Spoken Word Messages - Page 66

There are always times of looking back in the living of a lifetime.  No matter What decisions we make or fail to make, we are likely to look back and wonder what would have happened if we had done differently.  Being human, as all of us are, we make mistakes. 

There comes to mind the recent remark of a young man facing some current problems and pressures: It was the utterance of one awakening to reality: "There certainly are a lot of decisions," he said.

In these days of increasing complexity as more and more of many things are offered, paradoxically it becomes more and more apparent that our choices in life are limited.

Last week we talked of the tension of pretending—of pretending to be what we aren't, of pretending to be doing what we aren't doing. There is another side of this subject that appears to be somewhat seasonable: Postponement is often a kind of pretense—or at least procrastination is procrastination in the sense that a person pretends that something he ought to be doing now is going to be easier later, and so justifies himself in leaving it until later.

There are, in literature and in life, some intense tales of the tensions that come from leading a double life.  In the field of espionage, for example, there would seem to be little time for relaxing, little time for the real living of life, when a person must constantly pretend to be something he isn’t or pretend to be doing something he isn't doing. 

It was Cicero who said: "To think is to live."1 Many other eminent observers have suggested the prime importance of the thoughts a person thinks—for thoughts are the forerunners both of utterance and of action.  Sometimes we will hear someone say, "If I had only thought, I would have done differently."

In any area of activity where two or more people participate, there sometimes comes the question as to whose part is most important — Whose service is most essential? — Who could get along best without the others? This question of comparative importance sometimes occurs in communities, in business and industry, in athletics, even in families, and in all organized activity.

There is in Ecclesiastes, a significant short sentence that suggests a subject; "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."1 "Truly the light is sweet" — and if one need any convincing of it, he need only wrestle with problems, with worries, in the doubt and discouragement that sometimes come with darkness. "Truly the light is sweet" — and one lesson we all have to learn is to wait at times for the light — to wait for the light in making decisions, to wait for the light in appraising the seriousness of symptoms, to wait for the light in assessing any situation — for darkness can and does distort.

Last week we referred to the rate of speed at which men move — to the fact that 60 miles an hour means moving 88 feet in a single second — to the losses that could occur from only a little wrong turn, from only a little inattention.  There are many other phases of this same subject that could be considered, as to the small differences between success and failure, between safety and sorrow. 

Some twenty centuries or so ago.  Epictetus gave us these very modern-sounding sentences: "It needs but a little to overthrow and destroy everything—just a slight aberration from reason.  For the helmsman to wreck his vessel, he does not need the same resources as he needs to save it: If he turns it but a little too far to the wind, he is lost; yes, and if he do it not deliberately but from mere want of attention, he is lost all the same.  It is very much the same in life, if you doze but a little, all that you have amassed up till now leaves you.  Keep awake then, and watch your impressions: It is no trifle you have in keeping, but self-respect, honor, constancy, a quiet mind, untouched by distress…1

We should like to consider for a moment or two another side of the power of prevention: Often we become so busy in life that we ignore the first symptoms and the warning signs in many matters.

We have spoken before of the power of repentance—and repentance is a great and saving principle.  But today we should like to turn for a moment or two to the power of prevention.  It seems sometimes that we spend too much of our lives putting out fires—too much time running to meet emergencies—too much time attempting to fix things that shouldn't have happened. 

Recently we approached the safety problem as a moral principle. Today we should like to consider safety as the evidence of an inner attitude, for the inner attitude of a person tends to carry over into all his outer activities. (We have talked before of temper as a mark of immaturity, and so, in many instances, are accidents—not immaturity of years only, but immaturity of emotion.)

People approach different seasons with different inner attitudes, and summer is often approached with an intent to let down the tensions, the pace, and performance. In some ways it isn't altogether assured that this hoped-for relaxation is realized, because we sometimes work so hard at entertaining ourselves and so often come back tired from vacation time.

