Fear and Trembling: Part 2 | Søren Kierkegaard

A continued analysis of Kierkegaard's work Fear and Trembling, with specific attention to the idea of the Knight of Faith

In this second part of my analysis of Kierkegaard’s ‘Fear and Trembling’ I would like to focus upon the character Kierkegaard defines as the knight of the infinite, or the “knight of faith”. This specific portion of the text was particularly interesting to me in seeing Kierkegaard’s honest attempt to capture the life of one walking by faith.

As a brief note of introduction to the idea before providing the source text itself: Kierkegaard has already discussed before providing this picture that he understands the movements of the walk of faith, and can even imitate them, and yet cannot seem to walk the path in genuine confidence himself. This idea is worth addressing, Kierkegaard has an intuition that he understands what walking by faith would be like, and yet considers himself unable to implement it properly. As christians, I think we never fully graduate from this feeling to a degree, one of the purest expressions of true faith in scripture can be found in the helpless, humble cry of a concerned father:

[Mar 9:24 KJV] 24 And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

The father properly understood his need for Christ, and his insufficiency in faith, and so he asked Christ to not only heal his son, but to additionally help his weakness in belief. This is a very humble and appropriate posture for any child of God trying to walk by faith in the service of God, and probably means that Kierkegaard is in good company if I understand his experience accurately. We never grow so strong in faith that we can place hope or faith in our faith, the object of faith is Christ and the surety of His person and work.

As partially discussed in the last article, the ‘infinite’, as described by Kierkegaard, can be seen as the belief in the omnipotence of God to do miracles beyond the realm of natural possibilities. I think Kierkegaard is aware and intentional with the embedded nature of this idea in the omnipotence of the Judeo/Christian God. It’s strange though, that Kierkegaard does not seem to associate this concept directly with God or dogmatic religious belief per se, and it can perhaps be said that he treats it as if it can stand on its own - meaning that he accepts the idea of the infinite and the apparent divine source of it, and yet does not ascribe to the doctrines of said God. If that is Kierkegaard’s position, I see no grounding basis to his idea, unless analyzed purely in terms of the benefits of the idea from the perspective of metaphorical truth. A metaphorical truth is an idea that is objectively false, and yet benefits those who adhere to it nonetheless - a good example is the common advice to “treat all guns as if they are loaded”. This statement is false, and yet will certainly increase gun safety and reduce accidental gun-related deaths if everyone abides by it or “believes” it. This is a framework by which some modern thinkers categorize and measure the benefits of various religions for society. However, I think the very story of Abraham defeats this line of thinking in regards to true christian faith. There is no benefit from the willing sacrifice of a son and heir in a culture that places utmost emphasis on continuation of family lines through inheritance. Abraham is not “better off” in a natural sense were he to actually kill his son if God was not directly involved in the situation, and this rejects any interpretation through the lense of metaphorical truth. But, the true and omnipotent God was involved in the situation, and made a direct promise to Abraham, and Abraham obeyed by faith and was richly blessed by the promise of God, such that he was made aware that he was the friend of God.

Here is Kierkegaard’s Knight of Faith:

Yet it is indeed him. I come a little closer, watch the least movement in case some small, incongruous optical telegraphic message from the infinite should appear, a glance, expression, gesture, a sadness, a smile betraying the infinite by its incongruity with the finite. No! I examine him from top to toe, in case there should be some crack through which the infinite peeped out. No! He is solid through and through. His stance? Vigorous, it belongs altogether to finitude, no smartly turned-out townsman taking a stroll out to Fresberg on a Sunday afternoon treads the ground with surer foot; he belongs altogether to the world, no petit bourgeois belongs to it more. One detects nothing of the strangeness and superiority that mark the knight of the infinite. This man takes pleasure, takes part, in everything, and whenever one catches him occupied with something his engagement has the persistence of the worldly person whose soul is wrapped up in such things. He minds his affairs. To see him at them you would think he was some pen-pusher who had lost his soul to Italian bookkeeping, so attentive to detail is he. He takes a holiday on Sundays. He goes to church. No heavenly glance or any other sign of the incommensurable betrays him; if one didn’t know him it would be impossible to set him apart from the rest of the crowd; for at most his hearty, lusty psalm-singing proves that he has a good set of lungs. In the afternoon he takes a walk in the woods. He delights in everything he sees, in the thronging humanity, the new omnibuses, the Sound – to run across him on Strandveien you would think he was a shopkeeper having his fling, such is his way of taking pleasure; for he is not a poet and I have sought in vain to prise out of him the secret of any poetic incommensurability. Towards evening he goes home, his step tireless as a postman’s. On the way it occurs to him that his wife will surely have some special little warm dish for his return, for example roast head of lamb with vegetables. If he were to meet a kindred spirit, he could continue as far as Østerport so as to converse with him about this dish with a passion befitting a restaurateur. As it happens he hasn’t a penny and yet he firmly believes his wife has that delicacy waiting for him. If she has, to see him eat it would be a sight for superior people to envy and for plain folk to be inspired by, for his appetite is greater than Esau’s. If his wife doesn’t have the dish, curiously enough he is exactly the same. On the road he passes a building-site and meets another man. They talk together for a moment, he has a building raised in a jiffy, having all that’s needed for that. The stranger leaves him thinking: ‘That must have been a capitalist,’ while my admirable knight thinks: ‘Yes, if it came to that I could surely manage it.’ He takes his ease at an open window and looks down on the square where he lives, at everything that goes on – a rat slipping under a board over the gutter, the children at play – with a composure befitting a sixteen-year-old girl. And yet he is no genius; I have tried in vain to spy out in him the incommensurability of the genius. He smokes his pipe in the evening: to see him you would swear it was the cheesemonger opposite vegetating in the dusk. Carefree as a devil-may-care good-for-nothing, he hasn’t a worry in the world, and yet he purchases every moment that he lives, ‘redeeming the seasonable time’ at the dearest price; not the least thing does he do except on the strength of the absurd. And yet, and yet – yes, it could drive me to fury, out of envy if for no other reason – and yet this man has made and is at every moment making the movement of infinity. He drains in infinite resignation the deep sorrow of existence, he knows the bliss of infinity, he has felt the pain of renouncing everything, whatever is most precious in the world, and yet to him finitude tastes just as good as to one who has never known anything higher, for his remaining in the finite bore no trace of a stunted, anxious training, and still he has this sense of being secure to take pleasure in it, as though it were the most certain thing of all. And yet, and yet the whole earthly form he presents is a new creation on the strength of the absurd. He resigned everything infinitely, and then took everything back on the strength of the absurd. He is continually making the movement of infinity, but he makes it with such accuracy and poise that he is continually getting finitude out of it, and not for a second would one suspect anything else. It is said that the dancer’s hardest task is to leap straight into a definite position, so that not for a second does he have to catch at the position but stands there in it in the leap itself. Perhaps no dancer can do it – but that knight does it.

