Love Hopes All Things—and Yet Is Never Put to Shame

Under mange Billeder og ved mange Forestillinger søger den hellige Skrift paa forskjellig Maade at give denne vor jordiske Tilværelse Festlighed og Høitidelighed, at skaffe Luft og Udsigt ved Forholdet til det Evige. Og dette gjøres vel fornødent. Thi naar det jordiske Livs Verdslighed, gudforladt, slutter sig inde med sig selv i Selvtilfredshed, saa udvikler denne indespærrede Luft Gift i sig og af sig. Og naar i Timeligheden Tiden i en vis Forstand saa langsomt sniger sig hen og dog saa underfundigt hurtigt, at man aldrig med samlet Opmærksomhed bliver dens Forsvinden vaer; eller naar Øieblikket sætter sig fast og bliver stillestaaende, naar Alt, Alt opdrives for at vende Sindet og Kræfterne ind i Øieblikket: saa tabes Udsigten, og dette løsrevne, gudforladte Timelighedens Øieblik, det være nu kortere eller længere, bliver et Affald fra det Evige. See derfor er der saa ofte i de forskjellige Tider følt Trang til en forfriskende, oplivende Luftning, et mægtigt Pust, der kunde rense Luften og fordrive de giftige Dunster, følt Trang til en stor Begivenheds frelsende Bevægelse, der frelser ved at bevæge det Stillestaaende, følt Trang til en stor Forventnings oplivende Udsigt – at man ikke skal blive qvalt i Verdsligheden eller omkomme i det belemrende Øieblik.

Through many images and conceptions, Holy Scripture seeks in various ways to give this earthly existence of ours festivity and solemnity, to provide air and a prospect through its relationship to the eternal. And this is indeed needed. For when the worldliness of earthly life, forsaken by God, shuts itself in with itself in self-satisfaction, this confined air generates poison within and from itself.

When, in temporality, time creeps along so slowly in one sense, yet so deceptively quickly that one never becomes fully attentive to its disappearance; or when the moment fixes itself and stands still, when everything, everything is mustered to direct the mind and its powers into the moment—then the prospect is lost. This detached, God-forsaken moment of temporality, whether shorter or longer, becomes a falling away from the eternal.

See, this is why different ages have so often felt the need for a refreshing, reviving breath of air, a mighty gust to cleanse the air and drive away the poisonous vapours; felt the need for the saving movement of a great event, which saves by moving what stands still; felt the need for the reviving prospect of a great expectation—so that one may not suffocate in worldliness or perish in the oppressive moment.

Dog veed Christendommen kun een Vei og een Udvei, medens den dog altid veed Vei og Udvei; det er ved Hjælp af det Evige, at Christendommen i ethvert Øieblik skaffer Luft og Udsigt. Naar Travlheden tiltager, just fordi Øieblikket breder sig, naar den ustandseligt farer omkring i Øieblikket, som, evigt forstaaet, ikke kommer af Stedet, naar de Travle saae og høste og saae igjen og høste atter (thi Travlhed høster mange Gange), naar de Travle sanke Laderne fulde af hvad de høstede og hvile paa deres Fortjenester – ak, medens Den, der i Sandhed vil det Gode, i Løbet af samme Tid endnu ikke seer den mindste Frugt af sin Arbeiden, og han bliver til Spot som Den, der ikke veed at saae, som Den, der arbeider forgjeves og blot fægter i Luften: da skaffer Christendommen Udsigt ved sin billedlige Tale om, at dette jordiske Liv er Sædens Tid, Evigheden Høstens. Naar Øieblikket, just fordi det staaer stille, bliver som en Hvirvel (thi Hvirvel bevæger sig ikke fremad), naar der strides, seires og tabes og atter seires, nu paa eet Punkt, nu paa et andet – men Den, der vil det Gode i Sandhed, er den Eneste, som alene er Tabende og tabende Alt, som det synes: da skaffer Christendommen Udsigt ved Hjælp af sin billedlige Tale om, at dette Liv er Trængselens, er Stridens, Evigheden Seirens. Naar Øieblikket bliver stillestaaende i Smaalighedens usle Forvikling, som dog vrængende gjengiver selv det Helligste, det Gode, det Sande i den kummerlige Formindskelse, vrængende leger den Leeg at uddele Ære og Skam; naar Alt forfængeliggjøres ved at drages ned i dette jammerlige forvirrede Røre: da skaffer Christendommen Luft og Udsigt, skaffer Livet Høitidelighed og Festlighed ved i billedlig Tale at vise hen til hiint Evighedens Optrin, hvor det evigt skal afgjøres, hvo der vandt Ærens Krands, og hvo der blev til Skamme. – Hvilken høitidelig alvorsfuld Festlighed! Sandeligen, hvad er ogsaa Ære og Skam, naar ikke den Omgivelse er sikkret, som giver Æren og Skammen uendelig Betydning! Selv om det var fortjent, at et Menneske vandt Ære her i Verden, hvad Høitidelighed har Verden til at give det Betydning! Lad Discipelen fortjent blive udskammet, eller fortjent blive udmærket – dersom den høitidelige Handling skulde foregaae paa Trappegangen; dersom Læreren, der uddeler Æren og Skammen, var en jammerlig Karl; dersom der Ingen eller saa godt som Ingen var indbuden af hine Ærværdige, der beære Festligheden med deres Nærværelse, men en desto større Flok af løse Mennesker, hvis Rygte endog var tvetydigt: hvad er saa Æren og Skammen! Men Evigheden! Veed Du nogen Festlighedens Bygning, der er saa høit hvælvet som Evigheden; veed Du noget, selv noget Guds-Huus, hvor der er denne hellige Stilhed som i Evigheden; veed Du nogen, selv den meest udvalgte Kreds af Ærværdige, der er saaledes sikkret for, at Ingen er tilstede, mod hvem Æren kunde have det Mindste, det Allermindste at indvende, saaledes sikkret mod, at Ingen er tilstede uden hvem Æren har Ære af, som Evigheden er det; veed Du nogen festlig Sal, var end alle dens Vægge af Speilglas, der saaledes uendeligt gjengiver og ene Ærens Fordring, saaledes uendeligt negter end den mindste, den meest ubemærkede Sprække for Vanæren at skjule sig i, som Evigheden – hvis Du der skulde staae til Skamme!

Yet Christianity knows only one way and one way out, although it always knows a way and a way out. By means of the eternal, Christianity provides air and a prospect at every moment.

When busyness increases precisely because the moment expands; when it rushes ceaselessly about within the moment, which, eternally understood, gets nowhere; when the busy sow and reap and sow again and reap once more—for busyness harvests many times; when they fill their barns with what they have harvested and rest on their merits—alas, while the person who truly wills the good sees not the slightest fruit of his labour in that same time, and is ridiculed as someone who does not know how to sow, who labours in vain and merely beats the air: then Christianity opens a prospect through its figurative account of this earthly life as seedtime, and eternity as harvest time.

When the moment, precisely because it stands still, becomes like a whirlpool—for a whirlpool does not move forwards; when there is struggle, victory and defeat, and victory again, now at one point, now at another—yet the person who truly wills the good alone keeps losing, and apparently loses everything: then Christianity opens a prospect through its figurative account of this life as the time of tribulation and struggle, and eternity as the time of victory.

When the moment stands still in the wretched entanglements of pettiness, which mockingly reproduces even the holiest, the good and the true, in its miserable diminishment, mockingly playing at distributing honour and shame; when everything is made vain by being dragged down into this miserable, confused turmoil: then Christianity provides air and a prospect. It gives life solemnity and festivity by pointing figuratively to that scene in eternity where it will be eternally decided who won the crown of honour and who was put to shame.

What solemn, earnest festivity! Truly, what are honour and shame without an assured setting that gives them infinite significance? Even if someone deserved the honour he won here in the world, what solemnity has the world to give it significance? Let the pupil deservedly be shamed or deservedly honoured: if the solemn ceremony took place on the staircase; if the teacher distributing honour and shame were a wretched fellow; if none, or almost none, of those venerable people who honour the festivity with their presence had been invited, but instead an all the greater crowd of dissolute people whose reputation was itself dubious—what then would honour and shame be!

But eternity! Do you know any festive building with a vault as high as eternity? Do you know anywhere, even a house of God, with such holy silence as eternity? Do you know any circle, even the most select circle of venerable people, where you could be as certain as in eternity that no one is present against whom honour could have the slightest, the very slightest objection; certain that no one is present except those who do honour to honour itself? Do you know any festive hall, even if all its walls were mirrored glass, that so infinitely reflects honour's demand alone, so infinitely denies dishonour even the smallest, most unnoticed crack to hide in, as eternity—if you were to stand there put to shame!

Saaledes skaffer Christendommen i Forhold til Ære og Skam hvert Øieblik Udsigt ved Hjælp af Evigheden, hvis Du selv vil hjælpe til ved at haabe. Christendommen fører Dig ikke op paa et noget høiere Sted, hvorfra Du dog kun kan overskue en noget videre Omkreds: dette er dog kun et jordisk Haab og en verdslig Udsigt. Nei, Christendommens Haab er Evigheden, og derfor er der Lys og Skygge, Skjønhed og Sandhed, og fremfor Alt Gjennemskuelsens Fjernhed i dens Tegning af Tilværelse. Christendommens Haab er Evigheden, og Christus er Veien; hans Fornedrelse er Veien, men ogsaa da han foer til Himmels var han Veien.

