“You” Shall Love the Neighbour

Saa gaae da hen og gjør det, tag Forskjelligheden og dens Lighed bort, at Du kan elske »Næsten«. Tag Forkjerlighedens Forskjel bort, at Du kan elske Næsten. Du skal derfor ikke ophøre at elske den Elskede, o langtfra. Saa var jo ogsaa det Ord »Næsten« det største Bedrag, som er opfundet, hvis Du, for at elske Næsten, skulde gjøre Begyndelsen med at opgive at elske dem, for hvem Du har Forkjerligheden. Desuden vilde det jo ogsaa være en Modsigelse, thi, da Næsten er alle Mennesker kan dog vel ingen være udelukket – skulle vi nu sige: mindst den Elskede? Nei, thi dette er Forkjerlighedens Sprog. Altsaa er det blot Forkjerligheden, der skulde tages bort – og dog vel ikke igjen anbringes i Forholdet til Næsten, saa Du med en forskruet Forkjerlighed vilde elske Næsten i Modsætning til den Elskede. Nei, som man siger til den Eenlige: agt paa Dig selv, at Du ikke føres i Selvkjerlighedens Snare, saaledes maa der siges til de tvende Elskende: agter paa, at I ikke just ved Elskov føres i Selvkjerlighedens Snare. Thi jo mere afgjørende og udelukkende Forkjerligheden slutter sig om eet eneste Menneske, jo længere er den fra at elske Næsten. Du, Mand, før ikke Din Hustrue i den Fristelse over Dig at glemme at elske Næsten; Du, Hustrue, før ikke Din Mand i denne Fristelse! De Elskende mene vel i Elskov at have det Høieste, o, men det er ikke saaledes, thi deri have de endnu ikke det Evige betrygget ved det Evige. Vel vil »Digteren« forjætte de Elskende Udødeligheden, hvis de ere ret Elskende; men hvo er da »Digteren«, hvad hjælper det med hans Borgen, han, der ikke kan borge for sig selv. Den »kongelige Lov« derimod, Kjerligheds-Budet forjætter Livet, det evige Liv, og dette Bud siger just »Du skal elske Din Næste.« Og som dette Bud vil lære ethvert Menneske, hvorledes han skal elske sig selv, saaledes vil det ogsaa lære Elskoven og Venskabet den rette Kjerlighed: bevar i at elske Dig selv Kjerlighed til Næsten, bevar i Elskov og Venskab Kjerlighed til Næsten. Det vil maaskee støde Dig – nu, Du veed jo, at der ved det Christelige altid staaer Forargelsens Mærker. Men troe det dog; troe ei, at den Lærer, der ikke udslukkede nogen rygende Tande, at han vilde udslukke nogen ædel Ild i et Menneske; troe, at han, der var Kjerlighed, netop vil lære ethvert Menneske at elske; troe, at hvis alle Digtere forenede sig i een Sang til Elskovens og Venskabets Priis, at det var Intet, hvad de havde at sige i Sammenligning med Budet »Du skal elske, Du skal elske Din Næste som Dig selv!« Lad ikke være at troe, fordi Budet næsten forarger Dig, fordi Talen ikke lyder indsmigrende som »Digterens«, der med sine Sange indynder sig i Din Lykke, men frastødende og forfærdende, som vilde den skrække Dig ud af Forkjerlighedens elskede Tilholdssted – lad derfor ikke være at troe det, betænk, at just fordi Budet er saaledes og Talen saaledes, just derfor kan Gjenstanden være Troens Gjenstand! Hengiv Dig ikke til den Indbildning, at Du kunde tinge, at Du ved at elske nogle Mennesker, Slægt og Venner, elskede Næsten – thi dette er at opgive Digteren uden at gribe det Christelige, og for at forhindre denne Tingen var det, at Talen søgte at stille Dig mellem »Digterens« Stolthed, der foragter al Tingen, og mellem den kongelige Lovs guddommelige Majestæt, der gjør al Tingen til Skyld. Nei, elsk den Elskede trofast og ømt, men lad Kjerlighed til Næsten være det helliggjørende i Eders Forenings Pagt med Gud; elsk Din Ven oprigtigt og hengivent, men lad Kjerlighed til Næsten være hvad I lære af hinanden i Venskabets Fortrolighed med Gud! See, Døden afskaffer alle Forskjelligheder, men Forkjerlighed forholder sig altid til Forskjel, dog gaaer Veien til Livet og til det Evige gjennem Døden og gjennem Forskjellighedernes Afskaffelse: derfor fører ene Kjerlighed til Næsten i Sandhed til Livet. Som Christendommens glade Budskab er indeholdt i Læren om Menneskets Slægtskab med Gud, saa er dens Opgave Menneskets Lighed med Gud. Men Gud er Kjerlighed, derfor kunne vi kun ligne Gud i at elske, som vi ogsaa kun, efter en Apostels Ord, kunne være »Guds Medarbeidere i – Kjerlighed«. Forsaavidt Du elsker den Elskede, ligner Du ikke Gud, thi for Gud er ingen Forkjerlighed, hvad Du vel mangen Gang til Din Ydmygelse, men ogsaa mangen Gang til Din Opreisning har betænkt. Forsaavidt Du elsker Din Ven, ligner Du ikke Gud, thi for Gud er ingen Forskjel. Men naar Du elsker »Næsten«, da ligner Du Gud.

Then go and do it: take away difference and the likeness belonging to it, so that you can love “the neighbour”. Take away the distinction of preferential love, so that you can love the neighbour. You are not therefore to cease loving the beloved—oh, far from it. For then the word “neighbour” would also be the greatest deception ever invented, if, in order to love the neighbour, you were to make a beginning by giving up loving those for whom you have preferential love. Besides, it would also be a contradiction; for since the neighbour is all human beings, surely no one can be excluded—shall we now say: least of all the beloved? No, for that is the language of preferential love. Thus it is only preferential love that was to be taken away—and surely not introduced again into the relation to the neighbour, so that with a distorted preferential love you would love the neighbour in opposition to the beloved. No, just as one says to the solitary person, “Take care of yourself, so that you are not led into the snare of self-love,” so one must say to the two lovers, “Take care that you are not led into the snare of self-love precisely through erotic love.” For the more decisively and exclusively preferential love closes around one single human being, the further it is from loving the neighbour. You, husband, do not lead your wife into the temptation of forgetting, on your account, to love the neighbour; you, wife, do not lead your husband into this temptation! The lovers presumably think that in erotic love they have the highest; oh, but it is not so, for in it they do not yet have the eternal secured by the eternal. “The poet” will indeed promise the lovers immortality, if they are truly lovers; but who, then, is “the poet”, and what use is his guarantee—he who cannot guarantee himself? The “royal law”, by contrast, the commandment of love, promises life, eternal life, and this commandment says precisely, “You shall love your neighbour.” And just as this commandment will teach every human being how he shall love himself, so it will also teach erotic love and friendship the right love: in loving yourself, preserve love for the neighbour; in erotic love and friendship, preserve love for the neighbour. Perhaps this will offend you—well, you know that the signs of offence always stand beside what is Christian. But believe it nevertheless; do not believe that the teacher who extinguished no smoking wick would extinguish any noble fire in a human being; believe that he who was love will precisely teach every human being to love; believe that if all poets united in one song in praise of erotic love and friendship, what they had to say would be nothing in comparison with the commandment, “You shall love; you shall love your neighbour as yourself!” Do not refrain from believing because the commandment almost offends you, because the discourse does not sound ingratiating like “the poet”, who with his songs wins his way into your happiness, but repellent and terrifying, as if it would frighten you out of preferential love’s beloved refuge—do not for that reason refrain from believing it; consider that precisely because the commandment is like this and the discourse like this, precisely for that reason the object can be an object of faith! Do not give yourself over to the fancy that you could bargain, that by loving some human beings, relatives and friends, you loved the neighbour—for this is to give up the poet without grasping what is Christian; and it was to prevent this bargaining that the discourse sought to place you between “the poet’s” pride, which despises all bargaining, and the royal law’s divine majesty, which makes all bargaining into guilt. No, love the beloved faithfully and tenderly, but let love for the neighbour be what sanctifies your union’s covenant with God; love your friend sincerely and devotedly, but let love for the neighbour be what you learn from one another in friendship’s intimacy with God! See, death abolishes all differences, but preferential love always relates to a difference; yet the way to life and to the eternal passes through death and through the abolition of differences: therefore only love for the neighbour leads in truth to life. Just as Christianity’s glad message is contained in the teaching of the human being’s kinship with God, so its task is the human being’s likeness to God. But God is love; therefore we can resemble God only in loving, just as, according to an apostle’s words, we can also only be “God’s fellow workers in—love”. Insofar as you love the beloved, you do not resemble God, for with God there is no preferential love—something you have doubtless considered many times to your humiliation, but also many times to your lifting up. Insofar as you love your friend, you do not resemble God, for with God there is no distinction. But when you love “the neighbour”, then you resemble God.

Saa gaae da hen og gjør derefter, lad Forskjellighederne fare, at Du kan elske Næsten. Ak, maaskee behøves dette end ikke at siges Dig, maaskee fandt Du i Verden ingen Elsket, ingen Ven paa Din Vei, saa Du gaaer eensomt; eller maaskee tog Gud af Din Side og gav Dig den Elskede, men Døden tog og tog hende fra Din Side, den tog igjen og tog Din Ven, men gav Dig ingen igjen, saa du nu gaaer eensomt, saa Du ingen Elsket har til at dække Din svage Side og ingen Ven ved Din høire; eller maaskee skilte Livet Eder ad, om I end bleve uforandrede – i Adskillelsens Eensomhed; ak, maaskee skilte Forandringen Eder ad, saa Du sørgende gaaer eensomt, fordi Du fandt, men fandt igjen, hvad Du fandt, forandret! Hvor trøstesløst! Ja, spørg kun »Digteren«, hvor trøstesløst det er, at leve eensomt, at have levet eensomt, uden at være elsket og uden at have nogen Elsket; spørg kun Digteren om han veed noget Andet, end at det er trøstesløst, naar Døden gaaer de Elskende imellem, eller, naar Livet skiller Ven fra Ven, eller naar Forandringen skiller dem som Fjender fra hinanden; thi vistnok elsker Digteren Eensomhed, han elsker den – for i Eensomheden at opdage Elskovens og Venskabets savnede Lykke, ligesom Den søger et mørkt Sted, der undrende vil betragte Stjernerne. Og dog, dersom det var uden egen Skyld, at et Menneske ingen Elsket fandt, og dersom han søgte, men, uden egen Skyld, forgjeves at finde en Ven, og dersom Tabet, Adskillelsen, Forandringen var uden egen Skyld: veed i saa Fald »Digteren« noget Andet, end at det er trøstesløst? Men saa er Digteren jo selv underlagt Forandring, naar han, Glædens Forkynder, paa Nødens Dag ikke veed Andet end Trøstesløshedens Klageskrig. Eller vil Du ikke kalde det Forandring, vil Du kalde det Troskab af Digteren, at han – trøstesløst sørger med den trøstesløst Sørgende: nu vel, derom ville vi ikke stride. Men hvis Du vil sammenligne denne menneskelige Trofasthed med Himlens og Evighedens, da vil Du vel selv indrømme, at den er en Forandring. Thi Himlen glæder sig ikke blot, fremfor nogen Digter, med den Glade, men Himlen sørger ikke blot med den Sørgende, nei Himlen har ny, har saligere Glæde i Beredskab for den Sørgende. Saaledes har Christendommen altid Trøst, og dens Trøst er deri forskjellig fra al menneskelig Trøst, at denne er sig bevidst kun at være en Erstatning for Tabet af Glæden: den christelige Trøst er Glæden. Menneskeligt talt er Trøst en sildigere Opfindelse: først kom Lidelsen og Smerten og Glædens Tab, og saa, bagefter, ak langt om længe kom Mennesket paa Spor efter Trøsten. Og om den Enkeltes Liv gjælder det Samme: først kommer Lidelsen og Smerten og Glædens Tab, og saa, bagefter, ak stundom langt om længe, kommer Trøsten. Men den christelige Trøst kan aldrig siges at komme bagefter, thi da den er Evighedens Trøst er den ældre end al timelig Glæde; saasnart denne Trøst kommer, kommer den med Evighedens Forspring, og opsluger ligesom Smerten, thi Smerten og Glædens Tab er det Øiebliklige – selv om dette Øieblik var Aar – er det Øieblikkelige der druknes i det Evige. Og den christelige Trøst er heller ei nogen Erstatning for Glædens Tab, da den er Glæden; al anden Glæde er dog i sidste Grund kun Trøstesløshed i Sammenligning med Christendommens Trøst. Ak, saa fuldkommen var og er Menneskets Liv ikke paa Jorden, at Evighedens Glæde kunde forkyndes ham som Glæde, han havde og han har selv forspildt det; deraf kommer det, at Evighedens Glæde kun kan forkyndes ham som Trøst. Som det menneskelige Øie ikke taaler at see Solens lys uden gjennem et dunklende Glas: saaledes kan Mennesket heller ei taale Evighedens Glæde uden gjennem dette Dunklende, at den forkyndes som Trøst. – Altsaa, hvilken Din Skjebne end var i Elskov og Venskab, hvilket end Dit Savn var, hvilket Dit Tab, hvilken Dit Livs Trøstesløshed i Fortrolighed med »Digteren«: det Høieste staaer endnu tilbage – elsk Næsten! Ham kan Du let finde, som viist blev; ham kan Du ubetinget altid finde, som viist blev; ham kan Du aldrig tabe. Thi den Elskede kan handle saaledes mod Dig, at han er tabt, og Du kan tabe en Ven; men hvad end Næsten gjør mod Dig, Du kan aldrig tabe ham. Sandt nok, Du kan ogsaa vedblive at elske den Elskede og Vennen, hvorledes De end handle mod Dig, men Du kan ikke i Sandhed vedblive at kalde dem den Elskede og Vennen, naar de, desto værre, i Sandhed have forandret sig. »Næsten« derimod kan ingen Forandring tage fra Dig, thi det er ikke »Næsten«, der holder Dig fast, men det er Din Kjerlighed, der holder »Næsten« fast; dersom Din Kjerlighed til Næsten bliver uforandret, saa bliver ogsaa Næsten uforandret ved at være til. Og Døden kan ikke berøve Dig »Næsten«, thi tager den een, saa giver Livet Dig strax een igjen. Døden kan berøve Dig en Ven, fordi Du i at elske en Ven egentlig holder sammen med Vennen; men i at elske Næsten holder Du sammen med Gud, derfor kan Døden ikke berøve Dig Næsten. – Hav derfor tabt Alt i Elskov og Venskab, hav aldrig eiet Noget af denne Lykke: Du beholder dog det Bedste tilbage i at elske Næsten.

