Soren Kierkegaard

business partnership, the pastors are especially keen on two things: “(a) that
people call themselves Christians—the bigger the flock of sheep, the bet-
ter—that they take the name ‘Christians,’ and (b) that the matter rest there,
that they do not find out what Christianity actually is.”
From his collision withThe Corsair, Kierkegaard knew better than anyone
about the satirical effect achieved by directing people’s attention to a some-
one’s external appearance, especially to a more or less random item of cloth-
ing, a pair of trousers of uneven length or—as in the present case—a clerical
robe: “Long robes inevitably lead one to think that a person has something
to hide. When a person has something to hide, long robes are very practical.
And official Christianity has a very great deal to hide, because from begin-
ning to end it is untruth, which is thus best concealed—by long robes. And
long robes—of course, this is women’s clothing. And this calls to mind yet
another thing typical of official Christianity: the unmanliness, the use of
stealth, untruth, lies, as its power. And this is again entirely typical of official
Christianity, which, being itself an untruth, makes use of an enormous mass
of untruth both to conceal what the truth is and to conceal that it is itself
untruth.” Or, with especially merciless precision: “the pastor—that epitome
of nonsense cloaked in long robes!”
Kierkegaard simplified his criticisms in order to amplify their impact; he
exaggerated, at times wildly; he agitated more than argued; and he could
be genuinely vulgar, as was the case in the ninth issue ofThe Moment, where
he pumped a lot of sophistical air into his argument, making the bestial
behavior of the pastor outdo that of the cannibal: “(1) The cannibal is a wild
man. ‘The pastor’ is a learned, cultivated man, which makes his abominable
behavior all the more revolting. (2) The cannibal eats his enemies. It is
otherwise with ‘the pastor.’ He gives the impression of being extraordinarily
devoted to those whom he eats. The pastor, precisely the pastor, is the most
devoted friend of those glorious ones. ‘Just listen to him, hear how he is
able to depict their sufferings and present their teachings; doesn’t he deserve
a silver centerpiece for his table, a cross of knighthood, a complete set of
embroidered armchairs, a couple of thousand more per year—he, this glori-
ous man who, himself moved to tears, can depict the sufferings of the glori-
ous ones in this manner?’” In the middle of this bizarre scene Kierkegaard
has positioned a set of embroidered armchairs, which of course were among
the gifts Mynster had received on moving into the episcopal residence—a
gift that had apparently occasioned some raised eyebrows and had quickly
become a topic of gossip in the city. Kierkegaard continued: “The pastor
is cozily ensconced in his rural dwelling, with the prospects of a promotion
beckoning from beyond. His wife is buxomness itself, and his children no
less flourishing. And all this is owing to the sufferings of the glorious ones,