Spoken Word Messages - Page 72

The longer we live the more aware we are of the shortness of this life we live, and the more aware we are of a sense of loss and of loneliness as those whom we have lived among and loved leave us one by one. 

In the normal course of living there are many pleasantries that pass from person to person.  There is also much social. veneer and much perfunctory impersonal politeness.  For example, in passing we may more or less automatically ask others “how they are,” often not waiting for an answer or really expecting one. 

There is no more basic question in life than the question of freedom and force.  No doubt it was a foremost question before the world was.  If there is to be order, there must be law.  But with freedom there is always likely to be some violation of law. 

As we see a new home, finished and landscaped and lovely, we may partly forget the process by which it was brought into being.  There was dirt to be dug; and rough materials to be shaped and put in place—and littered plaster and sawdust and shavings and much noise along with all else.  And while it was in the making, we had to have perspective, and we had to have faith—faith in the plan, in the blueprint, in the materials, and in the men who made it. We had to believe that it would someday be what it promised to be. 

Perhaps all of us pursue some things which, after we acquire them, seem somewhat shallow or shoddy or at least unessential.  And then we wonder why we wished for them so much and worked for them so hard and passed by more worth-while things we might have had. 

We sometimes use formidable words to express simple ideas.  Consider, for example, the word psychosomatic.

When we think of America's patriots of the past, there are two who almost unfailingly are mentioned, whom this month we hold in special remembrance. 

On a certain journey not long ago, some travelers encountered one of those untamed onslaughts of the elements which man, despite all his previous preparations, is never quite prepared for.  It became a question of survival, or of fear test they should not survive.  And afterward, one who was there soberly said: "There were some people who talked to the Lord that night, who had not talked to him for a long time."

As concerning young people, parents are sometimes heard to say: "I don't know what more I can do.  I have given them everything anyone could ask."  But sometimes it seems that we are willing to give everything—except ourselves! 

There are many circumstances and situations in which we may feel that we are marking time—or worse—wasting time.  There are times when we are waiting for people and appointments when we feel cheated as we think of what we might have done with the time we waste in waiting. 

Often, we complain about being busy, and certainly at times we are—too busy—sometimes at essential things and sometimes at non-essential things.  And because we are so busy, we may sometimes wish for inactivity, even for idleness; we may wish for the leisure to pursue what have come to be called pleasant pastimes.  But before we sever ourselves from pressing assignments, before we turn away from work, before we disengage ourselves from real responsibility, we should take a realistic look at what are sometimes called pleasant pastimes. 

Sometimes someone is heard to say what he will do to someone else—if—!  And in that "if" a threat is uttered or implied. 

There is in most of us a tendency at times not to do anything that is difficult to do, not to perform any unpleasant service or engage in any inconvenient activity. The tendency is often apparent in our younger years when we haven't yet had to learn some things which later in life, we find that we must learn. 

There is a comforting line from Shakespeare, which, in one short sentence has much to suggest: "What's past is prologue."1 It is a plea, for hope, for new beginnings, for not brooding about what cannot now be reclaimed or recalled, a plea for faith in the future—a plea for repentance. 

So soon the cycle has once more swiftly turned itself, and suddenly we have come again to the closing of the calendar.  It seems only a few short weeks since we were watching another calendar close, since we were watching another winter, watching another spring, watching the growing season of summer. 

In commenting on this Christmas, may we pass for a moment the usual texts that we might turn to, and take one from far back, from the first book of the Bible, that recalls how the Creator of heaven and earth looked over what had been brought into being—"and God saw that it was good."1 And it was good: a beautiful and bounteous earth with its seasons and its sustenance, with forests and fields, the sun and the sea, the fruits and flowers, the meadows and mountains and so much else unmentioned, given for our good  by a loving Father in whose image men were made. 

In any loss or injury or illness or accident, the first sharpness of pain, the first fear, the first disappointment, the first sense of sorrow, may seem almost unbearable.  But mercifully, in the case of physical injury, usually the first sharpness subsides—enough at least to be bearable.  And mercifully, this is true to some extent in other things also. 

There is an always urgent field for thought in the problem of disciplining people.  Parents, and others, may frequently find themselves searching and praying and pleading for wisdom and guidance in the teaching and disciplining of young and impressionable people, and of others also. 

We often hear of the quality of faith—faith in God, faith as an antidote to fear, faith for a future that cannot be foreseen, faith as a sustaining force in misfortune and sorrow and uncertainty, faith in eternal plan and purpose and in limitless personal progress and everlasting reunion with those we love, faith in "the substance . . . of things not seen" which are true. 

It has sometimes been suggested that to make us fully thankful, everything we have should be taken from us, and then one at a time, each cherished and essential thing should be given back to us again. 

There are two things in life of exceeding importance: One is to decide, and the other is to decide rightly.  To be torn between two alternatives without being able to make up one's mind is a time-consuming, peace-destroying factor that can do much to nullify effectiveness. 

There is a sentence from one of the writings of Samuel Taylor Coleridge that suggests a deeply significant subject: "Veracity," be said, "does not consist in saying, but in the intention of communicating truth." Too often it is assumed that the truth has been told if someone simply says the right words. 

In the history of ancient Israel there are some sobering sentences from Joshua for the solemn consideration of his people and for us also: "And Joshua said unto all the people, Thus saith the Lord God of Israel . . . I brought your fathers out of Egypt ... and the Egyptians pursued after your fathers with chariots and horsemen unto the Red sea.  And when they cried unto the Lord, he put darkness between you and the Egyptians, and brought the sea upon them, and covered them; and your eyes have seen what I have done in Egypt …and I brought you into the land of the Amorites,… and they fought with you: and I gave them into your hand,… Then ... the king of Moab, arose and warred against Israel, . ..And ye went over Jordan, and came unto Jericho: and the men of Jericho fought against you . . . and I delivered them into your hand ... And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and olive yards which ye planted not do ye eat.  Now therefore fear the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in truth."

It sometimes seems that we live much of our lives by trial and error. (And, parenthetically, may we observe in passing, when our errors are more numerous than they need to be, our trials are also.) Our own errors are often the ones we best understand and generously make allowances for—but not so always with the errors and inefficiency of others.  We often wonder why others don't do better. 

One of the most obvious evidence of man's ingenuity is the excuses he contrives to make.  The variety and plausibility of our explanations to ourselves and to others for our failures to perform seem sometimes to exceed the fabrications of fiction. 

There are two extremes of attitude in which a man may find himself and which have always proved to be perilous.  One is an overpowering sense of fear—and the other, a false sense of security. 

There seems to be little evidence that the Creator of the universe was ever in a hurry.  Everywhere, on this bounteous and beautiful earth, and to the farthest reaches of the firmament, there is evidence of patient purpose and planning and working and waiting. 

Perhaps few if any of us escape our days of depression and the feeling of being down and discouraged.  Fear and gnawing worry and depression of spirit are among the most common and most uncomfortable of ailments, sometimes induced by serious personal problems, sometimes by causes partly imagined, and sometimes by the whole outlook of events. 

As to the difficulties of arriving at justice and fair judgment, one philosopher observed: "We must remember that we have to make judges out of men, and that by being made judges their prejudices are not diminished and their intelligence is not increased."

Perhaps most of us give way at times to actions and attitudes and utterances which we well know are below our best.  But whenever we depart from being at our best, we must remember that there are at least two things for which we are constantly accountable: One is the effect our attitudes and actions have on us, and the other is the effect our attitudes and actions have on others.