they seek nothing else whatever? How is it, then, that the gospel says: Seek first God’s kingdom, thereby implying that in its view there is something else to be sought next, regardless of the fact that it is indeed clear that the gospel’s view is that God’s kingdom is the only thing that is to be sought? This is surely because it is undeniable that God’s kingdom can only be sought when it is sought first; the person who does not seek God’s kingdom first does not seek it at all. Furthermore, this is because the ability to seek includes in itself a possibility of being able to seek something else, and therefore the gospel—which of course for the time being is external to a person, who is thus capable of seeking something else—says, “You shall first seek God’s kingdom.” And finally, it is because the gospel gently and lovingly condescends to the human being, persuading him bit by bit in order to entice him to the good. Were the gospel immediately to say, “You shall simply and solely seek God’s kingdom,” it would surely seem that too much was required of a person. Half in impatience, half in fear and anxiety, he would shrink back. But now the gospel accommodates itself to him a little. There stands the human being, viewing the many things he wants to seek—then the gospel addresses him and says, “Seek first God’s kingdom.” Then the human being thinks, “Well, then, if afterward I am per mitted to seek other things, let me begin by seeking God’s kingdom.” If he then actually begins by doing this, the gospel knows well what will come next, that he will in fact be so satisfied and sated by this search that he will simply forget to seek anything else—indeed, that there is nothing he wants to do less than seek something else—so that it now becomes true that he simply and solely seeks God’s kingdom. That is how the gospel goes about it, and of course this is how an adult speaks to a child. Imagine a child who is truly hungry; when the mother places food on the table and the child gets to see what is there, it is almost ready to cry with impatience and says: “What good will that little bit do? When I have eaten it, I will be just as hungry.” Perhaps the child even becomes so impatient that it simply refuses to start eating, “because that little bit cannot do any good.” But the mother, who knows well that it is all a misunderstanding, says: “Yes, yes, my little friend, just eat this first, then we can always see about getting a little more.” Then the child begins, and what happens? The child is full before half of it is eaten. Had the mother immediately reprimanded the child and said, “That is indeed more than enough,” the mother would of course not have been wrong, but her conduct would not have exemplified the wisdom appropriate to upbringing, as it now in fact did. This is how it is with the gospel. The most important thing for the gospel is not to reprimand and scold; what is most important for the gospel is to get human beings to follow its guidance. That is why it says, “Seek first.” In so doing, it muzzles, so to speak, all of a person’s objections, brings him to silence, and gets him actually to begin first this seeking. And then this seeking satisfies a human being in such a way that it now becomes true that he simply and solely seeks God’s kingdom.

Seek first God’s kingdom; that is, become like the lily and the bird; that is, become utterly silent before God: then all the rest will be added unto you.