Thus, in relation to honour and shame, Christianity opens a prospect at every moment by means of eternity, if you yourself are willing to help by hoping. Christianity does not lead you up to a slightly higher place from which you can survey only a slightly wider circle: that is merely an earthly hope and a worldly prospect. No, Christianity's hope is eternity. Therefore its depiction of existence has light and shadow, beauty and truth, and above all the distance that allows penetrating vision. Christianity's hope is eternity, and Christ is the way. His humiliation is the way; but when he ascended into heaven, he was the way as well.

Men Kjerligheden, som er større end Tro og Haab, paatager sig ogsaa Haabets Gjerning, eller paatager sig Haabet, det at haabe for Andre, som en Gjerning. Selv opbygges og næres den ved dette Evighedens Haab, og handler da ogsaa mod Andre kjerligt i dette Haab, hvad vi nu ville overveie:

But love, which is greater than faith and hope, also undertakes hope's work; or it undertakes hope, hoping for others, as a work. Love is itself built up and nourished by this hope of eternity, and in this hope acts lovingly towards others. This is what we shall now consider:

Kjerlighed haaber Alt – og bliver dog aldrig til Skamme,

Love hopes all things—and yet is never put to shame,

thi sandeligen ikke Enhver, der haaber Alt, er derfor den Kjerlige, ei heller er Enhver, der haaber Alt, derfor sikkret mod aldrig at blive til Skamme; men kjerligt at haabe Alt er det modsatte af fortvivlet slet intet at haabe, hverken for sig selv eller for Andre.

for truly, not everyone who hopes all things is therefore a loving person, nor is everyone who hopes all things therefore assured of never being put to shame. But hoping all things lovingly is the opposite of despairingly hoping nothing at all, either for oneself or for others.

At haabe Alt, eller hvad der er det Samme altid at haabe. Vel synes det nemlig ved første Øiekast som var det at haabe Alt Noget, der kunde gjøres een Gang for alle, da »Alt« jo samler det Mangfoldige i Eet, og forsaavidt i hvad man maa kalde et evigt Øieblik, som var Haabet i Hvile, i Ro. Dette er dog ikke saa. Det at haabe er nemlig sammensat af det Evige og det Timelige, deraf kommer det, at Udtrykket for Haabets Opgave i Evighedens Skikkelse er at haabe Alt, i Timelighedens Skikkelse altid at haabe. Det ene Udtryk er ikke sandere end det andet, tvertimod bliver hvert af Udtrykkene usandt, naar det skulde modsættes det andet Udtryk, istedenfor forenet at udtrykke det Samme: i ethvert Øieblik, altid at haabe Alt.

To hope all things, or, what is the same, always to hope. At first sight, hoping all things seems to be something that could be done once and for all, since “all” gathers the many into one, and thus into what must be called an eternal moment, as though hope were at rest, in repose. But this is not so. Hoping is composed of the eternal and the temporal. Therefore hope's task, expressed in the form of eternity, is to hope all things; in the form of temporality, always to hope. Neither expression is truer than the other. On the contrary, each becomes untrue if it is opposed to the other, instead of the two together expressing the same thing: at every moment, always to hope all things.

At haabe forholder sig til det Tilkommende, til Muligheden, hvilken igjen, forskjelligt fra Virkelighed, altid er et Dobbelt, Fremgangens eller Tilbagegangens, Opreisningens eller Undergangens, det Godes eller det Ondes Mulighed. Det Evige »er«; men idet det Evige berører det Timelige eller er i det Timelige, træffe de hinanden ikke i det »Nærværende«, thi saa var det Nærværende selv det Evige. Det Nærværende, Øieblikket, er saa hurtigt forbi, at det egentligen ikke er til, det er blot Grændsen, og er altsaa forbigangent, medens det Forbigangne er, hvad der var nærværende. Naar altsaa det Evige er i det Timelige, saa er det i det Tilkommende (thi det Nærværende kan det ikke faae fat paa, og det Forbigangne er jo forbi) eller i Muligheden. Det Forbigangne er det Virkelige, det Tilkommende det Mulige; evigt er det Evige det Evige, i Tiden er det Evige det Mulige, det Tilkommende. Vi kalde jo derfor den Dag imorgen det Tilkommende, men ogsaa det evige Liv kalde vi det Tilkommende. Det Mulige er som saadant altid et Dobbelt, og det Evige forholder sig i Mulighed ligeligt til dens Dobbelthed. Fra den anden Side, naar Mennesket, hvem det Mulige angaaer, forholder sig ligeligt til det Muliges Dobbelthed, saa sige vi: han forventer. At forvente indeholder i sig den samme Dobbelthed som det Mulige har, og at forvente er at forholde sig til det Mulige reent og blot som saadant. Derpaa deler Forholdet sig, eftersom det forventende Menneske vælger. At forholde sig forventende til det Godes Mulighed er at haabe, hvad just derfor ikke kan være nogen timelig Forventning, men er et evigt Haab. At forholde sig forventende til det Ondes Mulighed er at frygte. Men saavel den Haabende som den Frygtende er forventende. Dog saa snart Valget er gjort, er det Mulige forandret, thi det Godes Mulighed er det Evige. Det er kun i Berøringens Øieblik, at det Muliges Dobbelthed er ligelig; ved den Afgjørelse at vælge Haabet afgjør man derfor uendeligt mere end det synes, thi det er en evig Afgjørelse. Kun i den blotte Mulighed altsaa for den blot eller ligegyldigt Forventende er det Godes og det Ondes Mulighed ligelig; i Forskjelliggjørelsen (og Valget er jo forskjelliggjørende) er det Godes Mulighed mere end Mulighed, thi den er det Evige. Deraf kommer det, at Den, som haaber, aldrig kan bedrages; thi at haabe er at forvente det Godes Mulighed, men det Godes Mulighed er det Evige.

Hoping relates to the future, to possibility. Unlike actuality, possibility is always twofold: the possibility of progress or regress, of rising again or going under, of good or evil. The eternal “is”. But when the eternal touches the temporal or is within it, they do not meet in the “present”, for then the present itself would be the eternal. The present, the moment, passes so quickly that it does not really exist; it is merely the boundary, and is thus past, while the past is what was present. When the eternal is within the temporal, therefore, it is in the future or in possibility: for it cannot grasp the present, and the past has passed.

The past is the actual; the future is the possible. Eternally, the eternal is the eternal; in time, the eternal is the possible, the future. This is why we call tomorrow “what is to come”, but also call eternal life “what is to come”. The possible as such is always twofold, and in possibility the eternal relates equally to its two sides. On the other side, when the human being whom possibility concerns relates equally to its two sides, we say that he expects. Expecting contains the same twofoldness as possibility; expecting means relating to the possible purely and simply as such.

The relationship then divides according to the expectant person's choice. Relating expectantly to the possibility of good is hoping. Precisely for this reason it cannot be a temporal expectation, but is an eternal hope. Relating expectantly to the possibility of evil is fearing. Yet both the hopeful and the fearful person are expectant.

As soon as the choice is made, however, the possible is changed, for the possibility of good is the eternal. Only at the moment of contact are the two sides of possibility equal. By deciding to choose hope, one therefore decides infinitely more than appears: it is an eternal decision. Only in bare possibility, and thus for the merely or indifferently expectant person, are the possibilities of good and evil equal. In differentiation—and choice differentiates—the possibility of good is more than possibility, for it is the eternal. That is why the person who hopes can never be deceived: hoping is expecting the possibility of good, and the possibility of good is the eternal.

Saaledes maa man nøiagtigere bestemme, hvad det er at haabe; thi i den almindelige Sprogbrug kalder man ofte Det Haab, som ingenlunde er Haab, men Ønske, Længsel, længselsfuld Forventning snart af det Ene, snart af det Andet, kort en Forventendes Forhold til det Mangfoldiges Mulighed. Saaledes forstaaet (naar Haab egentligen blot betyder Forventning) falder det da Ynglingen og Barnet saa let at haabe, fordi Ynglingen og Barnet selv endnu er en Mulighed. Og derimod er det saa igjen i sin Orden, naar man seer, hvorledes med Aarene som oftest det Mulige og Haabet tager af i Menneskene, eller Sandsen for Mulighed. Heraf lader det sig igjen forklare, at Erfaringen taler saa afvisende om Haabet, som var det blot Ungdommelighed (hvad vistnok Barnets og Ynglingens Haaben ogsaa er), som var det at haabe, liig det at dandse, noget ungdommeligt Noget, hvad den Ældre hverken har Lyst eller Lethed til. Nu ja, det at haabe er jo ogsaa at gjøre sig let ved Hjælp af det Evige, det er ved Hjælp af det Godes Mulighed. Og er det Evige end langtfra at være Ungdommelighed, saa har det dog langt mere tilfælles med Ungdommelighed end med den Tværhed, der ofte nok beæres med Navn af Alvor, den Aarenes Trevenhed, som i nogenlunde heldige Vilkaar er saadan nogenlunde tilfreds og beroliget, men for Alt Intet har med Haabet at skaffe; og i uheldige Vilkaar hellere gnaver fortredent end at haabe. I Ungdommen har et Menneske Forventning og Mulighed nok, det udvikler sig af sig selv i Ynglingen som det kostelige Myrrha, der drypper ned af Arabiens Træer. Men naar et Menneske saa er bleven ældre, da bliver hans Liv som oftest hvad det nu saadan engang er blevet, en dvask Gjentagelse og Omskrivning af det Samme; ingen Mulighed skrækker vækkende op, ingen Mulighed opliver foryngende; Haabet bliver Noget, som intetsteds har hjemme, og Mulighed noget lige saa Sjeldent som Grønt i Vintren. Man lever uden det Evige ved Hjælp af Vane, Klogskab, Efterabelse, Erfaring, Skik og Brug. Og sandeligen, tag alt Dette, kom det tilsammen, tilbered det ved de sløvede eller kun jordiskt blussende Lidenskabers Ild, og Du skal see, Du kan faae Allehaande ud deraf, en forskjelligt tillavet seig Sliim, som man kalder Leve-Klogskab; men aldrig fik Nogen Mulighed ud deraf, Mulighed, dette Vidunderlige, der er saa uendeligt skørt (ja ikke er Foraarets fineste Stengel saa skør!), saa uendeligt skrøbeligt (ja, ikke er det fineste forarbeidede Liin saa skrøbeligt!) og dog netop tilveiebragt, dannet ved Hjælp af det Evige, og dog stærkere end Alt, hvis det er det Godes Mulighed!

