An old saying, derived from the world of experience, has it that
"he who will not work shall not eat.[7]" But, strange to say, this
does not hold true in the world where it is thought applicable; for
in the world of matter the law of imperfection prevails, and we see,
again and again, that he also who will not work has bread to
eat--indeed, that he who sleeps has a greater abundance of it than
he who works. In the world of matter everything belongs to whosoever
happens to possess it; it is thrall to the law of indifference, and
he who happens to possess the Ring also has the Spirit of the Ring
at his beck and call, whether now he be Noureddin or Aladdin,[8] and
he who controls the treasures of this world, controls them, howsoever
he managed to do so. It is different in the world of spirit. There,
an eternal and divine order obtains, there the rain does not fall
on the just and the unjust alike, nor does the sun shine on the good
and the evil alike;[9] but there the saying does hold true that he
who will not work shall not eat, and only he who was troubled shall
find rest, and only he who descends into the nether world shall
rescue his beloved, and only he who unsheathes his knife shall be
given Isaac again. There, he who will not work shall not eat, but
shall be deceived, as the gods deceived Orpheus with an immaterial
figure instead of his beloved Euridice,[10] deceived him because
he was love-sick and not courageous, deceived him because he was
a player on the cithara rather than a man. There, it avails not
to have an Abraham for one's father,[11] or to have seventeen
ancestors. But in that world the saying about Israel's maidens
will hold true of him who will not work: he shall bring forth
wind;[12] but he who will work shall give birth to his own father.
There is a kind of learning which would presumptuously introduce
into the world of spirit the same law of indifference under which
the world of matter groans. It is thought that to know about great
men and great deeds is quite sufficient, and that other exertion
is not necessary. And therefore this learning shall not eat, but
shall perish of hunger while seeing all things transformed into
gold by its touch. And what, forsooth, does this learning really
know? There were many thousands of contemporaries, and countless
men in after times, who knew all about the triumphs of Miltiades;
but there was only one whom they rendered sleepless.[13] There
have existed countless generations that knew by heart, word for
word, the story of Abraham; but how many has it rendered sleepless?
Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable property of always
being glorious, in however limited a sense it is understood; still,
here also the point is whether one means to labor and exert one's
half. Now people do not care to labor and exert themselves, but
wish nevertheless to understand the story. They extol Abraham,
but how? By expressing the matter in the most general terms and
saying: "the great thing about him was that he loved God so ardently
that he was willing to sacrifice to Him his most precious possession."
That is very true; but "the most precious possession" is an indefinite
expression. As one's thoughts, and one's mouth, run on one assumes,
in a very easy fashion, the identity of Isaac and "the most precious
possession"--and meanwhile he who is meditating may smoke his
pipe, and his audience comfortably stretch out their legs. If
the rich youth whom Christ met on his way[14] had sold all his
possessions and given all to the poor, we would extol him as we
extol all which is great--aye, would not understand even him
without labor; and yet would he never have become an Abraham,
notwithstanding his sacrificing the most precious possessions he
had. That which people generally forget in the story of Abraham
is his fear and anxiety; for as regards money, one is not ethically
responsible for it, whereas for his son a father has the highest
and most sacred responsibility. However, fear is a dreadful thing
for timorous spirits, so they omit it. And yet they wish to speak
of Abraham.
So they keep on speaking, and in the course of their speech the
two terms Isaac and "the most precious thing" are used alternately,
and everything is in the best order. But now suppose that among
the audience there was a man who suffered with sleeplessness--and
then the most terrible and profound, the most tragic, and at the
same time the most comic, misunderstanding is within the range of
possibility. That is, suppose this man goes home and wishes to do
as did Abraham; for his son is his most precious possession. If a
certain preacher learned of this he would, perhaps, go to him, he
would gather up all his spiritual dignity and exclaim: "Thou
abominable creature, thou scum of humanity, what devil possessed
thee to wish to murder thy son?" And this preacher, who had not
felt any particular warmth, nor perspired while speaking about
Abraham, this preacher would be astonished himself at the earnest
wrath with which he poured forth his thunders against that poor
wretch; indeed, he would rejoice over himself, for never had he
spoken with such power and unction, and he would have said to
his wife: "I am an orator, the only thing I have lacked so far
was the occasion. Last Sunday, when speaking about Abraham, I
did not feel thrilled in the least."
