Mercy, a Work of Love

»Glemmer ikke at gjøre vel og at meddele«; –

“Do not forget to do good and to share”;—

men glemmer heller ikke, at det næsten er Ubarmhjertigt denne idelige Verdslighedens Tale om Godgjørenhed og Velgjørenhed og Gavmildhed og milde Gaver og Skjenken og Skjenken. Aa, lad Avisskrivere og Rodemestere og Stodderkonger tale om Gavmildhed og tælle og tælle; men lad os aldrig overhøre, at Christendommen væsentligen taler om Barmhjertighed, at Christendommen sidst af Alt vilde forskylde den Ubarmhjertighed, som var Armod og Elendighed ikke blot trængende til Penge o. s. v., men tillige udelukket fra det Høieste, fra at kunne øve Barmhjertighed, fordi den jo er udelukket fra at kunne være gavmild, godgjørende, velgjørende. Men man præker og præker geistligt-verdsligt og verdsligt-geistligt om Gavmildhed, Godgjørenhed – men glemmer, selv i Prædikeforedraget, Barmhjertigheden. Dette er, christeligt forstaaet, en Uanstændighed. Den Fattige, som sidder i Kirken, maa sukke; og hvorfor maa han sukke? Mon for at hans Suk kunde med Præstens Prædiken hjælpe til at faae den Riges Pung lukket op? O, nei, han maa sukke, han maa i bibelsk Forstand »sukke mod« Præsten, at der, just naar man er saa ivrig for at hjælpe ham, gjøres meest Uret mod ham. Vee Den, som opæder Enkers og Faderløses Arv, men vee ogsaa den Prædiker, som fortier Barmhjertighed for at tale om Gavmildhed. Prædikes skulde der vel ene og alene om Barmhjertighed. Veed Du at tale tilgavns derom, saa skal det følge af sig selv og komme af sig selv med Gavmildheden, i Forhold til som den Enkelte formaaer det. Men betænk dette, at, hvis et Menneske ved at tale om Gavmildhed skaffede Penge, Penge, Penge tilveie, betænk dette, at han ved at fortie Barmhjertighed handlede ubarmhjertigt mod den Fattige og Elendige, hvem han dog skaffede Lindring ved Hjælp af den rige Gavmildheds Penge. Betænk dette, at hvis Armod og Elendighed forstyrre os med deres Bønner, saa kunne vi jo see at faae det afhjulpet ved Gavmildhed, men betænk, at det var langt forfærdeligere om vi nødsagede Armod og Elendighed til ved at sukke mod os til Gud, som Skriften siger, at »forhindre vore Bønner« (1 Pet. 3, 7), fordi vi himmelraabende forfordeelte Armoden og Elendigheden ved ikke at tale om, at den kan øve Barmhjertighed.

But do not forget either that this ceaseless worldly talk of charity and beneficence and generosity and charitable gifts and giving and giving is almost merciless. Ah, let newspaper writers and district officers and beggar-kings talk about generosity and count and count; but let us never fail to hear that Christianity essentially speaks of mercy, that Christianity least of all would be guilty of the mercilessness that would mean poverty and misery were not only in need of money and so forth, but also excluded from the highest—from being able to practise mercy—because, of course, it is excluded from being generous, charitable or beneficent. But people preach and preach, spiritually-worldly and worldly-spiritually, about generosity and beneficence—yet forget mercy, even in the sermon itself. Understood Christianly, this is an indecency. The poor man sitting in church must sigh; and why must he sigh? Could it be so that his sigh, together with the pastor’s sermon, might help to open the rich man’s purse? Oh no: he must sigh—he must, in the biblical sense, “sigh against” the pastor—that precisely when people are so eager to help him, the greatest wrong is done to him. Woe to the one who devours the inheritance of widows and orphans; but woe, too, to the preacher who keeps silent about mercy in order to speak of generosity. Surely one should preach solely and entirely about mercy. If you know how to speak fully about mercy, generosity will follow of itself and arise of itself, in proportion as each individual is able. But consider this: if someone, by speaking of generosity, procured money, money, money—consider this—that by keeping silent about mercy he acted mercilessly towards the poor and wretched person, for whom he nevertheless procured relief with the money of rich generosity. Consider this: if poverty and misery disturb us with their pleas, we can of course see to having that remedied through generosity; but consider how much more terrible it would be if we compelled poverty and misery, by sighing against us to God, as Scripture says, to “hinder our prayers” (1 Peter 3:7), because we had wronged poverty and misery in a way that cries to heaven by failing to say that they can themselves practise mercy.

Dette ville vi nu fastholde i denne Tale om Barmhjertighed, og vel vogte os for at forvexle Barmhjertighed med hvad der er knyttet til udvortes Betingelser, hvad altsaa Kjerligheden som saadan ikke har i sin Magt, medens den sandeligen har Barmhjertighed i sin Magt, lige saa vist, som Kjerlighed netop har et Hjerte i sin Barm. Fordi man har et Hjerte i Barmen, deraf følger ikke, at man har Penge i Lommen, men det Første er dog nok det Vigtigste, og dog vel det Afgjørende i Henseende til Barmhjertigheden. Og sandeligen, hvis En ikke havde Penge, men han forstod ved at tale om Barmhjertighed ret at opmuntre og begeistre den Fattige, den Elendige: mon han da ikke havde gjort lige saa meget som Den, der tilkaster Armoden nogle Penge, eller præker milde Gaver af den Riges Lomme!

This is what we shall now maintain in this discourse on mercy, taking care not to confuse mercy with what depends upon outward conditions—which love as such therefore does not have in its power—whereas it truly has mercy in its power, just as surely as love has a heart in its breast. From having a heart in one’s breast it does not follow that one has money in one’s pocket; but the former is surely the most important thing and, indeed, the decisive thing with regard to mercy. And truly, if someone had no money but knew, by speaking of mercy, how genuinely to encourage and inspire the poor, wretched person—would he not then have done just as much as the one who tosses poverty a little money or preaches charitable gifts from the rich man’s pocket!

Saa ville vi da betragte:

Let us then consider:

Barmhjertighed, en Kjerlighedens Gjerning, selv om den Intet har at give og Intet formaaer at gjøre.

Mercy is a work of love, even when it has nothing to give and can do nothing.

Vi ville efter den os forundte Evne søge at gjøre det saa indlysende som muligt, saa tillokkende som muligt, lægge det den Fattige saa nær som muligt, hvilken Trøst han har i, at kunne være barmhjertig. Dette ville vi tale om ved at skaffe en Deel verdslige Sandsebedrag bort. Men ved hvad vi tale ville vi tillige, det er vort Ønske, bidrage Noget, forsaavidt det er fornødent, til om muligt at gjøre Den, der kan være gavmild og godgjørende, saaledes beskæmmet, som det er Gud velbehageligt, saaledes helligt rødmende i Undseelse, som det sømmer sig en Christen, saaledes villig til at give og dog saaledes uvillig til at gjøre den Tilstaaelse, at det er Almisse, som Den er det, der vender sit Aasyn bort, for ikke at have den Skam, at Andre skulle see, at han har Ære deraf, eller som Den er det, hvis Venstre virkeligen ikke veed hvad den Høire gjør.

With the ability granted us, we shall seek to make this as evident as possible, as inviting as possible, and to bring home as closely as possible to the poor person what comfort he has in being able to be merciful. We shall speak of this by clearing away some worldly deceptions of the senses. But through what we say we also wish, insofar as it is needed, to contribute something towards making the person able to be generous and beneficent—if possible—so ashamed as is pleasing to God, so holy-blushing in reverence as befits a Christian, so willing to give and yet so unwilling to admit that it is alms, as one who turns his face away lest he suffer the shame of others seeing that he gains honour from it, or as one whose left hand truly does not know what the right hand is doing.

Barmhjertighed har Intet at give. Det følger af sig selv, at har den Barmhjertige Noget at give, saa giver han det heller end gjerne. Men det er ikke dette vi ville samle Opmærksomheden paa, men paa, at man kan være barmhjertig uden at have det Mindste at give. Og dette er af stor Vigtighed, da jo dog vel det at kunne være barmhjertig er en langt større Fuldkommenhed end det at have Penge og altsaa at kunne give.

