Love Through Patience: A Contribution to the Kierkegaardian Discussion on the Spiritual Nature of Love Relationships

Abstract

This paper seeks to make a modest contribution to the ongoing Kierkegaardian discussion concerning the spiritual nature of love relationships, particularly those involving romantic elements. It introduces patience as a key element in understanding the love of the spirit, diverging from perspectives commonly found in recent Anglophone Kierkegaardian literature. Since, in Kierkegaard’s works, the spirit is conceived as an intermediary being positioned between time and eternity, I argue that the spirit’s love must be approached through patience, which is the concrete space where time and eternity intertwine. The argument unfolds in three steps: first, I present Kierkegaard’s understanding of human love as a work, highlighting the significance of the neighbor, which refers to the mode of loving rather than the object of love; second, I outline the challenges inherent in Kierkegaard’s conception of love and propose an approach that emphasizes the dialectic between transcendence and immanence; third, I argue that patience is the concrete means by which this dialectic unfolds within the individual’s existence.

1. Introduction

Kierkegaard’s spiritual view of love has been the subject of significant scrutiny and criticism. This perspective is primarily presented in Works of Love, which includes various discourses on the divine origin of love and its manifestations in human existence1. According to this view, works of love are carried out through the human reception of the absolute love given by God. This reception of divine love occurs through neighborly love, which carries a spiritual significance. However, in Works of Love, neighborly love seems to be contrasted with the so-called “preferential love”. Furthermore, love is also described as something commanded.

One of the most notable critics of this view was Theodor Adorno, who argued that Kierkegaard’s understanding of love leads to a lack of genuine affection for the concrete individuals we encounter, resulting in the abandonment of all finite aspects of love relationships2. According to Adorno, this results in an indifferent attitude towards injustice and the established order of things in general. He argued that “Kierkegaard is unaware of the demonic consequence that his insistence on inwardness actually leaves the world to the devil” (Adorno 1939, p. 420). In short, Adorno’s claim was that Kierkegaard’s concept of love is inhuman and non-humanitarian—a critique that has been echoed by others3.

Nonetheless, in recent years, the discussion among Kierkegaardian scholars has taken an opposite direction. A new generation of scholars has emerged, arguing that Kierkegaard’s philosophy of love does not assert a strict opposition between preferential love—namely, romantic love and friendship—and neighborly love4. This perspective contradicts that of scholars like Gene Outka, who argued for the affinities between Kierkegaard’s Works of Love and Nygren’s famous Agape and Eros (See Hanson 2022, p. 196), as if Kierkegaard presented neighborly love as agape, excluding eros or preferential love. Yet, this new generation of scholars now tends to advocate for a “more balanced understanding of Kierkegaard’s view” (Krishek 2022, p. 78). They maintain that “rather than rejecting romantic love (and other forms of spontaneous love), Kierkegaard’s aim is to critique the way it is understood by poets and offer a renewed understanding of love” (Krishek 2022, p. 78).

Although these scholars unanimously defend the concrete elements in love relationships, they differ in their approaches. Consequently, a controversy has emerged among scholars. The focus of this Kierkegaardian debate is the tension between spiritual love and the concrete love relationships humans experience, resulting in various papers exchanged among researchers, fostering a genuine intellectual dialogue (see e.g., Lippitt 2012; Krishek 2013).

This paper aims to contribute modestly to the ongoing Kierkegaardian conversation on the spiritual nature of love relationships, particularly those involving romantic elements. However, my argument takes a perspective that substantially differs from those advocated in recent Anglophone secondary literature. While my focus is also on the concreteness of love relationships, I do not interpret this concreteness as an “external determination” (see González 1998, p. 144). Instead, I contend that concreteness can only exist within an infinite movement, corresponding to the unresolved actuality of the spirit’s existence. Thus, my assertion is that love cannot be confined to a definition, for “if there were an ontology of love, this ontology would have to encompass the moment when human language fails in its attempt to answer the question: ‘What is love?’” (González 1998, p. 133).

The unresolved actuality of love, as described in Kierkegaard’s writings, is closely linked to its spiritual nature. Love is God or the eternal (see Kierkegaard 1995, p. 121/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 124)5; however, this is more of a question or an empty proclamation than a definitive statement (see González 1998, p. 135). This idea connects with Anti-Climacus’ well-known account of spirit6. Spirit is the self (see Kierkegaard 1980b, p. 13/SKS 1997–2013, 11, 129). However, spirit or the self is defined—again in a somewhat ambiguous manner—as a relationship between the infinite and the finite, the temporal and the eternal, and freedom and necessity that relates itself to itself (see Kierkegaard 1980b, p. 13/SKS 1997–2013, 11, 129). Spirit is thus positioned between two heterogeneous elements, making any prevailing coherence between them unattainable. Spirit is not only relational but also in a constant process of becoming itself, and therefore, it cannot become transparent to itself. Spirit cannot exist directly, as it consists of a paradoxical contradiction between two initially separate terms7. In addition, it can never appear as something stable and concluded. Hence, human beings are nothing but an actual exteriority for themselves8. They are at a distance from themselves, resulting from their peculiar relationship with infinitude, while also remaining finite and bound to necessity and time. Thus, Kierkegaard understands the human spirit or the self as an inter-esse—an intermediate being9.

A double movement characterizes spiritual existence (see Grøn 2001, p. 134), which consists in “an infinite moving away from itself in the infinitizing of the self, and an infinite coming back to itself in the finitizing process” (Kierkegaard 1980b, p. 30/SKS 1997–2013, 11, 146). Consequently, spirit is not the relationship between time and eternity itself, but rather the fact that this relationship relates itself to itself. It represents freedom, which is an absolute openness to possibility, and this fact renders the spirit’s actuality an ongoing, never-ending task, always accompanied by anxiety.

Therefore, if love defines spiritual existence10, it should be linked to the recurring ambiguity of spirit. This ambiguity present in love—and particularly in romantic love—has been previously highlighted11. My aim is to further develop this aspect within the current Kierkegaardian discussion by introducing patience as the source of the unsettling concreteness of spiritual existence.