This is how we must define hoping more precisely. In ordinary usage we often call something hope that is by no means hope, but wish, longing, a yearning expectation of now one thing, now another: in short, an expectant person's relationship to the possibility of the many. Understood in this way, when hope really means mere expectation, hoping comes easily to the young person and the child, because they themselves are still a possibility. Conversely, it is then to be expected that possibility and hope—or the sense of possibility—usually diminish in people with the years.

This also explains why experience speaks so dismissively of hope, as though it were mere youthfulness, which the child's and the young person's hoping certainly is; as though hoping, like dancing, were a youthful thing for which the older person has neither inclination nor facility. Well, yes, hoping does mean making oneself light with the help of the eternal—that is, with the help of the possibility of good. And although the eternal is far from being youthfulness, it has far more in common with youthfulness than with the sullenness so often honoured with the name of earnestness: the sluggishness of years that, in reasonably fortunate circumstances, is more or less content and settled, but above all has nothing to do with hope; and in unfortunate circumstances would rather gnaw resentfully than hope.

In youth a person has expectation and possibility enough. They develop of themselves in the young person like the precious myrrh dripping from the trees of Arabia. But when a person grows older, his life generally becomes whatever it has happened to become: a sluggish repetition and rephrasing of the same thing. No possibility startles him awake; no possibility revives and rejuvenates him. Hope becomes something with no home anywhere, and possibility something as rare as greenery in winter. One lives without the eternal, by means of habit, prudence, imitation, experience, custom and convention.

Truly, take all this, mix it together, prepare it over the fire of passions dulled or burning only for earthly things, and you will see: you can get all sorts of things from it, a tough slime prepared in different ways and called worldly wisdom. But no one ever got possibility from it: possibility, this marvel, so infinitely delicate—not even spring's finest stem is so delicate!—so infinitely fragile—not even the finest worked linen is so fragile!—yet brought into being, formed precisely by means of the eternal, and stronger than everything if it is the possibility of good!

Man mener at tale erfarent ved at dele et Menneskes Liv i visse Afsnit og Aldere, og da kalde det første Afsnit Haabets eller Mulighedens. Hvilken Daarskab! Man udelader altsaa i Talen om Haabet ganske det Evige, og dog taler man om Haabet. Men hvorledes er det muligt, da Haabet jo forholder sig til det Godes Mulighed, og derved til det Evige! Og paa den anden Side, hvorledes er det muligt at tale saaledes om Haabet, at man anviser det en vis Alder; det Evige strækker dog vel til for hele Livet, saa er der altsaa og skal være Haab indtil det Sidste, saa er der altsaa ingen Alder der er Haabets, men hele Ens Liv skal være Haabets Tid. Man mener altsaa at tale erfarent om Haabet – ved at afskaffe det Evige. Som man i Skuespillet, ved at forkorte Tiden og ved at fortætte Begivenheder, i Løbet af nogle faa Timer faaer flere Aars Indhold at see: saaledes vil man skuespilagtigt indrette sig indenfor Timeligheden. Man forkaster Guds Anlæg med Tilværelsen: at Timeligheden er heel og holden Udviklingen, Forviklingen – Evigheden Opløsningen; man indretter det Hele indenfor Timeligheden, udviser en Snees Aar til Udviklingen, saa ti Aar til Forviklingen, saa strammer man Knuden i nogle Aar og saa følger Opløsningen. Unegteligt, Døden er jo ogsaa en Opløsning, og saa er det forbi, man bliver begraven – dog ikke førend Forraadnelsens Opløsning er indtraadt. Men sandeligen Enhver, der ikke vil forstaae, at hele Ens Liv skal være Haabets Tid, han er fortvivlet, ligegyldigt, aldeles ligegyldigt, hvad enten han veed af det eller ikke, hvad enten han priser sig lykkelig i sin formeentlige Velvære, eller han slider sig gjennem Kjedsommelighed og Bryderi. Enhver, der opgiver Muligheden af, at hans Tilværelse i næste Øieblik kunde være forspildt – hvis han da ikke opgiver denne Mulighed, fordi han haaber det Godes Mulighed, altsaa Enhver, der lever uden Mulighed, han er fortvivlet, han bryder med det Evige, han slutter vilkaarligt Muligheden af, sætter uden Evighedens Samtykke Slutning, hvor Slutningen ikke er, istedenfor som Den, der skriver efter en Andens Tilsigen, bestandigt at have Pennen rede til det Næste, saa han ikke formaster sig til meningsløst at sætte Punktum førend Meningen er ude, eller til oprørsk at kaste Pennen fra sig.

People think they speak from experience when they divide a human life into particular periods and ages, calling the first the period of hope or possibility. What folly! They leave the eternal entirely out of their account of hope, yet speak of hope. How is this possible, when hope relates to the possibility of good, and thereby to the eternal? And how can one speak of hope by assigning it a particular age? Surely the eternal extends throughout life; therefore there is, and must be, hope until the end. No particular age belongs to hope; one's whole life must be hope's time.

Thus people think they speak from experience about hope—by abolishing the eternal. Just as a play shortens time and condenses events, showing several years' content within a few hours, they want to arrange their lives theatrically within temporality. They reject God's design for existence: temporality is wholly the development and complication; eternity is the resolution. They arrange everything within temporality, allotting twenty years to the development, ten to the complication, then a few years to tighten the knot, followed by the resolution. Admittedly, death too is a resolution; then it is over, one is buried—though not before the dissolution of decay has begun.

But truly, anyone who will not understand that his whole life must be hope's time is in despair. It makes no difference, no difference at all, whether he knows this, whether he counts himself happy in his supposed well-being or struggles through boredom and trouble. Anyone who gives up the possibility that his existence could be forfeited in the next moment—unless he gives it up because he hopes for the possibility of good—anyone, then, who lives without possibility is in despair. He breaks with the eternal, arbitrarily closes off possibility, and without eternity's consent puts an end where there is no end. Instead, like someone writing at another's dictation, he should always keep the pen ready for what comes next, never presuming senselessly to put a full stop before the meaning is complete, or rebelliously throwing the pen away.

Naar man vil hjælpe et Barn med en meget stor Opgave hvorledes bærer man sig saa ad? Ja, man sætter det ikke hele Opgaven for paa eengang, thi saa fortvivler Barnet og opgiver Haabet; man sætter det et lille Stykke for ad Gangen, men bestandigt saa meget, at Barnet intet Øieblik kommer til at standse, som var det færdigt, og heller ikke saa meget, at Barnet ikke kan overkomme det. Dette er Opdragelsens fromme Sviig; den fortier egentligen Noget; bliver Barnet bedraget, saa kommer det deraf, at Opdrageren er et Menneske, som ikke kan indestaae for det næste Øieblik. Men nu Evigheden; den er dog vel den største Opgave, som er sat et Menneske, og paa den anden Side, den kan dog vel indestaae for det næste Øieblik; og Timelighedens Barn (Mennesket) forholder sig jo dog kun som et lille Barn til den uendelige Opgave. Vilde Evigheden paa eengang, og i sit Sprog, sætte Mennesket Opgaven, uden Hensyn til hans Fatteevne og svage Kræfter: saa maatte Mennesket fortvivle. Men da er det det Vidunderlige, at denne den største Magt, Evigheden, kan gjøre sig saa lille, at den er saaledes delelig, den, som dog evigt er Eet, at den iførende sig Skikkelsen af det Tilkommende, det Mulige, ved Hjælp af Haabet opdrager Timelighedens Barn (Mennesket), lærer ham at haabe (thi at haabe er selve Underviisningen, er Forholdet til det Evige), hvis han da ikke vilkaarligt vælger strengt at forknyttes ved Hjælp af Frygten, eller han frækt vælger at fortvivle, det er at unddrage sig Mulighedens Opdragelse. I Muligheden sætter det Evige, rigtigt forstaaet, bestandigt kun et lille Stykke for ad Gangen. Evigheden er ved det Mulige bestandigt nær nok til at være ved Haanden og dog fjern nok til at holde Mennesket i Bevægelse fremad mod det Evige, i Gangen, i Fremgangen. Saaledes lokker og drager Evigheden et Menneske i Muligheden fra Vuggen til Graven, hvis han da vælger at haabe. Thi Muligheden er, som sagt, et Dobbelt, og just derfor den sande Opdragelse; Muligheden er lige saa streng, eller kan dog være lige saa streng, som den kan være mild. Haabet ligger ikke uden videre i Muligheden, thi i Muligheden kan ogsaa Frygten ligge. Men Den, der vælger Haabet, ham opdrager Muligheden ved Hjælp af Haabet til at haabe. Dog bliver Frygtens Mulighed, Strengheden, skjult tilstede som en Mulighed, hvis den, for Opdragelsens Skyld, for at vække, skulde gjøres fornøden, men den bliver skjult, medens det Evige lokker ved Hjælp af Haabet. Thi det at lokke er bestandigt at være lige saa nær som fjern, hvorved den Haabende bevares altid haabende, haabende Alt, bevares i Haabet for det Evige, som i Timeligheden er det Mulige.

