Spoken Word Messages - Page 82

There is no denying the fear that sometimes takes hold of the hearts of men when unwelcome shapes and shadows appear on the horizon. We have all known the wilting of spirit and the feeling of futility when the prospect of the future is not just as we would have it.

We all do some wise things in life, and we all do some foolish things. We are constantly facing critical decisions, some of which we recognize as such, and some of which seem to be of relatively little importance, but which may have far reaching effects. And it is quite characteristic of humankind that whenever we pass up an opportunity or make a bad decision, there is always something of a secret hope in our hearts that our mistakes are not conclusive—that we will have another chance to make other choices that will offset the ones on which we have defaulted. In a sense this is true.

Admittedly with all of us, there are some people in the world whom we like better than others. And if we were always to follow our personal preferences, quite likely we would see more of those we like more and less of those we like less. But it isn't always possible to isolate ourselves from those we like less. In the complexity of our living we are dependent upon many kinds of people. Furthermore, where freedom is a reality, men move about in pursuit of their own purposes, and the atmosphere and environment we live in is determined only partly by us, and partly by others.

To quote an expressive comment: "If you want to forget your other troubles, wear a pair of shoes that pinch." It would seem that we often permit immediate annoyances to divert our attention from things that are much more important. A toothache, for example, can seem to be about the most important thing in the world to the man whose tooth is aching. This, no doubt, is natural, but there is danger in it if we merely look for ways to relieve the symptoms rather than correct the condition that caused them.

George Washington is remembered for many things too numerous to mention, but among them is this: That he was one of the men of history who declined to assume all the power that was proffered him. This is not unique, perhaps, but certainly it would be safe to say that it is unusual. And in his farewell address he indicated his attitude on this and on other important principles. We commend the reading of Washington's Farewell Address to every American and to every man who loves his freedom and wants to keep it.

Many men and many movements, many reputations and many public and private ventures are made and unmade by desirable or undesirable publicity. And since publicity and propaganda so intimately affect our lives and since the personalities who are in the public parade become so much a part of the pattern of our thinking, it may be well to look for a moment at the part publicity plays—It is quite common, of course, for people to be employed to paint word pictures of other people to suit every passing purpose. Many titles, earned and unearned, have been created for publicity purposes for people who were bidding for public approval.

It is good to be self-reliant and to feel within ourselves the power to make our lives conform to the blueprints of our dreams and worthy ambitions. But there are times when all of us are confronted with circumstances and situations which are beyond our power to control or understand, for which we must seek help and answer beyond ourselves. There are times when life deals roughly with us. And at such times men who have learned to pray—who have made an earnest practice of it—find comfort and courage and confidence beyond their own strength and understanding.

Sometimes we see people who seem to be "getting away" with violations of law, violations of conscience, violations of every code of right conduct. Often, they seem to enjoy the fruits of their false living and false dealing. And we may wonder in our hearts when blind justice is going to open her eyes and do something about it. But the reason we feel this way is because we see only part of the picture.

In the communiqués of the recent war we often read of armies retreating "according to plan." Of course we received such reports with some reservations, for armies aren't likely to retreat before reaching their objectives—except as the second of two choices. But it has often happened that armies that have retreated, whether "according to plan" or otherwise, have later come back to redeem the day. This pattern has its parallel in life.

Some time ago someone coined a popular phrase: "Fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong". This is one way of saying that what many people think must be true. Superficially this might sometimes seem to be a safe rule. But let's look a little deeper: In the history of warfare hundreds of millions of men have fought hundreds of millions of other men. With some exceptions and reservations, both sides have thought they were right. On every major issue that has ever come before the world as far back as the record goes, millions of men have opposed other millions of men in their opinions. Among the interesting devices of our day are the polls of public opinion.

Almost everyone, it would seem, has his own ideas on the care and counsel of children. For some, the process does not mean much more than providing the physical necessities—if that. For others, it means minutely prescribing everything. Both are questionable extremes. Perhaps no one can say with finality just how far we should go in either direction, because children differ, and so do parents, and so do circumstances.