My argument will unfold in three steps. First, I will explore Kierkegaard’s understanding of human love as a work, emphasizing its intermediary nature. I will also clarify the concept of “neighbor”, which refers not primarily to the object of love but to the manner in which we love. Second, I will address the underlying issues in recent discussions about the nature of “special relationships” within Kierkegaardian literature, offering an interpretation of these debates that highlights the dialectic between transcendence and immanence. Third, I will respond to these challenges by introducing patience as the concrete means through which this dialectic unfolds within the individual’s existence, functioning as a destabilizing element that prevents love from being reduced to a static definition, as it often is in secondary literature on Kierkegaard.

2. The Intermediary Character of the Spirit’s Love

2.1. Human Love as a Work and the Neighbor as a Mirror

Kierkegaard’s statements in Works of Love are both paradoxical and controversial. This ambiguity arises from love’s intermediary nature: it is both divine and meant to be received through the works of love that humans carry out. Thus, love holds a twofold nature, which complicates its understanding. Love exists in the tension between the finite and the infinite, and this intermediary quality points to its spiritual reality, as previously emphasized.

On the one hand, love is divine. It is an unfathomable power that cannot be directly perceived and therefore cannot be immediately recognized by its works (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 13/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 21). On the other hand, “just as the quiet lake originates deep down in hidden springs no eye has seen, so also does a person’s love originate even more deeply in God’s love” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 9/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 17). Though hidden, love is not distant from human beings: it can only be indirectly recognized through its fruits, which are the works of love undertaken by human beings.

Therefore, love manifests the paradox of time and eternity touching each other—namely, the intersection of transcendence and immanence. Divine, transcendent love provides the foundation for human love; consequently, absolute love is also the core of spiritual existence, embodying freedom or the possibility of humans receiving eternity into their lives. However, if love is indeed eternal, it precedes human existence: human beings do not fully identify with love. Rather, their existence as spirit responds to God’s perfect and infinite gift. There is always a “wasted time” that precedes every human beginning (see Kierkegaard 1995, p. 102/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 106). Thus, “in relation to God, every person begins with an infinite debt” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 102/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 106).

Love is characterized by both its incommensurability and its permanence, as it entails the demand to endure and to be constantly put to work in human existence. However, an infinite debt can never be repaid, which is why love exceeds all calculations, predictions, reciprocity, and the claim of being fully achieved or fixed as an objective outcome. This also transforms love into an infinite task, whose completion would lead to its destruction: love is defined by a recurring movement that sustains it, and thus, attempting to fully capture love in any of its works would destroy it, cutting it off from its element, which is “infinity, inexhaustibility, immeasurability” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 180/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 180).

Love, therefore, has an ambiguous character. It does not seek recognition or to make itself openly visible, but it also does not neglect its task, which is to bear fruits that, as such, are recognizable. The reason for love’s veiled nature lies in the distance between absolute love and the works of love, which make up human love. There is an incommensurability between the two and a heterogeneity that is nonetheless bridged by love itself. The abyss separating temporality and eternity is thus overcome, and love becomes manifest in its works without being confused with them. But how is it possible for the works of love to be carried out by concrete human beings if love itself is only ascribable to God?

Love is communicated indirectly. It is like a mirror in which the eternity dwelling in human beings is reflected: it consists of an effort of interiorization and persistence, through which they respond to the first love that establishes them. And how do they respond? By loving in turn, for if love is a task of inwardness, it can only be received through being put into action by the one to whom it is directed. This is why love is like an echo that seeks to expand and take root in the person it encounters, and it is also why love is fragile and humble. It is fragile because it depends on the beloved’s response and humble because it recognizes that the beloved possesses love on their own and thus seeks to conceal itself. Hence, love builds up [Opbygger], meaning it “builds upward”. If the foundation of spiritual life is love, then building up consists of making love emerge in the beloved. Thus, wherever love exists, there will be upbuilding; conversely, nothing can build up if love is absent.

On the one hand, only God is love, and only He can instill it in human beings, meaning that human love on its own lacks the capacity to build up. On the other hand, love itself (God’s love) is knowable only through its works—those performed by the human spirit. Thus, the way a human being carries out the works of love is grounded in the faith that moves them to believe in love itself and urges them to always presuppose its existence in the other. Since a human being cannot give love to another but only presuppose it, self-denial becomes essential in love: the upbuilding lies precisely in the restraint one exercises from the recognition of the debt that separates them from love. To love is to set the other free; therefore, while love seeks to act in ways that might be recognized, it does not do so for the sake of recognition. Love’s only aim is for the beloved to love independently—to stand on their own without assistance. The hallmark of the true lover is their ability to render themselves dispensable, which is a feat possible only through the awareness that they truly are.

According to this understanding of the distinction between love and its works, love is no longer a matter of two but includes a third party, without whom it would fall into confusion: “The love-relationship requires threeness: the lover, the beloved, the love—but the love is God. Therefore, to love another person is to help that person to love God, and to be loved is to be helped” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 121/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 124). If we all respond to love too late, it automatically becomes forgiveness [Tilgivelsen] in neighborly love, for it is born of the overabundance of that first gift. To love another human being is to help them love, and to be loved is to find a helping hand that awakens us to the call of love.

Thus, the spirit’s love [Aandens Kjerlighed] is authentic or true love [den sande Kjerlighed], as it springs from the source of absolute love, rooted in a faith that is both active and passive in its exercise: it believes in love without seeing it, except as reflected in its works, and it strives to keep love in its element. To love is to believe in love, and in this way, it presents itself as a redoubling [Fordoblelse], through which the lover becomes what they do, for they exist in it. The spirit’s double movement is also embodied in its mode of loving: it is directed inward to the same extent that it opens outward, for it involves the indirect reception of what lies beyond, which is none other than the love itself. Love is an infinite task, bringing with it the impossibility of resting this infinity in any particular object. Therefore, “what love does, that is it; what it is, that it does—at one and the same moment. At the same moment it goes out of itself (the outward direction), it is in itself (the inward direction)” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 280/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 278). Consequently, “the greatest beneficence is specifically the way in which the one and only true beneficence is done” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 274/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 272), for love does not exist solely in external action but is given in the unity of “this outward going and this returning” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 280/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 278). It consists of a movement of inwardness that is redoubled in the faith that makes love grow in the other to the same degree that it grows in oneself.

