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

by Søren Kierkegaard

Overview

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."

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781400874378
Publisher:	Princeton University Press
Publication date:	06/29/2015
Series:	Kierkegaard's Writings , #5
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	581
File size:	20 MB
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Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses

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By Søren Kierkegaard, Howard V. Hong, Edna H. Hong

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Copyright © 1990 Howard V. Hong
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4008-7437-8

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CHAPTER 1

THE EXPECTANCY OF FAITH NEW YEAR'S DAY

PRAYER

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. Amen.

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! 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 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; 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, 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 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: 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 disciplinarian 12 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 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; 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 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.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses by Søren Kierkegaard, Howard V. Hong, Edna H. Hong. Copyright © 1990 Howard V. Hong. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents

Contents

Historical Introduction, ix,
Two Upbuilding Discourses (1843), 1,
The Expectancy of Faith, 7,
Every Good and Every Perfect Gift Is from Above, 31,
Three Upbuilding Discourses (1843), 49,
Love Will Hide a Multitude of Sins, 55,
Love Will Hide a Multitude of Sins, 69,
Strengthening in the Inner Being, 79,
Four Upbuilding Discourses (1843), 103,
The Lord Gave, and the Lord Took Away; Blessed Be the Name of the Lord, 109,
Every Good Gift and Every Perfect Gift Is from Above, 125,
Every Good Gift and Every Perfect Gift Is from Above, 141,
To Gain One's Soul in Patience, 159,
Two Upbuilding Discourses (1844), 177,
To Preserve One's Soul in Patience, 181,
Patience in Expectancy, 205,
Three Upbuilding Discourses (1844), 227,
Think about Your Creator in the Days of Your Youth, 233,
The Expectancy of an Eternal Salvation, 253,
He Must Increase; I Must Decrease, 275,
Four Upbuilding Discourses (1844), 291,
To Need God Is a Human Being's Highest Perfection, 297,
The Thorn in the Flesh, 327,
Against Cowardliness, 347,
One Who Prays Aright Struggles in Prayer and Is Victorious—in That God Is Victorious, 377,
Supplement, 403,
Key to References, 404,
Original Title Pages, 406,
Selected Entries from Kierkegaard's Journals and Papers Pertaining to Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses, 423,
Editorial Appendix, 491,
Acknowledgments, 493,
Collation of the Six Volumes of Upbuilding Discourses in the Danish Editions of Kierkegaard's Collected Works, 495,
Notes, 503,
Bibliographical Note, 539,
Index, 541,