An Opening Outpouring

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.

An old saying drawn from experience tells us that "he who will not work shall not eat.⁷" Strangely enough, this saying does not hold true in the world where people think it applies. For imperfection rules the material world. Again and again, we see that even those who refuse to work have bread to eat. Indeed, those who sleep have more bread than those who work. In the material world, everything belongs to whoever happens to possess it. This world is ruled by indifference. Whoever happens to possess the Ring also has the Spirit of the Ring at his command. It makes no difference whether the owner is Noureddin or Aladdin.⁸ And whoever controls the treasures of this world controls them, however he gained control. The spiritual world is different. An eternal and divine order rules there. There, 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: he who will not work shall not eat. Only someone who has been troubled will find rest. Only someone who descends into the underworld will rescue his beloved. And only someone who draws his knife will be given Isaac again. There, anyone who refuses to work will not eat, but will be deceived. So the gods deceived Orpheus with a bodiless image instead of his beloved Euridice.¹⁰ They deceived him because he was lovesick rather than courageous, because he was a cithara player rather than a man. There, having Abraham as your father¹¹ does you no good, nor does having seventeen ancestors. But in that world, the saying about Israel's maidens will apply to anyone who refuses to work: he will give birth to wind.¹² But anyone who works will 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?

There is a kind of learning that arrogantly tries to impose on the spiritual world a law governing the material world. It is the same law of indifference under which the material world groans. This learning assumes that knowing about great men and great deeds is enough, and that no further effort is needed. And so this learning will not eat, but will starve while watching everything it touches turn to gold. And what, really, does this learning know? Many thousands of Miltiades’ contemporaries, and countless people in later times, knew all about his triumphs. But those triumphs kept only one person awake at night.¹³ Countless generations have known the story of Abraham by heart, word for word. But how many people has that story kept awake at night?

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 way¹⁴ 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.

The story of Abraham has a remarkable quality: it is always glorious, however limited our understanding of it. Still, here too, the question is whether we are willing to make an effort and do our part. People do not care to make that effort, yet they still want to understand the story. They praise Abraham, but how? They speak in the broadest terms and say: "His greatness lay in loving God so deeply that he was willing to sacrifice his most precious possession to him." That is very true. But "his most precious possession" is a vague expression. As thoughts and words flow, people casually assume that Isaac and "his most precious possession" mean the same thing. Meanwhile, the person reflecting on the story may smoke his pipe, and his audience may comfortably stretch out their legs. Suppose the rich young man whom Christ met on his way¹⁴ had sold all his possessions and given everything to the poor. We would praise him as we praise everything great. Indeed, we could not understand even him without making an effort. Yet he would never have become an Abraham, despite sacrificing his most precious possessions. What people generally forget in Abraham's story is his fear and anxiety. A person has no ethical responsibility for money. But a father has the highest and most sacred responsibility for his son. Fear, however, is dreadful to timid souls, so they leave it out. And yet they want 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."

So they keep speaking, using Isaac and "the most precious thing" interchangeably, and everything is in perfect order. But suppose someone in the audience suffered from sleeplessness. Then the most terrible and profound misunderstanding becomes possible, the most tragic and, at the same time, the most comic. Suppose this man goes home and wants to do what Abraham did, because his son is his most precious possession. If a certain preacher heard about this, he would perhaps visit the man. He would summon all his spiritual dignity and exclaim: "You disgusting creature, you scum of humanity! What devil possessed you to want to murder your son?" This preacher had felt no particular warmth and had not broken a sweat while speaking about Abraham. Yet he would astonish himself with the sincere fury of his thunderous attack on that poor wretch. Indeed, he would be delighted with himself, for he had never spoken with such power and spiritual fervor. He would have said to his wife: "I am an orator. All I have lacked until now was the right occasion. Last Sunday, when I spoke about Abraham, I wasn't moved 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."

Now, suppose this same speaker had even a little sense left. I believe he would lose it if the sinner replied quietly and with dignity: "Why, you preached about this very matter last Sunday!" But how could the preacher have entertained such thoughts? Still, that was what happened, and the preacher’s only mistake was not knowing what he was talking about. Ah, if only some poet could bring himself to choose this situation over the nonsense filling novels and comedies! For here, comedy and tragedy run side by side into infinity. The sermon was probably ridiculous enough on its own. But the sermon became infinitely ridiculous because of its perfectly natural consequence. Or suppose the sinner was converted by this lecture without daring to object. Suppose this zealous clergyman then went home elated, pleased to know how effective he was. He was effective not only in the pulpit but, above all, as a spiritual guide with irresistible power. On Sunday he inspired his congregation. Yet on Monday he would stand like a cherub with a flaming sword, blocking the sinner’s path. By his actions, this man was trying to disprove the old saying that "the world does not follow the priest’s words."

