Blue= Wallis' additional comments to aid comprehension

Green= Kierkegaard's footnotes

The Historical Point of View

    When Christianity is viewed from the standpoint of its historical documentation, it becomes necessary to secure an entirely trustworthy account of what the Christian doctrine really is. If the inquirer were infinitely interested in behalf of his relationship to the doctrine he would at once despair; for nothing is more readily evident than that the greatest attainable certainty with respect to anything historical is merely an approximation. And an approximation, when viewed as a basis for an eternal happiness, is wholly inadequate, since the incommensurability makes a result impossible. But the interest of the inquiring subject being merely historical (whether he also has an infinite interest in Christianity in his capacity as believer, in which case the whole enterprise might readily come to involve him in several contradictions; or whether he stands aloof, yet, without any passionate negative decision qua unbeliever), he begins upon the tremendous task of research, adding new contributions of his own, and continuing thus until his seventieth year. Just two weeks before his death he looks forward to the publication of a new work, which it is hoped will throw light upon one entire side of the inquiry. Such an objective temper is an epigram, unless its antithesis be an epigram over it, over the restless concern of the infinitely interested subject, who surely needs to have such a question answered, related as it is to his eternal happiness. And in any case he will not upon any consideration dare to relinquish his interest until the last moment.

When one raises the historical question of the truth of Christianity, or of what is and is not Christian truth, the Scriptures at once present themselves as documents of decisive significance. The historical inquiry therefore first concentrates upon the Bible.

The Holy Scriptures 

    Here it is necessary for the scholar to secure the maximum of dependability; for me, on the contrary, it is of importance not to make a display of learning, or to betray the fact that I have none. In the interest of my problem it is more important to have it understood and remembered that even with the most stupendous learning and persistence in research, and even if all the brains of all the critics were concentrated in one, it would still be impossible to obtain anything more than an approximation; and that an approximation is essentially incommensurable with an infinite personal interest in an eternal happiness. When the Scriptures are viewed as a court of last resort for determining what is and is not Christian doctrine, it becomes necessary to make sure of the Scriptures historically and critically.  

    In this connection there are a number of topics that come up for consideration: the canonicity of the individual books, their authenticity, their integrity, the trustworthiness of their authors; and a dogmatic guaranty is posited: Inspiration. When one thinks of the labors which the English have devoted to digging the tunnel under the Thames, the tremendous expenditure of energy involved, and then how a little accident may for a long time obstruct the entire enterprise, one will be able to form a fitting conception of this critical undertaking as a whole. How much time, what great industry, what splendid talents, what distinguished scholarship have been requisitioned from generation to generation in order to bring this miracle to pass. And yet a little dialectical doubt touching the presuppositions may suddenly arise, sufficient for a long time to unsettle the whole, closing the subterranean way to Christianity which one has attempted to construct objectively and scientifically, instead of letting the problem remain subjective, as it is.

    One sometimes hears uneducated or half educated people, or conceited geniuses, speak with contempt of the labor of criticism devoted to ancient writings; one hears them foolishly deride the learned scholar's careful scrutiny of the most in- significant detail, which is precisely the glory of the scholar, namely, that he considers nothing insignificant that bears upon his science. No, philological scholarship is absolutely within its rights, and the present author yields to none in profound respect for that which science consecrates. But the scholarly critical theology makes no such clear and definite impression upon the mind; its entire procedure suffers from a certain conscious or unconscious ambiguity. It constantly seems as if this labor of criticism were suddenly about to yield a result for faith, issue in something relevant to faith. Here lies the difficulty. When a philologist prepares an edition of one of Cicero's writings, for example, and performs his task with great acumen, the scholarly apparatus held in beautiful subservience to the control of the spirit; when his ingenuity and his familiarity with the period, gained through formidable industry, combine with his instinct for discovery to overcome obstacles, preparing a clear way for the meaning through the obscure maze of the readings, and so forth--then it is quite safe to yield oneself in wholehearted admiration. For when he has finished, nothing follows except the wholly admirable result that an ancient writing has now through his skill and competence received its most accurate possible form. But by no means that I should now base my eternal happiness on this work; for in relation to my eternal happiness, his astonishing acumen seems, I must admit, inadequate. Aye, I confess that my admiration for him would be not glad but despondent, if I thought he had any such thing in mind. But this is precisely how the learned theologian goes to work; when he has completed his task (and until then he keeps us in suspense, but holds this prospect before us) he draws the conclusion: ergo, [therefore, hence, it follows that] now you can base your eternal happiness on these writings.

Anyone who posits inspiration, as a believer does, must consistently consider every critical deliberation, whether for or against, as a misdirection, a temptation for the spirit. And anyone who plunges into these critical inquiries without being a believer, cannot possibly intend to have inspiration emerge as a result. Who then really has any interest in the whole inquiry?

    But the contradiction remains unnoticed because the mode of approach is purely objective; and then indeed the contradiction is no longer there. The inquirer forgets what he has up his sleeve, except in so far as he occasionally stimulates and encourages himself lyrically by referring to it; or indulges in lyrical polemics with the aid of eloquence. But let an individual approach this enterprise, let him propose in infinite personal passion to attach his eternal happiness to the result: he will readily perceive that there is no result, and that none is to be expected; and the contradiction will bring him to despair. Luther's rejection of the Epistle of James will alone suffice. In relation to an eternal happiness, and an infinite passionate interest in its behalf (in which latter alone the former can exist), an iota is of importance, of infinite importance; or rather, despair over the contradiction involved will teach him that there is no possibility of getting through along this road.

