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    Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5: Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses
    Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5: Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses
    Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5: Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses
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    Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5: Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses

    By Søren Kierkegaard

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    There is much to be learned philosophically from this volume, but philosophical instruction was not Kierkegaard's aim here, except in the broad sense of self-knowledge and deepened awareness. Indicating the intention of the discourses, the titles include "The Expectancy of Faith," "Love Will Hide a Multitude of Sins," "Strengthening in the Inner Being," "To Gain One's Soul in Patience," "Patience in Expectancy," and "Against Cowardliness."


    In tone and substance these works are in accord with the concluding words of encouragement in Either/Or, which was paired with the first volume of discourses: "Ask yourself and keep on asking until you find the answer, for one may have known something many times, acknowledged it; one may have willed something many times, attempted it--and yet, only the deep inner motion, only the heart's indescribable emotion, only that will convince you that what you have acknowledged belongs to you, that no power can take it from you--for only the truth that builds up is truth for you."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPrinceton University Press
    Release dateJun 29, 2015
    ISBN9781400874378
    Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5: Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses
    Author

    Søren Kierkegaard

    Nace en 1813 y fallece en 1854. Figura entre los grandes de la historia del pensamiento. Su personalidad y su obra han sido calificadas de «tumultuosas, desbordantes e incontenibles». Conviven en él una radical vanguardia en cuanto a los temas (valoración del individuo, crítica de la sociedad de su tiempo, angustia existencial, radicalidad de la culpa, sentimiento de soledad y abandono) y al estilo (cuestión de los pseudónimos, disolución de los géneros clásicos, diálogo entre literatura, filosofía y religión) con una vuelta al cristianismo originario, la reivindicación del patronazgo moral del socratismo platónico o la universalidad de la herencia clásica. Arrinconado al principio por su enfrentamiento con el cristianismo establecido de su época, fue rescatado por G. Brandes, T. S. Haecker y M. Heidegger. A España llegó tempranamente a través de Høffding y Unamuno, que le llamaba «el hermano Kierkegaard». Recientemente se ha recuperado el interés por su magnífica obra y su inquietante personalidad, fruto del cual son los numerosos estudios en torno a su pensamiento y la publicación de una nueva edición de sus escritos. En el marco de la edición castellana de los Escritos de Søren Kierkegaard, basada en la edición crítica danesa, han sido ya publicados: Escritos 1. De los papeles de alguien que todavía vive. Sobre el concepto de ironía (2.ª edición, 2006); Escritos 2. O lo uno o lo otro. Un fragmento de vida I (2006); Escritos 3. O lo uno o lo otro. Un fragmento de vida II (2007); Escritos 5. Discursos edificantes. Tres discursos para ocasiones supuestas (2010) y Migajas filosóficas o un poco de filosofía (5.ª edición, 2007). De Kierkegaard han sido también publicados en esta misma Editorial: Los lirios del campo y las aves del cielo (2007), La enfermedad mortal (2008), Ejercitación del cristianismo (2009), Para un examen de sí mismo recomendado a este tiempo (2011), El Instante (2.ª edición, 2012) y La época presente (2012), Apuntes sobre la Filosofía de la Revelación de F. W. J. Schelling (1841-1842)(2014), El libro sobre Adler. Un ciclo de ensayos ético-religiosos (2021) y Escritos 6. Etapas en el camino de la vida (2023).

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      Kierkegaard's Writings, V, Volume 5 - Søren Kierkegaard

      vi.

      Two Upbuilding Discourses

      1843

      TO THE LATE [III 9]

      Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard

      ¹

      FORMERLY A CLOTHING MERCHANT HERE IN THE CITY

      MY FATHER

      THESE DISCOURSES ARE DEDICATED

      PREFACE

      ² [III 11]

      Although this little book (which is called discourses, not sermons, because its author does not have authority to preach, "upbuilding³ discourses," not discourses for upbuilding,⁴ because the speaker by no means claims to be a teacher⁵) wishes to be only what it is, a superfluity, and desires only to remain in hiding, just as it came into existence in concealment, I nevertheless have not bidden it farewell without an almost fantastic hope. Inasmuch as in being published it is in a figurative sense starting a journey, I let my eyes follow it for a little while. I saw how it wended its way down solitary paths or walked solitary on public roads. After a few little mistakes, through being deceived by a fleeting resemblance, it finally met that single individual [hiin Enkelte]⁶ whom I with joy and gratitude call my reader, that single individual it is seeking, to whom, so to speak, it stretches out its arms, that single individual who is favorably enough disposed to allow himself to be found, favorably enough disposed to receive it, whether at the time of the encounter it finds him cheerful and confident or weary and pensive. —On the other hand, inasmuch as in being published it actually remains quiet without moving from the spot, I let my eyes rest on it for a little while. It stood there like a humble little flower under the cover of the great forest, sought neither for its splendor nor its fragrance nor its food value. But I also saw, or thought I saw, how the bird I call my reader suddenly noticed it, flew down to it, picked it, and took it home, and when I had seen this, I saw no more.

