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In a writing of half a century or so ago, Arnold Bennett said: “Philosophers have explained space. They have not explained time. It is the inexplicable raw material of everything. With it, all is possible; without it, nothing. The supply of time is truly a daily miracle. . . . You wake up in the morning, and ... your, purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours. It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions… And no one receives either more or less than you receive. . . . Moreover, you cannot draw on the future… You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste tomorrow; it is kept for you. You cannot waste the next hour; it is kept for you. . . . You have to live on this twenty-four hour of daily time. Out of it you have to spin health, pleasure, money, content, respect, and the evolution of your immortal soul. Its right use, its most effective use is a matter of highest urgency. . . . All depends on that."1 Thus wrote Arnold Bennett.
Seldom in life do we find ourselves living or working under ideal conditions. There are delays and distractions. There are times of waiting—waiting for people, for appointments—waiting for many reasons, both in public and private places. There are times at home and times away, in military service, for example, or on some other assignment when, after the routine duties of the day, there could be idle hours.
Today we should like to turn to the rich rewards of reading—not reading merely for the purpose of passing time, but for the purpose of discovering truth, of discovering what thoughtful men think. Reading enriches life; it enriches conversation; it enriches understanding. It perpetuates the past and teaches its lessons to the present.
Because so much is done for so many of us, both by men and machines, because we have become accustomed to so much service, the use of hands and feet, and even of minds, has, in many instances, been minimized.
One of the easiest answers to anything we don't want to do, is to say we don't have time. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it isn't. It is deeply and desperately true that we don't have time to do everything, or to be everything, or to learn everything, or to go everywhere.
It was recorded of a certain ancient king that he lived a hundred and twenty years, and that he reigned for eighty years—longer than most men live. And then the recorder of this chronology quickly added this significant sentence: " . . . still nothing that has an end is long."1
We seem sometimes to consider people and events of the far past as something quite apart from the present. But they are nearer to us than we sometimes suppose. If we have lived twenty-five years, a century is only four times the length of the mortal life we have lived.
Herbert Spencer once said: “The preservation of health is a duty.”1 In other words, there is—on all of us—an obligation to keep free from contaminating and injurious substances and habits and influences that would impair the full and healthful functioning of the wondrous physical faculties which the Lord God has given. And in addition to […]
In recent observations we have arrived at an awareness that old age is the harvest of the years of youth; that each part of life is as natural as all others, and all make a complete picture. And one of the most valued of the harvests of life is health. We cannot always assure it unto ourselves.
A subject so greatly significant as old age is not soon exhausted—and we would add at this hour some further thoughts on this theme: "We grow old naturally," said one physician, and "the first and the most important ingredient in the prescription for growing old graciously and happily is understanding—understanding of the naturalness of the process of growing old. . .."1
“The course of life is ... run but in one way, and only once,"1 This was said of youth as it moves into old age, but it has its application in other ways also.
As the years come and go, increasingly there is concern and consideration for old age. Youth and age endlessly have both come in for comment. In a sense, the comparisons and appraisals are somewhat pointless, because we have so little choice between the two. Either we die young, or we grow old.
We have all, seen youngsters, and others also, listen reluctantly to last minute instructions. "I know, I know," impatiently they reply, maybe having half heard. They are confident they don't need directions or counsel of any kind. But by listening they could likely save themselves much loss of time or the making of many mistakes.
This moving music from "The Messiah," is, in its own way, a witness of the mission and message of Jesus the Christ, the Prince of Peace—who’s coming was foretold for centuries of time and has been the subject of sacred writ for all the centuries since.
Correction is an essential part of the teaching process. Suppose that in the schoolroom not even the teacher cared enough to correct, or that in the home, not even parents cared enough to correct—how would anyone ever learn or make progress or ever know right from wrong? But, as was added, correction should include these […]
We would turn for a moment or two today to what could seem to be a paradoxical subject: The kindness of correction. We are thinking of some lines of a letter from a girl whose parents had corrected her for some wayward ways: "You know, right then I decided my parents really did love me," she said. "They loved me enough to care what I did or what became of me, and to try to keep me from getting into trouble."
It takes many kinds of courage to live through life—the courage to face facts, to solve problems; the courage to accept assignments, to stay with what we have started, the courage to follow through; the courage to preserve principles, and sometimes to fight for them. And there are times, paradoxically, that call for another kind of courage even the courage to run away.
Within a framework of principles, it is the variability among men, the differences as well as the likenesses, that permit happiness to be possible—for if all wanted to do the same things at the same time in the same way, if all chose the same kind of people as partners, not only would life be monotonous, but it would also present some impossible problems.
Surely the one thing most sought for in this life is happiness—no matter what we call it, no matter whether we are seeking it in right or wrong ways. Often unhappiness comes from overemphasizing the negative side of situations.
To an audience of young people, a wise counselor recently proposed a question concerning those with whom they keep company—a question which all of us could well ask concerning ourselves and all our associates: "Are we good for each other?"1
With the passing summers and seasons, there come times of leave-taking. Many leave home, many young people particularly, for school, for work, for other opportunities. And leaving home-ties is always in some ways a trying time—even leaving for pleasant prospects.
In many ways we take great pains to protect our property and to safeguard ourselves. We pass many laws, and we make many locks.
Among the distinguishing differences between people—one which classifies and separates men in significant measure—is the willingness, the ability, the character, the demonstrated desire to accept an assignment, to take responsibility, to follow through.
The power of decisions is sometimes seized from us by too long a delay. And while we should never be stampeded, never too swiftly persuaded in a matter of major choice, neither should we wait so long that we let life waste away.
What follows is not a comment of the kind this hour generally suggests. But that which pertains to people, to their health and happiness, to the full and effective living of life, is a proper subject for any hour. And with all there is of injury to people and to property, and human impairment, and heartbreaking loss of life, safety is a proper and important and pressing subject for any hour.
If we were to title what follows in one phrase, we could perhaps call it "Slamming doors."
Last week we talked of the principle of repentance, with the principle of forgiving—and of forgetting what has been forgiven. Now, what of the possibilities—what of the real results—of repentance?
In moving through life, we all tend to pick up some prejudices, some resentments, perhaps some sense of injury at times, some feelings that we have been offended. And sometimes we hug these hurts, real or imagined, close to our hearts. And when we feel that others have given offense, it isn't always easy to forgive, and it may be even harder to forget—and perhaps still harder to concede that we ourselves may also have given others some feelings of offense.
One of the sobering considerations of life would be an appraisal of the things we have for which we didn't personally pay a price. We may sometimes seem fearful that we are imposed upon, that we may do too much, and that, so far as work is concerned, we shouldn't exceed ourselves—and sometimes shortsightedly we may forget how abundantly we have been benefited by the work of others.
We go through some interesting cycles in this life we live. Our children arrive helpless in infancy, completely dependent upon us.