The key to this understanding of love is, therefore, the third element that has already been mentioned: love itself, which is God or the eternal. However, the presence of this third element in every relationship is manifested in the figure of the neighbor. Who is my neighbor? Every human being is, and yet, at the same time, no one is. Love does not have a finite object, and thus the neighbor is not the finite object of love. Instead, the neighbor represents its infinite object: it is love itself—that is, the way in which we love. Therefore, the act of loving one’s neighbor turns love between human beings into a matter of conscience [Samvittighed]. It equates to relating to God as the element that mediates human relationships. Consequently, the third element in every loving relationship is also the good, since God is both the good and eternity12. One can only relate to God when one loves, and only if such love is directed toward one’s neighbor—that is, if it is an act of love that seeks the absolute good, rendering love a matter of conscience.

Thus, the neighbor serves as the intermediate principle that establishes absolute equity among all human beings, placing everyone in the service of a love that is equally received. It reveals the essential incapacity of each person regarding absolute love, highlighting the radical impossibility of elevating oneself above others. Conversely, comparison neglects the fact that all people receive love as an infinite debt, which should not be measured or considered as settled to a greater or lesser extent than in others. The measure of love is infinite, and thus comparison dissolves love.

The neighbor is, therefore, a redoubled category: love is gained in the measure that one makes it their own. Consequently, one loves their neighbor in the same measure that they become a neighbor to others, as other human beings act as mirrors reflecting what one gives. From this, it follows that even if someone were in absolute solitude, without the possibility of relating to anyone, they would still be a neighbor to themselves. Thus, in the notion of neighbor, we do not so much discover the beloved as we discover love itself, which resides in the “how”. The neighbor is not primarily the person to whom we direct our love (though it can be) but the intermediate principle between the lover and the beloved. For this reason, the category of neighbor speaks to us more of love itself than of its object, since love, being transcendent, has no object other than itself.

2.2. The Spirit’s Love as the Break of Identity

Love for the neighbor—namely, the spirit’s love (See Kierkegaard 1995, p. 56/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 63)—is understood in Works of Love as a demand, since it is a matter of conscience. It responds to the requirement of the good and is, therefore, a commandment addressed to the individual: “You shall love” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 17/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 25). This address is the way in which eternity confronts every human being. Yet in this address, the “you” is more important than the commandment itself, for the commandment of love cannot be reduced to the finite objectivity of the law (see Kierkegaard 1995, pp. 104–6/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 108–10). Instead, it resides in the “how”—in the way we love, in the movement of inwardness. Inwardness is faced by love itself and then compelled to respond. Love is a duty for human beings since they receive it from God, and as a work, it must always be directed toward the neighbor. Consequently, the one who loves also becomes a neighbor, so that the commandment refers both to loving one’s neighbor and to loving them “as oneself” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 18/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 28). The neighbor is nothing but “eternity’s mark—on every human being” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 89/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 94), and it presupposes absolute equality.

However, love is not merely a commandment; it is also the eternal condition given by God, allowing human beings to come into existence as spirit. Love builds up, raising human beings from their roots. Therefore, a person’s identity cannot be understood apart from that infinite word confronting them and leading them back to themselves. As a result, the pronoun “I” ceases to be the root of subjectivity, for the individual comes to understand themselves not as an “I” but rather as the “you” to whom the commandment of love is addressed. Indeed, the neighbor is “the first you” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 57/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 64). Thus, since one loves one’s neighbor to the extent that one becomes a neighbor, every person who responds to love with their works becomes a “you” for themselves. This breaks the self-referential identity typically attributed to the individual, making otherness the defining mark of human existence as spirit or self.

And yet, a person’s identity is often understood through the pronoun “I”. In fact, worldly love relies on this self-perception. This kind of love is understood as preferential love [Forkjerlighed], and it manifests in the forms of erotic love [Elskov] and friendship [Venskab]. However, the reason these last two forms of love constitute a worldly way of loving is not that they contain elements proper to natural dispositions and ultimately to finitude. Kierkegaard notes that the spiritual is not at all at odds with the sensuous as such; the sensuous does not conflict with the spirit (in fact, it also participates in the spirit’s actuality). What Christianity considers negatively as the sensuous is nothing but the selfishness of self-love [Selvkjerlighed]13.

The sensuous, as opposed to the spirit, does not denote the mere concreteness of bodily elements driven by desire or flesh. Rather, it refers to a form of self-love that does not correspond to the commandments “as yourself” but instead manifests as selfishness. This selfishness disrupts the equity of relationships, making the self the sole reference point for all love relationships. As a result, comparison takes the place of equality: preferential love is based on comparison, which involves viewing others through the lens of “mine and yours” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 265/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 264), incorporating the object of love into the “mine” that defines oneself and separating it from others. Thus, the beloved and the friend are no longer the neighbor, the “first you”, but rather become “the other I” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 53/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 59). The intermediary between those who love each other is no longer God but preference, creating a dissymmetry between human beings.

Therefore, erotic love and friendship—only insofar as they partake in preferential love—do not draw their source from the love that lies silent in the depths of existence. Instead, they arise from an inclination that is, in essence, arbitrary. The lover and the friend passionately seek to give themselves to the one who is the object of their preference, but in doing so, they also aim to benefit themselves in some way, as the beloved is for them the “other I”. Even if they lose themselves in the attempt to promote the beloved, this effort is driven by the exchange of the pronoun “mine” for “ours”. This perspective continues to center around one’s own “I” or rather an “us” that remains in opposition to others, preventing the person from truly seeing the other as the neighbor—that “you” which functions as an extreme isolating power:

The more securely one I and another I join to become one I, the more this united I selfishly cuts itself off from everyone else. (…) This is explainable only because in preferential love there is a natural determinant (drive, inclination) and self-love (…). The spirit’s love, in contrast, takes away from myself all natural determinants and all self-love. Therefore love for the neighbor cannot make me one with the neighbor in a united self. Love for the neighbor is love between two beings eternally and independently determined as spirit; love for the neighbor is spirit’s love, but two spirits are never able to become one self in a selfish sense.

(Kierkegaard 1995, pp. 56/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 62–63)

The status of preferential love is encapsulated in this quote. According to it, preferential love is composed of the unity of drive or inclination and self-love. The latter makes drive and inclination the ultimate criterion of preference, which becomes the middle term in the relationship (See Kierkegaard 1995, p. 58/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 64). The neighbor, by contrast, is such regardless of any possible diversity, for they are so only in the eyes of the spirit and to the most inconceivable extreme: the neighbor is the one closest to me and the one to whom the imperative of duty directs me. This can include the lover and the friend as well as the one who has offended me the most—the person I consider my enemy. Every human being is, therefore, a neighbor unrelated to any preference.

