“LOOK AT THE BIRDS OF THE AIR; THEY NEITHER SOW NOR REAP NOR GATHER INTO BARNS”—UNCONCERNED ABOUT TOMORROW. “CONSIDER THE GRASS OF THE FIELD—WHICH TODAY IS.”
DO THIS and learn:
joy.
So let us then consider the lily and the bird, these joyful teachers. “The joyful teachers,” indeed, because you know that joy is communicative, and therefore no one teaches joy better than a person who is joyful himself. The teacher of joy really has nothing other to do than to be joyful himself, or to be joy. However much he strains to communicate joy—if he himself is not joyful, the instruction is imperfect. Thus, nothing is easier to teach than joy—alas, one needs only to be truly joyful oneself. But alas, this “alas” means that this is in fact not so easy—that is, it is not so easy always to be joyful oneself, for it is easy enough to teach joy when one is joyful: nothing is more certain than that.
But out there with the lily and the bird, or out there where the lily and the bird teach joy, there is always joy. And the lily and the bird never find themselves in an embarrassing position as sometimes happens to a human teacher when he has written his teaching notes on a sheet of paper or has them among his books, in short, somewhere else and not always with him; no, there, where the lily and the bird teach joy, there is always joy—it is, after all, within the lily and the bird. What joy, when day is dawning and the bird awakens early to the joy of the day; what joy, even though in another key, when the dusk is falling and the bird hastens home to its nest; and what joy, the long summer day! What joy, when the bird—not merely like a joyful worker who sings at his work, but whose essential work is singing—joyfully begins his song. What new joy, when his neighbor, too, begins, and then the neighbor across the way, and when the whole chorus joins in, what joy. And when, finally, it is like a sea of sound that makes the forest, the valley, the sky, and the earth resound, a sea of sound in which the bird that sounded the opening note now frolics with joy: what joy, what joy! And so it is throughout the bird’s entire life: everywhere and always it finds something—or, better, it finds enough—in which to take joy. It does not waste a single moment, but it would view as wasted every moment in which it was not joyful.—What joy, when the dew falls and refreshes the lily, which has now cooled off and prepares to rest; what joy, when after its bath the lily sensually dries itself in the first ray of sunlight; and what joy, the long summer day! Ah, just consider them. Consider the lily; consider the bird; and look at them together! What joy, when the bird hides behind the lily, where it has its nest and where it is so indescribably cozy, while it passes the time in jesting and bantering with the lily! What joy when high up from the branch, or higher up, all the way up in the cloud, the bird blissfully keeps its eye on its nest and on the lily which smilingly turns its eye up toward it! Blissful, happy existence, so rich in joys! 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 fulfilled, we perhaps would not become unconditionally joyful anyway. But, you profound teachers of joy, is it not true that it indeed cannot be otherwise, because with the help of conditions—even of all the conditions—it is of course impossible to become more or other than conditionally joyful; indeed, the conditions and that which is subject to conditions correspond to one another. No, only the person who is joy itself becomes unconditionally joyful, and only by becoming unconditionally joyful does one become joy itself.
But could one not indicate quite briefly how joy is the content of the lily’s and the bird’s instruction, or what is the content of this instruction of theirs in joy—that is, could one not indicate quite briefly the thought categories of this instruction of theirs? Yes, that can be easily done, for however simple the lily and the bird are, they are not thoughtless. So it can be easily done; and in this connection let us not forget that we already have an extraordinary shortcut: the lily and the bird are themselves what they teach; they themselves express the subject in which they give instruction as teachers. This is different from the straightforward and primal originality, that in the strictest sense the lily and the bird possess firsthand that which they teach—it is acquired originality. And of course this acquired originality in the lily and the bird is in turn simplicity, for whether instruction is simple does not depend so much on the use of simple, everyday expressions or high-flown, learned language—no, simplicity is that the teacher himself is what he teaches. And so it is in the case of the lily and the bird. But their instruction in joy, which is in turn expressed by their lives, is quite briefly as follows: There is a today; it is. Indeed, an infinite emphasis is placed upon this is. There is a today—and there is no worry, absolutely none, about tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. This is not foolishness on the part of the lily and bird, but is the joy of silence and obedience. For when you keep silent in the solemn silence of nature, then tomorrow does not exist, and when you obey as a creature obeys, then there exists no tomorrow, that unfortunate day that is the invention of garrulousness and disobedience. But when, owing to silence and obedience, tomorrow does not exist, then, in the silence and obedience, today is, it is—and then the joy is, as it is in the lily and the bird.
