Come up with TWO questions with explanations. 

1-2 pages, double-spaced, Time New Roman 12

You are expected to come up with two questions that you think are most relevant to understanding assigned reading in relation to the issue of sacrifice.

For each question, you are also required to provide an explanation for the reason why you think it is important.

The attached file is the assigned reading.

Fear and Trembling

by

Johannes DE SILENTIO, 1843

(alias Søren Kierkegaard)

tr. Walter Lowrie, 1941

Table of Contents

Was Tarquinius Superbus in seinem Garten mit den
Mohnkopfen sprach, verstand der Sohn, aber nicht
der Bote. (What Tarquinius Superbus spoke in his

garden with the poppies was understood by his son,
but not by the messenger.)1 – Hamann.

Chapters Preface Prelude A Panegyric upon Abraham Problemata: Problem I Problem II Problem III Epilogue

An HTML Presentation by Siegfried

PREFACE2

Not merely in the realm of commerce but in the world of ideas as well our age is
organizing a regular clearance sale. Everything is to be had at such a bargain that it is
questionable whether in the end there is anybody who will want to bid. Every
speculative price-fixer who conscientiously directs attention to the significant march of
modern philosophy, every Privatdocent, tutor, and student, every crofter and cottar in
philosophy, is not content with doubting everything but goes further. Perhaps it would

be untimely and ill-timed to ask them where they are going, but surely it is courteous
and unobtrusive to regard it as certain that they have doubted everything, since
otherwise it would be a queer thing for them to be going further. This preliminary
movement they have therefore all of them made, and presumably with such ease that
they do not find it necessary to let drop a word about the how; for not even he who
anxiously and with deep concern sought a little enlightenment was able to find any such
thing, any guiding sign, any little dietetic prescription, as to how one was to comport
oneself in supporting this prodigious task. “But Descartes3 did it.” Descartes, a
venerable, humble and honest thinker, whose writings surely no one can read without
the deepest emotion, did what he said and said what he did. Alas, alack, that is a great
rarity in our times! Descartes, as he repeatedly affirmed, did not doubt in matters of
faith. “Memores tamen, ut jam dictum est, huic lumini naturali tamdiu tantum esse
credendum, quamdiu nihil contrarium a Deo ipso revelatur. … Praeter caetera autem,
memoriae nostrae pro summa regula est infigendum, ea quae nobis a Deo revelata
sunt, ut omnium certissima esse credenda; et quamvis forte lumen rationis, quam
maxime clarum et evidens, aliud quid nobis suggerere videretur, sold tamen auctoritati
divinae potius quam proprio nostro judicio fidem esse adhibendam.” 4 He did not cry,
“Fire!” nor did he make it a duty for everyone to doubt; for Descartes was a quiet and
solitary thinker, not a bellowing night-watchman; he modestly admitted that his method
had importance for him alone and was justified in part by the bungled knowledge of his
earlier years. “Ne quis igitur putet me hic traditurum aliquam methodum quam
unusquisque sequi debeat ad recte regendum rationem; illam enim tantum quam
ipsemet secutus sum exponere decrevi. … Sed simul ac illud studiorum curriculum
absolvi (sc. juventutis), quo decurso mos est in eruditorum numerum cooptari, plane
aliud coepi cogitare. Tot enim me dubiis totque erroribus implicatum esse animadverti,
ut omnes discendi conatus nihil aliud mihi profuisse judicarem, quam quod ignorantiam
meam magis magisque detexissem.”5

What those ancient Greeks (who also had some understanding of philosophy)
regarded as a task for a whole lifetime, seeing that dexterity in doubting is not acquired
in a few days or weeks, what the veteran combatant attained when he had preserved
the equilibrium of doubt through all the pitfalls he encountered, who intrepidly denied
the certainty of sense-perception and the certainty of the processes of thought,
incorruptibly defied the apprehensions of self-love and the insinuations of
sympathy–that is where everybody begins in our time.

In our time nobody is content to stop with faith but wants to go further. It would
perhaps be rash to ask where these people are going, but it is surely a sign of breeding
and culture for me to assume that everybody has faith, for otherwise it would be queer
for them to be … going further. In those old days it was different, then faith was a task
for a whole lifetime, because it was assumed that dexterity in faith is not acquired in a
few days or weeks. When the tried oldster drew near to his last hour, having fought the
good fight and kept the faith, his heart was still young enough not to have forgotten
that fear and trembling which chastened the youth, which the man indeed held in
check, but which no man quite outgrows … except as he might succeed at the earliest
opportunity in going further. Where these revered figures arrived, that is the point
where everybody in our day begins to go further.

