Spoken Word Messages - Page 78

There is a lesson sooner or later learned by almost all of us, and that is that there are some things we have to leave to time. If we were to call for self-confession, we might well have a large showing of hands from those who have sometime planted seeds but who couldn't wait for shoots to show above the surface and so have dug them up to see what they were doing. But we can't dig up the seed and have a harvest or break open a bud and have a flower. We have to leave so many things to time.

"Of all the cants that are canted in this world, though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting."1 Perhaps we can all echo these words of an eighteenth-century philosopher. Criticism is tormenting. But no doubt we all need it at times—and certainly it would be safe to say that we are all sometimes subject to criticism. The more we do the more we may expect criticism. And, paradoxically, the less we do the more we may expect criticism. And if we do nothing, we may also expect criticism. It is natural for people to appraise other people and to appraise other people's performance. No man who lives in this world escapes appraisal of his performance. By reason of the very space he occupies, and the inevitable impact of his actions on others, every man must expect to be called to account for his actions and utterances. And tormenting though it may be, no individual, no group of individuals, should, for their own sakes, assume themselves to be above criticism, or should suppress honest opinion from outside or inside sources. Indeed, the person who insulates himself from criticism has lost a valuable safety factor. The right to criticize (and to be criticized) is exceedingly important. Whether ours is a public or a private trust, people will freely express their opinions concerning us and what we do. And even if we were able to suppress their outspoken opinions, they would still think their own thoughts and find ways to convey them to others. All history has proved this. But before we criticize, we should make sure that we know something about the subject. We should make sure that we are not blindly stampeded into echoing the opinions of others, or that we are not prompted by prejudice or envy or even ignorance. As Disraeli wrote: "It is much easier to be critical than correct." And the critic himself is not above criticism. Criticism is not above criticism. And as we hold to the right to criticize others, we ourselves must expect to be criticized. Annoying as it may be, we cannot expect to do anything (or nothing) in this world without being subject to some criticism. 1Laurence Sterne, 1761 "The Spoken Word," heard over Radio Station K S L and the nationwide Columbia Broadcasting System, from the Tabernacle, Temple Square, Salt Lake City, Sunday, September 25, 1949, 11.30 to 12:00 noon, Eastern Time. Copyright 1949

Young people leaving home, whether it be only for an evening or for an extended stay, are often given to assuring their parents that there is no need to worry. Those who are leaving home for work or for school or for other purposes are often given to assuring those they leave behind that they will remain unchanged—unchanged in their thoughts, in their feelings, in their actions, and in their attitudes. And they believe it! Youth are confident in their own strength.

It is high tribute to say of any man that he is just in all his judgments. And it is higher tribute to be able to say that he is generous as well as just in judgment. Ungenerous judgment is an unfortunate character fault. And yet perhaps there is nothing men do quite so much as misjudge other men. One philosopher offered this observation: "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."1

Every man should certainly have a set of sound principles to which he can turn when any proposal is presented, to him. When people have a sound and accepted set of principles, the everyday decisions of life are much less difficult. In some respects, perhaps the situation could be compared to what happens on the playing field. If an umpire knows the rules, if he knows the principle that covers each play, he can immediately decide each issue without hesitation and without thumbing through the book. But if he doesn't know, or if he doesn't immediately decide, or if for any reason he is persuaded to depart from the rules, he must certainly face loss of prestige with himself, with the players, and with the public, and perhaps consequences much more serious.

The question of judging ourselves' and others is always a matter of serious concern. Perhaps all of us, certainly almost all of us, seek to justify our own actions and are critical of the actions of others; and most of us do some things that we resent in others—which reminds us of the man referred to by the Master—the Pharisee who prayed: "I thank thee that I am not as other men are."1 More justified, said the Savior, was the publican who prayed, "God be merciful to me a sinner."2

We sometimes waste too much of the present in waiting for the return of the pattern of the past. Much as we may wish it were otherwise, things are never again exactly as once they were. And whatever part of the past we might wish to bring back, we must not waste the present by brooding about it. Life is fluid and flowing, varied and ever moving. And there is never a single moment that we can hold for more than a moment.

Perhaps most of us give way at times to actions and attitudes and utterances which we would not ordinarily approve in ourselves or in others. But whenever we depart from our most acceptable selves, 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. Especially should we be mindful of the effect of our actions and utterances on young and impressionable people.

At this season we recall again one of the pleasant pastimes of our childhood, when we paused with other wide-eyed youngsters to watch the billposter, forerunner of circuses and shows and other events, skillfully ply his paste and somehow make the parts of a ready-made picture slip piece by piece into place—thus to tell all passersby of things to come. The first piece may not have given much hint as to the complete picture but perhaps the second or the third did. And one by one we began to see the component parts of the various performers—and we experienced much impatience when we were pressed for time and couldn't wait for the picture to be completed.

Like most stories that are old, this one has been told with many variations at successive seasons: It is the story of the man who was frantically following a crowd that had moved far ahead of him. Panting and pleading in his effort to overtake them, he cried—"Tell them to wait for me. I am their leader!" There is another version of this same idea that comes as questionable advice to those who would be leaders: "Find out where they are going and then get in front of them.” These two citations suggest two ways (not recommended) of "leading" people: (1) ask them to wait while you catch up with them, (2) find out where the crowd is going, and then get in front of them.

