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Songs my mother taught me, In the days long vanish'd, Seldom from her eyelids Were the teardrops banish'd. Now I teach my children Each melodious measure, Oft the teardrops flowing, Oft they flow from my mem'ry's treasure.1
We were touched and moved in our hearts by the lighter step, the happier look, and the eager lift in her voice. She was no longer young, something short of being called elderly, of unknown age, but she had found a humble and congenial job.
From childhood many of us would well remember the story of Chicken Little. She was the character of fairy tale and fable who felt something fall on her head when she was out walking one day. Some say it was an acorn; some say it was a twig from a tree.
A question comes to mind today, to suggest a searching subject: No doubt all of us, at times, have experienced an acute sense of loneliness. But "what if loneliness were everlasting?"
From last week we recall the comment that the teacher is responsible for the total effect of his teaching; for his every utterance, his every innuendo, has its influence on others. In furtherance of this thought, we would cite a single short sentence from Henry Adams—simply said in twelve far-reaching words: "A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops."1 All occupation's and professions have some effect on others; but some touch lives on intimate terms.
In a single short sentence Thomas Carlyle suggests a searching subject: “Why tell me that a man is a fine speaker," he said, "if it is not the truth that he is speaking?"1 To paraphrase Carlyle's question: Why tell me that a man is a fine teacher, if it is not the truth that he is teaching?
We have referred before to Thomas Carlyle's informal address to the students at Edinburgh University. In it he offered some incisive counsel concerning the character and content of books: "There are two kinds of books," he said, "good books and bad books . . . I am not to assume that you are unacquainted, with this plain fact; but I may remind you that it is becoming a very important consideration in our day. And we have to cast aside altogether the idea people have, that . . . reading any book [is] . . . rather better than nothing at all. I must entirely call that in question . . . There is a number, a frightfully increasing number, of books that are decidedly, to the readers of them, not useful. But . . .. also, . . . a certain number of books were written by a supremely, noble kind of people, not a very great number of books, but still a number fit to occupy all your reading . . . In short, . . . I conceive that book are like men's souls; . . . Some few are going up, and carrying us up, heavenward; . . . in forwarding the teaching of all generations. Others, a frightful multitude, are going down, down; doing ever the more and the wider and the wilder mischief."1
Somewhat short of a century ago Thomas Carlyle delivered his inaugural address to the students of Edinburgh University, out of his heart and experience, and without a formal talk before him. And from this occasion there came a free flowing of informal utterance, moving in its practical soundness and sense. "There is," he said, "a process called cramming. . , that is, getting-up such points of things as the examiner is likely to put questions about. Avoid all that, as entirely unworthy of an honorable mind. Be modest, and humble, and assiduous in your attention to what your teachers tell you, . . . and ... follow and adopt them in proportion to their fitness for you."' As to the "process called cramming:"
Someone, of unknown name, has shrewdly said that "we must learn from the mistakes of others, because we'll never live long enough to make them all ourselves."1 Part of our heritage is the experience of others. Part of our heritage is the progress and errors of the past. Part of our heritage is the counsel of parents, and the commandments God has given. Part of our heritage permits us to begin where others have left off: The comforts and conveniences we have, medicine and mechanics, science and sanitation, are all part of the heritage we have. And in these tangible and material things we don't insist on going back to the beginning.
There come before us some further facets of the question as to how far can a person safely depart from principle: How far can he go and still get back when he wants to? At what age is character so completely set that a person can take a little latitude and be safe and assured?
The effect of our influence on others is always a matter of sobering concern. In the course of a lifetime, a man may himself, get a little out of line, and because he was well taught, because of his solid background, because he knows the difference between right and wrong, he may feel sure that he can safely get back when he wants to. And maybe he can.
One of the timeless questions—one seemingly never settled—is: "What makes people do what they do?" Human nature, we sometimes simply say—but human nature is no simple thing to consider, with all the complexities and problems, and all the motives of men. But no matter what other motives there may be, certainly pride is frequently a factor in the actions of people—and is somewhat inherent in us all.
Last week we talked of the fallacy of being free from work—and of the fact that we can't eat or travel or use any substance or any service without consuming someone's work—no matter how mechanized men's lives become. And further we recalled the fact that the Lord God could have made life free from work if He had thought it were wise—but this He did not do. And so today, we repeat, that work is a principle and a privilege, and not merely a penalty.
There are many opposing opinions as to what is considered to be success. And while some seek to prepare themselves for maximum service, there are some who seem to dedicate themselves to the idea of being free from work.