Mercy has nothing to give. It follows of itself that if the merciful person has something to give, he gives it only too gladly. But this is not what we wish to concentrate attention upon; rather, it is that one can be merciful without having the least thing to give. And this is of great importance, since surely the ability to be merciful is a far greater perfection than having money and therefore being able to give.

Dersom hiin gjennem atten Aarhundreder bekjendte Mand, den barmhjertige Samaritan, dersom han ikke var kommen ridende, men gaaende paa Veien fra Jericho til Jerusalem, hvor han saae den Ulykkelige ligge, dersom han Intet havde ført med sig, hvormed han kunde forbinde hans Saar; dersom han da havde løftet den Ulykkelige op, lagt ham paa sine Skuldre, baaret ham til nærmeste Herberge, hvor Verten imidlertid hverken vilde modtage ham eller den Ulykkelige, da Samaritanen ikke eiede en Hviid, og forgjeves bad og besvoer denne Haardhjertede, dog at være barmhjertig, siden det var om et Menneskes Liv at gjøre: havde han derfor ikke …. dog nei, Fortællingen er end ikke ude – altsaa, dersom nu Samaritanen, langtfra at tabe Taalmodigheden herover atter havde forføiet sig bort bærende den Ulykkelige, havde søgt et blødere Leie for den Saarede, sat sig ved hans Side, gjort Alt hvad han formaaede for at standse Blodtabet – men den Ulykkelige døde mellem hans Hænder: havde han derfor ikke været lige saa barmhjertig, nok saa barmhjertig som hiin barmhjertige Samaritan, eller er der Noget at indvende mod at kalde dette Fortællingen om den barmhjertige Samaritan? – Tag Fortællingen om hiin Qvinde, der lagde de to Penninge i Tempelkisten, men lad os digte en lille Forandring. De to Penninge, det var for hende en stor Sum, som hun ikke saadan havde faaet paa een Gang. Hun havde længe sparet for at faae dem sparet sammen; og derpaa havde hun gjemt dem indsvøbt i en lille Klud, for at bringe dem, naar hun selv gik op til Templet. Dog en Bedrager havde mærket, hun eiede disse Penge, havde fralistet hende dem og lagt en ganske lignende Klud isteden, hvori der Intet var – hvad Enken ikke vidste. Hun gik da altsaa op til Templet, lagde, som hun meente, de to Penninge, det vil sige Intet i Tempelkisten: mon ikke Christus alligevel vilde have sagt hvad han sagde om hende, »at hun gav mere end alle de Rige«!

If that man known through eighteen centuries, the merciful Samaritan—if he had come not riding but walking on the road from Jericho to Jerusalem, where he saw the unfortunate man lying; if he had brought nothing with him with which to bind up his wounds; if he had lifted the man, laid him upon his shoulders and carried him to the nearest inn, only for the innkeeper to refuse both him and the unfortunate man because the Samaritan did not possess a penny, though he begged and implored this hard-hearted man at least to be merciful, since a human life was at stake—would he therefore not have …? Yet no, the story is not yet finished—so if the Samaritan, far from losing patience at this, had once more set off carrying the unfortunate man, found a softer resting-place for the wounded man, sat down beside him and done everything he could to stop the loss of blood—but the unfortunate man died in his hands—would he therefore not have been just as merciful, every bit as merciful, as that merciful Samaritan, or is there anything to object to calling this the story of the merciful Samaritan? — Take the story of that woman who put the two small coins into the temple treasury; but let us imagine a small alteration. The two small coins were, for her, a large sum—one she had not acquired all at once. She had saved for a long time to save them up; then she had kept them wrapped in a small cloth, to bring them when she herself went up to the temple. But a swindler had noticed that she possessed this money, tricked it away from her and put an exactly similar cloth in its place, containing nothing—which the widow did not know. So she went up to the temple and put, as she thought, the two small coins—that is, nothing—into the temple treasury: would Christ not nevertheless have said what he said of her, “that she gave more than all the rich”!

Dog en Barmhjertighed uden Penge, hvad har den at betyde? Ja, tilsidst kommer vel Gavmildhedens og Godgjørenhedens verdslige Frækhed saavidt, at den endog udleer en Barmhjertighed, der Intet eier! Thi allerede dette er da uretfærdigt og oprørende nok, en denne jordiske Tilværelses Ubarmhjertighed, at naar den Fattige giver sin sidste Skilling, og saa den Rige kommer og giver de hundrede Rigsbankdaler, at saa Alle see paa de hundrede Rigsbankdaler, det er, at saa den Rige med sin Gave ganske fordunkler den Fattiges – Barmhjertighed. Men hvilken Afsindighed, dersom det dog er sandt, hvad Christus siger, at den Fattige gav meest, hvilken Afsindighed: at Den, der giver mindre (den Rige – og den store Sum) fordunkler Den, der giver mere (den Fattige – og den lille Skjerv), ja endog fordunkler Den, som giver meest! Dog det forstaaer sig, det siger Verden ikke; den siger, at den Rige gav meest, og hvorfor siger Verden det? Fordi Verden kun forstaaer sig paa Penge – og Christus kun paa Barmhjertighed. Og just fordi Christus ene forstod sig paa Barmhjertighed, derfor er han saa nøieregnende med, at det kun var to Penninge, Enken gav; og just derfor vilde han sige, at der end ikke behøvedes saa meget, eller, at En kunde give endnu mindre og dog ved at give det endnu Mindre give end mere. Forunderlige Regnestykke, eller rettere forunderlige Art af Regning, den findes ikke anført i nogen Regnebog. Der bruges et mærkeligt Udtryk om denne Enke, at »hun gav af sin Armod«. Men voxer Gavens Størrelse i Forhold til Armodens Størrelse, altsaa omvendt af hvad Verden mener (at Gavens Størrelse staaer i Forhold til Rigdommen), saa giver jo Den, der er endnu fattigere end hiin Enke, ved at give een Penning af sin Armod endnu mere end hiin Enke, som dog i Sammenligning med alle de Rige gav meest. Ja, Verden maa dette rigtignok synes den kjedsommeligste Art af Regning, hvor een Penning kan blive saa betydelig, blive den betydeligste Gave. Verden og Verdens Gavmildhed vil saa gjerne have med store Summer at gjøre, der forbause; og een Penning forbauser rigtignok ikke – saa lidet som Barmhjertighed er af de glimrende Dyder. Evigt forstaaet derimod er denne Art af Regning den eneste sande, som kun læres af Evigheden, og ved at forsage Verdslighedens og Timelighedens Sandsebedrag. Thi Evigheden har det skarpeste Øie for og den meest udviklede Forstand paa Barmhjertighed, men slet ingen Forstand paa Penge, saa lidet som Evigheden er i Pengeforlegenhed, eller har, efter Ordet, det Mindste at bruge Penge til. Ja, dette er baade til at lee og til at græde over! Det vilde unegteligt være en fortræffelig Latterens Opfindelse at tænke sig Evigheden i Pengeforlegenhed: o, men lad os saa græde lidt over, at Timeligheden saa aldeles har forglemt Evigheden, og forglemt, at evigt er Penge mindre end Intet. Ak, Mangen mener, at det Evige er en Indbildning, Penge det Virkelige: og just Penge er i Evighedens og i Sandhedens Forstand en Indbildning! Tænk Dig Evigheden, hvorledes Du vil; tilstaa kun, at der dog er meget Timeligt af hvad Du har seet i Timeligheden, Du ønskede at gjenfinde i Evigheden, at Du ønskede, atter at see Træerne og Blomsterne og Stjernerne, atter at høre Fuglesangen og Bækkens Rislen: men kunde det falde Dig ind, at der skulde være Penge i Evigheden? Nei, saa var jo Himmerige selv igjen blevet et Elendighedens Land; og derfor kan dette umuligt falde Dig ind, lige saa umuligt, som det kan falde Den, der mener, at Penge er det Virkelige, ind, at der er en Evighed! Der er af Alt, hvad Du har seet, Intet, Du kan være saa vis paa, aldrig skal komme ind i Himmelen som: Penge. Og derimod er der Intet, der er Himmelen saa vis som Barmhjertighed! Saa Du seer, at Barmhjertighed uendeligt staaer i intet Forhold til Penge!

