Spoken Word Messages - Page 75

There is an impressive plea by Thomas Paine expressed in 1776 in this sentence: "If there must be trouble let it be in my day, that my child may have peace."

Almost all of us could come closer to having what we want, if we were sure, we knew what we wanted.  Of course, we know we want the "happiness" that we have been wishing one another, and "peace" and "plenty"—and some other things that perhaps we could call by name. 

The coming of another New Year recalls once more to mind these words of a New Testament text: ". . . And [Jesus] made as though he would have gone . . . But they constrained him, saying, Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent."

Some wise and well-informed men concluded, on questioning, that the greatest news story in the world would be for someone who had died to return from the realm of death—someone who could testify of his own knowledge, that there is individual, everlasting life beyond the grave. 

Altogether too many of us are living on edge.  The symptoms of the pressure and impatience are all around us.  And as parents perhaps we often lose our tempers and jump at our children and say things we didn't intend to say. 

There are a few, if any of us, who are smart enough to convince our children that they should not do things that we make a practice of.  And there are few, if any of us, who are capable of convincing our children that they should do things which we neglect to do. 

Sometimes we seem to look at life as if we were watching the progress of a play in which we have no part.  Sometimes we seem to be detached from matters of community concern and to act as if we had no responsibility toward anything that lies outside the letter of our own specific assignment. 

When we find ourselves on a wrong road, our first reaction is to look back and think at what point we departed from the right road.  But sometimes we may have gone a long way before we are fully aware that we have left the right road. 

There are times, perhaps, when all of us are moved by gratitude, and there are times when all of us could become careless about our blessings.  A favor done the first time is almost always appreciated.  But a favor several times received may soon seem to be a commonplace occurrence and may even become a cause for complaint if it fails to be repeated as expected. 

As we face the future from here, we are aware of some of the disappointments of the past.  We are aware, for example, that repeated declarations of peace have not as yet proved to be permanent.  We are aware also, that except for life itself, and for freedom, there are few things that men cherish more than peace. 

In almost any circle or society, in almost any group or gathering, or among families or friends, there are almost always some who do their share or more, and some who seem to be afraid that they might do more than their share. 

It is one thing to do wrong and another thing to justify wrongdoing.  It seems that there is almost nothing in which men cannot justify themselves in their own eyes, if they set about to do so.  The embezzler, for example, seldom steals money in his own mind or admission. 

There is an almost limitless list of things to worry about—a list that may somehow seem to have grown longer lately.  Our problems sometimes seem to have multiplied, and also our perplexities.  But perhaps people were always worried. 

During the course of every day, each of us is called upon to make many decisions.  Some of them are inconsequential, involving nothing more significant perhaps than a choice between two pieces of wearing apparel. 

It is a dramatic and terrifying fact that a man can do a thing right a thousand times, and then when he does it wrong just once, tragedy comes.  Except for some very narrow escapes, perhaps any of us or even all of us could be numbered with those whom we pity or with those whom we condemn.  And we may never know how narrowly we may have missed the fate of someone who has had a terrible tragedy. 

Continually there comes before us the question of tolerance.  Men, after all, are individuals, and no two of them think altogether alike, and we would find ourselves in hopeless friction and fighting without sincere tolerance to allow the give and take of living side by side with differing ideas and differing people. 

There is another phase of this question of saving and conserving the seed, and of being prepared to face the future—a question which in its ultimate implications has to do with adults as well as with youth.  If we would fortify ourselves for the future as well as meeting matters of the moment, we must learn to deal with young people so as not to keep them constantly in a state of ever—shifting uncertainty. 

The question of saving and conserving is always a matter for serious consideration.  The basic virtue of thrift for the future has been taught from time immemorial, and the wisdom of it has been providently and repeatedly proved. 

Besides the more or less "normal" reasons for restlessness, we are all well aware of the added causes of uncertainty and indecision that now confront our young people and of the reasons they have to wonder what they should do as they are faced with the future. 

As we send our children off to school to spend a large and important part of their time there, perhaps many, if not most parents are sighing something of a sigh of relief. 

On this question again of people who seem to receive more or less from life than they deserve: We sometimes see honest and able men who seem unsuccessful, and we see unscrupulous and unethical men who are seemingly successful. 

Perhaps we are all acutely aware, and somewhat troubled at times, at the seeming injustices and unexplained adversities and unanswered questions of life. 

One question that constantly presses itself upon us is the question as to what kind of world we shall live in tomorrow—what kind of world we shall find for ourselves and leave for our children's children. 

There is a problem perennially before us, acute and increasing.  No matter how widely differing may be the laws and leanings toward divorce, we must admit that in our time there has been an alarming laxity of attitude toward broken marriages, broken homes, broken families. 

There is a tale told of a lad who had hiked to the eminence of a high hill in the company of a companion.  The long effort upward had wearied the boy, and he thought longingly of the comfort of his home, which now seemed so far away.  He turned to his companion, asking: "How do we get home?" and was answered with sweeping words and gestures that took in miles at a moment: "Just over the ridge and along the river and across the valley—and there we are,"

Occasionally we see pictures of stars with their stand-ins.  To the camera they may look remarkably alike.  And no doubt they have many qualities in common.  But the one is the "real thing" and the other isn't.  Sometimes differences between the real thing and an imitation are obvious and unmistakable, but sometimes the differences are subtle and difficult to detect.  And sometimes when we don't know the difference we don't care.  But as long as there is any difference, when we pay for the "real thing" and get something else, we have cause for complaint.  And this is true whether we know it or not. 

The line that Shakespeare had Richard III say, "My kingdom for a horse," has far-reaching implications in the pattern of human behavior.  When a man needs something, or thinks he does, or sets his heart on having something, a kingdom may seem like a more or less trivial thing at the moment.  Immediate wants, immediate worries, small annoyances often crowd out matters of much greater moment. 

"Rip Van Winkle, in Jefferson's Play, excuses himself for every fresh dereliction by saying, 'I won't count this time!' Well, he may not count it; and a kind heaven may not count it, but it is being counted nonetheless.  Down among his nerve cells and fibers, the molecules are counting it, registering and scoring it up to be used against him when the next temptation comes.  Nothing we ever do is in strict scientific literalness wiped out."1  These are the words of the celebrated psychologist and philosopher, William James.  And he adds: "Could the young but realize how soon they will become ... walking bundles of habits, they would give more heed to their conduct …. We are spinning our own fates, good or evil . Every smallest stroke of virtue or of vice leaves its never so little sear ... We are ... imitators and copiers of our past selves."1 

A century and some seventy-five years ago, fifty-six Americans signed what has since become a symbol of our legacy of liberty: the Declaration of Independence.  Now, because these men of liberty have become legend, we may sometimes suppose that what they did was not so difficult a thing to do in their day.  But they were men, even as other men, loving their families, their friends, their freedom. 

Since Paul the Apostle wrote of it—since then and long before—the spirit and the letter of the law have long come in for comment.  Certainly, we cannot get along without either the spirit or the letter of the law.  There must be both.  The law is dead without the spirit, and it may be weak without the letter.  But one difficulty with overemphasizing the letter of the law is that men may use it without wisdom, without discretion, without taking into account individual situations and circumstances.