The fact that we aspire to things which are at present beyond our reach is one of the factors that makes eternal progress possible. But if we were merely to aspire and let the matter rest there, we would not likely move ourselves or the world very much. Often, and especially when we are young, we see someone playing a great part, and we wish we could play a great part also, but without much thought as to what goes into the making of a man.

This is the time of the year when we confront ourselves with facts. It should be so at all times, but certain seasons are associated with certain things—and this is a time of inventory. It isn't always easy to face facts. Often there are things we wish were true which aren't, and things we wish weren't true which are. Even the simplest truths can be distasteful if they interfere with our accustomed ways of living and thinking. And often it would seem to be more comfortable to close our eyes to reality and say it isn't so. But we cannot safely assume that something isn't so that is so. Of course, there is the ever-present possibility of mental juggling, of tampering with the books, of trying to talk ourselves out of things that are, or talk ourselves into things that aren't. But trying to explain away truth and reality is somewhat like trying to change the weather by tampering with the barometer.

Each time of year tends to take on its own quality and character. But the memories of Christmas are among the most mellow of all memories. Those who have lived but three or four Christmases seem to catch the spirit of its meaning, and those who have lived seventy or eighty seem not to lose it: for it means home and family and friends—and peace. And to many it means remembrance of the greatest sacrifice that was ever made for man. It is the spirit of the Prince of Peace, of Him who is called the Christ, that pervades this day, and that makes gifts have more meaning, and makes men their better selves.

There is an old proverb which reads: "He giveth twice that giveth quickly."1 This is another way of saying that the best season for giving is when the gift is needed. Urgent and acute needs do not wait upon the pleasure or convenience of the giver. Usually when a man needs something, he needs it now. When he needs food for his family, he needs it when they are hungry, not after they are well fed, nor after they have starved. When he is cold, he needs warmth now—not after spring thaws him out. And this is true not only of material gifts, but also of service and kindliness and understanding, which are among the greatest of gifts.

It would seem that there are always those who are eager to live other men's lives for them, and those who, for one reason or another seek to popularize the philosophy that all men should be forced to conform to a predetermined design. This idea sometimes seems to sound good: Let's put every man in his place. But, sane as it may sound, it raises many difficult questions, such as, who shall fix the pattern, and who shall put every man in his place. Putting every man in his place means that we must have someone among us who is wise enough to judge what every man's place is: And this would seem to be a function of godlike wisdom.

Perhaps it would not be untimely to retell the story of Antaeus, the giant of mythology, whose strength was unconquerable, so long as he remained in contact with his mother, Earth. Those who came to his country were compelled to wrestle with him, and many such, not knowing the source of his strength, would throw him to earth, from which he would gain greater power, and rise stronger than he fell. But Hercules, so runs the story, forewarned of these things, avoided throwing the giant down, but lifted him high above the strength-giving earth, where Antaeus weakened and was strangled in mid-air. There are inferences to be drawn from this classic myth.

Perhaps it is a good time to remind ourselves again that mere things are not as important as is our attitude toward them. It is possible for people to put themselves in a frame of mind—and many of them do—where they know they can't be happy unless all that pertains to their material world comes up to certain arbitrary specifications—the house they live in, the car they drive, the clothes they wear, and the pleasures they pursue.

Every man should have a frequent conversation with his conscience. Conscience is an excellent counselor—if it hasn't been tampered with too much. Of course it is to be admitted that an active conscience is often very inconvenient. It sometimes interferes with some of the things people think they want to do, which conscience tells them they ought not to do. And so, many men make the mistake of trying to talk down their conscience. Often they do talk it down.

There is a commonplace proverb which says that "Procrastination is the thief of time."1 But there is also another thief of time which preys upon the present and the future, and that is debt. As an eighteenth-century almanac expressed it: "If you want time to pass quickly, just give your note for ninety days."2 The future comes fast when a debt is coming due. There are many reasons why men go into debt—some unavoidable, some seemingly necessary, some foolish and inexcusable.