But mercy without money—what significance does it have? Yes, in the end, the worldly insolence of generosity and beneficence may go so far as even to ridicule mercy that possesses nothing! For even this is unjust and outrageous enough—a mercilessness of this earthly existence: when the poor person gives his last shilling, and then the rich person comes and gives the hundred bank-rigsdalers, everyone looks at the hundred bank-rigsdalers; that is, the rich person, with his gift, completely eclipses the poor person’s—mercy. But what madness—if what Christ says is nevertheless true, that the poor person gave most—what madness: the one who gives less (the rich person—and the large sum) eclipses the one who gives more (the poor person—and the small mite), yes, even eclipses the one who gives most! But of course the world does not say that; it says that the rich person gave most—and why does the world say that? Because the world understands only money—and Christ only mercy. And precisely because Christ alone understood mercy, he is so particular about its being only two small coins that the widow gave; and precisely for that reason he would say that not even so much was needed, or that someone could give still less and yet, by giving that still lesser amount, give even more. A wondrous calculation—or rather, a wondrous kind of reckoning: it is not set down in any arithmetic book. A remarkable expression is used of this widow: that “she gave out of her poverty”. But if the magnitude of the gift grows in proportion to the magnitude of the poverty—thus the reverse of what the world supposes, that the magnitude of the gift stands in proportion to wealth—then someone even poorer than that widow, by giving one small coin out of their poverty, gives still more than that widow, who nevertheless, in comparison with all the rich, gave most. Yes, to the world this must indeed seem the most tedious kind of reckoning, in which one small coin can become so significant—become the most significant gift. The world and the world’s generosity are so very fond of dealing in large sums that astonish; and one small coin admittedly does not astonish—any more than mercy counts among the glittering virtues. Understood eternally, by contrast, this kind of reckoning is the only true one—learned only from eternity and by renouncing the sensory deception of worldliness and temporality. For eternity has the sharpest eye for, and the most developed understanding of, mercy, but no understanding at all of money—for eternity is neither short of money nor, literally, has the slightest use for it. Yes, this is something both to laugh at and to weep over! It would undeniably be an excellent invention of laughter to imagine eternity short of money: ah, but then let us weep a little over how utterly temporality has forgotten eternity—and forgotten that, eternally, money is less than nothing. Alas, many a person thinks that the eternal is an illusion and money the real; yet money itself, in the understanding of eternity and of truth, is an illusion! Imagine eternity however you will; only admit that, among what you have seen in temporality, there is much that is temporal which you would wish to find again in eternity—that you would wish once more to see the trees and flowers and stars, once more to hear the birdsong and the brook’s murmuring: but could it occur to you that there should be money in eternity? No—for then the kingdom of heaven itself would once again have become a land of misery; and therefore the thought cannot possibly occur to you, any more than the thought that there is an eternity can occur to someone who thinks money is the real! Of everything you have seen, there is nothing you can be so certain will never enter heaven as—money. And conversely, there is nothing heaven is so sure of as mercy! So you see that mercy is infinitely beyond any relation to money!

Dog Penge, Penge, Penge! Hiin fremmede Fyrste skal, da han vendte det mægtige Rom Ryggen, have sagt »her ligger en By, som er tilfals, og blot venter paa en Kjøber«: o, hvor ofte har man ikke kunnet være fristet til mismodigt at vende hele Tilværelsen Ryggen med disse Ord »her ligger en Verden, som er tilfals og blot venter paa en Kjøber« – forsaavidt man da ikke vil sige, at Djævelen allerede har kjøbt den! – Hvad er Livets Alvor? Har Du i Sandhed forelagt Dig dette alvorlige Spørgsmaal, saa erindre, hvorledes Du har besvaret Dig det; eller lad mig erindre Dig om, hvorledes Du besvarede Dig det. Alvor er et Menneskes Guds-Forhold; overalt hvor Tanken om Gud er med i hvad et Menneske gjør, tænker, siger, der er Alvor, i Det er der Alvor. Men Penge er Verdens Gud, derfor mener den, at Alt, hvad der har med Penge at gjøre eller har Forhold til Penge, er Alvor. See, hiin ædle eenfoldige Vise i Oldtiden, han vilde ikke tage Penge for sin Underviisning, og Apostelen Paulus arbeidede hellere med egne Hænder end at besmitte Evangeliet og nedværdige sin apostoliske Tjeneste og forfalske Ordets Forkyndelse ved at tage Penge derfor. Hvad dømmer Verden om Sligt? Ja, lad os ikke taabeligt spørge, hvad Verden dømmer om hiin ædle Eenfoldige og om den hellige Apostel, thi det har Verden nu lært udenad at holde en Slags Lovtale over dem. Men hvis En samtidigt, nu i dette Øieblik vilde gjøre som hine Tvende, hvad dømmer saa Samtiden? Den dømmer, at det er Særhed, at det er Overspændthed, den dømmer, at et saadant Menneske »mangler Alvor«. Thi at tjene Penge det er Alvor; at tjene mange Penge, om det saa var ved at sælge Mennesker, det er Alvor; at tjene mange Penge ved foragtelig Bagvaskelse, det er Alvor. At forkynde noget Sandt – naar man da tillige tjener mange Penge (thi at det er det Sande, kommer det ikke an paa, men paa, at man tjener Penge), det er Alvor. Thi Penge, Penge, det er Alvor. Saaledes opdrages vi, fra den tidligste Barndom, tugtede til den ugudelige Penge-Dyrkelse. Lad mig anføre et Exempel, det første det bedste blandt de tusinde og tusinde – thi ikke er der foran den Baad, som arbeider sig gjennem en Sildestime, flere Sild, end der i Virkeligheden er Exempler paa Opdragelse i Penge-Dyrkelsen. Tænk Dig et Huus, hvor der fra Familiens Hoved er udgaaet den Befaling, at Alle den næste Dag (det er altsaa en Søndag) forenede skulle gaae i Kirke. Men hvad skeer? Søndag-Morgen, da det er ved Tiden, findes Pigebørnene ikke at være færdige med deres Paaklædning. Hvad siger saa Faderen, den – alvorlige Fader, der alvorligt opdrager sine Børn til at dyrke Penge? Ja, han siger naturligviis Intet, eller saa godt som Intet, thi her er der ingen Anledning til en Formaning eller en Irettesættelse; han siger vel, »naar Pigebørnene ikke ere færdige, saa maae de blive hjemme, saa er der ikke videre i det«. Men tænk Dig, tænk Dig det Forfærdelige, at det var i Theatret Pigebørnene skulde have været, og de vare ikke blevne færdige til den bestemte Tid, tænk Dig hvorledes saa denne – alvorlige Fader vil tage paa, og hvorfor? Fordi man der har spildt de mange Penge – hvorimod man jo ved at blive hjemme i Søndags endog sparede Tavlepengene. Nu vil Pigebørnene faae en stræng – alvorlig, faderlig Irettesættelse; nu er det en Brøde, en stor Synd ikke at være bleven færdig – og derfor maa denne alvorlige Fader, som med Alvor opdrager sine Børn, han maa for en anden Gangs Skyld ikke lade dette gaae ustraffet hen. Thi at det er en Uorden fra Pigebørnenes Side, det er det Mindste af det – saa var jo ogsaa Skylden lige saa stor i Søndags, nei, det Alvorlige er, at de Penge ere tabte. See, det kalder man at være Fader, det kalder man at have faderlig Værdighed og at gjøre forsvarlig Brug af sin faderlige Værdighed, det kalder man at opdrage! Nu, det er jo ogsaa at opdrage, kun opdrager man ikke Mennesker paa den Maade, vel derimod Daarer og Umennesker!

