This "godly discourse" of Kierkegaard's is a didactic text - it seeks to teach a lesson. But Kierkegaard is not the teacher; he is merely the poetic medium who speaks in words the silent lesson of the bird of the air and the lily of the field. Their lesson is on how to live, and they teach by living. How can we live in joy, on the side of God? Look to the lily and the bird - to their silence and their obedience which coalesces in joy. This shall be, perhaps, a different reading, a heterodoxical interpretation of Kierkegaard's second-hand lesson (or was it his right hand message?).
To begin to seek God's kingdom - the infinite joy of life's unfolding, of existence and occurrence - we must become silent. Through silence might a difference speak - the beginning of something different. An other beginning. But we get ahead of ourselves (as we always do, we suspended-transcenders). First there must be silence. We must be silent. Or rather, we must become silent. As Kierkegaard writes, "beginning is this art of becoming silent, for there is no art in keeping silent as nature is" (17). It is not about a simple not speaking that we are concerned with here, but the art of becoming silent.The art of becoming silent - is this not poetry, the art that silences the universal, subversively attempting the speaking of singularity, the silenced difference? The artful silencing of the self - no empty silence, but an overfull effusion, mutely spilling over. Silence, pregnant with a different speech: the speaking of difference: a speaking that is no speech. And the poet, the one who is "self-contradiction" (12), who speaks to become silent.
(The poet haunts this discourse, ever speaking from its margins, emerging with its opening and returning near its close, all the while intermittently coming forth throughout before fading back into silence. Is Kierkegaard not taking up the mantle of poet here, writing this discourse? He carries no religious authority, and he speaks only to disappear, allowing the titular biblical duo to speak forth. And beside this point, though not separate from it, is that the poetry alluded to in this writing differs from Kierkegaard's expressed understanding of the poet and the poem. This different thought of poetry still haunts the words that Kierkegaard writes, does it not? Is not language ever haunted by a coming resurrection of a possible, different speaking? But we are drifting from the discourse of the text; let us leave the poet at the margins and return to silence. With the close of this parenthetical remark, the poet too shall return to silence.)
What is important is not being silent, but becoming silent - casting away the static speaker, the garrulousness of the self; losing oneself amidst the infinite becoming that moves in silence. This beginning that occurs through becoming silent is not a backwards movement, from speaking to not speaking, some return to an originary silence. It is a different movement - ahead, outside, towards that which is ever coming, opening the space for an other beginning that is ever on the verge of arriving. Through poetic sacrifice, transformation, may we open, becoming silence. Becoming silence, we open the space for the beginning - the unfolding of the divine joy through our lives.
Why is this necessary for joy; why must we become silent to experience the depths of life (which are also at once the heights as well; the vertiginous enfolding of life and death)? Kierkegaard writes that it is due to our separation from God and the infinite creation of existence by what he terms our "double essence," as in the entry from his journals that is excerpted in the Introduction of this volume, pg. xxiii. We are the reflective being that creates or forms itself and its world over and apart from God's creation. The self reflects the earth through the mirror of itself, the speculative concept. We speak, whereas God's was before the only creative utterance. We sin, speaking out against God; putting ourselves before God. Through our worlding (of which language is the abstracting power) we set and hold ourselves apart from the divine, rendering an unmediated relation (and thus a relation unparasitized by the self - the all-consuming concept. In its speculative mirror, all that is reflected to the self is itself - an empty world of reflection) with it impossible. We have spoken, and with but a word we have enclosed ourselves inside our own self-constituted prison; our world abstracted from all life; the static world of concepts or of the Forms. The world is thus, for us, an other-world or hinter-world. We are lost to the divine earth and the life that flows through it, as it, though it ever haunts us still. Lost to us is the existence of the lily and the bird - the innocence of creation (an ever unfolding profusion of differences). In order to re-invoke the divine paradise of the earth in our lives, to live in joy, as joy, we must revoke our speech - we must shatter the mirror of the self, dismantling the concept and all of its attendant constructs. We may perhaps do this by learning from the lily and the bird - in becoming silent. Only in silence may the coming of what is to come ever occur. Only in silence may we hear the divine word once more.
