Spoken Word Messages - Page 87

There is a prevalent practice among us which it would seem there is need of repeated reminder. We refer to the use of offensive language—but more especially that language which profanes the name of Deity. There was a time when the uttering of strong and violent oaths, the use of profanity, was more commonly associated with questionable places and people—or at least was reserved for tense and deeply provocative situations—but somehow or other it seems now to have become a thoughtlessly casual custom, until one may hear it sometimes in the most unexpected places and from the most unexpected people, both old and young, both male and female.

We approach again another day of remembrance, not that the bereaved need to be reminded of those who have departed, but rather that a nation may be reminded of its honored dead, and of the causes for which they have given their lives. There are many kinds of remembrance, some of which are superficial and some of which are acutely real. There is a kind of remembrance that confines itself to formal occasions—that is ceremoniously disposed of, and then forgotten—the kind of remembrance which is the subject of periodic lip service—a sort of planned and scheduled outpouring of sentiment in which fine phrases fill the air, and as quickly fade into forgetfulness, until another special occasion calls them forth again. But there is also the constant remembrance of those for whom every hour of every day is an unforgettable memorial—the remembrance of them who have lost those they love.

The needs of our lives are many—but they are perhaps not as many as we sometimes permit ourselves to suppose. Like the children we are, we are often inclined to pray for things we think are essential to our happiness, but which, in fact, may have little to do with our happiness. As do some children, we frequently seem to want what we want regardless of the consequences to us, and regardless of who else has to go without to give it to us.

It is good that a nation this day should be called to prayer and thanksgiving. We have much yet to ask, and exceedingly much to be grateful for. Victory is ours in part, and, God being willing, there will come a day—not too far distant, we hope—when it will be ours more completely. Among those things for which we pray this day is humility. It is difficult for some to be humble even in defeat. It is also difficult to be humble in victory. We pray that we may be so.

Within the week we have had yet further evidence, if we needed any, of the unspeakable consequences that can come into the lives of those who follow after false leadership. The record of mankind has given us altogether too many examples of the widespread misery caused by men who have more power than principle, more ambition than altruism more influence than integrity. Leadership built upon such false foundations inevitably collapses—and the more pretentious it is, the greater the fall—but the greater also is the misery that follows in its wake, not for the leaders only, but, bitterly, for all.

It is time again to talk of peace—although it is not yet with us. When men have peace, often they use it carelessly and esteem it lightly. But when it has gone from us we come to know how blessed we were when we had it, and we yearn for it, in anguish and in sorrow—sometimes almost to the point of repentance. Peace is like many other things that are cherished in life, as they are difficult to get. Those we love and live with, we often regard casually, and use them poorly, but sorely miss them when they are gone—and wish we had done differently when they were here. We tend to mourn for what we once had, and to abuse and neglect what we do have.

The questions asked by children are seemingly interminable, as those who have attempted to answer them know full well. "Why this?" "Why that?" "Why everything?"—and every answer seems only to suggest another question. As children we ask "why?" to many things which adults accept as a matter of course. We ask "why?" because what is obvious, to others is not obvious to us. And often those whose responsibility it is to teach and to train us in our youth rightly expect us to accept some answers which are beyond our understanding because wisdom and experience, and because God and men have found the answers to be good. In other words, as children, we are asked to have faith where our knowledge and experience are lacking.

The ever-present expectancy of death is never far removed from any of us—whether we realize it or not. None of us can avoid it. It comes alike to the great and to the unknown; to the righteous and to the unrighteous. Wherein we differ is not in our ability to avert it, but in the preparedness with which we meet it. At such times some question the judgments of God. Some find bitterness because of the circumstances and because of the seeming untimeliness of death. With our limited understanding, often we do not agree with the time and the place and the manner in which men come and go.

In childhood we are excused for many mistakes on grounds of ignorance. But long after we cease to be children there are times when we would like to claim the same immunity—which brings before us the timeworn question as to how long and to what extent ignorance is excusable. The question would be easier to answer if all ignorance were of the same kind—but this it is not. Sometimes ignorance is honest and unavoidable. But there is also the ignorance of which Peter wrote, “ . . . they willingly are ignorant . . . ” (11 Peter 3:5) –the willful ignorance that prefers to believe what it finds convenient to believe.

Death means many things to many people: To one who has been long weary in well doing, it may mean blessed release—the sweet sorrow of parting, and without bitterness. To a doctor it may mean failure or the expected result of an uncontrollable cause. To the world in general, it is a natural process—something which we may all inevitably expect, and concerning which we should not, therefore, be too surprised, when it comes to us or to someone we know.

