The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air: Three Godly Discourses by Søren Kierkegaard | eBook

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The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air

Three Godly Discourses

By Søren Kierkegaard, Bruce H. Kirmmse

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

CHAPTER 1

"LOOK AT THE BIRDS OF THE AIR; CONSIDER THE LILY OF THE FIELD."

But Perhaps you say with "the poet" (and it very much appeals to you when the poet talks like this): "Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird, like the free bird, full of wanderlust, which flies far, far away over sea and land, so close to the sky, to far, faraway lands — alas for myself: I feel simply bound and yet again bound and nailed to the spot where daily worries and sufferings and difficulties make it clear to me that this is where I live — and for my whole life! Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird that, lighter than all earthly burdens, soars into the air, lighter than air — oh, would that I were like that light bird that, when it seeks a foothold, even builds its nest upon the surface of the sea — alas for myself, for whom even the least movement — if I merely move — makes me feel what a burden rests upon me! Oh, would that I were a bird, or would that I were like a bird, free from all considerations, like the little songbird that humbly sings, even though no one listens to it — or that sings proudly, even though no one listens to it. Alas for myself: I have not a moment or anything for myself, but am parceled out and must serve thousands of considerations! Oh, would that I were a flower, or would that I were like the flower in the meadow, happily enamored of myself, period — alas for myself, who feel in my own heart that division of the human heart: neither to be capable of selfishly breaking with everything, nor capable of lovingly sacrificing everything!"

So much for "the poet." Listening superficially, it almost sounds as if he is saying what the gospel says — he indeed praises the happiness of the bird and the lily in the strongest terms. But now hear more. "Therefore, it is almost like cruelty for the gospel to praise the lily and the bird, saying: You shall be like them — alas for myself, I in whom the wish is so true, so true, so true — 'Oh would that I were like a bird of the air, like a lily of the field.' But it is of course impossible that I could become like them; that is precisely why the wish is so fervent, so wistful, and yet so burning in me. How cruel it is, then, for the gospel to speak like that to me; indeed, it is as if it wanted to force me to lose my mind: that I shall be what I feel altogether too deeply — just as deep as the wish for it is within me — that I am not and cannot be. I cannot understand the gospel; between us there is a difference of language that, if I were to understand it, would kill me."

And that is how it always is with "the poet" in relation to the gospel; for him it is the same with respect to the gospel's words about being a child. "Oh, would that I were a child," says the poet, or "Would that I were like a child, 'Alas, a child, innocent and happy' — alas, I have prematurely become old and guilty and sorrowful!"

Strange, for of course, it is said quite rightly that the poet is a child. And yet the poet cannot come to an understanding with the gospel. For the poet's life is really based upon despair of being able to become what is wished for, and this despair begets the wish. But "the wish" is the invention of disconsolateness. For of course the wish provides momentary consolation, but upon closer inspection it can be seen that it does not in fact console. And therefore we say that the wish is the consolation that disconsolateness invents. Remarkable self-contradiction! Yes, but the poet is also this self-contradiction. The poet is the child of pain, whom the father nonetheless calls the son of joy. In the poet, the wish came into existence in pain; and this wish, this burning wish, gives joy to the human heart more than wine delights it, more than the earliest bud of spring, more than the first star that a person, weary of the day, greets in longing for the night, more than the last star in the sky to which a person bids farewell when day dawns. The poet is the child of eternity but lacks the earnestness of eternity. When he thinks of the lily and the bird, he weeps; as he weeps, he finds relief in weeping; "the wish" comes into existence, along with the eloquence of the wish: "Oh, would that I were a bird, the bird of whom I read in the picture book when I was a child; oh, would that I were a flower in the field, the flower that stood in my mother's garden." But if, with the gospel, one were to say to him, "This is in earnest, precisely this is the earnestness, that the bird is the teacher in earnest," the poet would have to laugh — and he makes a joke of the bird and the lily, so wittily that he gets us all to laugh, even the most earnest person who has ever lived; but he does not move the gospel in the same way. The gospel is so earnest that all the poet's sadness fails to change it even though it changes the most earnest person, so that for a moment he yields, goes along with the poet's thoughts, sighs with him and says, "Dear fellow, it really is an impossibility for you. Well then, I dare not say 'You shall.'" But the gospel does dare command the poet that he shall be like the bird. And so earnest is the gospel that the poet's most irresistible invention does not cause it to smile.