The pattern of the past suggests that there are many ways of moving men, but only one way that may be depended upon to bring about permanent improvement and dependability. You can push people around with a strong arm. You can overwhelm them with authority. You can stampede them with fear. You can confuse them with falsehood. You can wear them down with endless argument.

There are many sentiments that could be cited on the subject of work. Among them is this sentence by a wit who was wary of work: "I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours."1 But there are some earnestly serious thoughts on this theme: And one is that the Creator intended that all men should work their way through life. Working isn't a matter merely of personal want or of wealth. It is a principle of human happiness, and a "must" for mankind. And whenever freedom from work becomes an ideal, not only are poverty and privation in the offing, but something happens inside—not only as to the mind and muscle of man, but there is a sagging of his very soul.

As a society of men we have learned, in part at least, to protect ourselves against many things. Those who commit theft or violence, we endeavor to isolate. Against hazards to public health or safety, we invoke quarantines and provide other appropriate protection and penalties. But there are some things against which we have not been so effective in protecting ourselves—one of which is offensive speech. If we were to spread poison where people were likely to be exposed or injured, we would expect severe penalties.

Throughout all the ages all manner of substitutes for freedom have been fostered. Ambitious or misguided leaders and aggressive and misdirected peoples, times without number, have induced others with promises of plenty, or with fear, or with force, to yield their freedom. Peoples and individuals alike have often been known to exchange freedom for the promise of plenty, freedom for the supposed certainty of security—freedom for everything conceivable—and they have all made bad bargains, no matter what they got or how long they kept it—for freedom once yielded is costly to buy back.

Emerson wrote in one of his essays: "I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names . . ."1 It is undeniably true that we often accept things for what they seem to be on the surface. One look at a label is often all we ask. We are sometimes so impressed with names that we may not look closely enough at the man. Sometimes we accept a person merely because of the company he keeps. Perhaps it is generally true that people can be judged by the company they keep, but it is not invariably true, nor is it invariably a fair or adequate or safe judgment.

Constantly we are all confronted with many prospects and possibilities and proposals. Indeed, life is an endless series of decisions. And one of the questions frequently asked when proposals are presented is this: "What is there in it for me?" It isn't always so frankly phrased, or so bluntly stated as this, but it is often the first question asked, nevertheless. Surely it is not improper that the question of personal profit should frequently present itself, but it is exceedingly doubtful if the matter of material gain should ever be the first question. Rather, should not the first question to any proposal be simply this: "Is it right?"

Perhaps it is an opportune time to pay our respects again to the fallacy of figures. We are sometimes inclined to look with considerable satisfaction upon columns of assorted figures which seem to indicate that all is well with the average. But statistical columns seldom take all of the facts into account, and this elusive individual known as "the average" is rarely found. The fallacy of averages appears when we begin to look at what lies above and below the average.

As each school year comes to a close, another generation of young people are appraised and promoted and graded and graduated. Many, of course, will return to continue their studies; some will go to higher halls of learning; but each year there are many who forever leave school doors behind—leave teachers, and campus, and cherished companions. And despite all outward exuberance and all expressions of relief, it is a sober time for youth, as they leave their days of preparation to go out into a world that expects performance. And as they go forth to assume their share of the world's burdens and responsibilities, it is exceedingly important that they take with them much more than formal facts committed to memory. It is important that they take with them a reliable sense of values, the ability to sift the facts from the fallacies, the truths from the theories, the essentials from the non-essentials. We must in fairness be reminded that some things we have learned with great effort will soon be forgotten; that some of this year's textbooks may next year become obsolete; that many theories will change; that added truth is constantly coming to light. But if we have learned to keep our minds open for all that the future may bring forth; if we have learned to value high qualities of character above mere intellectual acumen; if we have learned to avoid intolerant dogmatism, academic or otherwise, and have learned to guard against assuming that our education is complete, we shall be better prepared to meet the many adjustments that are sure to come. And now as to the future: It would be difficult to appraise the permanent prospects of any particular occupation or profession. But no matter what lies before us, character, faith, intelligence, loyalty, and reliability will always be held at high premium; and the future holds much promise for the well-trained young man or young woman so long as he is willing to work and so long as he has not lost the capacity to learn. But more tragic than he who thinks there are no more worlds to conquer is he who thinks he has finished his education. And more tragic than either, is he who supposes that there are no more truths to be, discovered, that there are no further facts to come forth. Revised. (See also "Educated--Now What?") "The Spoken Word," heard over Radio Station K S L and the nationwide Columbia Br6adeasting System, from the Tabernacle, Temple Square, Salt Lake City, Sunday, June 5, 1949, 11:30 to 12:00 noon, Eastern Time Copyright 1949

There is perhaps no more persistently pondered question among men than that of immortality, and one great witness of its reality is that men deal in futures. The time rarely, if ever, comes in the life of any person when his planning and his purposes do not extend beyond the present. This is true of those who seemingly yet have far to travel in this life and also of those who seemingly have not far to go. Men have in common a love of life, even under conditions which would sometimes seem to make the love of life difficult to understand; and even when interest has been lost in the values of this world, there are earnest thoughts for the future. The constant beckoning of the limitless unknown urges us on, as it always has and always will, no matter what age we have attained as men count time.

Human thoughts and feelings are contagious; and an epidemic of losing faith in the future is one of the worst things that could ever happen to this world. We can assume that a situation is hopeless, and even if it isn't, our attitude might make it much worse than it is. For our present purpose, suppose we presume that the worst we fear were actually going to happen. Suppose that civilization were surely doomed. Suppose that all men and all moral and material values were going to be wiped off the earth. Suppose all these fearful suppositions were true! Even if they were, what could we possibly lose by building for the future? And what could we gain by giving up in dark despondency?

Sometimes when we are asked why we do something, we have no better answer to offer than the fact that "It's being done." But there ought to be a better reason for doing something than the mere fact that someone else is doing it. Before we do what, others are doing, we should satisfy ourselves that they know what they're doing—and, furthermore, that it ought to be done. As one philosopher wrote: "To copy faults is want of sense."' We must remember that everything we do merely because someone else is doing it was once started by someone. And maybe the person who started it knew what he was doing, and maybe he made a mistake. Sometimes the blind lead the blind.

One of the difficult tasks that confronts parents is to pass on to their children an appreciation of what has gone into the making of the things they enjoy. Through years of work and worry, parents put forth their most earnest efforts to make comfortable homes. Their children, in turn, not yet having had to make their own way, often take things for granted, and sometimes assume that comforts and conveniences come easily. Parents may tell their children a thousand times over how difficult it once was for them, how many midnight hours have gone into the making of their homes, how they went without, labored long, and, finally, by hard and sure steps, acquired what they have.

All of us, no doubt, intend to do many things that we never get around to doing. There may be many reasons for this. Sometimes we underestimate our capacity, and hesitate to begin; sometimes we overestimate it, and make more commitments than we can possibly fulfil. Sometimes we sit and wait for supposedly ideal conditions. But so-called ideal conditions rarely come. If the men who have most enriched the world had waited for ideal conditions before beginning their work, we should have had few inventions, few masterworks, few discoveries.

One of the relentless things about life is that it is passing. Time spends itself no matter what we do with it. It moves at its own pace, and we can't "save" any part of it. The only part we play in its passing is the purpose to which we put it. We can waste it or use it well. We can fill it full or leave it empty and idle. We can use it for the right things or for the wrong things. And since we can't "save" it, since it is going to pass at its own pace anyway, we had just as well decide to make the most of it.

Death means different things at different times to different people: To one who has long been weary in well-doing, it may mean blessed release—the sweet sorrow of parting, but without bitterness. To one whom we feel has not had a fullness of time, it is an unwelcome intruder. To all of us it is something which we may ultimately expect. But to those we love—to families, friends, to beloved companions—death is an acute loss, a sorrow that softens only with time, and the memory of which is never completely erased. And when death comes near, it strips from life all of its superficialities and puts us face to face with the meaning of things as they are.

Sometimes when we see what others have done, we wonder why they didn't do better. We often wonder why past generations didn't do things differently. When some new improvement comes along, we wonder why someone didn't think of it sooner. We look back at early inventions and compare them with present-day products and wonder why they, weren't made better to begin with. And when we travel old roads that wander a long way around, we may wonder why the men who made them didn't make them straighter. But we must remember that most things have humble beginnings. Neither men nor methods, nor ideas nor edifices are born full-grown.

There are some fine distinctions to be found in the now immortal phrase, "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Life is an eternal fact, liberty, an inalienable right. But with happiness—we are offered only the right to pursue it! We can give a man his liberty. He may not use it well or keep it long, but we can give it to him. But not so his happiness. We can help, but ultimately, he has to help himself to happiness.

None of us can count with certainty on any prolonged period of tranquility. When things seem to be going about as we would have them go—when at last it seems that we might relax and live according to our own plans and purposes, it so often happens that uninvited events quickly change the pattern, despite our best planning. Why it should be so is a question that is often asked and difficult to answer. Certainly part of the answer is to be found in the fact that if we had everything our own way, there are many developing experiences which we would surely spare ourselves.

We often feel that we would avoid making mistakes if we only knew more about the future. Certainly this is sometimes so, but certainly it isn't always so, as evidence of which we need only remind ourselves how often we ignore what we do know—both about the present and the future—and how often we ignore those things which the past has taught us about the future. We already know the future in principle. Causes which have once produced specific effects may again be expected to produce the same effects. This is the process of law.

At some time or other, perhaps everyone asks himself: Why should I conform to the rules? Why should I maintain standards and ideals? Why should the promises or threatened punishments of a remote hereafter restrict my way of life? Maybe this old adage about virtue's being its own reward is just an old-fashioned idea. There are many answers to this line of questioning but suppose for the moment we forget about heaven and the hereafter and confine our answers to what we positively know about ourselves here and now.