With increasing carnage on the highways and elsewhere, it would seem that we need a new approach to the problem of safety.  And so, we suggest a consideration of safety not merely as a matter of statistics—not safety merely as a matter of mechanics—but safety as a God-given Right—safety as a moral principle.  "In the beginning," we read in the first book of the Bible, "God created the heaven and the earth . . . and God said, Let us make man in our image."1

This significant season suggests some sidelights on freedom:  One fact concerning freedom is that we seem so readily to recognize an enemy that assails our freedom with force, but do not always so readily recognize the loss of freedom by quiet encroachment. 

There was once perpetrated on the public a two-word phrase that is contrary to truth and goodness and good sense: "Live dangerously." Many do it, and many have done it—of which the rising accident rate is eloquent evidence, and of which there are other evidence also, with broken lives, and broken bodies, and broken minds—and broken hearts—and senseless waste and sorrow.

Life gives us many memories—of home, of mothers, of fathers and family. And as to fathers, we should like to turn today to some passing pictures and impressions: First of all, fathers commit themselves to rearing and providing for a family, to providing a home and taking on obligations which, however wonderful, require an immeasurable amount of faith and an immeasurable amount of work.

Often, we enter each season with new plans and new purposes—but time is so swift, and the months move by, and we look back and wonder how they could have gone so suddenly and soon.

Whenever we arrive anywhere, wherever we are is but a place from which to proceed to the next place.  Those who have come to Commencement have arrived at this realization—for life is a process, and not a finished product; and so is learning—or should be—all of which is somewhat summarized in this quoted sentence: "If you were graduated yesterday, and have learned nothing today, you will be uneducated tomorrow."1  This may, in a sense, seem discouraging, but in reality, it is what keeps our interest in life fresh and alive. 

Not long ago from the window of a waiting train we watched a young mother with two young daughters, all dressed in their best, eagerly, anxiously looking at the passengers alighting. And then there was a light in their eyes as there came into view the one they were waiting for—the young father, who completed the family circle: then running steps, and arms wide open, and arms tightly closed around one another, with everyone talking, and everyone looking lovingly at everyone as they walked to the waiting car. Father had come home. Mother and children were there. All were together again.

In the memorable play, Our Town, one of the philosophizing characters speaks these telling lines: "I'm awfully interested in how big things . . . begin. You know how it is: you're [young] and you make some decisions; then whissh! you're seventy: you've been a lawyer for fifty years, and that white-haired lady at your side has eaten over fifty thousand meals with you. How do such things begin?"1

Two thoughts come sharply through today—two questions really, almost always asked by children, young or old, when they come home from anywhere at any hour: "Is mother home?" "Where is mother?" And mothers in turn, blessedly and earnestly, ask their own kind of questions: "Are the children at home?" "Are they all in?"1 One doesn't belong to someone else without having absence felt. One doesn't give life, and birth, and sweetly dedicated service with a sense of emptiness in absence.

There is a sentence from an unidentified author which says in substance: "There is no limit to the good a man can do, if he doesn't care who gets the credit."1 But sometimes the good that could be done is slowed down by petty comparisons—by people who want to make sure they don't do more than their share.

There comes to mind today a stanza of a hymn which has some special meanings for the discouraged and the heavyhearted, part of which consists of these two short sentences: "Why should this anxious load Press down your weary mind? Haste to your Heavenly Father's throne, And sweet refreshment find."1

May we turn today to another phase of freedom—to the question of freedom and conformity: How much does conformity come into conflict with freedom? How much freedom do we have if we must live according to the law? This is a question that young people often wrestle with, even from. the earliest years of youth.

The question of freedom is always before us: what it is—and how much men were meant to have—and how much freedom one can have within the limits of the law. 

Last week we talked of the reality of the resurrection and of man's immortality. Scripture and reason and revelation, as well as the very awareness within us, all attest to man's eternal continuance. Since this is so, since men are immortal, how should we best use our time, what should we most try to acquire?

It is a good thing sometimes to examine the reasons for some of the things we do.  Customs and habits are relatively easy to make and relatively difficult to break.  And among our most persistent habits and customs are those which have to do with traditional days and seasons, one of which is Easter.  And we should like to look at it a moment to see, if separated from some of its unessentials, how much it really means to each of us. 

There is an old hymn which could well be quoted often, and oftener remembered: "There is beauty all around, When there's love at home; There is joy in ev'ry sound, When there's love at home . ."1