Spoken Word Messages - Page 85

Within the past few days we of America have seen come and go another anniversary of great significance in our history, the one hundred fifty-eighth anniversary of the Constitution of the United States. It would not be wholly correct to say that this anniversary was passed over without notice, because here and there it was both officially and unofficially referred to—but to say that it was passed by, unnoticed by many Americans, is conservatively within the facts.

Slavery is of many kinds, and one prevalent variety is the slavery of those who are slaves to appearances. Our much-quoted Benjamin Franklin once wrote: "There are numbers who, perhaps, fear less the being in hell than out of fashion." And while we have often attempted to lay the charge at the feet of women, by no means do they have a monopoly on this prevalent human failing. In many ways humankind show themselves to be fearful of being out of fashion-sometimes in their opinions as well as in their apparel—sometimes even in their beliefs and loyalties and principles.

We live these days in the long-awaited expectancy of the return of those we love. Some of them have already come back. Some of them, to our deep sorrow, do not walk this way again; our reunion with them will wait another time and place. But most of them are yet to come—and concerning them and concerning ourselves, there are some things we may well remember. Generally speaking, the longer people live together the more they think alike; and the longer they are apart the less alike they think.

There comes to mind this day a comment of the chief captain of the Romans to Paul the Apostle: And the chief captain said: "With a great sum obtained I this freedom." (Acts 22:28.) With a great sum, in money, in life, and in irreplaceable things, our world and our generation have been given another opportunity to live in peace—peace with ourselves, peace with our neighbors, peace with all men. By the mercy of God, and at a cost which no man can know, this has come by the sinews, by the sorrow, and by the sacrifice of many nations and peoples.

Very much in our minds these days is the question of "face-saving." The commission of an act that is in any degree wrong or unworthy, almost always seems to set in motion a process of self-justification. Often, even before we are called upon to explain our errors to others, we have already explained them to ourselves—and the excuses humankind can think of are a tribute to man's inventive genius, even if not always to his regard for truth. There is no small deception, no theft, there is no kind of lying or cheating or misdoing but for which, if a man goes back far enough, and misuses the facts adroitly enough, he can find the means of self-justification.

In the observance of war's end, feelings long pent-up have broken loose, with some relief, with some satisfaction, and with many varieties of expression, both thoughtful and hilarious. And now, we have been called to prayer and to thanksgiving—with sober reflection upon all the causes that took us where we were, that brought us where we are, and that may keep us going where we ought to go. After a war has started it seems to be much too late, for a time at least, to think how it might have been prevented.

It has long been quoted and acknowledged that a little learning is a dangerous thing, and human experience would more than justify the paraphrase that a little authority may also be an exceedingly dangerous thing. Always we are faced with the paradoxical truth that where there is no authority, things don't get done; but, with men, any authority may tend to become too much authority.

Delivering a well-earned spanking to a child, with the assurance, "This hurts me worse than it does you," is a bit of hackneyed humor that has become a stock phrase for use on many occasions. But aside from its well-worn wit, behind it is an oft-experienced truth. Frequently when a conscientious and loving parent finds it necessary to punish a child, there is much of remorse and of anguish on the part of him who metes out the punishment.

There are times when we may be disposed to conduct our lives carelessly and indifferently, on the assumption that when it is opportune and necessary, we will settle down to the serious business of living and give a more favorable account of ourselves. However, inevitably there comes a day when we have reason to learn how great is the importance of the record—all the record—not only the parts we are proud of, but also the parts we wish weren't there. For example, millions of young men have come to learn the meaning of the military record that goes with a soldier wherever he goes, explaining his past and qualifying his future. But this is only one of innumerable records that are kept in life, all of which add up to the picture of the whole.

We remember from childhood those who were forever changing the rules in the middle of the game, to their own advantage—and if they couldn't, they wouldn't play. And there were those who would profess fast friendship until a more useful acquaintance came along—those who made professions of loyalty but who changed their loyalties as opportunity favored them. And as we grew older, we found that this spirit of opportunism was not confined to childhood, as we may once have supposed.

In order to justify their own actions, men, knowingly or otherwise, are constantly attempting to define evil in such a way as to give themselves comfortable conscience. Unto certain Scribes and Pharisees, who were seemingly attempting to do this very thing, Jesus the Christ often paid his scathing respects, for he perceived their desire to have evil narrowly and precisely defined so that by observing the letter they could be absolved from infractions of the spirit.