The present writer is nothing of a philosopher, he has not understood the
System, does not know whether it actually exists, whether it is completed; already he
has enough for his weak head in the thought of what a prodigious head everybody in
our day must have, since everybody has such a prodigious thought. Even though one
were capable of converting the whole content of faith into the form of a concept, it does
not follow that one has adequately conceived faith and understands how one got into it,
or how it got into one. The present writer is nothing of a philosopher; he is, poetice et
eleganter, an amateur writer who neither writes the System nor promises6 of the

System, who neither subscribes to the System nor ascribes anything to it. He writes
because for him it is a luxury which becomes the more agreeable and more evident, the
fewer there are who buy and read what he writes. He can easily foresee his fate in an
age when passion has been obliterated in favor of learning, in an age when an author
who wants to have readers must take care to write in such a way that the book can
easily be perused during the afternoon nap, and take care to fashion his outward
deportment in likeness to the picture of that polite young gardener in the advertisement
sheet,7 who with hat in hand, and with a good certificate from the place where he last
served, recommends himself to the esteemed public. He foresees his fate–that he will
be entirely ignored. He has a presentiment of the dreadful event, that a jealous criticism
will many a time let him feel the birch; he trembles at the still more dreadful thought
that one or another enterprising scribe, a gulper of paragraphs, who to rescue learning
is always willing to do with other peoples’ writings what Trop8 “to preserve good taste”
magnanimously resolved to do with a book called The Destruction of the Human
Race–that is, he will slice the author into paragraphs, and will do it with the same
inflexibility as the man who in the interest of the science of punctuation divided his
discourse by counting the words, so that there were fifty words for a period and thirty-
five for a semicolon.

I prostrate myself with the profoundest deference before every systematic “bag-
peerer” at the custom house, protesting, “This is not the System, it has nothing
whatever to do with the System.” I call down every blessing upon the System and upon
the Danish shareholders in this omnibus9–for a tower it is hardly likely to become. I
wish them all and sundry good luck and all prosperity.

Respectfully,
Johannes DE SILENTIO

PRELUDE10

Once upon a time there was a man who as a child had heard the beautiful story11 about
how God tempted Abraham, and how he endured temptation, kept the faith, and a
second time received again a son contrary to expectation. When the child became older
he read the same story with even greater admiration, for life had separated what was
united in the pious simplicity of the child. The older he became, the more frequently his
mind reverted to that story, his enthusiasm became greater and greater, and yet he
was less and less able to understand the story. At last in his interest for that he forgot
everything else; his soul had only one wish, to see Abraham, one longing, to have been
witness to that event. His desire was not to behold the beautiful countries of the Orient,
or the earthly glory of the Promised Land, or that godfearing couple whose old age God
had blessed, or the venerable figure of the aged patriarch, or the vigorous young
manhood of Isaac whom God had bestowed upon Abraham–he saw no reason why the
same thing might not have taken place on a barren heath in Denmark. His yearning was
to accompany them on the three days’ journey when Abraham rode with sorrow before
him and with Isaac by his side. His only wish was to be present at the time when
Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw Mount Moriah afar off, at the time when he left the
asses behind and went alone with Isaac up unto the mountain; for what his mind was
intent upon was not the ingenious web of imagination but the shudder of thought.

That man was not a thinker, he felt no need of getting beyond faith; he deemed
it the most glorious thing to be remembered as the father of it, an enviable lot to
possess it, even though no one else were to know it.

That man was not a learned exegete, he didn’t know Hebrew, if he had known
Hebrew, he perhaps would easily have understood the story and Abraham.

I

“And God tempted Abraham and said unto him, Take Isaac, shine only son,
whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah, and offer him there for a burnt
offering upon the mountain which I will show thee.”