    The years pass, but the situation remains un. changed. One generation after another departs from the scene, new difficulties arise and are overcome, and new difficulties again arise. Each generation inherits from its predecessor the illusion that the method is quite impeccable, but the learned scholars have not yet succeeded. . . and so forth. All of them seem to find themselves becoming more and more objective. The infinite personal passionate interest of the subject (which is, in the first instance, the potentiality of faith, and in the next, faith itself, as the form for an eternal happiness, and thereupon an eternal happiness itself) vanishes more and more, because the decision is postponed, and postponed as following directly upon the result of the learned inquiry. That is to say, the problem does not arise; we have become so objective as no longer to have an eternal happiness. For an eternal happiness is rooted in the infinite personal passionate interest, which the individual renounces in order to become objective, defrauded of his interest by the predominating objectivity. With the assistance of the clergy, who occasionally display learning, the laity get an inkling of how the land lies. The "community of believers" becomes at last a mere courtesy title; for the laity become objective merely by looking at the clergy, and expect a tremendously significant result, and so on. Now a hostile critic rushes forward to attack Christianity. He is precisely as well oriented as the scholarly critics and the dilettante laity. He at- tacks a book of the Bible, or a suite of books. Instantly the learned rescue corps rushes in to defend; and so it goes on indefinitely. 

    Wessel said that he always seeks to avoid a crowd, and so it is doubtless imprudent for the author of a little piece to intervene in this dispute, with a respectful request for a hearing on behalf of a few dialectical considerations: he will be as welcome as a dog in a game of bowls. Nor is there much of anything that a stark naked dialectician can do in such a learned dispute, where in spite of all learning and talent pro and contra, it is, in the last analysis, dialectically uncertain what the dispute is about. If it is purely a philological controversy, let us honor learning and talent with the admiration they deserve; but in that case the dispute is no concern of faith. If the disputants have something up their sleeves, let us have it brought out, so that we can think it through with dialectical deliberation. Whoever defends the Bible in the interest of faith must have made it clear to himself whether, if he succeeds beyond expectation, there could from all his labor ensue anything at all with respect to faith, lest he should come to stick fast in the parenthesis of his labor, and forget, over the difficulties of scholarship, the decisive dialectical claudatur. [blockade, stumbling block] Whoever attacks the Bible must also have sought a clear under- standing of whether, if the attack succeeds be- yond all measure, anything else would follow than the philological result, or at most a victory ex concessis, [in view of what has already been accepted] where it must be noted that everything may be lost in another manner, provided, namely, the mutual underlying agreement is a phantom.

    In order therefore that the dialectical issue be accorded the significance it deserves, and that we may think the thoughts through without disturbing irrelevancies, let us first assume the one and then the other.

    I assume, accordingly, that the critics have succeeded in proving about the Bible everything that any learned theologian in his happiest moment has ever wished to prove about the Bible. These books and no others belong to the canon; they are authentic; they are integral; their authors are trustworthy'-One may well say, that it is as if every letter were inspired. More than this it is impossible to say, for inspiration is an object of faith and subject to a qualitative dialectic; it is incapable of being reached by a quantitative approximation. Furthermore, there is not a trace of contradiction in the sacred writings. For let us be careful in formulating our hypothesis; if so much as a single hint in this direction is admitted the parenthesis again begins, and the critical philological occupation--complex will again lead us astray on bypaths. In general, all that is needed to make the question simple and easy is the exercise of a certain dietetic circumspection, the renunciation of every learned interpolation or subordinate consideration, which in a trice might degenerate into a century-long parenthesis. Perhaps this is after all not so easy, and just as our human life runs into danger everywhere, so a dialectical exposition runs everywhere into the danger of slipping into a parenthesis. The same principle holds in smaller things as in greater; and in general, what makes it so tiresome to listen as third party to an argumentative dispute, is the fact that usually by the second round the dispute has already run into a parenthesis, and now moves in this perverse direction more and more passionately away from the point at issue. This failing may be utilized as a sort of fencing feint, for the purpose of testing out an opponent, to determine whether he is a real master of the dialectical parade, or a mere parenthesis-hound who leaps into a gallop whenever the parenthetical suggests itself. How often has it not happened that an entire human life has from early youth moved only in parentheses! But I break off these moralizing reflections, looking toward the promotion of the common welfare, by which I have sought to atone somewhat for my lack of historico-critical competence.  

    Well then, everything being assumed in order with respect to the Scriptures--what follows? Has anyone who previously did not have faith been brought a single step nearer to its acquisition? No, not a single step. Faith does not result simply from a scientific inquiry; it does not come directly at all. On the contrary, in this objectivity one tends to lose that infinite personal interestedness in passion which is the condition of faith, the ubique et nusquam [everywhere and nowhere] in which faith can come into being. Has anyone who previously had faith gained anything with respect to its strength and power? No, not in the least. Rather is it the case that in this voluminous knowledge, this certainty that lurks at the door of faith and threatens to devour it, he is in so dangerous a situation that he will need to put forth much effort in great fear and trembling, lest he fall a victim to the temptation to confuse knowledge with faith. While faith has hitherto had a profitable schoolmaster in the existing uncertainty, it would have in the new certainty its most dangerous enemy. For if passion is eliminated, faith no longer exists, and certainty and passion do not go together. Whoever believes that there is a God and an over-ruling providence finds it easier to preserve his faith, easier to acquire something that definitely is faith and not an illusion, in an imperfect world where passion is kept alive, than in an absolutely perfect world. In such a world faith is in fact unthinkable. Hence also the teaching that faith is abolished in eternity.

    How fortunate then that this wishful hypothesis, this beautiful dream of critical theology, is an impossibility, because even the most perfect realization would still remain an approximation. And again how fortunate for the critics that the fault is by no means in them! If all the angels in heaven were to put their heads together, they could still bring to pass only an approximation, because an approximation is the only certainty attainable for historical knowledge--but also an inadequate basis for an eternal happiness.