Yet money, money, money! That foreign prince is said, when he turned his back on mighty Rome, to have said, “Here lies a city that is for sale and merely awaits a buyer”: oh, how often one might have been tempted in despondency to turn one’s back on the whole of existence with these words, “Here lies a world that is for sale and merely awaits a buyer”—unless, that is, one would say that the devil has already bought it! —What is the earnestness of life? If you have truly put this earnest question to yourself, then recall how you answered it for yourself; or let me remind you how you answered it. Earnestness is a human being’s relation to God; wherever the thought of God is present in what a human being does, thinks, or says, there is earnestness—in that there is earnestness. But money is the world’s god; therefore the world thinks that everything having to do with money, or bearing any relation to money, is earnestness. See: that noble, simple wise man of antiquity would take no money for his teaching, and the apostle Paul preferred to work with his own hands rather than defile the gospel, demean his apostolic ministry and falsify the proclamation of the word by taking money for it. What judgement does the world pass on such conduct? Yes, let us not foolishly ask what judgement the world passes on that noble, simple man and the holy apostle, for the world has now learnt by heart how to deliver a sort of eulogy over them. But if someone living now, at this very moment, wished to do as those two did, what judgement would the present age then pass? It judges it eccentricity and fanaticism; it judges that such a person “lacks earnestness”. For making money—that is earnestness; making a great deal of money, even if it were by selling human beings—that is earnestness; making a great deal of money by contemptible slander—that is earnestness. To proclaim something true—when one also makes a great deal of money (for what matters is not that it is the truth, but that one makes money)—that is earnestness. For money, money—that is earnestness. Thus, from earliest childhood, we are brought up and disciplined into ungodly money-worship. Let me give an example—the first that comes to hand among thousands upon thousands—for even a boat working its way through a shoal has no more herring before it than there are, in reality, examples of education in money-worship. Imagine a household where the head of the family has issued an order that, the next day (which is therefore a Sunday), everyone is to go to church together. But what happens? On Sunday morning, when the time comes, the girls are found not to have finished dressing. What, then, does the father say—the earnest father who earnestly brings up his children to worship money? Yes, naturally he says nothing, or next to nothing, for here there is no occasion for admonition or rebuke; he probably says, “If the girls are not ready, they must stay at home; there is nothing more to it.” But imagine—imagine the dreadful thing—that the girls were meant to have been at the theatre and had not got ready by the appointed time; imagine how this—earnest father—will then bluster, and why? Because there they have wasted all that money—whereas, of course, by staying at home last Sunday they even saved the collection money. Now the girls will receive a stern—earnest, fatherly rebuke; now not having got ready is an offence, a great sin—and therefore this earnest father, who brings up his children in earnest, must, to prevent a repetition, not let this go unpunished. For the disorder on the girls’ part is the least of it—the blame was just as great last Sunday; no, the serious thing is that the money has been lost. See, that is what one calls being a father; that is what one calls having fatherly dignity and making responsible use of one’s fatherly dignity; that is what one calls bringing children up! Well, that too is a kind of upbringing—only one does not bring up human beings in that way, but rather fools and inhuman beings!

Men naar man har denne Forestilling om Penge, hvad Forestilling kan man saa have om den Barmhjertighed, som er uden Penge? En saadan Barmhjertighed maa ansees for en Art Galskab, en Indbildning. Men saa maa jo ogsaa Evigheden og Christendommen ansees for en Art Galskab, en Indbildning! En hedensk Keiser skal have sagt, at man ikke skulde lugte til Penge! Christendommen lærer derimod ret at lugte til Pengene. Den lærer, at Penge i sig selv lugter ilde. Derfor maa der, som altid for at fordrive Stank, noget stærkt Vellugtende til. Hav Barmhjertighed: saa lader det sig gjøre med at give Penge; uden den lugter Penge ilde. See, dette kan en Stodder ogsaa sige, og han burde blive ligesaa udødelig ved sit Udsagn som hiin Keiser – og Pengemand. Barmhjertigheden er det stærkt Vellugtende. Er Bønnen Læbernes Offer og Gud velbehageligt, saa er Barmhjertighed ret egentligen Hjertets Offer, og er, som Skriften siger, en sød Lugt i Guds Næse.

But when one has this conception of money, what conception can one then have of mercy without money? Such mercy must be regarded as a kind of madness, an illusion. But then eternity and Christianity too must be regarded as a kind of madness, an illusion! A pagan emperor is said to have declared that one should not smell money! Christianity, by contrast, teaches us to smell money properly. It teaches that money itself smells bad. Therefore, as always when a stench is to be driven away, something strongly fragrant is needed. Have mercy: then giving money will do; without mercy, money smells bad. See, a beggar too can say this, and his saying ought to make him just as immortal as that emperor — and money-man. Mercy is the powerful fragrance. If prayer is the offering of the lips and pleasing to God, then mercy is, in the truest sense, the offering of the heart and is, as Scripture says, a sweet savour in God’s nostrils.

O, glem det dog aldrig, naar Du tænker Gud, at han ikke har den ringeste Forstand paa Penge. M. T., dersom Du var en Taler, hvilken Opgave vilde Du vælge: enten den, at tale til de Rige om at øve Gavmildhed, eller den, at tale til de Fattige om at øve Barmhjertighed; jeg veed nok, hvad jeg vælger, eller rettere jeg har jo valgt – dersom jeg blot er Taler. O, der er noget saa ubeskriveligt Forsonende i at tale til den Fattige om at øve Barmhjertighed. Og hvor fornødent det er, om ikke for den Fattiges Skyld, saa for Din egen Skyld, det kan Du let forvisse Dig om. Thi forsøg det kun, Du skal see Forestillingen vil i eet væk vende sig om for Dig, som kunde det ikke hjælpe, at tale til de Fattige om Barmhjertighed, da de jo dog Intet have at give, og man derfor maa tale til de Rige om Barmhjertighed mod de Fattige. Saaledes er den Fattige trængende i sin Armod, og da igjen forladt af Verdens Forestilling om, at han kunde øve Barmhjertighed, altsaa udpegen, priisgiven som Barmhjertighedens ynkelige Gjenstand, der i det Høieste kan bukke og takke – naar den Rige er saa god at øve Barmhjertighed. Barmhjertige Gud, hvilken Ubarmhjertighed!

Oh, never forget, when you think of God, that he has not the slightest understanding of money. My listener, if you were a speaker, which task would you choose: to speak to the rich about practising generosity, or to the poor about practising mercy? I know well enough which I choose — or rather, I have already chosen — if only I am a speaker. Oh, there is something so indescribably reconciling in speaking to the poor person about practising mercy. And you can easily satisfy yourself as to how necessary it is—if not for the poor person’s sake, then for your own. For just try it: you will see the whole conception keep turning itself round for you—as though there were no point in speaking to the poor about mercy, since, after all, they have nothing to give, and one must therefore speak to the rich about mercy towards the poor. Thus the poor person is needy in his poverty and, in turn, abandoned by the world’s conception that he too might practise mercy—singled out and exposed as mercy’s pitiable object, able at most to bow and give thanks—when the rich person is good enough to practise mercy. Merciful God, what mercilessness!

Saa henvender Talen sig da til Dig, Du Fattige og Elendige! O, vær barmhjertig! Bevar dette Hjerte i Din Barm, som, trods Armod og Elendighed, dog har Deeltagelse med Andres Elendighed, dette Hjerte, der for Gud har Frimodighed til at vide, at man kan være barmhjertig, ja, at man da netop kan være i høieste Grad, i udmærket og fortrinlig Forstand barmhjertig, naar man Intet har at give. »O, vær barmhjertig!« Ja, see her er det igjen, hvo tænker ikke strax her uvilkaarligt paa den Fattiges, paa Tiggerens Tilraab til den Rige »vær barmhjertig« – hvor forkeert end denne Sprogbrug er, da det er Gavmildheden, der anraabes. Og derfor tale vi Sproget rigtigere, vi, som sige til den Fattige, til den Fattigste af Alle: o, vær barmhjertig! Lad endeligen denne jordiske Tilværelses misundelige Smaalighed ikke fordærve Dig saaledes, at Du kunde glemme, at Du kan være barmhiertig, fordærve Dig saaledes, at en falsk Undseelse qvalte det Bedste i Dig. En falsk Undseelse – ja, thi den sande den kommer først, o, at den altid kom, men i ethvert Tilfælde den burde komme med Pengene; thi faaer Du Penge, og Du altsaa kan give, da, først da, har Du Noget at være undseelig ved. Vær barmhjertig, vær barmhjertig mod den Rige! Husk paa, det har Du i Din Magt, medens han har Pengene. Misbrug da ikke denne Magt; vær ikke ubarmhjertig nok til at anraabe Himlens Straf over hans Ubarmhjertighed. Ja, vi vide det vel, en Fattigs Suk til Gud, naar det anklager den Rige, hvad bryder Verden sig derom, dette henveirede Suk, dette overhørte Ord er jo det Ligegyldigste af Alt: men dog, dog, skjøndt ikke ubekjendt, som jeg er, med Høirøstethedens Skrigen – jeg blæser Sligt bort, dersom blot ingen Fattig med Føie skulde kunne i Løndom anklage mig for Gud. O, vær barmhjertig! Hvis den Rige er knap og kneben, eller selv om han ikke just er kneben paa Pengene, dog saa ordknap og frastødende: da være Du riig paa Barmhjertighed! Thi Barmhjertighed gjør Under, gjør de to Penninge til en stor Sum, naar den fattige Enke giver dem, gjør den knappe Gave til en større Sum, naar den Fattige barmhjertigt ikke gaaer i Rette med den Rige, gjør den vrantne Giver mindre skyldig, naar den Fattige barmhjertigt skjuler derover. O, hvor Mangen har ikke Penge gjort ubarmhjertig – skal Penge ogsaa have den Magt at gjøre dem ubarmhjertige, som ingen Penge have: saa har Pengenes Magt jo ganske seiret. Men har Pengenes Magt ganske seiret, saa er ogsaa Barmhjertigheden ganske afskaffet.