Any man who could free other men of all their fears would surely have an innumerable following. Fear is a killer of men, a destroyer of peace and effectiveness, and to be free from fear is an ideal earnestly to be sought after. But no man can free all other men of all their fears, for no man can control all of the factors that contribute to fear. And if any man could control all the factors of fear, be could control us also. Let's look a little further to see if this is not so.

There is a persistent trait of human nature that causes most of us to seek the company of others. We are essentially social beings. We need each other, for companionship, for comfort, for counsel. We have learned to know that few if any of us can enjoy security alone. Physical protection has long since been a matter of collective concern, and civilization itself has been achieved cooperatively and must be preserved that way. But the fact that we achieve many of our aims by cooperation with others, must not make us lose sight of the fact that every crowd, every community, every country is composed of individuals, each of whom is individually responsible for his own conduct, his own thinking, his own life. Crowds sometimes do strange things to people.

One of the hallowed experiences of life is to look down at the close of day upon a sleeping child—especially one of your own, who is safe and sheltered, and well at peace. Few greater benedictions than this come to any of us. Blessed are we when those who belong to us are safe within the shelter of our own homes, within the circle of our love and protection. But such surpassing satisfactions are somewhat qualified if other men and other men's children are not also sheltered and safe. A commonplace illustration may emphasize this thought more fully: We may work hard to keep our own field free of weeds, but if our neighbor's field is infested with weeds, our own field will never be free from the threat of intrusion.

It would seem that we often live as if we wondered when life was going to begin. It isn't always clear just what we are waiting for, but some of us sometimes persist in waiting so chronically that life slips by—finding us still waiting for something that has been going on all the time. There are fathers waiting for a more opportune time to become acquainted with their sons—perhaps until other obligations are less demanding. But one of these days these sons are going to be grown and gone, and the best years for knowing them, for enjoying them, for teaching, and for understanding them, may also be gone.

There is an idea that has grown up among us, perhaps best expressed by the phrase: "Moderation in all things." "Moderation" is a very good word and is associated with many virtues and much wisdom. Indeed, it is so good a word that we may be led to believe that "moderation" is always a virtue, that anything "in moderation" is good. Certainly moderation is always to be preferred to "excess." And, of course, we know that both "moderation" and "excess" are usually relative terms which vary according to people and circumstances. But in determining what is moderate and what is excessive we should always remember this: That there are many things which are excessive even "in moderation."

It sometimes seems that we live in an endless war of words in which people, for their own purposes, try to make other people think certain things are so simply by saying that they are so. It is by this warping of words that commitments and contracts are sometimes clouded, that treaties and trusts are […]

When times seem uncertain, young people often give up the idea of preparing themselves for the future. There is a tendency to sit back and say: "What's the use? Our plans and projects will only have to be abandoned anyway. And so we will wait." But uncertainties are always in the offing. They always were. There were uncertainties ten years ago, twenty years ago, a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago. And if because of future uncertainties young people were to resign themselves to taking whatever comes, without previous preparation, no generation would ever have any capable or qualified men.

One thing that makes most people inpatient is advice they don't want and haven't asked for. At one time or another, both in the innocence of youth and in self-satisfied maturity, it isn't uncommon for us to assume that we can get along without any advice. It takes some of us a long time to learn that we usually have more to repent of when we don't take our counselors into our confidence. And when someone offers a comment of caution, we often impatiently think we know all the answers and need no admonition. Especially is it difficult for parents to delay children. long enough to hear their last-minute precautions, as the youngsters hastily make their way toward the nearest exit.

Undeniably a pall of pessimism has been hovering over people—a pessimism in the wake of war, born of the failure of the full promise of peace. It is the pessimism of the failure of faith. It is deeply damaging to lose faith in other men. But it is yet more damaging to lose faith in ourselves. The win to live has carried many a man through a critical condition, when others with greater physical strength but with less faith have failed to survive.

With each time of returning to school many variations of attitude are in evidence. There are those who are eager to get back and those who are reluctant to return. There are children who wish vacations were much longer. And there are parents who wish they were much shorter. These recurring occasions of reopening school doors constantly call before us the question as to who is responsible for what. How much should the home expect of the school, and how much should the school expect of the home?