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Very few words evoke as much positive sentiment as “freedom.” At the same time, few words are more difficult to define. Politicians, philosophers, psychologists, and theologians have all discussed the term. And yet, after hearing what they have to say about it, we are still left with the question: what exactly is freedom? One is tempted to paraphrase Saint Augustine’s famous lament about his inability to spell out the meaning of time: if no one asks me what freedom is, then I know what it is; but if someone asks me, then I do not know. Freedom can be rendered intuitively vivid through symbols, myths, and stories of heroic struggles for “emancipation” or “liberation.” And the sense of freedom is concretized in actually living and acting rather than by reading or writing a book. Any conceptual or theoretical attempt to say what freedom is risks becoming shallow and abstract, and there is a good chance it will partially warp our immediate grasp of the meaning of the term. Nonetheless, perhaps some insight can be gained from a theoretical study of the idea of freedom. After all, just as Augustine could not refrain from telling us what time is, so it is forgivable if we also attempt to speak conceptually about freedom. We know the extent to which ideas have contributed to the formation of our history. Certainly, our experience of freedom in the Western world has been shaped significantly by bold ideas that, in turn, motivated people to work for liberation from various forms of oppression. It is not entirely out of place, therefore, to discuss the idea of freedom in a theoretical way.

What, then, is freedom? As with our intuition of time, we all have an immediate or “naive” grasp of the meaning of “freedom.” The same is true of our experience of depth and futurity. We feel them, we dwell in them, and we sense their presence or absence in various degrees. But we cannot objectify them. We cannot hold them out before us in a controlling fashion such as science attempts to do with the objects of its study. We know them more in the mode of being grasped by them than by actually grasping them ourselves. Or we know them in the mode of fleeing from them. The same is also true of our understanding of freedom. We know what it is only if we have been grasped by it—or, in a negative sense, if we have fled from it. If we try to lay hold of it ourselves, it slips away from us. Our approach to it must therefore be somewhat indirect; we should not ever expect to have a perfectly clear intellectual grasp of what it is.

There are three ways in which philosophers have typically dealt with the notion of freedom. One way is to understand freedom as something we have, another as something we are, and yet another as something that has us. The first approach views freedom as one of our faculties, the one whereby we make “free choices” among various alternatives that are offered to us. The ability to make free choices is certainly an important aspect of freedom, but free choice is not coextensive with freedom as we shall understand it here. The second approach, exemplified in an extreme way by the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, views freedom as the very essence of human existence. In this view, human reality is freedom in the negative sense, as not being determined by anything beyond itself and, in the positive sense of the creative source of our very identities.33 This position that we are freedom would be acceptable if we understood freedom as finite and not as absolute in the sense given by Sartre. To say that we are finite freedom is one important way to understand our nature. However, even this second meaning does not give us the depth toward which the word freedom points. For that reason, I shall dwell hereafter on a third meaning of the term. Freedom, in the deepest sense, is something that takes hold of us, not something that we can manipulate ourselves. Moreover, we owe our freedom to choose (freedom in the first sense) as well as the freedom of our finite existence (freedom in the second sense) to our participating in the encompassing freedom (in the third sense) of which I shall speak in the present chapter. Freedom in the third and most substantive sense is the “ground” of freedom in the first two instances.

If we reflect on some very obvious aspects of our experience, as we have done in the previous two chapters, we shall observe that freedom is most appropriately understood as the comprehensive horizon of our existence, rather than as something we possess or, as Jean-Paul Sartre has proposed, something that coincides with our individual existence. As in the case of depth and futurity, freedom, in the sense of something that grasps us, is a mysterium tremendum et fascinans. We shrink from it in fear that we will be lost in its embrace and, at the same time, we long for it passionately, intuiting that our personal fulfillment consists of our eventually surrendering to it. We long for the freedom that coincides with our absolute future, but, at the same time, we are reluctant to allow it into our present life.

In order to illustrate concretely the ambivalence of our relationship to freedom, let us look especially at the experience of coming to grips with our own personal identities. Have there been times when we came up to the point of knowing that we really are not fully definable in terms of our immediate surroundings? Have we, on some occasions, realized that the opinion others have of us simply does not adequately indicate what we know ourselves to be? Such moments hold open to us the possibility of our entering into a whole new way of existing; and yet, we usually revert to the typical routine of allowing past patterns of others’ expectations to determine how we view ourselves. Psychoanalysis, though controversial in many respects, at least deserves our admiration for showing us how our early family life unconsciously accompanies us and shapes our attitudes throughout our lives. Many of us can go through an entire lifetime without ever questioning the familial patterns of expectation that gave us our earliest orientation in the world. Because of the power and authority of these familial patterns, any attempt we make at an alternative self-definition may be accompanied by an agonizing sense of guilt and betrayal.

