FEAR
AND TREMBLING
INTRODUCTION
Not only in the world of commerce but also in the world of ideas
our age has arranged a regular clearance-sale. Everything may be had at such
absurdedly low prices that very soon the question will arise whether any one
cares to bid. Every waiter with a speculative turn who carefully marks the
significant progress of modern philosophy, every lecturer in philosophy, every
tutor, student, every sticker-and‑quitter of philosophy—they are not
content with doubting everything, but "go right on." It might,
possibly, be ill‑timed and inopportune to ask them whither they are
bound; but it is no doubt polite and modest to take it for granted that they
have doubted everything—else it were a curious statement for them to make, that
they were proceeding onward. So they have, all of them, completed that
preliminary operation and, it would seem, with such ease that they do not think
it necessary to waste a word about how they did it. The fact is, not even he
who looked anxiously and with a troubled spirit for some little point of
information, ever found one, nor any instruction, nor even any little dietetic
prescription, as to how one is to accomplish this enormous task. "But did
not Descartes proceed in this fashion?" Descartes, indeed! that venerable,
humble, honest thinker whose writings surely no one can read without deep
emotion—Descartes did what he said, and said what he did. Alas, alas! that is a
mighty rare thing in our times! But Descartes, as he says frequently enough,
never uttered doubts concerning his faith. . . .
In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but
"goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding may
be a silly question; whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and culture to assume
that every one has faith, to begin with, for else it were a curious statement
for them to make, that they are proceeding further. In the olden days it was
different. Then, faith was a task for a whole life‑time because it was
held that proficiercy in faith was not to be won within a few days or weeks.
Hence, when the tried patriarch felt his end approaching, after having fought
his battles and preserved his faith, he was still young enough at heart not to
have forgotten the fear and trembling which disciplined his youth and
which the mature man has under control,
but which no one entirely outgrows—except insofar as he succeeds in "going
on" as early as possible. The goal which those venerable men reached at
last—at that spot every one starts, in our times, in order to "proceed
further.". . .
PREPARATION
There lived a man who,
when a child, had heard the beautiful Bible story of how God tempted Abraham
and how he stood the test, how he maintained his faith and, against his
expectations, received his son back again. As this man grew older he read this
same story with ever greater admiration; for now life had separated what had
been united in the reverent simplicity of the child. And the older he grew, the
more frequently his thoughts reverted to that story. His enthusiasm waxed
stronger and stronger, and yet the story grew less and less clear to him.
Finally he forgot everything else in thinking about it, and his soul contained
but one wish, which was, to behold Abraham; and but one longing, which was, to
have been witness to that event. His desire was, not to see the beautiful lands
of the Orient, and not the splendor of the Promised Land, and not the reverent
couple whose old age the Lord had blessed with children, and not the venerable
figure of the aged patriarch, and not the god‑given vigorous youth of
Isaac—it would have been the same to him if the event had come to pass on some
barren heath. But his wish was, to have been with Abraham on the three days'
journey, when he rode with sorrow before him and with Isaac at his side. His
wish was, to have been present at the moment when Abraham lifted up his eyes
and saw Mount Moriah afar off; to have been present at the moment when he left
his asses behind and wended his way up to the mountain alone with Isaac. For
the mind of this man was busy, not with the delicate conceits of the
imagination, but rather with his shuddering thought.
The
man we speak of was no thinker, he felt no desire to go beyond his faith: it
seemed to him the most glorious fate to be remembered as the Father of Faith,
and a most enviable lot to be possessed of that faith, even if no one knew it.
The
man we speak of was no learned exegetist, be did not even understand Hebrew—who
knows but a knowledge of Hebrew might have helped him to understand readily
both the story and Abraham.
I.