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.

If, on the other hand, the sinner were not convinced he was wrong, his situation would become tragic. He would probably be executed or sent to a psychiatric hospital. In any case, he would suffer in this world. But in another sense, I would think Abraham had made him happy. For whoever labors will 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....

Now how do we explain the contradiction in that sermon? Is it because Abraham has a reputation as a great man, so that whatever he does is great? But if someone else tried to do the same thing, would it be a sin, a terrible sin? If so, I would rather not join in such thoughtless praise. If faith cannot make the wish to sacrifice one’s son sacred, then judge Abraham as you would anyone else. And if we perhaps lack the courage to follow our thoughts to their logical conclusion and call Abraham a murderer, we should gain that courage. That would be better than wasting our time on undeserved praise. The fact is, in ethical terms, Abraham wanted to murder Isaac. In religious terms, he wanted to sacrifice him. But this very contradiction contains the fear that may well keep us awake at night. And yet, without this fear, Abraham would not be Abraham. Or suppose Abraham did not do what people say he did. Suppose his action was entirely different, shaped by the conditions of his time. Then let us forget him. For what is the point of recalling a past that can no longer become a present reality? Or perhaps the speaker had forgotten the essential fact that Isaac was Abraham’s son. For if faith is removed, reduced to nothing, only the brutal fact remains that Abraham wanted to murder Isaac. Anyone without faith can easily imitate that act. Yet faith is precisely what makes the act so difficult for Abraham....

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.

Love has its priests in the poets, and sometimes a poet’s voice praises love as it deserves. But one hears not a word about faith. Who will speak in honor of that passion? Philosophy "goes right on." Theology sits at the window with a painted face, seeking philosophy’s favor and offering her charms. People say Hegel’s philosophy is hard to understand. But understanding Abraham, why, that is easy! Going beyond Hegel is a remarkable achievement. But going beyond Abraham, why, nothing could be easier! Personally, I have spent considerable time studying Hegelian philosophy and believe I understand it fairly well. In fact, I am bold enough to make this claim: sometimes, despite my efforts, I cannot understand certain passages. When that happens, it is because Hegel himself is not entirely clear about the matter. All this intellectual work comes easily and naturally to me, without giving me a headache. But whenever I try to think about Abraham, I feel overwhelmed, as it were. At every moment, I am aware of the enormous paradox at the heart of Abraham’s life. At every moment, I am driven back. Despite my passionate efforts, my thoughts cannot penetrate that paradox or advance even a hair’s breadth. I strain every muscle to grasp the problem, and at that very moment I become paralyzed.

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....

I am well acquainted with what people have admired as great and noble. My soul feels a kinship with it. In all humility, I am satisfied that the hero also took up my cause. And when I think about his deed, I say to myself: "jam tua causa agitur.¹⁵" I can identify with the hero, but I cannot identify with Abraham. Whenever I reach his height, I fall back down, because he confronts me as the paradox. I certainly do not mean that faith is inferior. On the contrary, faith is the highest of all things. It is also dishonest for philosophy to offer something else in place of faith and to scorn faith. But philosophy should understand its own nature so that it knows what it can offer. Philosophy should take nothing away. Above all, it should not trick people into giving something up as if it had no value. I am familiar with life's sufferings and dangers, but I do not fear them. I go out cheerfully to meet them.... But even so, my courage is not the courage of faith, and it is nothing compared with that courage. I cannot make the movement of faith. I cannot close my eyes and confidently plunge into the absurd. That is impossible for me, but I do not boast about my inability either....

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."

