TRIBUTE TO ABRAHAM

 

If there were no eternal consciousness in a human being, if, as foundation for everything, there lay only a wild, fermenting force, which, writhing in dark passions, generated everything, whether great or insignificant, if a fathomless, unfillable emptiness lay hidden under everything, what then would life be except despair? If such were the case, if there were no holy bond that united humanity, if one generation rose up after another like the leaves in the forest,1 if one generation replaced another like the birdsongs in the forest, if a generation went through the world as a ship goes through the sea, as the wind through the desert, an unthinking and unfruitful business, if an eternal, always hungry forgetfulness lay in wait for its prey, and there was no power strong enough to wrest this from it—how empty and hopeless would life then be! But therefore it is not so, and just as God created man and woman, so too he formed the hero and the poet or orator. The latter can do nothing of what the former does, he can only admire, love, be delighted by, and rejoice over the hero. Thus he too is happy, no less than the other; for the hero is, as it were, his better nature, with which he is in love, yet he is pleased that the other is not himself, that his love can be admiration. He is recollection’s genius, who can do nothing except call to mind what has been done, do nothing except admire what has been done; he takes nothing for his own but jealously guards what has been entrusted to him. He follows his heart’s choice, but when he has found that which he sought, then he roams about by every man’s door with his song and with his speech, so that everyone may admire the hero as he does, be proud of the hero as he is. This is his feat, his humble deed; this is his faithful service in the hero’s house. If he remains faithful in this way to his love, striving day and night with the cunning of oblivion, which would trick him out of the hero, then he has fulfilled his calling, then he is united with the hero whom he has loved, who has loved him just as faithfully, for the poet is, as it were, the hero’s better nature; as powerless, yes, as a memory is, but also transfigured as a memory is. Therefore no one shall be forgotten who was great, and even it takes longer, even if misunderstanding’s cloud takes the hero away,2 his lover will nonetheless come, and the longer the time gone by the more faithfully he will cling to him. No! No one shall be forgotten who was great in the world; but each was great in his own way, and each in relation to the greatness of what he loved. For the one who loved himself became great by himself, and the one who loved other human beings became great through his devotion, but the one who loved God became greater than all. Each shall be remembered, but each became great in relation to his expectation. One became great through expecting the possible; another through expecting the  but the one who expected the impossible became greater than all. Each shall be remembered, but each was great entirely in relation to the greatness of that with which he struggled. For the one who struggled with the world became great through overcoming the world, and the one who struggled with himself became great through overcoming himself; but the one who struggled with God became greater than all. Thus did they struggle in the world, man against man, one against a thousand, but the one who struggled with God was greater than all. Thus did they struggle on earth: there was one who overcame everything through his own strength, and there was one who overcame God through his powerlessness. There was one who depended upon himself and overcame everything, there was one who, secure in his strength, sacrificed everything, but the one who believed God was greater than all. There was one who was great through his power, and one who was great through his wisdom, and one who was great through his hope, and one who was great through his love, but Abraham was greater than all, great through that power whose strength is powerlessness, great through that wisdom whose secret is folly, great through that hope whose form is madness, great through that love which is hatred toward oneself.3 By faith Abraham trekked out from the land of his fathers and became a stranger in the Promised Land.4 He left one thing behind, and took one thing with him; he left his worldly understanding behind and took faith with him; otherwise, he would surely not have trekked out, but would, after all, have thought it was clearly unreasonable. By faith he was a stranger in the Promised Land, and there was nothing there which reminded him of that which he cherished, but everything tempted his soul, through its newness, to melancholy longing. And yet he was God’s chosen one, in whom God delighted!5 Yes, if he had been an exile, banished from God’s favor, then one could have better comprehended it; indeed, now it was just as if a mockery was being made of him and his faith. There one was in the world who also lived banished from the fatherland, which he loved.6 He is not forgotten, and neither are his laments, when he in melancholy sought and found what he lost. From Abraham there is no lament. It is human to lament, human to weep with those who weep, but it is greater to believe, more blessed to contemplate those who believe. By faith Abraham received the promise that in his seed all the generations of the earth should be blessed.7 Time passed, the possibility was there—Abraham believed; time passed, it became unreasonable—Abraham believed. There was such a person in the world who also had an expectation. Time passed, the evening drew near, he was not wretched enough to have forgotten his expectation—therefore neither shall he be forgotten. Then he sorrowed, and sorrow did not defraud him as life had done to him, it did everything it could—in sorrow’s sweetness he possessed his disappointed expectation. It is human to sorrow, it is human to sorrow with those who sorrow, but it is greater to believe, more blessed to