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 infinitely 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.
“But,” you say, “the lily and the bird, of course they can.” Reply: You must not come with any “But”—but learn from the lily and the bird to be entirely present to yourself in being today, as they are; then you, too, are joy. But, as has been said, no “But,” for this is in earnest: You shall learn joy from the lily and the bird. Even less may you become self-important—in view of the fact that the lily and the bird, after all, are simple—so that you (perhaps in order to feel that you are a human being) become clever, and speaking with reference to some particular tomorrow, say: “The lily and the bird, of course they can—they who do not even have a tomorrow by which to be plagued, but a human being, who of course not only has worries about tomorrow, about what he is to eat, but also about yesterday, about what he has eaten—and not paid for!” No, no witticism that impudently disturbs the instruction. But learn, at least begin to learn, from the lily and the bird. For of course no one can seriously believe that what the lily and bird rejoice over, and similar things—are nothing to rejoice over! Thus, that you came into existence, that you exist, that “today” you receive the necessities of existence, that you came into existence, that you became a human being, that you can see—consider this: that you can see, that you can hear, that you have a sense of smell, that you have a sense of taste, that you can feel; that the sun shines for you and for your sake, that when it becomes weary, the moon begins to shine and the stars are lit; that it becomes winter, that all of nature disguises itself, pretends to be a stranger—and does so in order to delight you; that spring comes, that birds come in large flocks—and do so in order to bring you joy; that green plants spring forth, that the forest grows into beauty, has its nuptials—and does so in order to bring you joy; that autumn comes, that the birds fly away, not to make themselves precious and hard to get, oh, no, but so that you will not become bored with them; that the forest puts away its finery for the sake of the next time, that is, so it can give you joy the next time: Is this supposed to be nothing to rejoice over! Oh, if I dared to scold—but out of respect for the lily and the bird, I dare not—and therefore, instead of saying that there is nothing to rejoice over, I will say: If this is nothing to rejoice over, then there is nothing over which to rejoice. Consider that the lily and the bird are joy, and yet, understood in this manner, they of course have much less to rejoice over than you do—you, who of course also have the lily and the bird over which to rejoice. Therefore, learn from the lily and learn from the bird, who are the teachers: who exist, who are today, and who are joy. If you cannot look with joy upon the lily and the bird, who of course are joy itself, if you cannot look upon them with joy so that you become willing to learn from them: then your case is like that of the child of whom the teacher says: “It is not lack of ability—furthermore, the material is so easy that there can be no question of lack of ability—it must be something else, though perhaps only an indisposition, which one must not be overhasty in judging too strictly, treating it as unwillingness or, indeed, as rebelliousness.”
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! A star, however firmly it is fixed in the heavens—indeed, the one most firmly fixed—shall nevertheless change its place in the fall, and the one that never changed its position shall nevertheless one day change its position when it plunges into the abyss. And the whole of this world, with everything that is in it, shall be changed as one changes a garment when it is discarded, the prey of perishability! And even if it escapes the fate of being immediately cast into the oven, the lily must nevertheless wither after having already suffered one thing and another. And even if it were permitted to die of old age, at some point the bird must nevertheless die, separated from its beloved, after having already suffered one thing and another. Oh, it is all perishability, and everything will at some point become what it is, the prey of perishability. Perishability, perishability, that is the sigh—for to be subjected to perishability is to be what a sigh signifies: confinement, incarceration in prison; and the content of the sigh is: perishability, perishability!
Yet the lily and the bird are unconditionally joyful; and here you can properly see how true it is when the gospel says: “You shall learn joy from the lily and the bird.” For of course you cannot require any better teacher than the one who, despite the fact that he bears so infinitely deep a sorrow, is nonetheless unconditionally joyful and is joy itself.