Kierkegaard argues for something even more scandalous: erotic love and friendship differ from the spirit’s love—which is the true love—because they are forms of preferential love. And here, difficulties arise. An abyss opens, whose unfathomable depths would lead the most devoted lovers and friends to confusion. It is not that erotic love, being rooted in preference, and friendship, which is also under this determination, are imperfect forms of love compared to the spirit’s love; rather, they are not love at all. Preference is not love but a mixture of inclination and selfish self-love. Thus, there is not an adequate and an inadequate way of loving when this love is based on preference14.

Based on the discussion above, it follows that the spirit’s love is not only the true form of love but also the only form. Other kinds of love are defined by their objects, whereas the spirit’s love (that is, love for the neighbor) is defined by love itself: where true love exists, it must respond to the spirit not to preference—whether that preference is devoted or unfaithful (See Kierkegaard 1995, p. 66/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 73).

However, Kierkegaard does not suggest that the drives and inclinations that lead us to prefer or detest certain individuals are inherently sinful. On the contrary, he underscores that equity does not imply indifference to the object of love, as if the absence of a specific, finite object would negate the concrete elements of a loving relationship15. At the same time, the Danish philosopher encourages the reader not to cease loving those for whom they have preference: “If in order to love the neighbor you would have to begin by giving up loving those for whom you have preference, the word “neighbor” would be the greatest deception ever contrived” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 61/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 68). And he goes on as follows: “in loving yourself, preserve love for the neighbor; in erotic love and friendship, preserve love for the neighbor” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 62/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 69).

In essence, the task is to remain within the circumstances and relationships in which we find ourselves, without abandoning them but allowing neighborly love—that is, love understood as a work—to transform them. For it is only through God that humans learn to love. This renewal takes place internally: in the innermost part of the human heart, an infinite transformation occurs—one that leaves external circumstances unchanged but brings about a continuous repetition of the old, preserving it while simultaneously infusing it with the change of eternity. Thus, only those actions that position the neighbor as the middle term—actions that have undergone the transformation of eternity and become a matter of conscience16—can be considered true manifestations of love. These are carried out by the individual whose singularity lies in their embrace of otherness and their willingness to acknowledge this otherness in every other human being.

3. Preferential Love into Question

3.1. The Contradiction

The transformation that neighbor-love brings to a person’s circumstances reveals that repetition occurs here, which always accompanies faith. Believing in love opens us to the transcendence of a love that is distant and, simultaneously, drives us to make this heterogeneous reality our own task, giving rise to a life that is newly received. Therefore, all the finite elements that comprise it remain present as they were at the beginning but in a completely renewed form. Believing in love requires self-denial, but this does not mean that the person we love is lost forever; on the contrary, they endure eternally. Faith secures the beloved’s subsistence in a far more certain way than any finite attempt to preserve it.

However, neighbor-love, defined by its disinterest and the absence of a finite object, has provoked harsh criticism, with Theodor Adorno being one of its most prominent critics, as noted in the introduction. Some scholars have even reinterpreted Adorno’s critique, arguing that the negative perspective he attributes to Kierkegaard’s concept of love—implying an unforgivable abandonment of the concrete human being who is loved—is a valuable aspect of Kierkegaard’s view. Influenced by Derrida’s work, these scholars suggest that this disregard for the concrete elements in love relationships points to a second ethics—one centered on the duty to love the dead (see Llevadot 2011, p. 116).

In response to Adorno’s criticisms and the deconstructive readings that reinterpret them, recent Kierkegaardian scholarship has developed a new perspective. This perspective argues in favor of the positive value of preferential love in Kierkegaard’s work, with a particular focus on romantic love. It is within romantic love that the contradiction between the universality of neighbor-love and the intimate particularity of romantic relationships becomes most pronounced, bringing into sharp relief the tension between the finite and the infinite in human existence.

Proponents of this view defend the bodily dimensions of love, though they approach the matter in various ways. Kierkegaard refers to a change (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 143/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 144), a transformation (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 112/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 116), a purification (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 145/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 146), or even a transition (see Kierkegaard 1995, p. 209/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 212) from preferential love to love for the neighbor, yet there is no consensus on the exact meaning of this eternal shift to which these terms point.

Are erotic love and friendship restored in the transformation brought about by neighborly love? Kierkegaard affirms this, though he also expresses strong reservations about love based on preference. I suggest the key point is that it is not the mere preference for the beloved that Kierkegaard defines as selfish. Rather, selfishness is love grounded in instinct and inclination [Driftens og Tilbøielighedens Kjerlighed], which characterizes preferential love (see Kierkegaard 1995, p. 44/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 51). This form of love stands in opposition to the spirit’s love or love according to the spirit [Aandens Kjerlighed], though it is not synonymous with preferring one person over all others.

In other words, the only genuine love is neighborly love—not as a special kind of love but as the sole form of love—since it alone draws from the source of all loving works. It presupposes an absolute equality that eliminates individual distinctions. However, preferring someone does not in itself constitute sin or something incompatible with spiritual love; rather, selfishness manifests when preference determines the measure of that love. From this perspective, the eternal transformation in love consists in not allowing preference for the beloved to dictate the depth of one’s love. While preference is part of the relationship, it does not define the love’s measure, which is infinite. To base love on preference would distort its essence, rendering it “merely human” [blot menneskelige], as it would lack the eternal duty that transforms the self into a “you” reflected in every individual.

Affirming the convergence between preferential love and spiritual love presents clear hermeneutical challenges, as Sharon Krishek points out: “To say that love is essentially non-preferential, and yet that one of its manifestations is preferential, is to contradict oneself” (Krishek 2009, p. 122). Nevertheless, this has been the stance most defended by those who aim to emphasize the positive presence of romantic love and friendship in Kierkegaard’s Works of Love, based on various considerations. For instance, M. Jamie Ferreira argues that, strictly speaking, there is only one kind of love: neighborly love. However, this love would be directed toward everyone according to their specific needs, as shaped by the relationship one has with them. Thus, the way one relates to each person (a stranger, an acquaintance, or one’s partner) would vary greatly in each case, as each neighbor requires something different from the lover (see Ferreira 2001, pp. 112–13). Meanwhile, Evans views neighborly love as a foundational element—one that should underpin all other forms of love, transforming and purifying them by freeing them from idolatry and selfishness (see Evans 2004, pp. 208–9). John Lippitt offers a similar view: neighborly love serves as a “God filter” through which all love must pass, leaving behind a purified residue, though this residue would vary in each case (see Lippitt 2012, p. 191).