contemplate those who believe. From Abraham we have no song of sorrow. He did not count the days while time passed; he did not consider Sarah with suspicious glances, wondering whether she was getting too old; he did not stop the sun so that Sarah would not age and, with her, his expectation; he did not soothingly sing for Sarah his mournful lay. Abraham became old, Sarah an object of mockery in the land, and yet he was God’s chosen one and heir to the promise that in his seed all the generations of the earth should be blessed. So would it not have been better, after all, if he were not God’s chosen one? What is it to be God’s chosen one? Is it to be denied in youth the wish of youth, so that one may with great difficulty receive its fulfillment in old age? If Abraham had wavered, then he would have given it up. He would have said to God: “Since it is not, perhaps, your will after all that it should happen, then I will give up the wish; it was my one and only wish, it was my blessedness. My soul is upright, I hide no secret grudge because you denied it.” He would not be forgotten. He would save many by his example, but he would still not have become the father of faith; for it is great to give up one’s wish, but it is greater to hold it fast after having given it up; it is great to grasp the eternal, but greater to hold the temporal after first having given it up. Then comes the fulfillment of time. Had Abraham not believed, then perhaps Sarah would have died from sorrow, and Abraham, dulled in grief, would not have understood the fulfillment, but smiled at it as at a dream of youth. But Abraham believed, and therefore he was young; for the one who always hopes for the best becomes old, defrauded by life, and the one who is always prepared for the worst grows old too soon, but the one who believes preserves an eternal youth. Thus this story is praised! For Sarah, though advanced in years, was young enough to desire the pleasure of motherhood, and Abraham, though gray-haired, was still young enough to wish to be a father. In outward respects the marvel lies in the fact that it happened according to their expectation; in a deeper sense the marvel of faith lies in the fact that Abraham and Sarah were still young enough to wish, and that faith had preserved their wish, and, with it, their youth. He received the fulfillment of the promise; he received it believing, and it happened according to the promise and according to faith: for Moses struck the rock with his staff, but he did not believe.8 So there was joy in Abraham’s house when Sarah stood as a bride on her golden wedding anniversary. Yet it should not remain this way; yet one more time Abraham was to be tested. He had fought against that crafty power that devises all things, with that watchful enemy who never sleeps, with that old man who outlives everything—he had fought with time and kept faith. Now all the frightfulness of the struggle is gathered together in a single moment. “And God tested Abraham and said to him, ‘Take Isaac, your only son, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah and sacrifice him as a burnt offering on a mountain that I will show to you.’” So everything, then, was to be for nothing, even more appallingly than if it had never happened! So the Lord, then, was only mocking Abraham! He had marvelously  made the unreasonable actual, now he would again see it brought to nothing. It was just a bit of folly, after all, but Abraham did not laugh at it as Sarah had when the promise was proclaimed.9 Everything was for nothing! Seventy years’ faithful expectation, the short joy of faith’s fulfillment: who is the one, then, who tears the staff from the old man, who is the one who demands that he must break it himself! Who is the one who makes a man’s gray hairs disconsolate, who is it that demands that he should do it himself! Is there no compassion for the vulnerable old man, none for the innocent child! And yet Abraham was God’s chosen one, and this was the Lord who imposed the trial. Everything should now be lost! The glorious remembrance of posterity, the promise in Abraham’s seed—it was only a whim, a fleeting thought that the Lord had had, which Abraham should now wipe out. That glorious treasure, which was just as old as the faith in Abraham’s heart, many, many years older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham’s life, sanctified by prayers, matured in struggle—the blessing on Abraham’s lips—this fruit should now be torn away too soon out of time and be without meaning; for what meaning did it have when Isaac should be sacrificed! That melancholy, but still blessed, hour when Abraham should bid farewell to everything that he had cherished when still one more time he should lift up his vulnerable head, when his face should shine like the Lord’s, when he should gather his whole soul in a blessing that was mighty enough to make Isaac blessed all his days—this hour should not come! For Abraham would certainly take leave of Isaac, but in such a way that he himself should be left behind; death would separate them but in such a way that Isaac was his prey. The old man would not, cheerful in death, lay his hand on Isaac in blessing, but, weary of life, lay hands on Isaac in violence. And this was God who tested him. Yes, woe! Woe to the messenger who brought such news to Abraham! Who would have dared to be the emissary of this sorrow? But it was God who tested Abraham. Yet Abraham believed, and he believed for this life. Yes, if his faith had been only for the one to come, then he would have surely more easily thrown everything away, so as to hasten out of this world to which he did not belong. But Abraham’s faith was not of such a kind; for this is not really faith, but the furthest, most distant, most remote possibility of faith, which spies its object on the outermost horizon, yet is separated from it by a yawning abyss in which despair plays its tricks. But Abraham believed precisely for this life that he should grow old in the land, honored among the people, blessed by posterity, remembered forever