      Copenhagen, May 5, 1843⁷

      S. K.

      THE EXPECTANCY OF FAITH NEW YEAR’S DAY [III 13]

      PRAYER [III 15]

      Once again a year has passed, heavenly Father! We thank you that it was added to the time of grace and that we are not terrified by its also being added to the time of accounting, because we trust in your mercy. The new year faces us with its requirements, and even though we enter it downcast and troubled because we cannot and do not wish to hide from ourselves the thought of the lust of the eye that infatuated, the sweetness of revenge that seduced, the anger that made us unrelenting, the cold heart that fled far from you, we nevertheless do not go into the new year entirely empty-handed, since we shall indeed also take along with us recollections of the fearful doubts that were set at rest, of the lurking concerns that were soothed, of the downcast disposition that was raised up, of the cheerful hope that was not humiliated. Yes, when in mournful moments we want to strengthen and encourage our minds by contemplating those great men, your chosen instruments, who in severe spiritual trials and anxieties of heart kept their minds free, their courage uncrushed, and heaven open, we, too, wish to add our witness to theirs in the assurance that even if our courage compared with theirs is only discouragement, our power powerlessness, you, however, are still the same, the same mighty God who tests spirits in conflict, the same Father without whose will not one sparrow falls to the ground.⁸ Amen.

      [III 16] The Epistle the Apostle Paul writes to the Galatians,

      chapter 3, verse 23 to the end

      It is on the first day of the year that we are assembled here, devout listeners!⁹ The festival we celebrate today is not a church festival, and yet to us its celebration is not less welcome, its invitation to quiet reflection not less earnest. It is in the Lord’s house that we are assembled, where we are always to speak of the same thing, although in different ways according to the time and occasion. A year has passed, and a new one has begun; nothing has happened in it yet. The past is finished, the present is not; only the future is, which is not. In everyday life, it is customary for us to give one another some good wish. Since we believe ourselves to be familiar with a person’s special situation, his thoughts and actions, we accordingly feel competent to wish him a specific good especially appropriate to him and to his life. On this day, we also do not fail to show others our goodwill and sympathy by wishing them this or that good. But since on this day the thought of the future and its unexplored possibility is so very vivid to us, our wish is usually of a more general nature in the hope that its greater compass will more readily embrace the manifoldness of the future, because we feel the difficulty of wishing something definite with respect to what is indefinite and indefinable. But we do not let this difficulty block our wish, we do not give thought the time to disturb the puzzling and vague impulses of the heart; we feel a goodwill that still ought not to be disparaged as light-mindedness, even though it does not deserve to be honored with the name of love. Only for a particular person do we make an exception. We feel more closely attached to him than to others, are more concerned for his welfare. The more this is the case, the more conscious we become of the difficulty. As thought becomes more absorbed in the future, it loses its way in its restless attempt to force or entice an explanation from the riddle. Peering here and there, it rushes from one possibility to another, but in vain, and during all this the well-wishing soul becomes dejected, sits there and waits for thought to come back and inform it about what it dared to ask for in all sincerity. What others do lightly and effortlessly is hard and difficult for this person; what he himself [III 17] does easily for others is hard with respect to the one he loves most, and the more he loves, the harder it is. Finally, he becomes perplexed; he is unwilling to have the beloved slip out of his power, is unwilling to surrender him to the control of the future, and yet he must; he wants to escort him with every good wish, and yet he does not have a single one.

      If a person’s troubled soul felt itself trapped like a prisoner in this difficulty, he would probably call to mind the testimonies he had heard in these sacred places, he perhaps would go there to reflect again and to investigate whether there might not be one wish so certain that he would dare to put his whole soul fervently into it without holding back any part of it for another wish that was also important to the beloved—a wish so certain that he would rather fear not having fervency enough to wish it as it ought to be wished, a wish that he would not need to accompany with new wishes that it might continue, a wish that would not guilefully continue after one had stopped wishing it, a wish that would not pertain to a particular thing so that he would have forgotten another particular thing that could later intrude disturbingly, a wish that would not pertain to the present but would be appropriate for the future, just as this was indeed the reason that he wished. If there were such a wish, then he would be free and happy, happy in his wish, happier that he could wish it for the other.

      As a matter of fact, many good things are talked about in these sacred places. There is talk of the good things of the world, of health, happy times, prosperity, power, good fortune, a glorious fame. And we are warned against them; the person who has them is warned not to rely on them, and the person who does not have them is warned not to set his heart on them. About faith there is a different kind of talk. It is said to be the highest good, the most beautiful, the most precious, the most blessed riches of all, not to be compared with anything else, incapable of being replaced. Is it distinguished from the other good things, then, by being the highest but otherwise of the same kind as they are—transient and capricious, bestowed only upon the chosen few, rarely for the whole of life? If this were so, then it certainly would be inexplicable that in these sacred places it is always faith and faith alone that is spoken of, that it is eulogized and celebrated again and again. The person who is supposed to speak of it must, of course, either possess this good or lack it. If he possessed it, he would presumably say, "I readily admit that it is the most glorious of all, but extol it to others—no, that I cannot do, since that would make it even harder for those who do not have it; [III 18] moreover, there is a secret pain involved in this good that makes me more lonely than the severest sufferings do. And that would indeed be a kind and noble thought on his part. But the person who did not possess it certainly could not extol it. Then what happened would be the opposite of what does happen; faith would become the only good that is never mentioned in these places, since it would be too great for anyone to dare to warn against it, too glorious for anyone to dare to praise it, out of fear that there might be some present who did not have it and could not attain it. Therefore, faith is qualitatively different. It is not only the highest good, but it is a good in which all are able to share, and the person who rejoices in the possession of it also rejoices in the countless human race, because what I possess, he says, every human being has or can possess." The person who wishes it for another person wishes it for himself; the person who wishes it for himself wishes it for every human being, because that by which another person has faith is not that by which he is different from him but is that by which he is like him; that by which he possesses it is not that by which he is different from others but that by which he is altogether like all.