These interpretations attempt to reconcile two forms of love that are marked by opposing dynamics. How, then, can preferential love be preserved within neighborly love if the latter is defined precisely by the elimination of all preference? Any explanation that relies on adding the element of conscience to preferential love (see Ferreira 2001, p. 91) or on viewing the one I prefer as a neighbor (see Evans 2004, p. 208) fails to resolve the initial conflict. From this perspective, romantic love can only survive through a renunciation of its defining qualities: its sensual and erotic aspects must be subordinated to its spiritual nature. While these characteristics might persist and be preserved, they are no longer central. Romantic love and friendship can remain within the scope of neighborly love only if they relinquish their preferential status, which is precisely what defines them. Therefore, if we consider preferential love and neighborly love as distinct kinds of love, any attempt to subsume one under the other results in an unavoidable contradiction.

3.2. Freedom Comes into Play

If the combination of preferential love and neighborly love results in a contradiction, they must be considered separately, as stated in the previous section. Thus, it is necessary to establish the following premise: the opposition between love viewed from a merely human perspective—love based on instinct and inclination, that is, preferential love—and the love of the spirit, which is grounded in self-denial and the recognition of the transcendence of God’s love. This divine love makes us all equal and calls us to relate to each other based on that essential equality. This opposition preserves the paradox between finitude and infinitude, which is a tension that must always be upheld, as the existence of the spirit consists in nothing other than “being able to live in this paradox” (Houmark 2018, p. 62).

The fact that transcendence has become accessible to human beings is itself a paradox. Love is a paradox, and it is only through acknowledging this that one can begin to understand erotic love as an integral part of, and even a paradigm for, spiritual existence. For this reason, attempting to construct an inquiry into the nature of love that accommodates all its manifestations in an apodictic, coherent framework is not the most appropriate approach to capturing the reality of love. In Works of Love, it is stated that Christianity “recognizes really only one kind of love, the spirit’s love, and does not concern itself much with working out in detail the different ways in which this fundamental universal love can manifest itself” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 143/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 145), as “Christianly, the entire distinction between the different kinds of love is essentially abolished” (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 143/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 145). Furthermore, love is ultimately inscrutable; only its works are visible, and these works consist of love for the neighbor, which is the true and only love belonging to the human spirit.

Neighborly love, therefore, is not a distinct or even opposing kind of love in relation to romantic love. The love of God is the source from which all human love flows, and receiving it requires both self-denial—understood as not believing oneself to be the source of love, as though one could possess and give it on one’s own—and an experience of one’s identity rooted in absolute otherness. Since love is a commandment, it must be directed toward everyone we encounter, as each individual is a neighbor; but more importantly, we must also become a neighbor to others. To be a neighbor is synonymous with loving; to recognize the neighbor in the other is to be a neighbor to them. This means embracing love as a matter of conscience, as a relationship with God or eternity, and as the ultimate expression of one’s freedom directed toward the good. The concept of the neighbor thus shows us how to love without necessitating a change in the object of our love. The neighbor functions as the mediating term in love relationships—the element that fundamentally links them to the eternal.

This absolute departure from merely human conceptions of love brings about a fundamental shift in how we view the finite world and consequently, romantic love, where the bodily elements are far more prominent than in other expressions of love. By making itself accessible to human beings, eternity descends, offering the possibility of spiritual existence. However, this does not negate human existence; human beings do not exist as spirit from the beginning, but they are spirit from their very birth. Therefore, when they finally live as spirit, it will not be through a renunciation of their previous state17.

The world does not disappear when human beings awaken to their spiritual condition. This awakening lies in the fact that the relationship between finitude and infinitude, which constitutes human existence, relates to itself—that is, in the emergence of freedom. Freedom represents the presence of eternity in a human being received from love and is, in turn, called to love to fully come into existence. To love means to relate oneself to God or eternity—that is, to be profoundly directed by the good. Human love, therefore, forms the spiritual condition of the individual or, rather, serves as the mode through which existence unfolds. It embodies the concrete reception of something transcendent, allowing this transcendence to paradoxically become accessible within the concrete life of each individual. Thus, the immanence of the world is not reduced to mere worldliness [Verdsligheden]; human love is not “merely human” but is permeated by the spirit.

Hence, the sensuous and the finite represent the worldly [Det Verdslige], but the spirit contains within itself the mutual relation between the finite and the infinite. In this way, the world [Verden], in its relation to the eternal, ceases to be mere worldliness and becomes imbued as the place where eternity permeates time. In their mutual relation, both determinations (finitude and infinitude) acquire a distinct reality in the coming into existence of the human spirit—no longer existing independently of one another. It is not that the sensuous aspects are purified by neighbor-love, dissolving themselves within it; rather, eternity is intertwined with finitude so that both aspects co-exist without being separate entities.

Is erotic love [Elskov] inherently selfish and rooted in preference? It can be when understood from a worldly or merely human perspective as preferential love. However, it is not when considered within the framework of love according to the spirit. Kierkegaard asserts that drives and inclinations are not negative in themselves (see Lippitt 2012, p. 185); they become problematic only if love is founded upon them. Indeed, it is misleading to treat the terms Kjerlighed (love in general) and Elskov (passionate or erotic love) as sharply distinct modes of love. Even the verb “to love” [at elske], which forms part of the commandment to love one’s neighbor, shares the same root as the term Elskov (see Viñas 2017, p. 155). Therefore, it is inaccurate to equate Elskov and Kjerlighed with the classical dichotomy of eros and agape, which are often seen as opposed18. Kierkegaard invokes the Platonic myth of the birth of Eros—from Poros and Penia—to emphasize that the wealth of love is, paradoxically, its immense poverty (see Kierkegaard 1995, pp. 175–76/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 175–76). Human love receives an absolute gift but can never become pure gift: love for one’s neighbor is the ongoing act of loving and a wealth that grows as it recognizes its own poverty—the greater the debt of love it receives, the greater its wealth. Its poverty is its wealth, for it receives everything; its wealth is its poverty, for it possesses nothing of its own and thus must transform reception into its own act of giving. In this way, love in Kierkegaard’s thought bears a striking resemblance to Platonic love (see Krishek 2009, pp. 156–57). The love of the human spirit exists in the tension between giving and receiving, inseparably linking the two (see De Gramont 2001, p. 151).

