How Does 'Fear And Trembling' End?

The ending of 'Fear and Trembling' hits hard with its raw emotional punch. After pages of intense philosophical wrestling, Kierkegaard leaves us suspended in that moment where Abraham raises the knife over Isaac. The text doesn’t give us a neat resolution—instead, it forces us to sit with the unbearable tension of faith. The return of Isaac isn’t framed as a happy ending, but as a paradox that shatters human understanding. What lingers isn’t relief, but the haunting question: would you have kept walking up that mountain if you were in Abraham’s place? The book ends by suggesting that true faith exists beyond comprehension, in that terrifying space where logic fails and only the absurd remains. It’s the kind of ending that stays with you for weeks, gnawing at your assumptions about morality and devotion.

Kierkegaard’s masterpiece concludes not with answers, but with a labyrinth of deeper questions. The final sections dissect Abraham’s silence on Mount Moriah—how he never explains himself to Isaac or Sarah, never seeks validation for his actions. This isn’t just about biblical storytelling; it’s a mirror held up to modern readers. We’re conditioned to demand reasons for everything, but Abraham’s greatness lies in his refusal to justify. The epilogue-like passages compare him to tragic heroes who act for communal good, highlighting how Abraham’s isolation makes his faith both terrifying and sublime.

The last pages introduce the concept of the 'knight of infinite resignation' versus the 'knight of faith.' This isn’t academic wordplay—it’s Kierkegaard’s gut-punch realization that most of us live in the first category, clinging to understandable sacrifices. True faith means releasing even the hope of understanding why. The closing lines about getting Isaac back 'by virtue of the absurd' aren’t comforting—they strip away all systems we use to domesticate the divine. You finish the book feeling like you’ve stared into an abyss, realizing how small your own conceptions of courage really are.

What kills me about the ending isn’t the biblical story—it’s Kierkegaard’s personal anguish bleeding through. The pseudonym Johannes de Silentio admits defeat in the final chapters, confessing he can’t comprehend Abraham’s faith. That admission changes everything. This isn’t some dry thesis; it’s a man trembling before the paradox he’s spent 200 pages dissecting. The imagery shifts from philosophical diagrams to visceral nightmares—Abraham’s shaking hands, the glint of the knife, the ram’s sudden appearance feeling more like a cruel joke than divine mercy.

Then comes the killer move: Kierkegaard contrasts Abraham with Shakespeare’s tragic heroes. Hamlet at least gets soliloquies; Abraham gets silence. That final comparison exposes how faith operates outside storytelling logic. The book ends mid-breath, leaving you to grapple with whether Abraham was blessed or cursed by his obedience. The emotional whiplash is intentional—you’re supposed to feel disoriented. That’s the point. Faith isn’t a puzzle to solve but a freefall into the unknown.