    I assume now the opposite, that the opponents have succeeded in proving what they desire about the Scriptures, with a certainty transcending the most ardent wish of the most passionate hostility--what then? Have the opponents thereby abolished Christianity? By no means. Has the believer been harmed? By no means, not in the least. Has the opponent made good a right to be relieved of responsibility for not being a believer? By no means. Because these books are not written by these authors, are not authentic, are not in an integral condition, are not inspired (though this cannot be disproved, since it is an object of faith), it does not follow that these authors have not existed; and above all, it does not follow that Christ has not existed. In so far, the believer is equally free to assume it; equally free, let us note this well, for if he had assumed it by virtue of any proof, he would have been on the verge of giving up his faith. If matters ever come to this pass, the believer will have some share of guilt, in so far as he has himself invited this procedure, and begun to play into the hands of unbelief by proposing to demonstrate.

    Here is the crux of the matter, and I come back to the case of the learned theology. For whose sake is it that the proof is sought? Faith does not need it; aye, it must even regard the proof as its enemy. But when faith begins to feel embarrassed and ashamed, like a young woman for whom her love is no longer sufficient, but who secretly feels ashamed of her lover and must therefore have it established that there is something remarkable about him-when faith thus be- gins to lose its passion, when faith begins to cease to be faith, then a proof becomes necessary so as to command respect from the side of unbelief. And as for the rhetorical stupidities that have been perpetrated by clergymen in connection with this matter, through a confusion of the categories--alas, let us not speak of them. The vanity of faith (a modem substitute: How can they believe who receive honor one of another, John 5:44) naturally will not and cannot bear the martyrdom of faith; and the note of genuine faith is today perhaps the rarest note struck in the pulpit oratory of Europe. Speculative philosophy has under- stood everything, everything, everything. But the clergyman, nevertheless, holds himself a little in check; he admits that he has not yet understood everything, he admits that he is still striving. Poor man, what a confusion of the categories! "If there is anyone who has understood everything," he says, "then I confess (alas, he feels ashamed, and does not perceive that he ought to use irony against the others) that I have not understood it all, and that I cannot prove everything; we humbler folk (alas, he feels his humility in a very wrong place) must be content with faith." Poor, misunderstood, highest passion "faith," to have to be content with such a champion! Poor chap of a clergyman, that you do not know what you are talking about! Poor unlearned Peter Ericksen, on the other hand, who cannot quite make out about science, but who has faith; for he really has it, the faith which transformed fishermen into apostles, the faith which removes mountains--when one has it!

    When the question is treated in an objective manner it becomes impossible for the subject to face the decision with passion, least of all with an infinitely interested passion. It is a self-contradiction and therefore comical, to be indefinitely interested in that which in its maximum still always remains an approximation. If in spite of this, passion is nevertheless imported, we get fanaticism. For an infinitely interested passion every iota will be of infinite value. The fault is not in the infinitely interested passion, but in the fact that its object has become an approximation-object.

    The objective mode of approach to the problem persists from generation to generation precisely because the individuals, the contemplative individuals, become more and more objective, less and less possessed by an infinite passionate interest. Supposing that we continue in this manner to prove and seek the proof of the truth of Christianity, the remarkable phenomenon would finally emerge, that just when the proof for its truth had become completely realized, it would have ceased to exist as a present fact. It would then have become so completely an historical phenomenon as to be something entirely past, whose truth, i.e. whose historical truth, had finally been brought to a satisfactory determination. In this way perhaps the anxious prophecy of Luke 18;8, might be fulfilled: Nevertheless when the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth?

    The more objective the contemplative inquirer, the less he bases an eternal happiness, i.e. his eternal happiness, upon his relationship to the inquiry; since there can be no question of an eternal happiness except for the passionately and infinitely interested subject. Objectively, the contemplative inquirer, whether learned scholar or dilettante member of the laity, understands himself in the following farewell words, as he faces the final end: When I was a young man, such and such books were in doubt; now their genuineness has been demonstrated, but then again a doubt has recently been raised about certain books which have never before been under suspicion. But there will doubtless soon arise a scholar who will. . . and so forth.

    The accommodating and objective subject holds himself aloof, displaying an applauded heroism. He is completely at your service, and ready to accept the truth as soon as it is brought to light. But the goal toward which he strives is far distant, undeniably so, since an approximation can continue indefinitely; and while the grass grows under his feet the inquirer dies, his mind at rest, for he was objective. It is not without reason that you have been praised, 0 wonderful objectivity, for you can do all things; not even the firmest believer has ever been so certain of his eternal happiness, and above all of not losing it, as the objective subject! Unless this objective and accommodating temper should perhaps be in the wrong place, so that it is possibly unchristian; in that case, it would naturally be a little dubious to have arrived at the truth of Christianity in this manner. Christianity is spirit, spirit is inwardness, inwardness is subjectivity, subjectivity is essentially passion, and in its maximum an infinite, personal, passionate interest in one's eternal happiness.

    As soon as subjectivity is eliminated, and passion eliminated from subjectivity, and the infinite interest eliminated from passion, there is in general no decision at all, either in this problem or in any other. All decisiveness, all essential decisiveness, is rooted in subjectivity. A contemplative spirit, and this is what the objective subject is, feels nowhere any infinite need of a decision, and sees no decision anywhere. This is the falsum [falsehood] that is inherent in all objectivity; and j this is the significance of mediation as the mode 1 of transition in the continuous process, where I nothing is fixed and where nothing is infinitely decided; because the movement turns back upon I itself and again turns back, so that the movement I becomes chimerical, and the philosopher is wise I only after the event. There are indeed, in the objective sense, results everywhere, a superfluity of results. But there is no decisive result anywhere.  This is quite as it should be, since decisiveness inheres in subjectivity alone, essentially in its passion, and maximally in the personal passion which is infinitely interested in an eternal happiness.

. . . . . . . .