Krishek’s critique of the dominant perspectives in recent years is, in my view, well-founded. Many scholars who defend these positions argue that preferential love and neighbor-love are compatible, though viewed from different perspectives—an argument which, as noted earlier, leads to a contradiction. However, where I diverge from Krishek is in her interpretation of the love inherent in every human being, which, she argues, originates from God and manifests itself in the works of love in two distinct ways: either in a non-preferential form (as love for the neighbor) or in a preferential form (with romantic love falling under the latter category) (See Krishek 2009, p. 112).

Krishek acknowledges that Kierkegaard, on the one hand, asserts that there is only one kind of love—neighbor-love—and, on the other, that this love serves as the foundation for all its manifestations. As a result, she argues that Kierkegaard faces an inconsistency (see Krishek 2008, p. 595), as he attempts to reconcile two forms of love that he himself defines as opposites. Furthermore, by affirming that neighbor-love is the most genuine form of love, he undermines the proper status of romantic love (see Krishek 2009, p. 112). To defend the integration of these two types of love, Krishek turns to another of Kierkegaard’s works, Fear and Trembling. By doing so, she aims to show that love, like faith, involves a double movement: a relationship with the absolute that requires self-denial, as seen in neighbor-love, and the necessary repetition through which the finite world is received anew. Neighbor-love emphasizes the former aspect, while romantic love highlights the latter. Nevertheless, both forms of love share the same underlying structure, making them compatible and even coexistent in the relationship between lovers, who should love each other in both ways without contradiction (see Krishek 2009, p. 153).

From my perspective, Krishek’s position is problematic for two main reasons. First, by establishing neighbor-love as a distinct form of love, she unintentionally diminishes the value of romantic love, since she argues that the latter must be accompanied by the former to be considered legitimate19. In attempting to elevate the significance of romantic love, this stance inadvertently weakens its standing as a valid form of love, not merely by its combination with neighbor-love. Second, Krishek’s solution overlooks the dialectical nature of love, particularly the inherent ambiguity that Kierkegaard emphasizes in Works of Love and which she herself critiques20. The double movement of faith to which Krishek refers already contains a striking contradiction—the self-emptying through self-denial and the reception of oneself through repetition—which cannot be simply affirmed without acknowledging the mediating role of freedom in this process. This leads her to later define love as a “joyful compassionate caring” (see Krishek 2022, p. 96)—a concept that combines both resignation and the joyful repetition that recovers the finite but which, in doing so, abstracts these elements from the dynamic movement that defines them.

By confining love within a definition, its dialectical nature becomes obscured21. When we attempt to restrict love to a definition, we risk neglecting the fact that the interplay between infinitude and finitude is not a static state but an ongoing process of repetition that cannot be constrained within a fixed form. Although Krishek’s approach acknowledges this reality and avoids defining love without considering the dynamic interplay of resignation and repetition, the movement she describes proceeds in a linear fashion from one to the other, even though repetition simultaneously contains the initial phase of resignation. The original contradiction between transcendence and immanence should not be reduced to a binary relation, for the repetition intrinsic to love breaks precisely with this duality and places itself within the space of contradiction, where movement becomes possible. This contradiction should not be dissolved, as the mutual reference between transcendence and immanence depends on recognizing their initial separation.

Thus, any exploration of love must begin by acknowledging its paradoxical nature, which becomes apparent in the doubleness with which Kierkegaard speaks of erotic love: he does not regard it as inherently sinful or selfish. It would only be so when it manifests as a form of love he terms “preferential”, where instincts and inclinations become the measure of love. These instincts are not simply equated with selfishness, as has often been assumed. Therefore, preferential love is not the only form in which preference can manifest. Love is not synonymous with it but neither does it exclude it.

While Krishek’s approach to love, drawing on the movement of repetition in Fear and Trembling and emphasizing the importance of romantic love in spiritual existence, is entirely appropriate, I believe her division of love into two possible manifestations—preferential and non-preferential—overlooks the preeminence of the spirit’s love. When the spirit’s love incorporates preference, it does so in a way that is fundamentally different from what Kierkegaard describes as “preferential love”, which would indeed be incompatible with the spirit’s love.

To say that the sensate-psychical is transformed by the spirit (see note 17) means it undergoes a process of repetition, acquiring a new form. This transformation occurs through the leap of freedom, which always entails risk. Repetition is the realization of the impossible, renewing all things. Neighbor-love facilitates this recovery of the sensate and psychical—not as a singular type of love imposed upon others but as the condition that makes all love possible, as it embodies the spiritual condition of human beings: their shaping by the eternal, which is precisely what designates them as neighbors. If the uniqueness of spiritual love is not affirmed, the transcendence of love itself becomes obscured along with the intermediary determination necessary in every genuine act of love.

Is erotic love then recovered in the exercise of that other love which embodies eternity and equity? At times it may be, but at other times, it may not achieve such a feat. Romantic love cannot be redefined through the lens of neighborly love; its essence cannot be fully articulated, as, like everything pertaining to existence, its truth resides in a non-objective realm22. Its reality is not static; rather, it depends on how one relates to it. Instincts and inclinations are part of preferential love, which is founded on comparison, but by themselves, they do not constitute self-love. However, any consideration of their proper status within a love that encompasses them must not overlook the fact that neither love nor its works are fixed, identifiable, or definable. Instead, love is something received that must be put into action, and its coming into existence always involves infinite risk. The ambiguity of love carries this risk, as the individual can lose itself irreparably in it. The paradox demands freedom to take a stand, but this freedom exists in a tension between finitude and infinitude that is not resolved in advance. It is in this struggle that love becomes an ever-open possibility.