It was early in the morning, Abraham arose betimes, he had the asses saddled,
left his tent, and Isaac with him, but Sarah looked out of the window after them until
they had passed down the valley and she could see them no more.12 They rode in
silence for three days. On the morning of the fourth day Abraham said never a word,
but he lifted up his eyes and saw Mount Moriah afar off. He left the young men behind
and went on alone with Isaac beside him up to the mountain. But Abraham said to
himself, “I will not conceal from Isaac whither this course leads him.” He stood still, he
laid his hand upon the head of Isaac in benediction, and Isaac bowed to receive the
blessing. And Abraham’s face was fatherliness, his look was mild, his speech
encouraging. But Isaac was unable to understand him, his soul could not be exalted; he
embraced Abraham’s knees, he fell at his feet imploringly, he begged for his young life,
for the fair hope of his future, he called to mind the joy in Abraham’s house, he called
to mind the sorrow and loneliness. Then Abraham lifted up the boy, he walked with him
by his side, and his talk was full of comfort and exhortation. But Isaac could not
understand him. He climbed Mount Moriah, but Isaac understood him not. Then for an
instant he turned away from him, and when Isaac again saw Abraham’s face it was
changed, his glance was wild, his form was horror. He seized Isaac by the throat, threw
him to the ground, and said, “Stupid boy, dost thou then suppose that I am thy father?
I am an idolater. Dost thou suppose that this is God’s bidding? No, it is my desire.”
Then Isaac trembled and cried out in his terror, “O God in heaven, have compassion
upon me. God of Abraham, have compassion upon me. If I have no father upon earth,
be Thou my father!” But Abraham in a low voice said to himself, “O Lord in heaven, I
thank Thee. After all it is better for him to believe that I am a monster, rather than that
he should lose faith in Thee.”

When the child must be weaned, the mother blackens her breast, it would
indeed be a shame that the breast should look delicious when the child must not have
it. So the child believes that the breast has changed, but the mother is the same, her
glance is as loving and tender as ever. Happy the person who had no need of more
dreadful expedients for weaning the child!

II

It was early in the morning, Abraham arose betimes, he embraced Sarah, the
bride of his old age, and Sarah kissed Isaac, who had taken away her reproach, who
was her pride, her hope for all time. So they rode on in silence along the way, and
Abraham’s glance was fixed upon the ground until the fourth day when he lifted up his
eyes and saw afar off Mount Moriah, but his glance turned again to the ground. Silently
he laid the wood in order, he bound Isaac, in silence he drew the knife–then he saw the
ram which God had prepared. Then he offered that and returned home. … From that
time on Abraham became old, he could not forget that God had required this of him.
Isaac throve as before, but Abraham’s eyes were darkened, and he knew joy no more.

When the child has grown big and must be weaned, the mother virginally hides

her breast, so the child has no more a mother. Happy the child which did not in another
way lose its mother.

III

It was early in the morning, Abraham arose betimes, he kissed Sarah, the
young mother, and Sarah kissed Isaac, her delight, her joy at all times. And Abraham
rode pensively along the way, he thought of Hagar and of the son whom he drove out
into the wilderness, he climbed Mount Moriah, he drew the knife.

It was a quiet evening when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode to Mount
Moriah; he threw himself upon his face, he prayed God to forgive him his sin, that he
had been willing to offer Isaac, that the father had forgotten his duty toward the son.
Often he rode his lonely way, but he found no rest. He could not comprehend that it
was a sin to be willing to offer to God the best thing he possessed, that for which he
would many times have given his life; and if it was a sin, if he had not loved Isaac as he
did, then he could not understand that it might be forgiven. For what sin could be more
dreadful?

When the child must be weaned, the mother too is not without sorrow at the
thought that she and the child are separated more and more, that the child which first
lay under her heart and later reposed upon her breast will be so near to her no more.
So they mourn together for the brief period of mourning. Happy the person who has
kept the child as near and needed not to sorrow any more!

IV

It was early in the morning, everything was prepared for the journey in
Abraham’s house. He bade Sarah farewell, and Eleazar, the faithful servant, followed
him along the way, until he turned back. They rode together in harmony, Abraham and
Isaac, until they came to Mount Moriah. But Abraham prepared everything for the
sacrifice, calmly and quietly; but when he turned and drew the knife, Isaac saw that his
left hand was clenched in despair, that a tremor passed through his body–but Abraham
drew the knife.

Then they returned again home, and Sarah hastened to meet them, but Isaac
had lost his faith. No word of this had ever been spoken in the world, and Isaac never
talked to anyone about what he had seen, and Abraham did not suspect that anyone
had seen it.

When the child must be weaned, the mother has stronger food in readiness, lest
the child should perish. Happy the person who has stronger food in readiness!

Thus and in many like ways that man of whom we are speaking thought
concerning this event. Every time he returned home after wandering to Mount Moriah,
he sank down with weariness, he folded his hands and said, “No one is so great as
Abraham! Who is capable of understanding him?”