Then go and act accordingly: let the differences go, so that you can love the neighbour. Alas, perhaps this need not even be said to you; perhaps in the world you found no beloved, no friend upon your way, so that you walk alone; or perhaps God took from your side and gave you the beloved, but death took and took her from your side, took again and took your friend, but gave you no one in return, so that now you walk alone, so that you have no beloved to cover your weak side and no friend at your right hand; or perhaps life separated you, although you both remained unchanged—in the loneliness of separation; alas, perhaps change separated you, so that you walk alone in sorrow because you found, but found again what you had found, changed! How comfortless! Yes, just ask “the poet” how comfortless it is to live alone, to have lived alone, without being loved and without having any beloved; just ask the poet whether he knows anything other than that it is comfortless when death comes between the lovers, or when life separates friend from friend, or when change separates them from one another as enemies; for the poet certainly loves solitude, he loves it—in order in solitude to discover the missed happiness of erotic love and friendship, just as someone seeks a dark place who wishes to contemplate the stars in wonder. And yet, if it was without his own fault that a human being found no beloved, and if he sought, but without his own fault sought in vain, to find a friend, and if the loss, the separation, the change was without his own fault: does “the poet” in that case know anything other than that it is comfortless? But then the poet himself is subject to change, when he, the proclaimer of joy, on the day of need knows nothing but comfortlessness’s cry of lamentation. Or will you not call it change; will you call it faithfulness in the poet that he—comfortlessly sorrows with the comfortlessly sorrowing person? Well then, we will not dispute that. But if you will compare this human faithfulness with heaven’s and eternity’s, then you yourself will surely concede that it is a change. For heaven not only rejoices with the joyful person, beyond any poet; heaven also does not merely sorrow with the sorrowful person: no, heaven has new, has more blessed joy ready for the sorrowful person. Thus Christianity always has consolation, and its consolation differs from all human consolation in this: human consolation is conscious of being only a replacement for the loss of joy; Christian consolation is joy. Humanly speaking, consolation is a later invention: first came suffering and pain and the loss of joy, and then, afterwards—alas, after a long, long time—the human being came upon the track of consolation. And the same holds for the individual’s life: first come suffering and pain and the loss of joy, and then, afterwards—alas, sometimes after a long, long time—comes consolation. But Christian consolation can never be said to come afterwards, for since it is eternity’s consolation, it is older than all temporal joy; as soon as this consolation comes, it comes with eternity’s head start, and, as it were, swallows up the pain; for pain and the loss of joy are what belongs to the moment—even if this moment were years—are the momentary, which is drowned in the eternal. Nor is Christian consolation any replacement for the loss of joy, since it is joy; all other joy is nevertheless, at bottom, only comfortlessness in comparison with Christianity’s consolation. Alas, the human being’s life on earth was not and is not so perfect that eternity’s joy could be proclaimed to him as joy; he himself had and has forfeited that; hence eternity’s joy can be proclaimed to him only as consolation. Just as the human eye cannot bear to see the sun’s light except through a darkening glass, so the human being cannot bear eternity’s joy except through this darkening circumstance: that it is proclaimed as consolation. Thus, whatever your fate was in erotic love and friendship, whatever your deprivation was, whatever your loss, whatever your life’s comfortlessness in intimacy with “the poet”: the highest still remains—love the neighbour! Him you can easily find, as was shown; him you can unconditionally always find, as was shown; him you can never lose. For the beloved can act towards you in such a way that he is lost, and you can lose a friend; but whatever the neighbour does towards you, you can never lose him. True enough, you can also continue to love the beloved and the friend, however they act towards you; but you cannot in truth continue to call them the beloved and the friend when, unfortunately, they have in truth changed. “The neighbour”, by contrast, no change can take from you; for it is not “the neighbour” who holds you fast, but your love that holds “the neighbour” fast; if your love for the neighbour remains unchanged, then the neighbour also remains unchanged by existing. And death cannot deprive you of “the neighbour”, for if it takes one, life immediately gives you one again. Death can deprive you of a friend, because in loving a friend you are, properly speaking, holding together with the friend; but in loving the neighbour you hold together with God, and therefore death cannot deprive you of the neighbour. Thus, even if you have lost everything in erotic love and friendship, even if you have never possessed anything of this happiness: you nevertheless retain the best in loving the neighbour.

Kjerlighed til Næsten har nemlig Evighedens Fuldkommenheder. Er det og vel en Fuldkommenhed ved Kjerligheden, at dens Gjenstand er det Fortrinlige, det Udmærkede, det Eneste? Det troede jeg var en Fuldkommenhed ved Gjenstanden, og denne Gjenstandens Fuldkommenhed som en spidsfindig Mistanke mod Kjerlighedens Fuldkommenhed. Er det en fortrinlig Egenskab ved Din Kjerlighed, om den kun kan elske det Overordentlige, det Sjeldne? Jeg troede, det var et Fortrin ved det Overordentlige og det Sjeldne, at det er det Overordentlige og Sjeldne, men ikke ved Kjerligheden. Og er Du ikke ogsaa af samme Mening? Thi har Du aldrig tænkt over Guds Kjerlighed; dersom da det var Kjerlighedens Fortrin, at elske det Overordentlige, saa var Gud, hvis jeg saa tør sige, i Forlegenhed, thi for ham er det Overordentlige slet ikke til. Det Fortrin, kun at kunne elske det Overordentlige, er altsaa snarere som en Anklage, ikke mod det Overordentlige, heller ei mod Kjerligheden, men mod den Kjerlighed, der kun kan elske det Overordentlige. Eller er det et Fortrin ved et Menneskes kjælne Befindende, at han kun kan føle sig vel paa eet eneste Sted i Verden, omgiven af enhver Begunstigelse? Naar Du seer et Menneske, der saaledes har indrettet sig i Livet, hvad er det saa Du priser? Dog vel Indretningens Beqvemmelighed. Men har Du ikke lagt Mærke til, at det virkeligt er saa, at hvert Ord i Din Lovtale over denne Herlighed, egentlig lyder som en Spot over den Stakkel, der kun kan leve i denne herlige Omgivelse? Altsaa Gjenstandens Fuldkommenhed er ikke Kjerlighedens Fuldkommenhed. Og netop fordi »Næsten« ingen af de Fuldkommenheder har, som den Elskede, Vennen, den Beundrede, den Dannede, den Sjeldne, den Overordentlige i saa høi Grad har, netop derfor har Kjerlighed til Næsten alle de Fuldkommenheder, som Kjerligheden til den Elskede, Vennen, den Dannede, den Beundrede, den Sjeldne, den Overordentlige ikke har. Lad da Verden stride saa meget den vil om, hvilken Kjerlighedens Gjenstand der er den fuldkomneste: derom kan der aldrig være Strid, at Kjerlighed til Næsten er den fuldkomneste Kjerlighed. Al anden Kjerlighed har derfor og den Ufuldkommenhed, at der er to Spørgsmaal og forsaavidt ogsaa nogen Tvetungethed: der er først Spørgsmaal om Gjenstanden og saa om Kjerligheden, eller der er dog baade Spørgsmaal om Gjenstanden og Kjerligheden. Men betræffende Kjerlighed til Næsten er der kun eet Spørgsmaal, det om Kjerligheden, og der er kun eet Evighedens Svar: denne er Kjerligheden; thi denne Kjerlighed til Næsten forholder sig ikke som en Art til andre Arter af Kjerlighed. Elskov bestemmes ved Gjenstanden, Venskab bestemmes ved Gjenstanden, kun Kjerlighed til Næsten bestemmes ved Kjerligheden. Da »Næsten« nemlig er ethvert Menneske, ubetinget ethvert Menneske, saa er jo alle Forskjelligheder borttagne fra Gjenstanden, og denne Kjerlighed altsaa just kjendelig paa, at dens Gjenstand er uden nogen Forskjellighedens nærmere Bestemmelse, hvilket vil sige, at denne Kjerlighed kun kjendes paa Kjerligheden. Er dette ikke den høieste Fuldkommenhed! Thi forsaavidt Kjerligheden kan kjendes paa og maa kjendes paa noget Andet, saa er dette Andet, i selve Forholdet, ligesom en Mistanke til Kjerligheden, at den ikke er omfattende nok og forsaavidt heller ei i evig Forstand uendelig; dette Andet er et Kjerligheden selv ubevidst Anlæg til Sygelighed. I denne Mistanke boer derfor skjult den Angest, som gjør Elskov og Venskab afhængig af sin Gjenstand, den Angest, som kan antænde Iversygen, den Angest, som kan bringe til Fortvivlelse. Men Kjerlighed til Næsten er uden Forholdets Mistanke, og kan derfor heller ikke blive Mistænksomhed i den Elskende. Dog er denne Kjerlighed ikke stolt uafhængig af sin Gjenstand, dens Ligelighed fremkommer ikke derved, at Kjerligheden stolt vender tilbage i sig selv ved Ligegyldighed mod Gjenstanden, nei, Ligeligheden fremkommer derved, at Kjerligheden ydmygt vender sig ud efter, omfattende Alle, og dog elskende Hver især, men Ingen særligen.

For love for the neighbour has eternity’s perfections. Is it indeed a perfection of love that its object is the excellent, the distinguished, the unique? I thought that was a perfection of the object, and that this perfection of the object was like a subtle suspicion against love’s perfection. Is it an excellent quality of your love if it can love only the extraordinary, the rare? I thought it was an excellence of the extraordinary and the rare that it is the extraordinary and the rare, but not an excellence of love. And are you not of the same opinion? For have you never thought about God’s love? If, then, it were love’s excellence to love the extraordinary, God would, if I may speak so, be in a difficulty, for to him the extraordinary does not exist at all. The excellence of being able to love only the extraordinary is thus rather like an accusation, not against the extraordinary, nor against love either, but against the love that can love only the extraordinary. Or is it an excellence of a human being’s pampered state of well-being that he can feel well only in one single place in the world, surrounded by every favourable circumstance? When you see a human being who has arranged his life in this way, what is it, then, that you praise? Surely the comfort of the arrangement. But have you not noticed that it really is so: every word in your praise of this splendour actually sounds like mockery of the poor creature who can live only in these splendid surroundings? Thus the perfection of the object is not the perfection of love. And precisely because “the neighbour” has none of the perfections which the beloved, the friend, the admired person, the cultivated person, the rare person, the extraordinary person has to so high a degree, precisely for that reason love for the neighbour has all the perfections which love for the beloved, the friend, the cultivated person, the admired person, the rare person, the extraordinary person does not have. Then let the world dispute as much as it will about which object of love is the most perfect: there can never be any dispute about this, that love for the neighbour is the most perfect love. All other love therefore also has this imperfection: that there are two questions and, to that extent, also some double-tonguedness; there is first the question of the object and then of love, or at any rate there is a question of both the object and love. But concerning love for the neighbour there is only one question, that of love, and there is only one answer of eternity: this is love; for this love for the neighbour does not stand as one kind alongside other kinds of love. Erotic love is determined by the object; friendship is determined by the object; only love for the neighbour is determined by love. For since “the neighbour” is every human being, unconditionally every human being, all differences have indeed been taken away from the object, and this love is therefore recognisable precisely by its object’s having no more specific determination of difference—which is to say that this love is known only by love. Is this not the highest perfection! For insofar as love can be known by, and must be known by, something else, this something else, within the relation itself, is like a suspicion concerning love: that it is not comprehensive enough and to that extent is not infinite in the eternal sense either; this something else is a predisposition to morbidity of which love itself is unaware. In this suspicion therefore dwells, hidden, the anxiety that makes erotic love and friendship dependent upon their object, the anxiety that can kindle jealousy, the anxiety that can bring one to despair. But love for the neighbour is without the relation’s suspicion, and therefore cannot become suspiciousness in the loving person either. Yet this love is not proudly independent of its object; its evenness does not arise through love’s proudly turning back into itself in indifference towards the object; no, its evenness arises through love’s humbly turning outwards, embracing all and yet loving each individually, but no one specially.

Lad os tænke paa, hvad der i den foregaaende Tale blev udviklet om, at det, at Kjerligheden i et Menneske er ham en Trang, er Udtrykket for Rigdom. Jo dybere altsaa denne Trang er, desto større Rigdom; er Trangen uendelig, da er Rigdommen det ogsaa. Naar nu Kjerlighedens Trang i et Menneske er til at elske een Eneste, saa maa man, selv om man indrømmer, at denne Trang er en Rigdom, dog derhos sige, at han virkeligen trænger til dette Menneske. Naar derimod Kjerlighedens Trang i et Menneske er til at elske Alle, da er den en Trang, og den er saa mægtig, at det er, som maatte den selv næsten kunne frembringe sin Gjenstand. Eftertrykket ligger i det første Tilfælde paa Gjenstandens Særlighed, i det andet Tilfælde paa Trangens Væsentlighed, og kun i denne sidste Forstand er Trang et Udtryk for Rigdom; og kun i det sidste Tilfælde forholder Trangen og Gjenstanden sig i uendelig Forstand ligeligt til hinanden, thi det første det bedste Menneske, ethvert Menneske er Næsten, eller, der er i særlig Forstand ingen Gjenstand, medens i uendelig Forstand ethvert Menneske er Gjenstanden. Naar En føler Trang til at tale med eet eneste bestemt Menneske, saa trænger han egentligen til dette Menneske; men naar Trangen i ham til at tale er saa stor, at han maa tale, om man saa satte ham hen i en øde Ørk, om man satte ham i eensomt Fængsel, naar Trangen er saa stor, at ethvert Menneske er ham Den, han ønsker at tale til: da er Trangen en Rigdom. Og Den, i hvem Kjerlighed til Næsten er, i ham er Kjerligheden en Trang, den dybeste; han trænger ikke til Menneskene for dog at have Nogen at elske, men han trænger til at elske Menneskene. Dog er der intet Stolt eller Hovmodigt i denne Rigdom, thi Gud er Mellembestemmelsen, og Evighedens »skal« binder og styrer den mægtige Trang, at den ikke farer vild og bliver til Stolthed. Men i Gjenstanden er der ingen Grændse, thi »Næsten« er alle Mennesker, ubetinget ethvert Menneske.

Let us think of what was developed in the preceding discourse: that love’s being a need in a human being is the expression of wealth. Thus the deeper this need, the greater the wealth; if the need is infinite, then the wealth is also. Now when the need of love in a human being is to love one single person, then, even if one grants that this need is a wealth, one must nevertheless also say that he really needs this human being. When, by contrast, the need of love in a human being is to love all, then it is a need, and it is so powerful that it is as if it must almost itself be able to bring forth its object. In the first case the emphasis lies upon the object’s particularity; in the second case upon the need’s essential character; and only in this latter sense is need an expression of wealth; and only in the latter case do the need and the object relate evenly to one another in the infinite sense, for the first human being one happens upon, every human being, is the neighbour; or, in a particular sense there is no object, whereas in the infinite sense every human being is the object. When someone feels a need to speak with one single, particular human being, then he actually needs this human being; but when the need in him to speak is so great that he must speak, even if one were to set him down in a desolate wilderness, even if one were to place him in solitary imprisonment, when the need is so great that every human being is for him the one to whom he wishes to speak: then the need is a wealth. And in the person in whom there is love for the neighbour, love is a need, the deepest need; he does not need human beings in order, after all, to have someone to love, but he needs to love human beings. Yet there is nothing proud or arrogant in this wealth, for God is the mediating term, and eternity’s “shall” binds and guides the powerful need, so that it does not go astray and become pride. But in the object there is no limit, for “the neighbour” is all human beings, unconditionally every human being.

Den, der i Sandhed elsker »Næsten«, elsker derfor ogsaa sin Fjende. Denne Forskjel »Ven eller Fjende« er en Forskjel i Kjerlighedens Gjenstand, men Kjerlighed til Næsten har jo den Gjenstand, som er uden Forskjel, Næsten er den aldeles ukjendelige Forskjellighed mellem Menneske og Menneske, eller er den evige Lighed for Gud – denne Lighed har Fjenden ogsaa. Man mener, at det er et Menneske umuligt at elske sin Fjende, ak, thi Fjender kunne jo neppe taale at see hinanden. Nu vel, saa luk Øiet – saa ligner Fjenden aldeles Næsten; luk Øiet, og husk paa Budet, at Du skal elske, saa elsker Du – Din Fjende, nei, saa elsker Du Næsten, thi, at han er Din Fjende, seer Du jo ikke. Naar Du nemlig lukker Øiet, da seer Du ikke Jordlivets Forskjelligheder, men Fjendskab er ogsaa en af Jordlivets Forskjelligheder. Og naar Du lukker Øiet, saa adspredes og forvirres Dit Sind ikke paa samme Tid, som Du skal høre efter Budets Ord. Naar da Dit Sind ikke forvirres og adspredes ved at see til Gjenstanden for Din Kjerlighed og Gjenstandens Forskjellighed, saa bliver Du lutter Øre for Budets Ord, som talte det ene og alene til Dig, at »Du« skal elske Næsten. See da er Du paa Fuldkommenhedens Vei til at elske Næsten, naar Dit Øie er lukket og Du er bleven lutter Øre for Budet.

