On Kierkegaard--Life Despite Death, Faith Despite Uncertainty

We as humans can rationalize anything. We have the special and inherent ability, in any situation, to effortlessly justify our actions and convince ourselves that we made the right decision, despite the overwhelming evidence stacked against us, despite the lie detector hooked to our arms and despite the possibility of an ever watchful and ubiquitous God. We can, in good conscious, rest our hands on the bible and solemnly swear to tell our truths, regardless of whether or not these truths actually exist or manifest in reality or follow the laws of logic. My alcoholic friends justify drinking all winter long as a means to keep warm, my good friend’s crack-addicted mother remedied the dirty dishes piling to overwhelming heights in the sink by breaking every last piece of her china on the kitchen floor. Believers just as easily justify death: “She’s in a better place now,” they say, looking up towards the heavens knowingly.

Last month, I attended a funeral. I cried. Everyone did. And it felt so incredibly human. But why did we weep? Did we cry because we knew we would miss our loved individual, or did we cry because that death was just another reminder of our own transience, because there is a possibility that there is not a life beyond this one, and in that moment, we were truly terrified? Is this fear of our own mortality the reason why we try to invent purpose in our lives? Is this fear of an eminent and eventual death the reason why so many of us search for something outside of ourselves for some sort of implicit meaning? Perhaps this is why Kierkegaard wanted us to re-examine the story of Abraham, not simply because believers were attempting to understand his truly alienated experience—casually, aloofly and recklessly embracing the ineffable that was his ethical struggle, and chalking it up as simply a testament of his faith—but to remind us that we should be invested in this lifetime, and not the possibility of the next. Kierkegaard not only reveals the daunting steps one must take to achieve his idea of true faith—the commitment, the disappointment, the resignation, and finally the leap—but he also unearths what lies at the core of faith: passion.

It “…is a marvel,” Kierkegaard explains, “and yet no human being is excluded from it; for that in which all human life is united is passion” (Kierkegaard 95). Having passions and faith in these passions is vital, Kierkegaard argues, because they are the fuels that feed our wills to live. As humans, we are designed to seek out meaning. There is an inherent need within us all to have a purpose. Our passions and our faith in these passions are our purpose. These passions are not assigned to us. You will not find them in any library or archive, and there are no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, breadcrumb trails or wishing wells to guide us to them. Our passions and our faith come from within us, and Kierkegaard underscores that we must embrace and live these passions with every fiber of our beings, despite how irrational they are, despite the likelihood of their manifestations, and despite the status quo, because they are what keep us alive and grounded to this lifetime. And just as Abraham’s dilemma was his alone to fathom, our passions and the nurturing of our own narratives are ours and ours alone to compse.

I remember towards the end of the funeral, the woman leading the service concluded with this piece of advice: “We should not ask questions of “why”, but how can we move on and continue to live despite death?” I believe Kierkegaard would endorse this sentiment steadfastly and wholeheartedly, because he says it is essential that we be invested in this lifetime, because the future is uncertain and we should cherish and revel in what we have today.