A PANEGYRIC UPON ABRAHAM

If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the foundation of all there lay
only a wildly seething power which writhing with obscure passions produced everything
that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a bottomless void never satiated lay
hidden beneath all–what then would life be but despair? If such were the case, if there
were no sacred bond which united mankind, if one generation arose after another like
the leafage in the forest, if the one generation replaced the other like the song of birds
in the forest, if the human race passed through the world as the ship goes through the
sea, like the wind through the desert, a thoughtless and fruitless activity, if an eternal
oblivion were always lurking hungrily for its prey and there was no power strong enough
to wrest it from its maw–how empty then and comfortless life would be! But therefore it
is not thus, but as God created man and woman, so too He fashioned the hero and the
poet or orator. The poet cannot do what that other does, he can only admire, love and
rejoice in the hero. Yet he too is happy, and not less so, for the hero is as it were his
better nature, with which he is in love, rejoicing in the fact that this after all is not
himself, that his love can be admiration. He is the genius of recollection, can do nothing
except call to mind what has been done, do nothing but admire what has been done; he
contributes nothing of his own, but is jealous of the intrusted treasure. He follows the
option of his heart, but when he has found what he sought, he wanders before every
man’s door with his song and with his oration, that all may admire the hero as he does,
be proud of the hero as he is. This is his achievement, his humble work, this is his
faithful service in the house of the hero. If he thus remains true to his love, he strives
day and night against the cunning of oblivion which would trick him out of his hero,
then he has completed his work, then he is gathered to the hero, who has loved him
just as faithfully, for the poet is as it were the hero’s better nature, powerless it may be
as a memory is, but also transfigured as a memory is. Hence no one shall be forgotten
who was great, and though time tarries long, though a cloud13 of misunderstanding
takes the hero away, his lover comes nevertheless, and the longer the time that has
passed, the more faithfully will he cling to him.

No, not one shall be forgotten who was great in the world. But each was great in
his own way, and each in proportion to the greatness of that which he loved. For he
who loved himself became great by himself, and he who loved other men became great
by his selfless devotion, but he who loved God became greater than all. Everyone shall
be remembered, but each became great in proportion to his expectation. One became
great by expecting the possible, another by expecting the eternal, but he who expected
the impossible became greater than all. Everyone shall be remembered, but each was
great in proportion to the greatness of that with which he strove. For he who strove
with the world became great by overcoming the world, and he who strove with himself
became great by overcoming himself, but he who strove with God became greater than
all. So there was strife in the world, man against man, one against a thousand, but he
who strove with God was greater than all. So there was strife upon earth: there was
one who overcame all by his power, and there was one who overcame God by his
impotence. There was one who relied upon himself and gained all, there was one who
secure in his strength sacrificed all, but he who believed God was greater than all. There
was one who was great by reason of his power, and one who was great by reason of his
wisdom, and one who was great by reason of his hope, and one who was great by
reason of his love; but Abraham was greater than all, great by reason of his power
whose strength is impotence, great by reason of his wisdom whose secret is foolishness,
great by reason of his hope whose form is madness, great by reason of the love which
is hatred of oneself.

By faith Abraham went out from the land of his fathers and became a sojourner
in the land of promise. He left one thing behind, took one thing with him: he left his
earthly understanding behind and took faith with him–otherwise he would not have
wandered forth but would have thought this unreasonable. By faith he was a stranger in
the land of promise, and there was nothing to recall what was dear to him, but by its
novelty everything tempted his soul to melancholy yearning–and yet he was God’s

elect, in whom the Lord was well pleased! Yea, if he had been disowned, cast off from
God’s grace, he could have comprehended it better; but now it was like a mockery of
him and of his faith. There was in the world one too who lived in banishment14 from the
fatherland he loved. He is not forgotten, nor his Lamentations when he sorrowfully
sought and found what he had lost. There is no song of Lamentations by Abraham. It is
human to lament, human to weep with them that weep, but it is greater to believe,
more blessed to contemplate the believer.