Now, if this same orator had just a bit of sense to spare, I
believe he would lose it if the sinner would reply, in a quiet
and dignified manner: "Why, it was on this very same matter
you preached, last Sunday!" But however could the preacher have
entertained such thoughts? Still, such was the case, and the
preacher's mistake was merely not knowing what he was talking
about. Ah, would that some poet might see his way clear to prefer
such a situation to the stuff and nonsense of which novels and
comedies are full! For the comic and the tragic here run parallel
to infinity. The sermon probably was ridiculous enough in itself,
but it became infinitely ridiculous through the very natural
consequence it had. Or, suppose now the sinner was converted
by this lecture without daring to raise any objection, and this
zealous divine now went home elated, glad in the consciousness
of being effective, not only in the pulpit, but chiefly, and
with irresistible power, as a spiritual guide, inspiring his
congregation on Sunday, whilst on Monday he would place himself
like a cherub with flaming sword before the man who by his actions
tried to give the lie to the old saying that "the course of the
world follows not the priest's word."
If, on the other hand, the sinner were not convinced of his error
his position would become tragic. He would probably be executed,
or else sent to the lunatic asylum--at any rate, he would become
a sufferer in this world; but in another sense I should think
that Abraham rendered him happy; for he who labors, he shall not
perish.
Now how shall we explain the contradiction contained in that
sermon? Is it due to Abraham's having the reputation of being
a great man--so that whatever he does is great, but if another
should undertake to do the same it is a sin, a heinous sin? If
this be the case I prefer not to participate in such thoughtless
laudations. If faith cannot make it a sacred thing to wish to
sacrifice one's son, then let the same judgment be visited on
Abraham as on any other man. And if we perchance lack the courage
to drive our thoughts to the logical conclusion and to say that
Abraham was a murderer, then it were better to acquire that
courage, rather than to waste one's time on undeserved encomiums.
The fact is, the ethical expression for what Abraham did is
that he wanted to murder Isaac; the religious, that he wanted
to sacrifice him. But precisely in this contradiction is contained
the fear which may well rob one of one's sleep. And yet Abraham
were not Abraham without this fear. Or, again, supposing Abraham
did not do what is attributed to him, if his action was an entirely
different one, based on conditions of those times, then let us
forget him; for what is the use of calling to mind that past which
can no longer become a present reality?--Or, the speaker had
perhaps forgotten the essential fact that Isaac was the son. For
if faith is eliminated, having been reduced to a mere nothing,
then only the brutal fact remains that Abraham wanted to murder
Isaac--which is easy for everybody to imitate who has not the
faith--the faith, that is, which renders it most difficult for
him....
Love has its priests in the poets, and one hears at times a poet's
voice which worthily extols it. But not a word does one hear of
faith. Who is there to speak in honor of that passion? Philosophy
"goes right on." Theology sits at the window with a painted visage
and sues for philosophy's favor, offering it her charms. It is
said to be difficult to understand the philosophy of Hegel; but
to understand Abraham, why, that is an easy matter! To proceed
further than Hegel is a wonderful feat, but to proceed further than
Abraham, why, nothing is easier! Personally, I have devoted a
considerable amount of time to a study of Hegelian philosophy
and believe I understand it fairly well; in fact, I am rash enough
to say that when, notwithstanding an effort, I am not able to
understand him in some passages, it is because he is not entirely
clear about the matter himself. All this intellectual effort I
perform easily and naturally, and it does not cause my head to
ache. On the other hand, whenever I attempt to think about Abraham
I am, as it were, overwhelmed. At every moment I am aware of
the enormous paradox which forms the content of Abraham's life,
at every moment I am repulsed, and my thought, notwithstanding
its passionate attempts, cannot penetrate into it, cannot forge
on the breadth of a hair. I strain every muscle in order to
envisage the problem--and become a paralytic in the same moment.