So the discourse now turns to you, you poor and wretched one! Oh, be merciful! Preserve in your breast this heart which, despite poverty and wretchedness, still shares in the wretchedness of others; this heart which before God has the confidence to know that one can be merciful—indeed, that then, precisely, one can be merciful in the highest degree, in an eminent and pre-eminent sense, when one has nothing to give. “Oh, be merciful!” Yes, see, here it is again: who does not at once, involuntarily, think of the poor person’s—the beggar’s—appeal to the rich person, “be merciful”, however mistaken this usage is, since what is being appealed to is generosity. And therefore we speak more correctly—we who say to the poor person, to the poorest of all: oh, be merciful! Do not, then, let the envious pettiness of this earthly existence corrupt you so that you forget you can be merciful—corrupt you so that false modesty chokes the best in you. A false modesty—yes, for true modesty only comes later; oh, if only it always came, but in any event it ought to come with money; for if you get money and can therefore give, then—only then—do you have something to be modest about. Be merciful, be merciful to the rich person! Remember, you have it in your power while he has the money. Then do not misuse this power; do not be so merciless as to call down heaven’s punishment upon his mercilessness. Yes, we know it well: when a poor person’s sigh to God accuses the rich person, what does the world care about it? This sigh scattered to the winds, this unheard word, is surely the most insignificant thing of all: but still, still—though I am no stranger to the clamour of loud-voiced shouting—I dismiss all that, provided only that no poor person could with cause accuse me before God in secret. Oh, be merciful! If the rich person is close and stingy—or even if he is not exactly stingy with money but is so sparing of words and forbidding—then be rich in mercy! For mercy works wonders: it makes the two coins a great sum when the poor widow gives them; it makes the meagre gift a greater sum when the poor person mercifully does not take the rich person to task; and it makes the surly giver less guilty when the poor person mercifully covers over it. Oh, how many people money has made merciless—shall money also have the power to make those who have no money merciless? Then the power of money has indeed triumphed completely. But if the power of money has triumphed completely, then mercy too has been completely abolished.

Barmhjertighed formaaer Intet at gjøre.

Mercy can do nothing.

De hellige Fortællinger have blandt Andet ogsaa dette Mærkelige, at de i al deres Simpelhed dog bestandigt faae sagt Alt hvad der skal siges. Saaledes er det ogsaa Tilfældet med Evangeliet om den rige og den fattige Mand. Hverken Lazarus’s Elendighed eller den Riges Overdaadighed er videre udpenslet og skildret; dog er der eet Træk føiet til, som er vel værd at paaagte. Der fortælles, at Lazarus var lagt ved den Riges Dør fuld af Saar, men Hundene kom og slikkede hans Saar. Hvad er det, der skal fremstilles i den rige Mand? Ubarmhjertighed eller nøiagtigere umenneskelig Ubarmhjertighed. For at belyse Ubarmhjertighed kan man dertil bruge et barmhjertigt Menneske, som stilles ved Siden. Saaledes er det gjort i Fortællingen om den barmhjertige Samaritan, der ved Modsætningen belyser Leviten og Præsten. Men den rige Mand var umenneskelig, derfor tager Evangeliet Hundene til Hjælp. Hvilken Modsætning! Vi ville nu ikke overdrive og sige, at en Hund kan være barmhjertig; men i Modsætning til den rige Mand er det dog, som var Hundene barmhjertige. Og dette er det Rystende, at da Mennesket havde opgivet Barmhjertighed, saa maatte Hundene til at være barmhjertige. – Men der ligger tillige noget Andet i denne Sammenstilling mellem den rige Mand og Hundene. Den rige Mand havde det rigeligt nok i sin Magt at kunne gjøre Noget for Lazarus, Hundene formaaede Intet at gjøre; og dog er det som vare Hundene barmhjertige.

Among other things, the sacred stories also have this remarkable quality: in all their simplicity they nevertheless always manage to say everything that needs to be said. So it is also with the Gospel of the rich man and the poor man. Neither Lazarus’s wretchedness nor the rich man’s luxury is elaborated or depicted further; yet one detail is added that is well worth noticing. We are told that Lazarus had been laid at the rich man’s door, covered with sores, but the dogs came and licked his sores. What is it that is to be portrayed in the rich man? Mercilessness—or, more precisely, inhuman mercilessness. To illuminate mercilessness, one can set a merciful person alongside it. That is how it is done in the story of the merciful Samaritan, who by contrast illuminates the Levite and the priest. But the rich man was inhuman; therefore the Gospel calls in the dogs to help. What a contrast! We would not exaggerate and say that a dog can be merciful; yet in contrast with the rich man, it is as though the dogs were merciful. And this is the shocking thing: when the human being had abandoned mercy, the dogs had to step in and be merciful. —But there is also something else in this juxtaposition of the rich man and the dogs. The rich man had ample power to do something for Lazarus, the dogs could do nothing; and yet it is as though the dogs were merciful.

See, dette er just hvad vi tale om i denne Overveielse. Det følger naturligviis af sig selv, at kan den Barmhjertige gjøre Noget, saa gjør han det heller end gjerne. Men det er ikke dette, vi ville samle Opmærksomheden paa, men paa, at man kan være barmhjertig, uden at kunne gjøre det Mindste. Og dette er af stor Vigtighed, da dog vel det at kunne være barmhjertig er en langt større Fuldkommenhed, end det at kunne gjøre Noget.

See, this is exactly what we are speaking about in this reflection. It follows naturally enough that if the merciful person can do something, he does it more than gladly. But this is not what we wished to focus attention on; rather, it is that one can be merciful without being able to do the least thing. And this is of great importance, since surely the ability to be merciful is a far greater perfection than the ability to do something.

Sæt, det var ikke eet Menneske, der reiste fra Jericho til Jerusalem, men der var to, og de bleve begge overfaldne af Røvere, lemlæstede, og der kom ingen Reisende forbi – sæt da, at den Ene af dem intet Andet vidste end at vaande sig, medens den Anden glemte og overvandt sin egen Lidelse for at tale milde og venlige Ord, eller, hvad der da var forbundet med stor Smerte, slæbte sig hen til et lille Vand for at skaffe den Anden en Lædskedrik; eller sæt, at de begge vare Mælet berøvede, men den Ene af dem i sin tause Bøn sukkede til Gud ogsaa for den Anden: var han saa ikke barmhjertig? – Naar man har hugget mine Hænder af, saa kan jeg ikke spille paa Cither, og naar man har hugget mine Been af, saa kan jeg ikke dandse; og naar jeg ligger lemlæstet ved Bredden, saa kan jeg ikke kaste mig i Havet for at redde et andet Menneskes Liv; og naar jeg selv ligger med knækket Arm eller Been, saa kan jeg ikke styrte mig ind i Luerne for at frelse Andres Liv: men barmhjertig kan jeg alligevel være.