By faith Abraham received the promise that in his seed all races of the world
would be blessed. Time passed, the possibility was there, Abraham believed; time
passed, it became unreasonable, Abraham believed. There was in the world one who
had an expectation, time passed, the evening drew nigh, he was not paltry enough to
have forgotten his expectation, therefore he too shall not be forgotten. Then he
sorrowed, and sorrow did not deceive him as life had done, it did for him all it could, in
the sweetness of sorrow he possessed his delusive expectation. It is human to sorrow,
human to sorrow with them that sorrow, but it is greater to believe, more blessed to
contemplate the believer. There is no song of Lamentations by Abraham. He did not
mournfully count the days while time passed, he did not look at Sarah with a suspicious
glance, wondering whether she were growing old, he did not arrest the course of the
sun, that Sarah might not grow old, and his expectation with her. He did not sing
lullingly before Sarah his mournful lay. Abraham became old, Sarah became a
laughingstock in the land, and yet he was God’s elect and inheritor of the promise that
in his seed all the races of the world would be blessed. So were it not better if he had
not been God’s elect? What is it to be God’s elect? It is to be denied in youth the wishes
of youth, so as with great pains to get them fulfilled in old age. But Abraham believed
and held fast the expectation. If Abraham had wavered, he would have given it up. If he
had said to God, “Then perhaps it is not after all Thy will that it should come to pass, so
I will give up the wish. It was my only wish, it was my bliss. My soul is sincere, I hide
no secret malice because Thou didst deny it to me”–he would not have been forgotten,
he would have saved many by his example, yet he would not be the father of faith. For
it is great to give up one’s wish, but it is greater to hold it fast after having given it up,
it is great to grasp the eternal, but it is greater to hold fast to the temporal after having
given it up.15

Then came the fulness of time. If Abraham had not believed, Sarah surely would
have been dead of sorrow, and Abraham, dulled by grief, would not have understood
the fulfilment but would have smiled at it as at a dream of youth. But Abraham
believed, therefore he was young; for he who always hopes for the best becomes old,
and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old early, but he who believes
preserves an eternal youth. Praise therefore to that story! For Sarah, though stricken in
years, was young enough to desire the pleasure of motherhood, and Abraham, though
gray-haired, was young enough to wish to be a father. In an outward respect the
marvel consists in the fact that it came to pass according to their expectation, in a
deeper sense the miracle of faith consists in the fact that Abraham and Sarah were
young enough to wish, and that faith had preserved their wish and therewith their
youth. He accepted the fulfilment of the promise, he accepted it by faith, and it came to
pass according to the promise and according to his faith–for Moses smote the rock with
his rod, but he did not believe.

Then there was joy in Abraham’s house, when Sarah became a bride on the day
of their golden wedding.

But it was not to remain thus. Still once more Abraham was to be tried. He had
fought with that cunning power which invents everything, with that alert enemy which
never slumbers, with that old man who outlives all things–he had fought with Time and
preserved his faith. Now all the terror of the strife was concentrated in one instant.

“And God tempted Abraham and said unto him, Take Isaac, thine only son, whom thou
lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah, and offer him there for a burnt offering
upon the mountain which I will show thee.”

So all was lost–more dreadfully than if it had never come to pass! So the Lord
was only making sport of Abraham! He made miraculously the preposterous actual, and
now in turn He would annihilate it. It was indeed foolishness, but Abraham did not laugh
at it like Sarah when the promise was announced. All was lost! Seventy years of faithful
expectation, the brief joy at the fulfilment of faith. Who then is he that plucks away the
old man’s staff, who is it that requires that he himself shall break it? Who is he that
would make a man’s gray hairs comfortless, who is it that requires that he himself shall
do it? Is there no compassion for the venerable oldling, none for the innocent child? And
yet Abraham was God’s elect, and it was the Lord who imposed the trial. All would now
be lost. The glorious memory to be preserved by the human race, the promise in
Abraham’s seed–this was only a whim, a fleeting thought which the Lord had had, which
Abraham should now obliterate. That glorious treasure which was just as old as faith in
Abraham’s heart, many, many years older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham’s life,
sanctified by prayers, matured in conflict–the blessing upon Abraham’s lips, this fruit
was now to be plucked prematurely and remain without significance. For what
significance had it when Isaac was to be sacrificed? That sad and yet blissful hour when
Abraham was to take leave of all that was dear to him, when yet once more he was to
lift up his head, when his countenance would shine like that of the Lord, when he would
concentrate his whole soul in a blessing which was potent to make Isaac blessed all his
days–this time would not come! For he would indeed take leave of Isaac, but in such a
way that he himself would remain behind; death would separate them, but in such a
way that Isaac remained its prey. The old man would not be joyful in death as he laid
his hands in blessing upon Isaac, but he would be weary of life as he laid violent hands
upon Isaac. And it was God who tried him. Yea, woe, woe unto the messenger who had
come before Abraham with such tidings! Who would have ventured to be the emissary
of this srrow? But it was God who tried Abraham.