We live in the paradoxical situation of having more people concerned about other people's problems than ever before, and the more the concern, seemingly the more also are the problems. The multiplicity of plans and of programs, of agencies and institutions, which have been created to help men find their way in life, is virtually innumerable. The multiplicity of instrumentalities and organizations would seem to have become such that it would be difficult for any man to lose his way, difficult for him to want for anything that wasn't readily available, from the cradle to the grave.

Much consideration is given these days to the question of security. Security is a blessing greatly to be desired, and few men there are who do not earnestly wish for it. Indeed, our search for economic security is the reason for which we do much that we do. It is this for which we work, for which we save and sacrifice, for which we insure, for which we attempt to hedge against many future eventualities. And the feeling of insecurity is a haunting specter that often destroys the peace and the efficiency of men. But, desirable as it is, there are many false notions concerning security, and there are many varieties of false security offered at exorbitant prices.

Conscientious parents often find it necessary to advise their children against frequenting questionable places or traveling with questionable company. But youth are confident in their own strength—confident in their ability to remain unchanged by the influences both of environment and people, and to this kind of caution there often comes the characteristic reply: "It won't hurt us. Why shouldn't we do it?"

The world has become somewhat scrambled of late—that is, people have; and countless numbers, uprooted from their customary environment, find themselves in strange and unfamiliar places with strange and unfamiliar people. But despite this, those who are young look expectantly to the unfolding of the years, to cherished companionship, to the making of homes, to the rearing of families. They have a right to their dreams. They have a right to see such dreams come true. But even in times of settled stability, one of the most critical decisions of life, one forever after affecting happiness, is the question of marriage—or more specifically, the choice of a partner in marriage.

It was an ancient prophet, reputed for much wisdom, who observed with seeming discouragement: "Of making many books there is no end." (Ecclesiastes 12:12.) We would paraphrase the utterance with equal truth and with much more of consternation, to observe that, likewise of the making of many laws there is no end. It is common to our time, as also to other times, that there is much of reliance upon the multiplicity of laws as also upon the technicalities of law, sometimes accompanied by the erroneous assumption that everything that is legal or licensed is, necessarily moral or ethical. But with our endless making of many laws, with our innumerable legal conflicts and contradictions, there are many acts of expediency and convenience which may have little or nothing to do with morality or ethics.

There is a prevalent practice among us which it would seem there is need of repeated reminder. We refer to the use of offensive language—but more especially that language which profanes the name of Deity. There was a time when the uttering of strong and violent oaths, the use of profanity, was more commonly associated with questionable places and people—or at least was reserved for tense and deeply provocative situations—but somehow or other it seems now to have become a thoughtlessly casual custom, until one may hear it sometimes in the most unexpected places and from the most unexpected people, both old and young, both male and female.

We approach again another day of remembrance, not that the bereaved need to be reminded of those who have departed, but rather that a nation may be reminded of its honored dead, and of the causes for which they have given their lives. There are many kinds of remembrance, some of which are superficial and some of which are acutely real. There is a kind of remembrance that confines itself to formal occasions—that is ceremoniously disposed of, and then forgotten—the kind of remembrance which is the subject of periodic lip service—a sort of planned and scheduled outpouring of sentiment in which fine phrases fill the air, and as quickly fade into forgetfulness, until another special occasion calls them forth again. But there is also the constant remembrance of those for whom every hour of every day is an unforgettable memorial—the remembrance of them who have lost those they love.

The needs of our lives are many—but they are perhaps not as many as we sometimes permit ourselves to suppose. Like the children we are, we are often inclined to pray for things we think are essential to our happiness, but which, in fact, may have little to do with our happiness. As do some children, we frequently seem to want what we want regardless of the consequences to us, and regardless of who else has to go without to give it to us.

It is good that a nation this day should be called to prayer and thanksgiving. We have much yet to ask, and exceedingly much to be grateful for. Victory is ours in part, and, God being willing, there will come a day—not too far distant, we hope—when it will be ours more completely. Among those things for which we pray this day is humility. It is difficult for some to be humble even in defeat. It is also difficult to be humble in victory. We pray that we may be so.

Within the week we have had yet further evidence, if we needed any, of the unspeakable consequences that can come into the lives of those who follow after false leadership. The record of mankind has given us altogether too many examples of the widespread misery caused by men who have more power than principle, more ambition than altruism more influence than integrity. Leadership built upon such false foundations inevitably collapses—and the more pretentious it is, the greater the fall—but the greater also is the misery that follows in its wake, not for the leaders only, but, bitterly, for all.

It is time again to talk of peace—although it is not yet with us. When men have peace, often they use it carelessly and esteem it lightly. But when it has gone from us we come to know how blessed we were when we had it, and we yearn for it, in anguish and in sorrow—sometimes almost to the point of repentance. Peace is like many other things that are cherished in life, as they are difficult to get. Those we love and live with, we often regard casually, and use them poorly, but sorely miss them when they are gone—and wish we had done differently when they were here. We tend to mourn for what we once had, and to abuse and neglect what we do have.

The questions asked by children are seemingly interminable, as those who have attempted to answer them know full well. "Why this?" "Why that?" "Why everything?"—and every answer seems only to suggest another question. As children we ask "why?" to many things which adults accept as a matter of course. We ask "why?" because what is obvious, to others is not obvious to us. And often those whose responsibility it is to teach and to train us in our youth rightly expect us to accept some answers which are beyond our understanding because wisdom and experience, and because God and men have found the answers to be good. In other words, as children, we are asked to have faith where our knowledge and experience are lacking.

The ever-present expectancy of death is never far removed from any of us—whether we realize it or not. None of us can avoid it. It comes alike to the great and to the unknown; to the righteous and to the unrighteous. Wherein we differ is not in our ability to avert it, but in the preparedness with which we meet it. At such times some question the judgments of God. Some find bitterness because of the circumstances and because of the seeming untimeliness of death. With our limited understanding, often we do not agree with the time and the place and the manner in which men come and go.

In childhood we are excused for many mistakes on grounds of ignorance. But long after we cease to be children there are times when we would like to claim the same immunity—which brings before us the timeworn question as to how long and to what extent ignorance is excusable. The question would be easier to answer if all ignorance were of the same kind—but this it is not. Sometimes ignorance is honest and unavoidable. But there is also the ignorance of which Peter wrote, “ . . . they willingly are ignorant . . . ” (11 Peter 3:5) –the willful ignorance that prefers to believe what it finds convenient to believe.

Death means many things to many people: To one who has been long weary in well doing, it may mean blessed release—the sweet sorrow of parting, and without bitterness. To a doctor it may mean failure or the expected result of an uncontrollable cause. To the world in general, it is a natural process—something which we may all inevitably expect, and concerning which we should not, therefore, be too surprised, when it comes to us or to someone we know.

There is a commonplace but ever-startling observation to be made concerning men, and that is: how very much alike they are, and at the same time, how very different. Those reared in the same home at the same time under the same influences, often give early evidence of strikingly different personalities, abilities, and aptitudes. Even so-called identical twins may be vitally different in many ways, although their likeness of looks may be confusing to others. Occasionally genius appears—perhaps one of a family, perhaps one of a generation—rich minds, great souls, gifted men.

It was a new day for our world when it became possible for the great truths of the universe and the lofty thoughts of men to be spread in print across the face of earth, so that the thoughts of all who choose to write could be known by all who choose to read. Thus the Bible, inspired by the living God, and the great works of science, philosophy, and literature, found their way into the hands of the many instead of into the hands of only the few—and printing, the art of preserving for the present and for the future the thoughts of the present and of the past, became the common medium of exchange among all enlightened peoples. But, as would be expected, along with the printing and circulation of good ideas, there has also been the printing and circulation of bad ideas. Some of the things we see in print cause us to give thanks for the glory of God and the intelligence of man, and some of the things we see in print make us ashamed of our own kind. Filth has been circulated in the name of realism.

The passing of time, measured off with monotonous mechanical devices, moves us through many strange patterns. Some of them we understand, and some of them are deeply puzzling to us. So gradually yet so quickly do we grow older, that while we feel ourselves still young, we may come to be looked upon as old by the eyes of those yet younger.

There is a phrase from the Psalms that describes a man who might well be the envy of all the world—a man of whom it could be said: "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings." It is highly improbable that one so richly blessed could willingly be induced to trade places with any other: "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings." If we could somehow find ourselves in a world where this could be true, we would no doubt know the joy of heaven on earth. Much that we read, much that we hear, comes under the classification of "evil tidings"—the misfortunes of people everywhere.