How does the egg feel when its interior has become so different that it no longer needs the outer form? How does a mother feel when, after nine months of being united, she approaches the birth of her child? What was it like for Jesus when he realized that the cup was intended for him after all? Perhaps he felt like the egg that, in the last days of incubation, hears the first tapping of the sharp beak.
Mind and Idea
It is remarkable how the will to be an egg gives way, surrenders, to the will of the hatching chick. The will, which a moment ago contained the idea of the egg, turns itself inside out so that it can bear the will of the chick. This serves life, even if it means going through death. The will determined by an idea, even an idea of the good, is different. The will that has ideas without being able to lose them is brutal—it bypasses life. There is no living idea that has not died at least once.
When I look at the world and at myself, the discrepancy to the ideal jumps out at me. That hurts. Right away, there’s a desire to improve and a will to get involved. Our world is full of them. Whether a will appears here that contributes to life or not, hangs by a thread: my feelings. Do I want to change something because I reject the present, or because I hear what it needs? Do I bring my idea as an apparatus into which others can fit, or do I reshape the idea along with those around me? Everything hangs on a truthful answer. Only the will that knows how to live into the world, that is, how to die into it, works for the good. Its form is eternal transformation. In this regard, a broken eggshell can humble us.
But the ability to constantly change leads through the eye of a needle. I have to let the world touch me inwardly, perhaps painfully, before it can work in me, as will. This is not a call to masochism. It is enough to really look into our own soul, into our family, into the culture-nature dualism, into the great human togetherness—the pain is already there. The pain exists, but it is difficult to feel it. Many believe that is going too far; we can’t feel everything. Yes, feeling it like that should really break our hearts. It’s better not to get so emotional, say those who want to fight for a good cause, because it undermines our impulses, and these are crucial for implementing good ideas. After all, the imperative of productivity also applies to improving the world. But in the end, the good always eludes combativeness. Only when I look and feel what is, when I allow what is incongruous and fully realize myself, even in my pain, does a new strength grow towards me, as if in gratitude. It opens up a new will for me.
I See You
On the very first Easter, the human shell around Christ cracked so that he could proclaim new life after three days. He testified with body and soul to the golden ground of the world, the foundation of love, everlasting and forthcoming, which we constantly flee from and strive towards again. Christ did not perfect the earth ad hoc, but invited perfection from all that is becoming. At Easter, when the buds burst and the chicks hatch, this invitation becomes real again. The fact that the eggs, which were previously decorated, are peeled and eaten on Easter Sunday is a sign of the shattering space of reality that is constantly passing away. It finds death in order to welcome life.
I see the Christ in the mandorla.1 He is the eternal egg come to life. He unites the higher beings with matter and thereby gives life to both. Why is this called love or redemption? In the mandorla, Jesus Christ is erect, with a clear, forward-looking gaze. There sits the “I see you” that is both redeeming and frightening. It is frightening for the part of each of us that has built something up and thinks highly of itself. This part blocks out what is difficult, immature, and, in this sense, shameful about us. It is localized on the outside because it cannot exist within us. But the person inside us who wants to become breathes a sigh of relief. In this being seen, we can detach ourselves in love and commit to the process. For this part of us, the gaze is not a judgmental punishment but an acknowledgement of all our striving—of all the possibilities that rest within us, all the budding abilities, all the failed attempts to do the right thing.
I see the Christ in the mandorla. And he sees me. He sees me in my egg.
Translation Laura Liska
Photo From Shaping Light, Laura Liska, 2025.