Yet Abraham believed, and believed for this life. Yea, if his faith had been only
for a future life, he surely would have cast everything away in order to hasten out of
this world to which he did not belong. But Abraham’s faith was not of this sort, if there
be such a faith; for really this is not faith but the furthest possibility of faith which has a
presentiment of its object at the extremest limit of the horizon, yet is separated from it
by a yawning abyss within which despair carries on its game. But Abraham believed
precisely for this life, that he was to grow old in the land, honored by the people,
blessed in his generation, remembered forever in Isaac, his dearest thing in life, whom
he embraced with a love for which it would be a poor expression to say that he loyally
fulfilled the father’s duty of loving the son, as indeed is evinced in the words of the
summons, “the son whom thou lovest.” Jacob had twelve sons, and one of them he
loved; Abraham had only one, the son whom he loved.

Yet Abraham believed and did not doubt, he believed the preposterous. If
Abraham had doubted–then he would have done something else, something glorious;
for how could Abraham do anything but what is great and glorious! He would have
marched up to Mount Moriah, he would have cleft the fire-wood, lit the pyre, drawn the
knife–he would have cried out to God, “Despise not this sacrifice, it is not the best thing
I possess, that I know well, for what is an old man in comparison with the child of
promise; but it is the best I am able to give Thee. Let Isaac never come to know this,
that he may console himself with his youth.” He would have plunged the knife into his
own breast. He would have been admired in the world, and his name would not have
been forgotten; but it is one thing to be admired, and another to be the guiding star
which saves the anguished.

But Abraham believed. He did not pray for himself, with the hope of moving the
Lord–it was only when the righteous punishment was decreed upon Sodom and
Gomorrha that Abraham came forward with his prayers.

We read in those holy books: “And God tempted Abraham, and said unto him,
Abraham, Abraham, where art thou? And he said, Here am I.” Thou to whom my speech
is addressed, was such the case with thee? When afar off thou didst see the heavy
dispensation of providence approaching thee, didst thou not say to the mountains, Fall
on me, and to the hills, Cover me? Or if thou wast stronger, did not thy foot move
slowly along the way, longing as it were for the old path? When a call was issued to
thee, didst thou answer, or didst thou not answer perhaps in a low voice, whisperingly?
Not so Abraham: joyfully, buoyantly, confidently, with a loud voice, he answered, “Here
am I.” We read further: “And Abraham rose early in the morning”–as though it were to
a festival, so he hastened, and early in the morning he had come to the place spoken
of, to Mount Moriah. He said nothing to Sarah, nothing to Eleazar. Indeed who could
understand him? Had not the temptation by its very nature exacted of him an oath of
silence? He cleft the wood, he bound Isaac, he lit the pyre, he drew the knife. My
hearer, there was many a father who believed that with his son he lost everything that
was dearest to him in the world, that he was deprived of every hope for the future, but
yet there was none that was the child of promise in the sense that Isaac was for
Abraham. There was many a father who lost his child; but then it was God, it was the
unalterable, the unsearchable will of the Almighty, it was His hand took the child. Not so
with Abraham. For him was reserved a harder trial, and Isaac’s fate was laid along with
the knife in Abraham’s hand. And there he stood, the old man, with his only hope! But
he did not doubt, he did not look anxiously to the right or to the left, he did not
challenge heaven with his prayers. He knew that it was God the Almighty who was
trying him, he knew that it was the hardest sacrifice that could be required of him; but
he knew also that no sacrifice was too hard when God required it–and he drew the
knife.

Who gave strength to Abraham’s arm? Who held his right hand up so that it did
not fall limp at his side? He who gazes at this becomes paralyzed. Who gave strength to
Abraham’s soul, so that his eyes did not grow dim, so that he saw neither Isaac nor the
ram? He who gazes at this becomes blind.–And yet rare enough perhaps is the man
who becomes paralyzed and blind, still more rare one who worthily recounts what
happened. We all know it–it was only a trial.