How does one help a child with a very great task? One does not set the whole task before the child at once: then the child despairs and gives up hope. One gives the child a little at a time, always enough to prevent a halt as though the task were finished, but never more than the child can manage. This is education's pious deception: it does keep something back. If the child is deceived, that is because the educator is human and cannot answer for the next moment.

But eternity is surely the greatest task set before a human being; and it can answer for the next moment. The child of temporality—the human being—stands like a little child before this infinite task. If eternity set the task before him all at once, in its own language, without regard for his understanding and weak powers, he would have to despair. Here, then, is the marvel: this greatest power, eternity, can make itself so small, can divide itself in this way, although eternally it is one. Clothing itself in the form of the future, the possible, it educates temporality's child—the human being—through hope. It teaches him to hope, for hoping is the instruction itself, the relationship to the eternal. This holds unless he arbitrarily chooses to be harshly cowed through fear, or brazenly chooses despair: that is, withdraws from possibility's education.

Rightly understood, the eternal sets only a small piece at a time before us in possibility. Through the possible, eternity is always near enough to be at hand, yet far enough away to keep the human being moving towards the eternal, on the way, making progress. Thus, in possibility, eternity entices and draws a person from cradle to grave, if he chooses to hope. For possibility is twofold, as has been said, and precisely for this reason is true education. Possibility is as strict, or can be as strict, as it can be gentle. Hope does not lie in possibility without further ado, for fear can also lie there. But whoever chooses hope, possibility educates through hope to hope.

Yet the possibility of fear, the strictness, remains hidden as a possibility, should it be needed for education's sake, to awaken. It remains hidden while the eternal entices through hope. For enticing means always being as near as far: in this way the hopeful person is kept always hoping, hoping all things, kept in hope for the eternal, which in temporality is the possible.

Saaledes med det at haabe Alt. Men det kjerligt at haabe Alt betegner den Kjerliges Forhold til andre Mennesker, at han i Forhold til dem, haabende for dem, bestandigt holder Muligheden aaben med uendelig Forkjerlighed for det Godes Mulighed. Han haaber altsaa kjerligt, at der i ethvert Øieblik er Mulighed, er det Godes Mulighed for det andet Menneske, denne det Godes Mulighed betyde nu herligere og herligere Fremgang i det Gode fra Fuldkommenhed til Fuldkommenhed, eller Opreisning fra Fald, eller Frelse fra Fortabelse og saaledes fremdeles.

So much for hoping all things. But hoping all things lovingly describes the loving person's relationship to others. In relation to them, hoping for them, he continually keeps possibility open, with infinite partiality for the possibility of good. Thus he lovingly hopes that at every moment there is possibility, the possibility of good, for the other person: whether this means ever more glorious progress in the good, from perfection to perfection, or rising after a fall, or salvation from perdition, and so forth.

At den Kjerlige har Ret i, at der i ethvert Øieblik er Mulighed, indsees let. Ak, men Mangen vilde maaskee langt lettere forstaae det, naar vi ville lade Fortvivlelsen sige det Samme – thi Fortvivlelsen siger i en vis Forstand det Samme. Den Fortvivlede veed ogsaa, hvad der ligger i Mulighed, og dog opgiver han Muligheden (thi at opgive Muligheden, er jo just at fortvivle), eller endnu rettere, han fordrister sig frækt til at antage det Godes Umulighed. Atter her viser det sig, at det Godes Mulighed er mere end Mulighed; thi naar En fordrister sig til at antage det Godes Umulighed, saa gaaer overhovedet Muligheden ud for ham. Den Frygtende antager ikke det Godes Umulighed; han frygter det Ondes Mulighed, men han slutter ikke, han fordrister sig ikke til at antage Umuligheden af det Gode.

It is easy to see that the loving person is right: at every moment there is possibility. Alas, yet many might understand this more easily if we let despair say the same thing—for in a certain sense despair does say the same thing. The despairing person also knows what lies in possibility, yet gives it up, for giving up possibility is precisely despairing. Or, more accurately, he brazenly dares to assume that the good is impossible. Here again we see that the possibility of good is more than possibility: when someone dares to assume the impossibility of good, possibility itself disappears for him. The fearful person does not assume the impossibility of good. He fears the possibility of evil, but does not draw a final conclusion, does not dare to assume that the good is impossible.

»Det er muligt,« siger Fortvivlelsen, »det er muligt, at selv den redeligst Begeistrede dog engang blev træt, opgav sin Stræben og sank i Usselhedens Tjeneste; det er muligt, at selv den inderligst Troende dog engang slap Troen og valgte Vantroen; det er muligt, at selv den meest brændende Kjerlighed engang afkøledes, ja isnede; det er muligt, at selv det retskafneste Menneske dog kunde komme paa en Afvei og fortabes; det er muligt, at selv den bedste Ven kunde forvandles til Fjende, selv den trofasteste Hustru til en Meenederske: det er muligt, fortvivl derfor, opgiv Haabet, haab fremfor Alt ikke paa noget Menneske eller for noget Menneske.« – Ja, vist er det muligt, men saa er jo ogsaa det Modsatte muligt. »Opgiv derfor aldrig ukjerligt noget Menneske eller Haabet for ham, thi det var dog muligt, at selv den meest forlorne Søn dog kunde frelses; at den meest forbittrede Fjende, ak han, der var Din Ven, det er dog muligt, at han atter kunde blive Din Ven; det er dog muligt, at Den, der sank dybest, ak, fordi han stod saa høit, det er dog muligt, at han atter kunde opreises; det er dog muligt, at den Kjerlighed, som blev kold, atter kunde komme til at brænde: opgiv derfor aldrig noget Menneske, endnu ikke i det sidste Øieblik, fortvivl ikke, nei haab Alt.«

“It is possible,” says despair, “it is possible that even the person most sincerely inspired might one day grow weary, abandon his striving and sink into the service of wretchedness; it is possible that even the most inward believer might one day let go of faith and choose unbelief; it is possible that even the most ardent love might one day grow cold, indeed, freeze; it is possible that even the most upright person might go astray and be lost; it is possible that even the best friend might become an enemy, even the most faithful wife a perjurer. It is possible: therefore despair, give up hope; above all, do not hope in any human being or for any human being.”

Yes, certainly it is possible; but then the opposite is possible too. “Therefore never unlovingly give up on anyone, or give up hope for him. For it is possible that even the most lost son could be saved; that the most embittered enemy—alas, the one who was your friend—it is possible that he could become your friend again; it is possible that the person who sank deepest—alas, because he stood so high—it is possible that he could rise again; it is possible that love which grew cold could burn again. Therefore never give up on anyone, not even in the final moment; do not despair—no, hope all things.”

Altsaa »det er muligt,« saavidt enes den Fortvivlede og den Kjerlige i det Samme; men da skilles de evigt ad, thi Fortvivlelse haaber slet Intet for Andre, Kjerlighed haaber Alt. Fortvivlelsen synker sammen og bruger nu stundom Muligheden som et forlystende Pirrings-Middel, hvis man ellers kan forlystes ved den ustadige, forfængelige, spøgelseagtige Muligheds Blussen. Det er mærkeligt nok, og viser, hvor dybt Haabet er grundet i et Menneske, at man just hos Mennesker, som isnede i Fortvivlelse, finder en fremherskende Tilbøielighed til at gantes og lefle med Muligheden, en vellystig Misbrug af Indbildningskraften. Koldt og trodsigt vil den Fortvivlede ikke haabe i Forhold til det andet Menneske, endnu mindre arbeide for det Godes Mulighed i ham, men det forlyster den Fortvivlede at lade det andet Menneskes Skjebne gøgle for sig i Mulighed, ligegyldigt Haabets eller Frygtens, det forlyster ham at lege med det andet Menneskes Skjebne, at tænke snart den ene snart den anden Mulighed, at vippe ham ligesom i Luften, medens han selv, stolt og ukjerligt, foragter det Hele.

Thus, “It is possible”: so far the despairing and the loving person agree. But then they part eternally, for despair hopes nothing at all for others; love hopes all things. Despair collapses and sometimes uses possibility as an entertaining stimulant—if one can take pleasure in the flickering of fickle, empty, ghostlike possibility. It is remarkable, and shows how deeply hope is grounded in a human being, that precisely among people frozen in despair one finds a prevailing inclination to fool and flirt with possibility: a voluptuous misuse of the imagination.

Coldly and defiantly, the despairing person refuses to hope for another, still less to work for the possibility of good in him. Yet he enjoys letting the other's fate play before him in possibility, whether of hope or fear. He enjoys playing with the other's fate, imagining now one possibility, now another, tossing him as though in the air, while he himself proudly and unlovingly despises it all.