How, then, do the lily and the bird manage this, which almost looks like a miracle: in deepest sorrow to be unconditionally joyful; when it is so frightful tomorrow, then to be, that is, to be unconditionally joyful today—how do they manage it? They manage it quite plainly and simply—as the lily and the bird always do—and yet they get rid of this tomorrow as if it did not exist. There is a saying by the apostle Paul that the lily and the bird have taken to heart and, simple as they are, they take it quite literally—ah, and precisely this, taking it quite literally, is what helps them. 1 These words have enormous power when they are taken quite literally; when they are not taken literally, exactly according to the letter, they are more or less powerless, finally merely a meaningless figure of speech; but unconditional simplicity is required in order to take them unconditionally altogether literally. “Cast all your care or sorrow upon God.” See, the lily and the bird do this unconditionally. With the help of unconditional silence and unconditional obedience, they cast—indeed, as the most powerful catapult casts something away from itself, and with a passion like that with which a person casts away what he most detests—all their sorrow away and cast it—with a sureness like that with which the most reliable of guns hits its mark, and with a faith and confidence like that one encounters only in the most practiced marksman—upon God. At that very instant—and this very instant is from the first moment, is today, is contemporaneous with the first moment it exists—at that very instant it is unconditionally joyful. Marvelous dexterity! To be able to take hold of all one’s sorrow at once, and then to be able to cast it away from oneself so dexterously and hit the mark with such certainty! Yet this is what the lily and the bird do, and therefore they are unconditionally joyful at that very instant. And of course this is entirely in order, for God the Almighty bears the whole world and all the world’s sorrow—including the lily’s and the bird’s—with infinite lightness. What indescribable joy! Joy, namely, over God the Almighty.
So learn, then, from the lily and the bird, learn this, the dexterity of the unconditioned. True enough, it is a marvelous feat, but that is precisely the reason why you must pay attention all the more closely to the lily and the bird. It is a marvelous feat and, like “the feat of meekness,” it contains a contradiction, or it is a feat that resolves a contradiction. The word “cast” leads one to think of the use of force, as if one ought to gather all one’s strength and with an enormous exercise of strength—forcibly “cast” the sorrow away—and yet, yet “force” is precisely what is not to be used. What is to be used, and used unconditionally, is “compliance”—and yet one is to “cast” sorrow away! And one is to cast “all” sorrow away; if one does not cast all sorrow away, then one of course retains much of it, some of it, a little of it—one does not become joyful; even less does one become unconditionally joyful. And if one does not cast it unconditionally upon God but somewhere else, then one is not unconditionally rid of it; then, one way or another, it comes back again, most often in the form of an even greater and more bitter sorrow. For to cast sorrow away, but not upon God, is “distraction.” But distraction is a dubious and ambivalent remedy for sorrow. On the other hand, unconditionally to cast all sorrow upon God is “collectedness,” and yet—yes, amazingly, this is the feat performed by this contradiction!—a collectedness through which you unconditionally get rid of all sorrow.
Learn, then, from the lily and the bird. Cast all your sorrow upon God! But you shall not cast away joy; on the contrary, you shall hold fast to it with all your might and all your vital strength. If you do this, then the reckoning is easily done: you will always retain some joy. For if you cast away all sorrow, you of course retain only whatever joy you have. Yet this will avail but little. Learn, therefore, from the lily and the bird. Cast all your sorrow upon God, entirely, unconditionally, as the lily and the bird do: then you will become unconditionally joyful like the lily and the bird. It is, namely, unconditional joy to worship the omnipotence with which God the Almighty bears all your sorrow as lightly as nothing. And the next thing (which the apostle indeed adds) is also unconditional joy: in worshipping, to dare to believe “that God cares for you.” Unconditional joy is precisely joy over God, over whom and in whom you can always unconditionally rejoice. If you do not become unconditionally joyful in this situation, the fault lies unconditionally in you, in your clumsiness in casting all your sorrow upon him, in your unwillingness to do so, in your conceitedness, in your stubbornness—in short, it lies in your not being like the lily and the bird. There is only one sorrow with respect to which the lily and the bird cannot be the teacher, a sorrow of which we therefore will not speak here: the sorrow of sin. With respect to all other sorrows, it is the case that if you do not become unconditionally joyful, the fault is yours for not wanting to learn from the lily and the bird to become unconditionally joyful over God through unconditional silence and obedience.
Yet one more thing. Perhaps, with “the poet,” you say: “Yes, if one could build and live alongside the bird, concealed in the solitude of the forest, where the bird and its mate are a pair, but where there otherwise is no society; or if one could live together with the lily in the peace of the field, where every lily looks after itself and where there is no society: then one could certainly cast all one’s sorrow upon God and be or become unconditionally joyful. For ‘society,’ society itself, causes the problem that the human being is the only being that plagues itself and others with the ill-starred delusion about society and the bliss of society, and all the more so as society—to his and society’s own depravity—becomes greater.” You must not speak like this, however; no, consider the matter more closely and admit, to your shame, that despite the sorrow, there is actually an inexpressible joy of love with which the birds, male and female, are a pair, and that despite the sorrow, there is in the single state a self-contented joy with which the lily is solitary: that actually it is this joy that keeps them from being disturbed by society; for after all, society is there. Consider the situation still more closely and admit, to your shame, that indeed it is actually the unconditional silence and the unconditional obedience with which the bird and the lily are unconditionally joyful over God—that this is actually what makes the lily and the bird just as joyful, and just as unconditionally joyful, in solitude as in society. So learn, then, from the lily and the bird.
And if you could learn to be entirely like the lily and the bird: ah, and if I could learn it, then the prayer would also be truth in you as in me, the last prayer in “The Prayer,” which (as an example for all true prayer, which of course prays itself joyful and more joyful and unconditionally joyful) in the end has nothing, nothing more to pray for or to desire, but, unconditionally joyful, ends in praise and worship, the prayer: “Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory.” Yes, his is the kingdom, and therefore you must unconditionally keep silent lest you direct disturbing attention at the fact of your existence—but through the solemnity of unconditional silence express that the kingdom is his. And his is the power, and therefore you must unconditionally obey and be unconditionally obedient in submitting to everything, for his is the power. And his is the glory, and therefore in everything you do and everything you suffer you have unconditionally one more thing to do, to give him the glory, for the glory is his.
Oh, unconditional joy: his is the kingdom and the power and the glory—forever. “Forever”—behold, this day, the day of eternity, it indeed never comes to an end. Therefore, only hold unconditionally fast to this: that his is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever; then there is for you a “today” that never ends, a today in which you can eternally remain present to yourself. Then let the heavens fall and the stars change their places in the overturning of everything, let the bird die and the lily wither: this very day your joy in worship, and you in your joy, will nevertheless survive every destruction. 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 insignificant 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. For if you abide in God, then whether you live or die, whether things go well or badly for you while you are alive; whether you die today or only after seventy years; and whether you find your death at the bottom of the sea, at its greatest depth, or you are exploded in the air: you still do not come to be outside of God, you abide—thus you remain present to yourself in God and therefore on the day of your death you are in paradise this very day. The bird and the lily live only one day, and a very short day, and yet are joy because, as has been shown, they genuinely are today, are present to themselves in this “today.” And you, to whom the longest day is granted: to live today—and this very day to be in paradise—should you not be unconditionally joyful, you who even should, since indeed you could, far, far surpass the bird in joy? This is something you are assured of every time you pray this prayer, and something to which you also draw near every time you fervently pray this prayer of joy: “Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory—forever, Amen.”
1 Kierkegaard subsequently realized that his reference here to “the apostle Paul” was erroneous. In journal entry NB11:168, from the early summer of 1849, Kierkegaard wrote, “It is rather odd that in the Three Godly Discourses, I ascribed Peter’s ‘cast all you sorrows on God’ to Paul” (Bruce H. Kirmmse et al., eds. and trans., Kierkegaard’s Journals and Notebooks [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012], vol. 6, p. 95). See 1 Pet 5:7.