Even a Madman Can Glimpse the Truth: Friedrich Nietzsche on the Death of God

Some of you out there have seen this famous quotation, but it is worth reading again. One of my friends passed it on to me for a lecture I'm doing on truth, and I thought it so fascinating and so insightful, so breathless and beautifully written with such vivid, dramatic language, that I needed to pass it on to you. Read the whole thing.

The madman.— Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!"— As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?— Thus they yelled and laughed. The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried. "I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I! All of us are his murderers! But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? And backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition?—Gods, too, decompose! God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him! How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives,—who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed,—and whoever is born after us, for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto!"

Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners: they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern to the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering—it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars—and yet they have done it themselves!"— It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"

--The Gay Science

I of course disagree entirely that God is dead (the thought itself makes me chuckle), and there are other major flaws in Nietzsche's comments (and his philosophy more broadly), but I think that Nietzsche did provide a sound critique of the Enlightenment philosophes and their haughty attempts to refashion the modern mind and its worldview beliefs through autonomous human reason. If one could say that the philosophes announced the death of God relative to the formulation of theological and philosophical thought, one could say that Nietzsche, an atheist German philosopher who struggled with insanity, announced the ramifications of this passing. If God is dead, then man can (no, must) fashion his world around himself. This is exactly what happened in influential corners of twentieth-century philosophical thought, and this line of thinking exerts influence in the current day in manifold ways.

Wisdom from the atheist. Nietzsche's words, though fatally flawed, show us that even a madman can catch glimpses of the truth, if only from a distance and without saving knowledge of it.

Embodied Theology: Or, a Brief Investigation of How Theology Applies to Life

I'm taking a PhD class on the Enlightenment with the master historian John Woodbridge. He's a genuine gem of a Christian scholar, as he combines humble piety with an academic pedigree including a PhD on the Enlightenment era from the University of Paris, a teaching stint at Northwestern University, and multiple monographs, including the hugely influential The History of Biblical Authority (Zondervan 1982).

In the course of this class, we've covered many of the "philosophes", hugely influential 18th century thinkers who combined brilliant but irreligious writing with lifestyles awash in decadence. One of the best-known philosophes is the social and political theorist Jean-Jacques Rousseau. There's much one could say about Rousseau (on the state of nature, social compact theory, etc.), but I will focus here on a little-known aspect of the Frenchman's life: he left all of his children to the state. That's right--the man who literally wrote the book on how to raise children, the classic work Emile, cast off his children in pursuit of pleasure and unimpeded contemplation. Rousseau, you see, was no mere high-minded thinker; he was actually a despicable person, despite how he might be viewed by certain sectors of society.

This got me thinking about theology. We are all like Rousseau. By this I mean that we all live out our beliefs. Though Rousseau portrayed himself as an expert on the family, he was the farthest thing from it. Thus, the way he embodied, or lived out, his ideology shows that he didn't really embody it at all. It may be easy for us to scorn Rousseau (or whomever) for his utter failure to live out his teaching, but how well do we embody our own theology? Having been rescued by grace, do others find grace in us? Having been saved by the mercy and kindness of God, do others see such mercy and kindness in us? Believing that every human being is an imprint in some sense of the very form of Deity, do we treat people of all types and beliefs with respect and compassion? In short, then, do we live out our theology? Does our life embody our doctrine?

This question must be asked of Christians of all stripes. In my own life, though, I identify most with the reformed tradition. So I pose this question to myself and other reformed types. Does how we live match up with what we believe? Do we represent graciously the truths we hold fast? While clearly and unapologetically standing for what we believe, are we kind to those who differ from? In engaging the culture, do we shout at it, or do we reach out to it? We all must acknowledge that we stumble in many ways. We do better at this in some seasons than others. But I wonder if we in the reformed movement, broadly speaking, might do a far better job than we have of embodying our theology.

One of the main ways that people end up subscribing to a doctrinal system is by seeing it lived out. This is of course not the only way, or perhaps even the primary way, that people's minds and hearts are changed, but it is nonetheless a key factor. How good it would be if we of the reformed stamp were not merely polite, but nice. How much more might we see others warm to the biblical truths we hold so firmly? Most of us don't struggle at all with being bold and defensive in our theologies. But many of us struggle with living out the theology we believe in a kind, compassionate, accessible way. This is not in any way to call for weakness or holding hands or pretending differences don't exist. We need not fly to ignorance to flee from folly. But it is to say that, for perhaps many of us, we do little to represent reformed theology well to those who, for whatever reason, are already closed to it.

This is by no means a very developed little piece on this subject. It's merely a musing on a matter that came up in a class far removed from the issue at hand. But I do think that there is something potent to be said about the way one practices one's faith. Rousseau, after all, ends up looking like a fool. It's hard--though not impossible--to take his Emile fully seriously after knowing his history. Despite what some might say in the current day (or any day), it is not possible to divorce one's philosophy from one's life. If the two do not necessarily rise or fall together (after all, we all have feet of clay, and thus all fall prey to hypocrisy at some point), then we may still they are closely connected. One is moved to take care, then, by Rousseau's example, lest one--like Rousseau--end up embodying a theology that is in practice the opposite of what it is on paper.