Spoken Word Messages - Page 67

All of us always have unfinished business.  Most of us have unfulfilled obligations. Most of us have things piled far before us that always weigh on us and worry us—things we never quite get to, things we never quite catch up with—things we have agreed to do but haven't done. 

Last week we quoted from Cromwell a single searching sentence: "I beseech you think it possible that you may be mistaken."1 We applied it then to being mistaken in misjudging men. 

We often hear the trite expression that there are always two sides to a subject.  And one thing that makes quarrels and misunderstandings and differences so difficult to settle is that so often there is some right and some wrong on both sides.  And a person who is mostly right is so close to himself that he could fail to see that he might also in some degree be wrong.  And seldom is a man so wrong that he cannot convince himself that he is at least partly right. 

No day is better to change or repent than any other.  Repentance and improvement are always in season.  But sometimes it seems we have to have some special occasion to exert ourselves to a "self-survey." And the New Year seems traditionally to offer an open invitation to all to improve and repent.  And now from among the many themes that might suggest themselves, we turn to one possible point of improvement and repentance: Sometimes in the give and take of life we find reason for much misunderstanding, and for anger and annoyance at others—and they at us.  And such situations frequently lead to feelings of acute offense, and the closing up of hearts, and cutting others off, and avoiding other people as much as possible-even to the point of not speaking—both in public and in private places.

Many subjects suggest themselves at this season. We could talk of resolutions. We could talk of the surpassing satisfaction of paying debts that are due. We could talk of the swift traveling of time. But today we should like to talk about people—just plain people—people with problems; people with ambitions and opportunities; people who sometimes make mistakes and are sorry for them; people with hopes and sorrows and fears—and faith. They are all people—just plain people—like all the rest of us.

We cannot but be aware that this is a Christmas of contrasts. No doubt all Christmases have had their contrasts. And there is no doubt also that the same forces that have always opposed the plans and purposes of the Christ) the Prince of Peace, still oppose those plans and purposes. And the gospel that gives man his free agency, his right of choice, is sharply seen in contrast to oppression and coercion, and the enslaving of men's minds. One would think that the world would have learned, for there never was a good way of life that was founded on fear or on force.

In the process of adjusting to life, we all have some problems. And growing up is part of the process and the problem — sometimes a rather painful part. As Paul comments: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."1

Each day brings its own news, its own changes, its own uncertainties and decisions. Not for any of us is life always or ever altogether controllable or predictable or safe or certain. We all have to adjust to changes. We all have to learn to live with some uncertainty.

Memory isn't always altogether reliable, with all the human variables there are — and whether or not our memory on this point is altogether reliable we do not know, but sometimes it seems that there is less, or at least too little willingness on the part of too many people to accept real responsibility — for themselves or for their decisions, or for the soundness and success of enterprises or institutions, or, in some instances, for much of anything at an.

At some seasons we feel it more than others, but at all seasons it seems that most of us feel we are living in a period of pressure — a pressure that seems to be felt at every level of life: the pressure of complexity, the pressure of anxiety, the pressure of responsibility, the pressure of competition, which is perennial and ever-present — for whoever finds something bigger and better is going to find that others are going to find something still bigger and still better.

When news disturbs us from around the world, we sometimes spend uneasy hours, and, in considering uncertainties, might sometimes feel sorry for ourselves. But if we had a choice of troubles, after looking all around, surely, we would choose to retake our own troubles — with all else that is ours.

After we have left childhood and youth behind, and have taken our places as parents, we understand many things that were not clear to us before. But before we personally face the problems of parents, we might wonder why they do and say some things they do and say — and why they are sometimes so concerned.

For purposes of measuring progress, for purposes of measuring merit, some kinds of comparison are essential. They tell us where we are with respect to where we were, and where we ought to be. They give us standards and a sense of values, as we compare one thing with another.

Sometimes we become impatient with the present, We see its evils, its uncertainties, its imperfections, and earnestly we yearn for a day when things will be different.  It is proper and expected that immortal man would hope for and have faith in a better future — but of utmost importance also is what Emerson called a "respect for the present hour."1

Most of us at times make absent-minded or inattentive errors.  We dial a wrong number or write a wrong date or put something in the wrong place or pass an intersection that we intended to turn on.  Often the result is no more serious than a bit of embarrassment or a little loss of time. 