Truth Is Subjectivity

    In an attempt to make clear the difference of way that exists between an objective and a subjective reflection, I shall now proceed to show how a subjective reflection makes its way inwardly in inwardness. Inwardness in an existing subject culminates in passion; corresponding to passion in the subject the truth becomes a paradox; and the fact that the truth becomes a paradox is rooted precisely in its having a relationship to an existing subject. Thus the one corresponds to the other. By forgetting that one is an existing subject, passion goes by the board and the truth is no longer a paradox; the knowing subject becomes a fantastic entity rather than a human being, and the truth becomes a fantastic object for the knowledge of this fantastic entity.

    When the question of truth is raised in an objective manner, reflection is directed objectively to the truth, as an object to which the knower is related. Reflection is not focused upon the relationship, however, but upon the question of whether it is the truth to which the knower is related. If only the object to which he is related is the truth, the subject is accounted to be in the truth. When the question of the truth is raised subjectively, reflection is directed subjectively to the nature of the individual's relationship; if only mode of this relationship is in the truth, the individual is in the truth even if he should happen to be thus related to what is not true. Let us e as an example the knowledge of God. Objectively, reflection is directed to the problem of tether this object is the true God; subjectively, lection is directed to the question whether the individual is related to a something in such a manner that his relationship is in truth a God-relationship. On which side is the truth now to f found? Ah, may we not here resort to a meditation, and say: It is on neither side, but in the  mediation of both? Excellently well said, provided we might have it explained how an existing individual manages to be in a state of mediation. For to be in a state of mediation is to be finished, while to exist is to become. Nor can an existing individual be in two places at the same time--he cannot be an identity of subject and object. When he is nearest to being in two places the same time he is in passion; but passion is momentary, and passion is also the highest expression of subjectivity.

    The existing individual who chooses to pursue e objective way enters upon the entire approximation-process by which it is proposed to bring God to light objectively. But this is in all eternity impossible, because God is a subject, and therefore exists only for subjectivity in inwardness. The existing individual who chooses the objective way apprehends instantly the entire dialectical difficulty involved in having to use some time, perhaps a long time, in finding God  objectively; and he feels this dialectical difficulty all its painfulness, because every moment is wasted in which he does not have God. That very instant he has.  God, not by virtue of any objective deliberation, but by virtue of the infinite passion of inwardness. The objective inquirer, on the other hand, is not embarrassed by such dialectical difficulties as are involved in devoting an entire period of investigation to finding God--once it is possible that the inquirer may die tomorrow; and if he lives he can scarcely regard God as something to be taken along if convenient, since God is precisely that which one takes tout prix, [price of success] which in the understanding of passion constitutes the true inward relationship to God.

    It is at this point, so difficult dialectically, that the way swings off for everyone who knows what it means to think, and to think existentially; which is something very different from sitting at a desk and writing about what one has never done, something very different from writing de omnibus dubitandum [concerning all thing doutful] and at the same time being as credulous existentially as the most sensuous of men. Here is where the way swings off, and the change is marked by the fact that while objective knowledge rambles comfortably on by way of the long road of approximation without being impelled by the urge of passion, subjective knowledge counts every delay a deadly peril, and the decision so infinitely important and so instantly pressing that it is as if the opportunity had already passed.

    Now when the problem is to reckon up on which side there is most truth, whether on the side of one who seeks the true God objectively, and pursues the approximate truth of the God-idea; or on the side of one who, driven by the infinite passion of his need of God, feels an infinite concern for his own relationship to God in truth (and to be at one and the same time on both sides equally, is as we have noted not possible for an existing individual, but is merely the happy delusion of an imaginary I-am-I): the answer cannot be in doubt for anyone who has not been demoralized with the aid of science. If one who lives in the midst of Christendom goes up to the house of God, the house of the true God, with the true conception of God in his knowledge, and prays, but prays in a false spirit; and one who lives in an idolatrous community prays with the entire passion of the infinite, although his eyes rest upon the image of an idol: where is there most truth? The one prays in truth to God though he worships an idol; the other prays falsely to the true God, and hence worships in fact an idol.

    When one man investigates objectively the problem of immortality, and another embraces an uncertainty with the passion of the infinite: where is there most truth, and who has the greater certainty? The one has entered upon a neverending approximation, for the certainty of immortality lies precisely in the subjectivity of the individual; the other is immortal, and fights for his immortality by struggling with the uncertainty. Let us consider Socrates. Nowadays everyone dabbles in a few proofs; some have several such proofs, others fewer. But Socrates! He puts the question objectively in a problematic manner: if there is an immortality. He must therefore be accounted a doubter in comparison with one of our modem thinkers with the three proofs? By no means. On this "if" he risks his entire life, he has the courage to meet death, and he has with the passion of the infinite so determined the pattern of his life that it must be found acceptable-if there is an immortality. Is any better proof capable of being given for the immortality of the soul? But those who have the three proofs do not at all determine their lives in conformity therewith; if there is an immortality it must feel disgust over their manner of life: can any better refutation be given of the three proofs? The bit of uncertainty that Socrates had, helped him because he himself contributed the passion of the infinite; the three proofs that the others have do not profit them at all, because they are dead to spirit and enthusiasm, and their three proofs, in lieu of proving anything else, prove just this. A young girl may enjoy all the sweetness of love on the basis of what is merely a weak hope that she is beloved, because she rests everything on this weak hope; but many a wedded matron more than once subjected to the strongest expressions of love, has in so far indeed had proofs, but strangely enough has not enjoyed quod erat demonstrandum [which was to be demonstrated, used at the end of a proof]. The Socratic ignorance, which Socrates held fast with the en- tire passion of his inwardness, was thus an expression for the principle that the eternal truth is related to an existing individual, and that this, truth must therefore be a paradox for him as long as he exists; and yet it is possible that there was more truth in the Socratic ignorance as it was in him, than in the entire objective truth of the System, which flirts with what the times demand and accommodates itself to Privatdocents [from private funds: often used to refer to an unsalaried university lecturer or teacher in German-speaking countries remunerated directly by students' fees ].