      It was that kind of wish the perplexed man was seeking, one he could wish for another person with all his heart, with all his might, and with his whole soul,¹⁰ a wish he would dare to go on wishing, ever more fervently, even as his love became ever more fervent. —That was the wish that he would wish.—

      If one person went to another and said to him, I have often heard faith extolled as the most glorious good; I feel, though, that I do not have it; the confusion of my life, the distractions of my mind, my many cares, and so much else disturb me, but this I know, that I have but one wish, one single wish, that I might share in this faith—if the person to whom he went were favorably disposed, he would answer, That is a beautiful and pious wish that you must not relinquish, for then I daresay it will be fulfilled. These words would seem amiable to him, and would he not gladly listen to them, because all of us like to hear talk about the fulfillment of our wishes. But time went by, and he made no progress. Then he went to another person and confided his concern and his wish also to him. He looked at him earnestly and said, How can you be so mixed up? Your wish is not merely pious and beautiful; it ought not to be relinquished at any price. You are far closer to it than you yourself believe, since it is your duty—you shall have faith—and if you do not have it, then it is your fault and a sin.

      Very likely he would be taken aback by these words and would think: Then this faith is probably not as glorious as it [III 19] is made out to be, since it is acquired so easily; indeed, it would also be an absurdity. We travel the wide world over for the other goods; they lie concealed in a remote place accessible to human beings only at great risk. Or if this is not the case, their apportionment is like the water in the pool Bethesda, about which we read in Holy Scripture:¹¹ Once in a while an angel descends and stirs the water, and the one who comes first—ah, yes, the one who comes first—is the fortunate one. With faith, however, with the highest good, should it not be otherwise, that gaining it involves no difficulty? But he probably would think about it more earnestly, and when he had considered it very deeply he perhaps would say, He was right, after all; that is the way it is. Those were brave words, full of pith and meaning; this is the way a person should be spoken to, for wishes are futile. Probably he would then quietly begin to move in his inner being, and every time his soul would pause at a wish, he would call to it and say: You know that you must not wish—and thereupon he went further. When his soul became anxious, he called to it and said: When you are anxious, it is because you are wishing; anxiety is a form of wishing, and you know that you must not wish—then he went further. When he was close to despair, when he said: I cannot; everyone else can—only I cannot. Oh, that I had never heard those words, that with my grief I had been allowed to go my way undisturbed—and with my wish. Then he called to his soul and said: Now you are being crafty, for you say that you are wishing and pretend that it is a question of something external that one can wish, whereas you know that it is something internal that one can only will; you are deluding yourself, for you say: Everyone else can—only I cannot. And yet you know that that by which others are able is that by which they are altogether like you—so if it really were true that you cannot, then neither could the others. So you betray not only your own cause but, insofar as it lies with you, the cause of all people; and in your humbly shutting yourself out from their number, you are slyly destroying their power.

      Then he went further. After he had been slowly and for a long time brought up under the disciplinarian¹² in this way, he perhaps would have arrived at faith. Had been brought up—as if it were another person who had done it. But this is not the [III 20] case; it is only a misunderstanding, only an appearance. One person can do much for another, but he cannot give him faith. We hear all kinds of talk in this world. One person says, I am self-educated; I do not owe anything to anyone—and he thinks he dares to pride himself on that. Another says, That distinguished master was my teacher, and I count it an honor to dare to call myself his pupil—and he thinks he can take pride in that. We shall not decide how legitimate this kind of talk is, but in order to make sense it can be applied only to the superbly endowed: those who were either originally self-sufficient or at least so gifted that they could become pupils of the distinguished. But we, devout listeners, we who were too insignificant to become pupils, what should we say if a man said, When people disdained me, I went to God; he became my teacher, and this is my salvation, my joy, my pride—would this be less beautiful? And yet every person can say that, may say that, can say that truthfully, and when he does not say that truthfully, then it is not because the thought is untrue but because he distorts it. Every person may say it. Whether his forehead is almost as flat as an animal’s or arches more proudly than heaven, whether his arm is stretched out to command kingdoms and countries or to pick up the scanty gifts that fall from the rich man’s table,¹³ whether thousands obey his beck and call or not one soul pays any attention to him, whether eloquence blossoms on his lips or only unintelligible sound passes over them; whether he is the mighty male who defies the storm or the defenseless female who only seeks shelter from the gale—this has nothing to do with the matter, my listener, absolutely nothing. Every person dares to say it if he possesses faith, because this glory is the very glory of faith. And you know it, my listener;¹⁴ you do not become afraid when it is mentioned, as if it thereby would be taken from you, as if only in the moment of parting you would gain a taste of its blessedness. Or do you not know this? Ah, then you would indeed be most unfortunate. You could not even grieve and say: The giver of good gifts passed by my door. You could not grieve and say: The storms and gales took it from me—because the giver of good gifts did not pass by your door, and the storms and gales did not take it from you, because they are unable to do that.