Therefore, love according to the spirit, whose measure is love itself, stands in contrast to preferential love or love based on preference, which represents the worldly or merely human way of loving. However, it is not opposed to preference itself, which, not being directly linked to love, is not defined by Kierkegaard as sinful either. This preference can be integrated into the spirit’s love through the leap of freedom. It is this love—the love of the spirit—that descends and takes on a multitude of forms; consequently, any description of it cannot consider it in terms of pre-existence or an immanent, already established, character. Love is always transcendent, and its enactment requires the exercise of freedom, which is the source of infinite possibilities. But how does this movement of freedom occur in the individual’s existence?

4. Patience: Love’s Infinite Movement

To understand how the human spirit can experience both love and freedom, it is necessary to look in another direction: that of unfreedom. Freedom is the presence of eternity in a human being; however, this freedom is entangled and is not always experienced as such. The human spirit is distanced from itself, as noted in the introduction. Therefore, it is initially distant from eternity. In Kierkegaard’s thought, this distance is called sin (see Kierkegaard 1985, p. 47/SKS 1997–2013, 4, 251), and the ethics presented in Works of Love is thus a “second ethics” (see Kierkegaard 1980a, p. 20/SKS 1997–2013, 4, 328).

What is referred to as “second ethics” in Kierkegaard’s thought is an “ethics of gift” (Grøn 1998, p. 368), which takes sin—this initial separation that distances the human being from the eternal—as its unavoidable starting point. At the same time, it assumes the possibility of forgiveness—a new gift that transforms this second ethics into an ethics of love (Grøn 1998, p. 368) or of an eternity emptied of itself. Despite the distance, eternity descends, making itself accessible to human beings and offering them the opportunity to receive their eternal condition anew.

However, something that is absolutely given can only be received in a manner commensurate with the gift itself. The human being must receive eternity as their own, meaning they must be the one to receive it actively, in a process where action and passion intertwine. This process involves freedom, straddling between immanence and transcendence and the infinite and the finite; it embodies the intersection of time and eternity, and yet, “if… time and eternity touch each other, it must be in time” (Kierkegaard 1980a, p. 87/SKS 1997–2013, 4, 390). Thus, the process by which human beings come into existence as spirit—that is, as individuals defined by freedom—takes place in time, through a never-ending act of repetition. The paradox of time cutting off eternity is never fully resolved; one can only live at the vertex of their clash in the constant tension of their mutual relationship.

As a result, the recovery of the finite in human love does not occur instantaneously—once and for all. In Works of Love, more emphasis is placed on the origin of love and its infinite character, while the relationship with finitude is less prominent (though, as indicated in the previous section, the possibility of this relationship is suggested). In Fear and Trembling, however, the interplay of these two aspects is explored further, through the notion of repetition (which includes, simultaneously, the prior step of resignation or self-denial) (See Krishek 2009, p. 91).

Nevertheless, a more tangible reality than resignation and repetition lies between the two and gives them their true grounding: their mutual relationship. Resignation urges us to acknowledge that we cannot possess love as something of our own apart from the call of a transcendent good, which in fact prevents us from living with a self-enclosed understanding of our identity. Repetition, on the other hand, is the inner movement of freedom that rests on the confidence that this love is nonetheless given to us without reservation. But between resignation and the recovery of our world in repetition lies another reality, which is full of both joy and suffering: our own life, which is like the perfect center of a circle woven by both. In their mutual remission, resignation and repetition create the space of freedom in which the individual exists. This is the place of patience, where eternity enters the world (though it does not fully identify with it). Resignation and repetition are thus mutually referenced through patience, so that love can only be enacted in this unique sphere of concreteness. For, “love builds up by patience” (See Kierkegaard 1995, p. 220/SKS 1997–2013, 9, 222).

Consequently, resignation and repetition alone do not account for the concreteness of spiritual reality, which exists in the dynamic interplay between these two movements. This is why love—which enables human beings to exist as spirit—cannot be defined solely by either. Since both are integral to it, any description that incorporates them holds significant truth. However, just as spirit is neither finitude nor infinitude but rather the relation between the two that reflects upon itself and becomes free, its existence is not fully realized in the completeness of repetition or the preceding yet necessary act of resignation. Instead, it resides in the vortex of the continuous movement between the two. In my view, this is where human love—specifically, love as a response to the call of the good (See García-Baró 2021, p. 499)—finds its fullest expression, for such love does not exist solely at either extreme of the movement.

Therefore, love not only escapes all definition, but no definition can adequately capture the leap of faith (which involves the double movement of resignation and repetition) without paying special attention to the ongoing activity that constitutes it. This activity can never be understood as a series of ascending steps culminating in a fully realized expression of love nor can it be normatively framed as the “correct” form of love23. In other words, while love is closely tied to the double movement of faith, it is crucial to acknowledge that it is a movement of freedom, and as such, it cannot be conceived as something static or as a linear progression from one point to another (from resignation to repetition, with the latter embodying all the qualities of the former). The circularity of this movement points to another reality—an intermediary connection that is, in fact, the entirety of human life: patience, or the struggle of freedom to sustain itself in the constant transition between the two, tirelessly, without succumbing to the closure of definition or the deceptive calm that often accompanies it.

Thus, it is through patience that the spirit most accurately recognizes itself, for it reflects the constant struggle that human beings face in their everyday existence or their condition as intermediate beings (see Li and Rosfort 2024, p. 9). Indeed, human beings are neither eternal nor fully aligned with the world. Therefore, the moment when eternity manifests within them is both concrete and extensive. It is an invisible history interwoven with the visible one—a paradoxical identification that gives freedom its inherent risk.

The spiritual condition of human beings finds its most significant ally in unflagging movement (see Kierkegaard 1990, p. 170/SKS 1997–2013, 5, 169). The recovery of the world and of oneself through love, enabled by the joy of repetition (which inherently encompasses self-denial, present simultaneously), is constantly threatened by a peculiar “thorn in the flesh” (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 327/SKS 1997–2013, 5, 317), which prevents the individual from resting in the false tranquility of perceiving love as something definable and identifiable. Since love represents a possibility open to freedom (which, in turn, could also be restricted), rather than a fixed entity, it remains subject to uncertainty—a persistent reminder of the risk of losing everything at the most unexpected moment24.