    The objective accent falls on WHAT is said, the subjective accent on HOW it is said. This distinction holds even in the aesthetic realm, and receives definite expression in the principle that what is in itself true may in the mouth of such and such a person become untrue. In these times this distinction is particularly worthy of notice, for if we wish to express in a single sentence the difference between ancient times and our own, we should doubtless have to say: "In ancient times only an individual here and there knew the truth; now all know it, except that the inwardness of its appropriation stands in an inverse relationship to the extent of its dissemination. Aesthetically the contradiction that truth becomes untruth in this or that person's mouth, is best construed comically: In the ethico-religious sphere, accent is again on the "how." But this is not to be understood as referring to demeanor, expression, or the like; rather it refers to the relationship sustained by the existing individual, in his own existence, to the content of his utterance. Objectively the interest is focused merely on the thought-content, subjectively on the inwardness. At its maximum this inward "how" is the passion of the infinite, and the passion of the infinite is the truth. But the passion of the infinite is precisely subjectivity, and thus subjectivity becomes the truth. Objectively there is no infinite decisiveness, and hence it is objectively in order to annul the difference between good and evil, together with the principle of contradiction, and therewith also the infinite difference between the true and the false. Only in subjectivity is there decisiveness, to seek objectivity is to be in error. It is the passion of the infinite that is the decisive factor and not its content, for its content is precisely itself. In this manner subjectivity and the subjective "how" constitute the truth.

    But the "how" which is thus subjectively accentuated precisely because the subject is an existing individual, is also subject to a dialectic with respect to time. In the passionate moment of decision, where the road swings away from objective knowledge, it seems as if the infinite decision were thereby realized. But in the same moment the existing individual finds himself in the temporal order, and the subjective "how" is transformed into a striving, a striving which receives indeed its impulse and a repeated renewal from the decisive passion of the infinite, but is nevertheless a striving. 

    When subjectivity is the truth, the conceptual determination of the truth must include an expression for the antithesis to objectivity, a memento of the fork in the road where the way swings off; this expression will at the same time serve as an indication of the tension of the subjective inwardness. Here is such a definition of truth: An objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation-process of the most passionate inwardness is the truth, the highest truth attainable for an existing individual. At the point where the way swings off (and where this is cannot be specified objectively, since it is a matter of subjectivity), there objective knowledge is placed in abeyance. Thus the subject merely has, objectively, the uncertainty; but it is this which precisely increases the tension of that infinite passion which constitutes his inwardness. The truth is precisely the venture which chooses an objective uncertainty with the passion of the infinite. I contemplate the order of nature in the hope of finding God, and I see omnipotence and wisdom; but I also see much else that disturbs my mind and excites anxiety. The sum of all this is an objective uncertainty. But it is for this very reason that the inwardness becomes as intense as it is, for it embraces this objective uncertainty with the entire passion of the infinite. In the case of a mathematical proposition the objectivity is given, but for this reason the truth of such a proposition is also an indifferent truth.

    But the above definition of truth is an equivalent expression for faith. Without risk there is no faith. Faith is precisely the contradiction between the infinite passion of the individual's inwardness and the objective uncertainty. If I am capable of grasping God objectively, I do not believe, but precisely because I cannot do this I must believe. If I wish to preserve myself in faith I must constantly be intent upon holding fast the objective uncertainty, so as to remain out upon the deep, over seventy thousand fathoms of water, still preserving my faith.

. . . . . . . .

Subjectivity

    Suppose, on the other hand, that subjectivity is the truth, and that subjectivity is an existing subjectivity, then, if I may so express myself, Christianity fits perfectly into the picture. Subjectivity culminates in passion, Christianity is the paradox, paradox and passion are a mutual fit, and the paradox is altogether suited to one whose situation is, to be in the extremity of existence. Aye, never in all the world could there be found two lovers so wholly suited to one another as paradox and passion, and the strife between them is like the strife between lovers, when the dispute is about whether he first aroused her passion, or she his.

    And so it is here; the existing individual has by means of the paradox itself come to be placed in the extremity of existence. And what can be more splendid for lovers than that they are permitted a long time together without any alteration in the relationship between them, except that it becomes more intensive in inwardness? And this is indeed granted to the highly unspeculative understanding between passion and the paradox, since the whole life in time is vouchsafed, and the change comes first in eternity.