The person who in truth loves “the neighbour” therefore also loves his enemy. This difference, “friend or enemy”, is a difference in love’s object; but love for the neighbour has precisely the object that is without difference: the neighbour is the wholly indiscernible difference between human being and human being, or is eternal equality before God—this equality the enemy also has. People think it impossible for a human being to love his enemy; alas, for enemies can scarcely bear to see one another. Well then, close your eye—then the enemy looks entirely like the neighbour; close your eye, and remember the commandment that you shall love, and then you love—your enemy? No, then you love the neighbour, for you do not see that he is your enemy. For when you close your eye, you do not see the differences of earthly life; but enmity is also one of the differences of earthly life. And when you close your eye, your mind is not distracted and confused at the same time as you are to listen to the commandment’s words. When, then, your mind is not confused and distracted by looking at the object of your love and the object’s difference, you become all ear for the commandment’s words, as if it spoke solely and exclusively to you, that “you” shall love the neighbour. See, then you are on the way of perfection towards loving the neighbour, when your eye is closed and you have become all ear for the commandment.

Det er jo og i Sandhed saa (hvad da allerede ligger i det Udviklede, hvor det vistes, at Næsten er den rene Aands-Bestemmelse), »Næsten« seer man kun med lukket Øie eller ved at see fra Forskjellighederne. Det sandselige Øie seer altid Forskjellighederne og seer til Forskjellighederne. Derfor raaber jordisk Kløgt tidlig og sildig: »see Dig for, hvem Du elsker.« Ak, skal man i Sandhed elske Næsten, da gjælder det: see Dig for Alt ikke for; thi denne Klogskab i Forhold til at prøve Gjenstanden vil netop bevirke, at Du aldrig faaer »Næsten« at see, fordi han jo er ethvert Menneske, det første det bedste, ganske iblinde taget. »Digteren« foragter Klogskabens seende Blindhed, der lærer, at man skal see sig for hvem man elsker, han lærer, at Kjerlighed gjør blind; paa en gaadefuld, uforklarlig Maade skal, efter Digterens Mening, den Elskende finde sin Gjenstand eller blive forelsket og bliver saa – blind af Kjerlighed, blind for enhver Feil, enhver Ufuldkommenhed hos den Elskede, blind for alt Andet end denne Elskede, – men dog vel ikke blind for, at denne er den eneste i hele Verden. Naar saa er, gjør jo vistnok Elskov et Menneske blind, men den gjør ham tillige meget nøieseende til ikke at forvexle noget andet Menneske med denne Eneste, den gjør ham altsaa blind i Forhold til denne Elskede ved at lære ham at gjøre en uhyre Forskjel mellem denne Eneste og alle andre Mennesker. Men Kjerlighed til »Næsten« gjør et Menneske i dybeste og ædleste og saligste Forstand blind, saa han blindt elsker ethvert Menneske, ligesom Elskeren elsker den Elskede.

For it is also in truth so—as is already contained in what has been developed, where it was shown that the neighbour is the pure determination of spirit—one sees “the neighbour” only with a closed eye, or by looking away from the differences. The sensory eye always sees the differences and looks to the differences. Therefore earthly shrewdness cries early and late, “Look carefully at whom you love.” Alas, if one is truly to love the neighbour, the rule is: above all, do not look carefully; for this prudence in relation to examining the object will produce precisely the result that you never come to see “the neighbour”, because he is indeed every human being, the first one who happens along, taken entirely blindly. “The poet” despises prudence’s seeing blindness, which teaches that one should look carefully at whom one loves; he teaches that love makes blind. In an enigmatic, inexplicable manner, according to the poet’s opinion, the lover is to find his object or fall in love, and then becomes—blind from love, blind to every fault, every imperfection in the beloved, blind to everything other than this beloved—but surely not blind to this person’s being the only one in the whole world. When this is so, erotic love certainly does make a human being blind, but it also makes him very sharp-sighted about not confusing any other human being with this only one; thus it makes him blind in relation to this beloved by teaching him to make an immense distinction between this only one and all other human beings. But love for “the neighbour” makes a human being blind in the deepest and noblest and most blessed sense, so that he blindly loves every human being, just as the lover loves the beloved.

Kjerlighed til »Næsten« har Evighedens Fuldkommenheder – deraf kommer det maaskee, at den stundom saa lidet synes at passe ind i Jordlivets Forhold, i det Verdsliges timelige Forskjellighed, at den saa let bliver miskjendt og udsat for Had, at det i ethvert Tilfælde er meget utaknemmeligt at elske Næsten.

Love for “the neighbour” has eternity’s perfections—perhaps this is why it sometimes seems to fit so little into the relations of earthly life, into the temporal difference of the worldly, why it so easily becomes misunderstood and exposed to hatred, why in any case it is a very thankless thing to love the neighbour.

Selv Den, der ellers ikke er tilbøielig til at prise Gud og Christendommen, han gjør det dog, naar han med Gysen betænker dette Forfærdelige, hvorledes i Hedenskabet Jordlivets Forskjellighed, eller hvorledes Kaste-Inddelingen umenneskeligt skiller Menneske fra Menneske, hvorledes denne Ugudelighed umenneskeligt lærer det ene Menneske at fornegte Slægtskabet med det andet, lærer ham formasteligt og afsindigt at sige om det andet Menneske, at han er ikke til, er »ikke født«. Da priser endog han Christendommen, der har frelst Menneskene fra det Onde ved dybt og evigt uforglemmeligt at indprente Slægtskabet mellem Menneske og Menneske, fordi Slægtskabet er betrygget ved hver Enkelts ligelige Slægtskab med og Forhold til Gud i Christo; fordi den christelige Lære ligeligt henvender sig til hver Enkelt, lærer ham, at Gud har skabt ham og Christus forløst ham; fordi den christelige Lære kalder hvert Menneske afsides og siger til ham: »luk Din Dør og beed til Gud, saa har Du det Høieste et Menneske kan have, elsk Din Frelser, saa har Du Alt baade i Liv og Død, og lad saa Forskjellighederne være der, de gjøre hverken fra eller til.« Mon vel og Den, der fra Bjergets Tinde seer Skyerne under sig, mon han forstyrres af dette Syn, mon han forstyrres af det Tordenveir, der raser nede ved Jordens lave Egne? Og saa høit har Christendommen sat ethvert, ubetinget ethvert Menneske – thi for Christus, saa lidet som for Guds Forsyn, er der intet Tal, ingen Mængde, de Utallige ere for ham talte, ere lutter Enkelte; saa høit har Christendommen sat ethvert Menneske, for at han ikke skulde tage Skade paa sin Sjel ved at hovmode sig i eller sukke under Jordlivets Forskjellighed. Thi borttaget Forskjelligheden har Christendommen ikke, saalidet som Christus selv vilde eller vilde bede Gud at tage Disciplene ud af Verden – og dette bliver jo Eet og det Samme. Der har derfor aldrig i Christenheden, saa lidet som i Hedenskabet, levet noget Menneske uden at være iført eller være overklædt med Jordlivets Forskjellighed; saa lidet som den Christne lever eller kan leve uden Legeme, ligesaa lidet uden Jordlivets Forskjellighed, hvilken Enhver ved Fødsel, ved Stand, ved Vilkaar, ved Dannelse o. s. v. særligen tilhører – det rene Menneske er Ingen af os. Christendommen er for alvorlig til at fable om det rene Menneske, den vil kun gjøre Menneskene rene. Christendommen er ikke noget Eventyr, om end Saligheden, som den forjætter, er herligere end hvad Eventyret eier; den er ei heller et sindrigt Hjernespind, der skal være vanskeligt at forstaae, og som ogsaa fordrer een Betingelse, et ørkesløst Hoved og en tom Hjerne.

Even the person who is otherwise not inclined to praise God and Christianity nevertheless does so when he shudders to consider this terrible thing: how, in paganism, the difference of earthly life, or how division into castes, inhumanly separates human being from human being; how this ungodliness inhumanly teaches one human being to deny kinship with another, teaches him presumptuously and madly to say of the other human being that he does not exist, is “not born”. Then even he praises Christianity, which has saved human beings from that evil by impressing upon them deeply and eternally unforgettably the kinship between human being and human being, because the kinship is secured by each individual’s equal kinship with, and relation to, God in Christ; because Christian teaching addresses each individual equally, teaches him that God has created him and Christ redeemed him; because Christian teaching calls every human being aside and says to him, “Close your door and pray to God, and then you have the highest a human being can have; love your Saviour, and then you have everything both in life and in death; and then let the differences be there: they make neither more nor less.” Surely the person who from the mountain’s summit sees the clouds beneath him—surely he is not disturbed by this sight, surely he is not disturbed by the thunderstorm raging down in the earth’s low regions? And Christianity has placed every human being, unconditionally every human being, so high—for there is no number, no crowd for Christ, any more than for God’s providence; the countless are for him counted, are nothing but individuals; Christianity has placed every human being so high so that he should not suffer harm in his soul by growing arrogant in, or sighing beneath, the difference of earthly life. For Christianity has not taken away the difference, any more than Christ himself wished, or wished to ask God, to take the disciples out of the world—and these indeed amount to one and the same thing. Therefore there has never lived a human being in Christendom, any more than in paganism, without being clothed or covered over with the difference of earthly life; just as little as the Christian lives or can live without a body, just as little can he live without the difference of earthly life, to which each particularly belongs by birth, by station, by circumstances, by cultivation, and so forth—none of us is the pure human being. Christianity is too serious to spin fables about the pure human being; it wishes only to make human beings pure. Christianity is no fairy tale, although the blessedness it promises is more glorious than what the fairy tale possesses; nor is it an ingenious fantasy which is supposed to be difficult to understand and which also requires one condition: an idle head and an empty brain.

Altsaa, hiin Hedenskabets Rædsel har Christendommen, og eengang for alle, forjaget; men Jordlivets Forskjellighed har den ikke borttaget. Denne maa vedblive, saa længe Timeligheden vedbliver, og maa vedblive at friste hvert Menneske, som indkommer i Verden; thi ved at være Christen bliver han ikke fritagen fra Forskjelligheden, men ved at seire i Forskjellighedens Fristelse bliver han Christen. I den saakaldte Christenhed frister derfor endnu bestandigt Jordlivets Forskjel, ak, den maaskee mere end frister, saa den Ene hovmoder sig, den Anden trodsigt misunder. Begge Dele er jo Oprør, er Oprør mod det Christelige. Sandeligen, langt fra os være at bestyrke Nogen i den formastelige Vildfarelse, at kun de Mægtige og de Fornemme ere de Skyldige; thi dersom de Ringe og de Afmægtige kun trodsigt eftertragte Jordlivets dem negtede Fortrin, istedenfor ydmygt at eftertragte det Christeliges salige Ligelighed, da er dette ogsaa at tage Skade paa sin Sjel. Blind er Christendommen ikke, eensidig ei heller; den seer med Evighedens Ro ligeligt alle Jordlivets Forskjelligheder, men den holder ikke splidagtigt sammen med nogen eneste; den seer, og visseligen med Bedrøvelse, at jordisk Travlhed og Verdslighedens falske Propheter i Christendommens Navn ville fremkogle dette Skin, som var det blot de Mægtige, der kunde forsee sig paa Jordlivets Forskjellighed, som var den Ringe berettiget til at gjøre Alt for at naae Ligheden – blot ikke ved Hjælp af at blive Christen i Alvor og Sandhed. Mon man ad den Vei skulde komme den christelige Lighed og Ligelighed nærmere?

Thus Christianity has driven away that horror of paganism, and once for all; but it has not taken away the difference of earthly life. This must continue as long as temporality continues, and must continue to tempt every human being who enters the world; for by being a Christian he is not exempted from difference, but by conquering in the temptation of difference he becomes a Christian. In so-called Christendom, therefore, the distinction of earthly life still continually tempts; alas, perhaps it more than tempts, so that one person grows arrogant, the other defiantly envies. Both are indeed rebellion, are rebellion against what is Christian. Truly, far be it from us to strengthen anyone in the presumptuous error that only the powerful and the distinguished are the guilty ones; for if the lowly and the powerless merely defiantly covet the advantages of earthly life denied to them, instead of humbly seeking the blessed equality of what is Christian, then this too is to suffer harm in one’s soul. Christianity is not blind, nor is it one-sided; with eternity’s tranquillity it sees all the differences of earthly life equally, but it does not divisively join itself to any single one; it sees, and certainly with sorrow, that earthly busyness and worldliness’s false prophets wish, in Christianity’s name, to conjure up this appearance: as if only the powerful could become fixated upon the difference of earthly life, as if the lowly person were entitled to do everything to attain equality—only not by the help of becoming a Christian in earnest and in truth. Could one by that way come nearer to Christian equality and even-handedness?

Christendommen vil da ikke tage Forskjelligheden bort, hverken Fornemhedens eller Ringhedens; men paa den anden Side, der er ingen timelig Forskjellighed, ikke den i Verdens Øine billigste og antageligste, med hvilken Christendommen partisk vil holde. Om den timelige Forskjellighed, paa hvilken et Menneske forseer sig ved at klamre sig verdsligt fast til den, er en i Verdens Øine himmelraabende og oprørende, eller en i Verdens Øine uskyldig og elskværdig, beskæftiger slet ikke Christendommen, der jo ikke gjør verdsligt Forskjel, ikke seer paa det, ved hvilket et Menneske tager Skade paa sin Sjel, men paa det, at han tager Skade paa sin Sjel – ved en Ubetydelighed? maaskee; men det, at tage Skade paa sin Sjel, er visselig ingen Ubetydelighed. Mellem Fornemheden og Ringhedens Yderpunkter ligger der en stor Mængde af nærmere Bestemmelser i verdslig Forskjellighed; men der er ingen af disse nærmere og derfor vel mindre iøinefaldende Forskjelligheder, med hvilke Christendommen gjør en Undtagelse. Forskjelligheden er som et uhyre Net, i hvilket Timeligheden holdes, Maskerne i dette Net ere igjen forskjellige, det ene Menneske synes mere fanget og bundet i Tilværelsen end det andet; men al denne Forskjellighed, Forskjelligheden mellem Forskjel og Forskjel, den sammenlignende Forskjellighed beskæftiger slet ikke Christendommen, ikke det mindste, en saadan Beskæftigelse og Bekymring er nemlig igjen Verdslighed. Christendom og Verdslighed komme aldrig til at forstaae hinanden, selv om det et Øieblik – for en mindre Nøieregnende kan see skuffende ud. At skaffe Lighed tilveie i Verden mellem Menneskene, at ligne Timelighedens Vilkaar, om muligt, ligeligt paa Menneskene: er jo Noget der i saa høi Grad beskæftiger Verdsligheden. Men selv, hvad man tør kalde, den velmenende verdslige Stræben i denne Henseende træffer aldrig sammen i Forstaaelse med Christendommen. Den velmenende Verdslighed holder sig fromt, hvis man saa vil, overbeviist om, at der maa være eet timeligt Vilkaar, een jordisk Forskjellighed – man finde den nu ud ved Hjælp af Beregninger og Oversigter, eller paa hvilken som helst anden Maade – der er Ligeligheden. Naar dette Vilkaar blev det eneste for alle Mennesker: saa var Ligheden tilveiebragt. Men deels lader dette sig ikke gjøre, og deels er dog Alles Lighed ved at have fælles og samme timelige Forskjellighed ingenlunde den christelige Ligelighed; den verdslige Lighed, hvis den var mulig, er ikke den christelige Ligelighed. Og fuldkomment at tilveiebringe den verdslige Lighed er en Umulighed. Det tilstaaer egentlig den velmenende Verdslighed selv; den fryder sig, naar det lykkes at gjøre det timelige Vilkaar lige for Flere og Flere, men den erkjender selv, at dens Stræben er et fromt Ønske, at det er en uhyre Opgave, den har sat sig, at det har lange Udsigter – hvis den ret forstod sig selv, vilde den indsee, at dette aldrig naaes i Timeligheden, at, selv om denne Stræben fortsættes gjennem Aartusinder, den dog aldrig naaer Maalet. Christendommen derimod er ved Hjælp af Evighedens Gjenvei strax ved Maalet: den lader alle Forskjellighederne bestaae, men lærer Evighedens Ligelighed. Den lærer, at enhver skal opløfte sig over den jordiske Forskjellighed. Agt vel paa, hvor ligeligt den taler, den siger ikke, at det er den Ringe, der skal opløfte sig, medens den Mægtige maaskee skulde nedstige fra sin Ophøiethed, ak nei, en saadan Tale er ikke ligelig; og den Lighed, der tilveiebringes ved at den Mægtige stiger ned og den Ringe stiger op, er ikke den christelige Ligelighed, er verdslig Lighed. Nei, om det saa var Den, der staaer øverst, om det saa var Kongen, han skal opløfte sig over Ophøiethedens Forskjel, og Tiggeren skal opløfte sig over Ringhedens Forskjel. Christendommen lader alle Jordlivets Forskjelligheder bestaae, men i Kjerlighedsbudet, i at elske Næsten er netop indeholdt denne Ligelighed i at opløfte sig over Jordlivets Forskjellighed.