Last week we spoke of unfinished business, of things left undone that hang over our heads, And one, of the very worrisome things that hangs heavily over our heads is a debt that is due—or overdue. Paradoxically, it is a worry if we do worry about debt, and it is another kind of worry if we don't worry about debt.
All of us always have unfinished business. Most of us have unfulfilled obligations. Most of us have things piled far before us that always weigh on us and worry us—things we never quite get to, things we never quite catch up with—things we have agreed to do but haven't done.
Last week we quoted from Cromwell a single searching sentence: "I beseech you think it possible that you may be mistaken."1 We applied it then to being mistaken in misjudging men.
We often hear the trite expression that there are always two sides to a subject. And one thing that makes quarrels and misunderstandings and differences so difficult to settle is that so often there is some right and some wrong on both sides. And a person who is mostly right is so close to himself that he could fail to see that he might also in some degree be wrong. And seldom is a man so wrong that he cannot convince himself that he is at least partly right.
No day is better to change or repent than any other. Repentance and improvement are always in season. But sometimes it seems we have to have some special occasion to exert ourselves to a "self-survey." And the New Year seems traditionally to offer an open invitation to all to improve and repent. And now from among the many themes that might suggest themselves, we turn to one possible point of improvement and repentance: Sometimes in the give and take of life we find reason for much misunderstanding, and for anger and annoyance at others—and they at us. And such situations frequently lead to feelings of acute offense, and the closing up of hearts, and cutting others off, and avoiding other people as much as possible-even to the point of not speaking—both in public and in private places.
Many subjects suggest themselves at this season. We could talk of resolutions. We could talk of the surpassing satisfaction of paying debts that are due. We could talk of the swift traveling of time. But today we should like to talk about people—just plain people—people with problems; people with ambitions and opportunities; people who sometimes make mistakes and are sorry for them; people with hopes and sorrows and fears—and faith. They are all people—just plain people—like all the rest of us.
We cannot but be aware that this is a Christmas of contrasts. No doubt all Christmases have had their contrasts. And there is no doubt also that the same forces that have always opposed the plans and purposes of the Christ) the Prince of Peace, still oppose those plans and purposes. And the gospel that gives man his free agency, his right of choice, is sharply seen in contrast to oppression and coercion, and the enslaving of men's minds. One would think that the world would have learned, for there never was a good way of life that was founded on fear or on force.
In the process of adjusting to life, we all have some problems. And growing up is part of the process and the problem — sometimes a rather painful part. As Paul comments: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."1
Each day brings its own news, its own changes, its own uncertainties and decisions. Not for any of us is life always or ever altogether controllable or predictable or safe or certain. We all have to adjust to changes. We all have to learn to live with some uncertainty.
Memory isn't always altogether reliable, with all the human variables there are — and whether or not our memory on this point is altogether reliable we do not know, but sometimes it seems that there is less, or at least too little willingness on the part of too many people to accept real responsibility — for themselves or for their decisions, or for the soundness and success of enterprises or institutions, or, in some instances, for much of anything at an.
At some seasons we feel it more than others, but at all seasons it seems that most of us feel we are living in a period of pressure — a pressure that seems to be felt at every level of life: the pressure of complexity, the pressure of anxiety, the pressure of responsibility, the pressure of competition, which is perennial and ever-present — for whoever finds something bigger and better is going to find that others are going to find something still bigger and still better.
When news disturbs us from around the world, we sometimes spend uneasy hours, and, in considering uncertainties, might sometimes feel sorry for ourselves. But if we had a choice of troubles, after looking all around, surely, we would choose to retake our own troubles — with all else that is ours.
After we have left childhood and youth behind, and have taken our places as parents, we understand many things that were not clear to us before. But before we personally face the problems of parents, we might wonder why they do and say some things they do and say — and why they are sometimes so concerned.
For purposes of measuring progress, for purposes of measuring merit, some kinds of comparison are essential. They tell us where we are with respect to where we were, and where we ought to be. They give us standards and a sense of values, as we compare one thing with another.
Sometimes we become impatient with the present, We see its evils, its uncertainties, its imperfections, and earnestly we yearn for a day when things will be different. It is proper and expected that immortal man would hope for and have faith in a better future — but of utmost importance also is what Emerson called a "respect for the present hour."1
Most of us at times make absent-minded or inattentive errors. We dial a wrong number or write a wrong date or put something in the wrong place or pass an intersection that we intended to turn on. Often the result is no more serious than a bit of embarrassment or a little loss of time.