    But the speculative philosopher is of another kidney, he believes only to a certain degree; he sets his hand to the plow, and looks about him to find something to know. From the Christian point of view it can scarcely be said that it is anything good he finds to know. Even if it were not the case, as a simple wise man who seeks to apprehend the paradox would strive to show, that it cannot be otherwise; even if the paradox held a little remnant of divine arbitrariness within it, God might seem justified in laying some stress upon His person, scarcely needing to lower the price of the God-relationship on account of the dullness prevailing in the religious market (and this expression seems even more suitable here than in connection with the stock-market). And even if God could be imagined willing, no man with passion in his heart could desire it. To a maiden genuinely in love it could never occur that she bought her happiness too dear, but rather that she had not bought it dear enough. And just as the passion of the infinite was itself the truth, so in die case of the highest value it holds true that the price is the value, that a low price means a poor value; while even the highest possible price in relation to God has in it no meritoriousness, since die highest price is to be willing to do everything and still to know that this is nothing (for if it is something, the price is lower), and nevertheless to will it. Since I am not wholly unacquainted with  what has been said and written about Christianity, I might also say one or two things. But here I do not choose to do so; I merely repeat that there is one thing I shall take care not to say about it: that it is to a certain degree true. It is just possible that Christianity is the truth; it is possible that there will sometime come a judgment, where the separation will turn on the relationship of inwardness to Christianity. Suppose then there came a man who had to say: "I have not indeed believed, but so much have I honored Christianity that I have employed every hour of my life in pondering it." Or suppose there came one of whom the accuser had to say: "He has persecuted the Christians," and the accused replied: "Aye, I admit it; Christianity has set my soul aflame, and I have had no other ambition than to root it from the earth, precisely because I perceived its tremendous power." Or suppose there came another, of whom the accuser would have to say: "He has abjured Christianity," and the accused replied: "Aye, it is true; for I saw that Christianity was such a power that if I gave it a little finger it would take the whole man, and I felt that I could not belong to it wholly." But then suppose there finally came a dapper Privatdocent with light and nimble steps, who spoke as follows: "I am not like these three; I have not only believed, but I have even explained Christianity, and shown that as it was expounded by the Apostles and appropriated in the early centuries it was only to a certain degree true; but that now, through the interpretation of speculative philosophy it has become the true truth, whence I must ask for a suitable reward on account of my ser- vices to Christianity." Which of these four must be regarded as in the most terrible position? It is just possible that Christianity is the truth; suppose that now when its ungrateful children desire to have it declared incompetent, and placed under the guardianship of speculative philosophy, like the Greek poet whose children also demanded that the aged parent be placed under a guardian, but who astonished the judges and the people by writing one of his most beautiful tragedies as a sign that he was still in the full possession of his faculties--suppose that Christianity thus arose with renewed vigor: there would be no one else whose position would become as embarrassing as the position of the Privatdocents.

    I do not deny that it is a lordly thing to stand so high above Christianity. I do not deny that it is comfortable to be a Christian, and at the same time be exempted from the martyrdom which is always present, even if no persecution menaces from without, even if the Christian is as unnoticed in life as if he had not lived, and is spared the martyrdom of believing against the understanding, the peril of lying upon the deep, the se seventy thousand fathoms, in order there to find or God. The wader feels his way with his foot, lest he get beyond his depth; and so the shrewd and prudent man feels his way with the understanding in the realm of the probable, and finds God where the probabilities are favorable, and gives  thanks on the great holidays of probability, when he has acquired a good livelihood, and there is probability besides for an early advancement; when he has got himself a pretty and attractive wife, and even Councillor Marcussen says that it will be a happy marriage, and that the young  woman is of the type of beauty that will in all probability last a long time, and that her physique is such that she will in all probability give birth to strong and healthy children. To believe against the understanding is something different, and to believe with the understanding cannot be done at all; for he who believes with the understanding speaks only of livelihood and wife and fields and oxen and the like, which things are not the object of faith. Faith always gives thanks, is always in peril of life, in this collision of finite and infinite which is precisely a mortal danger for him who is a composite of both. The probable is therefore so little to the taste of a believer that he fears it most of all, since he well knows that when he clings to probabilities it is because he is beginning to lose his faith.

    Faith has in fact two tasks: to take care in every moment to discover the improbable, the paradox; and then to hold it fast with the passion of inwardness. The common conception is that the improbable, the paradoxical, is something to which faith is related only passively; it must provisionally be content with this relationship, but little by little things will become better, as indeed seems probable. O miraculous creation of confusions in speaking about faith! One is to begin believing, in reliance upon the probability that things will soon become better. In this way probability is after all smuggled in, and one is prevented from believing; so that it is easy to understand that the fruit of having been for a long time a believer is, that one no longer believes, instead of, as one might think, that the fruit is a more intensive inwardness in faith. No, faith is self-active in its relation to the improbable and the paradoxical, self-active in the discovery, and self-active in every moment holding it fast--in order to believe. Merely to lay hold of the improbable requires all the passion of the infinite and its concentration in itself; for the improbable and the paradoxical are not to be reached by the understanding's quantitative calculation of the more and more difficult. Where the understanding despairs, faith is already present in order to make the despair properly decisive, in order that the movement of faith may not become a mere exchange within the bargaining sphere of the understanding. But to believe against the understanding is martyrdom; to begin to get the understanding a little in one's favor, is temptation and retrogression. This martyrdom is something that the speculative philosopher is free from. That he must pursue his studies, and especially that he must read many modern books, I admit is burdensome; but the martyrdom of faith is not the same thing. What I therefore fear and shrink from, more than I fear to die and to lose my sweetheart, is to say about Christianity that it is to a certain degree true. If I lived to be seventy years old, if I shortened the night's sleep and increased the day's work from year to year, inquiring into Christianity--how insignificant such a little period of study, viewed as entitling me to judge in so lofty a fashion about Christianity! For to be so embittered against Christianity after a casual acquaintance with it, that I declared it to be false: that would be far more pardonable, far more human. But this lordly superiority seems to me the true corruption, making every saving relationship impossible--and it may possibly be the case, that Christianity is the truth.

. . . . . . . .