You "shall" become a child again, and therefore, or to that end, you shall begin by being able to and by willing to understand the words that are as if directed at a child, and which every child understands — you shall understand the words as a child understands them: "You shall." The child never asks about reasons; the child does not dare do so, neither does the child need to — and the one corresponds to the other, for precisely because the child does not dare do so, neither does it need to ask about reasons; because for the child it is reason enough that it shall — indeed, all reasons together would not be reason enough to the child to the degree that this is. And the child never says, "I cannot." The child does not dare do so, and neither is it true — the one corresponds precisely to the other — for precisely because the child does not dare say, "I cannot," it is not therefore true that it cannot, and it therefore turns out that the truth is that it can do it, for it is impossible to be unable to do it when one does not dare do otherwise: nothing is more certain — as long as it is certain that one does not dare do otherwise. And the child never looks for an evasion or an excuse, for the child understands the frightful truth that there is no evasion or excuse, there is no hiding place, neither in heaven nor on earth, neither in the parlor nor in the garden, where it could hide from this "You shall." And when it is quite certain to a person that there is no such hiding place, then neither is there any evasion or excuse. And when one knows the frightful truth that there is no evasion or excuse — well, then one naturally refrains from finding it, for what is not cannot be found — but one also refrains from seeking it; and then one does what one shall. And the child never needs to spend a long time in deliberation, for when it shall — and perhaps immediately — then there is no occasion for deliberation; and even were this not the case, when, after all, it shall: Yes, even if one were to give it an eternity to deliberate, the child would not need it; the child would say, "Why all this time, when, after all, I shall?" And if the child were to take the time, it would surely use the time in another manner, for play, for enjoyment, and the like — for what the child shall, the child shall; that is unalterable and has absolutely nothing to do with deliberation.

Therefore, in accordance with the instructions of the gospel, let us in earnest regard the lily and the bird as teachers. In earnest, for the gospel is not so intellectually pretentious as to be unable to make use of the lily and the bird; but neither is it so worldly that it is only capable of regarding the lily and the bird mournfully or with a smile.

From the lily and the bird as teachers, let us learn

silence, or learn to keep silent.

For surely it is speech that places the human being above the animal, and if you like, far above the lily. But because the ability to speak is an advantage, it does not follow that there is no art in the ability to keep silent, or that it would be an inferior art. On the contrary, precisely because a human being has the ability to speak, for this very reason the ability to keep silent is an art; and precisely because this advantage of his tempts him so easily, the ability to keep silent is a great art. But this he can learn from the silent teachers, the lily and the bird.

"Seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness."

But what does it mean, what is it that I must do, what sort of effort is it of which it can be said that it seeks, that it aspires to, God's kingdom? Shall I seek to secure a position that corresponds to my abilities and strengths, so that I can be effective in it? No, you shall first seek God's kingdom. Shall I give all my fortune to the poor, then? No, first you shall seek God's kingdom. Shall I go out and proclaim this teaching to the world, then? No, you shall first seek God's kingdom. But then, in a certain sense is there in fact nothing I shall do? Yes, quite true, in a certain sense there is nothing. You shall in the deepest sense make yourself nothing, become nothing before God, learn to keep silent. In this silence is the beginning, which is first to seek God's kingdom.

Thus, in a godly way, does one come in a certain sense backward to the beginning. The beginning is not that with which one begins but is that to which one comes, and one comes to it backward. Beginning is this art of becoming silent, for there is no art in keeping silent as nature is. And in the deepest sense, this becoming silent, silent before God, is the beginning of the fear of God, for as the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, so is silence the beginning of the fear of God. And as the fear of God is more than the beginning of wisdom, is "wisdom," so is silence more than the beginning of the fear of God, is "the fear of God." In this silence, the many thoughts of wishing and desiring fall silent in the fear of God; in this silence, the loquacity of thanksgiving falls silent in the fear of God.

The ability to speak is the human being's superiority over the animal, but in relation to God wanting to speak can easily become corrupting for the human being, who is able to speak. God is in heaven, the human being is on earth: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. God is infinite wisdom, what the human being knows is idle chatter: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. God is love; the human being is — as one says to a child — even a little fool with respect to his or her own well-being: therefore they cannot very well talk with one another. Only in much fear and trembling can a human being talk with God, in much fear and trembling. But to speak in much fear and trembling is difficult for another reason, for as anxiety causes the voice to falter in a physical sense, so also does great fear and trembling surely cause the voice to fall mute in silence. This is known by the person who prays rightly, and this is perhaps exactly what the person who did not pray rightly has learned in prayer. There was something that was very much on his mind, a matter that was so important for him to have God understand properly; he was afraid that he might have forgotten something in his prayer — alas, and if he had forgotten it, he was afraid that God would not have remembered it on his own: therefore, he wanted to gather his thoughts and pray truly fervently. And then, if he in fact prayed truly fervently, what happened to him? Something strange and wonderful happened to him: gradually, as he became more and more fervent in prayer, he had less and less to say, and finally he became entirely silent. He became silent. Indeed, he became what is, if possible, even more the opposite of talking than silence: he became a listener. He had thought that to pray was to talk; he learned that to pray is not only to keep silent, but to listen. And that is how it is: to pray is not to listen to oneself speak, but is to come to keep silent, and to continue keeping silent, to wait, until the person who prays hears God.

That is why, in serving as one's upbringing, the words of the gospel, "Seek first God's kingdom," muzzle a person's mouth, as it were, by answering every question he poses — about whether this is what he shall do — with "No, you shall first seek God's kingdom." And this is why one can paraphrase the gospel's words as follows: "You shall begin by praying, not as though — as we have of course shown — prayer always begins with silence, but because when prayer has properly become prayer, it has become silence. Seek first God's kingdom, that is: Pray!" If you were to ask — indeed, if in your questioning you went through every individual thing, asking: "Is it this that I shall do, and if I do it, is this, then, seeking God's kingdom?" — the answer must be: "No, you shall first seek God's kingdom." But to pray, that is, to pray rightly, is to become silent, and that is to seek first God's kingdom.