Dog med hvad Ret kalde vi Den en Fortvivlet, der opgiver et andet Menneske? Eet er det jo selv at fortvivle, et Andet, at fortvivle over en Anden. Aah, ja, men dersom det dog er sandt, hvad den Kjerlige forstaaer, og dersom det er sandt, at man, hvis man er den Kjerlige, forstaaer, hvad den Kjerlige forstaaer, at der i ethvert Øieblik er det Godes Mulighed for det andet Menneske: saa er altsaa det at opgive et andet Menneske som haabløst tabt, som var der intet Haab for ham, et Beviis for, at man ikke selv er den Kjerlige; og altsaa er man jo den Fortvivlede, der opgiver Muligheden. Ingen kan haabe uden at han tillige er kjerlig, han kan ikke haabe for sig selv uden tillige at være kjerlig, thi det Gode hænger uendeligt sammen; men er han kjerlig, saa haaber han tillige for Andre. Og i samme Grad, som han haaber for sig selv, ganske i samme Grad haaber han for Andre; thi ganske i samme Grad som han haaber for sig, ganske i samme Grad er han den Kjerlige. Og i samme Grad, som han haaber for Andre, ganske i samme Grad haaber han for sig; thi dette er det uendeligt nøiagtige, evige Lige for Lige, der er i alt Evigt. O, der er overalt, hvor Kjerlighed er med, noget saa uendeligt Dybsindigt. Den sande Kjerlige siger: »haab Alt, opgiv intet Menneske, thi at opgive ham, det er at opgive Din Kjerlighed til ham – hvis Du nemlig ikke opgiver den, saa haaber Du; men opgiver Du Din Kjerlighed til ham, da ophører Du selv at være den Kjerlige.« See, vi tale i Almindelighed paa en anden Maade, paa en herskesyg og ukjerlig Maade om vort Forhold til Kjerligheden i os, som var man selv Herre og Selvhersker over sin Kjerlighed i samme Forstand, som man er det over sine Penge. Naar En siger, »jeg har opgivet min Kjerlighed til dette Menneske«, saa tænker han, at det er dette Menneske, der taber, dette Menneske, som var Gjenstand for hans Kjerlighed; den Talende mener selv at beholde sin Kjerlighed, i samme Forstand som naar En, der har understøttet et andet Menneske med Penge, siger »jeg har ophørt at give ham denne Understøttelse«, saa Giveren nu selv beholder de Penge, som før den Anden fik, han, som er den Tabende; thi Giveren er jo langtfra at tabe ved denne Penge-Forandring. Men saaledes er det ikke med Kjerlighed; maaskee taber Den, der var Gjenstand for Kjerligheden, men han, der har »opgivet sin Kjerlighed til dette Menneske«, han er den Tabende; han mærker det maaskee ikke selv, han mærker maaskee end ikke, at Sproget spotter ham, thi han siger jo »jeg har opgivet min Kjerlighed«. Men har han opgivet sin Kjerlighed, saa er han jo ophørt at være kjerlig. Rigtignok tilføier han min Kjerlighed »til dette Menneske,« men dette hjælper ikke, paa den Maade lader det sig uden Tab for En selv gjøre med Penge, men ikke med Kjerlighed. Det Tillægsord »kjerlig« tilkommer mig ikke, naar jeg har opgivet min Kjerlighed til »dette Menneske«, ak, uagtet jeg maaskee endog indbildte mig, at han var Den, som tabte. Og saaledes ogsaa med det, at fortvivle over et andet Menneske, det er selv at være fortvivlet. Ja, den er lidt sinkende, denne Betragtning; det gaaer desto værre saa let og saa nemt med at fortvivle over et andet Menneske – og saa formeentligen at være sikker paa sig selv, fuld af Haab for sig selv; og just de Mennesker, som selvbehageligen ere allersikkrest for deres Vedkommende, dem gaaer det gjerne allerraskest for med at fortvivle over Andre. Men hvor let det end gaaer, saa lader det sig dog virkeligen ikke gjøre – undtagen i Tankeløshed, hvilken rigtignok gaaer lettest for mange Mennesker. Nei, her er atter Evighedens Lige for Lige, det at fortvivle over et andet Menneske, er selv at være fortvivlet.

Yet by what right do we call a person who gives up on another despairing? Surely despairing oneself is one thing, despairing of someone else another. Ah, yes; but suppose what the loving person understands is true, and suppose it is true that anyone who is loving understands what the loving person understands: that at every moment there is the possibility of good for the other. Then giving up on another as hopelessly lost, as though there were no hope for him, proves that one is not oneself loving. One is therefore the despairing person who gives up possibility.

No one can hope without also being loving. One cannot hope for oneself without also being loving, for the good is infinitely interconnected; but if one is loving, one also hopes for others. To the same degree that one hopes for oneself, to precisely the same degree one hopes for others; for to precisely the degree one hopes for oneself, to precisely that degree one is loving. And to the same degree that one hopes for others, to precisely the same degree one hopes for oneself. This is the infinitely exact, eternal like for like in everything eternal. Oh, wherever love is present, there is something so infinitely profound.

The truly loving person says, “Hope all things; give up on no one. Giving up on him is giving up your love for him—for if you do not give up that love, you hope. But if you give up your love for him, you yourself cease to be loving.”

See, we generally speak differently about our relationship to the love within us, in a domineering and unloving way, as though we were lords and absolute rulers over our love in the same sense as over our money. When someone says, “I have given up my love for this person,” he thinks the loser is that person, the object of his love. The speaker imagines he retains his love, as when someone who has supported another financially says, “I have stopped giving him this support.” The giver now keeps the money the other used to receive; the other is the loser, for the giver certainly loses nothing by this change in the money's destination.

But it is not so with love. Perhaps the person who was loved loses; but the one who has “given up his love for this person” is the loser. Perhaps he does not notice this; perhaps he does not even notice that language mocks him, for he says, “I have given up my love.” But if he has given up his love, he has ceased to be loving. Admittedly he adds, my love “for this person”. That does not help. With money this can be done without loss to oneself, but not with love. The adjective “loving” does not apply to me when I have given up my love for “this person”—alas, although I may even have imagined that he was the loser.

So too, despairing of another person is being in despair oneself. Yes, this consideration does slow us down a little. Unfortunately, despairing of another comes so lightly and easily—and then supposedly one is secure about oneself, full of hope for oneself. Precisely those most complacently secure on their own account are generally quickest to despair of others. But however easily it comes, it cannot really be done—except in thoughtlessness, which admittedly comes most easily to many people. No, here again is eternity's like for like: despairing of another is being in despair oneself.

Thi den Kjerlige haaber Alt. Og det er sandt, hvad den Kjerlige siger, at der, efter hvad han kan forstaae, endnu i det sidste Øieblik er det Godes Mulighed, selv for den meest Fortabte, altsaa endnu Haab. Det er sandt og det vil være sandt for Enhver i hans Forhold til andre Mennesker, dersom han vil holde sin Indbildningskraft i Ro, uforstyrret og uomtaaget af ukjerlige Lidenskaber, med det evige Sigte paa det Eviges Gjenskin i Muligheden. Naar derfor et Menneske ikke kan forstaae, hvad den Kjerlige forstaaer, saa maa det være, fordi han ikke er den Kjerlige; det maa være, fordi der er Noget, som hindrer ham i at holde Muligheden reen (thi holdes Muligheden reen, saa er Alt muligt), medens han kjerligt vælger det Godes Mulighed eller haaber for det andet Menneske; det maa være, fordi der er Noget, som tynger og giver ham en Tilbøielighed til at forvente det andet Menneskes Forknyttelse, Undergang, Fortabelse. Dette Tyngende er det verdslige og saaledes det ukjerlige Sinds jordiske Lidenskaber; thi Verdslighed er i sig tung, svær, dorsk, treven, mismodig, forstemt, og kan ikke indlade sig med det Mulige, mindst med det Godes Mulighed, hverken for sin egen eller for en Andens Skyld. – Der er en Kløgt, som, næsten stolt deraf, mener at have et særdeles grundigt Kjendskab til Tilværelsens lurvede Side, at Alt dog ender i Usselhed: hvor skulde den, endnu i det sidste Øieblik kjerligt kunne haabe for et andet Menneske, den, som allerede tidlig paa Dagen begynder at forvente og være forberedt paa hans Undergang! – Der er Vrede og Forbittrelse, selv om den ikke faaer et Mord paa sin Samvittighed, den opgiver dog haabløst den Forhadte, altsaa den tager Muligheden fra ham; men er dette ikke aandeligt at slaae ham ihjel, aandeligt at styrte ham i Afgrunden – forsaavidt det staaer til Vreden og Forbittrelsen! – Der er et ondt Øie, hvor skulde et ondt Øie kjerligt kunne faae Øie paa det Godes Mulighed! – Der er Misundelse, den er hurtig til at opgive et Menneske, og dog, den opgiver ham jo egentligen ikke, som slap den ham, nei, den er tidlig paafærde, for at hjælpe med ved hans Undergang. Og er denne først vis, da iler Misundelsen hjem i sin skumle Afkrog og kalder ad sin end afskyeligere Slægtning, der hedder Skadefryd, at de kunne fryde sig med hinanden – til deres egen Skade. – Der er en feig frygtagtig Smaalighed, som ikke har havt Mod til at haabe Noget for sig selv, hvor skulde den haabe det Godes Mulighed for Andre; dertil er den for smaalig, og for meget i Slægtskab med Misundelsen. – Der er et verdsligt, forfængeligt Sind, som da vilde tage sin Død for Skam og Blussel, hvis det skulde opleve at tage feil, at blive til Nar, at blive latterlig (den forfærdeligste af alle Rædsler!) ved at have haabet for et andet Menneske, hvad der ikke skete. Saa sikkrer dette verdslige forfængelige Sind sig ved itide Intet at haabe, og finder det kjerligt at haabe Alt saa uendeligt taabeligt og uendeligt latterligt. Men deri feiler dog Verdens Forfængelighed, thi hvad der er taabeligt er aldrig uendeligt; det var jo netop Dens Trøst, som, medens han levede, maatte døie nok af Verdens Taabelighed, at han bestandigt kunde sige: uendelig er den dog ikke, nei Gud være lovet, den faaer Ende. Ei heller har Erfaringen Ret i, at det er det Klogeste ikke at haabe Alt for et andet Menneske – dog, det forstaaer sig, Erfaringen har Ret, ellers maatte den lære om, og lære, hvor daarligt det er at elske Andre for sin egen Fordeels Skyld; og kun forsaavidt man gjør det er det uklogt at haabe Alt.