Existential Pathos

    Here perhaps someone, some "sober man," will  say: "But can I be sure that there really is such - a good; is the expectation of an eternal happiness - a matter of definite certainty? For in that case I shall assuredly strive to attain it, but otherwise I would be mad to risk everything for its sake."  This or a similar turn of thought frequently makes a its appearance in the clergyman's discourse, and is forms the transition to that part of the speech in  which for the solace and reassurance of the congregation it is proved that there is an eternal happiness to look forward to--in order that the members of the listening congregation may strive all the more earnestly for its attainment. Such a demonstration is food for the hungry, and is taken as true like the word of God by the theologue, "the practical exercises being postponed as usual." How fortunate that I am not a serious man, an asseverating philosopher or a guaranteeing clergyman, for then I, too, might be moved to attempt a demonstration. Fortunately my frivolity excuses me; and in my capacity as a frivolous man I venture to have the opinion that anyone who resolved to strive for an eternal happiness on the ground of his faith in the assurances of the philosophers and the guarantees of the clergy, will nevertheless not really strive for it, and that what will prevent him is precisely this confidence of his in the philosophers and the clergy; though the clergyman believes, to be sure, that it is lack of confidence. Such confidence merely inspires him with a desire to follow, to associate himself with others, to make a business transaction on the basis of a calculation, an advantageous speculation in the market instead of an absolute venture. This confidence in the assurances inspires a fictitious movement of the spirit, a gesture in the direction of the absolute, while still remaining totally within the relative; a fictitious transition, like the transition from eudaemonism [An approach to ethics (proposed by Aristotle or the Stoics) that aims at the achievement of a good life by satisfying the objective conditions of happiness, rather than with pursuing the subjective experience of pleasure.]  to the ethical within eudaemonism. In general it is quite inconceivable how ingenious and inventive human beings can be in evading an ultimate decision. Anyone who has seen the curious antics of recruits when they are ordered into the water will often have occasion to perceive analogies in the realm of the spirit.

    The fact is that the individual becomes infinite only by virtue of making the absolute venture. Hence it is not the same individual who makes this venture among others, yielding as a consequence one more predicate attaching to one and the same individual. No, but in making the absolute venture he becomes another individual. Before he has made the venture he cannot under- stand it as anything else than madness; and this is far better than the thoughtless galimatias [nonsensical talk; gibberish; gobbledygook] which imagines that it understands the venture as wisdom--and yet omits to venture, whereby the individual directly accuses himself of being mad, while one who regards the venture as madness at any rate consistently asserts his own sanity by refusing to commit himself. And after the individual has made the venture he is no longer the same individual. Thus there is made room for the transition and its decisiveness, an intervening yawning chasm, a suitable scene for the infinite passion of the individual, a gulf which the understanding cannot bridge either forward or backward.

    But since I have in no way undertaken to prove that there is an eternal happiness (partly because it is not my affair, but at most that of Christianity which proclaims it; and partly because if it could be demonstrated it would be non-existent, since the existence of the absolute ethical good can be proved only by the individual himself expressing it existentially in existence), I shall take a little time to examine what our serious citizen said above; his words will doubtless be found worthy of consideration. He demands that it should be made definitely certain that such a good exists and awaits us. But it is really too much to ask that anything subject to expectation should be made definitely certain. The present is, for example, separated from the future by a little moment, the influence of which is that it becomes possible to expect the future, but impossible to have a sure certainty about it in the present. The present gives certainty and security to whatever is comprised within it, but a present relationship to something in the future is eo ipso [by it itself: by that fact alone] an uncertain relationship, and hence quite properly a relation ship of expectation. The speculative principle is that I arrive at the eternal retrogressively through recollection, and that the eternal individual is in this manner directly related to the eternal. But an existing individual can have a relationship to the eternal only as something prospective, as something in the future.

    The serious man continues: If he were able to obtain certainty with respect to such a good, so as to know that it is really there, he would venture everything for its sake. The serious man speaks like a wag; it is clear enough that he wishes to make fools of us, like the raw recruit who takes a run in preparation for jumping into the water, and actually takes the run,--but gives the leap a go--by. When the certainty is there he will venture all. But what then does it mean to venture? A venture is the precise correlative of an uncertainty; when the certainty is there the venture becomes impossible. If our serious man acquires the definite certainty that he seeks, he will be unable to venture all; for even if he gives up everything, he will under such circumstances venture nothing-and if he does not get certainty, our serious man says in all earnest that he refuses to risk anything, since that would be madness. In this way the venture of our serious man becomes merely a false alarm. If what I hope to gain by venturing is itself certain, I do not risk or venture, but make an exchange. Thus in giving an apple for a pear, I run no risk if I hold the pear in my hand while making the exchange. Rogues and pickpockets have a very clear understanding of this; they do not trust one another, and hence wish to hold in their possession the articles they seek to acquire by making the exchange. Aye, they have so precise a notion of risk that they even regard it as risky to permit the other party to turn his back for a moment to expectorate, lest this should be a cover for some hocus-pocus or other. When I give all that I have for a pearl, it is not a venture if I hold the pearl in my hand at the moment of making the exchange. If it is a false pearl, and I have been cheated, it is a poor exchange; but I cannot be said to have risked anything to get possession of the pearl. But if the pearl is in a far country, in Africa for example, in a secret place difficult of access, if I have never had the pearl in my hand, and I leave home and kindred, give everything up, and undertake the long and toilsome journey without knowing for a certainty whether my enterprise will succeed: then I venture-and it will no doubt be remarked that same evening at the club, just as the serious man put it, that it is madness on my part so to risk everything. But whatever strange adventures the seeker for the pearl may experience on the long and dangerous journey to Africa, I do not believe that anything stranger can happen to him than falls to the lot of the serious man and his statement; for of all his earnestness, only one truth remains, and that is that the enterprise is madness. To be sure it is madness. It is always madness to venture, but to risk everything for the expectation of an eternal happiness is the height of madness. To ask for certainty is on the other hand prudence, for it is an excuse to evade the venture and its strenuosity, and to transfer the problem into the realm of knowledge and of prattle. No, if I am in truth resolved to venture, in truth resolved to strive for the attainment of the highest good, the uncertainty must be there, and I must have room to move, so to speak. But the largest space I can obtain, where there is room for the most vehement gesture of the passion that embraces the in- finite, is uncertainty of knowledge with respect to an eternal happiness, or the certain knowledge that the choice is in the finite sense a piece of madness: now there is room, now you can venture!