Christianity, then, does not wish to take difference away, neither the difference of high rank nor that of lowliness; but on the other hand there is no temporal difference, not the fairest and most acceptable in the world’s eyes, with which Christianity will take sides. Whether the temporal difference upon which a human being becomes fixated by clinging to it in a worldly way is, in the world’s eyes, outrageous and revolting, or is, in the world’s eyes, innocent and lovable, does not occupy Christianity at all; for it makes no worldly distinction, does not look at that by which a human being suffers harm in his soul, but at the fact that he suffers harm in his soul—through an insignificant thing? Perhaps; but suffering harm in one’s soul is certainly no insignificant thing. Between the extremes of high rank and lowliness lies a great multitude of more specific determinations within worldly difference; but there are none of these more specific, and therefore perhaps less conspicuous, differences for which Christianity makes an exception. Difference is like an immense net in which temporality is held; the meshes in this net are in turn different, one human being seems more caught and bound in existence than another; but all this difference, the difference between difference and difference, comparative difference, does not occupy Christianity at all, not in the least; such occupation and concern are themselves, in fact, worldliness again. Christianity and worldliness never come to understand one another, even if for a moment—to someone less exacting—it can look deceptively so. To bring about equality in the world between human beings, to distribute temporality’s conditions, if possible, equally among human beings: this is indeed something that occupies worldliness to so high a degree. But even what one may call well-meaning worldly striving in this respect never meets Christianity in a common understanding. Well-meaning worldliness holds itself piously convinced, if one wishes to put it so, that there must be one temporal condition, one earthly difference—whether one now discovers it with the help of calculations and surveys, or in any other way whatever—which is equality. When this condition became the only one for all human beings, equality would have been brought about. But partly this cannot be done, and partly the equality of all through having in common the same temporal difference is by no means Christian equality; worldly equality, if it were possible, is not Christian equality. And to bring worldly equality about completely is an impossibility. Well-meaning worldliness itself actually concedes this; it rejoices when it succeeds in making the temporal condition equal for more and more people, but it itself acknowledges that its striving is a pious wish, that it has set itself an immense task, that the prospects are distant—if it rightly understood itself, it would see that this is never attained in temporality, that even if this striving were continued through millennia, it would nevertheless never attain the goal. Christianity, by contrast, with the help of eternity’s shortcut, is immediately at the goal: it lets all the differences remain, but teaches eternity’s equality. It teaches that everyone shall raise himself above earthly difference. Pay careful attention to how equally it speaks: it does not say that it is the lowly person who shall raise himself, while the powerful person should perhaps descend from his elevation; alas, no, such speech is not equal; and the equality brought about by the powerful person’s descending and the lowly person’s ascending is not Christian equality, but worldly equality. No, even if it were the person standing highest, even if it were the king, he shall raise himself above the difference of elevation, and the beggar shall raise himself above the difference of lowliness. Christianity lets all the differences of earthly life remain, but in the commandment of love, in loving the neighbour, precisely this equality is contained: raising oneself above the difference of earthly life.

Fordi dette nu er saaledes, fordi den Ringe lige saa fuldt som den Fornemme og Mægtige, fordi ethvert Menneske paa sin forskjellige Maade kan tabe sin Sjel ved ikke christeligt at ville opløfte sig over Jordlivets Forskjellighed, ak og fordi det skeer paa begge og paa de forskjelligste Maader: derfor er det, at ville elske Næsten, ofte udsat for dobbelt ja fleerdobbelt Fare. Enhver, der fortvivlet har klamret sig til een eller anden af Jordlivets Forskjelligheder, saa han har sit Liv i den – ikke i Gud, han fordrer ogsaa af Enhver, der hører til samme Forskjellighed, at han med ham skal holde sammen – ikke i det Gode (thi det Gode danner intet Sammenhold, forener hverken to eller hundrede eller alle Mennesker i Sammenhold), men i et ugudeligt Sammenhold mod det Almene-Menneskelige; den Fortvivlede kalder det Forræderie, at ville have Fællesskab med andre, med alle Mennesker. Paa den anden Side, disse andre Mennesker ere igjen forskjelliggjorte i andre Timelighedens Forskjelligheder, og misforstaae det maaskee da, om Nogen, som ikke hører til deres Forskjellighed, vil holde med dem. Thi betræffende Jordlivets Forskjelligheder er der ved Misforstaaelsen, besynderligt nok, paa eengang Strid og Enighed: den Ene vil have een Forskjellighed bort, men han vil have en anden sat isteden. Forskjellighed kan jo som Ordet siger betyde det meget Forskjellige, det Allerforskjelligste; men Enhver, der strider paa den Maade mod Forskjelligheden, at han vil have een bestemt bort og en anden isteden, han kæmper jo for Forskjelligheden. Den, der saa vil elske Næsten, Den, der altsaa ikke bekymrer sig om at faae denne eller hiin Forskjellighed bort, eller verdsligt om at faae alle bort, men gudeligt om at gjennemtrænge sin Forskjellighed med den christelige Ligeligheds saliggjørende Tanke: han bliver let som Den, der ikke passer ind her i Jordlivet, end ikke i den saakaldte Christenhed, han bliver let udsat for Angreb fra alle Kanter, han bliver let som et fortabt Faar blandt rivende Ulve. Overalt hvor han seer hen, møder han naturligviis Forskjellighederne (thi, som sagt, intet Menneske er det rene Menneske, men den Christne opløfter sig over Forskjellighederne), og de, som verdsligt have klamret sig fast til en timelig Forskjellighed, denne være en hvilken, de ere som rivende Ulve.

Because this is now so, because the lowly person just as fully as the distinguished and powerful person, because every human being in his different way can lose his soul by not willing, in a Christian way, to raise himself above the difference of earthly life—alas, and because it happens in both ways and in the most various ways—therefore willing to love the neighbour is often exposed to double, indeed to manifold, danger. Everyone who in despair has clung to one or another of the differences of earthly life, so that he has his life in it—not in God—also demands of everyone belonging to the same difference that he shall band together with him—not in the good, for the good forms no banding together, unites neither two nor a hundred nor all human beings in a banding together, but in an ungodly banding together against what is universally human; the despairing person calls it treachery to wish to have fellowship with others, with all human beings. On the other hand, these other human beings are in turn differentiated by other differences of temporality, and perhaps then misunderstand it if someone who does not belong to their difference wishes to side with them. For concerning the differences of earthly life, strangely enough, through the misunderstanding there are at once conflict and agreement: one person wishes to have one difference removed, but wishes another put in its place. Difference, as the word says, can indeed mean what is very different, what is most different of all; but everyone who fights against difference in such a way that he wishes one particular difference removed and another in its place is indeed fighting for difference. The person who then wishes to love the neighbour, the person who therefore is not concerned to have this or that difference removed, or, in a worldly way, to have them all removed, but is concerned, in relation to God, to permeate his difference with the thought of Christian equality that brings blessedness: he easily becomes like someone who does not fit here into earthly life, not even into so-called Christendom; he easily becomes exposed to attacks from every side; he easily becomes like a lost sheep among ravening wolves. Everywhere he looks, he naturally meets the differences—for, as was said, no human being is the pure human being, but the Christian raises himself above the differences—and those who in a worldly way have clung fast to a temporal difference, whatever it may be, are like ravening wolves.

Lader os tage nogle Exempler af Jordlivets Forskjellighed, for at gjøre denne Sag klar, lader os gaae ret nøiagtigt frem. Og giv Du Dig kun Taalmodighed til at læse, som jeg giver mig Flid og Tid til at skrive, thi da det er mit eneste Arbeide og min eneste Opgave at være Forfatter, saa baade kan jeg og er forpligtet til at anvende en nøiagtig, en smaalig om Du saa vil, men vistnok ogsaa gavnlig Omhyggelighed, som Andre ikke kunne, da de, foruden at være Forfattere, tillige paa andre Maader maae bruge deres maaskee længere Dag, maaskee rigere Gave, deres maaskee større Arbeidskraft. – See, de Tider ere forbi, da den Mægtige og Fornemme ene var Menneske, de andre – Mennesker Trælle og Slaver. Dette skyldes Christendommen; men deraf følger ingenlunde, at Fornemhed og Vælde nu ikke mere kan blive en Snare for et Menneske, saa han forseer sig paa denne Forskjellighed, tager Skade paa sin Sjel, glemmer hvad det er at elske Næsten. Skal det nu skee, maa det vistnok skee paa en mere skjult og hemmelighedsfuld Maade, men i Grunden bliver det det Samme. Hvad enten En aabenlyst, nydende sit Hovmod og sin Stolthed, betyder andre Mennesker, at de ere ikke til for ham, vil, til Næring for sit Hovmod, at de skal fornemme det, idet han fordrer den slaviske Underkastelses Udtryk af dem – eller han listende og skjult, netop ved at undgaae enhver Berøring med dem (maaskee ogsaa af Frygt for, at det Aabenlyse skulde hidse Menneskene og blive ham selv farligt) udtrykker, at de ikke ere til for ham: dette er i Grunden Eet og det Samme. Det Umenneskelige og det Uchristelige ligger ikke i Maaden, paa hvilken det gjøres, men i at ville for sig selv fragaae Slægtskabet med alle Mennesker, med ethvert Menneske ubetinget. Ak, ak, at bevare sig reen fra Verden, er Christendommens Opgave og Lære, give Gud, at vi alle gjorde det; men verdsligt at klamre sig ved om det saa var den herligste af alle Forskjelligheder, det er just Besmittelse. Thi det er ikke det grove Arbeide der besmitter – naar det gjøres i Hjertets Reenhed, og det er ikke det ringe Vilkaar, der besmitter – naar Du gudeligt sætter Din Ære i at leve i Stilhed; men Silke og Hermelin kan besmitte, hvis det bragte et Menneske til at tage Skade paa sin Sjel. Det er Besmittelse, naar den Ringe krymper sig saaledes ved sin Elendighed, at han ikke har Mod til at ville opbygges ved det Christelige; men det er ogsaa Besmittelse, naar den Fornemme svøber sig saaledes ind i sin Fornemhed, at han krymper sig for at opbygges ved det Christelige; og det er ogsaa Besmittelse, naar Den, hvis Forskjellighed er at være som Folk er fleest, aldrig i christelig Opløftelse kommer ud af denne Forskjellighed.

Let us take some examples from the difference of earthly life in order to make this matter clear; let us proceed quite exactly. And do give yourself patience to read, as I give myself diligence and time to write; for since being an author is my only work and my only task, I both can and am obliged to apply an exact—minute, if you wish, but certainly also useful—care which others cannot apply, since besides being authors they must also use in other ways their perhaps longer day, perhaps richer gift, their perhaps greater capacity for work. See, those times are past when the powerful and distinguished person alone was a human being, the others—human beings—were bondservants and slaves. This is owed to Christianity; but it by no means follows that high rank and power can now no longer become a snare for a human being, so that he becomes fixated upon this difference, suffers harm in his soul, forgets what it is to love the neighbour. If this is now to happen, it must certainly happen in a more concealed and secretive way, but fundamentally it remains the same. Whether someone openly, enjoying his arrogance and his pride, makes other human beings understand that they do not exist for him, wishes, to nourish his arrogance, that they should feel it while he demands from them the expression of slavish submission—or whether he expresses, stealthily and in concealment, precisely by avoiding every contact with them, perhaps also from fear that openness would inflame people and become dangerous to himself, that they do not exist for him: fundamentally this is one and the same thing. What is inhuman and un-Christian lies not in the manner in which it is done, but in wishing, for oneself, to disclaim kinship with all human beings, with every human being unconditionally. Alas, alas, to keep oneself pure from the world is Christianity’s task and teaching; God grant that we all did so; but to cling in a worldly way even to the most glorious of all differences—that is precisely defilement. For it is not rough work that defiles—when it is done in purity of heart; and it is not the lowly condition that defiles—when in relation to God you make it your honour to live quietly; but silk and ermine can defile, if they brought a human being to suffer harm in his soul. It is defilement when the lowly person cringes so under his misery that he has no courage to wish to be built up by what is Christian; but it is also defilement when the distinguished person wraps himself so in his high rank that he shrinks from being built up by what is Christian; and it is also defilement when the person whose difference consists in being like most people never comes out of this difference in Christian elevation.

Saa vil da denne fornemme Fordærvethed lære den Fornemme, at han kun er til for de Fornemme, at han ene skal leve i deres Kredses Sammenhold, at han ikke maa være til for andre Mennesker, ligesom disse ikke maae være til for ham. Men Forsigtighed, hedder det, han maa vide at gjøre det saa let og saa behændigt, som muligt, at det ikke ophidser Menneskene, det vil sige, Hemmeligheden og Kunsten er netop at have denne Hemmelighed for sig; det at undgaae Berøringen maa ikke være et Udtryk for Forholdet, ei heller maa det gjøres paa en paafaldende Maade, der vilde vække Opmærksomhed, nei det Undvigende skal være for at sikkre sig, og altsaa saa forsigtigt, at Ingen bliver opmærksom derpaa, end sige stødes derover. Derfor skal han gaae som med lukket Øie (ak, men ikke i christelig Forstand), naar han færdes mellem Menneskenes Mængde; stolt – og dog listende skal han ligesom flygte fra den ene fornemme Kreds til den anden; han maa ikke see paa disse andre Mennesker – for ikke at blive seet, medens dog Øiets hele Opmærksomhed skal lure bag dette Skjul – hvis der skulde møde ham et Medmenneske eller en endnu Fornemmere; hans Blik skal svæve ubestemt, famlende hen over alle disse Mennesker, at Ingen skulde kunne gribe hans Øie og minde ham om Slægtskabet; han maa aldrig sees blandt de Ringere, idetmindste aldrig i deres Selskab, og kan det ikke undgaaes, da maa den fornemme Nedladenhed sees – dog i dens letteste Skikkelse – for ikke at støde og hidse; han maa gjerne mod de Ringere bruge overdreven Høflighed, men han maa aldrig omgaaes dem ligeligt, thi derved vilde jo udtrykkes, at han var – Menneske, men han er – fornem. Og dersom han kan gjøre dette let, behændigt, smagfuldt, undflyende og dog altid bevarende sin Hemmelighed (at de andre Mennesker ikke ere til for ham og han ikke for dem), saa vil den fornemme Fordærvethed indestaae ham for, at han har – den gode Tone. Ja, Verden har forandret sig – og Fordærvethed den har ogsaa forandret sig; thi det var jo dog overilet, hvis man vilde troe, at Verden var bleven god, fordi den havde forandret sig. Hvor vilde ikke, hvis vi tænke os en af hine stolte, trodsige Skikkelser, der lystedes ved dette ugudelige Spil, aabenlyst at lade »disse Mennesker« føle deres Usselhed, hvor vilde han ikke forbauses, naar han fik at vide, at saa megen Forsigtighed nu var bleven nødvendig for at bevare denne Hemmelighed! Ak, men Verden har forandret sig; og efterhaanden som Verden forandrer sig, bliver ogsaa Fordærvethedens Skikkelser underfundigere, vanskeligere at paapege – men bedre blive de sandeligen ikke.