There are many points within this rich mosaic that are worthy of deconstruction. Perhaps it’s best to begin at the top with the point regarding a complete lack of distinguishing marks which would serve to ‘betray’ the infinitude within the knight of faith. This is a curious detail to include, for certainly the scriptural examples of faith tend to be quite identifiable or extraordinary. But perhaps Kierkegaard references that at base they are still humans in mortal flesh, despite the gift of divine faith within. This same curious lack of physical evidence of divinity can certainly be made of our savior, perhaps that is a relevant point to consider in regards to this subject. The prophet Isaiah tells us that the man who would be wounded for our transgression, speaking of Christ, hath no form nor comeliness or beauty that we should behold him:

[Isa 53:2 KJV] 2 For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.

Additionally, we can draw from the familiar story of Judas’ betrayal involving a kiss that certainly there was a need for Judas to mark the savior out of the group, there was no halo or aura that would cause immediate and undeniable recognition. If any man can be ascribed the title of knight of faith, certainly it was our Lord. So on this note regarding physical appearance alone, I find accuracy in Kierkegaard’s depiction. But I find inaccuracy if this extends to prolonged observation of action. Continuing with this same example of Jesus, he quickly set himself apart from the general population by his deeds, even from a young age, “I must be about my father’s business.” And the focal example of Abraham is certainly not a story of ordinary human pleasure of earthly life. I think this is where the writing of James may have its application, true and strong faith/belief is that which is lived by and expressed. Faith without works is dead; Abraham could have claimed a great and mighty faith all he wanted, and yet if he disobeyed God and withheld the life of his son, counting the promise of God too hard for the Almighty to uphold, certainly there would be cause to doubt the validity of his claim.

The next point of interest to me is his specific emphasis upon the “worldliness” or “worldly involvement of affairs” of the knight. This is strange to me from a biblical perspective, in the Hebrews 11 hall of faith, part of what serves to identify these individuals or relate them across a diversity of faithful experiences is the statement in verses 13 and 14:

[Heb 11:13-14 KJV] 13 These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. 14 For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.

It was not a familiarity and perfect conformity to life on earth that they shared, it was a deep conviction (rooted in faith) that this world was not their home and that there was a better country worth seeking and hoping for. This does not mean that the walk of faith is one of complete isolation from culture and society, again looking at the life of Jesus, who was a friend of sinners and spent much of his time healing and teaching in cities to multitudes. But it does mean that faith tends to disenchant the possessor with the cares, promises, and riches of lowly earth - and tends to pull towards a desire of the promised inheritance of God and a better country. 

Kierkegaard’s point about the man believing his wife will have a warm and substantive meal waiting for him, despite his knowledge of their poverty and the implausibility of such an expectation, struck me with particular interest upon first reading. My first interpretation was that this kind of baseless wish deserved to be put in the category of truly “absurd” and not in the way Kierkegaard uses the term… However, despite my intuition that a better example might have conveyed the point more effectively, after a podcast discussion on this topic, I think I see the point a bit clearer. Perhaps the best place to go once more is to the example of Christ:

[Luk 11:2 KJV] 2 And he said unto them, When ye pray, say, Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, as in heaven, so in earth.

[Luk 22:42 KJV] 42 Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.

This teaches us the principle of submitting or conforming our desires to the ultimate will of God. For example, the apostle Paul asked many times for the Lord to remove his thorn in the flesh, and yet God did not grant the request. God is good, God’s knowledge and ways are higher than ours. We can and should bring our petitions to God, yet we should ultimately follow the example of Jesus in the sentiment “nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” It seems that the ideal, through faith, is that we can maintain our joy and trust in the Lord despite an ungranted prayer or ask. 

I believe that this last point I have tried to articulate is the move that Kierkegaard ends his depiction with, the “move of infinity” the dancers move “to leap straight into a definite position, so that not for a second does he have to catch at the position but stands there in it in the leap itself.” The walk of faith is one that every child of God is called to; to trust and follow the promise of God is often not the path of ease or least resistance, but it is the path of service to a God who deserves more than all of the service and praise we are capable of offering. It is certainly the only path that is truly meaningful in this life, for when considered in the big picture, it is the true ultimate reality, rather than the exception from the realm of natural possibility.