For the loving person hopes all things. What he says is true: so far as he can understand, even in the final moment there is the possibility of good for the most lost person, and therefore still hope. It is true, and will be true for everyone in his relationship to others, if he keeps his imagination at rest, undisturbed and unclouded by unloving passions, its eternal gaze fixed on the eternal's reflection in possibility.

When someone cannot understand what the loving person understands, it must therefore be because he is not loving. Something must prevent him from keeping possibility pure—for if possibility is kept pure, everything is possible—while lovingly choosing the possibility of good, or hoping for the other. Something must weigh him down and incline him to expect the other's dejection, downfall, perdition. This weight consists of the earthly passions of the worldly, and thus unloving, mind. For worldliness is itself heavy, ponderous, sluggish, listless, dispirited, ill-humoured. It cannot engage with the possible, least of all with the possibility of good, either for itself or for another.

There is a shrewdness that, almost proud of it, believes it knows existence's shabby side especially thoroughly: everything ends in wretchedness. How could it lovingly hope for someone even in the last moment, when it begins early in the day to expect and prepare for his downfall!

There are anger and bitterness. Even without a murder on their conscience, they give up the hated person as hopeless, thus taking possibility from him. Is this not killing him spiritually, casting him spiritually into the abyss—as far as anger and bitterness have the power!

There is an evil eye: how could an evil eye lovingly catch sight of the possibility of good! There is envy, quick to give up on a person. Yet it does not really give him up, as though letting him go: no, it is early on the scene to help bring about his downfall. Once that is certain, envy hurries home to its gloomy corner and calls its still more loathsome relative, malicious joy, so that they can rejoice together—to their own harm.

There is a cowardly, fearful pettiness that has lacked the courage to hope for anything for itself. How could it hope for the possibility of good for others? It is too petty, too closely related to envy. There is a worldly, vain mind that would die of shame and embarrassment if it found itself mistaken, made a fool of, ridiculous—the most dreadful of all terrors!—because it had hoped for something for another that did not happen. It safeguards itself by hoping for nothing in good time, finding it infinitely foolish and infinitely ridiculous to hope all things lovingly.

Yet the world's vanity is mistaken here, for what is foolish is never infinite. That was precisely the comfort of someone who had to endure enough of the world's foolishness in life: he could always say, “It is not infinite after all; no, God be praised, it comes to an end.” Nor is experience right that it is wisest not to hope all things for another. Yet, of course, experience is right; otherwise it would have to learn its lesson anew, and learn how foolish it is to love others for one's own advantage. Only insofar as one does that is hoping all things unwise.

Men naar alt Dette, denne Kløgt, denne Vrede og Forbittrelse, denne Misundelse, Skadefryd, denne feige, frygtagtige Smaalighed, dette verdslige forfængelige Sind, naar alt Dette eller Noget deraf er i et Menneske, og i samme Grad som det er der, saa er Kjerligheden ikke, og i samme Grad mindre i ham. Men er der mindre Kjerlighed i ham, saa er der ogsaa mindre Evigt i ham; men er der mindre Evigt i ham, saa er der ogsaa mindre Mulighed, mindre Sands for Mulighed (thi Mulighed fremkommer jo derved, at det Evige berører i Tiden det Evige i Mennesket, men er der intet Evigt i dette Menneske, saa bliver det Eviges Berøring forgjeves, der bliver ingen Mulighed); men er der mindre Mulighed, saa er der ogsaa mindre Haab, just fordi og ligesom der er mindre Kjerlighed, der kjerligt kunde haabe det Godes Mulighed. Men den Kjerlige haaber Alt; ingen Vanens Dvaskhed, ingen Forstandens Smaalighed, ingen Kløgtens Spidsfindighed, ingen Erfaringens Talstørrelser, ingen Aarenes Trevenhed, ingen onde Lidenskabers Bitterhed fordærve ham hans Haab eller forfalske ham Muligheden; hver Morgen, ja hvert Øieblik fornyer han sit Haab og forfrisker Muligheden, medens Kjerligheden bliver og han i den.

But when all this—or any of it—is in a human being, this shrewdness, this anger and bitterness, this envy, malicious joy, this cowardly, fearful pettiness, this worldly, vain mind, then love is absent, or present in him to a correspondingly lesser degree. If there is less love in him, there is also less of the eternal; if less of the eternal, then less possibility, less sense of possibility. For possibility arises when the eternal touches, in time, the eternal in the human being. If there is nothing eternal in this person, the eternal's touch is in vain: no possibility arises. And if there is less possibility, there is less hope—precisely because, and to the same extent that, there is less love to hope lovingly for the possibility of good.

But the loving person hopes all things. No sluggishness of habit, no narrowness of understanding, no hairsplitting shrewdness, no numerical reckonings of experience, no listlessness of years, no bitterness of evil passions corrupts his hope or falsifies possibility for him. Every morning, indeed every moment, he renews his hope and refreshes possibility, while love abides and he abides in it.

Selv om den Kjerlige ikke formaaede at gjøre det mindste Andet for Andre, slet ingen anden Gave formaaede at bringe: han bringer dog den bedste Gave, han bringer Haabet. Der hvor Alt synes saa haabfuldt og er saa rigt paa Forventning for den lovende Yngling, der bringer dog Kjerligheden den bedste Gave, Haabet; men ogsaa der, hvor Menneskene allerede for længe siden mene at have holdt ud indtil det Yderste, ogsaa der haaber Kjerligheden indtil det Yderste, ja, indtil den »yderste Dag«, thi først der er Haabet forbi. Har Du seet en Læge gaae omkring mellem de Syge, saa har Du vel lagt Mærke til, at den bedste Gave han bringer, bedre end alle Lægemidler, og end al hans Omsorg, er, naar han bringer Haab, naar der siges »Lægen haaber«. Dog en Læge har kun med det Timelige at gjøre, derfor maa det jo atter og atter skee, at det Øieblik kommer, da det vilde være usandt af ham at negte, at han har opgivet den Syge, at Sygdommen er til Døden. Men den Kjerlige – hvilken Glæde for den Kjerlige, at han altid tør haabe; hvilken Glæde for ham, at Evigheden indestaaer ham for, at der altid er Haab. Thi ikke haaber den Kjerlige, den sande Kjerlige, fordi Evigheden indestaaer ham derfor, men han haaber, fordi han er den Kjerlige, og han takker Evigheden, at han tør haabe. Og saaledes bringer han altid den bedste Gave, bedre end Lykønskningen til den høieste Lykke, bedre end al menneskelig Hjælp for den største Ulykke, thi Haabet, det Godes Mulighed, er Evighedens Hjælp. Da alle Ulykker kom over Slægten, blev dog Haabet tilbage. Deri er Hedenskabet og Christendommen enige, kun er Forskjellen den, og en uendelig, at Christendommen har en uendelig ringere Forestilling om alle disse Ulykker, og en uendelig saligere Forestilling om Haabet. Men Haabet, som blev tilbage, blev kun tilbage hos den Kjerlige. Dersom Kjerlighed ikke var til, var Haabet heller ikke til, det vilde blive liggende som et Brev, der venter paa, at det skal afhentes; hvis Kjerlighed ikke var, vilde det være med Haabet, som med et Brev, hvis Indhold var, ja det var saligt, men man havde Ingen, til at bringe Brevet bort. Da paatog Kjerligheden, der dog er større end Haabet, sig det som sin Tjeneste og sin Gjerning at bringe Haabet.

Even if the loving person could do nothing else for others, bring no other gift at all, he still brings the best gift: he brings hope. Where everything seems so hopeful, so rich in expectation for the promising young man, love nevertheless brings the best gift, hope. But also where people believe they long ago endured to the utmost, love hopes to the utmost, indeed until the “last day”, for only then is hope past.

If you have seen a physician going among the sick, you will have noticed that his best gift, better than every medicine and all his care, is hope: when people say, “The physician hopes.” Yet a physician deals only with the temporal. Again and again the moment must therefore come when he could not truthfully deny that he has given up on the sick person, that the sickness is unto death. But the loving person—what joy for him that he may always hope; what joy that eternity assures him there is always hope!