And
God tempted Abraham and said unto him: take Isaac, thine only son, whom thou
lovest and go to the land Moriah and sacrifice him there on a mountain which I
shall show thee.[1]
It was in the early
morning, Abraham arose betimes and had his asses saddled. He departed from his
tent, and Isaac with him; but Sarah looked out of the window after them until
they were out of sight. Silently they rode for three days; but on the fourth morning
Abraham said not a word but lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount Moriah in the
distance. He left his servants behind and, leading Isaac by the hand, he
approached the mountain. But Abraham said to himself: "I shall surely
conceal from Isaac whither he is going." He stood still, he laid his hand
on Isaac's head to bless him, and Isaac bowed down to receive his blessing. And
Abraham's aspect was fatherly, his glance was mild, his speech admonishing. But
Isaac understood him not, his soul would not rise to him; he embraced Abraham's
knees, he besought him at his feet, he begged for his young life, for his
beautiful hopes, he recalled the joy in Abraham's house when he was born, he
reminded him of the sorrow and the loneliness that would be after him. Then did
Abraham raise up the youth and lead him by his hand, and his words were full of
consolation and admonishment. But Isaac understood him not. He ascended Mount
Moriah, but Isaac understood him not. Then Abraham averted his face for a
moment; but when Isaac looked again, his father's countenance was changed, his
glance wild, his aspect terrible, he seized Isaac and threw him to the ground
and said: "Thou foolish lad, believest thou I am thy father? An idol‑worshipper
am I. Believest thou it is God's cornmand? Nay, but my pleasure." Then
Isaac trembled and cried out in his fear: "God in heaven, have pity on me,
God of Abraham, show mercy to me, I have no father on earth, be thou then my
father!" But Abraham said softly to himself : "Father in heaven, I
thank thee. Better is it that he believes me inhuman than that he should lose
his faith in thee."
When
the child is to be weaned, his mother blackens her breast; for it were a pity
if her breast should look sweet to him when he is not to have it. Then the
child believes that her breast has changed; but his mother is ever the same,
her glance is full of love and as tender as ever. Happy he who needed not worse
means to wean his child!
II.
It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes and embraced
Sarah, the bride of his old age. And Sarah kissed Isaac who had taken the shame
from her—Isaac, her pride, her hope for all coming generations. Then the twain
rode silently along their way, and Abraham's glance was fastened on the ground
before him; until on the fourth day, when he lifted up his eyes and beheld
Mount Moriah in the distance; but then his eyes again sought the ground.
Without a word he put the fagots in order and bound Isaac, and without a word
he unsheathed his knife. Then he beheld the ram God had chosen, and sacrificed
him, and wended his way home. . . . From that day on Abraham grew old. He could
not forget that God had required this of him. Isaac flourished as before; but
Abraham's eye was darkened, he saw happiness no more.
When
the child has grown and is to be weaned, his mother will in maidenly fashion
conceal her breast. Then the child has a mother no longer. Happy the child who
lost not his mother in any other sense!
III.
It
was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes he kissed Sarah, the young
mother, and Sarah kissed Isaac, her joy, her delight for all times. And Abraham
rode on his way, lost in thought—he was thinking of Hagar and her son whom he
had driven out into the wilderness. He ascended Mount Moriah and he drew the
knife.
It was a calm evening
when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode to Mount Moriah. There he cast himself
down on his face and prayed to God to forgive him his sin in that he had been
about to sacrifice his son Isaac, and in that the father had forgotten his duty
toward his son. And yet oftener he rode on his lonely way, but he found no
rest. He could not grasp that it was a sin that he had wanted to sacrifice to
God his most precious possession, him for whom he would most gladly have died
many times. But, if it was a sin, if he had not loved Isaac thus, then could he
not grasp the possbility that he could be forgiven : for what sin more terrible
?
When
the child is to he weaned, the mother is not without sorrow that she and her
child are to be separated more and more, that the child who had first lain
under her heart, and afterwards at any rate rested at her breast, is to be so
near to her no more. So they sorrow together for that brief while. Happy he who
kept his child so near to him and needed not to sorrow more!
IV.