This thorn, which sinks into the flesh and never allows it to breathe fully, is not composed of external sufferings. Such sufferings do not constitute the true suffering of the spirit. Physical pain can fade in the face of the eternal (though this may require heroic strength), as it does not threaten the spiritual reality of the human being. On the contrary, the “thorn in the flesh” refers to a suffering that resides within the spirit, as it consists in the separation of the spirit from the eternal. This suffering is shaped by the setbacks the spirit continually faces in its relationship with eternity or even by the mere fear of regressing and losing the blessedness one has attained or believes to have attained. It may also manifest as the uncertainty of whether one is truly reaching the ideal one is pursuing—the doubt of whether this connection with the eternal is genuinely happening in one’s life or whether one is deceiving oneself.

Darkness and suffering from the loss of the eternal are the defining marks of spiritual existence. This is due to the contradiction at the heart of the spirit’s reality. This contradiction gives rise to a perpetual movement—an inherent impossibility of completion (see Kierkegaard 1990, p. 166/SKS 1997–2013, 5, 166). Thus, the spirit’s goal is not perfection but movement. It is about running without ever abandoning the race (see Kierkegaard 1990, p. 332/SKS 1997–2013, 5, 322), and the trap lies in the illusory conviction that one has already reached fulfillment.

Patience has been associated with courage (see Viñas 2022, p. 13), and the Danish language reflects this connection. The Danish word for courage is “mod”, and patience in Kierkegaard’s Danish is “taalmodighed”—a combination of the noun “courage [mod]” and the verb “to endure [at taale]”. Etymologically, then, patience can be understood as a form of courage that resists. Courage endures sufferings that are, in themselves, avoidable, and thus always retains an inner resistance to them. In contrast, patience is “the courage that freely takes upon itself the suffering that cannot be avoided”, and this unavoidable suffering “will crush courage” (see Kierkegaard 1993, p. 118/SKS 1997–2013, 8, 220). When faced with the inevitable, courage crumbles; this is what differentiates it from patience, which performs an “even greater miracle” (see Kierkegaard 1993, p. 119/SKS 1997–2013, 8, 220). While courage freely endures sufferings that could be avoided, patience discovers freedom in suffering that is unavoidable. Therefore, patience arises from necessity yet becomes a category of freedom, representing the space where eternity concretely manifests in time.

Thus, patience is a category that profoundly defines spiritual existence, as the latter is shaped by a contradiction that makes movement essential, and patience is the mode through which this movement unfolds. This dynamic is also apparent in Kierkegaard’s discourses on the human soul—namely, human inwardness. This inwardness is inherently connected to the external world. Kierkegaard affirms that “the soul is the contradiction of the temporal and the eternal, and here, therefore, the same thing can be possessed and the same thing gained at the same time” (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 163/SKS 1997–2013, 5, 163).

External and temporal realities can be or not be at a given moment, but it is impossible for them to be two things at the same time. Therefore, if something external is possessed, it is not necessary to gain it, and if it must be acquired, it is only because it was not possessed. The eternal, on the contrary, only is, and therefore, possession is permanent. But the human soul consists in the contradiction of the temporal and the eternal. Therefore, it must be simultaneously gained and possessed, for there would be no way to gain it if it is not already in some way possessed but neither can it be possessed if it is not acquired25.

Spiritual existence is also reflected in the way the soul relates to temporality while simultaneously participating in the eternal. The spirit can be understood through the image of a life in motion—open to a time whose meaning is continually transformed26. There is a conversion of concepts [Begrebs-Omslaget] that correspond to temporality (see Durand 2020, p. 9), and this conversion points to a distinctive way of existing in time while maintaining a deep connection with the eternal. This transformation is the result of the emptying that love performs when it descends to the human being. Since human beings are not eternal, eternity is given to them as something exterior. Yet, insofar as it is given, eternity must essentially dwell within them. This contradiction, in short, constitutes the human soul: it must be gained, as it comes from outside, but it is already possessed, as it has been lovingly bestowed, and love always seeks the independence of the beloved. For all these reasons, the upbuilding—and with it, the task of loving—must be considered in relation to the concrete life of the human being in the world, even though this life, through love, ceases to be mere worldliness and becomes part of spiritual existence.

Patience is, then, a central figure in the understanding of the reality of the spirit, since it is the intermediate element between the temporal—conditioned, perishable, and insecure—and the eternal—unconditional, permanent, and secure in the expectancy of faith. By virtue of it, human beings must renounce the finite in virtue of the infinite in self-denial and at the same time, through faith, must not cease to perform the works of love. But, above all, they must recognize that the important thing is always to maintain this ceaseless movement, for it is in this movement that the spirit comes into existence.

5. Conclusions: A Non-Final Word

Based on what has been discussed, this conclusion cannot offer a definitive statement on the status of romantic love within spiritual existence. The issue involves freedom, and freedom is inherently tied to movement. The double movement of faith corresponds, as Krishek notes, to a double movement in love, comprising both self-denial and repetition. However, this distinction loses all significance if understood in terms of a fixed definition. Rather, patience must be emphasized as the sole means of grounding spiritual existence27. Only through patience can resignation and repetition coexist as constitutive elements of the spirit’s love. Love consists of both self-denial and the absolute reception of transcendence within our own lives, encompassing all the elements that shape them. Yet, it is patience that allows these two aspects to be situated within the recurring and never-ending task of becoming spirit.

As a result, our particular relationships gain a new perspective when viewed in the light of neighborly love. It is not that neighborly love contradicts preference; rather, it is a way of loving that introduces eternity as the mediating term. But as temporal beings, the only way for us to relate to eternity is through temporality itself. Repetition and time are intertwined, making patience the essential condition for the mutual relationship between resignation and repetition. Although the infinite gift of love is bestowed upon human beings, it is not something they can possess once and for all. Such absolute possession would distance them from love, as love is defined by infinitude and endurance. To love is to continually enact the works of love, and no definition can, therefore, declare any particular form of love as “correct”, since the task remains perpetually open.

While recent Anglophone scholarship has provided valuable insights into loving relationships through the lens of Kierkegaard’s thought, I argue that it is crucial to maintain the intermediary nature of the spirit’s love to avoid reducing human love to a merely immanent understanding. Such an understanding would treat love as something that is directly possessed and thus definable. If love is transcendent, its emergence takes the form of repetition, and as such, it cannot be confined to a static definition that prescribes its nature as if its existence could be predetermined. The transcendent character of the spirit’s love must, therefore, be emphasized to engage with it freely. Hence, patience is not only the means but also the goal, as love resides in the “how”, enduring the weight of an existence that continually unfolds within the bounds of time.