      So, then, there was a wish, just what that perplexed man was looking for; he was no longer in the situation of need. But a new difficulty appeared, because when he wanted to wish it, he saw that that good could not be obtained by a wish; he himself could not acquire it by wishing it, although this was [III 21] of minor concern to him, but neither could he give it to another by wishing it for him. Only by personally willing it could the other grasp it. So he was again constrained to let go of him, constrained to leave him to himself; his wish was as powerless as before. And yet this was not his intention. He definitely wanted to do everything for him; when I wish something for a person, I do not require that person’s cooperation. The perplexed man had had similar thoughts. He almost wanted to say to the person he loved, Now just be calm and do not worry; you have nothing to do but be cheerful, contented, and happy with all the good things I intend to wish for you. I will wish, I will not become weary of wishing; I will prevail upon the supremely good God who bestows the good gifts, I will move him with my prayers, and you will then have everything. And see, when he wanted to mention the particular good things, they seemed so dubious to him that he did not dare to wish them for the other person; you see, when he finally found what he was looking for, what he could safely wish, it could not be wished!

      Again he was perplexed, again troubled, again caught in a difficulty. Is, then, all life only a contradiction; can love not explain it but only make it more difficult? He could not bear this thought; he had to seek a way out. There must be something wrong with his love. Then he perceived that however much he had loved the other person, he had nevertheless loved him in a wrong way, since if it had been possible by his wishing to procure every good thing for him, also the highest good, faith, precisely thereby he would have made him a more imperfect being. Then he discovered that life was beautiful, that it was a new gloriousness of faith that no human being can give it to another, but that every human being has what is highest, noblest, and most sacred in humankind. It is original in him, and every human being has it if he wants to have it—it is precisely the gloriousness of faith that it can be had only on this condition. Therefore, it is the only unfailing good, because it can be had only by constantly being acquired and can be acquired only by continually being generated.

      Then the perplexed man was relieved, but perhaps a change had occurred in himself, in the person for whose welfare he was so concerned, in their relation to each other. They had been separated by the installation, so to speak, of the one in his rights and the positioning of the other within his limits. Their lives had become more significant than formerly, and [III 22] yet they had become like strangers to each other. His heart, which previously was so rich in wishes, had now become poor; his hand, which previously was so willing to help, had now learned to be still, because he knew that it did not help. What he had come to recognize was the truth, but this truth had not made him happy. Life, then, is a contradiction; the truth cannot explain it but only make it more painful, since the more deeply he recognized it, the more separated he felt, the more helpless in his relation to the other. And yet he could not wish that it were an untruth, could not wish that he had remained ignorant of it, even though it had separated them forever and ever in a way that death itself could not have separated them. He was unable to endure this thought; he had to seek an explanation, and then he perceived that his relation to him had just then attained its true meaning.

      If by my wishing or by my gift I could bestow upon him the highest good, he said, "then I could also take it from him, even if he would not have to be afraid of that. Worse yet, if I could do that, then the very moment I gave it to him I would be taking it from him, since by giving him the highest, I would be depriving him of the highest, because the highest was that he could give it to himself. Therefore, I will thank God that this is not the way it is. My love has only lost its worries and won joy, because I know that by making every effort I still would be unable to preserve the good for him as securely as he himself will preserve it, and he must not thank me for it, either, not because I am releasing him but because he owes me nothing at all. Should I then be less happy for him now, less happy that he possesses the most precious of all gifts? Oh no, I shall only be happier, since if he were indebted to me for it, that would disturb our relationship. And if he does not possess it, then I can be very helpful to him, because I will accompany his thought and constrain him to see that it is the highest good. I will prevent it from slipping into any hiding place, so that he does not become vague about whether he is able to grasp it or not. With him, I will penetrate every anomaly until he, if he does not possess it, has but one expression that explains his unhappiness, namely, that he does not will it—this he cannot endure, and then he will acquire it. On the other hand, I will praise the gloriousness of faith to him, and in presupposing that he possesses it, I will bring him to will to have it as his own. Therefore, today, on the first day of the year, when thinking of the future tempts us with its manifold possibilities, I will point out to him that in faith he [III 23] possesses the only power that can conquer the future. I will speak to him of the expectancy of faith."

      Should we not do the same, devout listeners, and in accordance with the occasion and opportunity of the festival day speak with one another of

      The Expectancy of Faith.

      When we speak of the expectancy of faith, we also speak of expectancy in general; when we speak of expectancy, we naturally assume that we are speaking to those who are expecting something. But those who are expecting something are indeed the happy and fortunate ones. Are they, then, the ones we should choose to address in these sacred places rather than the unhappy ones, those who have already drawn up the balance sheet with life and expect nothing? Yes, we certainly should speak to them, if our voice were capable of it. It should be said that it was a very poor wisdom they had found, that it was easy enough to harden one’s heart; the pillow of indolence on which they wanted to doze away their lives aimlessly should be snatched from them. It should be said that it was a proud distinction they had attained in life, that while all other people, no matter how happy or how troubled they became in the world, nevertheless were always ready to confess that God could indeed draw up the balance sheet, that while all other people admitted that on judgment day they would be unable to repay one in a thousand¹⁵—they reserved for themselves the possession of a just claim on life that had not been redeemed, a claim that at one time would have made the accounting difficult, but not for them. This is how they should be spoken to, but we would rather speak to those who are still expecting something.