I am by no means unacquainted with what has been admired as great
and noble, my soul feels kinship with it, being satisfied, in
all humility, that it was also my cause the hero espoused; and
when contemplating his deed I say to myself: "_jam tua causa
agitur._[15]" I am able to identify myself with the hero; but I
cannot do so with Abraham, for whenever I have reached his height
I fall down again, since he confronts me as the paradox. It is
by no means my intention to maintain that faith is something
inferior, but, on the contrary, that it is the highest of all
things; also that it is dishonest in philosophy to offer something
else instead, and to pour scorn on faith; but it ought to understand
its own nature in order to know what it can offer. It should take
away nothing; least of all, fool people out of something as if
it were of no value. I am not unacquainted with the sufferings
and dangers of life, but I do not fear them, and cheerfully go
forth to meet them.... But my courage is not, for all that, the
courage of faith, and is as nothing compared with it. I cannot
carry out the movement of faith: I cannot close my eyes and
confidently plunge into the absurd--it is impossible for me; but
neither do I boast of it....
Now I wonder if every one of my contemporaries is really able
to perform the movements of faith. Unless I am much mistaken
they are, rather, inclined to be proud of making what they perhaps
think me unable to do, viz., the imperfect movement. It is repugnant
to my soul to do what is so often done, to speak inhumanly about
great deeds, as if a few thousands of years were an immense space
of time. I prefer to speak about them in a human way and as though
they had been done but yesterday, to let the great deed itself
be the distance which either inspires or condemns me. Now if I,
in the capacity of tragic hero--for a higher flight I am unable
to take--if I had been summoned to such an extraordinary royal
progress as was the one to Mount Moriah, I know very well what I
would have done. I would not have been craven enough to remain
at home; neither would I have dawdled on the way; nor would I
have forgot my knife--just to draw out the end a bit. But I
am rather sure that I would have been promptly on the spot,
with every thing in order--in fact, would probably have been
there before the appointed time, so as to have the business
soon over with. But I know also what I would have done besides.
In the moment I mounted my horse I would have said to myself:
"Now all is lost, God demands Isaac, I shall sacrifice him, and
with him all my joy--but for all that, God is love and will
remain so for me; for in this world God and I cannot speak together,
we have no language in common."
Possibly, one or the other of my contemporaries will be stupid
enough, and jealous enough of great deeds, to wish to persuade
himself and me that if I had acted thus I should have done something
even greater than what Abraham did; for my sublime resignation
was (he thinks) by far more ideal and poetic than Abraham's
literal-minded action. And yet this is absolutely not so, for my
sublime resignation was only a substitute for faith. I could not
have made more than the infinite movement (of resignation) to
find myself and again repose in myself. Nor would I have loved
Isaac as Abraham loved him. The fact that I was resolute enough
to resign is sufficient to prove my courage in a human sense,
and the fact that I loved him with my whole heart is the very
presupposition without which my action would be a crime; but
still I did not love as did Abraham, for else I would have hesitated
even in the last minute, without, for that matter, arriving too
late on Mount Moriah. Also, I would have spoiled the whole business
by my behavior; for if I had had Isaac restored to me I would
have been embarrassed. That which was an easy matter for Abraham
would have been difficult for me, I mean, to rejoice again in
Isaac; for he who with all the energy of his soul _proprio motu
et propriis auspiciis_[16] has made the infinite movement of
resignation and can do no more, he will retain possession of
Isaac only in his sorrow.
But what did Abraham? He arrived neither too early nor too late.
He mounted his ass and rode slowly on his way. And all the while
he had faith, believing that God would not demand Isaac of him,
though ready all the while to sacrifice him, should it be demanded
of him. He believed this on the strength of the absurd; for there
was no question of human calculation any longer. And the absurdity
consisted in God's, who yet made this demand of him, recalling his
demand the very next moment. Abraham ascended the mountain and whilst
the knife already gleamed in his hand he believed--that God would
not demand Isaac of him. He was, to be sure, surprised at the
outcome; but by a double movement he had returned at his first
state of mind and therefore received Isaac back more gladly than
the first time....
On this height, then, stands Abraham. The last stage he loses
sight of is that of infinite resignation. He does really proceed
further, he arrives at faith. For all these caricatures of faith,
wretched lukewarm sloth, which thinks: "Oh, there is no hurry, it
is not necessary to worry before the time comes"; and miserable
hopefulness, which says: "One cannot know what will happen, there
might perhaps--," all these caricatures belong to the sordid view
of life and have already fallen under the infinite scorn of infinite
resignation.
