Ludwig Wittgenstein is one of those philosophers whose biography would be entertaining even without much reference to his actual work. Especially as a young man, Wittgenstein was never one given to great emotional restraint. The following is a particularly striking vignette taken from Ray Monk’s biography of the great Austrian thinker, set when he was a student at Cambridge under Bertrand Russell. Russell records Wittgenstein having a meltdown after they had spent an afternoon watching a boat race:
Suddenly he stood and said that the way we had spent the afternoon was so vile that we ought not to live, at least he ought not, that nothing is tolerable except producing great works or enjoying those of others, that he has accomplished nothing and never will, etc. — all this with a force that nearly knocks me down.
I think of this anecdote quite often — and not just because of its fun, slightly unhinged character, but mostly because it prompts an uneasy recognition in me. I get it, even while I recognize it’s a little deranged.
But deranged how? What, exactly, is Wittgenstein’s problem here? The obvious answer is that he has insanely unrealistic expectations of himself. The young man needs to take a deep breath and accept that some days are slow and that sometimes he’ll be less than brilliant. That’s just life.
Nowadays, though, I’m not convinced this is right. For one, I’m always having to adjust my expectations of myself to keep them within the realistic range. If I get three hours of sleep, some downward revision becomes necessary, but how much of one? Worse still, other people (e.g., my boss) have their own expectations of me that are neither irrelevant nor highly adaptable to my internal conditions.
Maybe instead, the problem is that Wittgenstein needs to learn to have some grace toward himself. Lofty expectations might be well and good, but you have to accept that you’re still just human and that some days, you’re going to waste time at a stupid boat race. As long as you’re trying, it’s okay if you fall short sometimes, right?
Sure. Except for my never-quite-absent suspicion that whatever grace I can offer myself is pretty cheap stuff. Telling myself, “Hey, you did the best you could today,” feels a little too self-patronizing to be reliable.
None of this is helped by the fact that the founder of my religion espouses what can only be called ludicrously high expectations for his followers. Of course I try to rationalize Jesus’ teachings, but sober reality is that he taught that taking a second look at that girl in the halter top is tantamount to adultery — and no, it’s not her fault; that getting pissed and calling someone a worthless idiot lands you the same afterlife as putting a .45 ACP through their skull; that you can’t get divorced, and that no, it doesn’t matter what Moses had to say about it; that saving money means you don’t trust God to take care of you; and that if you don’t take care of orphans, the hungry, and prisoners then you’ll be sharing the same eternal zip code as the literal devil.
None of this is reasonable. Jesus never tries to make it so. Nor does he ever, once, tell people to stop being so hard on themselves, or to just show themselves a little grace when they mess up. Instead he points out the most Torah-observant group of people anyone knows and says that if you aren’t more righteous than them, then you can forget about heaven.
But what he does tell people is that they can find rest in him, that his yoke is easy and his burden light. He casts out no one who comes to him with shame or brokenness. He apparently forgets all about his “more righteous than the scribes” requirement when he welcomes the condemned criminal crucified at his side into paradise. The heaven denied to the rigorously Torah-observant will, he declares, be inhabited by prostitutes, national traitors, and goyim.
While Jesus can’t be bothered to explain how all of this hangs together, it’s clear that he has somehow completely decoupled meeting his expectations from resting in his love. One isn’t necessary for the other, in a way that comes simultaneously as a frustration and a great relief. And at this point it’s evident that the linking of the two things — hitting one’s standards and letting oneself just be held — is what made Wittgenstein (and makes myself) miserable. The great philosopher had missed the mark that afternoon in Cambridge and was awaiting execution, but Jesus’ execution never comes for those who seek him: “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” We, of course go, make resolutions, fail, sin more. But when we finally crawl back, he says the same thing again.
The standards are never lowered, the promise of rest is never revoked, and Jesus never explains himself. But what he aggressively lacks in systematic clarity, he offers in rest from my labors, be they successful, failed, or indifferent. That’s enough.