Now I wonder whether everyone living today can really make the movements of faith. Unless I am very much mistaken, they are instead proud of making the imperfect movement. Perhaps they think I cannot make even that movement. I find it deeply repugnant to speak about great deeds in the inhuman way people so often do. They speak as if a few thousand years were an immense stretch of time. I prefer to speak about these deeds in a human way, as though they happened only yesterday. Let the greatness of the deed itself be the distance between us, inspiring or condemning me. Now suppose I had been called, as a tragic hero, to such an extraordinary royal journey as Abraham’s to Mount Moriah. I cannot rise any higher than a tragic hero. I know very well what I would have done. I would not have been cowardly enough to stay home. Nor would I have lingered along the way or forgotten my knife just to delay the end a little. I am fairly sure I would have arrived promptly, with everything ready. In fact, I would probably have arrived before the appointed time, to get the business over with quickly. But I also know what else I would have done. The moment I mounted my horse, I would have said to myself: "Now all is lost. God demands Isaac. I will sacrifice him, and with him all my joy. But despite all this, God is love and will remain so for me. For in this world God and I cannot speak to each other. 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 auspiciis¹⁶ has made the infinite movement of resignation and can do no more, he will retain possession of Isaac only in his sorrow.

Perhaps one of my contemporaries will be stupid enough, and jealous enough of great deeds, to make this argument. He will try to convince himself and me that, had I acted that way, I would have surpassed Abraham. He thinks my sublime resignation was far more ideal and poetic than Abraham's literal-minded action. Yet that is absolutely not true, for my sublime resignation was only a substitute for faith. I could only have made the infinite movement (of resignation), to find myself and once again rest in myself. Nor would I have loved Isaac as Abraham loved him. My determination to resign myself is enough to prove my courage in human terms. And loving him with my whole heart is the very condition without which my action would be a crime. But still, I did not love as Abraham did. Otherwise, I would have hesitated even at the last minute, though without arriving too late on Mount Moriah. I would also have spoiled the whole thing by my behavior. For if Isaac had been restored to me, I would have been embarrassed. What was easy for Abraham would have been difficult for me: finding joy in Isaac again. For someone may, with all his soul's energy, make the infinite movement of resignation proprio motu et propriis auspiciis¹⁶. If he can do no more, he will keep 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....

But what did Abraham do? He arrived neither too early nor too late. He mounted his donkey and rode slowly on his way. And all the while he had faith, believing that God would not demand Isaac from him. Yet he remained ready all the while to sacrifice Isaac, if God demanded it. He believed this on the strength of the absurd, for human calculation was no longer possible. The absurdity was that God, who made this demand, would withdraw the demand the very next moment. Abraham climbed the mountain, and even as the knife gleamed in his hand, he believed God would not demand Isaac. He was certainly surprised by the outcome. But through a double movement, he had returned to his original state of mind. He therefore received Isaac back with greater joy than when he first received him....

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, then, stands at this height. The last stage he leaves behind is infinite resignation. He really does go further. He reaches faith. For consider all these caricatures of faith. There is wretched, halfhearted laziness, which thinks: "Oh, there is no hurry. There is no need to worry before the time comes." And there is miserable hopefulness, which says: "No one can know what will happen. Perhaps there might be..." All these caricatures belong to a sordid view of life. All have already met with 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.

I cannot understand Abraham. And in a certain sense, I can learn nothing from him without being filled with wonder. Some flatter themselves that merely considering the outcome of Abraham's story will necessarily bring them to faith. They only deceive themselves and want to cheat God out of the first movement of faith. That would be like drawing worldly wisdom from the paradox. But who knows, one or another of them may succeed in doing so. For our age is not satisfied with faith, or even with the miracle of turning water into wine. People "go right on" turning 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.

Isn't it better to be satisfied with faith? And isn't it outrageous that everyone wants to "go right on"? If people today refuse to be satisfied with love, as we hear from various quarters, where will we end up? In worldly cunning, petty calculation, pettiness and baseness, in everything that casts doubt on humanity's divine origin. Wouldn't it be better to stand firm in faith, and for anyone standing firm to beware of falling?¹⁷ For the movement of faith must always be made through the absurd. But take careful note: through this movement, we do not lose the things of this world but regain them completely.

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.

For my part, I can describe the movements of faith extremely well, but I cannot make those movements myself. Someone who wants to learn to swim hangs suspended in a swimming belt and goes through the motions. But going through the motions does not mean the person can swim. In the same way, I too can go through the motions of faith. But when I am thrown into the water, I do swim, for I am not someone who wades in the shallows. Yet I make a different set of movements, those of infinity. Faith does the opposite. After making the movements of infinite resignation, faith makes the movements needed to regain the finite. Blessed is anyone who can make these movements, for such a person performs a marvelous feat. I will never tire of admiring such a person, whether Abraham himself or a slave in Abraham's house. Whether a philosophy professor or a poor servant girl, the person makes no difference to me. I care only about the movements. But I watch these movements closely, and I will not let myself or anyone else deceive me. The knights of infinite resignation are easily recognized, for they walk boldly, as if dancing. But people who possess the jewel of faith often mislead an observer. Their manner is strangely like that of a group deeply despised by both infinite resignation and 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.