It is instructive to examine the sense of uneasiness that often accompanies the act of departing from the expectations that we think others have imposed upon us. At times, such a departure is, of course, the violation of standards that we are expected to model ourselves on as the basic minimum for human existence. In such a case, genuine feelings of guilt are important to point out to us the error of our ways and to goad us into conforming to the cardinal standards of human conduct. At other times, we need to “violate” certain conventional standards if we think they are an obstacle to the realization of genuine new possibilities of being human to which we sincerely feel called. But we are uneasy before these possibilities as well. It is much easier to be merely conventional in our ethical life than to heed the summons of timeless values that transcend our societal, national or familial ideals.34

We may call this sense of dread in the face of new possibilities “anxiety.” One meaning of “anxiety” is the awareness of yet unrealized possibilities. It is the intimation that we have other routes of self-definition open to us alongside those that have been so determinative in the past. Our awareness of these unrealized possibilities that would give a new cast to our identity confronts us as a tremendum. Unlike the realm of the “actual,” the arena of the “possible” is inexhaustible, and so we are reluctant to plunge into its formless, abysmal depths, dreading that the boundaries of our finite existence will be annihilated by the excess of the possible. As Kierkegaard puts it, our impression of this realm of sheer unrealized possibility may induce in us a “sickness unto death.”35 However, one aspect of the experience of freedom consists precisely of the anxiety evoked in us by our awareness of ever new possibilities, ideals, or values.

An analysis of this anxiety can open us to a deeper understanding of freedom. When we use the term anxiety here, though, we are not referring to something abnormal or pathological. Rather, we are talking about a state of awareness that always accompanies our human existence, whether in a conscious or in an unconscious way. Without it, we would not be human existents at all. In other words, this anxiety is a characteristic aspect of our existence, not something that can be removed pharmocologically or psychiatrically. When psychiatry talks about removing anxiety, it is speaking of a pathological exaggeration or suppression of our “normal” anxiety. And it seriously misleads us if it pretends to cure us of our “existential” anxiety.36 Nothing can cure us of this anxiety. But such an impossibility need not be the occasion of perpetual unhappiness for us. Instead, it may be seen as an opening to the fulfilling side of freedom.

Existential anxiety may also be understood as the awareness of the fact that our existence is constantly subject to a fundamental and unavoidable threat. Paul Tillich refers to it as the threat of “non-being.”37 The awareness of this threat should be distinguished from fear.38 Fear is always a response to a specific danger, a definite object of terror. For example, I may fear a rabid animal, an authoritarian teacher, a poor grade on an examination, or the disapproval of parents and friends. And I may combat my fear of these by employing specific strategies. I may shoot the rabid animal, change classes to a more amiable instructor, study harder for an examination, or move away from home. Such strategies are often successful ways of coping with fear. Yet beneath all our specific fears, there is a sustained inkling of a pervasive and ineradicable threat which no evasive action can alleviate. There is at least a vague intuition that our existence is situated precariously over against the threat of “nonbeing.”

But what does this discussion of nonbeing have to do with freedom? Strange as it may initially seem, the experience of the threat of nonbeing that I have just described (drawing again from Paul Tillich) is one aspect of the experience of the horizon of freedom. “Nonbeing” is the face that freedom first presents to us as it invites us into its embrace. And difficult as it may be for us to understand, it is by realistically facing rather than running away from this nonbeing that we are liberated from the things that enslave us and drawn toward the fullness of freedom.

Nonbeing is terrifying to us, of course, and so we attempt to avoid it by tying our fragile existence to things that seemingly provide refuge from it. However, since all such things are themselves merely finite and, therefore, also subject to nonbeing, the security they give us is only fragmentary and ultimately illusory. Such precarious security is not truly liberating in the final analysis for it merely constricts our lives by binding us to objects that are too small to help us face existential anxiety. Just as we strive to turn the anxiety of nonbeing into specific objects of fear that we can control, so also we turn to specific objects, persons, events, nations, cults, possessions, etc. in order to anchor our existence against the invasion of nonbeing. Eventually, however, we will be forced to realize that they are mere “idols” that cannot give us the ultimate deliverance for which we really hope. How, then, are we to deal with nonbeing?

