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jwang194's review
5.0
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?"
"Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them."
kierkegaard leverages these well-worn passages from the sermon on the mount to create a rich commentary on paul's command in 1 corinthians:
"So, brothers, in whatever condition each was called, there let him remain with God."
i feel that i finally understand both the weight and the value of this command, as kierkegaard ties it to a strangely buddhist approach to the christian life. by fully exploring every detail of the lily's and bird's lives and by granting these silent worshippers of God a quiet yet expressive voice, kierkegaaard shows us how three practices of silence, obedience, and joy can lead us to our correct place before God.
there are also some really sharp analogies here that are worth serious consideration, as they shed light on crucial commands like "seek first God's kingdom and righteousness" (i always wondered why it was seek FIRST rather than simply seek ONLY). got kinda tired of the lengthy, wandering sentences by the end, but altogether very worth a read.
"Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them."
kierkegaard leverages these well-worn passages from the sermon on the mount to create a rich commentary on paul's command in 1 corinthians:
"So, brothers, in whatever condition each was called, there let him remain with God."
i feel that i finally understand both the weight and the value of this command, as kierkegaard ties it to a strangely buddhist approach to the christian life. by fully exploring every detail of the lily's and bird's lives and by granting these silent worshippers of God a quiet yet expressive voice, kierkegaaard shows us how three practices of silence, obedience, and joy can lead us to our correct place before God.
there are also some really sharp analogies here that are worth serious consideration, as they shed light on crucial commands like "seek first God's kingdom and righteousness" (i always wondered why it was seek FIRST rather than simply seek ONLY). got kinda tired of the lengthy, wandering sentences by the end, but altogether very worth a read.
quincyvroach's review
5.0
I could go on and on, but the perspective of silence before God is amazing -- such a soft outlook considering it's Kierkegaard.
djoshuva's review
5.0
But what does it mean, what is it that I must do, what sort of sort 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.
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.
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.
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 even if what you want to accomplish in the world were the most amazing feat: you shall acknowledge the lily and the bird as your teachers and before God you are not to become more important to yourself than the lily and the bird. And even if the entire world were not large enough to contain all your plans when you unfold them, with the lily and the bird as teachers, you shall learn before God to be able simply to fold all your plans together into something that occupies less space than a point, and makes less noise than the most insignicant trifle: in silence.
But there is one thing that all Satan’s cunning and all the snares of temptation cannot take by surprise or take captive: it is simplicity. That for which Satan keeps a sharp-eyed lookout as his prey (but that is never found in the lily and the bird), that at which all temptation aims, certain of its prey (but that is never found in the lily and the bird)—is ambivalence. Where there is ambivalence, there temptation is, and it is only altogether too easily the stronger there. But where ambivalence is, in one way or another, deep down there is also disobedience.
Or is the joy perhaps lesser because, narrowly understood, it takes so little to give them such joy? No, this narrow-minded understanding is indeed surely a misunderstanding, alas, an extremely deplorable and lamentable misunderstanding; for the very fact that what gives them such joy is so little is proof that they themselves are joy and joy itself. But is this truly so? If what one rejoiced over was nothing at all, and yet one truly was indescribably joyful, this would be the best proof that one is oneself joy and joy itself—as are the lily and the bird, the joyful teachers of joy, who, precisely because they are unconditionally joyful, are joy itself. For example, the person whose joy is dependent upon certain conditions is not himself joy; his joy, after all, is that of the conditions and is conditional upon them. But a person who is joy itself is unconditionally joyful, just as, conversely, the person who is unconditionally joyful is joy itself. Oh, the conditions for becoming joyful cause us human beings much trouble and concern—even if all the conditions were fullled, we perhaps would not become unconditionally joyful anyway.
What is joy, or what is it to be joyful? It is truly to be present to oneself; but truly to be present to oneself is this “today,” this to be today, truly to be today. And the truer it is that you are today, the more you are entirely present to yourself in being today, the less does tomorrow, the day of misfortune, exist for you. Joy is the present time, with the entire emphasis falling on the present time. Therefore God is blessed, he who eternally says: “Today,” he who is eternally and innitely present to himself in being today. And therefore the lily and the bird are joy, because by silence and unconditional obedience they are entirely present to themselves in being today.
Thus the lily and the bird are teachers of joy. And yet the lily and the bird of course also have cares or sorrows as all of nature has sorrows. Does not all of creation sigh under the perishability to which it has been subjected against its will? It is all subjected to perishability!
Consider what concerns you, if not as a human being, then as a Christian: that from a Christian standpoint even the danger of death is so insignicant to you that it is said: “this very day you are in paradise.” And thus the transition from time to eternity—the greatest possible distance—is so swift that even if it were to take place through the destruction of everything, you are in paradise this very day, because from a Christian standpoint, you abide in God.
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.
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.
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 even if what you want to accomplish in the world were the most amazing feat: you shall acknowledge the lily and the bird as your teachers and before God you are not to become more important to yourself than the lily and the bird. And even if the entire world were not large enough to contain all your plans when you unfold them, with the lily and the bird as teachers, you shall learn before God to be able simply to fold all your plans together into something that occupies less space than a point, and makes less noise than the most insignicant trifle: in silence.
But there is one thing that all Satan’s cunning and all the snares of temptation cannot take by surprise or take captive: it is simplicity. That for which Satan keeps a sharp-eyed lookout as his prey (but that is never found in the lily and the bird), that at which all temptation aims, certain of its prey (but that is never found in the lily and the bird)—is ambivalence. Where there is ambivalence, there temptation is, and it is only altogether too easily the stronger there. But where ambivalence is, in one way or another, deep down there is also disobedience.
Or is the joy perhaps lesser because, narrowly understood, it takes so little to give them such joy? No, this narrow-minded understanding is indeed surely a misunderstanding, alas, an extremely deplorable and lamentable misunderstanding; for the very fact that what gives them such joy is so little is proof that they themselves are joy and joy itself. But is this truly so? If what one rejoiced over was nothing at all, and yet one truly was indescribably joyful, this would be the best proof that one is oneself joy and joy itself—as are the lily and the bird, the joyful teachers of joy, who, precisely because they are unconditionally joyful, are joy itself. For example, the person whose joy is dependent upon certain conditions is not himself joy; his joy, after all, is that of the conditions and is conditional upon them. But a person who is joy itself is unconditionally joyful, just as, conversely, the person who is unconditionally joyful is joy itself. Oh, the conditions for becoming joyful cause us human beings much trouble and concern—even if all the conditions were fullled, we perhaps would not become unconditionally joyful anyway.
What is joy, or what is it to be joyful? It is truly to be present to oneself; but truly to be present to oneself is this “today,” this to be today, truly to be today. And the truer it is that you are today, the more you are entirely present to yourself in being today, the less does tomorrow, the day of misfortune, exist for you. Joy is the present time, with the entire emphasis falling on the present time. Therefore God is blessed, he who eternally says: “Today,” he who is eternally and innitely present to himself in being today. And therefore the lily and the bird are joy, because by silence and unconditional obedience they are entirely present to themselves in being today.
Thus the lily and the bird are teachers of joy. And yet the lily and the bird of course also have cares or sorrows as all of nature has sorrows. Does not all of creation sigh under the perishability to which it has been subjected against its will? It is all subjected to perishability!
Consider what concerns you, if not as a human being, then as a Christian: that from a Christian standpoint even the danger of death is so insignicant to you that it is said: “this very day you are in paradise.” And thus the transition from time to eternity—the greatest possible distance—is so swift that even if it were to take place through the destruction of everything, you are in paradise this very day, because from a Christian standpoint, you abide in God.
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