Thus this distinguished corruption will teach the distinguished person that he exists only for the distinguished, that he shall live solely within the banding together of their circles, that he must not exist for other human beings, just as these must not exist for him. But caution, it is said: he must know how to do it as lightly and as deftly as possible, so that it does not inflame people; that is, the secret and the art are precisely to keep this secret to himself. Avoiding contact must not be an expression of the relation, nor must it be done in a conspicuous manner which would attract attention; no, the evasion is to secure him, and therefore must be so cautious that no one notices it, let alone takes offence at it. Therefore he shall walk as if with a closed eye—alas, but not in the Christian sense—when he moves among the multitude of human beings; proudly—and yet stealthily—he shall, as it were, flee from one distinguished circle to another; he must not look at these other human beings—in order not to be seen—while nevertheless the eye’s whole attention must lurk behind this concealment, in case a fellow human being or someone still more distinguished should meet him; his gaze shall hover indefinitely, gropingly over all these human beings, so that no one might catch his eye and remind him of the kinship; he must never be seen among the lower ranks, at least never in their company, and if this cannot be avoided, distinguished condescension must be visible—but in its lightest form—in order not to offend and inflame; he may readily use excessive politeness towards the lower ranks, but he must never associate with them on equal terms, for that would indeed express that he was—a human being, but he is—distinguished. And if he can do this lightly, deftly, tastefully, evasively, and yet always preserving his secret, that the other human beings do not exist for him nor he for them, then distinguished corruption will guarantee him that he has—good manners. Yes, the world has changed—and corruption, it too has changed; for it would indeed be rash to believe that the world had become good because it had changed. If we imagine one of those proud, defiant figures who delighted in this ungodly game of openly making “these people” feel their wretchedness, how astonished he would be when told that so much caution had now become necessary in order to preserve this secret! Alas, but the world has changed; and as the world gradually changes, the forms of corruption also become more cunning, more difficult to point out—but better they certainly do not become.

Saaledes den fornemme Fordærvethed. Og dersom der saa var en Fornem, hvis Liv altsaa ved Fødsel og Vilkaar særligen tilhørte den samme jordiske Forskjellighed, en Fornem, der ikke vilde samtykke i denne Splidagtighedens Sammensværgelse mod det Almene-Menneskelige, det er mod »Næsten«, dersom han ikke kunde bringe det over sit Hjerte, dersom han, vel indseende Følgerne deraf, dog for Gud fortrøstede sig til at have Styrke til at bære disse, medens han ikke havde Styrke – til at forhærde sit Hjerte: Erfaringen skulde vel lære ham, hvad han vovede. Thi først skulde nu den fornemme Fordærvethed anklage ham som en Forræder og Selvkjerlig – fordi han vilde elske »Næsten«; thi det, at holde sammen med Fordærvetheden, det var Kjerlighed og Troskab og Oprigtighed og Hengivenhed! Og hvis da, som det saa ofte gaaer, de Ringere igjen fra deres Forskjelligheds Synspunkt misforstode og miskjendte ham, ham – der jo ikke hørte til deres Synagoge, lønnede ham med Spot og Forhaanelse – fordi han vilde elske Næsten: ja, da stod han jo der i den dobbelte Fare. Havde han nemlig villet stille sig i Spidsen for de Ringere, at han i et Oprør kunde nedtræde Fornemhedens Forskjellighed: da skulde de maaskee have hædret og elsket ham. Men dette vilde han ikke, han vilde blot udtrykke, hvad der i ham var en christelig Trang, det at elske Næsten. Og just derfor blev hans Skjebne saa mislig, just deraf den dobbelte Fare.

Such is distinguished corruption. And if there were then a distinguished person whose life, by birth and circumstances, thus belonged particularly to the same earthly difference, a distinguished person who would not consent to this conspiracy of divisiveness against what is universally human, that is, against “the neighbour”; if he could not find it in his heart; if, clearly seeing its consequences, he nevertheless trusted before God that he had the strength to bear them, while he did not have the strength—to harden his heart: experience would surely teach him what he was venturing. For first distinguished corruption would now accuse him of being a traitor and self-loving—because he wished to love “the neighbour”; for banding together with corruption—that was love and faithfulness and sincerity and devotion! And if then, as so often happens, the lower ranks in turn, from the standpoint of their difference, misunderstood and misjudged him—him who did not, after all, belong to their synagogue—rewarded him with mockery and derision because he wished to love the neighbour: yes, then he stood there in the double danger. For if he had wished to place himself at the head of the lower ranks so that in a rebellion he could trample down the difference of high rank, then perhaps they would have honoured and loved him. But he did not wish this; he wished only to express what in him was a Christian need: loving the neighbour. And precisely for that reason his fate became so precarious; precisely from that came the double danger.

Saa skulde vel den fornemme Fordærvethed triumpherende spotte ham, haanende og dømmende sige: »det har han ærligt fortjent;« den skulde vel bruge hans Navn som en Skræmsel for at hindre uerfarne fornemme Ynglinge i at fare vild – fra Fordærvethedens gode Tone. Og mangen Bedre blandt de Fornemme, over hvem dog Fordærvethedens Tone øvede en Magt, skulde ikke vove at forsvare ham, ikke turde lade være at lee med i »Spotternes Raad«, og dette skulde vel være det Høieste, om Nogen vovede at forsvare ham. Saaledes lod det sig jo vel tænke, at en Fornem i selve de Fornemmes Kredse begeistret, veltalende kunde forfægte Kjerlighed til Næsten, men, naar det kom til Stykket i Virkeligheden, ikke kunde overvinde sit Sind i Lydighed under den maaskee seierrigt forfægtede Anskuelse. Dog indenfor Forskjellighedens Mellemvæg, bag ved den, at forfægte en modsat Anskuelse, en Anskuelse, der i christelig Forstand (ikke i oprørsk Forstand) vil tage Forskjelligheden bort: det er jo at blive i Forskjellighed. I Selskab med de Lærde, eller indenfor en Omgivelse, der sikkrer og fremhæver hans Forskjellighed som saadan, skulde maaskee den Lærde være villig til begeistret at foredrage denne Lære om alle Menneskers Lighed; men det er jo at blive i Forskjelligheden. I Selskab med Rigmænd, i en Omgivelse, der netop gjør Rigdommens Fortrin iøinefaldende, skulde maaskee den Rige være villig til at gjøre Ligheden mellem Menneske og Menneske enhver Indrømmelse; men det er jo at blive i Forskjelligheden. Hiin Bedre, der maaskee seierrigt skulde kunne slaae alle Indvendinger af Marken i det fornemme Selskab, han skulde maaskee fornemt og feigt flygte Berøringen med Virkelighedens Indvending mod Forskjelligheden. – »At gaae med Gud,« dette Udtryk bruge vi jo som en Lykønskning – hvis denne Bedre blandt de Fornemme, istedenfor stolt undflyende, skulde gaae med Gud ud blandt Menneskene: da skulde han maaskee for sig selv – og altsaa ogsaa for Gud søge at skjule, hvad han fik at see – men hvad Gud saae, at han skjulte. Naar man nemlig gaaer med Gud, gaaer man jo rigtignok uden Fare; men man nødsages ogsaa til at see og til at see paa en ganske egen Maade. Naar Du gaaer i Selskab med Gud, da behøver Du kun at see een eneste Elendig, og Du skal ikke kunne undflye hvad Christendommen vil Du skal forstaae, den menneskelige Lighed. Ak, men hiin Bedre skulde maaskee ikke ganske turde vove at udholde denne Vandring i Selskab med Gud og Indtrykket af den, han skulde maaskee unddrage sig – medens han dog samme Aften igjen i det fornemme Selskab forfægtede den christelige Anskuelse. Ja, det at gaae med Gud (og det er jo kun i dette Selskab man opdager »Næsten«, thi Gud er Mellembestemmelsen) for at lære Livet og sig selv at kjende, det er en alvorlig Gang. Saa taber Ære, Magt og Herlighed sin verdslige Glands; thi i Selskab med Gud kan Du ikke verdsligt fryde Dig derved. Naar Du holder sammen (thi Sammenhold er ikke af det Gode) med nogle andre Mennesker, med en bestemt Stand, med et bestemt Vilkaar i Livet, om det saa blot er med Din Hustrue: saa frister det Verdslige; selv om det ikke i Dine Øine har stort at betyde, det frister Dig sammenlignelsesviis i Persons Anseelse, det frister Dig maaskee for hendes Skyld. Men naar Du gaaer med Gud, kun holder sammen med Gud og i Alt hvad Du forstaaer, forstaaer Gud under: da opdager Du – skal jeg sige til Din egen Skade, da opdager Du Næsten; da nødsager Gud Dig til at elske ham – skal jeg sige til Din egen Skade; thi at elske Næsten er et utaknemligt Arbeide.

Then distinguished corruption would surely mock him triumphantly, would say derisively and in judgement, “He has fully deserved it”; would surely use his name as a scarecrow to prevent inexperienced distinguished young men from going astray—from corruption’s good manners. And many a better person among the distinguished, over whom corruption’s tone nevertheless exercised a power, would not venture to defend him, would not dare to refrain from laughing along in “the council of mockers”; and this would surely be the utmost, if anyone ventured to defend him. Thus it could indeed be imagined that a distinguished person, within the very circles of the distinguished, could enthusiastically and eloquently champion love for the neighbour, but when it came to the point in actuality, could not master his disposition in obedience to the view he had perhaps championed victoriously. Yet within the partition-wall of difference, behind it, to champion an opposite view, a view which in the Christian sense—not in the rebellious sense—wishes to take difference away: that is indeed to remain within difference. In the company of the learned, or within surroundings which secure and emphasise his difference as such, the learned person might perhaps be willing enthusiastically to expound this teaching about the equality of all human beings; but that is indeed to remain within difference. In the company of rich people, in surroundings which precisely make the advantage of wealth conspicuous, the rich person might perhaps be willing to make every concession to equality between human being and human being; but that is indeed to remain within difference. That better person, who might perhaps be able victoriously to drive every objection from the field in the distinguished company, might perhaps in distinguished cowardice flee contact with actuality’s objection to difference. “To go with God”—we do use this expression as a wish for someone’s good fortune—if this better person among the distinguished, instead of proudly evading, were to go with God out among human beings, then perhaps he would seek to hide from himself—and thus also from God—what he came to see—but what God saw that he hid. For when one goes with God, one certainly goes without danger; but one is also compelled to see, and to see in a quite particular way. When you go in company with God, you need see only one single wretched person, and you shall not be able to evade what Christianity wishes you to understand: human equality. Alas, but that better person might perhaps not quite dare to venture to endure this walk in company with God and the impression it makes; he might perhaps withdraw—while nevertheless championing the Christian view again that same evening in the distinguished company. Yes, going with God—and it is indeed only in this company that one discovers “the neighbour”, for God is the mediating term—in order to come to know life and oneself, is a serious walk. Then honour, power and glory lose their worldly lustre; for in company with God you cannot take worldly delight in them. When you band together—for banding together does not come from the good—with some other human beings, with a particular station, with a particular condition in life, even if it is only with your wife: then the worldly tempts; even if it has little significance in your eyes, it tempts you comparatively through regard for persons, perhaps tempts you for her sake. But when you go with God, hold together only with God, and in everything you understand, understand God as implicitly included: then you discover—shall I say to your own harm?—then you discover the neighbour; then God compels you to love him—shall I say to your own harm?—for loving the neighbour is a thankless labour.

Eet er det jo at lade Tanke kæmpe mod Tanke, Eet er det at fægte og at seire i en Ordstrid, et Andet at seire over sit eget Sind, naar man fægter i Livets Virkelighed; thi hvor nær end den ene Tanke stridende kommer den anden paa Livet, hvor nær end i Ordstriden den ene Stridende kommer den anden, al denne Striden er dog paa Afstand og som i Luften. Derimod er dette Maalestokken for hvad Sindelag der boer i et Menneske: hvor langt han har fra hvad han forstaaer til hvad han gjør, hvor stor Afstand der er mellem hans Forstaaen og hans Handlen. Vi forstaae i Grunden Alle det Høieste, et Barn, den Eenfoldigste, den Viseste, de forstaae alle det Høieste og alle det Samme; thi det er, om jeg saa tør sige, een Lectie, vi Alle have for. Men Det, der gjør Forskjellen, er om vi forstaae det paa Afstand – saa vi ikke gjøre derefter, eller nærved – saa vi gjøre derefter, og »ikke kunne det anderledes«, ikke kunne lade være at gjøre det, som Luther, der ganske nærved forstod hvad han havde at gjøre, da han sagde: »jeg kan det ikke anderledes, Gud hjælpe mig, Amen.« – Paa en stille Times Afstand fra al Livets og Verdens Forvirring forstaaer ethvert Menneske hvad det Høieste er; naar han gaaer derfra, har han forstaaet det; naar det i Livet for ham seer ud til godt Veir forstaaer han det endnu: men naar Forvirringen begynder, da flygter Forstaaelsen, eller det viser sig, at denne Forstaaelse var paa Afstand. At sidde paa et Værelse, hvor Alt er saa stille, at man kan høre et Sandskorn falde, og forstaae det Høieste, det kan ethvert Menneske; men, for at tale billedligt, at skulle sidde i den Kjedel, som Kobbersmedene hamre paa, og saa forstaae det Samme: ja, saa maa man have Forstaaelsen nærved, ellers vil det vise sig, at Forstaaelsen var paa Afstand – fordi man var fraværende med Forstaaelsen. – Paa en stille Times Afstand fra Livets Forvirring forstaaer Barnet, den Eenfoldigste, den Viseste, og næsten lige let, hvad ethvert Menneske skal gjøre – hvad ethvert Menneske skal gjøre; men naar i Livets Forvirring der kun er Spørgsmaal om, hvad han skal gjøre, saa viser det sig maaskee, at denne Forstaaelse var paa Afstand – den var jo paa Menneskehedens Afstand fra ham. – Paa en Ordstrids Afstand fra Handling, paa en høimodig Beslutnings Afstand fra Handling, paa et høitideligt Løftes, paa Fortrydelsens Afstand fra Handling forstaaer ethvert Menneske det Høieste. Indenfor den uforandrede Tilstands Tryghed ved gammel Vane at forstaae, at der skulde gjøres en Forandring, det kan Enhver, thi denne Forstaaelse er paa Afstand, er ikke Uforandrethed en uhyre Afstand fra Forandringen? Ak, i Verden er der ideligen det travle Spørgsmaal om, hvad Den kan og hvad Den kan og hvad Den ikke kan: Evigheden, der taler om det Høieste, antager roligt, at ethvert Menneske kan det, og spørger derfor blot, om han gjorde det. Paa den fornemme Nedladenheds Afstand forstaaer den Fornemme Ligheden mellem Menneske og Menneske; paa den hemmelighedsfulde Overlegenheds Afstand forstaaer den Lærde og den Dannede Ligheden mellem Menneske og Menneske; indenfor et lille Fortrins Indrømmelse forstaaer Den, hvis Forskjellighed er at være som Folk er fleest, Ligheden mellem Menneske og Menneske – paa Afstand er »Næsten« kjendt af Alle: kun Gud veed, hvor mange der kjender ham i Virkeligheden, det er nærved. Og dog, paa Afstand er »Næsten« en Indbildning, han, som jo er ved at være nær ved, det første det bedste Menneske, ubetinget ethvert Menneske. Paa Afstand er »Næsten« en Skygge, der ad Indbildningens Vei gaaer ethvert Menneskes Tanke forbi – ak, men at det Menneske, der i samme Øieblik virkeligen gik ham forbi, var Næsten: det opdager han maaskee ikke. Paa Afstand kjender Enhver »Næsten«, og dog er det en Umulighed at see ham paa Afstand; dersom Du ikke seer ham saa nær, at Du ubetinget, for Gud, seer ham i ethvert Menneske, saa seer Du ham slet ikke.