You can learn this silence from the lily and the bird. That is, their silence is no art, but when you become silent like the lily and the bird, then you are at the beginning, which is first to seek God's kingdom.

How solemn it is out there under God's heaven with the lily and the bird — and why? Ask "the poet." He replies, "Because there is silence." And he longs to be out in that solemn silence, away from the worldliness of the human world, where there is so much talk — away from all the worldly life of humanity, which merely demonstrates in a sorry way that it is speech that distinguishes human beings from animals. "Because," the poet would say, "if that is really a way in which to distinguish oneself — no, then I find the silence out there very, very much preferable. I prefer it — no, there is no comparison — it distinguishes itself as infinitely above human beings, who are capable of speech." For the poet thinks he perceives the voice of God in the silence of nature. Not only does he not think that he perceives the voice of God in the busy talk of human beings, he does not even think that he can perceive that humanity has kinship with divinity. The poet says, "Speech is the human being's advantage over the animal, to be sure — if he is able to keep silent."

But the ability to keep silent is something you can learn out there in the company of the lily and the bird, where there is silence and also something of divinity in that silence. There is silence out there, and not only when everything keeps silent in the silence of night, but also when a thousand strings are in motion all day long and everything is a sea of sound, as it were — and nonetheless there is silence out there: each one in particular does it so well that not one of them, and none of them all together, do anything to break the solemn silence. There is silence out there. The forest keeps silent; even when it whispers, it is nonetheless silent. For the trees, even where they stand most closely together, keep their word to one another — which human beings do so infrequently, despite having given their word that "This will remain between us." The sea keeps silent; even when it rages loudly, it is nonetheless silent. At first, you perhaps hear incorrectly, and you hear it rage. If you rush away bearing that message, you do the sea an injustice. On the other hand, if you take your time and listen more carefully, you will hear — how amazing! — you will hear the silence, for uniformity is of course also silence. When the silence of evening descends upon the countryside, and you hear the distant lowing of cattle from the meadow, or you hear the familiar voice of the dog from the farmer's house, it cannot be said that this lowing or the dog's voice disturbs the silence — no, this is a part of the silence, it has a secret, and thus a silent, understanding with the silence; it increases it.

Let us now look more closely at the lily and the bird from whom we are to learn. The bird keeps silent and waits: it knows, or rather it fully and firmly believes, that everything takes place at its appointed time. Therefore the bird waits, but it knows that it is not granted to it to know the hour or the day; therefore it keeps silent. "It will surely take place at the appointed time," the bird says. Or no, the bird does not say this, but keeps silent. But its silence speaks, and its silence says that it believes it, and because it believes it, it keeps silent and waits. Then, when the moment comes, the silent bird understands that this is the moment; it makes use of it and is never put to shame. This is also how it is with the lily, it keeps silent and waits. It does not ask impatiently, "When is the spring coming?" because it knows that it will come at the appointed time; it knows that it would not benefit in any way whatever if it were permitted to determine the seasons of the year. It does not say, "When will we get rain?" or "When will we have sunshine?" or "Now we have had too much rain," or "Now it is too hot." It does not ask in advance how the summer will be this year, how long or short; no, it keeps silent and waits — that is how simple it is, but nonetheless it is never deceived, something that of course can only happen to shrewdness, not to simplicity, which does not deceive and is not deceived. Then the moment comes, and when the moment comes, the silent lily understands that now is the moment, and makes use of it. Oh, you profound teachers of simplicity, should it not also be possible to encounter "the moment" when one is speaking? No. Only by keeping silent does one encounter the moment. When one speaks, even if one says only a single word, one misses the moment. Only in silence is the moment. And this is surely why it so rarely happens that a human being properly comes to understand when the moment is and how to make proper use of the moment — because he cannot keep silent. He cannot keep silent and wait; this perhaps explains why the moment never comes for him at all. He cannot keep silent; this perhaps explains why he did not notice the moment when it came for him. Even though it is pregnant with rich significance, the moment does not send forth any herald in advance to announce its arrival; it comes too swiftly for that; indeed, there is not a moment's time beforehand. Nor, no matter how significant it is in itself, does the moment come with commotion or shouting; no, it comes softly, on lighter feet than the lightest tread of any creature, for it comes with the light step of the sudden; it comes stealthily. Therefore one must be utterly silent if one is to perceive that "now it is here." And at the next moment it is gone. Therefore one must be utterly silent if one is to succeed in making use of it. But of course everything depends upon "the moment." And this is surely the misfortune in the lives of many, of far the greater part of humanity: that they never perceived "the moment," that in their lives the eternal and the temporal were exclusively separated. And why? Because they could not keep silent.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air by Søren Kierkegaard, Bruce H. Kirmmse. Copyright © 2016 Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air: Three Godly Discourses

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The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air: Three Godly Discourses

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The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air

Three Godly Discourses

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