in Isaac, his most cherished in life, whom he embraced with a love for which it is only a poor expression to say that he faithfully fulfilled the father’s duty to love the son, as, of course, is heard in the summons, “the son whom you love.” Jacob had twelve sons and one he loved,10 Abraham had only one, whom he loved. But Abraham believed and did not doubt, he believed the unreasonable. If Abraham had doubted—then he should have done something else, something great  and glorious; for how could Abraham do other than what is great and glorious! He would have marched out to Mount Moriah, he would have cut the wood, lit the fire, drawn the knife—he would have called out to God: “Refuse not this sacrifice, it is not the best I possess, I know this well; for what is an old man compared with the promised child? But it is the best I can give you. Let Isaac never come to know, so that he may console himself with his youth.” He would have thrust the knife in his own breast. He would have been admired in the world and his name would not have been forgotten; but it is one thing to be admired, and another to be a guiding star that saves the anguished. But Abraham believed. He did not pray for himself that he might move the Lord; it was only when righteous punishment fell upon Sodom and Gomorrah that Abraham stepped forward with his prayers.11 We read in the Holy Scriptures: “And God tested Abraham, and said: ‘Abraham, Abraham, where are you,’ but Abraham said, ‘Here am I.’” You, to whom my address is directed, was the case thus with you? When you saw, a long way off, the difficult adversities approaching did you not say then to the mountains, Hide me, and to the hills, Fall on me?12 Or were you stronger, yet did your feet nevertheless not move slowly along the way, did they not long, so to speak, to return to the old trails? When, at that place, you were called, did you answer then, or did you not perhaps answer softly and whispering? Not so with Abraham; cheerfully, freely, confidently, loudly he answered: Here am I. We read further: “And Abraham arose early in the morning.” As if it were a celebration, he hurried, and early in the morning he arrived at the arranged place on Mount Moriah. He said nothing to Sarah, nothing to Eliezer—who, after all, could understand him? Had not the nature of the temptation extracted a vow of silence from him? “He cut the wood, he bound Isaac, he lit the fire, he drew the knife.”13 My listener! There was many a father who believed that to lose his child, who was the dearest object in the world to him, was to be deprived of every hope for the future; but yet there was surely no one who, in this sense, was the child of the promise in the manner Isaac was this for Abraham. There was many a father who lost his child, but in such a way that it was God, after all, the Almighty, unchangeable and unsearchable will, whose hand took it. Not so with Abraham. For him a harder test had been prepared, and Isaac’s fate, with the knife, had been laid in Abraham’s hand. And he stood there, the old man with his only hope! But he did not doubt, he looked neither to the right nor to the left in anxiety, he did not challenge Heaven with his prayers. He knew it was God the Almighty who tested him, he knew it was the hardest sacrifice that could be required of him; but he knew also that no sacrifice was too hard when God required it—and he drew the knife. Who strengthened Abraham’s arm, who held his right arm aloft so that it did not impotently sink down? The one who gazes upon this scene is paralyzed. Who strengthened Abraham’s soul lest his eye be so darkened that he should see neither Isaac nor the ram! The one who gazes upon this scene becomes blind.—And yet it perhaps rarely happens that someone is made lame or blind, and still more rarely does someone worthily tell what happened. We know it all—it was only a trial. If Abraham, when he stood upon Mount Moriah, had doubted, if he had haltingly looked about him, if he, before he drew the knife, by chance had spotted the ram, if God had allowed him to sacrifice this instead of Isaac—then he would have gone home, everything would have been the same, he would have had Sarah, would have kept Isaac—yet how changed! For his return would have been a flight, his rescue a coincidence, his reward shame, his future perhaps perdition. Then he would have known neither his own faith nor God’s favor, but would have known how frightful it is to march up to Mount Moriah. Then Abraham would not be forgotten, nor indeed Mount Moriah. This would not be mentioned in the way Mount Ararat is,14 where the Ark landed, but be mentioned as a terror, because it was here that Abraham doubted.

 Venerable father Abraham! When you went home from Mount Moriah, you needed no tribute that could comfort you for what you had lost; for you, after all, won everything and kept Isaac, was it not so? The Lord took him no more from you, but you sat down happily with him to dine in your tent, as you do in the hereafter for all eternity. Venerable father Abraham! Millenia have passed since those days, but you need no late-coming lover to snatch your memory from the void of forgetfulness; for every tongue remembers you—and yet you reward your lover more gloriously than any, you make him blessed hereafter in your bosom, you have captured his eye and his heart by the marvelousness of your deed. Venerable father Abraham! Second father of the human race! You, who first perceived and bore witness to that gigantic passion, which turns down the terrifying struggle with the raging elements and the forces of creation in order to strive with God instead; you, who first knew this supreme passion, the holy, pure, humble expression for the divine madness that was admired by the pagans15—forgive the one who wished to speak your praise if he has not done it rightly. He spoke humbly, as it was his heart’s wish, he spoke briefly, as it was seemly, but he shall never forget that you had to draw the knife before you kept Isaac, he shall not forget that in 130 years you did not go further than faith.