Abraham, I am not able to understand; and in a certain sense I
can learn nothing from him without being struck with wonder. They
who flatter themselves that by merely considering the outcome of
Abraham's story they will necessarily arrive at faith, only deceive
themselves and wish to cheat God out of the first movement of
faith--it were tantamount to deriving worldly wisdom from the
paradox. But who knows, one or the other of them may succeed in
doing this; for our times are not satisfied with faith, and not
even with the miracle of changing water into wine--they "go
right on" changing wine into water.
Is it not preferable to remain satisfied with faith, and is it
not outrageous that every one wishes to "go right on"? If people
in our times decline to be satisfied with love, as is proclaimed
from various sides, where will we finally land? In worldly shrewdness,
in mean calculation, in paltriness and baseness, in all that
which renders man's divine origin doubtful. Were it not better
to stand fast in the faith, and better that he that standeth
take heed lest he fall;[17] for the movement of faith must ever
be made by virtue of the absurd, but, note well, in such wise
that one does not lose the things of this world but wholly and
entirely regains them.
As far as I am concerned, I am able to describe most excellently
the movements of faith; but I cannot make them myself. When a
person wishes to learn how to swim he has himself suspended in
a swimming-belt and then goes through the motions; but that does
not mean that he can swim. In the same fashion I too can go
through the motions of faith; but when I am thrown into the
water I swim; to be sure (for I am not a wader in the shallows),
but I go through a different set of movements, to-wit, those
of infinity; whereas faith does the opposite, to-wit, makes
the movements to regain the finite after having made those of
infinite resignation. Blessed is he who can make these movements,
for he performs a marvelous feat, and I shall never weary of
admiring him, whether now it be Abraham himself or the slave
in Abraham's house, whether it be a professor of philosophy or
a poor servant-girl: it is all the same to me, for I have regard
only to the movements. But these movements I watch closely, and
I will not be deceived, whether by myself or by any one else.
The knights of infinite resignation are easily recognized, for
their gait is dancing and bold. But they who possess the jewel
of faith frequently deceive one because their bearing is curiously
like that of a class of people heartily despised by infinite
resignation as well as by faith--the philistines.
Let me admit frankly that I have not in my experience encountered
any certain specimen of this type; but I do not refuse to admit
that as far as I know, every other person may be such a specimen.
At the same time I will say that I have searched vainly for years.
It is the custom of scientists to travel around the globe to see
rivers and mountains, new stars, gay-colored birds, misshapen
fish, ridiculous races of men. They abandon themselves to a
bovine stupor which gapes at existence and believe they have
seen something worth while. All this does not interest me; but
if I knew where there lived such a knight of faith I would journey
to him on foot, for that marvel occupies my thoughts exclusively.
Not a moment would I leave him out of sight, but would watch
how he makes the movements, and I would consider myself provided
for life, and would divide my time between watching him and
myself practicing the movements, and would thus use all my time
in admiring him.
As I said, I have not met with such a one; but I can easily
imagine him. Here he is. I make his acquaintance and am introduced
to him. The first moment I lay my eyes on him I push him back,
leaping back myself, I hold up my hands in amazement and say
to myself: "Good Lord! that person? Is it really he--why, he
looks like a parish-beadle!" But it is really he. I become more
closely acquainted with him, watching his every movement to see
whether some trifling incongruous movement of his has escaped me,
some trace, perchance, of a signaling from the infinite, a glance,
a look, a gesture, a melancholy air, or a smile, which might
betray the presence of infinite resignation contrasting with
the finite.
But no! I examine his figure from top to toe to discover whether
there be anywhere a chink through which the infinite might be
seen to peer forth. But no! he is of a piece, all through. And
how about his footing? Vigorous, altogether that of finiteness,
no citizen dressed in his very best, prepared to spend his Sunday
afternoon in the park, treads the ground more firmly. He belongs
altogether to this world, no philistine more so. There is no
trace of the somewhat exclusive and haughty demeanor which marks
off the knight of infinite resignation. He takes pleasure in all
things, is interested in everything, and perseveres in whatever
he does with the zest characteristic of persons wholly given to
worldly things. He attends to his business, and when one sees
him one might think he was a clerk who had lost his soul in
doing double bookkeeping, he is so exact. He takes a day off
on Sundays. He goes to church. But no hint of anything supernatural
or any other sign of the incommensurable betrays him, and if one
did not know him it would be impossible to distinguish him in
the congregation, for his brisk and manly singing proves only
that he has a pair of good lungs.
