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Last week we talked of never making life smaller, of never making life less, and of the obligation we have to work, to think, to produce, to enrich the world as part payment for what we have received from others, and as part payment for all that the Lord God has given.
We have talked before of the fact that there is nothing, we ever do that fails to have its effect on, others. People sometimes say that their lives are their own, and that what they do shouldn't concern anyone else. But everything, in fact, sooner or later does concern someone else.
In a moving and most meaningful utterance, the Master of mankind thus prayed for those whom the Lord God had given him: "I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil."1
Perhaps it is time again to say some things that have been said before and to say them gratefully and soberly in this Easter setting—for always and ever we need assurance against what otherwise would be but fleeting futility assurance that men are immortal, that justice can be counted on, that truth and intelligence, people and personality continue eternally beyond time, and that loved ones who have left us are not forever lost.
Since so constantly it has recurred, for so many centuries, we should not, perhaps, be overly awed by its coming once again—but Spring never ceases to be an unbelievable miracle and an unforgettable memory.
Sometimes we little seem to realize how much of hurt there is in irresponsible utterance, and how much of time is used in triviality of talk. On this subject Sir John Lubbock said: “One is thrown in life with a great many people who, though not actively bad, though they may not willfully lead us […]
Do we speak as well of our friends when they are absent as when they are with us? It would sometimes seem hazardous to be absent from some kinds of company because of gossip or uncomplimentary comments concerning those who aren't there.
Whenever policies or products or principles, or actions or attitudes were under consideration, a certain thoughtful observer often asked this challenging, this compelling question: "What will it do to the man?"1—not what is politic or popular or profitable only, not what is comfortable or convenient only, but what will it do to people?
A very important part of our heritage is the lessons other men have learned and left us. The principles, the experience of prophets, of patriots and others of the past are precious and priceless in their continuing constancy of counsel.
In some thoughtful lines on life, Samuel Johnson said: "Reflect that life, like every other blessing, derives its value from its use alone."1
We have talked before of beginning to be what we want to be, and of the uneasy feelings that linger inside ourselves when we leave what we should have done not only undone, but also unstarted. We all intend well—or most of us do. We sometimes dream well; We usually hope well and wish well. We sometimes plan well, but we don't always do what has to be done to bring our hopes and plans to the point of beginning. Sometimes we simply don't get going.
In a writing of half a century or so ago, Arnold Bennett said: “Philosophers have explained space. They have not explained time. It is the inexplicable raw material of everything. With it, all is possible; without it, nothing. The supply of time is truly a daily miracle. . . . You wake up in the morning, and ... your, purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours. It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions… And no one receives either more or less than you receive. . . . Moreover, you cannot draw on the future… You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste tomorrow; it is kept for you. You cannot waste the next hour; it is kept for you. . . . You have to live on this twenty-four hour of daily time. Out of it you have to spin health, pleasure, money, content, respect, and the evolution of your immortal soul. Its right use, its most effective use is a matter of highest urgency. . . . All depends on that."1 Thus wrote Arnold Bennett.
Seldom in life do we find ourselves living or working under ideal conditions. There are delays and distractions. There are times of waiting—waiting for people, for appointments—waiting for many reasons, both in public and private places. There are times at home and times away, in military service, for example, or on some other assignment when, after the routine duties of the day, there could be idle hours.
Today we should like to turn to the rich rewards of reading—not reading merely for the purpose of passing time, but for the purpose of discovering truth, of discovering what thoughtful men think. Reading enriches life; it enriches conversation; it enriches understanding. It perpetuates the past and teaches its lessons to the present.
Because so much is done for so many of us, both by men and machines, because we have become accustomed to so much service, the use of hands and feet, and even of minds, has, in many instances, been minimized.
One of the easiest answers to anything we don't want to do, is to say we don't have time. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it isn't. It is deeply and desperately true that we don't have time to do everything, or to be everything, or to learn everything, or to go everywhere.
It was recorded of a certain ancient king that he lived a hundred and twenty years, and that he reigned for eighty years—longer than most men live. And then the recorder of this chronology quickly added this significant sentence: " . . . still nothing that has an end is long."1
We seem sometimes to consider people and events of the far past as something quite apart from the present. But they are nearer to us than we sometimes suppose. If we have lived twenty-five years, a century is only four times the length of the mortal life we have lived.
Herbert Spencer once said: “The preservation of health is a duty.”1 In other words, there is—on all of us—an obligation to keep free from contaminating and injurious substances and habits and influences that would impair the full and healthful functioning of the wondrous physical faculties which the Lord God has given. And in addition to […]
In recent observations we have arrived at an awareness that old age is the harvest of the years of youth; that each part of life is as natural as all others, and all make a complete picture. And one of the most valued of the harvests of life is health. We cannot always assure it unto ourselves.
A subject so greatly significant as old age is not soon exhausted—and we would add at this hour some further thoughts on this theme: "We grow old naturally," said one physician, and "the first and the most important ingredient in the prescription for growing old graciously and happily is understanding—understanding of the naturalness of the process of growing old. . .."1
“The course of life is ... run but in one way, and only once,"1 This was said of youth as it moves into old age, but it has its application in other ways also.
As the years come and go, increasingly there is concern and consideration for old age. Youth and age endlessly have both come in for comment. In a sense, the comparisons and appraisals are somewhat pointless, because we have so little choice between the two. Either we die young, or we grow old.
We have all, seen youngsters, and others also, listen reluctantly to last minute instructions. "I know, I know," impatiently they reply, maybe having half heard. They are confident they don't need directions or counsel of any kind. But by listening they could likely save themselves much loss of time or the making of many mistakes.
This moving music from "The Messiah," is, in its own way, a witness of the mission and message of Jesus the Christ, the Prince of Peace—who’s coming was foretold for centuries of time and has been the subject of sacred writ for all the centuries since.
Correction is an essential part of the teaching process. Suppose that in the schoolroom not even the teacher cared enough to correct, or that in the home, not even parents cared enough to correct—how would anyone ever learn or make progress or ever know right from wrong? But, as was added, correction should include these […]
We would turn for a moment or two today to what could seem to be a paradoxical subject: The kindness of correction. We are thinking of some lines of a letter from a girl whose parents had corrected her for some wayward ways: "You know, right then I decided my parents really did love me," she said. "They loved me enough to care what I did or what became of me, and to try to keep me from getting into trouble."
It takes many kinds of courage to live through life—the courage to face facts, to solve problems; the courage to accept assignments, to stay with what we have started, the courage to follow through; the courage to preserve principles, and sometimes to fight for them. And there are times, paradoxically, that call for another kind of courage even the courage to run away.
Within a framework of principles, it is the variability among men, the differences as well as the likenesses, that permit happiness to be possible—for if all wanted to do the same things at the same time in the same way, if all chose the same kind of people as partners, not only would life be monotonous, but it would also present some impossible problems.
Surely the one thing most sought for in this life is happiness—no matter what we call it, no matter whether we are seeking it in right or wrong ways. Often unhappiness comes from overemphasizing the negative side of situations.