Spoken Word Messages - Page 73

Often, we complain about being busy, and certainly at times we are—too busy—sometimes at essential things and sometimes at non-essential things.  And because we are so busy, we may sometimes wish for inactivity, even for idleness; we may wish for the leisure to pursue what have come to be called pleasant pastimes.  But before we sever ourselves from pressing assignments, before we turn away from work, before we disengage ourselves from real responsibility, we should take a realistic look at what are sometimes called pleasant pastimes. 

Sometimes someone is heard to say what he will do to someone else—if—!  And in that "if" a threat is uttered or implied. 

There is in most of us a tendency at times not to do anything that is difficult to do, not to perform any unpleasant service or engage in any inconvenient activity. The tendency is often apparent in our younger years when we haven't yet had to learn some things which later in life, we find that we must learn. 

There is a comforting line from Shakespeare, which, in one short sentence has much to suggest: "What's past is prologue."1 It is a plea, for hope, for new beginnings, for not brooding about what cannot now be reclaimed or recalled, a plea for faith in the future—a plea for repentance. 

So soon the cycle has once more swiftly turned itself, and suddenly we have come again to the closing of the calendar.  It seems only a few short weeks since we were watching another calendar close, since we were watching another winter, watching another spring, watching the growing season of summer. 

In commenting on this Christmas, may we pass for a moment the usual texts that we might turn to, and take one from far back, from the first book of the Bible, that recalls how the Creator of heaven and earth looked over what had been brought into being—"and God saw that it was good."1 And it was good: a beautiful and bounteous earth with its seasons and its sustenance, with forests and fields, the sun and the sea, the fruits and flowers, the meadows and mountains and so much else unmentioned, given for our good  by a loving Father in whose image men were made. 

In any loss or injury or illness or accident, the first sharpness of pain, the first fear, the first disappointment, the first sense of sorrow, may seem almost unbearable.  But mercifully, in the case of physical injury, usually the first sharpness subsides—enough at least to be bearable.  And mercifully, this is true to some extent in other things also. 

There is an always urgent field for thought in the problem of disciplining people.  Parents, and others, may frequently find themselves searching and praying and pleading for wisdom and guidance in the teaching and disciplining of young and impressionable people, and of others also. 

We often hear of the quality of faith—faith in God, faith as an antidote to fear, faith for a future that cannot be foreseen, faith as a sustaining force in misfortune and sorrow and uncertainty, faith in eternal plan and purpose and in limitless personal progress and everlasting reunion with those we love, faith in "the substance . . . of things not seen" which are true. 

It has sometimes been suggested that to make us fully thankful, everything we have should be taken from us, and then one at a time, each cherished and essential thing should be given back to us again. 

There are two things in life of exceeding importance: One is to decide, and the other is to decide rightly.  To be torn between two alternatives without being able to make up one's mind is a time-consuming, peace-destroying factor that can do much to nullify effectiveness. 

There is a sentence from one of the writings of Samuel Taylor Coleridge that suggests a deeply significant subject: "Veracity," be said, "does not consist in saying, but in the intention of communicating truth." Too often it is assumed that the truth has been told if someone simply says the right words. 

In the history of ancient Israel there are some sobering sentences from Joshua for the solemn consideration of his people and for us also: "And Joshua said unto all the people, Thus saith the Lord God of Israel . . . I brought your fathers out of Egypt ... and the Egyptians pursued after your fathers with chariots and horsemen unto the Red sea.  And when they cried unto the Lord, he put darkness between you and the Egyptians, and brought the sea upon them, and covered them; and your eyes have seen what I have done in Egypt …and I brought you into the land of the Amorites,… and they fought with you: and I gave them into your hand,… Then ... the king of Moab, arose and warred against Israel, . ..And ye went over Jordan, and came unto Jericho: and the men of Jericho fought against you . . . and I delivered them into your hand ... And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and olive yards which ye planted not do ye eat.  Now therefore fear the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in truth."

It sometimes seems that we live much of our lives by trial and error. (And, parenthetically, may we observe in passing, when our errors are more numerous than they need to be, our trials are also.) Our own errors are often the ones we best understand and generously make allowances for—but not so always with the errors and inefficiency of others.  We often wonder why others don't do better. 

One of the most obvious evidence of man's ingenuity is the excuses he contrives to make.  The variety and plausibility of our explanations to ourselves and to others for our failures to perform seem sometimes to exceed the fabrications of fiction. 

There are two extremes of attitude in which a man may find himself and which have always proved to be perilous.  One is an overpowering sense of fear—and the other, a false sense of security. 

There seems to be little evidence that the Creator of the universe was ever in a hurry.  Everywhere, on this bounteous and beautiful earth, and to the farthest reaches of the firmament, there is evidence of patient purpose and planning and working and waiting. 

Perhaps few if any of us escape our days of depression and the feeling of being down and discouraged.  Fear and gnawing worry and depression of spirit are among the most common and most uncomfortable of ailments, sometimes induced by serious personal problems, sometimes by causes partly imagined, and sometimes by the whole outlook of events. 

As to the difficulties of arriving at justice and fair judgment, one philosopher observed: "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."

Perhaps most of us give way at times to actions and attitudes and utterances which we well know are below our best.  But whenever we depart from being at our best, 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. 

Perhaps it would not be amiss again to remind ourselves that every man should have a set of sound principles to which he can turn when any proposal is presented to him. 

No doubt the course of history has many times been altered because someone has had his feelings hurt.  There are some classic examples that suggest themselves, one such at the siege of Troy with Achilles sulking in his tent.  But for every such that has been publicly cited, there are millions more where the lives of people have been blighted, some seriously and some superficially, because someone has had hurt feelings. 

William Penn is credited with the statement that "If men be good, government cannot be bad."' On first hearing, one may be inclined to challenge the idea altogether.  Certainly, there would seem to be many exceptions. 

There is an old proverb that reads, "When a mouse falls into a meal sack, he thinks he is the miller himself"1—which suggests something of the sincere humility that all of us should feel in great degree. 

When we are supposed to be doing something we don't do, often we have to argue with ourselves inside.  A man has to give himself a reasonable reason for what he does or fails to do, and if the reason isn't a good reason, it may involve an uncomfortable contest between two sides of himself.  This is true in all our obligations and activities. 

There are periods perhaps in the lives of most young people when they are impatient with counsel and precautions, when they wonder why they have to be responsible to parents, why they cannot have complete independence. 

Most of the men and women who move about us from day to day are carrying hidden within their hearts their share of trouble and disappointment and sorrow of one kind or another, and we, with unseeing eyes, often walk roughshod over them, not knowing their cares, not understanding their burdens. 

In thinking upon the accomplishments of the pioneers and patriots of the past, we cannot help pausing in humble acknowledgment of what they did with what they had, and with gratitude for what we have that we wouldn't have had if they hadn't offered their all for the preservation of principles—the principles of truth and of freedom to follow truth. 

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. 

Sometimes we hear someone defensively say, "I haven't done anything" which suggests a subject:  Innocence isn't always merely a matter of not doing anything.  The privilege of life calls for positive performance, and sometimes the sins of omission are as serious as are the sins of commission.  It isn't enough merely not to have done the wrong things.