The threat of nonbeing can be met adequately only by a courage proportionate to the threat itself. It is through courage that we meet the threat of nonbeing and, in doing so, experience freedom-itself. Indeed, courage may be defined as the “self-affirmation” by which we accept and face up to the anxiety of non-being. The encounter with freedom in the deepest sense, therefore, is inseparable from the experience of courage.39

If human freedom has any realistic meaning at all, it cannot mean deliverance from existential anxiety. The quest for freedom is destined for frustration as long as it is undertaken as the search for refuge from nonbeing. This is one lesson that theists can well learn from existentialist philosophers. In what, then, does human freedom consist (freedom in our second sense), if there in no easy escape from fate, death, guilt and the experience of doubt and even meaninglessness? Is human freedom even a meaningful notion, given the fact that our existence is never “free from” existential anxiety?

Humanly speaking, freedom is the awareness that existential anxiety has been conquered rather than simply evaded. It is an awareness that, in spite of the pervasive threat of nonbeing, the core of our existence is always already ultimately secure. Such an awareness delivers us from the obsessive need to secure our existence in particular things and projects. It recognizes the futility of all such enterprises. And it allows for a serenity and peacefulness of existence that transcends the security which comes from our usual possessions.

But is such an awareness anywhere an actuality? Are there individuals who have achieved such a state of subjective freedom? I think that we do find such awareness exemplified in the lives of people who exhibit courage. It is not necessary to give examples of such courage here. We see it manifest all around us—in the heroic lives of ordinary people who have themselves been motivated to courageous acceptance of their lives by their participation in the great stories of human courage, passed down from generation to generation, in all cultures and traditions. We have all witnessed the way in which people overcome apparently insurmountable difficulties and emerge as stronger in the process of facing their problems than if they had taken flight from them. This everyday occurrence is, in fact, so commonplace that we hardly notice its utterly “miraculous” character. It is in the lives of such courageous people that we can catch a glimpse of the ultimate horizon of freedom that seeks to liberate our human existence in a decisive way.

Human courage faces and accepts existential anxiety instead of fleeing from it. And in the act of facing it head-on, it gives witness to a transcendent power capable of conquering the threat of nonbeing, providing a solid base for a realistic sense of freedom. We need not construct “proofs” for the “existence” of this power. The evidence for its reality is simply the acts of courage so manifest in the lives of those who accept themselves in spite of the existential anxiety that is part of their concrete existence.40 In their courageous self-affirmation, we can see evidence of their participation in an objective liberating “power” that conquers nonbeing. In viewing their heroic lives, we can also appreciate the true meaning of human freedom as participation in an ultimate horizon of freedom—call it freedom-itself—which gives them the courage to prevail over the threats of nonbeing. Transparent in such lives of courage is a deep, transcendent freedom which has encircled their lives. Their courage is the “revelation” of an ultimate and abiding freedom that transcends and empowers our existence.

Our finite freedom (freedom in the second sense) is not a negative “freedom from,” but rather a participatory freedom, an experience of opening oneself to and being grasped by the encompassing freedom that embraces and conquers the threat of nonbeing. This horizon of freedom of which we partake cannot be comprehended intellectually. It is not a possession and it cannot be controlled by acts of “willfulness” on our part. It can only be experienced by oneself or pointed to as it becomes evident in the courageous lives of human persons. Its reality is felt only in the act of allowing oneself to be grasped by it. For that reason any scientific demonstration of its presence is impossible.

In the concrete lives of heroic people, moreover, we may encounter the fascinans, the fulfilling side of freedom; we may get an inkling of the dimension of freedom that corresponds with the “grounding” aspect of our experience of depth; and we may also observe the foundation of what we called hope in the previous chapter.

The name of this ultimately grounding and courage-bestowing horizon of freedom that becomes transparent in acts of courage is—God. That grounding freedom is what the word “God” means. And if that word has not much meaning for you, translate it and speak of the deep freedom for which you yearn, beyond the finite securities you cling to in order to escape existential anxiety. Perhaps, in order to do this, you must forget many things you have learned about “God,” perhaps even the word itself. But as long as you open yourself to a courage whereby you realistically accept your existence, you cannot then call yourself an atheist in any meaningful sense of the term. For you cannot consistently maintain that there is no basis in reality for your courage. Even in your uttering such a statement, you would give evidence of your participating in such a power of self-affirmation.

32. The following text is an excerpt. Previously published in Haught, What is God?, 47–68. Reprinted with permission.

33. Sartre, Existentialism and the Human Emotions, 52–59.

34. See Kohlberg, Philosophy of Moral Development.

35. See Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death.

36. See Tillich, Courage To Be, 64–85.

37. Tillich, Courage To Be, 32.

38. Tillich, Courage To Be, 36–39.

39. See Tillich, Courage To Be, 32–36.

40. See Tillich, Courage To Be, 181.