Kierkegaard writes that the silence, the becoming-silent, that he speaks of is a listening. Might it be brought forth again - that poetry which might be an attempting-movement, a speaking-becoming-silent? This poetry, alluded to before, which speaks as listening, the voice of the self becoming silent in order to listen to and let speak the silent, silenced voice of the other - the other voice; the divine voice of God; the silenced voice of difference; all which wish to speak endless volumes, infinite conversations, endless varieties of singularities. Poetry - the speaking that, in its becoming-silence, listens to the silence and opens it up to speak. This poetry, which in another register, according to a different mode of existence, might be called prayer. Prayer is our listening to the silence that it itself grants, that we are becoming, through our hearts. Through the silent life of the heart's flow, the singular blood that silently screams through every fiber of our existence, we might listen for God, the divine alterity - the absolute other.
And it is here that we come upon the second lesson of the titular lily and bird - obedience. In silence might we listen to the other, to all others before oneself, to the silent word of God that whispers through each existence. This is obedience to God - listening to the divine, we grant the other the space that the self monopolizes in its hierarchical ordering of the world. We thus affirm alterity, allowing each different, singular existence to express itself, and thus further proliferate the diversity of life and difference. This is how we grow near to the earth - in this way might we move near to the moment of existence's unfolding, to God's infinite creation. This affirmation can only come about if there is silence, if we become silent in obedience to the divine dictate that asks us to silence every voice, "that is, every voice other than that of God, which around you and within you speaks to you through the silence" (47). For the voice of God speaks from out of all things, even us - but we must silence our own voice if we are to listen to it, to hear the silent cry that calls out to us from great distances and yet sounds so near, to allow it to speak through us in the active-passivity of our listening, and thus transform our lives.
Through this silent obedience, which renders the divine voice of difference discernible, may we be opened up to the life of joy - may we be joyful. The lesson of the lily and the bird - of existence outside of selfhood - is of how to live in joy; how to become joy itself. Ad their teaching is a performative teaching: they teach by living in joy, as joy, for "the teacher of joy has nothing other to do than to be joyful himself, or to be joy" (71). The bird and the lily teach us that our existence too must become joy itself - through silence and obedience to become an overspilling outpouring of energy, of possibility, of further life. Our being must become this unfolding becoming-joy; we must be the emptying geyser of life.
This is the way to joy, to abiding in the abundant unfolding of the divine. If we can get outside of the self and its binding limitations then we too could exist as the unfailing joy of eternity that the lily and the bird express through their singular manifestations. Each its own expression of difference, joyfully casting the threads of possibility about the earth in the endless play of its joyous relations with God, with all that is divine. We too could exist in this paradisiacal earth, "this very day" (90), if only we could do away with the ingrained and instituted self-reproduction and self-replication which our incessant speech constitutes, propagates and perpetuates. Only through a silent transformation might we live the ecstatic existence of the passionate life outside of the confines of the self. Only thus might we abide in God.
To live as joy would be to abide in God, in and as the infinite movement of divine unfolding of creation and expression. We seek to a-bide - to wait, to tarry, to delay (gebidan), but not a static waiting, for this waiting and delaying tarries, dragging its feet, leaving a mark as it wanders on. The a- denotes movement, occurrence, and the bidan speaks also of our dwelling. Our dwelling is a wandering, opening further differences, awaiting what comes, all the while infinitely delaying any final end or definition. No capstone, no signature. No final word. Perhaps this would be to abide in God, dwelling on the side of difference as a tarrying with others as a different other, in a space that belies the finality of any name. Such an abiding, perhaps, is the joy of existence - the joy that the lily and the bird are, and that they teach.