Let me admit frankly that I have never met anyone I could confidently identify as this type. But I do not deny that, for all I know, every other person may be of this type. At the same time, I have searched in vain for years. Scientists routinely travel around the globe to see rivers and mountains, new stars, brightly colored birds, misshapen fish, and ridiculous races of people. They give themselves over to a cowlike stupor, gaping at existence and believing they have seen something worthwhile. None of this interests me. But if I knew where such a knight of faith lived, I would walk there to meet him. That marvel alone occupies my thoughts. I would not let him out of my sight for a moment, but would watch how he makes the movements. I would consider myself provided for for life. I would divide my time between watching him and practicing the movements myself. In this way, I would spend all my time 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.

As I said, I have not met such a person, but I can easily imagine him. Here he is. I meet him and am introduced to him. The moment I see him, I push him back and jump back myself. I raise my hands in amazement and say to myself: "Good Lord! That person? Is it really him? Why, he looks like a parish clerk!" But it really is him. I get to know him better, watching his every movement. I look for some small, out-of-place movement I might have missed, perhaps some hint of a signal from the infinite. It might be a glance, a look, a gesture, a melancholy air, or a smile. Any of these might reveal the presence of infinite resignation in contrast to 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.

But no! I study him from head to toe, looking for any crack through which the infinite might peek out. But no! He is all of a piece, through and through. And how does he walk? His stride is vigorous, entirely grounded in the finite world. No citizen in his Sunday best, ready to spend the afternoon in the park, walks more firmly. He belongs entirely to this world, as much as any philistine. He shows none of the somewhat exclusive, haughty manner that sets the knight of infinite resignation apart. He enjoys all things, takes an interest in everything, and persists in whatever he does. He has the enthusiasm of people wholly devoted to worldly things. He attends to his business with such precision that you might think him a clerk who had lost his soul in double-entry bookkeeping. He takes Sundays off. He goes to church. But no hint of anything supernatural, or any other sign of what lies beyond measure, gives him away. If you did not know him, you could not pick him out in the congregation. His lively, manly singing proves only that he has a good pair of 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.

In the afternoon he walks out to the forest. He delights in all he sees: the crowds of men and women, the new buses, the Sound. If you met him on the promenade, you might think he was a shopkeeper enjoying himself. His joy is so simple. For he is not a poet, and I have tried in vain to draw out any sign of a poet’s detachment. Toward evening he walks home again, with a stride as steady as a mail carrier’s. On the way, he happens to wonder whether his wife will have some special little hot dish ready for him. Surely she has, perhaps a roasted lamb’s head garnished with greens. And if he met someone who thought as he did, he would very likely keep talking about the dish. They might talk until they reached the East Gate, and he would discuss the dish with a chef’s enthusiasm. As it happens, he does not have four shillings to spare. Yet he firmly believes his wife surely has the dish ready for him. If she has, watching him eat would make distinguished people envious and inspire ordinary people. For his appetite is greater than Esau’s. His wife has not prepared the dish. Strangely, he remains exactly 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.

Again, on his way, he passes a building lot and meets another man there. They start talking, and in no time he puts up a building, freely arranging for everything needed. The stranger will leave him with the impression that he has been talking to a capitalist. In fact, the knight I admire is occupied with a thought: if it really came to that, he would unquestionably have the necessary funds available.

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...

Now he leans on his elbows at the window, looking out over the square where he lives. Everything that happens there catches his attention, even a rat creeping into a drain or children playing together. Yet his mind is as peaceful as a sixteen-year-old girl’s. He smokes his pipe in the evening. Looking at him, you would swear he was the greengrocer from across the street, lounging at the window at dusk. He seems as carefree as any worthless, happy-go-lucky fellow. Yet every moment of his life, he pays the highest price for his leisure. For he makes even the slightest movement only through the power of the absurd. And yet, yet, I could become furious, if for no other reason than envy. And yet this man has made, and makes every moment, the movement of infinity... He has given up absolutely everything, and then taken hold of it all again 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.