For the loving person, the truly loving person, does not hope because eternity guarantees this to him. He hopes because he is loving, and thanks eternity that he may hope. Thus he always brings the best gift, better than congratulations on the greatest happiness, better than all human help in the greatest misfortune: for hope, the possibility of good, is eternity's help.

When all misfortunes came upon humankind, hope remained. Paganism and Christianity agree on this; the difference, an infinite difference, is that Christianity has an infinitely lower estimate of all these misfortunes, and an infinitely more blessed conception of hope. But the hope that remained remained only with the loving person. If love did not exist, neither would hope; it would lie like a letter waiting to be collected. Without love, hope would be like a letter whose contents were—yes, blessed—but with no one to deliver it. Then love, which is greater than hope, undertook as its service and work to bring hope.

Dog er der ikke noget Dunkelt, noget uklart i hele denne Overveielse, saa man ikke ret kan blive klog paa, hvilken Gjenstanden er, thi »Kjerlighed haaber Alt« kan jo betyde, at den Kjerlige for sig haaber Alt, og det kan betyde, at den Kjerlige kjerligt haaber Alt for Andre? Men dette er jo Eet og det Samme, og denne Dunkelhed er netop det Eviges Klarhed, hvis Nogen ganske forstaaer, at det ganske er Eet og det Samme. Naar kun Kjerlighed haaber Alt (og Paulus siger ikke, at Haabet haaber Alt, men at Kjerlighed haaber Alt, just fordi, som han siger, Kjerlighed er større end Haab), saa følger jo deraf (af at det er Kjerlighed, og af hvad Kjerlighed er), at den Kjerlige haaber Alt for Andre, da jo hans Kjerlighed betinger hans Haab for sig selv. Kun jordisk Forstand, og dens Klarhed er dog vel ikke at anprise, kun jordisk Forstand, som hverken forstaaer sig paa hvad Kjerlighed eller hvad Haab er, mener, at det er to ganske forskjellige Ting, at haabe for sig selv og at haabe for Andre, samt at Kjerlighed igjen er en tredie Ting for sig selv. Den jordiske Forstand mener, at man meget godt kan haabe for sig selv, uden at haabe for Andre; og at man da ikke behøver Kjerlighed for at haabe for sig selv, medens man vel behøver Kjerlighed for at haabe for Andre, for de Elskede; men hvorfor skulde man haabe for Andre end disse. Den jordiske Forstand mærker ikke, at Kjerligheden ingenlunde er et Tredie for sig selv, men er Mellembestemmelsen: uden Kjerlighed intet Haab for En selv, med Kjerlighed Haab for alle Andre; i samme Grad, som man haaber for sig, i samme Grad haaber man for Andre; thi i samme Grad er man kjerlig.

But is there not something obscure, something unclear in this whole deliberation, so that one cannot quite tell what its subject is? For “Love hopes all things” can mean that the loving person hopes all things for himself, and it can mean that he lovingly hopes all things for others. But these are one and the same; and this obscurity is precisely the eternal's clarity, if someone fully understands that they are wholly one and the same.

Since only love hopes all things—and Paul does not say that hope hopes all things, but that love hopes all things, precisely because, as he says, love is greater than hope—it follows from this, from its being love and from what love is, that the loving person hopes all things for others. His love is the condition of his hope for himself.

Only earthly understanding—and its clarity is hardly to be praised—only earthly understanding, which understands neither love nor hope, thinks hoping for oneself and hoping for others are two entirely different things, with love a third thing on its own. Earthly understanding thinks one can perfectly well hope for oneself without hoping for others, and thus needs no love to hope for oneself. To hope for others, for one's loved ones, one does need love—but why hope for anyone else?

Earthly understanding fails to see that love is not a separate third thing but the mediating term: without love, no hope for oneself; with love, hope for all others. To the same degree one hopes for oneself, one hopes for others; for to that same degree one is loving.

Salig den Kjerlige, han haaber Alt; endnu i det sidste Øieblik haaber han det Godes Mulighed for den meest Fortabte. Det har den Kjerlige lært af Evigheden, men kun fordi han var den Kjerlige kunde han lære af Evigheden, og kun fordi han var den Kjerlige kunde han lære dette af Evigheden. Vee Den, som i Forhold til et andet Menneske opgav Haabet og Muligheden, vee ham, thi han tabte derved selv Kjerligheden.

Blessed is the loving person: he hopes all things. Even in the final moment he hopes for the possibility of good for the most lost person. He has learned this from eternity; but only because he was loving could he learn from eternity, and only because he was loving could he learn this from eternity. Woe to the person who gave up hope and possibility for another; woe to him, for in doing so he himself lost love.

Kjerlighed haaber Alt – og bliver dog aldrig til Skamme. Vi tale i Forhold til Haab og Forventning om at blive til Skamme; vi mene da, at En bliver til Skamme, naar hans Haab eller Forventning ikke gaaer i Opfyldelse. Hvori skal nu Skammen ligge? Vel deri, at Ens beregnende Klogskab ikke har regnet rigtigt, at det (til Ens Skam) bliver aabenbart, at man uforstandigt har forregnet sig. Men Herre Gud, den Skam var da ikke saa farlig; det er dog vel nok ogsaa egentligen kun saa i Verdens Øine, hvis Begreb om Ære og Skam man imidlertid ikke skal sætte Ære i at tilegne sig. Thi det, Verden beundrer meest og ene giver Æren, er Klogskab, eller at handle klogt; men det at handle klogt er just det Foragteligste af Alt. Om et Menneske er klog, kan han i en vis Forstand ikke selv gjøre for; at han udvikler sin Klogskab, skal han heller ikke skamme sig ved; men vel desto mere ved at handle klogt. Og vist er det (hvad især gjøres fornødent at sige i disse kloge Tider, hvor Klogskab egentligen er bleven Det, som skal ved Christendommens Hjælp overvindes, ligesom engang Raahed og Vildhed), dersom Menneskene ikke lære at foragte det, at handle klogt, lige saa dybt, som man foragter det, at stjæle, at sige falsk Vidnesbyrd: saa afskaffer man tilsidst ganske det Evige, og dermed Alt, hvad der er helligt og Ære værd – thi det, at handle klogt, er just med sit hele Liv at aflægge falskt Vidnesbyrd mod det Evige, er just at stjæle sin Tilværelse fra Gud. Thi det at handle klogt er Halvhed, hvorved man unegteligt kommer videst i Verden, vinder Verdens Goder og Fordele, Verdens Ære, fordi Verden og Verdens Fordeel er, evigt forstaaet, Halvhed. Men heller aldrig har hverken det Evige, eller den hellige Skrift lært noget Menneske at stræbe efter at komme vidt eller videst i Verden, tvertimod advarer den, ikke at komme for vidt i Verden, for om muligt at bevare sig reen fra Verdens Besmittelse. Men er Forholdet dette, saa synes det ikke anpriseligt at tragte efter at komme videst eller vidt i Verden.

Love hopes all things—and yet is never put to shame. In relation to hope and expectation, we speak of being put to shame. We mean that someone is put to shame when his hope or expectation is not fulfilled. Where, then, does the shame lie? Presumably in his calculating prudence having calculated wrongly: it becomes evident, to his shame, that he foolishly miscalculated.

But good Lord, that shame is surely not so terrible. It is so only in the world's eyes, and we should not take pride in adopting the world's conception of honour and shame. What the world most admires and alone honours is prudence, acting prudently; but acting prudently is precisely the most contemptible thing of all. Whether a person is prudent is, in a certain sense, beyond his control. Nor need he be ashamed of developing his prudence; but all the more of acting prudently.

This especially needs saying in these prudent times, when prudence has become what must be overcome with Christianity's help, as coarseness and savagery once were. If people do not learn to despise acting prudently as deeply as they despise stealing and bearing false witness, they will finally abolish the eternal altogether, and with it everything holy and worthy of honour. For acting prudently is precisely bearing false witness against the eternal with one's whole life, precisely stealing one's existence from God.

Acting prudently is half-heartedness. Through it one undeniably gets furthest in the world, gains the world's goods and advantages, the world's honour; for eternally understood, the world and worldly advantage are half-heartedness. But neither the eternal nor Holy Scripture has ever taught anyone to strive to get far, or furthest, in the world. On the contrary, Scripture warns against getting too far in the world, so as, if possible, to remain undefiled by it. If that is how matters stand, striving to get furthest, or even far, in the world hardly seems praiseworthy.

Skal der da med Sandhed tales om at blive til Skamme i Forhold til Haab og Forventning, saa maa Skammen ligge dybere, ligge i hvad man haaber, saa man altsaa væsentligen er lige meget til Skamme, enten Ens Haab gaaer i Opfyldelse eller ikke; Forskjellen vil da kun være, at det, naar Haabet ikke gaaer i Opfyldelse, maaskee paa Ens Forbittrelse og Fortvivlelse bliver aabenbart, hvor fast man hang ved Det, man havde Skam af at haabe. Var Haabet blevet opfyldt, da var dette maaskee ikke blevet aabenbart, men Skammen var dog væsentligen bleven den samme.

If we are to speak truthfully of being put to shame in relation to hope and expectation, the shame must lie deeper: in what one hopes for. In the essential sense, one is then equally put to shame whether the hope is fulfilled or not. The only difference is that, if it is not fulfilled, one's bitterness and despair may reveal how firmly one clung to something it was shameful to hope for. Had the hope been fulfilled, this might not have become evident; yet the shame would essentially have been the same.