      Just as those who are expecting something have always been the majority in the world, so in turn their expectancy can be of so many kinds that it is very difficult to discuss them all. But all who are expecting do have one thing in common, that they are expecting something in the future, because expectancy and the future are inseparable ideas. The person who is expecting something is occupied with the future. But perhaps it is not right to be occupied with this; the complaint so often heard that people forget the present for the future is perhaps well founded. We shall not deny that this has been the case in the world, even if least often in our age, but neither shall we omit the reminder that this is precisely the greatness of human beings, the demonstration of their divine origin, that they are [III 24] able to be occupied with this; because if there were no future, there would be no past, either, and if there were neither future nor past, then a human being would be in bondage like an animal, his head bowed to the earth, his soul captive to the service of the moment. In that sense, one could certainly not wish to live for the present, but very likely it was not meant in that sense when it was recommended as something great. But where should we place the limit; how much do we dare to be occupied with the future? The answer is not difficult: only when we have conquered it, only then are we able to return to the present, only then do our lives find meaning in it. But this is indeed impossible. The future is indeed everything, and the present is a part of it—how could we have conquered the whole before even coming to the first part of it? How could we return from this victory to something that preceded it? Is it not so that thought is creating a misplaced difficulty for itself? By no means. The situation is just as is stated here, for we dare not praise every occupation with the future. The life of the person who totally relinquishes it becomes strong in the present only in an unworthy sense; the person who does not conquer it has one more enemy to incapacitate him in the battle with the present. Therefore, only the life of the one who conquers the future becomes strong and sound.

      The ability to be occupied with the future is, then, a sign of the nobility of human beings; the struggle with the future is the most ennobling. He who struggles with the present struggles with a particular thing against which he can use his total energy. Therefore, if a person had nothing else with which to struggle, it would be possible for him to go victoriously through his whole life without learning to know himself or his power. He who battles with the future has a more dangerous enemy; he cannot remain ignorant of himself, since he is battling with himself. The future is not; it borrows its power from him himself, and when it has tricked him out of that it presents itself externally as the enemy he has to encounter. No matter how strong a person is, no person is stronger than himself. This is why we frequently see people who have been victorious in all the battles in life become helpless and their arms become powerless when they encounter a future enemy. Accustomed, perhaps, to challenge the whole world to combat, they had now found an enemy, a nebulous shape, that was able to terrify them. This may be why frequently the men whom [III 25] God called to be tried in struggle went from a worse battle into the battle that seemed so terrible to others; they may at times have smiled in the heat of the struggle when they thought of the invisible battle that had preceded this one. They were admired in the world, because it was thought that they had triumphed in the most dangerous battle, and yet for them this was but a game compared with the preceding one that no one saw. It would be natural, of course, for the person stronger than others to win in the struggle with them, but it is also natural that no one is stronger than himself. When a person struggles with the future, he learns that however strong he is otherwise, there is one enemy that is stronger—himself; there is one enemy he cannot conquer by himself, and that is himself.

      But why describe this struggle with the future as being so perilous? "Old or young, have not all of us experienced something? The future is not utterly new, because there is nothing new under the sun¹⁶—the future is the past. Old or young, do we not all have experience? We will attire ourselves in it; we will follow the tracks of conjecture and the guidance of guessing. We will conquer with the power of inferences, and thus armed we boldly face the future." It is certainly good for a person to be armed when he goes into combat, and even better to be appropriately armed for the specific combat. If a man who is going to compete in a race were to don heavy armor, he certainly would be well armed, but his armor would scarcely be of any advantage. Is it not the same with the weapon of one who is to struggle with the future, since experience is a double-tongued friend who says one thing now and something else later, and guessing is a deceitful guide who abandons one when he is needed most, and conjecture is a clouded eye that does not see very far, and inference is a snare that is more likely to snare oneself than someone else. Moreover, those weapons are difficult to use, because, inasmuch as the experiencing soul did not remain untouched during the experience, fear accompanies guessing, anxiety conjecture, and uneasiness inference. So we probably would be well armed if we arrayed ourselves in experience, but not for the impending struggle, the struggle with the future; we would try to change this into something present, something particular; but the future is not a particular, but the whole.

      How, then, should we face the future? When the sailor is out on the ocean, when everything is changing all around him, when the waves are born and die, he does not stare down into the waves, because they are changing. He looks up at the stars. Why? Because they are faithful; they have the same location [III 26] now that they had for our ancestors and will have for generations to come. By what means does he conquer the changeable? By the eternal. By the eternal, one can conquer the future, because the eternal is the ground of the future, and therefore through it the future can be fathomed.

      What, then, is the eternal power in a human being? It is faith. What is the expectancy of faith? Victory—or, as Scripture so earnestly and so movingly teaches us, that all things must serve for good those who love God.¹⁷ But an expectancy of the future that expects victory—this has indeed conquered the future. The believer, therefore, is finished with the future before he begins with the present, because what has been conquered can no longer disturb, and this victory can only make someone stronger for the present work.