But this miracle can so easily mislead us. So it is best to describe these movements through a specific case. This example may show how the movements meet reality, and that is the important point. Suppose, then, a young man falls in love with a princess, and his whole life is bound up in this love. But circumstances make marriage out of the question. Turning his dreams into reality is impossible. Those slaves to pettiness, those frogs in life's swamps, will of course shout: "Such a love is foolish. The rich brewer's widow is just as good and reliable a match." Let them croak. The knight of infinite resignation does not follow their advice. He does not give up his love, not for all the riches in the world. He is no fool. First, he makes sure this love truly is the substance of his life. For his soul is too healthy and too proud to waste itself on a passing intoxication. He is no coward. He is not afraid to let his love enter his most secret and distant thoughts. He lets love wind in countless coils around every fiber of his consciousness. If his love disappoints him, he will never be able to free himself again. He takes exquisite pleasure in letting love thrill every nerve. Yet his soul is as solemn as the soul of someone who has drained a cup of poison. That person now feels the poison mingle with every drop of his blood, suspended 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.

Having taken in love and become wholly absorbed in it, he has the courage to try and dare everything. He surveys the whole situation and gathers his swift thoughts, which obey his every call like tame pigeons. He gives the signal, and his thoughts dart in all directions. But they all return bearing messages of sorrow, explaining to him that it is impossible. Then he falls silent, dismisses his thoughts, and remains alone. And then he makes the movement. Now, if what I say here is to mean anything, the movement must above all be made normally. The knight of resignation must have enough energy to gather the whole substance of his life into a single wish. He must also gather his understanding of his actual circumstances into that same wish. But suppose he lacks this concentration, this devotion to a single thought. Suppose his soul is divided among many objects from the very beginning. Then he will never be able to make the movement. He will manage his life with the worldly wisdom of a financier who spreads his capital across several investments. The financier does this so that gains on one investment can offset losses on another. In other words, such a man is no knight. Furthermore, the knight must have enough energy to concentrate all his thought into a single act of consciousness. If he lacks this concentration, he will spend his life merely running errands. He will never be able to take the stance of infinite resignation. For the moment he approaches that stance, he will suddenly discover that he has forgotten something and must stay behind. He thinks infinite resignation will be within reach again the next minute, and so it is. But such obstacles will never allow him to make the movement. Instead, they will tend to make 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....

Our knight, then, makes the movement. But what movement? Is he trying to forget the whole affair? That, too, would require great concentration. No, for the knight does not contradict himself. Forgetting the central content of your life while remaining the same person is a contradiction. And he has no wish to become someone else. Nor does he see any greatness in such a wish. Only lower natures forget themselves and become something different. The butterfly, for instance, has forgotten that it was once a caterpillar. Who knows, perhaps it may completely forget that it was once a butterfly and turn into a fish! Deeper natures never forget themselves and never change their essential qualities. So the knight remembers everything, but that very memory is painful. Nevertheless, through his infinite resignation, he has made peace with existence. His love for the princess has become, for him, the expression of an eternal love. His love has taken on a religious character and been transformed into love for the eternal being. That being, admittedly, denied him the fulfillment of his love. Yet that same being reconciled him to existence again, giving him a lasting awareness that his love is preserved forever. No reality can rob him of his love in that everlasting form....

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....

Now he is no longer concerned with what the princess may do. This lack of concern proves that he has correctly made the movement of infinite resignation. In fact, it is a good test of whether a person’s movement is sincere or just pretend. Consider someone who believes that he too has resigned himself. But look, time passes, and the princess does something herself, for example, marries a prince. Then his soul loses the resilience of its resignation. This loss should show him that he did not make the movement correctly. For someone who has resigned himself completely needs nothing outside himself. The knight does not undo his resignation, but keeps his love as fresh and young as at the first moment. He never lets go of his love, precisely because his resignation is absolute. Whatever the princess does cannot disturb him. For only people of a lower nature let someone else determine how they act. In other words, they base their actions on something outside 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.

Infinite resignation is the final stage before faith. So anyone who has not made the movement of infinite resignation cannot have faith. For only through absolute resignation do I become aware of my eternal worth. Only then can the question arise of how to grasp this world again through 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....