For it is one thing to let thought fight against thought, one thing to fence and to conquer in a dispute of words, another thing to conquer one’s own disposition when one fights in life’s actuality; for however closely one thought in conflict comes upon another, however closely one disputant in a dispute of words comes upon the other, all this disputing is nevertheless at a distance and as if in the air. By contrast, this is the measure of what disposition dwells in a human being: how far he has to go from what he understands to what he does, how great a distance there is between his understanding and his acting. At bottom we all understand the highest: a child, the simplest person, the wisest person, they all understand the highest and all understand the same thing; for it is, if I may put it so, one lesson we have all been set. But what makes the difference is whether we understand it at a distance—so that we do not act accordingly—or close at hand—so that we act accordingly and “cannot do otherwise”, cannot refrain from doing it, like Luther, who understood quite close at hand what he had to do when he said, “I cannot do otherwise; God help me, Amen.” At a quiet hour’s distance from all the confusion of life and the world, every human being understands what the highest is; when he leaves there, he has understood it; when in life the weather looks fair to him, he still understands it: but when the confusion begins, then understanding flees, or it becomes apparent that this understanding was at a distance. To sit in a room where everything is so quiet that one can hear a grain of sand fall, and understand the highest—every human being can do that; but, to speak figuratively, to have to sit in the kettle upon which the coppersmiths are hammering and then understand the same thing: yes, then one must have the understanding close at hand, otherwise it will become apparent that the understanding was at a distance—because in one’s understanding one was elsewhere. At a quiet hour’s distance from life’s confusion, the child, the simplest person, the wisest person understand, and almost equally easily, what every human being shall do—what every human being shall do; but when in life’s confusion the question is only what he shall do, then it perhaps becomes apparent that this understanding was at a distance—it was indeed at humanity’s distance from him. At a dispute of words’ distance from action, at a magnanimous resolution’s distance from action, at a solemn promise’s, at regret’s distance from action, every human being understands the highest. Within the security of an unchanged condition, through old habit, to understand that a change should be made: everyone can do that, for this understanding is at a distance—is not unchangingness an immense distance from change? Alas, in the world there is continually the busy question of what this person can do and what that person can do and what that person cannot do: eternity, which speaks of the highest, calmly assumes that every human being can do it, and therefore asks only whether he did it. At distinguished condescension’s distance, the distinguished person understands equality between human being and human being; at secretive superiority’s distance, the learned and the cultivated person understands equality between human being and human being; within the concession of a little advantage, the person whose difference consists in being like most people understands equality between human being and human being—at a distance “the neighbour” is known by all: only God knows how many know him in actuality, that is, close at hand. And yet, at a distance “the neighbour” is a figment of the imagination—he who exists precisely by being near at hand, the first human being who happens along, unconditionally every human being. At a distance “the neighbour” is a shadow which, by way of imagination, passes by every human being’s thought—alas, but that the human being who at the same moment actually passed him by was the neighbour: perhaps he does not discover that. At a distance everyone knows “the neighbour”, and yet it is an impossibility to see him at a distance; if you do not see him so near that you unconditionally, before God, see him in every human being, then you do not see him at all.

Lad os nu tænke Ringhedens Forskjellighed. De Tider ere forbi, da, hvad man kalder, de Ringere ingen Forestilling have om sig selv, eller kun den Forestilling at være Trælle, ikke blot ringe Mennesker, men egentligen ikke engang at være Mennesker; de vilde Oprør, Rædselen, som fulgte paa hiin Rædsel, ere maaskee ogsaa forbi: men mon derfor ikke Fordærvetheden kan boe skjult i et Menneske? Saa vil da den fordærvede Ringhed indbilde den Ringe, at han i den Mægtige og Fornemme, i Enhver, der er begunstiget ved et Fortrin, skal see sin Fjende. Men Forsigtighed, hedder det, thi endnu have disse Fjender saa megen Magt, at det let kunde blive farligt at bryde med dem. Derfor vil Fordærvetheden ikke lære den Ringe at gjøre Oprør, ei heller ganske at negte enhver Yttring af Ærbødighed, ei heller at lade Hemmeligheden blive aabenbar; men den vil lære, at det skal gjøres og dog ikke gjøres, gjøres og dog saaledes, at den Mægtige ingen Glæde skal faae deraf, medens han dog ikke skal kunne sige, at det negtes ham. Derfor skal der selv i Hyldingen være en underfundig Trods, der skjult kan forbittre, en Trevenhed, der skjult siger Nei til hvad Munden bekjender, en ligesom indædt Misundelses Klangløshed i den Jubel, der ærer den Mægtige. Ingen Magt skal der bruges, det kunde blive farligt; intet Brud maa det komme til, det kunde blive farligt; men en skjult Forbittrelses Hemmelighed, en fjernt anet piinagtig Forstemthed skal gjøre baade Magt og Ære og Udmærkelse til en Plage for den Mægtige, den Ærede, den Udmærkede, der dog ikke skulle kunne faae noget Bestemt at klage over; thi deri stikker just Kunsten og Hemmeligheden.

Let us now consider the difference of lowliness. The times are past when those called the lower ranks had no conception of themselves, or only the conception of being bondservants—not merely lowly human beings, but actually not even human beings; the savage uprisings, the terror that followed that terror, are perhaps also past: but can corruption therefore not dwell hidden in a human being? Then corrupted lowliness will make the lowly person imagine that in the powerful and distinguished person, in everyone favoured by an advantage, he shall see his enemy. But caution, it is said, for these enemies still have so much power that breaking with them could easily become dangerous. Therefore corruption will not teach the lowly person to rebel, nor wholly to refuse every expression of reverence, nor to let the secret become manifest; but it will teach that it is to be done and yet not done, done and yet in such a way that the powerful person shall gain no joy from it, while nevertheless being unable to say that it is refused him. Therefore even in the homage there shall be a cunning defiance which can secretly embitter, a sluggishness which secretly says no to what the mouth professes, a tonelessness, as if from gnawing envy, in the acclamation which honours the powerful person. No force shall be used—that could become dangerous; no break must occur—that could become dangerous; but a secret of hidden bitterness, a painful ill temper dimly sensed from afar, shall make power and honour and distinction alike into a torment for the powerful, the honoured, the distinguished, who nevertheless shall not be able to find anything definite to complain of; for precisely therein lie the art and the secret.

Og dersom der da var en Ringe, i hvis Hjerte denne Misundelsens Hemmelighed ikke kom, og som heller ikke vilde lade Fordærvetheden udenfra faae denne Magt over sig, en Ringe, der uden feig Underkastelse, uden Menneskefrygt, beskedent, men fremfor alt med Glæde, gav ethvert Jordlivets Fortrin hvad dets er, lykkeligere og gladere ved at give end mangen Gang Den maaskee er og kan være, som skal modtage: da skulde han vel ogsaa opdage den dobbelte Fare. Hans Jævnlige skulde maaskee støde ham fra sig som en Forræder, foragte ham som en Trællesindet, ak, og de Begunstigede skulde maaskee misforstaae ham og spotte ham som en Paatrængende. Hvad der i det foregaaende Forhold skulde ansees som for ringe for den Fornemme – at elske Næsten, det skulde maaskee her ansees som for anmassende for den Ringe – at elske Næsten. – Saa farefuldt er det at ville elske »Næsten«. Thi Forskjellighed er der nok af i Verden, Forskjellighed er der overalt i Timeligheden, der jo just er det Forskjellige, det Mangfoldige. Maaskee skal det ogsaa kunne lykkes et Menneske netop i Kraft af sin Forskjellighed at staae sig godt med alle Forskjelligheder i en lempelig og føielig Overeenskomst, der slaaer lidt af paa eet Sted og saa fordrer lidt igjen paa et andet Sted: men Evighedens Ligelighed, at ville elske »Næsten«, synes baade for Lidt og for Meget, og derfor er det som passede denne Kjerlighed til »Næsten« ikke ret ind i Jordlivets Forhold.

And if there were then a lowly person into whose heart this secret of envy did not enter, and who also would not let corruption from outside gain this power over him, a lowly person who, without cowardly submission, without fear of human beings, modestly but above all with joy, gave every advantage of earthly life what belonged to it, happier and more joyful in giving than the person who is to receive perhaps often is and can be: then he too would surely discover the double danger. His equals might perhaps thrust him away as a traitor, despise him as servile-minded; alas, and the favoured might perhaps misunderstand him and mock him as an importunate person. What in the preceding relation was to be considered too lowly for the distinguished person—loving the neighbour—might perhaps here be considered too presumptuous for the lowly person—loving the neighbour. So dangerous is it to wish to love “the neighbour”. For there is difference enough in the world; there is difference everywhere in temporality, which is indeed precisely the different, the manifold. Perhaps a human being may also succeed, precisely by virtue of his difference, in getting on well with all differences through an accommodating and pliant agreement which concedes a little in one place and then demands a little back in another place: but eternity’s equality, wishing to love “the neighbour”, seems both too little and too much, and therefore it is as if this love for “the neighbour” did not quite fit into the relations of earthly life.

Tænk Dig et Menneske, der gjorde et Gjestebud og dertil indbød Halte, Blinde, Krøblinge, Tiggere: nu, langt fra mig være at troe Andet om Verden, end at den dog vilde finde det smukt om end sært. Men tænk Dig, at denne Mand, som gjorde Gjestebudet, havde en Ven, til hvem han sagde »igaar gjorde jeg et stort Gjestebud« – ikke sandt, saa vilde Vennen først og fremmest forundre sig, at han ikke havde været blandt de Indbudne. Naar han da derpaa fik at vide, hvo de Indbudne havde været: nu langt fra mig være at troe Andet om Vennen, end at han dog vilde finde det smukt om end sært. Dog forundre sig vilde han, og han vilde maaskee sige »det er en besynderlig Sprogbrug at kalde en saadan Forsamling et Gjestebud, et Gjestebud – hvor Vennerne ikke ere med, et Gjestebud – hvor Spørgsmaalet ikke er om Vinens Fortræffelighed, om Selskabets Udvalg, om Tjenernes Antal, som opvartede ved Taflet – det er, Vennen vilde mene, at en saadan Bespisning kunde man kalde en Barmhjertigheds-Gjerning, men ikke et Gjestebud. Thi hvor god end Maden havde været, de fik, om den ikke blot som Fattigvæsenets havde været »kraftig og velsmagende«, men virkelig udsøgt og kostelig, ja om de end havde faaet ti Sorter Viin: Selskabet selv, Indretningen af det Hele, et vist manglende, jeg veed ei hvad, var til Hinder for at kalde Sligt et Gjestebud, det stred mod Sprogbrugen – der gjør Forskjel. Sæt nu, at hiin Mand, der havde gjort Gjestebudet, svarede »da troede jeg dog, jeg havde Sprogbrugen paa min Side, læse vi ikke i Lucas Evangelium (14, 12. 13) disse Christi Ord: »naar Du gjør Middags- eller Aftens-Maaltid, byd ikke Dine Venner, ei heller Dine Brødre, ei heller Dine Frænder, ei heller rige Naboer, paa det de ikke skulle indbyde Dig igjen og Dig skee Vederlag. Men naar Du gjør et Gjestebud, da byd Fattige, Krøblinger, Halte, Blinde;« thi her er jo ikke blot det Ord »Gjestebud« brugt saaledes, men der er endog i Begyndelsen brugt et mindre festligt Udtryk »Middags- eller Aftens-Maaltid«, og først, da Talen er om at indbyde Fattige og Krøblinge, først da bruges Ordet »Gjestebud«. Synes det Dig ikke, at det er, som vilde Christus antyde, at det, at indbyde Fattige og Krøblinger, ikke blot er hvad vi skulle gjøre, men tillige noget langt festligere end at spise til Middag eller Aften med Venner og Frænder og rige Naboer, hvad man ikke maa kalde et Gjestebud, thi at indbyde de Fattige, det er at gjøre Gjestebud. Men jeg indseer vel, at vor Sprogbrug er forskjellig, thi ifølge den almindelige Sprogbrug er det vel omtrent Fortegnelsen paa dem, som indbydes til et Gjestebud: Venner, Brødre, Frænder, rige Naboer – som kunne gjøre Gjengjeld. Men saa nøieregnende er den christelige Ligelighed og dens Sprogbrug, den fordrer, ikke blot, at Du skal bespise de Fattige, men den fordrer, at Du skal kalde det et Gjestebud. Dog, dersom Du i det daglige Livs Virkelighed vil staae strengt paa denne Sprogbrug, og ikke mene, at det i christelig Forstand er ligegyldigt, under hvilket Navn Maden anrettes for de Fattige, saa vil Menneskene vel lee Dig ud. Men lad dem kun lee, de loe ogsaa af Tobias; thi det, at ville elske Næsten, er altid udsat for dobbelt Fare, som vi see af Tobiæ Exempel. Herskeren havde under Livsstraf forbudet at begrave de Døde; men Tobias frygtede Gud mere end Herskeren, elskede de Afdøde mere end Livet: han begrov dem. Dette var den første Fare. Og da saa Tobias vovede denne Heltebedrift – saa »beloe hans Naboer ham« (Tobias 2, 8). Det var den anden Fare …. Saaledes Manden, der gjorde Gjestebudet, m. T., synes det Dig ikke, at han har Ret? Men skulde der dog ikke være noget Andet at indvende mod hans Adfærd? Thi, hvorfor saa stridigt kun at indbyde Halte og Fattige, og derimod ligesom med Flid, ja ligesom paa Trods at lade være at indbyde Venner og Frænder, han kunde jo have indbudet dem alle ligeligt. Unegteligt; og hvis han var saaledes stridig, da ville vi ikke prise ham eller hans Sprogbrug. Men i Henseende til Evangeliets Ord er dog vel Meningen denne, at disse Andre ikke vilde komme. Derfor ophørte ogsaa Vennens Forundring over ikke at være indbuden, saasnart han hørte, hvilket Selskabet havde været. Havde Manden, efter Vennens Sprogbrug, gjort et Gjestebud, og ikke indbudt Vennen, da var han bleven vred; men nu blev han ikke vred – thi han var ikke kommen alligevel.

Imagine a human being who gave a feast and invited to it lame people, blind people, crippled people, beggars: now, far be it from me to believe anything of the world other than that it would nevertheless find this beautiful, although strange. But imagine that this man who gave the feast had a friend to whom he said, “Yesterday I gave a great feast”—would not the friend then first and foremost be astonished that he had not been among those invited? When he then subsequently learned who those invited had been: now, far be it from me to believe anything of the friend other than that he would nevertheless find this beautiful, although strange. Yet he would be astonished, and perhaps he would say, “It is a peculiar use of language to call such an assembly a feast: a feast—where the friends are not present; a feast—where the question is not about the excellence of the wine, about the selectness of the company, about the number of servants who waited at table”—that is, the friend would think that one could call such a feeding a work of mercy, but not a feast. For however good the food they received had been, even if it had not merely been “nourishing and tasty”, like the poor-relief service’s, but genuinely choice and excellent, yes, even if they had received ten sorts of wine: the company itself, the arrangement of the whole, a certain missing something, I know not what, prevented one from calling such a thing a feast; it ran counter to the use of language—which makes distinctions. Now suppose that the man who had given the feast answered, “Yet I thought I had the use of language on my side. Do we not read in Luke’s Gospel (14:12–13) these words of Christ: ‘When you give a midday or evening meal, do not invite your friends, nor your brothers, nor your relatives, nor rich neighbours, lest they invite you again and repayment be made to you. But when you give a feast, then invite poor people, crippled people, lame people, blind people’? For here the word ‘feast’ is not merely used in this way; at the beginning a less festive expression is even used, ‘midday or evening meal’, and only when the discourse concerns inviting poor and crippled people, only then is the word ‘feast’ used. Does it not seem to you as if Christ wished to intimate that inviting poor and crippled people is not only what we shall do, but also something much more festive than eating at midday or evening with friends and relatives and rich neighbours, which one must not call a feast; for inviting the poor—that is giving a feast. But I do see that our uses of language differ, for according to the ordinary use of language this is presumably approximately the list of those invited to a feast: friends, brothers, relatives, rich neighbours—who can repay. But Christian equality and its use of language are so exacting: it demands not only that you shall feed the poor, but demands that you shall call it a feast. Yet if in the actuality of daily life you will insist strictly upon this use of language, and not think it indifferent in the Christian sense under what name the food is set before the poor, then people will surely laugh you to scorn. But just let them laugh; they also laughed at Tobias; for wishing to love the neighbour is always exposed to double danger, as we see from Tobias’s example. The ruler had forbidden, on pain of death, the burying of the dead; but Tobias feared God more than the ruler, loved the departed more than life: he buried them. This was the first danger. And when Tobias then ventured this heroic deed—then ‘his neighbours laughed at him’ (Tobias 2:8). That was the second danger …” Thus the man who gave the feast. My listener, does it not seem to you that he is right? But might there nevertheless be something else to object to in his conduct? For why so contentiously invite only lame and poor people, and, by contrast, as if deliberately, indeed as if defiantly, refrain from inviting friends and relatives? He could have invited them all equally. Undeniably; and if he was contentious in that way, then we will not praise him or his use of language. But with regard to the Gospel’s words, surely the meaning is this: that these others would not come. Therefore the friend’s astonishment at not being invited also ceased as soon as he heard what the company had been. If the man, according to the friend’s use of language, had given a feast and not invited the friend, then he would have become angry; but now he did not become angry—for he would not have come anyway.