      The expectancy of faith, then, is victory! The cheerful disposition that has not yet tasted life’s adversities, that has not been educated in the school of sorrow, has not been formed by the dubious wisdom of experience, approves of this expectancy with its whole heart, since it expects victory in everything, in all battles and spiritual trials—or, more correctly, it expects to be victorious without a struggle. We would not wish to be the austere figure that has to halt the young person on his path. We would rather be prepared to be a comfort to him when he has learned that this expectancy, however beautiful, was not the expectancy of faith; we would rather be the one who will call him to battle when he feels powerless, the one who will have victory beckon him when he thinks all is lost. On the other hand, the troubled person, who has scarcely dried his tears over the present loss, forms the future otherwise, and the future is indeed light and elusive and more pliable than any clay, and consequently everyone forms it entirely as he himself is formed. The troubled person expects no victory; he has all too sadly felt his loss, and even if it belongs to the past, he takes it along, expecting that the future will at least grant him the peace to be quietly occupied with his pain.

      The man of experience frowns on the behavior of both of these. If one has almost every good one could wish for, then one ought to be prepared to have the troubles of life visit also the home of the happy; if one has lost everything, then one ought to consider that time reserves many a priceless cure for [III 27] the sick soul, that the future, like a fond mother, also hides good gifts: in happiness one ought to be prepared to a certain degree for unhappiness, in unhappiness, to a certain degree for happiness. Nor are his words without result, because the happy one who is not superficial and the troubled one who is not in despair will both lend a willing ear to what he says, and both of them will readily organize their lives according to his guidance. The happy one contemplates the good things in his possession. Some of them he thinks he can lose without pain, others in such a way that he can still easily recover from the pain. There is only one particular good he cannot lose without losing his happiness; he cannot lose it to a certain degree without losing it totally, and thereby his happiness. He will be prepared, then, to lose the good things that he has and in this way, according to the experienced man’s advice, he is prepared for a certain degree of unhappiness. But the man of experience said: to a certain degree. These words could indeed also apply to that one good that he could not lose without losing his happiness, could not lose to a certain degree without losing it totally. The man of experience will not interpret his words; he repeats them unchanged, inflexible. He leaves the explanation and the application up to the person whom they are supposed to guide. Then the happy one becomes no less perplexed than the troubled one. This phrase, to a certain degree, which is supposed to be the watchword, becomes the binding force that ensnares them, and the phrase resounds, has no sympathy, is not concerned about their efforts to understand it, disregards their pleas for an explanation. Experience, which was supposed to guide them, engendered doubt; the words of the man of experience were dubious words.

      The believer, however, says: I expect victory. These words are not without result, either, since the happy one who was not superficial and the troubled one who was not in despair both lend a willing ear to his words. Happiness returns again to the happy disposition; its expectancy is of victory, victory in all strife, in all spiritual trials, because experience had taught that there could be battle. But with the help of faith, it expects victory in all of them. Only for a moment does it pause. It is too much, it says. It is impossible; life cannot be that glorious; no matter how golden youth was in its supreme happiness, this surely surpasses the most joyous hope of youth.—Yes, it certainly does surpass even youth’s most joyous hope, and yet it is so, even if not exactly as you suppose. You speak of many victories, but faith expects only one, or, more correctly, it expects victory. Suppose someone had heard of a teaching that was able to give everyone what is needed, and he then were to say, "But that is impossible—all that a human [III 28] being such as I needs, all the many things that for me are necessities." Then the person who directed him to Holy Scripture would rightly dare to testify of it that there he would find what he needed, and yet the seeker would discover that it was not quite as he had thought. Scripture says: One thing is needful. ¹⁸ So also with faith: when you talk about many victories, you are like the person who talks about the many necessities. Only one thing is needful, and faith expects victory.

      But victory it does expect, and therefore it is joyful and undaunted—and why not, since it expects victory! But I detect a voice, one you probably know also, my listener. It says, This is good to hear; these are big words and euphonious turns of speech, but in truth the earnestness of life teaches something else. What, then, did the earnestness of life teach you, you who speak this way? Is it not true that it taught you that your wishes would not be fulfilled, that your desires would not be gratified, your appetites would not be heeded, your cravings would not be satisfied? This it taught you, all this, which we shall not discuss, and it also taught you to come to people’s aid with deceitful words, to suck faith and trust out of their hearts, and to do this in the sacred name of earnestness. Why did it teach you this? Could it not have taught you something else? When two people learn different things from life, it can be because they experience different things, but it can also be because they themselves were different. For example, if two children were brought up together and always shared the same things in such a way that when one was singled out for distinction, the other was also, when one was reprimanded, the other was also, when one was punished, the other was also, they could still learn altogether different things. The one could learn not to be proud every time he was singled out for distinction, to humble himself under admonition every time he was reprimanded, to let himself be healed by suffering every time he was punished; the other could learn to be haughty every time he was singled out for distinction, to be indignant every time he was reprimanded, to store up secret anger every time he was punished. So also with you. If you had loved people, then the earnestness of life might have taught you not to be strident but to become silent, and when you were in distress at sea and did not see land, then at least not to involve others in it; it might have taught you to smile [III 29] at least as long as you believed anyone sought in your face an explanation, a witness. Then life might have given you the somber joy of seeing others succeed where you did not, the comfort that you had contributed your part by stifling within you the scream of anguish that would disturb them. Why did you not learn this? Since you did not learn this, we are unable to heed your words. We do not judge you for doubting, because doubt is a crafty passion, and it can certainly be difficult to tear oneself out of its snares. What we require of the doubter is that he be silent. He surely perceived that doubt did not make him happy—why then confide to others what will make them just as unhappy? And what does he win by this communication? He loses himself and makes others unhappy. He loses himself, instead of perhaps finding rest in silence by preferring to bear his solitary pain quietly rather than to become strident, to become important in people’s eyes by courting the honor and distinction that so many crave—to doubt, or at least to have doubted. Doubt is a deep and crafty passion, but he whose soul is not gripped by it so inwardly that he becomes speechless is only shamming this passion; therefore what he says is not only false in itself but above all on his lips. This is why we pay no attention to him.