Suppose it was not one person travelling from Jericho to Jerusalem but two, and both were attacked by robbers and maimed, with no traveller passing by—suppose, then, that one could do nothing but groan, while the other forgot and overcame his own suffering to speak gentle, kindly words, or, though it caused great pain, dragged himself to a little water to bring the other a refreshing drink; or suppose both had been deprived of speech, but one in his silent prayer sighed to God for the other too: was he not merciful? —When my hands have been cut off, I cannot play the zither, and when my legs have been cut off, I cannot dance; when I lie maimed on the shore, I cannot throw myself into the sea to save another person’s life; and when I myself lie with a broken arm or leg, I cannot rush into the flames to save others’ lives: but I can still be merciful.

Ofte har jeg tænkt over, hvorledes en Kunstner maatte fremstille Barmhjertighed; men jeg har forvisset mig om, at det ikke lader sig gjøre. Saasnart en Kunstner skal gjøre det, bliver det tvivlsomt, om det er Barmhjertighed eller det er noget Andet. Barmhjertigheden viser sig bestemtest, naar den Fattige giver den halve Skilling og dog al sin Eiendom, naar den Hjælpeløse Intet formaaer at gjøre og dog er barmhjertig. Men Kunsten vil helst fremstille Gaven, altsaa Gavmildhed, og vil helst fremstille, hvad der tager sig malerisk bedst ud, den store Bedrift. Forsøg at male dette: en fattig Kone, som giver en anden det eneste Brød hun eier – og Du seer vel let, at det Vigtigste kan Du ikke udtrykke; Du kan udtrykke, at det er eet Brød, men ikke, at det er det eneste, hun eier. Det danske Folk er velbekjendt med Farerne paa Søen. Man har et Stykke, der forestiller en kjæk Sømand, hvem det skyldes, at nu Lodsens Baad saa ofte frelser Menneskeliv. Hans Billede er aftegnet, og underneden paa den ene Side et Vrag, paa den anden Side en Lodsbaad. See, dette lader sig male. Og det er jo herligt, som en frelsende Engel at styre gjennem Bølgerne og at gjøre det kjækt, modigt, om man saa vil, ogsaa barmhjertigt. O, men har Du aldrig seet, saa har Du dog tænkt Dig den Elendighed eller deres Elendighed, som maaskee fra Barn af eller senere i Livet ere saa ulykkeligt skjendede, saa ilde medtagne, at de Intet, Intet formaae at gjøre, maaskee neppe engang formaae med ret tydelige Ord at kunne yttre Deeltagelsen: skulde vi nu ubarmhjertigt føie denne nye Grusomhed til al deres Elendighed, at negte dem at kunne være barmhjertige – fordi det vistnok ikke lader sig fremstille, da en Saadan ikke godt kunde fremstilles uden som Gjenstand for Barmhjertighed! Og dog er det jo vist, at netop en Saadans Barmhjertighed er den skjønneste og den sandeste, og har eet Værd mere, at han ikke er sløvet i sin egen Lidelse og saaledes har tabt Deeltagelsen for Andres.

I have often considered how an artist might portray mercy; but I have become convinced that it cannot be done. As soon as an artist attempts it, it becomes uncertain whether what is shown is mercy or something else. Mercy shows itself most clearly when the poor person gives half a skilling and yet gives all he owns, and when the helpless person can do nothing and yet is merciful. But art prefers to portray the gift—and therefore generosity—and to portray what makes the best picture: the great deed. Try to paint this: a poor woman gives someone else the only loaf she owns—and you can readily see that the most important thing cannot be expressed; you can show that it is one loaf, but not that it is the only one she owns. The Danish people know the dangers of the sea well. There is a picture of a brave sailor to whom it is due that the pilot boat now saves lives so often. His portrait is shown, with a wreck underneath on one side and a pilot boat on the other. See, this can be painted. And it is indeed glorious to steer through the waves like a saving angel, and to do so boldly—courageously, if you will—and also mercifully. O, but even if you have never seen it, you have surely imagined the misery—the misery of those who, perhaps from childhood or later in life, have been so wretchedly abused, so badly affected, that they can do nothing, nothing at all, perhaps can scarcely even express their fellow feeling in clear words: should we now mercilessly add this new cruelty to all their misery, denying that they can be merciful—because this certainly cannot be portrayed, since such a person could scarcely be portrayed except as an object of mercy! And yet it is surely true that the mercy of precisely such a person is the most beautiful and the truest, with this further worth: his own suffering has not dulled him and so caused him to lose his fellow feeling for others.

Tænk Dig en Enke i Armod; hun har kun een eneste Datter, men denne Datter har Naturen stedmoderligen negtet næsten enhver Gave til at kunne lindre Moderens Kaar – tænk Dig denne ulykkelige Pige, der sukker under den tunge Byrde, at hun dog i Forhold til hvad Smule Evne hende er forundt er uudtømmelig i Opfindsomhed for at gjøre den Smule, det Intet hun formaaer til at lindre Moderens Liv. See, det er Barmhjertighed! Ingen Rigmand skal ødsle de tusinde Rigsbankdaler for at lade en Kunstner male det; thi det kan ikke males. Men hver Gang den fornemme Beskytter, som er Moderens Hjælper, kommer til dem, saa staaer den stakkels Pige beskæmmet; thi »han«, han kan gjøre saa meget, – hans Barmhjertighed fordunkler Pigens! Aa, ja, i Verdens Øine, maaskee endog i en Kunstners og en Kunstkjenders Øine.

Imagine a widow in poverty with only one daughter, a daughter whom nature has stepmotherly denied almost every gift that might ease her mother’s circumstances—imagine this unhappy girl, who labours under the heavy burden that, though she is endlessly resourceful with the little ability she has been granted, all she can do to ease her mother’s life is that little—that nothing. See—that is mercy! No rich man should squander a thousand Rigsbankdaler commissioning an artist to paint it, for it cannot be painted. But whenever the eminent patron who helps her mother comes to them, the poor girl stands abashed; for “he”—he can do so much—his mercy eclipses hers! Ah yes—in the world’s eyes, perhaps even in the eyes of an artist and an art connoisseur.

Saa henvender Talen sig da til Dig, Du Elendige, som slet Intet kan gjøre: glem ikke at være barmhjertig! Vær barmhjertig; denne Trøst, at Du kan være det, end sige den Trøst, at Du er det, er langt større, end hvis jeg kunde indestaae Dig for, at den Mægtigste vil vise Dig Barmhjertighed. Vær barmhjertig mod os Lykkeligere! Dit kummerfulde Liv er som en farlig Indvending mod den kjerlige Styrelse, Du har det derfor i Din Magt at ængste os Andre; saa vær barmhjertig! Sandeligen, hvor megen Barmhjertighed er der ikke mod de Mægtige og Lykkelige viist af en saadan Ulykkelig! Hvad er vel meest barmhjertigt, enten mægtigt at afhjælpe Andres Nød, eller ved at lide stille og taalmodigt barmhjertigt at vogte paa, at man ikke forstyrrer Andres Glæde og Lykke! Hvo af disse To elskede meest: den Lykkelige, der har Deeltagelse med Andres Lidelse, eller den Ulykkelige, der har sand Deeltagelse med Andres Glæde og Lykke!

So the discourse now turns to you, you sufferer who can do nothing at all: do not forget to be merciful! Be merciful; the consolation that you can be merciful—let alone that you are—is far greater than any assurance I could give you that the most powerful person will show you mercy. Be merciful to us who are more fortunate! Your sorrow-laden life is like a dangerous objection to loving providence; you therefore have it in your power to trouble the rest of us—so be merciful! Truly, how much mercy such an afflicted person shows to the powerful and fortunate! Which, then, is the greater mercy: powerfully to relieve other people’s need, or, by suffering quietly and patiently, mercifully to take care not to disturb their joy and happiness! Which of these two loved more: the fortunate person who shares in other people’s suffering, or the afflicted person who truly shares in their joy and happiness!

»Men Hovedsagen er det dog, at Nøden paa enhver Maade bliver afhjulpen, og at der om muligt bliver gjort Alt for at afhjælpe al Nød.« Saaledes taler Timeligheden, velmenende, og kan nu engang ikke tale anderledes. Evigheden derimod siger: der er kun een Fare, den, at der ikke bliver øvet Barmhjertighed; selv om al Nød blev afhjulpen, er det dog derfor ikke afgjort, at det skete ved Barmhjertighed, og hvis dette ikke var Tilfældet, var denne Elendighed, at der slet ikke blev øvet Barmhjertighed, større end al timelig Nød.