O, m. T., synes Dig at det her Fremsatte kun er en Ordstrid om Brugen af det Ord Gjestebud? Eller seer Du ikke, at Striden er om at elske »Næsten«; thi Den, der bespiser den Fattige, men dog ikke saaledes seirer over sit Sind, at han kalder denne Bespisning et Gjestebud, han seer i den Fattige og den Ringe kun den Fattige og den Ringe, men Den, der gjør »Gjestebudet«, han seer i den Fattige og Ringe »Næsten« – hvor latterligt dette nu end kan synes i Verdens Øine. Ak, thi det er endda ikke saa sjeldent, at man hører Verdens Klage over dette eller hiint Menneske, at han ikke er alvorlig; men Spørgsmaalet er, hvad Verden forstaaer ved Alvor, om den ikke saa omtrent derved forstaaer de verdslige Bekymringers Travlhed; og Spørgsmaalet er, om Verden ikke endnu bestandigt ved denne Forvexling af Alvor og Forfængelighed er trods sin Alvorlighed saa spøgefuld, at den, hvis den fik det i høieste Forstand Alvorlige at see derved, at En vilde gjøre Alvor deraf, Spørgsmaalet er, om saa Verden ikke ganske uvilkaarligt vilde briste i Latter. Saa alvorlig er Verden! Hvis ikke Timelighedens mangfoldige og mangfoldigt sammensatte Forskjellighed gjorde det lige saa vanskeligt at see, om En elsker »Næsten«, som det er vanskeligt at see »Mennesket«: saa vilde Verden bestandigt have Stof nok til Latter – dersom der ellers var et tilstrækkeligt Antal af dem, som elskede Næsten. At elske Næsten er, forblivende i sin jordiske Forskjellighed, som den er En anviist, væsentligen at ville være ligeligt til for ethvert Menneske ubetinget. Aabenlyst kun at ville være til for andre Mennesker efter sin jordiske Forskjelligheds Fortrin er Stolthed og Anmasselse; men den kløgtige Opfindelse, slet ikke at ville være til for Andre, for skjult at nyde sin Forskjelligheds Fortrin i Sammenhold med Ligemænd, er feig Stolthed. I begge Dele er der Splid; men Den, der elsker »Næsten«, han er beroliget. Han er beroliget ved at være tilfreds i den ham anviste Jordlivets Forskjellighed, den være Fornemhedens eller Ringhedens, og forøvrigt lader han enhver Jordlivets Forskjellighed staae ved Magt og gjælde for hvad den skal og bør gjælde her i dette Liv; thi Du skal ikke begjere hvad Næstens er, ikke hans Hustrue, ikke hans Asen, og altsaa heller ei det ham forundte Fortrin i Livet; er det Dig negtet, skal Du dog glædes ved, at det er ham indrømmet. Saaledes er Den beroliget, der elsker Næsten, han undgaaer hverken feigt den Mægtigere, men elsker Næsten, ei heller fornemt den Ringere, men elsker Næsten, men ønsker væsentligen at være ligeligt til for alle Mennesker, hvad enten han nu i Virkeligheden er kjendt af Mange eller ikke. Det er unegteligt en betydelig Vingestrækning, men det er ikke en stolt Flugt, der overflyver Verden, det er Selvfornegtelsens ydmyge og vanskelige Flugt ved Jorden. Det er langt lettere og langt beqvemmere at liste sig gjennem Livet, ved at leve i fornemmere Tilbagetrukkenhed, hvis man er en Fornem, eller i ubemærket Stilhed, hvis man er en Ringe, ja man kan, hvor underligt det end er, endog synes at udrette mere ved denne listende Levemaade, fordi man nemlig udsætter sig for meget mindre Modstand. Men om det end er saa behageligt for Kjød og Blod at undgaae Modstanden, mon det ogsaa i Dødens Time er det Trøstende? I Dødens Time er det dog nok det eneste Trøstende, at man ikke har undgaaet den, men udholdt den. Hvad et Menneske skal udrette eller ikke udrette, staaer ikke i hans Magt, han er ikke Den, der skal styre Verden; han har ene og alene at lyde. Enhver har derfor først og fremmest (istedenfor at spørge, hvilken Stilling der er ham beqvemmest, hvilket Sammenhold der er ham fordeelagtigst), at stille sig selv paa det Punkt, hvor Styrelsen kan bruge ham, hvis det saa skulde behage Styrelsen. Det Punkt er just at elske Næsten eller væsentligen ligeligt at være til for ethvert Menneske. Ethvert andet Punkt er Splidagtighed, hvor fordeelagtig og beqvem og tilsyneladende betydningsfuld denne Stilling end er; Styrelsen kan ikke bruge Den, der har stillet sig der, thi han er jo netop i Oprør mod Styrelsen. Men Den, der indtog hiin overseete, hiin foragtede og forsmaaede rigtige Stilling, uden at klamre sig til sin jordiske Forskjellighed, uden at holde sammen med eet eneste Menneske, væsentligen ligeligt at være til for ethvert Menneske, han skal, om han end tilsyneladende Intet udrettede, om han end blev udsat for de Ringeres Forhaanelse eller for de Fornemmes Spot eller for begges Forhaanelse og Spot, dog i Dødens Time trøstende turde sige til sin Sjel: »jeg har gjort Mit; om jeg har udrettet Noget, veed jeg ikke, om jeg har gavnet Nogen, veed jeg ikke, men at jeg har været til for dem, det veed jeg, det veed jeg deraf, at de forhaanede mig. Og dette er min Trøst, at jeg ikke skal tage den Hemmelighed med mig i Graven, at jeg for at have gode og uforstyrrede og beqvemme Dage i Livet, har fornegtet Slægtskabet med andre Mennesker, med de Ringe, for at leve i fornem Tilbageholdenhed, med de Fornemme, for at leve i skjult Ubemærkethed.« Lad saa Den, der ved Hjælp af Sammenholdet og ved ikke at være til for alle Mennesker, udrettede saa meget, see sig vel for, at Døden ikke forandrer ham hans Liv, naar den minder ham om Ansvaret. Thi Den, der gjorde Sit for at gjøre Menneskene opmærksomme, de Ringe eller de Fornemme, Den, der lærende, handlende, stræbende ligeligt var til for Alle, han har intet Ansvar, om Menneskene ved at forfølge ham viste – at de vare blevne opmærksomme; han har intet Ansvar, nei han har endog gavnet, thi Betingelsen for at skulle have Gavn er altid først og fremmest at blive opmærksom. Men Den, der feigt kun var til indenfor Sammenholdets Mellemvæg, hvor han udrettede saa saare meget og vandt saa mange Fordele; Den, der feigt ikke turde gjøre Menneskene opmærksomme, de Ringe eller de Fornemme, fordi han havde en Anelse om, at Menneskenes Opmærksomhed er et tvetydigt Gode – naar man da har noget Sandt at meddele; Den, der feigt havde sin berømmede Virksomhed indenfor Persons-Anseelsens Betryggethed: han bærer Ansvaret – at han ikke elskede Næsten. Dersom en Saadan vilde sige: ja, hvad kan det hjælpe at anlægge sit Liv efter en slig Maalestok, da vilde jeg svare: hvad mener Du denne Undskyldning kan hjælpe i Evigheden? Thi Evighedens Bud er uendeligt høiere end enhver nok saa kløgtig Undskyldning. Mon ogsaa nogen Eneste af hine, hvem Styrelsen har brugt som Redskaber i Sandhedens Tjeneste (og lad os ikke glemme, at dette skal og bør ethvert Menneske være, i det mindste skal og bør han indrette sit Liv saaledes, at han kunde være det) har indrettet sit Liv anderledes end ligeligt at være til for ethvert Menneske. Enhver Saadan har aldrig holdt sammen med de Ringe, og aldrig holdt sammen med de Fornemme, men ligeligt været til for den Fornemme, og ligeligt været til for den Ringeste. Sandeligen kun ved at elske »Næsten«, kan et Menneske udrette det Høieste; thi det Høieste er at kunne være et Redskab i Styrelsens Haand. Men som sagt, Enhver, der har stillet sig paa noget andet Punkt, Enhver, der danner Partie og Sammenhold, eller er med paa Partie, med i Sammenhold, han styrer for egen Regning, og al hans Udretten, var den end omskabende en Verden, er et Sandsebedrag. Han skal ei heller have stor Glæde af den i Evigheden, thi vel muligt, at Styrelsen benyttede den, ak, men den benyttede ikke ham som Redskab; han var en Selvraadig, en Selvklog, og en Saadans Stræben benytter Styrelsen ogsaa, ved at tage hans møisommelige Arbeide og ved at lade ham have hans Løn borte. – Hvor latterligt, hvor sinkende, hvor uhensigtsmæssigt det at elske Næsten end kan synes i Verden, det er dog det Høieste hvad et Menneske formaaer at udrette. Men det Høieste har heller aldrig ganske passet ind i Jordlivets Forhold, det er baade for Lidt og for Meget.

Oh, my listener, does what has been presented here seem to you only a dispute of words about the use of the word “feast”? Or do you not see that the dispute concerns loving “the neighbour”? For the person who feeds the poor but nevertheless does not so conquer his own disposition that he calls this feeding a feast sees in the poor and lowly person only the poor and lowly person; but the person who gives “the feast” sees in the poor and lowly person “the neighbour”—however ridiculous this may now seem in the world’s eyes. Alas, for it is after all not so rare to hear the world’s complaint about this or that human being, that he is not serious; but the question is what the world understands by seriousness, whether by it the world does not understand more or less the busyness of worldly cares; and the question is whether, through this confusion of seriousness and vanity, the world is not still, despite its seriousness, so much in jest that if it came to see what is serious in the highest sense through someone’s wishing to make a serious matter of it—the question is whether the world would not then, quite involuntarily, burst into laughter. So serious is the world! If temporality’s manifold and manifoldly compounded difference did not make it as difficult to see whether someone loves “the neighbour” as it is difficult to see “the human being”, then the world would continually have material enough for laughter—if otherwise there were a sufficient number of those who loved the neighbour. To love the neighbour is, while remaining in one’s earthly difference as it has been assigned to one, essentially to wish to be there equally for every human being unconditionally. Openly wishing to be there for other human beings only according to the advantage of one’s earthly difference is pride and presumption; but the shrewd invention of not wishing to be there for others at all, in order secretly to enjoy the advantage of one’s difference in banding together with equals, is cowardly pride. In both there is divisiveness; but the person who loves “the neighbour” is at peace. He is at peace through being content in the difference of earthly life assigned to him, whether it is that of high rank or of lowliness; and otherwise he lets every difference of earthly life remain in force and count for what it shall and ought to count for here in this life; for you shall not covet what belongs to the neighbour, not his wife, not his ass, and therefore not the advantage in life granted to him either; if it is denied to you, you shall nevertheless rejoice that it is conceded to him. Thus the person who loves the neighbour is at peace: he neither avoids the more powerful person out of cowardice, but loves the neighbour, nor in distinguished fashion avoids the lowlier person, but loves the neighbour; rather, he essentially wishes to be there equally for all human beings, whether he is now in actuality known by many or not. It is undeniably a considerable stretching of the wings, but it is not a proud flight that flies over the world; it is self-denial’s humble and difficult flight close to the ground. It is far easier and far more comfortable to steal through life by living in distinguished withdrawal if one is distinguished, or in unnoticed quietness if one is lowly; indeed, strange as it is, one may even seem to accomplish more through this stealthy way of living, precisely because one exposes oneself to much less opposition. But although it is so pleasant to flesh and blood to avoid opposition, is it also what consoles in the hour of death? In the hour of death, surely the only consolation is that one has not avoided it, but endured it. What a human being shall accomplish or not accomplish does not stand within his power; he is not the one who shall govern the world; he has solely and exclusively to obey. Therefore everyone has first and foremost—instead of asking what position is most comfortable for him, what banding together is most advantageous for him—to place himself at the point where providence can use him, if it should thus please providence. That point is precisely loving the neighbour, or essentially being there equally for every human being. Every other point is divisiveness, however advantageous and comfortable and apparently significant this position may be; providence cannot use the person who has placed himself there, for he is indeed precisely in rebellion against providence. But the person who occupied that overlooked, that despised and disdained right position, without clinging to his earthly difference, without banding together with one single human being, essentially to be there equally for every human being—even if he apparently accomplished nothing, even if he was exposed to the derision of the lower ranks or the mockery of the distinguished, or to the derision and mockery of both—shall nevertheless, in the hour of death, dare consolingly to say to his soul, “I have done my part; whether I have accomplished anything, I do not know; whether I have benefited anyone, I do not know; but that I have been there for them, I know; I know it from this, that they derided me. And this is my consolation: that I shall not take with me into the grave the secret that, in order to have good and undisturbed and comfortable days in life, I have denied kinship with other human beings—with the lowly in order to live in distinguished reserve, with the distinguished in order to live in hidden obscurity.” Then let the person who, with the help of banding together and by not being there for all human beings, accomplished so much, take good care that death does not change his life for him when it reminds him of responsibility. For the person who did his part to make human beings aware, the lowly or the distinguished, the person who in teaching, acting, striving was there equally for all, bears no responsibility if human beings, by persecuting him, showed—that they had become aware; he bears no responsibility: no, he has even benefited them, for the condition for receiving benefit is always first and foremost to become aware. But the person who out of cowardice existed only within the partition-wall of banding together, where he accomplished so very much and gained so many advantages; the person who out of cowardice dared not make human beings aware, the lowly or the distinguished, because he had an inkling that people’s attention is an ambiguous good—when one has something true to communicate; the person who out of cowardice carried on his celebrated activity within the security of regard for persons: he bears the responsibility—that he did not love the neighbour. If such a person wished to say, “Yes, what use can it be to arrange one’s life according to such a measure?” then I would answer, “What use do you think this excuse can be in eternity?” For eternity’s commandment is infinitely higher than any excuse, however shrewd. Has even one single person among those whom providence has used as instruments in the service of truth—and let us not forget that this is what every human being shall and ought to be, at least he shall and ought to arrange his life so that he could be it—arranged his life otherwise than to be there equally for every human being? Each such person has never banded together with the lowly and never banded together with the distinguished, but has equally been there for the distinguished and equally been there for the lowliest. Truly, only by loving “the neighbour” can a human being accomplish the highest; for the highest is being able to be an instrument in providence’s hand. But, as was said, everyone who has placed himself at some other point, everyone who forms a party and a banding together, or takes part in a party, takes part in a banding together, governs on his own account, and all his accomplishing, even if it transformed a world, is a sensory deception. Nor shall he have much joy from it in eternity; for it is quite possible that providence made use of it—alas, but it did not use him as an instrument; he was self-willed, wise in his own conceit, and providence also makes use of such a person’s striving by taking his toilsome work and leaving him with his reward already received. However ridiculous, however delaying, however inexpedient loving the neighbour may seem in the world, it is nevertheless the highest that a human being is capable of accomplishing. But the highest has also never quite fitted into the relations of earthly life: it is both too little and too much.