There are always times of looking back in the living of a lifetime.  No matter What decisions we make or fail to make, we are likely to look back and wonder what would have happened if we had done differently.  Being human, as all of us are, we make mistakes. 

There comes to mind the recent remark of a young man facing some current problems and pressures: It was the utterance of one awakening to reality: "There certainly are a lot of decisions," he said.

In these days of increasing complexity as more and more of many things are offered, paradoxically it becomes more and more apparent that our choices in life are limited.

Last week we talked of the tension of pretending—of pretending to be what we aren't, of pretending to be doing what we aren't doing. There is another side of this subject that appears to be somewhat seasonable: Postponement is often a kind of pretense—or at least procrastination is procrastination in the sense that a person pretends that something he ought to be doing now is going to be easier later, and so justifies himself in leaving it until later.

There are, in literature and in life, some intense tales of the tensions that come from leading a double life.  In the field of espionage, for example, there would seem to be little time for relaxing, little time for the real living of life, when a person must constantly pretend to be something he isn’t or pretend to be doing something he isn't doing. 

It was Cicero who said: "To think is to live."1 Many other eminent observers have suggested the prime importance of the thoughts a person thinks—for thoughts are the forerunners both of utterance and of action.  Sometimes we will hear someone say, "If I had only thought, I would have done differently."

In any area of activity where two or more people participate, there sometimes comes the question as to whose part is most important — Whose service is most essential? — Who could get along best without the others? This question of comparative importance sometimes occurs in communities, in business and industry, in athletics, even in families, and in all organized activity.

There is in Ecclesiastes, a significant short sentence that suggests a subject; "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."1 "Truly the light is sweet" — and if one need any convincing of it, he need only wrestle with problems, with worries, in the doubt and discouragement that sometimes come with darkness. "Truly the light is sweet" — and one lesson we all have to learn is to wait at times for the light — to wait for the light in making decisions, to wait for the light in appraising the seriousness of symptoms, to wait for the light in assessing any situation — for darkness can and does distort.

Last week we referred to the rate of speed at which men move — to the fact that 60 miles an hour means moving 88 feet in a single second — to the losses that could occur from only a little wrong turn, from only a little inattention.  There are many other phases of this same subject that could be considered, as to the small differences between success and failure, between safety and sorrow. 

Some twenty centuries or so ago.  Epictetus gave us these very modern-sounding sentences: "It needs but a little to overthrow and destroy everything—just a slight aberration from reason.  For the helmsman to wreck his vessel, he does not need the same resources as he needs to save it: If he turns it but a little too far to the wind, he is lost; yes, and if he do it not deliberately but from mere want of attention, he is lost all the same.  It is very much the same in life, if you doze but a little, all that you have amassed up till now leaves you.  Keep awake then, and watch your impressions: It is no trifle you have in keeping, but self-respect, honor, constancy, a quiet mind, untouched by distress…1

We should like to consider for a moment or two another side of the power of prevention: Often we become so busy in life that we ignore the first symptoms and the warning signs in many matters.

We have spoken before of the power of repentance—and repentance is a great and saving principle.  But today we should like to turn for a moment or two to the power of prevention.  It seems sometimes that we spend too much of our lives putting out fires—too much time running to meet emergencies—too much time attempting to fix things that shouldn't have happened. 

Recently we approached the safety problem as a moral principle. Today we should like to consider safety as the evidence of an inner attitude, for the inner attitude of a person tends to carry over into all his outer activities. (We have talked before of temper as a mark of immaturity, and so, in many instances, are accidents—not immaturity of years only, but immaturity of emotion.)

People approach different seasons with different inner attitudes, and summer is often approached with an intent to let down the tensions, the pace, and performance. In some ways it isn't altogether assured that this hoped-for relaxation is realized, because we sometimes work so hard at entertaining ourselves and so often come back tired from vacation time.

With increasing carnage on the highways and elsewhere, it would seem that we need a new approach to the problem of safety.  And so, we suggest a consideration of safety not merely as a matter of statistics—not safety merely as a matter of mechanics—but safety as a God-given Right—safety as a moral principle.  "In the beginning," we read in the first book of the Bible, "God created the heaven and the earth . . . and God said, Let us make man in our image."1