If Abraham when he stood upon Mount Moriah had doubted, if he had gazed
about him irresolutely, if before he drew the knife he had by chance discovered the
ram, if God had permitted him to offer it instead of Isaac–then he would have betaken
himself home, everything would have been the same, he has Sarah, he retained Isaac,
and yet how changed! For his retreat would have been a flight, his salvation an
accident, his reward dishonor, his future perhaps perdition. Then he would have borne
witness neither to his faith nor to God’s grace, but would have teshfied only how
dreadful it is to march out to Mount Moriah. Then Abraham would not have been
forgotten, nor would Mount Moriah, this mountain would then be mentioned, not like
Ararat where the Ark landed, but would be spoken of as a consternation, because it was
here that Abraham doubted.

Venerable Father Abraham! In marching home from Mount Moriah thou hadst no
need of a panegyric which might console thee for thy loss; for thou didst gain all and
didst retain Isaac. Was it not so? Never again did the Lord take him from thee, but thou
didst sit at table joyfully with him in thy tent, as thou cost in the beyond to all eternity.
Venerable Father Abraham! Thousands of years have run their course since those days,
but thou hast need of no tardy lover to snatch the memorial of thee from the power of
oblivion, for every language calls thee to remembrance–and yet thou cost reward thy

lover more gloriously than does any other; hereafter thou cost make him blessed in thy
bosom; here thou cost enthral his eyes and his heart by the marvel of thy deed.
Venerable Father Abraham! Second Father of the human race! Thou who first wast
sensible of and didst first bear witness to that prodigious passion which disdains the
dreadful conflict with the rage of the elements and with the powers of creation in order
to strive with God; thou who first didst know that highest passion, the holy, pure and
humble expression of the divine madness16 which the pagans admired–forgive him who
would speak in praise of thee, if he does not do it fittingly. He spoke humbly, as if it
were the desire of his own heart, he spoke briefly, as it becomes him to do, but he will
never forget that thou hadst need of a hundred years to obtain a son of old age against
expectation, that thou didst have to draw the knife before retaining Isaac; he will never
forget that in a hundred and thirty years thou didst not get further than to faith.

PROBLEMATA: PRELIMINARY EXPECTORATION

An old proverb fetched from the outward and visible world says: “Only the man that
works gets the bread.” Strangely enough this proverb does not aptly apply in that world
to which it expressly belongs. For the outward world is subjected to the law of
imperfection, and again and again the experience is repeated that he too who does not
work gets the bread, and that he who sleeps gets it more abundantly than the man who
works. In the outward world everything is made payable to the bearer, this world is in
bondage to the law of indifference, and to him who has the ring, the spirit of the ring is
obedient, whether he be Noureddin or Aladdin,17 and he who has the world’s treasure,
has it, however he got it. It is different in the world of spirit. Here an eternal divine
order prevails, here it does not rain both upon the just and upon the unjust, here the
sun does not shine both upon the good and upon the evil, here it holds good that only
he who works gets the bread, only he who was in anguish finds repose, only he who
descends into the underworld rescues the beloved, only he who draws the knife gets
Isaac. He who will not work does not get the bread but remains deluded, as the gods
deluded Orpheus with an airy figure in place of the loved one, deluded him because he
was effeminate, not courageous, because he was a cithara-player, not a man. Here it is
of no use to have Abraham for one’s father, nor to have seventeen ancestors–he who
will not work must take note of what is written about the maidens of Israel,18 for he
gives birth to wind, but he who is willing to work gives birth to his own father.

There is a knowledge which would presumptuously introduce into the world of
spirit the same law of indifference under which the external world sighs. It counts it
enough to think the great–other work is not necessary. But therefore it doesn’t get the
bread, it perishes of hunger, while everything is transformed into gold. And what does it
really know? There were many thousands of Greek contemporaries, and countless
numbers in subsequent generations, who knew all the triumphs of Miltiades, but only
one19 was made sleepless by them. There were countless generations which knew by
rote, word for word, the story of Abraham–how many were made sleepless by it?

Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable property that it is always
glorious, however poorly one may understand it; yet here again the proverb applies,
that all depends upon whether one is willing to labor and be heavy laden. But they will
not labor, and yet they would understand the story. They exalt Abraham–but how? They
express the whole thing in perfectly general terms: “The great thing was that he loved
God so much that he was willing to sacrifice to Him the best.” That is very true, but “the
best” is an indefinite expression. In the course of thought, as the tongue wags on, Isaac
and “the best” are confidently identified, and he who meditates can very well smoke his
pipe during the meditation, and the auditor can very well stretch out his legs in comfort.

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Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling