6. 1 Corinthians 8:1: “But Love Upbuilds”
Chapter Six
“But Love Upbuilds”
All human speech about the spiritual, even the divine speech of Holy Scripture, is essentially figurative speech. And this is quite in order or in the order of things and of existence, since the human being—even if he is spirit from the moment of birth—nevertheless does not become conscious of himself as spirit until later and, in this way, has previously lived out a certain part of his life in material-mental fashion. But this first part, then, is not to be cast away when the spirit awakens, just as little as the spirit’s awakening—as opposed to the material or the material-mental—announces itself in a material or a material-mental way. On the contrary, the first part is taken over by the spirit and, used in this way, provides a basis; it becomes the figurative [det Overførte].
Therefore, in a certain sense, the spiritual person and the material-mental person say the same thing. And yet, there is an infinite difference, since the latter does not intuit the mystery of figurative words, while he nevertheless uses the same words, albeit not figuratively. There is a world of difference between the two: the one has made the transition or let himself be carried over [føre over] to the other side, while the other remains on this side. But there is a connection between them—that both use the same words. The one in whom the spirit has awakened does not therefore forsake the visible world; although conscious of himself as spirit, he is still constantly in the sensible world and is himself visible to the senses. In this way, he also remains in the language, except that his language is the figurative kind. But, of course, figurative words are not brand-new words; they are, on the contrary, words that are already given. Just as the spirit is invisible, so is its language a secret as well, and the secret lies just in this—that it uses the same words as the child and as the simple one but uses them figuratively, by which the spirit refuses to be the material or the material-mental but does not refuse that in a material or a material-mental way. The difference is by no means a striking difference. Therefore we rightfully look on it as a sign of false spirituality to flaunt a striking difference—which is just materiality. In contrast, the spirit’s essence is the quiet, whispering secret of the figurative—for the one who has ears to hear.
One of the figurative expressions that Holy Scripture frequently uses figuratively is: to upbuild [at opbygge]. And it already is—yes, it is very upbuilding to see how Holy Scripture has not grown tired of this simple saying, how it does not brilliantly seek after variety and new expressions but, on the contrary, renews thinking in the same saying. This is the true nature of spirit. And it is—yes, it is very upbuilding to see how Scripture succeeds in signifying the highest with that simple saying and in the most profound way. It is almost like that miracle of the feeding with the limited supply, which, by the blessing, nevertheless stretched out amply and left an abundance. And it is—yes, it is upbuilding, if someone prospers by humbly being content with the word of Scripture, instead of being busy with making new discoveries that will busily supplant the old; by gratefully and profoundly assimilating what has been handed down by the fathers, in order to establish a new acquaintance with…the old acquaintance. As children, we all surely have often played the game of “Stranger.” In truth, just this is earnestness: spiritually understood, to be able to continue this upbuilding jest in earnestness, to play “Stranger” with the old acquaintance.
To upbuild is a figurative expression. But now, with this secret of the spirit in mind, we will see what this saying means in plain speech. “To upbuild” is formed from “to build” and the adverb “up,” on which the accent therefore must fall. Everyone who upbuilds does build, but not everyone who builds upbuilds. When, for instance, a man builds a wing on his house, then one does not say that he upbuilds a wing but that he builds on. This “up,” therefore, seems to indicate the direction in height, the direction upwards. Yet this is not the case either. If, for instance, a man raises a building that is sixty feet high even twenty feet higher, then we still do not say that he upbuilt the house twenty feet higher; we say that he built on. Here, already, the saying’s meaning begins to become remarkable. For it is seen that it is not the height that matters. If, on the other hand, a man constructed a house, even if quite low and small, from the ground up, then we say that he built up a house. To upbuild, therefore, is to construct something in stature from the ground up. This “up” certainly indicates the direction as upward, but only when, conversely, the height is also depth do we say “to upbuild.” From this it appears that, if a man builds up in height and from the ground, but the depth does not properly correspond to the height, then we surely say that he built up but also that he built up poorly, whereas by to “build poorly” we understand something different.
In this way, the emphasis in relation to upbuilding lies especially on this: to build from the ground up. Certainly we do not call building into the ground “to upbuild”; we do not say that we upbuild a well. Yet, if there is to be talk about upbuilding, then—no matter how high or how low the building becomes—the work must be from the ground up. Thus we could say about a person: “He began to build up a house, but he did not finish.” On the other hand, if it was not done from the ground up, we could never say about a person who added ever so much in height to the building: “He built up.” How strange! In the word “to upbuild,” this “up” indicates height, but it indicates height inverted as depth. For to upbuild is to build from the ground up.
For that reason, the Scripture also says that the foolish man “built without a foundation.” Yet, about the man who hears the word for true upbuilding or, in the words of Scripture, who hears the word and acts accordingly—about him it is said that he is like a person who built a house “and dug deep” (Luke 6:48). When, therefore, a rush of water came and the storm pounded on this securely built-up house, then we all rejoiced at the upbuilding sight that the storm could not rock it. Ah, as said, with respect to the upbuilding it especially depends on building into the ground. It is praiseworthy that, before he begins, a man mulls over “how high he can construct the tower,” but if he is to build up, then be sure to have him take care to dig deeply. For even if the tower reached up to the sky—if such a thing were possible—it would not really be built up if it lacked a foundation. To build up completely without a foundation is impossible, for it is building into the air.
That is why, in linguistic terms, one rightly says “to build castles in the sky.” One does not say “to build up castles in the sky,” which would be a careless and erroneous use of language. For even in the expression for something insignificant, there must be an agreement between the respective words. There is none between “in the sky” and “to build up,” since the former takes away the foundation and the latter refers to this “from the ground up.” The combination would, therefore, be a false exaggeration.
In this way, with the expression “to upbuild” in plain speech, we now call to mind that it is a figurative expression and then pass on to the object of this deliberation:
Love upbuilds.
Yet, spiritually understood, is “to upbuild” such a singular modifier of “love” that it simply and solely belongs to it? After all, it is normally the case with a modifier that many objects are given that equally—even if in varying degrees—have a right to one and the same modifier. If this is the case with “to upbuild,” then it would be wrong to accentuate it so particularly in relation to love as this deliberation does. It would indeed be an attempt based on a misunderstanding to attribute arrogance to love, as if it wanted to be alone or to arrogate to itself what it shared with others—and, after all, love is absolutely willing to share with others, since it “never seeks its own” (1 Cor 13:5). Still, it is truly the case that “to upbuild” is exclusively characteristic of love; yet, on the other hand, this upbuilding quality has, in turn, the characteristic that it can give itself up to everything, can take part in everything—just like love. In this way, one sees that, in this characteristic quality, love does not isolate itself, nor does it act spitefully in any independence and being-for-itself in line with another but gives itself entirely. The characteristic is just that it exclusively has the quality of giving itself entirely.
After all, there is nothing, nothing, that cannot be done or be said in such a way that it becomes upbuilding. Yet, whatever it is, if it is upbuilding, then love is there. Therefore, just where love itself admits the difficulty of giving a specific rule, the admonition goes, “Do everything for upbuilding.” It could just as well have gone, “Do everything in love,” and it would have expressed precisely the same thing. One person can do the very opposite of another person, but, if each one does the opposite…in love, then the opposite becomes upbuilding.
There is no word in language that, in and of itself, is upbuilding, and there is no word in language that, after all, cannot be said in an upbuilding way and become upbuilding when love is there. For that reason, it is so very far (alas, it is just an unloving and quarrelsome delusion) from being the case that the upbuilding ought to be something that is an excellence of gifted individuals—like knowledge and literary talent and beauty and other such things—that, on the contrary, exactly every human being by his life and course of life, by his conduct in daily life, by his dealings with regular people, by his words, by his expression, he ought to and could build up, and would do so if love were truly in him.
We ourselves notice this too, for we use the word “upbuilding” to the widest extent. But what we perhaps do not account for ourselves is that we still use it only wherever love is present. But this is the right use of language: to be adamant about not using this word except where love is present and in turn, by this limitation, to make its range limitless. For everything can be upbuilding in the same sense that love can be present everywhere.
Hence, when we see a single person get along frugally with little by praiseworthy modesty, then we honor and praise him. We rejoice, and we are confirmed in the good by this sight. But we do not actually say that it is an upbuilding sight. In contrast, when we see how a housewife, who has many to care for, lovingly knows how to place a blessing on little by modesty and wise thriftiness, so that enough still remains for everyone, then we say that it is an upbuilding sight. The upbuilding lies in the fact that—at the same time that we see modesty and thriftiness, which we honor—we see the housewife’s loving care. On the other hand, we say that it is not a very upbuilding sight, a sinister sight, to see the one who, in a way, is starving in abundance and who still has nothing at all left over for others. We say that it is an appalling sight; we are disgusted by his extravagance; we shudder at the thought of the frightful revenge of loving pleasure: to starve in abundance. But that we seek in vain for the least expression of love is decisive for us, because we say that this is not very upbuilding.
When we see a large family squeezed into a little apartment, and yet we see it inhabit a cozy, friendly, spacious apartment, then we say that it is an upbuilding sight, because we see the love that must be in each and every individual, since, after all, one unloving person would already be enough to occupy the whole place. We say that because we see that there actually is room where there is room in the heart. Or, on the other hand, it is not so very upbuilding to see a restless soul inhabit a palace without finding rest in a single one of its many rooms and yet without being able to afford or to be without the smallest cubbyhole.
Yes, what cannot be upbuilding in this way! One would not think that to see a person sleeping could be upbuilding. And yet, if you see a child sleep on its mother’s breast—and you see the mother’s love, see that she has, so to speak, waited on and now makes use of the moment, while the child is sleeping to really rejoice in it because she hardly dares to let the child notice how inexpressibly she loves it: then it is an upbuilding sight. If the mother’s love is not visible, if you seek in vain to discover the least expression of maternal love’s joy or care for the child in her eyes or countenance, if you only see apathy, indifference, which is happy to get rid of the child for so long: then the sight is not upbuilding either. Just to see the child sleeping is a friendly, pleasant, calming sight, but it is not upbuilding. If you want to call it upbuilding anyway, then it is because you still see love present; it is because you see God’s love hover over the child.
To see the great artist complete his masterpiece: that is a glorious, an uplifting sight, but it is not upbuilding. Suppose this masterpiece was a wonder. Now if, out of love for a person, the artist smashed it into pieces—then this would be an upbuilding sight.
Wherever the upbuilding is, love is. And wherever love is, the upbuilding is. That is why Paul says that a human being without love, even if he spoke with the tongue of men and of angels, is like a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. To be sure, what is even less upbuilding than a tinkling cymbal! Worldly things, however glorious and however vociferous, are without love and therefore not upbuilding; the most insignificant word, the slightest deed, with love or in love is upbuilding. Knowledge, then, puffs up. And yet, you see, knowledge and the communication of knowledge can be upbuilding as well. But, if they are, it is because love is there. To praise oneself hardly seems upbuilding, and yet this, after all, can be upbuilding too. Does not Paul do it at times? But he does it in love and therefore, as he himself says, “for upbuilding.” It would, then, be the most inexhaustible discourse of all discourses—the one about what is able to be upbuilding. For everything can be that. It would be the most inexhaustible discourse, alas, just as it is the most grievous lament that can be raised against the world—that one sees and hears so few upbuilding things.
If, namely, it is rare to see riches, that is neither here nor there; we prefer to see ordinary prosperity. If it is rare to see a masterpiece—now, in a certain sense, it surely makes no difference, and, in this respect, it makes no difference to most persons. It is different with the upbuilding. After all, at every moment, there lives the countless number of human beings. It is possible that everything that each human being undertakes, that each human being says, can be upbuilding—and yet, alas, it is so rare to see or to hear something upbuilding!
Love is upbuilding. Now, let us consider what was developed in the introduction, whereby we immediately guarded against the discourse losing its way by choosing an overwhelming task, insofar as everything can be upbuilding. To upbuild is to construct something from the ground up. In simple talk about a house, a building, everyone knows what is meant by the ground and the foundation. But, now, what is the ground and foundation—spiritually understood—of the life of the spirit, which is to support the building? It is just love. Love is the source of everything, and, spiritually understood, love is the deepest ground of the life of the spirit. In every person in whom love exists, the foundation, spiritually understood, is laid. And again the building that, spiritually understood, is to be constructed is love, and it is love that upbuilds. Love is upbuilding, and this means: it builds up love.
The task is defined in this way. The discourse does not scatter itself in particularities and multiplicities; it does not confusedly begin something that, completely arbitrarily, it must break off somewhere in order to still have an ending. No, it centers itself and its attention on what is essential, on one and the same thing in all the manifoldness. From start to finish, the discourse remains about love, precisely because to upbuild is love’s ownmost determination. Love is the ground; love is the building; love upbuilds. To upbuild is to build love up, and it is love that upbuilds. At times, we do indeed talk in a more ordinary sense about upbuilding; we talk—in contrast to the corruption that only wants to tear down, or in contrast to the confusion that can only tear down and disperse—about the fact that the competent person builds up, is the one who knows how to guide and to lead, is the one who knows how to effectively teach in his field, is the one who is a master in his art. Any such person builds up rather than tears down. Yet, insofar as it does not build up love, all this upbuilding—in knowledge, in insight, in skill, in uprightness, etc.—is still not upbuilding in the deepest sense. For, spiritually, love is the ground, and to upbuild is indeed to construct from the ground up.
When, therefore, the discourse is about the work of love in upbuilding, then either this must mean that the loving person places love in the heart of another person, or it must mean that the loving one presupposes that love is in the heart of another person and, precisely by this presupposition, builds up love in him—from the ground up, provided, of course, that he lovingly presupposes it in the ground. To upbuild must be one of the two. But, I wonder, if one person can place love in the heart of another person? No, this is a suprahuman relation, an inconceivable relation between human beings. In this sense, human love cannot upbuild. It is God, the Creator, who must place love in every human being—he who himself is love.
Admittedly, then, it is exactly unloving and by no means upbuilding if someone presumptuously imagines that he wants and is able to create love in another person. In this regard, all busy and conceited zeal neither builds up love nor is itself upbuilding. The first relationship of upbuilding would then be inconceivable; therefore, we must contemplate the second relationship. In this way, we have gained the explanation of what it is that love builds up, on which we want to dwell: the loving one presupposes that love is in the heart of the other person, and, just by this presupposition, he builds love up in him—from the ground up, provided, of course, that he lovingly presupposes it in the ground.
The discourse, then, cannot be about what the loving person—who wants to build up—is now to do in order to transform the other person or in order to force love from him; rather, it is about how the loving person constrains himself in upbuilding. See, this is already upbuilding to think about: the loving person upbuilds by constraining himself. Only the unloving person imagines that he is to upbuild by coercing the other. The loving person constantly presupposes that love is present; he upbuilds precisely in this way. A builder thinks little about the stones and the gravel he is to use for the building, and a teacher presupposes that the pupil is ignorant; a disciplinarian presupposes that the other person is corrupted. But the loving person who upbuilds has only one practice—to presuppose love. What is to be further done can constantly only be to constrain himself to presuppose love always. Thus he elicits the good; he loves love into view. He upbuilds. For love can and will only be treated in one way—by being loved forward.
Yet, after all, to love it forward is precisely to presuppose that it is present in the ground. That is why being a builder, a teacher, a disciplinarian can tempt a person, because it seems to be ruling over others. But to upbuild as love does cannot tempt, for it is precisely to be the one who serves. Only love, then, has the desire to upbuild, because it is willing to serve.
The builder can point to his work and say: “That is my work.” The teacher can point to his pupil. But love, which upbuilds, has nothing to point to; after all, its work just consists in presupposing alone. Again, this is very upbuilding to bear in mind. Suppose the loving person is successful in building up love in another person: in that case, when the building is standing there, then the loving person stands off by himself and, humbled, says: “Indeed, I have constantly presupposed that.” Alas, the loving person gets no credit at all. The building is not like a monument to the builder’s skill or, like a pupil, a remembrance of the teacher’s instruction. After all, the loving person has done nothing; he has only presupposed that love was in the ground. The loving person works so quietly and so solemnly, and yet the strength of eternity is in motion. Just when it works the most, love humbly makes itself unnoticeable. Yes, you see, its work is as if it did nothing at all.
Ah, for busyness and worldliness, this is the greatest foolishness—that, in a certain sense, to do nothing at all should be the most difficult work. And yet, it is so. For it is more difficult to command one’s mind than to capture a city and more difficult to upbuild—as love does it—than to carry out the most astonishing work. If, in relation to oneself, it is difficult to master one’s mind, then how difficult, in relation to another person, to annihilate oneself entirely and yet to do everything and to suffer everything. Truly, if it is normally difficult to begin without presuppositions, to begin to upbuild with the presupposition that love is present—and to end with the same presupposition—is most difficult of all. Then, after all, one’s entire work is made into almost nothing beforehand, because, namely, the presupposition is self-denial first and last. The builder is hidden and is as nothing.
For that reason, we can only compare love’s upbuilding with the hidden working of nature. While human beings sleep, the forces of nature sleep neither night nor day; no one thinks about how they continue—while everyone is delighted in the loveliness of the meadow and the fruitfulness of the field. Love conducts itself in this way. It presupposes that love is present, like the germ in the grain, and if it is successful in bringing it to fruition, then love has hidden itself, as it was hidden while it worked early and late. Yet, after all, this is precisely what is upbuilding in nature: you see all this glory, and then, when you come to think about the singular fact that you cannot at all see the one who produces it, it grips you in upbuilding fashion. If you could see God with bodily eyes—if he, I daresay, stood beside nature and said, “It is I who have produced all this”—then the upbuilding is lost.
Love upbuilds by presupposing that love is present. In this way, the loving one upbuilds the other, and surely here it is easy enough to presuppose love where it is obviously present. Alas, at the same time, love is still never perfectly present in any human being, insofar as it is indeed possible to do something other than presuppose it, to discover one or another fault or frailty in it. And when, therefore, someone has unlovingly discovered this, then perhaps he wants—as it is said—to take it away, to take the splinter away in order to properly build love up. But love upbuilds. To the one who loves much, much is forgiven. But the more perfect the loving person presupposes the love to be, the more perfect a love does he love forward. Among all the relationships in the world, there is no relationship where there is such a like for like, where the result corresponds so exactly to what was presupposed. One raises no objection; one does not appeal to experience. For, after all, this is precisely unloving—to arbitrarily set a day where the result is now to appear. Love does not understand such things; it is eternally certain of the presupposition’s fulfillment. If this is not the case, then love is beginning to decline.
Love upbuilds by presupposing that love is present in the ground. Therefore, love also upbuilds where, humanly speaking, love seems to be lacking, and where, humanly understood, it seems first and foremost necessary to tear down—in truth, not for the sake of desire but for the sake of salvation. The opposite of upbuilding is tearing down. This opposition never shows itself more clearly than when the discourse is about the fact that love upbuilds. For any other connection in which upbuilding is talked about still has a resemblance to tearing down—that it involves doing something to another. Yet, when the loving person upbuilds, then it is just the opposite of tearing down. For the loving person does something to himself: he presupposes that love is present in the other person—which, to be sure, is just the opposite of doing something to the other person. To tear down gratifies the sensuous person only all too easily; likewise, to upbuild in the sense that one does something to the other person can gratify the sensuous person. But to upbuild by overcoming oneself—that is gratifying to love alone. And yet, this is the only way to upbuild. However, in the well-intentioned zeal to tear down and to build up, one does forget that no person is finally capable of placing the ground of love in the other person.
See, here it is seen just how difficult the art of building is—the art that love practices and that is described in that celebrated passage by the Apostle Paul (1 Cor 13). For what is said there about love is simply more definite stipulations about how love manages to upbuild. “Love suffers long.” That is how it upbuilds. For, after all, long-suffering is essentially perseverance in presupposing that love really is in the ground. The one who judges, even if this happened slowly, the one who judges the other person to be lacking in love—he takes the foundation away. He cannot upbuild. But love upbuilds by patience. Therefore “it does not envy” or “think evil,” because envy and malice would deny love in the other person and, in doing so, consume the foundation, if that were possible. But love, which upbuilds, bears the other person’s misunderstanding, his ingratitude, his anger. That is already enough to bear. How, then, should love be able to carry envy and malice too! In the world, things are distributed in this way: the one who allows envy and malice, he does not in turn bear the other person’s burdens; however, the loving one, who does not allow envy and malice, he bears the burdens. Each one bears his burden—the envious person and the loving person. In a certain sense, they both become martyrs. For as a pious man has said: “The envious person, too, is a martyr—but the devil’s.”
“Love does not seek its own.” Therefore it is upbuilding. For, after all, the one who seeks his own must get everything else out of the way. He must tear down in order to get a place for his own, which he wants to build up. But love presupposes that love is present in the ground. That is why it upbuilds.
“It does not rejoice in iniquity.” But the one who wants to tear down or at least wants to become important by the idea that it is necessary to tear down—he must certainly be said to rejoice in iniquity, or else there would be nothing to tear down. On the other hand, love rejoices in presupposing that love is present in the ground. That is why it upbuilds.
“Love bears all things.” For what is it to bear all things? It is ultimately to find in everything the love that is presupposed in the ground. When we say about a person who has a very strong constitution that he can bear everything in relation to eating and drinking, then we mean by this that his health derives nourishment even from what is unhealthy (just as the sick person is damaged even from healthful food); we mean that he derives nourishment from what seems least nourishing. Love bears all things in this way, constantly presupposing that love really is present in the ground—and, by this, it upbuilds.
“Love believes all things.” For, indeed, to believe all things is to presuppose—even though it is not seen, yes, though the opposite is seen—that love is still present in the ground…even in the misguided, even in the corrupted, even in the most hateful. Mistrust takes away the very foundation by presupposing that love is not present. That is why mistrust cannot upbuild.
“Love hopes all things.” But, indeed, to hope all things is to presuppose—even though it is not seen, yes, though the opposite is seen—that love really is present in the ground and that it will be sure to show itself in the one who errs, in the misguided, even in the loss. See, the father of the prodigal son was perhaps the only one who did not know that he had a prodigal son, because the father’s love hoped all things. The brother knew immediately that he was hopelessly prodigal. But love upbuilds, and the father won back the prodigal son precisely because he, who hoped all things, presupposed that love was present in the ground. Despite the son’s errors, there was no break from the father’s side (and a break is, after all, just the opposite of upbuilding). He hoped all things. Therefore he truly upbuilt by his fatherly forgiveness, just because the son felt very intensely that fatherly love had stuck with him. Thus there had been no break.
“Love endures all things.” For to endure all things is just to presuppose that love is present in the ground. When we say that the mother puts up with all the child’s naughtiness, do we then say by this that, considered as a woman, she patiently suffers evil? No, we say something else—that she, as a mother, constantly goes on remembering that this is a child and, therefore, by presupposing that the child still loves her and that it will surely show itself. Otherwise, after all, we would talk about how patience endures all things, not how love endures all things. For patience endures all things and is silent, and, if the mother endured the child’s naughtiness in this way, then we would actually say that the mother and the child nevertheless had become strangers to one another. But love endures all things, is patiently silent—yet presupposes in perfect silence that love still is present in the other person.
Love upbuilds in this way. “It is not puffed up; it does not behave itself unseemly; it is not easily provoked.” It is not puffed up by the idea that it should create love in the other person; it is not easily provoked and unseemly, impatient, almost hopelessly busy with what it first must tear down in order to then build up again. No, it constantly presupposes that love is present in the ground. That is why it is unconditionally the most upbuilding sight to see love upbuild—a sight by which even angels are upbuilt. And that is why it is unconditionally the most upbuilding thing if a person succeeds in speaking properly about: how love is upbuilding. There is many a friendly, many a charitable, many an enchanting, many a gripping, many an uplifting, many a captivating, many a persuasive sight and so on; however, there is only one upbuilding sight—to see love upbuild. Therefore, whatever you have seen of horror or abomination in the world—which you wanted to be able to forget, because it will break down your courage, your confidence, give you a distaste for life and a disgust at living—just bear in mind how love upbuilds, and you are built up in order to live. There are very many different subjects to talk about, but there is only a single upbuilding one: how love upbuilds. Whatever, then, can be done to you so embittering that you could wish never to have been born and, the sooner the better, to fall silent in death: just bear in mind how love upbuilds, and you are built up in order to speak again. There is only one upbuilding sight and only one upbuilding subject; however, everything can be said and done in an upbuilding way. For wherever the upbuilding is, love is; and wherever love is, the upbuilding is; and as soon as love is present, it upbuilds.