In the afternoon he walks out to the forest. He takes delight
in all he sees, in the crowds of men and women, the new omnibuses,
the Sound--if one met him on the promenade one might think he
was some shopkeeper who was having a good time, so simple is
his joy; for he is not a poet, and in vain have I tried to lure
him into betraying some sign of the poet's detachment. Toward
evening he walks home again, with a gait as steady as that of
a mail-carrier. On his way he happens to wonder whether his
wife will have some little special warm dish ready for him,
when he comes home--as she surely has--as, for instance, a roasted
lamb's head garnished with greens. And if he met one minded
like him he is very likely to continue talking about this dish
with him till they reach the East Gate, and to talk about it
with a zest befitting a chef. As it happens, he has not four
shillings to spare, and yet he firmly believes that his wife
surely has that dish ready for him. If she has, it would be
an enviable sight for distinguished people, and an inspiring
one for common folks, to see him eat, for he has an appetite
greater than Esau's. His wife has not prepared it--strange,
he remains altogether the same.
Again, on his way he passes a building lot and there meets another
man. They fall to talking, and in a trice he erects a building,
freely disposing of everything necessary. And the stranger will
leave him with the impression that he has been talking with a
capitalist--the fact being that the knight of my admiration is
busy with the thought that if it really came to the point he
would unquestionably have the means wherewithal at his disposal.
Now he is lying on his elbows in the window and looking over
the square on which he lives. All that happens there, if it be
only a rat creeping into a gutter-hole, or children playing
together--everything engages his attention, and yet his mind
is at rest as though it were the mind of a girl of sixteen. He
smokes his pipe in the evening, and to look at him you would
swear it was the green-grocer from across the street who is
lounging at the window in the evening twilight. Thus he shows
as much unconcern as any worthless happy-go-lucky fellow; and
yet, every moment he lives he purchases his leisure at the highest
price, for he makes not the least movement except by virtue of
the absurd; and yet, yet--indeed, I might become furious with
anger, if for no other reason than that of envy--and yet, this
man has performed, and is performing every moment, the movement
of infinity... He has resigned everything absolutely, and then
again seized hold of it all on the strength of the absurd...
But this miracle may so easily deceive one that it will be best
if I describe the movements in a given case which may illustrate
their aspect in contact with reality; and that is the important
point. Suppose, then, a young swain falls in love with a princess,
and all his life is bound up in this love. But circumstances are
such that it is out of the question to think of marrying her, an
impossibility to translate his dreams into reality. The slaves of
paltriness, the frogs in the sloughs of life, they will shout, of
course: "Such a love is folly, the rich brewer's widow is quite
as good and solid a match." Let them but croak. The knight of
infinite resignation does not follow their advice, he does not
surrender his love, not for all the riches in the world. He is
no fool, he first makes sure that this love really is the contents
of his life, for his soul is too sound and too proud to waste
itself on a mere intoxication. He is no coward, he is not afraid
to let his love insinuate itself into his most secret and most
remote thoughts, to let it wind itself in innumerable coils about
every fiber of his consciousness--if he is disappointed in his
love he will never be able to extricate himself again. He feels
a delicious pleasure in letting love thrill his every nerve, and
yet his soul is solemn as is that of him who has drained a cup
of poison and who now feels the virus mingle with every drop of
his blood, poised in that moment between life and death.
Having thus imbibed love, and being wholly absorbed in it, he
does not lack the courage to try and dare all. He surveys the
whole situation, he calls together his swift thoughts which like
tame pigeons obey his every beck, he gives the signal, and they
dart in all directions. But when they return, every one bearing
a message of sorrow, and explain to him that it is impossible,
then he becomes silent, he dismisses them, he remains alone;
and then he makes the movement. Now if what I say here is to
have any significance, it is of prime importance that the movement
be made in a normal fashion. The knight of resignation is supposed
to have sufficient energy to concentrate the entire contents
of his life and the realization of existing conditions into
one single wish. But if one lacks this concentration, this devotion
to a single thought; if his soul from the very beginning is
scattered on a number of objects, he will never be able to make
the movement--he will be as worldly-wise in the conduct of his
life as the financier who invests his capital in a number of
securities to win on the one if he should lose on the other;
that is, he is no knight. Furthermore, the knight is supposed
to possess sufficient energy to concentrate all his thought into
a single act of consciousness. If he lacks this concentration he
will only run errands in life and will never be able to assume
the attitude of infinite resignation; for the very minute he
approaches it he will suddenly discover that he forgot something
so that he must remain behind. The next minute, thinks he, it
will be attainable again, and so it is; but such inhibitions
will never allow him to make the movement but will, rather,
tend to let him sink ever deeper into the mire.
