Thoughts, Analysis, and Interpretation of Kierkegaard
There are ideas that fascinate precisely because they are dangerous. Fear and Trembling by Søren Kierkegaard is certainly one of them. His Abraham is no figure for comfortable religiosity, but a disturbance: a man willing to do the morally unthinkable—and, for that very reason, celebrated as the embodiment of faith. Take that seriously, and you quickly arrive at an uncomfortable question: when someone claims to follow a “higher command,” how do we tell whether it is faith—or simply a very bad argument?
Kierkegaard’s answer is as radical as it is impractical. Using Abraham as his example, he develops the idea that genuine faith begins where ethics and reason end. The individual enters into an absolute relationship with God that can neither be explained nor justified. The famous “teleological suspension of the ethical” means nothing less than this: that general moral rules may, in extreme cases, be set aside—not because they are false, but because something higher overrides them. Abraham knows he is doing something morally outrageous. He does not act with a clear conscience, but within a paradox. That, for Kierkegaard, is precisely what makes him a “knight of faith.”
So far, the theory. And taken in isolation, it is philosophically compelling. It exposes the illusion that everything can be morally justified and rationally secured. It forces us to confront the boundary between knowledge and belief. But this insight comes with a catch: it works beautifully in thought—and rather poorly in the world.
Because the moment we turn our gaze away from Abraham and toward real violence, things become uncomfortably concrete. Modern perpetrators—whether politically radicalized or ideologically driven—regularly invoke “higher truths.” Groups such as the National Socialist Underground or individuals like Anders Behring Breivik present their actions not as mere impulses, but as necessary, justified, even morally required. The difference from Abraham? At first glance, smaller than one might hope: here too, subjective certainty; here too, a break with established norms.
And this is where it becomes clear whether one has understood Kierkegaard—or is misusing him. The apparent parallel collapses upon closer inspection. Kierkegaard’s Abraham does not act in the name of an ideology, not in the service of a program, not with the aim of persuading or mobilizing others. He stands alone. His action is not communicable, not propagable, not generalizable. In the strictest sense, it is useless for any political agenda. Anyone who tries to derive a justification from it has already skipped the crucial step: recognizing its non-transferability.
Extremist violence works in exactly the opposite way. It is loud, explanatory, justificatory. It operates with enemy images, collective identities, and alleged necessities. It seeks publicity and effect. And above all: it seeks approval. The perpetrator does not step out of the world into an incomprehensible relationship with God, but tries to convince the world that it ought to follow him. That is not paradox. It is propaganda.
At this point, a second level becomes visible—less philosophical in tone, but no less decisive: the logic of justification. In extremist discourse, the same patterns appear again and again. First, relativization: others are violent too. Second, whataboutism: attention is redirected to entirely different cases in order to deflect from one’s own. Third, hypothetical scenarios: what if one had no choice? Fourth, self-victimization: one was forced to act. All of these strategies serve a function—they shift responsibility. A deed becomes a supposed necessity; a perpetrator becomes an alleged victim of circumstances.
Kierkegaard’s Abraham is singularly unsuited for this. He cannot shift anything. He cannot explain himself. He cannot excuse himself. That is precisely why he is philosophically interesting—and practically useless. Anyone who nonetheless invokes him as a model or an argument is not doing philosophy, but practicing a particularly elegant form of evasion.
This is where critics such as Friedrich Nietzsche and Sigmund Freud enter the scene. Nietzsche would likely read the “divine command” as a projection—an expression of human needs for meaning, order, or power. Freud would go further and interpret it as the externalization of inner conflicts. Both perspectives expose a vulnerable point in Kierkegaard: if the standard is located entirely within the subject, there is no criterion for distinguishing faith from self-deception. Or, less politely put: who guarantees that the “leap of faith” is not simply a leap into one’s own wishful thinking?
The conclusion is uncomfortable, but unavoidable. Kierkegaard shows that faith cannot be rationally verified. Nietzsche and Freud show that precisely this lack of verifiability is a problem. Taken together, they produce a tension that cannot be resolved: radical faith may be philosophically conceivable, but it is socially unsustainable.
That is why modern societies draw a line where Kierkegaard deliberately leaves one open. They insist on verifiable norms, on legal accountability, on universal standards such as human rights. Subjective conviction—whether religious or ideological—is not sufficient to justify violence. And this is not a limitation of freedom, but its precondition. Without shared standards, what remains is simply the rule of the stronger—or, more politely put, the loudest “I am right.”
In the end, Abraham remains what Kierkegaard intended him to be: a limit case. He marks the point at which thought begins to falter. But for that very reason, he cannot serve as an argument for anything beyond that limit. Anyone who invokes him to justify real violence confuses analysis with instruction—and philosophy with excuse.
Or, more pointedly:
Abraham is not a role model. He is a warning.
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