“But the main thing, surely, is that need should be relieved in every possible way, and that, if possible, everything should be done to relieve all need.” So temporality speaks, with the best of intentions; it simply cannot speak otherwise. Eternity, by contrast, says there is only one danger: that mercy is not practised; even if every need were relieved, that alone would not establish that the relief had been the work of mercy, and if that were not so, then this misery—that no mercy at all had been practised—would be greater than every temporal need.

Tingen er, Verden forstaaer ikke Evigheden. Timeligheden har en timelig og forsaavidt en travl Forestilling om Nøden, og tillige en sandselig Forestilling om Gavens Størrelse og om det at kunne gjøre Noget for at afhjælpe Nøden. »Den Fattige, den Elendige kunde jo døe – altsaa er det det Vigtigste, at der hjælpes.« Nei, svarer Evigheden, det Vigtigste er, at der øves Barmhjertighed, eller at Hjælpen er Barmhjertighedens Hjælp. »Skaf os Pengene, skaf os Hospitalerne, det er det Vigtigste!« Nei, siger Evigheden, det Vigtigste er Barmhjertigheden. At et Menneske døer, er da evigt forstaaet ingen Ulykke, men vel, at der ikke blev øvet Barmhjertighed. Der staaer ogsaa, mærkeligt nok, under hiint Stykke, som paa den ene Side forestiller et Vrag og paa den anden en Lodsbaad, staaer der: Armod – og voldsom Død; Velstand – og naturlig Død: altsaa Død paa begge Sider. Og Evigheden holder det urokkeligt fast, at Barmhjertigheden er det Vigtigste. Ingen Tænker kan være saa haardnakket, som Evigheden er det i Forhold til sin Tanke, ingen Tænker er saa rolig, saa uforstyrret af Øieblikkets Skynden og Øieblikkets Fare, der synes at indskærpe, at det dog er det Vigtigste, at der paa enhver Maade bliver ydet Hjælp, ingen Tænker er saa rolig, saa uforstyrret, som Evigheden. Og ingen Tænker er saa sikker paa, at Menneskene dog tilsidst maae give Kjøb og tænke hans Tanke, som Evigheden er det, thi siger den: bliv kun, vi tales ved i Evigheden, og der tales vi ved ene og alene om Barmhjertigheden, og ene og alene om den Forskjel: barmhjertig – ikke-barmhjertig. O, at jeg kunde fremstille det Ansigt, Evigheden vil sætte op, naar den Rige paa Spørgsmaalet, om han har været barmhjertig, svarer: jeg har givet hundrede Tusinde til de Fattige. Thi Evigheden vil see paa ham, forundret, som Den, der ikke kan faae det i sit Hoved, hvad det er han taler om; og da vil den atter forelægge ham Spørgsmaalet: har Du været barmhjertig. Tænk Dig, at en Mand gik ud til et Bjerg for at tale med det om sine Anliggender, eller at En indlod sig med Vinden om sine Bedrifter: mere vil Evigheden ikke forstaae af, hvad den Rige taler om de hundrede Tusinde, og af hvad den Mægtige taler om at have gjort Alt.

The point is that the world does not understand eternity. Temporality has a temporal—and therefore hurried—conception of need, and likewise a sensuous conception of the gift’s size and of being able to do something to relieve the need. “The poor, suffering person might die—so the most important thing is that help be given.” No, eternity replies: what matters most is that mercy be shown—that the help itself be merciful help. “Get us the money, get us the hospitals—that is what matters most!” No, says eternity: what matters most is mercy. Understood in terms of eternity, then, a person’s death is no misfortune; but the failure to practise mercy certainly is. Remarkably enough, beneath that picture—which shows a wreck on one side and a pilot boat on the other—it also reads: Poverty—and violent death; Prosperity—and natural death: death on both sides, then. And eternity holds immovably to this: mercy is what matters most. No thinker can cling to a thought as stubbornly as eternity does; no thinker remains so calm, so undisturbed by the haste and danger of the moment, which seem to insist that what matters most, after all, is help being given by every possible means; no thinker is as calm, as undisturbed, as eternity. And no thinker is as certain as eternity that, in the end, human beings must yield and think the same thought; for eternity says: just wait—we shall speak in eternity, and there we shall speak of mercy alone, and of this difference alone: merciful—not merciful. Oh, if only I could portray the look on eternity’s face when the rich man, asked whether he has been merciful, replies: I have given a hundred thousand to the poor. For eternity will look at him in astonishment, like someone unable to make sense of what he is talking about; and then it will ask him the question again: have you been merciful? Imagine a man going out to a mountain to discuss his affairs with it, or someone talking to the wind about his exploits: eternity will understand no more of the rich man’s talk of the hundred thousand, or the powerful man’s talk of having done everything.

Er det Barmhjertighed at give hundrede Tusinde til de Fattige? Nei. Er det Barmhjertighed at give den halve Skilling til den Fattige? Nei. Barmhjertighed er: hvorledes det gives. Men saa er jo de hundrede Tusinde og den halve Skilling, de ere det Ligegyldige, det er, jeg kan lige saa godt see Barmhjertigheden i det Ene som i det Andet, det er, Barmhjertigheden kan være og kan være fuldt saa vel aabenbar i den halve Skilling, som i de hundrede Tusinde, der gives. Men kan jeg lige saa godt see Barmhjertigheden i den halve Skilling, som i de hundrede Tusinde, saa kan jeg egentligen bedst see den i den halve Skilling; thi de hundrede Tusinde have en tilfældig Betydelighed, der saa let drager den sandselige Opmærksomhed paa sig, og derved forstyrrer mig i at see Barmhjertigheden. Er det Barmhjertighed, naar Den, der kan gjøre Alt, gjør Alt for den Elendige? Nei. Er det Barmhjertighed, naar Den, der saa godt som Intet kan gjøre, gjør dette Intet for den Elendige? Nei. Barmhjertighed er: hvorledes dette Alt og dette Intet gjøres. Men saa kan jeg jo lige godt see Barmhjertigheden i dette Alt og i dette Intet; og naar saa er, kan jeg egentligen bedst see den i dette Intet; thi det at kunne gjøre Alt er en glimrende Udvorteshed, der har en tilfældig Art Betydelighed, som dog virker stærkt paa det Sandselige i mig, let drager Opmærksomheden paa sig og forstyrrer mig i at see Barmhjertigheden.

Is it mercy to give a hundred thousand to the poor? No. Is it mercy to give the poor person half a skilling? No. Mercy lies in how it is given. But then the hundred thousand and the half-skilling are themselves indifferent: I can see mercy just as well in one as in the other; mercy can be present—and just as fully manifest—in the half-skilling as in the hundred thousand that is given. But if I can see mercy just as well in the half-skilling as in the hundred thousand, then it is really in the half-skilling that I see it best; for the hundred thousand has a contingent significance that readily draws sensuous attention to itself and thereby hinders me from seeing mercy. Is it mercy when someone who can do everything does everything for the person in misery? No. Is it mercy when someone who can do virtually nothing does that nothing for the person in misery? No. Mercy lies in how this everything and this nothing are done. But then I can see mercy just as well in this everything as in this nothing; and since that is so, it is really in this nothing that I see it best. For being able to do everything is a dazzling outward circumstance with a contingent kind of significance: it nevertheless acts powerfully on the sensuous in me, readily draws attention to itself and hinders me from seeing mercy.