Love upbuilds by presupposing that love is present. Have not you experienced this yourself, my listener? If some person has ever talked in such a way to you or acted in such a way toward you that you truly felt yourself upbuilt by it, then it was because you very vividly perceived how he presupposed love to be in you. Or, in your mind, how should the person who could truly upbuild you be? Is it not true that you would like him to have insight and knowledge and talent and experience? But you still would not consider that it decisively depended on this but, rather, on the fact that he was a reliable, loving person—that is, truly a loving person. Accordingly, you think that upbuilding decisively and essentially depends on being loving or having love to such an extent that one can rely on it.
But, now, what is love? Love is to presuppose love; to have love is to presuppose love in others; to be loving is to presuppose that others are loving. Let us understand one another. The qualities that a person can have must either be qualities he has for himself—even if he makes use of them against others—or qualities for others. Wisdom is a being-for-itself quality; power and talent and knowledge, and so on are likewise being-for-itself qualities. To be wise does not mean to presuppose that others are wise; on the contrary, it can admittedly be very wise and true if the truly wise person assumes that far from all persons are wise. Yes, because “wise” is a being-for-itself quality, there is nothing in the thought to prevent the assumption that there could live or have lived a wise person who dared to say that he took all others to be unwise.
There is no contradiction in that thought (to be wise—and to assume that all others are unwise). In the actuality of life, such an expression would be arrogance, but in the thought simply as such there is no contradiction. On the other hand, if one were to think that he was loving but also that all others were not loving, then we would say: “No, stop, here is a contradiction in the thought itself.” For to be loving is, after all, precisely to assume, to presuppose, that others are loving.
Love is not a being-for-itself quality but a quality by which or in which you are for others. In everyday language, while we enumerate a person’s qualities, we say rightly enough that he is wise, sensible, loving—and we do not notice what a difference there is between the last quality and the first ones. He has his wisdom, his experience, his sensibleness for himself, even if he is useful to others with them. Yet, if he is truly loving, then he does not have love in the same sense as he has wisdom; rather, it is precisely his love to presuppose that we others have love. You praise him as the loving person; you mean that it is a quality he has, as it also is. You feel upbuilt by him, just because he is loving, but you do not notice that the explanation is that his love signifies that he presupposes love in you and that, precisely by this, you are upbuilt [opbygges]—that, precisely by this, the love in you is built up [bygges op].
If it actually were the case that a person could be loving without this love signifying the presupposing of love in others, then, in the deepest sense, you would not feel yourself upbuilt either, no matter how plausible it was that he was loving. You would not feel yourself upbuilt in the deepest sense, just as little as you are upbuilt in the deepest sense, no matter how plausible it is that he is wise, sensible, experienced, learned. If it were possible that he truly could be loving without this love signifying the presupposing of love in others, then you could not completely rely on him either, for the reliability of the loving person is precisely that—even when you doubt yourself, even when you doubt whether there is love in you—he remains loving enough to presuppose it. Or, rather, he is the loving one who presupposes it.
But, after all, you insisted that a person should be truly loving in order to truly upbuild. And to be loving has now shown itself to mean: to presuppose love in others. So, indeed, you are saying exactly the same thing that the discourse has developed.
In this way, the deliberation turns back to its beginning. To upbuild is to presuppose love; to be loving is to presuppose love; only love is upbuilding. For to upbuild is to construct something from the ground up, but, spiritually, love is the ground of everything. No human being can place the ground of love in another human being’s heart. Still, love is the ground, and one can only upbuild from the ground up. Therefore, one can only upbuild by presupposing love. If you take love away, then there is no one who upbuilds and no one who is upbuilt.