Our knight, then, performs the movement--which movement? Is he
intent on forgetting the whole affair, which, too, would presuppose
much concentration? No, for the knight does not contradict himself,
and it is a contradiction to forget the main contents of one's
life and still remain the same person. And he has no desire to
become another person; neither does he consider such a desire to
smack of greatness. Only lower natures forget themselves and become
something different. Thus the butterfly has forgotten that it
once was a caterpillar--who knows but it may forget altogether
that it once was a butterfly, and turn into a fish! Deeper natures
never forget themselves and never change their essential qualities.
So the knight remembers all; but precisely this remembrance is
painful. Nevertheless, in his infinite resignation he has become
reconciled with existence. His love for the princess has become
for him the expression of an eternal love, has assumed a religious
character, has been transfigured into a love for the eternal being
which, to be sure, denied him the fulfillment of his love, yet
reconciled him again by presenting him with the abiding consciousness
of his love's being preserved in an everlasting form of which no
reality can rob him....
Now, he is no longer interested in what the princess may do, and
precisely this proves that he has made the movement of infinite
resignation correctly. In fact, this is a good criterion for
detecting whether a person's movement is sincere or just make-believe.
Take a person who believes that he too has resigned, but lo!
time passed, the princess did something on her part, for example,
married a prince, and then his soul lost the elasticity of its
resignation. This ought to show him that he did not make the
movement correctly, for he who has resigned absolutely is sufficient
unto himself. The knight does not cancel his resignation, but
preserves his love as fresh and young as it was at the first
moment, he never lets go of it just because his resignation is
absolute. Whatever the princess does, cannot disturb him, for it
is only the lower natures who have the law for their actions in
some other person, i.e. have the premises of their actions outside
of themselves....
Infinite resignation is the last stage which goes before faith,
so that every one who has not made the movement of infinite
resignation cannot have faith; for only through absolute resignation
do I become conscious of my eternal worth, and only then can
there arise the problem of again grasping hold of this world by
virtue of faith.
We will now suppose the knight of faith in the same case. He
does precisely as the other knight, he absolutely resigns the
love which is the contents of his life, he is reconciled to the
pain; but then the miraculous happens, he makes one more movement,
strange beyond comparison, saying: "And still I believe that I
shall marry her--marry her by virtue of the absurd, by virtue of
the act that to God nothing is impossible." Now the absurd is not
one of the categories which belong to the understanding proper.
It is not identical with the improbable, the unforeseen, the
unexpected. The very moment our knight resigned himself he made
sure of the absolute impossibility, in any human sense, of his
love. This was the result reached by his reflections, and he had
sufficient energy to make them. In a transcendent sense, however,
by his very resignation, the attainment of his end is not impossible;
but this very act of again taking possession of his love is at
the same time a relinquishment of it. Nevertheless this kind of
possession is by no means an absurdity to the intellect; for the
intellect all the while continues to be right, as it is aware
that in the world of finalities, in which reason rules, his
love was and is, an impossibility. The knight of faith realizes
this fully as well. Hence the only thing which can save him is
recourse to the absurd, and this recourse he has through his
faith. That is, he clearly recognizes the impossibility, and
in the same moment he believes the absurd; for if he imagined he
had faith, without at the same time recognizing, with all the
passion his soul is capable of, that his love is impossible,
he would be merely deceiving himself, and his testimony would
be of no value, since he had not arrived even at the stage of
absolute resignation....
This last movement, the paradoxical movement of faith, I cannot
make, whether or no it be my duty, although I desire nothing
more ardently than to be able to make it. It must be left to
a person's discretion whether he cares to make this confession;
and at any rate, it is a matter between him and the Eternal Being,
who is the object of his faith, whether an amicable adjustment
can be affected. But what every person can do is to make the
movement of absolute resignation, and I for my part would not
hesitate to declare him a coward who imagines he cannot perform
it. It is a different matter with faith. But what no person has
a right to, is to delude others into the belief that faith is
something of no great significance, or that it is an easy matter,
whereas it is the greatest and most difficult of all things.