    And this is why an eternal happiness as the absolute good has the remarkable trait of being definable solely in terms of the mode of acquisition. Other goods, precisely because the mode of acquisition is accidental, or at any rate subject to a relative dialectic, must be defined in terms of the good itself. Money, for example, may be acquired both with and without effort on the part of the possessor, and both modes of acquisition are again subject to manifold variations; but money, nevertheless, remains the same good. And knowledge is also variously obtainable, in relation to talent and external circumstances, and cannot therefore be defined solely in terms of the mode of acquisition. But there is nothing to be said of an eternal happiness except that it is the good which is attained by venturing everything absolutely. Every description of the glory of this good is already as it were an attempt to make several different modes of acquisition possible, one easier for example, and one more difficult. This is enough to prove that the description does not really describe the absolute good, but only imagines itself doing so, while essentially dealing with relative goods. Hence it is so easy, in a certain sense, to talk about this good; for it is certain--when everything else is made uncertain, and because the speaker will never, as is so often the case with relative goods, be embarrassed by the revelation that what helps one to gain it will not help another. This is why discourse concerning this good may be so brief, for there is only one thing to say: venture everything! There are no anecdotes to tell how Peter became rich by hard work, and Paul by playing the lottery, and Hans by inheriting a fortune, and Matts by the change in the value of the currency, and Christopher by purchasing a piece of furniture from a dealer, and

so forth. But in another sense the discourse may be very long, the longest of all discourses, because really to venture everything requires a conscious clarity with respect to oneself which is acquired only slowly. Here is the task of the religious address. Were it merely to say the brief word: "Venture everything," there would not be needed more than one speaker in an entire kingdom, while the longest discourse must not forget the venture. The religious address may deal with anything and everything, if only it constantly brings everything into relationship with the absolute category of religiosity. It must explore every path, it must know where the errors lurk, where the moods have their hiding places, how the passions understand themselves in solitude (and every man who has passion is always to some degree solitary, it is only the slobberers who wear their hearts wholly on their sleeves); it must know where the illusions spread their temptations, where the bypaths slink away, and so forth: all for the purpose of bringing everything into relationship with the absolute categories of religiosity.

    If one human being can do anything toward helping another in this respect, he need not trouble to pass over to the treatment of China and Persia. For just as religious discourse is higher than all other discourse, so all truly religious discourse knows nothing of anything beyond the absolute good, an eternal happiness. It knows that the task is not to begin with the individual and arrive at the race, but to begin with the individual and through the race arrive at the individual again. The religious address is the way to the good, i.e. it reflects the way, which is as long as life.* [*Here again we see why the religious speaker must not use a shortened perspective. Aesthetically there is no way, because the aesthetic corresponds to immediacy, and the expression for this is a foreshortened perspective. Ethically and ethico-religiously, however, reftection is concentrated precisely on the way, and hence it follows that what is true aesthetically becomes a deception from the ethical and the ethico-religious point of view.] It reflects the way which the religious man describes, though not in the sense in which the planet describes its path or the mathematician a circle. But there is no short cut to the absolute good, and since this good can be described only by reference to the mode of acquisition, the absolute difficulty of the acquirements is the only mark by which the individual's relationship to the absolute good can be known. For anyone to stumble upon this good in some easier manner (as by being born under favorable circumstances, in the nineteenth century for example; or through being endowed with exceptional brain power, or through being the childhood playmate of a great man, or the brother-in-law of an Apostle), so as to be a favorite of fortune with respect to it, is merely evidence that the individual is deceived; for favorites of fortune do not belong in the religious sphere. The religious address has its merit in making the way difficult; for it is the way that is decisive of the relationship, otherwise we have aestheticism. But Christianity has made the way as difficult as it is possible to make it, and it is only an illusion by which many have been blinded, that Christianity has made the way easy. It has helped men solely by confronting them with a beginning that makes everything far more difficult than it was before. If a pagan has been able merely to catch a glimpse of the absolute good, Christianity has helped men to a vision of it--by means of the absurd. When this last qualification is omitted, everything has indeed become much easier than it was in paganism. But if the point is held fast, everything is far more difficult; for it is easier to cling to a weak hope in one's own strength, than to acquire certainty by virtue of the absurd. When an aesthetic sufferer bemoans his fate and seeks solace in the ethical, the ethical really has solace for him, but first it makes him suffer more than he did before. When this consideration is omitted the ethical makes every- thing much too comfortable and easy; but in that case the ethical has also been taken in vain. If an aesthetic sufferer feels his pain ever so keenly, he may very well come to suffer more; when he sends for the ethical it first helps him from the frying-pan into the fire, so that he gets something to complain about in real earnest-and then only does it give him help. So it is also with Christianity. It requires that the individual should existentially venture all (the pathetic). This is something that a pagan can also do; he may, for example, venture everything on an immortality's perhaps. But Christianity also requires that the individual risk his thought, venturing to believe against the understanding (the dialectical). And while our serious man never arrived at the point of venturing because he demanded certainty, one thing is here certain, and that is that this is the absolute venture and the absolute risk. It may seem strenuous enough to struggle through life on the basis of the mere possibility of immortality, and to obtain a proof of the resurrection seems by comparison a tremendous help--if it were not for the fact that the very existence of this proof constitutes the greatest difficulty of all. To obtain everything by means of a mediator might seem easy in comparison with paganism, where the greatest exertion of the wise brought him but little gain; but now suppose that the very existence of a mediator constituted the very greatest difficulty of all! It seems comfortable enough to get everything by means of a gospel, were it not for the fact that the very existence of a gospel constituted the greatest difficulty. With God's help to be able to do everything, is also a comfortable privilege, were it not that being unable to do anything of oneself is the greatest of difficulties, so difficult that there are doubtless not many in each generation who can truthfully testify that they succeed even moderately in becoming conscious, day in and day out, that a human being can do nothing of himself.