It
was in the early morning. All was ready for the journey in the house of
Abraham. He bade farewell to Sarah; and Eliezer, his faithful servant,
accompanied him along the way for a little while. They rode together in peace,
Abraham and Isaac, until they came to Mount Moriah. And Abraham prepared
everything for the sacrifice, calmly and mildly; but when his father turned
aside in order to unsheath his knife, Isaac saw that Abraham's left hand was
knit in despair and that a trembling shook his frame—but Abraham drew forth the
knife.
Then they returned home again, and Sarah
hastened to meet them; but Isaac had lost his faith, No one in all the world
ever said a word about this, nor did Isaac speak to any man concerning what he
had seen, and Abraham suspected not that any one had seen it.
When the child is to be weaned, his mother has the stronger food
ready lest the child perish. Happy he who has in readiness this stronger food!
Thus,
and in many similar ways, thought the man whom I have mentioned about this
event. And every time he returned, after a pilgrimage to Mount Moriah, he sank
down in weariness, folding his hands and saying: "No one, in truth, was
great as was Abraham, and who can understand him?"
A
PANEGYRIC ON ABRAHAM
If a consciousness of the eternal were not implanted in man; if the
basis of all that exists were but a confusedly fermenting element which,
convulsed by obscure passions, Produced all, both the great and the
insignificant; if under everything there lay a bottomless void never to be
filled what else were life but despair? If it were thus, and if there were no
sacred bonds between man and man; if one generation arose after another, as in
the forest the leaves of one season succeed the leaves of another, or like the
songs of birds which are taken up one after another; if the generations of man
passed through the world like a ship passing through the sea and the wind over
the desert—a fruitless and a vain thing; if eternal oblivion were ever greedily
watching for its prey and there existed no power strong enough to wrest it from
its clutches—how empty were life then, and how dismal! And therefore it is not
thus; but, just as God created man and woman, he likewise called into being the
hero and the poet or orator. The latter cannot perform the deeds of the hero—he
can only admire and love him and rejoice in him. And yet he also is happy and
not less so; for the hero is, as it were, his better self with which he has
fallen in love, and he is glad he is not himself the hero, so that his love can
express itself in admiration.
The
poet is the genius of memory, and does nothing but recall what has been done,
can do nothing but admire what has been done. He adds nothing of his own, but
he is Jealous of what has been entrusted to him. He obeys the choice of his own
heart; but once he has found what he has been seeking, he visits every man's
door with his song and with his speech, so that all may admire the hero as he
does, and be proud of the hero as he is. This is his achievement, his humble
work, this is his faithful service in the house of the hero. If thus, faithful
to his love, he battles day and night against the guile of oblivion which
wishes to lure the hero from him, then has he accomplished his task, then is he
gathered to his hero who loves him as faithfully; for the poet is as it were
the hero's better self, unsubstantial, to be sure, like a mere memory, but also
transfigured as is a memory. Therefore shall no one be forgotten who has done
great deeds; and even if there be delay, even if the cloud of misunderstanding
obscure the hero from our vision, still his lover will come some time; and the
more time has passed, the more faithfully will he cleave to him.
No, no one shall be forgotten who was great in this world. But each
hero was great in his own way, and each one was eminent in proportion to the
great things he loved. For he who loved himself became great through himself,
and he who loved others became great through his devotion, but he who loved God
became greater than all of these. Everyone of them shall be remembered, but
each one became great in proportion to his trust. One became great by the
possible; another, by hoping for the eternal; hoped for the impossible, he
became greater than all of these. Every one shall be remembered; but each one
was great in proportion to the power with which he strove. For he who strove
with the world became great by overcoming himself; but he who strove with God,
he became the greatest of them all. Thus there have been struggles in the
world, man against man, one against a thousand; but he who struggled with God,
he became greatest of them all. Thus there was fighting on this earth, and
there was he who conquered everything by his strength, and there was he who
conquered God by his weakness. There was he who, trusting in himself, gained
all; and there was he who, trusting in his strength sacrificed everything; but
he who believed in God was greater than all of these. There was he who was
great through his strength, and he who was great through his wisdom, and he who
was great through his hopes, and he who was great through his love; but Abraham
was greater than all of these—great through the strength whose power is
weakness, great through the wisdom whose secret is folly, great through the
hope whose expression is madness, great through the love which is hatred of
one's self.
Through the urging of his
faith Abraham left the land of his forefathers and became a stranger in the
land of promise. He left one thing behind and took one thing along: he left his
worldly wisdom behind and took with him faith. For else he would not have left
the land of his fathers. but would have thought it an unreasonable demand.
Through his faith he came to be a stranger in the land of promise, where there
was nothing to remind him of all that had been dear to him, but where
everything by its newness tempted his soul to longing. And yet was he God's
chosen, he in whom the Lord was well pleased! Indeed, had he been one cast off,
one thrust out of God's mercy, then might he have comprehended it; but now it
seemed like a mockery of him and of his faith. There have been others who lived
in exile from the fatherland which they loved. They are not forgotten, nor is
the song of lament forgotten in which they mournfully sought and found what
they had lost. Of Abraham there exists no song of lamentation. It is human to
complain, it is human to weep with the weeping; but it is greater to believe,
and more blessed to consider him who has faith.
Through
his faith Abraham received the promise that in his seed were to be blessed all
races of mankind. Time passed, there was still the possibility of it, and
Abraharn had faith. Another man there was who also lived in hopes. Time passed,
the evening of his life was approaching; neither was he paltry enough to have
forgotten his hopes: neither shall he be forgotten by us! Then he sorrowed, and
his sorrow did not deceive him, as life had done, but gave him all it could;
for in the sweetness of sorrow he became possessed of his disappointed hopes.
It is human to sorrow, it is human to sorrow with the sorrowing; but it is
greater to have faith, and more blessed to consider him who has faith.
No song of lamentation has come down to us from Abraham. He did
not sadly count the days as time passed; he did not look at Sarah with
suspicious eyes, whether she was becoming old; he did not stop the sun's course
lest Sarah should grow old and his hope with her; he did not lull her with his
songs of lamentation. Abraham grew old, and Sarah became a laughing‑stock
to the people; and yet was he God's chosen, and heir to the promise that in his
seed were to be blessed all races of mankind. Were it, then, not better if he
had not been God's chosen? For what is it to be God's chosen? Is it to have
denied to one in one's youth all the wishes of youth in order to have them
fulfilled after great labor in old age?
But Abraham had faith
and steadfastly lived in hope. Had Abraham been less firm in his trust, then
would he have given up that hope. He would have said to God: "So it is,
perchance, not Thy will, after all, that this shall come to pass. I shall
surrender my hope. It was my only one, it was my bliss. I am sincere, I conceal
no secret grudge for that Thou didst deny it to me." He would not have
remained forgotten, his example would have saved many a one; but he would not
have become the Father of Faith. For it is great to surrender one's hope, but
greater still to abide by it steadfastly after having surrendered it; for it is
great to seize hold of the eternal hope, but greater till to abide steadfastly
by one's worldly hopes after having rendered them.
Then came the fulness of time. If Abraham had not had faith, then
Sarah would probably have died of sorrow, and Abraham, dulled by his grief,
would not have understood the fulfilment, but would have smiled about it as a
dream of his youth. But Abraham had
faith, and therefore he remained young; for he who always hopes for the best,
him life will deceive, and he will grow old; and he who is always prepared for
the worst, he will soon age; but he who has faith, he will preserve eternal
youth. Praise, therefore, be to this story! For Sarah, though advanced in age,
was young enough to wish for the pleasures of a mother, and Abraham, though
grey of hair, was young enough to wish to become a father. In a superficial
sense it may be considered miraculous that what they wished for came to pass,
but in a deeper sense the miracle of faith is to be seen in Abraham's and
Sarah's being young enough to wish, and their faith having preserved their wish
and therewith their youth. The promise he had received was fulfilled, and he accepted
it in faith, and it came to pass according to the promise and his faith;
whereas Moses smote the rock with his staff but believed not.
There was joy in
Abraham's house when Sarah celebrated the day of her Golden Wedding. But it was
not to remain thus; for once more was Abraham to be tempted. He had struggled
with that cunning power to which nothing is impossible, with that ever watchful
enemy who never sleeps, with that old man who outlives all—he had struggled
with Time and had preserved his faith. And now all the terror of that fight was
concentrated in one moment. "And God tempted Abraham, saying to him: take
now thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of
Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains
which I will tell thee of.[2]
All was lost, then, and
more terribly than if a son had never been given him! The Lord had only mocked
Abraham, then! Miraculously he had realized the unreasonable hopes of Abraham;
and now he wished to take away what be had given. A foolish hope it had been,
but Abraham had not laughed when the promise had been made him. Now all was
lost—the trusting hope of seventy years, the brief joy at the fulfilment of his
hopes. Who, then, is he that snatches away the old man's staff, who that
demands that he himself shall break it in two? Who is he that renders
disconsolate the grey hair of old age, who is he that demands that he himself
shall do it? Is there no pity for the venerable old man, and none for the
innocent child? And yet was Abraham God's chosen one, and yet was it the Lord
that tempted him. And now all was to be lost I The glorious remembrance of him
by a whole race, the promise of Abraham's seed‑all that was but a whim, a
passing fancy of the Lord, which Abraham was now to destroy forever! That
glorious treasure, as old as the faith in Abraham's heart, and many, many years
older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham's life, sanctified by prayers, matured
in struggles—the blessing on the lips of Abraham: this fruit was now to be
plucked before the appointed time, and to remain without significance; for of
what significance were it if Isaac was to be sacrificed? That sad and yet
blessed hour when Abraham was to take leave f rom all that was dear to him, the
hour when he would once more lift up his venerable head, when his face would
shine like the countenance of the Lord, the hour when he would collect his
whole soul for a blessing strong enough to render Isaac blessed all the days,
of his life‑that hour was not to come! He was to say farewell to Isaac,
to be sure, but in such wise that he himself was to remain behind; death was to
part them, but in such wise that Isaac was to die. The old man was not in
happiness to lay his hand on Isaac's head when the hour of death came, but,
tired of life, to lay violent hands on Isaac. And it was God who tempted him.
Woe, woe to the messenger who would have come before Abraham with such a
command! Who would have dared to be the messenger of such dread tidings? But it
was God that tempted Abraham.
But
Abraham had faith, and had faith for this life. Indeed, had his faith been but
concerning the life to come, then might he more easily have cast away all, in
order to hasten out of this world which was not his. . . .
But
Abraham had faith and doubted not, but trusted that the improbable would come
to pass. If Abraham had doubted, then would he have undertaken something else,
something great and noble; for what could Abraham have undertaken but was great
and noble! He would have proceeded to Mount Moriah, he would have cloven the
wood, and fired it, and unsheathed his knife—he would have cried out to God:
"Despise not this sacrifice; it is not, indeed, the best I have; for what
is an old man against a child foretold of God; but it is the best I can give
thee. Let Isaac never know that he must find consolation in his youth." He
would have plunged the steel in his own breast. And he would have been admired
throughout the world, and his name would not have been forgotten; but it is one
thing to be admired and another, to be a lode‑star which guides one
troubled in mind.
But
Abraham had faith. He prayed not for mercy and that he might prevail upon the
Lord: it was only when just retribution was to be visited upon Sodom and
Gomorrha that Abraham ventured to beseech Him for mercy.
We read in Scripture: "And God did tempt Abraham, and said
unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold here I am."[3] You, whom I am now
addressing did you do likewise? When you saw the dire dispensations of
Providence approach threateningly, did you not then say to the mountains, Fall
on me; and to the hills, Cover me?[4] Or, if you were
stronger in faith, did not your step linger along the way, longing for the old
accustomed paths, as it were? And when the voice called you, did you answer,
then, or not at all, and if you did, perchance in a low voice, or whispering?
Not thus Abraham, but gladly and cheerfully and trustingly, and with a resonant
voice he made answer: "Here am I" And we read further: "And
Abraham rose up early in the morning.[5] He made haste as though
for some joyous occasion, and early in the morning he was in the appointed
place, on Mount Moriah. He said nothing to Sarah, nothing to Eliezer, his
steward; for who would have understood him? Did not his temptation by its very
nature demand of him the vow of silence? "He laid the wood in order, and
bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham
stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son." My
listener! Many a father there has been who thought that with his child he lost
the dearest of all there was in the world for him; yet assuredly no child ever
was in that sense a pledge of God as was Isaac to Abraham. Many a father there
has been who lost his child; but then it was God, the unchangeable and
inscrutable will of the Almighty and His hand which took it. Not thus with
Abraham. For him was reserved a more severe trial, and Isaac's fate was put
into Abraham's hand together with the knife. And there he stood, the old man,
with his only hope! Yet did he not doubt, nor look anxiously to the left or
right, nor challenge Heaven with his prayers. He knew it was God the Almighty
who now put him to the test; he knew it was the greatest sacrifice which could
be demanded of him; but he knew also that no sacrifice was too great which God
demanded—and he drew forth hisknife.
Who strengthened
Abraham's arm, who supported his right arm that it drooped not powerless? For
he who contemplates this scene is unnerved. Who strengthened Abraham's soul so
that his eyes grew not too dim to see either Isaac or the ram? For he who
contemplates this scene will be struck with blindness. And yet, it is rare
enough that one is unnerved or is struck with blindness, and still more rare
that one narrates worthily what there did take place between father and son. To
be sure, we know well enough—it was but a trial!
If
Abraham had doubted, when standing on Mount Moriah; if he had looked about him
in perplexity; if he had accidentally discovered the ram before drawing his
knife; if God had permitted him to sacrifice it instead of Isaac—then would he
have returned home, and all would have been as before, he would have had Sarah
and would have kept Isaac; and yet how different all would have been! For then
had his return been a flight, his salvation an accident, his reward disgrace,
his future, perchance, perdition. Then would he have borne witness neither to
his faith nor to God's mercy, but would have witnessed only to the terror of
going to Mount Moriah. Then Abraham would not have been forgotten, nor either
Mount Moriah. It would be mentioned, then, not as is Mount Ararat on which the
Ark landed, but as a sign of terror, because it was there Abraham doubted.
Venerable patriarch
Abraham! When you returned home from Mount Moriah you required no encomiums to
console you for what you had lost; for, indeed, you did win all and still kept
Isaac, as we all know. And the Lord did no more take him from your side, but
you sate gladly at table with him in your tent as in the life to come you will,
for all times. Venerable patriarch Abraham! Thousands of years have passed
since those times, but still you need no late‑born lover to snatch your
memory from the power of oblivion, for every language remembers you—and yet do
you reward your lover more gloriously than any one, rendering him blessed in
your bosom, and taking heart and eyes captive by the marvel of your deed.
Venerable patriarch Abraham! Second father of the race! You who first perceived
and bore witness to that unbounded passion which has but scorn for the terrible
fight with the ragring elements and the strength of brute creation, in order to
struggle with God; you who first felt that sublimest of all passions, you who
found the holy, pure, humble expression for the divine madness which was a
marvel to the heathen—forgive him who would speak in your praise, in case he
did it not fittingly. He spoke humbly, as if it concerned the desire of his
heart; he spoke briefly, as is seemly; but he will never forget that you
required a hundred years to obtain a son of your old age, against all
expections; that you had to draw the knife before being permitted to keep
Isaac; he will never forget that in a hundred and thirty years you never got
farther than to faith.
PRELIMINARY
EXPECTORATION
An old saying, derived
from the world of experience, has it that "he who will not work shall not
eat.[6] 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[7] 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;[8] 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,[9] 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,[10] 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;[11] 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.[12] 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 self. 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[13]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 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 bears 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, 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."[14] 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 n. me; but still I did not love as did Abraham, for else I ould 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[15] 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;[16] 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 marvellous 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 signalling 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 omnibusses, 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
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 her 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 fulfilment 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 Abraharn, 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 leechlike 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 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 repentence. 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.[17]