      The expectancy of faith, then, is victory. The doubt that comes from the outside does not disturb it, since it disgraces itself by speaking. Yet doubt is guileful, on secret paths it sneaks around a person, and when faith is expecting victory, doubt whispers that this expectancy is a deception. An expectancy without a specified time and place is nothing but a deception; in that way one may always go on waiting; such an expectancy is a circle into which the soul is bewitched and from which it cannot escape. In the expectancy of faith, the soul is indeed prevented from falling out of itself, as it were, into multiplicity; it remains in itself, but it would be the worst evil that could befall a person if it escaped from this cycle. By no means, however, can it be inferred from this that faith’s expectancy is a deception. True, the person who expects something particular can be deceived in his expectancy, but this does not happen to the believer. When the world commences its drastic ordeal, when the storms of life crush youth’s exuberant expectancy, when existence, which seemed so affectionate and gentle, changes into a pitiless proprietor who demands everything back, everything that it gave in such a way that it can take it back—then the believer most likely looks at himself and his life with sadness and pain, but he still says, "There is an expectancy that the whole world cannot [III 30] take from me; it is the expectancy of faith, and this is victory. I am not deceived, since I did not believe that the world would keep the promise it seemed to be making to me; my expectancy was not in the world but in God. This expectancy is not deceived; even now I sense its victory more gloriously and more joyfully than I sense all the pain of loss. If I were to lose this expectancy, then all would be lost. Even now I have been victorious, victorious in my expectancy, and my expectancy is victory."

      Was it not this way in life? If there was someone to whom you felt drawn so strongly that you dared to say, I have faith in him—is it not true that when everything went according to your wish, or if not entirely according to your wish at least in such a way that you could easily bring it into conformity with your conceptions, then you had faith in him the way others also had faith in him? But when the inexplicable happened, the inconceivable, then the others fell away, or, more correctly (let us not confuse the language), they showed that they never did have faith in him. That was not the case with you. You perceived that you had not based your faith on the circumstance that you could explain what happened, since in that case your faith would have been based on your insight and, far from being a devotedness, would instead have been a confidence in yourself. You thought it would be a disgrace for you to relinquish it, because just as you supposed that the words, I have faith in him in your mouth had a meaning different from what they had when the others said them, so you felt that the change could not possibly make you do the same as the others, unless your faith originally had not meant more. So you continued to have faith. Yet you may have been wrong in doing so—not in having faith, not in having faith in this way, but in having faith in a human being in this way. Perhaps the inexplicable was easily explained; perhaps there was a sorrowful certainty that witnessed so powerfully that your faith simply became a beautiful fantasy that you ought to have given up. We do not know. But this we do know—that if in this faith you forgot that there is a higher faith, then, despite its beauty, this faith would only be to your ruination. But if you had faith in God, how then would your faith ever be changed into a beautiful fantasy you had better give up? Would he then be able to be changed, he in whom there is no change or shadow of variation?¹⁹ Would he not be faithful,²⁰ he through whom every human being who is faithful is faithful; would he not be without guile, he through whom you yourself had faith? Would there ever be an explanation that [III 31] could explain otherwise than that he is truthful and keeps his promises? And yet we see that people forget this.

      When all their efforts are crowned with success, when their days are pleasant, when in a singular way they feel in harmony with everything around them, then they have faith, then in their happiness they most likely do not always forget to thank God, because everyone will usually be thankful for the good he receives, but everyone’s heart is also indulgent enough to want to decide for itself what is the good. When everything changes, when grief supersedes joy, then they fall away, then they lose faith, or, more correctly—let us not confuse the language—then they show that they have never had it.

      But you did not do this, my listener. When you caught yourself being changed by all the changes occurring around you, you said, "I confess, now I see that what I called my faith was only something I imagined. I arrogantly fancied that I was doing the utmost one person can do in his relation to another, to have faith in him, and doing what is even much more exalted and beautiful, more blessed than language can describe, to have faith in God. To all my other joys, I also added this one, and yet my faith, as I now see, was only a fleeting emotion, a mirroring of my earthly happiness. But I am not going to build myself up [opbygge] through presumptuousness and meaningless talk; I will not say that I have lost faith; I will not push the blame onto the world or onto others or perhaps even accuse God. This is how you tried to stop yourself, my listener, when you were about to go astray in grief. You did not harden your heart; you were not so foolish as to fancy that if this particular thing had not happened you would have kept your faith, or so contemptible as to want to seek fellowship with this wisdom. This is why you regained, even if slowly, the expectancy of faith. Then when everything went wrong for you, when everything you had slowly built up vanished instantly into thin air and you laboriously had to begin all over again, when your arm was weak and your walk unsteady, then you still held fast to the expectancy of faith—which is victory. Even if you did not tell others, lest they mock you because in all your misery you still expected victory, you nevertheless hid your expectancy in your innermost heart. The happy days are surely able to embellish my faith, you said; I adorn it with the wreaths of joy—but they cannot demonstrate my faith; the hard times can surely bring tears to my eyes and grief to my mind, but they still cannot rob me of my faith. And even if adversity did not stop, your soul remained gentle. It [III 32] is really beautiful, you said, that God does not want to appear to me in visible things; we are parted only to meet again. I could not wish to remain a child who demands demonstrations, signs, and wondrous acts every day. If I went on being a child, I could not love with all my strength and with my whole soul.²¹ Now we are separated; we do not see each other every day, but we meet secretly in the victorious moment of faithful expectancy."