Betragt engang Verden, der ligger for Dig i al dens brogede Mangfoldighed; det er, som naar Du seer et Skuespil, kun at Mangfoldigheden er langt, langt større. Hver Enkelt af disse Utallige er ved sin Forskjellighed noget Bestemt, forestiller noget Bestemt, men væsentligen er han noget Andet; dog dette faaer Du ikke at see her i Livet, her seer Du ikkun, hvad den Enkelte forestiller og hvorledes han gjør det. Det er som i Skuespillet. Men naar paa Skuepladsen Teppet saa falder, saa er Den, der spillede Kongen, og Den, der spillede Tiggeren, og saaledes fremdeles hver især, de ere alle lige meget, alle Eet og det Samme: Skuespillere. Og naar i Døden Teppet er faldet for Virkelighedens Skueplads (thi dette er en forvirrende Sprogbrug, naar man taler om, at i Dødens Øieblik Teppet drages op for Evighedens Skueplads; Evigheden er nemlig ingen Skueplads, den er Sandheden), saa ere de ogsaa alle Eet, de ere Mennesker, og ere alle det, de væsentligen vare, hvad Du ikke saae paa Grund af Forskjelligheden, Du saae, de ere Mennesker. Kunstens Skueplads er som en fortryllet Verden, men tænk Dig, at det en Aften ved en almindelig Aandsfraværelse løb surr for alle de Spillende, saa de meente, at de virkeligen vare hvad de forestillede: var dette ikke, hvad man, i Modsætning til Kunstens Fortryllelse, maatte kalde en ond Aands Fortryllelse, en Forgjørelse. Og saaledes ogsaa, hvis i Virkelighedens Fortryllelse (thi vi ere jo alle fortryllede, ved at være tryllede ind hver i sin Forskjellighed) Grundtanken forvirrede sig for os, saa vi meente, at det vi forestille, det var hvad vi væsentligen ere. Ak, men er dette dog ikke just Tilfældet. At Jordlivets Forskjellighed kun er som Skuespillerens Dragt, eller kun som en Reisedragt, at Hver især burde sørge for og vogte paa, at have Baandene, hvormed dette Overtøi er befæstet, løst bundne og fremfor Alt ikke i Haardknude, paa det, at Dragten i Forvandlingens Øieblik med Lethed kan afkastes: det synes glemt. Og dog have vi jo alle Kunstforstandighed nok til at stødes, dersom paa Skuepladsen Skuespilleren i Forvandlingens Øieblik, naar han skal afkaste Forklædningen, maatte løbe ud for at faae Baandene løste. Ak, men i Virkelighedens Liv, der snører man Forskjellighedens Overtøi saa fast, at det ganske skjuler, at denne Forskjellighed er Overtøi, fordi Ligelighedens indre Herlighed aldrig eller saa saare sjeldent skinner igjennem, hvad den dog bestandigt skulde og burde. Thi Skuespillerens Kunst er den bedragende, Kunsten Bedraget, det at kunne bedrage det Store, det at lade sig bedrage det lige saa Store, derfor maa man netop ikke kunne og ikke ville gjennem Dragten see Skuespilleren; derfor er det Kunstens Høieste, naar Skuespilleren bliver Eet med det han forestiller, fordi dette er Bedragets Høieste. Men Livets Virkelighed, om den end ikke, som Evigheden, er Sandheden, burde dog være af Sandheden, og derfor burde det dog bestandigt glimte igjennem Forklædningen det Andet, som Enhver væsentligen er. Ak, men i Virkelighedens Liv, der voxer den Enkelte i Timelighedens Væxt ganske sammen med Forskjelligheden, og dette er det Modsatte af Evighedens Væxt, der voxer fra Forskjelligheden, den Enkelte forvoxer, enhver Saadan er, i Evighedens Forstand, en Vanskabning. Ak, i Virkeligheden groer den Enkelte saaledes sammen med sin Forskjellighed, at Døden tilsidst maa bruge Magt, for at rive den af ham. – Men skal man i Sandhed elske Næsten, maa det ethvert Øieblik være erindret, at Forskjelligheden er en Forklædning. Thi, som sagt, Christendommen har ikke villet storme frem for at afskaffe Forskjelligheden, hverken Fornemhedens eller Ringhedens, den har heller ei villet verdsligt træffe en verdslig Overeenskomst mellem Forskjellighederne; men den vil, at Forskjelligheden skal hænge løst om den Enkelte, løst som den Kappe Majestæten afkaster, for at vise, hvo han er; løst som den pjaltede Dragt, i hvilken et overnaturligt Væsen har skjult sig. Naar nemlig Forskjelligheden hænger saaledes løst, da skimtes bestandigt i hver Enkelt hiint væsentlige Andet, det for Alle Fælles, det evigt Lignende, Ligningen. Dersom dette var saaledes, dersom hver Enkelt levede saaledes, da havde Timeligheden naaet sit Høieste. Som Evigheden kan den ikke være; men denne forventningsfulde Høitidelighed, der uden at standse Livets Gang, hver Dag forynger sig ved det Evige og ved Evighedens Ligelighed, hver Dag frelser Sjelen ud af Forskjelligheden, i hvilken den dog bliver: dette vilde være Evighedens Afglands. Da skulde Du i Livets Virkelighed vel see Herskeren, glad og ærbødig bringe ham Din Hylding; men Du skulde dog i Herskeren see den indre Herlighed, den Herlighedens Lighed, over hvilken hans Pragt kun skjuler. Da skulde Du vel, maaskee i Sorg over ham, lidende mere end han, see Tiggeren, men Du skulde dog i ham see den indre Herlighed, Herlighedens Lighed, over hvilken hans ringe Overtøi skjuler. Ja, da skulde Du, hvor Du vendte Dit Øie hen, see »Næsten«. Thi der er og har fra Verdens Begyndelse intet Menneske været til, der er Næsten i den Forstand som Kongen er Kongen, den Lærde den Lærde, Din Slægtning Din Slægtning, det er i Særlighedens eller hvad der er det Samme i Forskjellighedens Forstand; nei, ethvert Menneske er »Næsten«. I at være Konge, Tigger, Lærd, Riig, Fattig, Mand, Qvinde o. s. v. ligne vi ikke hinanden, deri ere vi jo netop forskjellige; men i at være »Næsten« ligne vi ubetinget alle hinanden. Forskjelligheden er Timelighedens Forvirrende, der mærker ethvert Menneske forskjelligt, men »Næsten« er Evighedens Mærke – paa ethvert Menneske. Tag mange Ark Papir, skriv det Forskjellige paa hvert Enkelt, saa ligner det ene ikke det andet; men tag saa igjen hvert enkelt Ark, lad Dig ikke forstyrre af Forskjellighedens Paaskrift, hold det op for Lyset, saa seer Du et fælles Mærke paa dem alle. Og saaledes er Næsten det fælles Mærke, men Du seer det kun ved Hjælp af Evighedens Lys, naar det gjennemlyser Forskjelligheden.

Consider for once the world lying before you in all its variegated multiplicity; it is as when you see a play, only the multiplicity is far, far greater. Each individual among these countless people is, through his difference, something definite, represents something definite, but essentially he is something else; yet this you do not come to see here in life: here you see only what the individual represents and how he does it. It is as in the play. But when the curtain then falls upon the stage, the person who played the king and the person who played the beggar, and likewise each individually, are all of equal standing, all one and the same thing: actors. And when in death the curtain has fallen upon actuality’s stage—for it is a confusing use of language when one speaks of the curtain’s being raised in the moment of death upon eternity’s stage, since eternity is no stage, but is the truth—then they also are all one, they are human beings, and are all what they essentially were, what you did not see because of the difference you saw: they are human beings. Art’s stage is like an enchanted world; but imagine that one evening, through a general absence of mind, everything became muddled for all the players, so that they thought they really were what they represented: would this not be what, in contrast to art’s enchantment, one must call an evil spirit’s enchantment, a bewitchment? And likewise, if within actuality’s enchantment—for we are indeed all enchanted by being charmed each into his difference—the fundamental thought became confused for us, so that we thought what we represented was what we essentially were. Alas, but is this not precisely the case? That earthly life’s difference is only like the actor’s costume, or only like travelling clothes; that each individually ought to take care and keep watch that the ties with which this outer garment is fastened are loosely tied and, above all, not in a tight knot, so that in the moment of transformation the garment can easily be cast off: this seems forgotten. And yet we all have enough understanding of art to be offended if upon the stage the actor, in the moment of transformation when he is to cast off his disguise, had to run out to have the ties undone. Alas, but in actual life one laces the outer garment of difference so tightly that it completely conceals that this difference is an outer garment, because the inner glory of equality never or only very seldom shines through, which nevertheless it continually shall and ought to do. For the actor’s art is the deceiving art, the art is the deception, being able to deceive is the great achievement, allowing oneself to be deceived is equally great; therefore one must precisely neither be able nor wish to see the actor through the costume; therefore it is art’s highest when the actor becomes one with what he represents, because this is deception’s highest. But life’s actuality, although it is not the truth as eternity is, ought nevertheless to be of the truth, and therefore that other thing which each essentially is ought nevertheless continually to glimmer through the disguise. Alas, but in actual life the individual, in temporality’s growth, grows entirely together with difference—and this is the opposite of eternity’s growth, which grows away from difference; the individual grows misshapen, each such person is, in eternity’s sense, a deformed being. Alas, in actuality the individual grows together with his difference in such a way that death must finally use force to tear it off him. But if one is truly to love the neighbour, it must be remembered at every moment that difference is a disguise. For, as was said, Christianity has not wished to rush forward in assault to abolish difference, neither that of high rank nor that of lowliness; nor has it wished in a worldly way to make a worldly agreement between the differences; but it wishes difference to hang loosely about the individual, loosely like the cloak His Majesty casts off to show who he is; loosely like the ragged garment in which a supernatural being has hidden himself. For when difference hangs loosely in this way, that essential other thing, what is common to all, what eternally makes equal, the equal apportionment, is continually glimpsed in each individual. If this were so, if each individual lived in this way, then temporality would have attained its highest. It cannot be like eternity; but this expectant solemnity which, without halting life’s course, rejuvenates itself each day through the eternal and through eternity’s equality, each day saves the soul out of the difference in which it nevertheless remains: this would be eternity’s reflected radiance. Then in life’s actuality you would indeed see the ruler, joyfully and reverently bring him your homage; but in the ruler you would nevertheless see the inner glory, the equality of glory over which his splendour merely lies as a covering. Then you would indeed see the beggar, perhaps in sorrow over him, suffering more than he; but in him you would nevertheless see the inner glory, the equality of glory over which his lowly outer garment lies as a covering. Yes, then, wherever you turned your eye, you would see “the neighbour”. For there is not, and since the beginning of the world has not been, any human being who is the neighbour in the sense in which the king is the king, the learned person the learned person, your relative your relative—that is, in the sense of particularity or, what is the same thing, in the sense of difference; no, every human being is “the neighbour”. In being king, beggar, learned, rich, poor, man, woman, and so forth, we do not resemble one another: in that we are indeed precisely different; but in being “the neighbour” we unconditionally all resemble one another. Difference is temporality’s confusing element, which marks every human being differently, but “the neighbour” is eternity’s mark—upon every human being. Take many sheets of paper, write something different upon each individual sheet, and then one does not resemble another; but then take each individual sheet again, do not let yourself be disturbed by the inscription of difference, hold it up to the light, and then you see a common mark upon them all. And thus the neighbour is the common mark, but you see it only with the help of eternity’s light when it shines through difference.

M. T., derom kan vistnok ingen Tvivl være, at dette maa synes Dig herligt, at det bestandigt er forekommet Dig saaledes, hver Gang Du i stille Opløftelse lod Evighedens Tanke raade og hengav Dig i Betragtningen; blot saa dog ikke denne Forstaaelse bliver paa Afstand. O, men skulde det dog ikke kunne synes Dig saa herligt, at Du for Dit Vedkommende besluttede Dig til at træffe denne Overeenskomst med Gud, at Du vil holde sammen med ham, for at fastholde denne Forstaaelse, det er, for at udtrykke i Dit Liv, at Du med ham fastholder denne Forstaaelse som den eneste, hvad der saa end for denne Forstaaelses Skyld skal vederfares Dig i Livet, ja skulde den end koste Dig Livet, at Du dog med Gud holder den fast som Din Seier over alle Krænkelser og alle Forurettelser. Husk paa, at Den, som for i Sandhed at ville Eet valgte at ville det Gode i Sandhed, at han har denne salige Trøst: man lider kun eengang, men man seirer evigt. – See, Digteren veed at tale meget om Elskovens Indvielse, om hvilken forædlende Magt, det udøver over et Menneske, at blive og at være forelsket, om hvilken Forklarelse, der gjennemtrænger hans hele Væsen, om hvilken, efter Digterens Mening, himmelsk Forskjel der skal være mellem den Forelskede og Den, som aldrig fornam Elskovens Forandring. O, den sande Indvielse er dog den, at opgive alle Fordringer til Livet, alle Fordringer til Magt og Ære og Fortrin, alle Fordringer – men Elskovs og Venskabs Lykke er jo just af de største Fordringer – altsaa at opgive alle Fordringer, for at forstaae, hvilken uhyre Fordring Gud og Evigheden har paa En selv. Den, som vil annamme denne Forstaaelse, han er ifærd med at elske Næsten. Et Menneskes Liv begynder med det Sandsebedrag, at der ligger en lang lang Tid og en heel Verden for ham paa Afstand, og begynder med den dumdristige Indbildning, at det er ham, der har saa god Tid til saa mange Fordringer, som han har; Digteren er denne dumdristige, men skjønne Indbildnings veltalende, begeistrede Fortrolige. Men naar Mennesket saa i den uendelige Forandring opdager det Evige sig saa nær paa Livet, at der ikke er een eneste Fordrings, ikke een eneste Udflugts, ikke een eneste Undskyldnings, ikke eet eneste Øiebliks Afstand fra hvad han i dette Nu, i dette Secund, i dette hellige Øieblik skal gjøre: saa er han i Gang med at blive en Christen. Barnlighedens Kjende er at sige: mig vil, mig – mig; Ungdommelighedens Kjende er at sige: jeg – og jeg – og jeg; Modenhedens Kjende og det Eviges Indvielse er at ville forstaae, at dette »Jeg« har Intet at betyde, hvis det ikke bliver det »Du«, til hvem Evigheden uafbrudt taler og siger: »Du« skal, Du skal, Du skal. Det Ungdommelige vil være det eneste Jeg i hele Verden, Modenheden er at forstaae dette Du om sig selv, hvis det end ikke sagdes til noget eneste andet Menneske. Du skal, Du skal elske Næsten. O, m. T., det er ikke Dig, til hvem jeg taler, det er mig, til hvem Evigheden siger: Du skal.

My listener, there can surely be no doubt that this must seem glorious to you, that it has continually appeared so to you whenever, in quiet elevation, you let eternity’s thought rule and gave yourself over to contemplation; only let this understanding not then remain at a distance. Oh, but could it not nevertheless seem so glorious to you that you, for your part, resolved to make this agreement with God: that you will hold together with him in order to hold fast to this understanding—that is, in order to express in your life that with him you hold fast to this understanding as the only one, whatever may then befall you in life for this understanding’s sake; yes, even if it should cost you your life, that you nevertheless with God hold it fast as your victory over all affronts and all wrongs? Remember that the person who, in order in truth to will one thing, chose in truth to will the good, has this blessed consolation: one suffers only once, but one conquers eternally. See, the poet knows how to speak much about erotic love’s consecration, about what an ennobling power becoming and being in love exercises over a human being, about what a transfiguration permeates his whole being, about what, in the poet’s opinion, a heavenly difference there is supposed to be between the person in love and the person who has never felt erotic love’s change. Oh, the true consecration is nevertheless this: to give up all demands upon life, all demands for power and honour and advantage, all demands—but the happiness of erotic love and friendship is indeed precisely among the greatest demands—thus to give up all demands, in order to understand what an immense demand God and eternity have upon oneself. The person who wishes to receive this understanding is in the process of loving the neighbour. A human being’s life begins with the sensory deception that a long, long time and a whole world lie before him at a distance, and begins with the foolhardy fancy that it is he who has such ample time for the many demands he has; the poet is the eloquent, enthusiastic confidant of this foolhardy but beautiful fancy. But when the human being then, in the infinite change, discovers the eternal so close upon him that there is not one single demand’s, not one single evasion’s, not one single excuse’s, not one single moment’s distance from what he shall do in this now, in this second, in this holy moment: then he is on the way to becoming a Christian. The mark of childlikeness is to say, “Me want, me—me”; the mark of youthfulness is to say, “I—and I—and I”; the mark of maturity and the eternal’s consecration is to wish to understand that this “I” has no significance if it does not become the “you” to whom eternity speaks uninterruptedly and says, “You” shall, you shall, you shall. The youthful wishes to be the only I in the whole world; maturity is to understand this “you” as applying to oneself, even if it were said to no other human being at all. You shall, you shall love the neighbour. Oh, my listener, it is not you to whom I am speaking; it is I to whom eternity says: you shall.