Spoken Word Messages - Page 65

Always and ever before us is the question of freedom and force—of what we do willingly, because we want to, and what we do because we feel we must.

There is much more to say concerning the little things of life: Men often learn to carry great loads, to carry great weight and worry with calmness and courage—yet lose their tempers at the little things, and say what they never intended to say, and do what they never intended to do—for which they are later sincerely sorry.

Many years ago, as he was working in a London laboratory, Sir Alexander Fleming observed the retarding action of an unidentified mold on a colony of bacteria.

These many years on the air turn our thoughts today to time. Millions who were listening when this broadcast first began have since left this life. Millions have since been born—have gone to school, have served at war, have families of their own and are carrying a share of the weight of the world. History is long.

Our consideration of friendship and confidence and trust in past weeks leads us at last to what a gentleman is—or isn't.  For a word so freely used, it seems that few have defined it. 

In speaking of the factors of friendship—trust and confidence being uppermost among them—we have come to the conclusion that finding someone who can be trusted is one of the most sincerely satisfying assurances in all the relationships of life. 

Last week we talked of some factors of friendship.  There are some further sides of this significant subject that could well be considered; among them, trust and the keeping of confidences.

We have in mind 'today one of the most beautiful relationships in life, and one of the most difficult to define. Aside from loved ones, aside from close of kin, friendship makes life most meaningful. 

Sometimes we may become weary of the sameness of our surroundings and feel that we should like to get away from familiar people and places.  But often it is only for a brief time. 

There comes to mind today a subject which, for want of better words, might be called the habit of re-arranging—that is, re-arranging without really resolving—such as papers on our desks, clutter in our cupboards and closets, and problems on our minds that we turn over and over again without actually settling or disposing of, or coming to any acceptable conclusion. 

Last week we talked of the impossibility of being ever altogether on our own for there is no way of endangering ourselves, or doing what we shouldn't do, without it having its effect on others. 

Some days ago, we heard a father and his son discussing a situation in which there was some risk—not moral risk, but physical risk.  The father, as fathers often are, was cautious.  The son, as sons often are, was eager to go ahead.  And finally, the son said, "Don't worry.  If I, do it, I'll take the full responsibility.  I'll be completely on my own." That should have been reassuring.

Often, we tell ourselves what we will do next summer.  But as to this summer, it comes and goes so swiftly—so swiftly that we sometimes wonder if we're doing much of anything that is solid and significant.  And in reaction, we sometimes rush and reach without too much discrimination as to what it is we rush and reach for. 

An eighteenth-century philosopher is credited with a searching sentence: "Freedom is as little lost in a day as won in a day."1

We have come through another season of commencement, and another season of many marriages, and have been retaught—or should have been—a profound lesson of life: that every ending is but a beginning. In considering the beginnings of many marriages, earnestly we could wish that all of these very beautiful beginnings would be dedicated to the ideal of enduring, always and forever.

In writing to the question "What Are Fathers Made of?"1 Paul Harvey has given us some delightful pictures and impressions: When school grades are not “so good as he thinks they should be," "He scolds his son . . . though he knows it's the teacher's fault.”   Fathers grow old faster than people."1 Fathers can't cry, "While mothers can cry where it shows.” Fathers are what give daughters away to other men who are not -nearly good enough . . . so they can have grandchildren that are smarter than anybody's.” 

Sometimes people seem to want to do things that they don't seem to want to be personally responsible for.  They want the result without the responsibility.  And often they resort to various devices by which they attempt to hide behind others, or to impersonalize their actions. 

Among the many questions considered at commencement, it is proper that this one should recur: Who pays for our education? (And a corollary question, "Who benefits by it?")

Our thoughts have recently been turned to some words that give much meaning to remembrance, some words by Clara Edwards, from a song which closes with these couplets:

It sometimes seems that almost everyone wants almost all of almost everyone s time these days. There are so many things to do, so many social functions, so many interests and activities and organized endeavors that will take as much time as we will let them take.

Songs my mother taught me, In the days long vanish'd, Seldom from her eyelids Were the teardrops banish'd. Now I teach my children Each melodious measure, Oft the teardrops flowing, Oft they flow from my mem'ry's treasure.1

We were touched and moved in our hearts by the lighter step, the happier look, and the eager lift in her voice. She was no longer young, something short of being called elderly, of unknown age, but she had found a humble and congenial job.

From childhood many of us would well remember the story of Chicken Little. She was the character of fairy tale and fable who felt something fall on her head when she was out walking one day. Some say it was an acorn; some say it was a twig from a tree.

A question comes to mind today, to suggest a searching subject: No doubt all of us, at times, have experienced an acute sense of loneliness.  But "what if loneliness were everlasting?"

From last week we recall the comment that the teacher is responsible for the total effect of his teaching; for his every utterance, his every innuendo, has its influence on others.  In furtherance of this thought, we would cite a single short sentence from Henry Adams—simply said in twelve far-reaching words: "A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops."1 All occupation's and professions have some effect on others; but some touch lives on intimate terms. 

In a single short sentence Thomas Carlyle suggests a searching subject: “Why tell me that a man is a fine speaker," he said, "if it is not the truth that he is speaking?"1 To paraphrase Carlyle's question: Why tell me that a man is a fine teacher, if it is not the truth that he is teaching? 

We have referred before to Thomas Carlyle's informal address to the students at Edinburgh University.  In it he offered some incisive counsel concerning the character and content of books: "There are two kinds of books," he said, "good books and bad books . . . I am not to assume that you are unacquainted, with this plain fact; but I may remind you that it is becoming a very important consideration in our day.  And we have to cast aside altogether the idea people have, that . . . reading any book [is] . . . rather better than nothing at all.  I must entirely call that in question . . . There is a number, a frightfully increasing number, of books that are decidedly, to the readers of them, not useful.  But . . .. also, . . . a certain number of books were written by a supremely, noble kind of people, not a very great number of books, but still a number fit to occupy all your reading . . . In short, . . . I conceive that book are like men's souls; . . . Some few are going up, and carrying us up, heavenward; . . . in forwarding the teaching of all generations. Others, a frightful multitude, are going down, down; doing ever the more and the wider and the wilder mischief."1

Somewhat short of a century ago Thomas Carlyle delivered his inaugural address to the students of Edinburgh University, out of his heart and experience, and without a formal talk before him.  And from this occasion there came a free flowing of informal utterance, moving in its practical soundness and sense.  "There is," he said, "a process called cramming. . , that is, getting-up such points of things as the examiner is likely to put questions about.  Avoid all that, as entirely unworthy of an honorable mind.  Be modest, and humble, and assiduous in your attention to what your teachers tell you, . . . and ... follow and adopt them in proportion to their fitness for you."' As to the "process called cramming:"

Someone, of unknown name, has shrewdly said that "we must learn from the mistakes of others, because we'll never live long enough to make them all ourselves."1 Part of our heritage is the experience of others.  Part of our heritage is the progress and errors of the past.  Part of our heritage is the counsel of parents, and the commandments God has given.  Part of our heritage permits us to begin where others have left off: The comforts and conveniences we have, medicine and mechanics, science and sanitation, are all part of the heritage we have.  And in these tangible and material things we don't insist on going back to the beginning. 

There come before us some further facets of the question as to how far can a person safely depart from principle: How far can he go and still get back when he wants to?  At what age is character so completely set that a person can take a little latitude and be safe and assured?