cast of mind—the mind of eternal inquiry, relentlessly probing into everything he finds, not in order to master it or to show off his own powers over it, but to listen to it, to learn from it, to let it declare itself to him, to teach him how to articulate understanding of it sincerely and faithfully in accordance with its own inner nature and necessity and beauty. That is the humility of the scientist who will not impose theory arbitrarily upon what he investigates, but is always ready to reconstruct what he already thinks he has learned in order to make it possible to learn really new things. It is the eye of the artist who has the faculty of seeing what is actually there and can pick out its deepest and most characteristic forms with which to depict it and communicate it so that his own creative art is allowed to be the instrument of the reality of his subject. All Barth’s theology is characterized by relentless, irresistible questioning that uncovers the artificiality that constantly prevents us from attaining objectivity, and therefore has the most disturbing, critical effect in shaking the foundations, but only in order that the fundamental realities may be revealed and that genuine theological thinking may be built up on the concrete actuality of God’s revelation in Word and Act.
The basic concern of Barth is, however, not critical but positive. In spite of the fact that he is the great enemy of all attempts at constructing rational systems, that is, at imposing systematically upon the subject-matter of theology a rational schematism of our own devising, his is the most constructive and systematic of minds, but it is a mind that finds the co-ordinating principle of its thinking not in its own dialectic but in the forms of rationality inhering in the object or in the material content of theological knowledge. It is in order to uncover this objective depth of rationality that he employs such ruthless, tireless questioning in which he goes round and round the point he seeks to elucidate, interrogating it at every possible angle and every possible level, refusing to break it up into parts in order to master it, so that at last it can stand out in all its own objective and independent nature and form. Behind all this lies a passionate will to sympathy for what he investigates, whether it be the text of Holy Scripture, the concrete matter of some doctrine, or the mind of another theologian, and throughout the readiness to let himself be criticized by what he learns: that is to say, an openness or readiness of mind both for God and for man; and a determination to let God be God, man be man, and nature be nature.
Another aspect of Barth’s Menschlichkeit or humanity is his irrepressible humour. What we are concerned with here is the theological significance of this, for Barth’s humour plays a fundamentally critical role in his thinking. He is able to laugh at himself, and therefore to criticize himself, and hence also to direct his ruthless critique at others in such a way that he can appreciate their intention and respect their persons and their sincerity. Here he stands out in marked contrast to the seriousness with which nineteenth-century man took himself, and indeed to those today who make such heavy, boring play with what they call ‘modern man’. But above all Barth’s humour has critical significance for the nature and form of his own theological construction, for it means that he is ever open to the question as to the adequacy of his own thought-forms to their proper object, and that he will never let himself be a prisoner of his own formulations.
One can perhaps describe the critical significance of humour for Barth’s theology by recalling a Rembrandt painting, with its terrific concentration of illuminated significance in the centre, its contrast of darkness and light, and objective depth, but with the humour of a cherub peeping over at it from a corner of the canvas, unable to suppress a smile. In other words, Barth engages in his gigantic task of dogmatics with the consciousness that the angels are looking over his shoulder, reminding him that all theology is human thinking, and that even when we have done our utmost in faithfulness to what is given to us, all we can do is to point beyond and above to the transcendent truth and beauty of God, thereby acknowledging the inadequacy of our thought in response to God’s Word, but engaging in it joyfully, in gratitude to God who is pleased to let himself be served in this way by human thinking and to bless it in his grace.
One more aspect of Barth’s humanity we must note is its genius. That is to say, it is a humanity that is full of surprises. Here, although no doubt he would resent it, we may compare his theological thinking to the music of Beethoven with its breath-taking turns rather than to the predestined texture of Mozart’s inimitable compositions. Mozart may well be the greater genius, but when he has announced his theme and swept you into the skies like a lark, he creates in you the power of anticipation and you can hear the music from a long way off, and Barth certainly has that quality, too; but again and again Beethoven’s music suddenly breaks in upon your ear with astonishing novelty that startles you, and you protest that he has shattered the logic of his composition, but before you can recover your breath you find that he has worked the whole symphony into such a rich and complex movement that the new element actually contributes to its unity. That also is the genius of Karl Barth.
Again and again his contemporaries have spoken of a ‘new Barth’, and have described him as a bird on the wing, darting like a swallow into quite new directions, and yet they have not taken the measure of the depth and complexity of this man’s thought, or of the immense fertility of his fundamental simplicities which enable him to hold within a profound unity elements which in other lesser minds fall apart into contradictions or hopeless antinomies. The reason for this is the incredible intensity with which Barth holds all his thinking in obedience to its object—the Lord God, the infinite and eternal, who has stooped to reveal himself in Jesus Christ and in him has taken us up to share with him his own divine life.
How did it all begin?
It took its rise in the struggle of the young minister with the Word of God in an Alpine community composed largely of agricultural and industrial workers. Sunday by Sunday Barth was faced with the problem of bringing the Word of God to a waiting congregation expecting to hear, not the minister’s views or those of the Church, but God’s own Word.
The problem was twofold. How could he preach a genuine Word of God, and not just his own word? How could the congregation hear it as Word of God and not confound it with something they wanted to tell themselves? The problem was made more difficult for the minister by the fact that he knew he must be a man whose heart is steeped in his own times, who is sensitive to the needs of his own times, who shares with his contemporaries their life, their problems, their hopes, who is, in fact, identified with them. But the extent of that identity made it difficult for him to remain free enough for the Word of God, to come under its mastery, to be a pliant instrument in its hands, and so to be the voice of its proclamation to the people.
How could he distinguish an independent Word of God from his own ideas and wishes, and distinguish the objective reality of divine revelation from his own subjective states and conditions? How could he communicate it and really be heard in a Church in which Christianity is already so deeply assimilated to a way of life that the message proclaimed from the pulpit is inevitably heard only as an expression of that way of life? If something really new and different is actually proclaimed, will not the people just blink and turn away, like a cow staring at a new gate, as Luther said so long ago?
The preacher was confronted by an immense difficulty, within him and within the congregation, a problem created by the fact that Christianity had become so assimilated to the bourgeois culture of modern man that everywhere it appeared as a manifestation of that culture. No doubt the world of the nineteenth-and early twentieth-century Europe had been profoundly influenced by Christianity, and yet Christianity had become little more than an aspect of the historical life of European civilization; the Church had become so much world that it was no longer able really to stand over against it and bring a genuine message to the world. What it had to say and do fitted in only too well with what people wanted and desired: like people, like priest; like nation, like Church; like culture, like theology.
Faced with this problem, Barth did two things. He spent a good part of his week wrestling with the Scriptures, notably with Ephesians, Corinthians, and Romans, struggling to grasp the Word within the words, and letting it attack and criticize himself. But he threw himself into the activities of the