Now let us imagine the knight of faith in the same situation. He does exactly what the other knight does. He completely gives up the love that fills his life and accepts the pain. But then something miraculous happens. He makes one more movement, stranger than anything else, saying: "And still I believe that I will marry her. I will marry her through the absurd, through the fact that nothing is impossible for God." Now the absurd is not a category that belongs to ordinary understanding. It is not the same as the improbable, the unforeseen, or the unexpected. The moment our knight gave up his love, he made certain that his love was absolutely impossible in human terms. His reflections led him to this conclusion, and he had enough energy to carry them through. In a transcendent sense, however, his very act of resignation means that achieving his goal is not impossible. But this act of taking possession of his love again is also an act of giving it up. Nevertheless, this kind of possession is by no means absurd to the intellect. For the intellect remains right throughout. It knows that, in the finite world where reason rules, his love was and remains impossible. The knight of faith fully understands this impossibility too. So his only hope of being saved is to turn to the absurd, and his faith allows him to do so. In other words, he clearly recognizes the impossibility, yet at the same moment he believes the absurd. Suppose he imagined he had faith without also recognizing, with all his soul's passion, that his love was impossible. Then he would merely be deceiving himself, and his testimony would have no value. For he would not even have reached 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.

I cannot make this final movement, the paradoxical movement of faith, whether or not doing so is my duty. Yet I want nothing more than to be able to make it. Each person must decide whether to admit the same inability. In any case, whether a friendly understanding can be reached is between that person and the Eternal Being they believe in. But everyone can make the movement of absolute resignation. For my part, I would not hesitate to call anyone a coward who imagines they cannot make that movement. Faith is a different matter. But no one has the right to mislead others into believing that faith is unimportant or easy. Faith 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.

But Abraham's story is usually interpreted differently. People praise God's mercy for returning Isaac to Abraham. It was only a trial! A trial. The word may mean much or little. Yet the whole trial is over as quickly as the story is told. You mount a winged horse and arrive on Mount Moriah in an instant, and presto you see the ram. People forget that Abraham rode only a donkey, which travels slowly, and that his journey took three days. They also forget that he needed extra time to gather firewood, bind Isaac, and sharpen 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.

And yet people praise Abraham. The preacher can sleep comfortably until fifteen minutes before the sermon. The listener can comfortably sleep through the sermon. Everything is made easy enough, with little effort required from either preacher or listener. But suppose a man suffering from sleeplessness was there, then went home, sat in a corner, and thought: "The whole thing lasted only a minute. You need only wait a little while, and then the ram will appear and the trial will be over." Now suppose the preacher found the man thinking this way. I believe he would confront him with all his dignity and say: "You wretch, letting your soul sink into such foolishness. Miracles do not happen. All life is a trial." As the preacher went on, he would grow more and more passionate, and increasingly pleased with himself. While preaching about Abraham, he had noticed no rush of blood to his head. But now he feels the veins in his forehead swell. Yet who knows whether he would be horrified if the sinner answered him calmly and with dignity? The sinner might say that this was precisely what the preacher had 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.

Let us either set aside the whole story of Abraham or learn to stand in awe of its enormous paradox. That paradox is what makes Abraham significant for us. Then we may learn to understand that our age, like every age, may rejoice if it has faith. If Abraham’s story is not meaningless or an illusion, or if it is used merely for show and entertainment, the sinner cannot possibly be at fault for wanting to do the same. But we must establish how great Abraham’s deed was. Only then can the man judge for himself whether he has the courage and the calling to do the same. The preacher’s approach contained a comical contradiction. He reduced Abraham’s story to insignificance, yet scolded the other man for doing exactly the 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

But should we stop talking about Abraham, then? I certainly think not. But if I were to speak about him, I would first describe the terrors of his trial. Like a leech, I would suck all the suffering and distress from a father’s anguish. I would do so to describe what Abraham suffered while still keeping his faith. I would remind the listener that the journey lasted three days and a good part of the fourth. In fact, those three and a half days should become infinitely longer than the few thousand years separating me from Abraham. I would remind the listener, as I think I should, that everyone is still free to turn back. They may do so before testing their strength against this terrifying task. In fact, they may turn back in repentance at any moment. As long as I make these things clear, I fear nothing. Nor do I fear awakening a great desire in people to follow Abraham’s example. But offering a cheap version of Abraham while forbidding everyone to do what he did, I call that ridiculous.¹⁸