Dog dersom man haaber Noget, som man har Skam af at haabe, ligegyldigt enten det gaaer i Opfyldelse eller ikke, saa haaber man egentligen ikke. Det er en Misbrug af det ædle Ord »Haab« at bringe det i Forbindelse med noget Saadant, thi det at haabe forholder sig væsentligen og evigt til det Gode – men saa kan man jo aldrig blive til Skamme ved at haabe.

But if one hopes for something it is shameful to hope for, whether fulfilled or not, one is not really hoping. Connecting the noble word “hope” with anything of this kind is a misuse of it. For hoping relates essentially and eternally to the good—and then one can never be put to shame by hoping.

Man kan (for et Øieblik at benytte den usande Sprogbrug) blive til Skamme ved at haabe een eller anden jordisk Fordeel – naar den saa udebliver. Men Skammen er egentligen ikke det, at den ikke kom, at Ens Haab ikke gik i Opfyldelse, Skammen er, hvis det nu, paa Grund af den skuffede Forventning, viser sig, hvor vigtig en saadan jordisk Fordeel var En. Dette er derfor heller ei at haabe, det er at ønske, begjere, forvente – og derfor kan man blive til Skamme. – Man kan blive til Skamme, ved at opgive Haabet om et andet Menneske – naar det nu viser sig, at han dog frelstes, eller maaskee endog, at det var vor Indbildning med hans Undergang. Her er man da virkelig til Skamme, fordi det i sig selv er en Vanære, at opgive et andet Menneske, ligegyldigt hvilket saa Udfaldet bliver. – Man kan blive til Skamme ved at haabe Ondt over et Menneske – naar det viser sig, at Alt vender sig for ham til det Gode. Den Hævngjerrige siger stundom, at han haaber til Gud, at Hævnen nok skal ramme den Forhadte. Men sandeligen, dette er ikke at haabe, det er at hade; det er frækt, at kalde det et Haab; Gudsbespottelse, at ville gjøre Gud til sin Medarbeider i at hade. Den Hævngjerrige bliver derfor ikke til Skamme, fordi det ikke skeer, som han ventede, men han er og var til Skamme, ligegyldigt hvad der saa end skeer.

One can—to use the untrue expression for a moment—be put to shame by hoping for some earthly advantage when it fails to arrive. But the shame is not really that it did not come, that one's hope was unfulfilled. The shame lies in disappointed expectation revealing how important this earthly advantage was to one. This, therefore, is not hoping either: it is wishing, desiring, expecting—and therefore one can be put to shame.

One can be put to shame by giving up hope for another person, when it turns out that he was saved after all, or perhaps that his ruin was merely our imagining. Here one is truly put to shame, because giving up on another is itself a dishonour, whatever the outcome.

One can be put to shame by hoping for evil to befall someone, when everything turns to good for him. The vengeful person sometimes says he hopes to God that vengeance will strike the hated person. But truly, this is not hoping: it is hating. Calling it hope is brazen; wanting to make God one's fellow-worker in hatred is blasphemy. The vengeful person is therefore not put to shame because events fail to meet his expectation. He is and was put to shame, whatever happens.

Men den Kjerlige haaber Alt, og bliver dog aldrig til Skamme. Skriften taler om et Haab, som ikke skal beskæmmes. Derved tænker den nærmest paa det Haab, som angaaer den Haabende selv, hans Haab om Syndernes Forladelse, og engang at vorde salig, hans Haab om en salig Forening med hvad Døden eller Livet skilte fra ham. Og kun i Forhold til dette Haab, som er Haabet, kunde der da være Tale om at blive til Skamme; thi sandeligen dette Haab havde man ikke i og for sig Skam af at have, men tvertimod Ære, og altsaa kunde det synes, at Skammen kom, hvis Haabet ikke opfyldtes. Saa overeensstemmende med sig selv er den hellige Skrifts Sprogbrug; den kalder ikke allehaande Forventning, Forventningen af det Mangfoldige, Haab, den kjender kun eet Haab, Haabet, det Godes Mulighed, og om dette Haab, det eneste, der kunde blive til Skamme, fordi det, at have det, er en Ære, siger Skriften, at det ikke skal beskæmmes.

But the loving person hopes all things and yet is never put to shame. Scripture speaks of a hope that shall not be put to shame. It means primarily the hope that concerns the hopeful person himself: his hope for forgiveness of sins and one day entering blessedness, his hope of a blessed reunion with what death or life separated from him.

Only in relation to this hope, which is hope itself, could being put to shame be in question. For truly, having this hope is in itself no disgrace; on the contrary, it is an honour. It might therefore seem that shame would come if the hope were not fulfilled. So consistent with itself is Holy Scripture's usage. It does not call every kind of expectation, the expectation of the many, hope. It knows only one hope: hope itself, the possibility of good. And of this hope, the only one that could be put to shame because having it is an honour, Scripture says that it shall not be put to shame.

Dog naar den Kjerliges Haab er for et andet Menneske, var det da ikke muligt, at den Kjerlige kunde blive til Skamme – naar dette Haab ikke opfyldtes? Er det ikke muligt, at et Menneske for evigt kunde fortabes? Men hvis nu den Kjerlige havde haabet Alt, haabet det Godes Mulighed for dette Menneske, saa blev han jo til Skamme ved sit Haab.

Yet when the loving person's hope is for another, could he not be put to shame if this hope were unfulfilled? Is it not possible for a human being to be eternally lost? But if the loving person had hoped all things, hoped for the possibility of good for this person, surely his hope would then put him to shame.

Hvorledes! Dersom den forlorne Søn var død i sine Synder, og altsaa med Skam lagt i Graven – og Faderen, som endnu i det sidste Øieblik haabede Alt, stod hos: stod han da til Skamme? Jeg troede, at det var Sønnen, som havde Skammen, Sønnen, der gjorde Faderen Skam – men saa maa jo Faderen have Æren, thi det er umuligt at gjøre Den Skam, som selv er til Skamme. Ak, den bekymrede Fader tænker vel mindst paa Æren; men sandeligen han stod dog med Æren! Hvis der paa hiin Side Graven ingen Frelse var for den forlorne Søn, hvis han var for evigt fortabt – og Faderen, der, saa længe han levede, var vedbleven at haabe Alt, endnu i sin Dødsstund haabede Alt: stod han da i Evigheden til Skamme? I Evigheden! Nei, Evigheden har jo Evighedens Forestilling om Ære og Skam; Evigheden forstaaer end ikke, den udsondrer fra sig som det Vanærende, den Kløgt, der blot vil tale om, hvorvidt nu Ens Forventning gik i Opfyldelse, men slet ikke betænke, hvilken da Forventningen var. I Evigheden skal Enhver nødsages til at forstaae, at det ikke er Udfaldet, som bestemmer Æren eller Skammen, men Forventningen i sig selv. I Evigheden skal derfor netop den Ukjerlige, som dog maaskee fik Ret i hvad han smaaligt, misundeligt, hadefuldt forventede om et andet Menneske, han skal staae til Skamme – uagtet hans Forventning jo gik i Opfyldelse. Men Æren tilhører den Kjerlige. Og der skal i Evigheden ingen travl Snakken høres om, at han dog tog Feil – det var maaskee ogsaa at tage Feil, at vorde salig. Nei, i Evigheden er der kun een Feiltagelse: at vorde, med samt sine opfyldte smaalige, misundelige, hadefulde Forventninger, udelukket fra Saligheden. Og i Evigheden skal ingen Spot saare den Kjerlige, at han var taabelig nok til at gjøre sig latterlig, ved at haabe Alt; thi i Evigheden høres ikke Spotterens Raab, endnu mindre end i Graven, fordi i Evigheden kun høres salige Røster. Og i Evigheden skal ingen Misundelse røre ved Ærens Krands, som den Kjerlige bærer med Æren, nei, saa langt rækker Misundelse ikke, hvor langt den end ellers rækker, den rækker ikke fra Helvede til Paradiis.

How so! If the prodigal son had died in his sins and been laid in the grave in shame, while the father, who hoped all things even in the final moment, stood beside him to help—would the father stand put to shame? I thought the shame was the son's, that it was the son who brought shame on the father. But then the father must have the honour, for one cannot bring shame on someone who is himself put to shame. Alas, the anxious father surely thinks least of all about honour; but truly, he would stand with honour!

If beyond the grave there were no salvation for the prodigal son, if he were eternally lost, while the father had continued throughout life to hope all things, and hoped all things even in his dying hour—would the father stand put to shame in eternity? In eternity! No, eternity has eternity's conception of honour and shame. It does not even understand—it casts out as dishonourable—the shrewdness that talks only of whether one's expectation was fulfilled, without considering what the expectation was.

In eternity everyone will be compelled to understand that honour or shame is determined by the expectation itself, not the outcome. Therefore in eternity the unloving person, who may have been proved right in his petty, envious, hateful expectations of another, will stand put to shame, although his expectation was fulfilled. But the honour belongs to the loving person.

And in eternity there will be no busy chatter about his having been mistaken after all—perhaps entering blessedness was a mistake too! No, in eternity there is only one mistake: being excluded from blessedness together with one's fulfilled petty, envious, hateful expectations. And in eternity no mockery will wound the loving person for being foolish enough to make himself ridiculous by hoping all things. For in eternity the mocker's cry is heard still less than in the grave, since only blessed voices are heard there. And in eternity no envy will touch the crown of honour the loving person wears with honour. No, envy does not reach that far: however far it otherwise reaches, it does not reach from hell to paradise.