But the story of Abraham is generally interpreted in a different
way. God's mercy is praised which restored Isaac to him--it
was but a trial! A trial. This word may mean much or little,
and yet the whole of it passes off as quickly as the story is
told: one mounts a winged horse, in the same instant one arrives
on Mount Moriah, and _presto_ one sees the ram. It is not remembered
that Abraham only rode on an ass which travels but slowly, that
it was a three days' journey for him, and that he required some
additional time to collect the firewood, to bind Isaac, and to
whet his knife.
And yet one extols Abraham. He who is to preach the sermon may
sleep comfortably until a quarter of an hour before he is to
preach it, and the listener may comfortably sleep during the
sermon, for everything is made easy enough, without much exertion
either to preacher or listener. But now suppose a man was present
who suffered with sleeplessness and who went home and sat in a
corner and reflected as follows: "The whole lasted but a minute,
you need only wait a little while, and then the ram will be shown
and the trial will be over." Now if the preacher should find
him in this frame of mind, I believe he would confront him
in all his dignity and say to him: "Wretch that thou art, to
let thy soul lapse into such folly; miracles do not happen, all
life is a trial." And as he proceeded he would grow more and
more passionate, and would become ever more satisfied with himself;
and whereas he had not noticed any congestion in his head whilst
preaching about Abraham, he now feels the veins on his forehead
swell. Yet who knows but he would stand aghast if the sinner
should answer him in a quiet and dignified manner that it was
precisely this about which he preached the Sunday before.
Let us then either waive the whole story of Abraham, or else
learn to stand in awe of the enormous paradox which constitutes
his significance for us, so that we may learn to understand that
our age, like every age, may rejoice if it has faith. If the
story of Abraham is not a mere nothing, an illusion, or if it
is just used for show and as a pastime, the mistake cannot by
any means be in the sinner's wishing to do likewise; but it is
necessary to find out how great was the deed which Abraham performed,
in order that the man may judge for himself whether he has the
courage and the mission to do likewise. The comical contradiction
in the procedure of the preacher was his reduction of the story of
Abraham to insignificance whereas he rebuked the other man for
doing the very same thing.
But should we then cease to speak about Abraham? I certainly
think not. But if I were to speak about him I would first of
all describe the terrors of his trial. To that end leech-like
I would suck all the suffering and distress out of the anguish
of a father, in order to be able to describe what Abraham suffered
whilst yet preserving his faith. I would remind the hearer that
the journey lasted three days and a goodly part of the fourth--in
fact, these three and a half days ought to become infinitely
longer than the few thousand years which separate me from Abraham.
I would remind him, as I think right, that every person is still
permitted to turn about-before trying his strength on this formidable
task; in fact, that he may return every instant in repentance.
Provided this is done, I fear for nothing. Nor do I fear to
awaken great desire among people to attempt to emulate Abraham.
But to get out a cheap edition of Abraham and yet forbid every
one to do as he did, that I call ridiculous.[18]
[Footnote 1: Freely after Genesis 22.]
[Footnote 2: Genesis 20, 11 f.]
[Footnote 3: Genesis 22, 1.]
[Footnote 4: Luke 23, 30.]
[Footnote 5: Genesis 22, 3.]
[Footnote 6: Genesis 22, 9.]
[Footnote 7: _Cf._ Thessalonians 3, 10.]
[Footnote 8: In _Aladdin_, Oehlenschläger's famous dramatic poem,
Aladdin, "the cheerful son of nature," is contrasted with Noureddin,
representing the gloom of doubt and night.]
[Footnote 9: Matthew 5, 45.]
[Footnote 10: _Cf._ not the legend but Plato's _Symposion._]
[Footnote 11: Matthew 3, 9.]
[Footnote 12: Isaiah 26, 18.]
[Footnote 13: Themistocles, that is; see Plutarch, Lives.]
[Footnote 14: Matthew 19, 16f.]
[Footnote 15: Your cause, too, is at stake.]
[Footnote 16: By his own impulse and on his own responsibility.]
[Footnote 17: _Cf._ I Cor. 10, 12.]
[Footnote 18: The above, with the omissions indicated, constitutes
about one-third of "Fear and Trembling."]