      The expectancy of faith, then, is victory, and this expectancy cannot be disappointed, unless a person deceives himself by depriving himself of expectancy, as the person does who foolishly supposes that he has lost his faith, or foolishly supposes that something in particular has taken it from him, or tries to delude himself with the idea that there is something in particular that is capable of robbing a person of his faith, and finds satisfaction in the conceited thought that this is precisely what has befallen him, finds joy in alarming others with the assertion that there is something like that, something that mocks what is noblest in a person, something that authorizes one who has experience with it to mock others.

      Yet someone may say: These words are certainly coherent and internally consistent, but since one does not go further with their help, they are foolish and futile. —One does not go further. If a person wished to go further than to be victorious, then might he indeed lose the victory? Would it be so foolish and empty for a person to become really aware of whether he has faith or not? But when I say, I have faith, it can all too often be obscure to me what I mean by that. Perhaps I am wrong; maybe I am just creating my own notion of the future; perhaps I am wishing, hoping, longing for something, craving, coveting; perhaps I am sure of the future, and since I do this, it may seem to me that I have faith, although I still do not. But when I ask myself the question: Do you expect victory?—then every obscurity becomes more difficult, then I perceive that not only the person who expects absolutely nothing does not have faith, but also the person who expects something particular or who bases his expectancy on something particular. And should this not be important, inasmuch as no one can be wholly and indivisibly in the present before he is finished with the future? But one is finished with the future only by conquering it, but this is precisely what faith does, since its expectancy is victory. Every time I catch my soul not expecting victory, I know that I do not have faith. When I know that, I also know what I must do, because although it is no easy matter to have faith, the first condition, [III 33] nevertheless, for my arriving at faith is that I become aware of whether I have it or not. The reason we so often go astray is that we seek assurance of our expectancy instead of faith’s assurance that we have faith. The person of faith demands no substantiation of his expectancy. He says, If I were to presume something to be a substantiation, then in substantiating my expectancy it would also refute it. My soul is not insensitive to the joy or the pain of the particular, but, God be praised, it is not the case that the particular can substantiate or refute the expectancy of faith. God be praised! Time can neither substantiate nor refute it, because faith expects an eternity. And today, on the first day of the year, when the thought of the future presses in upon me, I will not enervate my soul with multifarious expectancy, will not break it up into all sorts of notions; I will integrate it sound and happy and, if possible, face the future. Let it bring what it will and must bring. Many an expectancy will be disappointed, many fulfilled—so it will be; experience has taught me this. But there is one expectancy that will not be disappointed—experience has not taught me this, but neither has it ever had the authority to deny it—this is the expectancy of faith, and this is victory.

      There is a little phrase that is familiar enough to congregations, even though not always heeded by them. Little and insignificant as it seems, it nevertheless is pregnant with meaning; it is quiet and yet so stirring, calm and yet so full of longing. It is the phrase at last,²² for in this way end many of the sacred collects that are read in the churches: and then at last obtain eternal salvation. The older person among us, who is almost within reach of the goal, gazes back in thought over the road he has traveled. He recollects the course of events, and the faded figures become vivid again. He is overwhelmed by the abundant content of his experience; he is weary and says: and then at last obtain eternal salvation. The younger person, who still stands at the beginning of the road, gazes in thought out over the long course, experiences in thought what is to come: the painful privations, the secret troubles, the sad longings, the fearful spiritual trials. He is weary of mind and says: and then at last obtain eternal salvation. Yes, it would indeed be a great gift if a person could rightly use this phrase; yet no person learns this from another, but each one individually learns it only from and through God. Therefore we want to commit our minds and our thoughts to you, Father in heaven, so that our souls might never be captivated in such a way by the joys of life or by its [III 34] afflictions that they would forget this liberating phrase and so that it might not too frequently be impatience and inner disquiet that bring this phrase to our lips, so that our souls in our final hour—when this phrase like a faithful friend has accompanied us in life’s many circumstances, has adapted itself to us yet without being untrue to itself, has been our comfort, our hope, our joy, our exultation, has sounded loud and exciting to us, soft and lulling, has spoken to us admonishingly and reprovingly, encouragingly and persuasively—will then be carried away from the world, as it were, on this phrase to that place where we shall comprehend its full meaning, just as it is the same God who, after having led us by his hand through the world, draws back his hand and opens his arms to receive in them the yearning soul.²³ Amen!

      EVERY GOOD AND EVERY PERFECT GIFT

      IS FROM ABOVE

      ²⁴ [III 35]

      PRAYER [III 37]

      From your hand, O God, we are willing

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