Lad mig atter og atter oplyse dette. Dersom Du ønskede at iagttage de Bevægelser, de Kredse, som en Steen frembringer og danner, naar den kastes i Vandet: vilde Du saa reise til hine fjerne Lande, hvor det mægtige Vandfald styrter sig brusende ned, og der kaste Stenen ud, eller vilde Du kaste den ud i det oprørte Hav? Nei, det vilde Du ikke. Thi uagtet Stenen vilde frembringe Bevægelser og danne Kredse her som overalt, saa var Du forstyrret i ret at see dem. Du vilde vel derfor lige modsat søge et lille stille Vand, jo mindre næsten jo bedre, kaste Stenen ud, og nu uforstyrret af alt Uvedkommende ret samle Din Opmærksomhed paa at iagttage Bevægelserne. – Hvad forstaaer Du ved et betydeligt Menneske? Dog vel et Menneske, som har betydeligt indre Værd? Dersom det nu er Din Alvor ret at ville fortabe Dig i Betragtningen af en Saadan, kunde Du da ønske, at see ham omgiven af en uhyre Rigdom, eller udstyret med Stjerner og Baand; eller vilde Du ikke mene, at dette netop forstyrrede Dig i ganske at samle Dit Sind paa at beskue hans betydelige Indre. Saaledes med Barmhjertigheden. Barmhjertigheden er det sande Betydelige, men de hundrede Tusinde eller det verdsligt at gjøre Alt er den betydelige Gave, den betydelige Hjælp. Men det ene Betydelige er jo Det, som der skal sees paa, det andet Betydelige, Det, som der skal sees bortfra. Og af Mistillid til Dig selv ønsker Du nu Det borte, som Du dog skal see bortfra – ak, medens Verden mener meget lettere at kunne blive opmærksom paa Barmhjertigheden, naar den giver de hundrede Tusinde, end naar den giver den halve Skilling, altsaa mener lettest at blive opmærksom paa Barmhjertigheden ved at see paa Det, som der skal sees bortfra, hvis man ret skal see Barmhjertigheden.

Let me illustrate this again and again. If you wanted to observe the movements—the circles—a stone produces and forms when it is thrown into water, would you travel to distant lands where a mighty waterfall plunges roaring down and throw the stone in there, or would you throw it into the turbulent sea? No, you would not. For although the stone would produce movements and form circles here as everywhere else, you would be hindered from seeing them clearly. You would therefore do just the opposite: seek out a small, still body of water—the smaller, almost, the better—throw in the stone and, undisturbed now by anything irrelevant, focus your attention fully on observing the movements. —What do you understand by a person of significance? Surely it is a person who possesses significant inner worth? If you are truly in earnest about losing yourself in contemplating such a person, could you wish to see him surrounded by immense wealth or decorated with stars and ribbons; or would you not think that these were precisely what hindered you from focusing your whole mind on beholding his significant inner being? So it is with mercy. Mercy is what is truly significant; the hundred thousand—or, in worldly terms, doing everything—is the significant gift, the significant help. Yet the one significant thing is what must be looked at; the other significant thing is what must be looked away from. And because you mistrust yourself, you now wish away what you must nevertheless look away from—alas, while the world thinks it can attend to mercy far more easily when it gives the hundred thousand than when it gives the halfpenny, and thus thinks the easiest way to attend to mercy is to look at precisely what must be looked away from if mercy is truly to be seen.

Dog lad os ikke glemme, at Barmhjertigheden kan sees i begge Tilfælde, i den halve Skilling og i de hundrede Tusinde, i det Alt, som den Mægtige gjør, og i det Intet, som den Elendige gjør. Men selv om det er givet, at Barmhjertigheden er tilstede, Du vil dog let forvisse Dig om, at jo større, jo mere forbausende Gaven er, jo vidunderligere Hjælpen er, desto mere er der Noget, som vil hindre Dig i ganske at dvæle ved Barmhjertigheden. Der fortælles om Apostelen Petrus, at han, da han en Dag gik op i Templet, traf en Halt, som bad ham om en Almisse. Men Petrus sagde til ham »Sølv og Guld haver jeg ikke, men det som jeg haver det giver jeg Dig: i Jesu Christi Nazaræi Navn staae op og gak.« Og han greb ham ved den høire Haand og reiste ham op. Men strax blev hans Been og Ankler stærke, og han sprang op, stod, gik omkring. Hvo turde betvivle, at dette er en Barmhjertighedens Gjerning; og dog, det er jo et Mirakel. Men et Mirakel drager strax Opmærksomheden paa sig og derved for en Deel bort fra Barmhjertigheden, der aldrig bliver tydeligere end naar den slet Intet kan gjøre; thi saa er der jo slet Intet til Hinder for ganske bestemt og nøiagtigt at see, hvad Barmhjertighed er.

Yet let us not forget that mercy can be seen in both cases: in the halfpenny and in the hundred thousand, in the everything the powerful person does and in the nothing the wretched person does. But even granted that mercy is present, you will readily see that the greater and more astonishing the gift, and the more marvellous the help, the more there is to hinder you from dwelling wholly upon mercy. We are told that when the Apostle Peter went up to the temple one day, he met a lame man who asked him for alms. But Peter said to him, “Silver and gold I have none; but what I have I give you: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk.” And he took him by the right hand and helped him up. But immediately his legs and ankles grew strong, and he sprang up, stood and walked about. Who would dare doubt that this is a work of mercy; and yet it is, after all, a miracle. But a miracle immediately draws attention to itself and thus, in part, away from mercy—which is never clearer than when it can do nothing at all; for then nothing at all prevents us from seeing quite distinctly and precisely what mercy is.

Evigheden forstaaer sig ene paa Barmhjertigheden; vil Du derfor lære at forstaae Dig paa Barmhjertighed, maa Du lære det af Evigheden. Men skal Du forstaae Dig paa det Evige, da maa der være stille omkring Dig, medens Du ganske samler Din Opmærksomhed paa Inderligheden. Ak, de hundrede Tusinde, de gjør Støi, de kunne idetmindste saa let komme til at gjøre Støi; Du bliver som fortumlet i Hovedet ved Tanken om at kunne give hundrede Tusinde lige saa let som Du giver fire Skilling; Dit Sind adspredes, Du kommer til at tænke paa det herlige Vilkaar efter en saadan Maalestok at kunne gjøre Godt. Men saa er jo det Evige forstyrret: at det herlige, det salige, det saligste Vilkaar er at øve Barmhjertighed. Og nu Magt og Vælde! Dette forstyrrer atter saa let Sindet, Du kommer til at studse over det Udvortes. Men naar Du studser, saa kan Du være vis paa, at det ikke er Barmhjertighed Du seer, thi den vækker ikke Studsen. Hvad er der vel at studse over, naar selv den Elendigste, og han netop bedst, kan øve Barmhjertighed! O, Barmhjertigheden, dersom Du i Sandhed seer den, vækker ikke Studsen, den rører Dig, den gjør, just fordi den er Inderlighed, det inderligste Indtryk paa Dig. Men naar er Inderlighed tydeligere, end naar der slet intet Udvortes er, eller naar det Udvortes ved Ringheden og Ubetydeligheden snarere er som en Modstand, og sandseligt forstaaet virkeligen er til Hinder for at see Inderligheden. Og naar dette er Tilfældet i Forhold til Barmhjertighed, saa have vi jo den Barmhjertighed, om hvilken her har været Talen, den Barmhjertighed, der er en Kjerlighedens Gjerning, selv om den Intet har at give og Intet formaaer at gjøre.

Eternity understands nothing but mercy; so if you would learn to understand mercy, you must learn it from eternity. But if you are to understand the eternal, there must be silence around you while you concentrate your whole attention on inwardness. Alas, the hundred thousand—they make a noise, or can so easily come to do so; the thought of giving a hundred thousand as readily as you give four shillings leaves you almost dazed; your mind is distracted, and you begin thinking what a splendid position it is to be able to do good on such a scale. But then the eternal truth is disrupted: that the splendid, the blessed—the most blessed—condition is to practise mercy. And now—power and might! This too so easily unsettles the mind, and you begin to marvel at what is outward. But when you look on in astonishment, you may be sure that what you see is not mercy, for mercy does not arouse astonishment. What, after all, is there to marvel at, when even the most wretched person—and that person best of all—can practise mercy! Ah, mercy—if you truly see it—does not arouse astonishment; it moves you and, precisely because it is inwardness, makes the deepest impression upon you. But when is inwardness clearer than when there is nothing outward at all, or when what is outward, by its paltriness and insignificance, instead acts as a resistance and, sensuously understood, truly hinders inwardness from being seen. And when this is the case with mercy, then we have precisely the mercy spoken of here: the mercy that is a work of love, even when it has nothing to give and can do nothing.