Jesus of Nazareth: What He Wanted, Who He Was

To this point in the book we have spoken almost exclusively about the holiness of the reign of God that transforms the world. In the words of Jesus, in his parables, and above all in his deeds of power, this new and self-transforming world is presented again and again to our eyes. Those who speak of Jesus must talk first and last of this side of his appearing. But to leave it at that would yield an incomplete and somewhat unfocused image, for besides his preaching of salvation—or better, in the midst of it—Jesus also addressed the theme of judgment.

Repressed and Downplayed

Certainly a great many interpreters excise this theme. There are even books about Jesus in which it is simply not there. Catechesis and religious instruction avoid it, and it is almost never preached. The reason, repeated almost to the point of exhaustion, is “Jesus preached the good news, not the grim news.”

Now, that is not altogether wrong. Jesus did not come to threaten. When he speaks of the reign of God he talks first of all about the treasure a day laborer stumbles upon, about the precious pearl a merchant finds, about the tiny mustard seed that grows into a mighty shrub, about the overabundant harvest produced by a field of wheat, about the days of the marriage feast during which no one can fast.

Nevertheless, the formula “good news, not grim news” is a trivialization, because it muffles the theme of judgment by downplaying it as “grim news.” It fits wonderfully, of course, into the image of a Jesus scrubbed clean of every offensive feature and adored by the current spirit of the times, but it has little to do with the realism of his preaching.

Another comforting saying is, “Jesus announced that God is our merciful Father who forgives everything. A preaching of judgment had no place at all in such proclamation.”¹ But this reasoning is also hasty and trivial. It is unable to sustain tensions. It softens the evil in the world in the name of an oversweetened compassion. It does precisely what Franz Kafka ridicules in his story “Up in the Gallery”:

If some frail, consumptive equestrienne on a reeling horse in the ring, in front of a tireless audience, were uninterruptedly driven around in a circle for months on end by a ruthless, whip-cracking ringmaster, whirring on the horse, blowing kisses, swaying at the waist, and if this performance under the incessant roar of the orchestra and the ventilators were to continue into the ever-widening dreary future, accompanied by applause that kept waning and swelling up again, from hands that are actually steam hammers—then perhaps a young gallery visitor might hurry down the long stairway through all the tiers, plunge into the ring, and shout “Halt!” over the fanfares of the ever-adjusting orchestra.

But since it is not like that—since a beautiful lady, in white and red, comes soaring in through the curtains that the proud liveried footmen open before her; since the ringmaster, devotedly seeking her eyes, breathing toward her in an animal stance; since he lovingly hands her up on the dapple-gray horse as if she were his utterly beloved granddaughter taking off on a dangerous journey; since he cannot make up his mind to signal with the whip; but finally pulls himself together and cracks it smartly; runs alongside the horse, his mouth open; follows the rider’s leap with sharp eyes; scarcely believes her skill; tries to warn her by shouting in English; furiously admonishes the grooms, who clutch hoops, to be very attentive; since before the great breakneck leap he raises his hands, beseeching the orchestra to hush; since he finally lifts the girl down from the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks, and considers no tribute from the public satisfactory enough; while she herself, supported by him, high on the tips of her toes, in a whirl of dust, her arms outspread, her head thrown back, tries to share her bliss with the entire circus—since this is so, the gallery visitor puts his face on the railing and, sinking into the concluding march as into a heavy dream, he weeps without realizing it.

²

The first part of this text depicts the world as it is: its misery, its eternal circling, its brutality, its mercilessness. That is reality. But it does not appear that way and is not perceived that way: therefore the twofold “if” and the consistently maintained subjunctive mood. The second part of the text depicts exactly the same world but now staged as a no-longer-transparent world of appearances.

In summary: the audience have the truth concealed from them. They are helplessly handed over to a manipulated reality. Therefore they can no longer rebel. They can no longer rush down the long stairway and shout “stop!” Only their unconscious continues to resist: the young visitor in the gallery weeps without knowing it.