There is a commonplace but ever-startling observation to be made concerning men, and that is: how very much alike they are, and at the same time, how very different. Those reared in the same home at the same time under the same influences, often give early evidence of strikingly different personalities, abilities, and aptitudes. Even so-called identical twins may be vitally different in many ways, although their likeness of looks may be confusing to others. Occasionally genius appears—perhaps one of a family, perhaps one of a generation—rich minds, great souls, gifted men.

It was a new day for our world when it became possible for the great truths of the universe and the lofty thoughts of men to be spread in print across the face of earth, so that the thoughts of all who choose to write could be known by all who choose to read. Thus the Bible, inspired by the living God, and the great works of science, philosophy, and literature, found their way into the hands of the many instead of into the hands of only the few—and printing, the art of preserving for the present and for the future the thoughts of the present and of the past, became the common medium of exchange among all enlightened peoples. But, as would be expected, along with the printing and circulation of good ideas, there has also been the printing and circulation of bad ideas. Some of the things we see in print cause us to give thanks for the glory of God and the intelligence of man, and some of the things we see in print make us ashamed of our own kind. Filth has been circulated in the name of realism.

The passing of time, measured off with monotonous mechanical devices, moves us through many strange patterns. Some of them we understand, and some of them are deeply puzzling to us. So gradually yet so quickly do we grow older, that while we feel ourselves still young, we may come to be looked upon as old by the eyes of those yet younger.

There is a phrase from the Psalms that describes a man who might well be the envy of all the world—a man of whom it could be said: "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings." It is highly improbable that one so richly blessed could willingly be induced to trade places with any other: "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings." If we could somehow find ourselves in a world where this could be true, we would no doubt know the joy of heaven on earth. Much that we read, much that we hear, comes under the classification of "evil tidings"—the misfortunes of people everywhere.

We sometimes hear of parents, and others responsible for the guidance of youth, who defer or indefinitely postpone the religious education of children. This attitude is often defended as being modern, liberal, and broadminded, and the explanation usually given is that "We'll wait for the children to grow up and let them make their own decisions with respect to these matters. We won't urge our opinions or convictions upon them."

Today America is closely examining her past and earnestly contemplating her future. The Sunday that comes between birthday anniversaries of two of our great patriots would seem to be an appropriate time for the restatement of some fundamentals. Because George Washington spoke more than a century and a half ago, there are those who would contend that the principles he laid down have outlived their usefulness.

We hear many appraisals and opinions as to what constitutes the most critical period of a man's life. What are the critical years? Of course any answer to this question would depend upon what particular kind of crises we have in mind. For some things, especially as to physical well-being, the years of early infancy are critical; in many ways, the years of childhood are critical; in some vital respects adolescence is a critical period; for some things and for some people, adulthood, middle age, and old age are critical. But if by the question we mean to ask when is a man safe, mentally and morally, physically and spiritually—at what point can he let down his guard and relax his vigilance and cease constructive activity—if this is what we mean, then the answer is that all the years are critical years.

There are many forces these days, which, for their own convenience and purposes, seek to deal with men en masse—as groups rather than as individuals—to type them and to classify them. But, quite apart from this, we ourselves have a way of classifying ourselves more definitely than any artificial classification that may be imposed upon us. It is a common human characteristic for men to seek their own element, to associate with the type of people they themselves are. Granted freedom, humankind gravitates to congenial surroundings and to congenial associations. We find those of common interests gathering together to speak their common language.

Under the tension of these days there are those who wonder why it fell to their lot to live in this particular troubled time and generation—those who feel perhaps that if they had chosen their time of life they could have chosen better—back in some golden age, whenever that might have been, or in some golden age of the future, whenever that might be. Well, to begin with, it is possible that men did have some choice as to the time of their birth—or at least a voice in the making of that decision—but regardless of that, there are good reasons for saying that perhaps it doesn't matter so much when people are born, so far as genuine happiness and usefulness are concerned. There are both happy and unhappy people in every generation; in every generation there are both misfits and those who adapt themselves to the circumstances of the day in which they find themselves. And this has nothing to do with time or the material conveniences of life. Cellophane and neon lights haven't made our generation happy—and they haven't made it unhappy.

One of the distinguishing attributes of intelligence in men is the faculty of thinking and planning for the future. It is this that causes us to plant so that we may harvest—that gives us the wisdom to preserve a part of our harvest for seedtime so that we may plant and harvest again. It is the assurance of a future that induces us to work beyond the point of satisfying our immediate needs.

Nations at war are repeatedly called upon for a definition of their war aims. In our own history, of course, the most frequent answer to the question "What are we fighting for?" is that we are fighting for freedom, for democracy, for the American way of life, for the rights of man, for security, for peace. These are good words, it is true, and they have deep meaning for each of us; but certainly they don't mean the same thing to all people.

The beginning of a New Year is conceded to be a good time to look critically at —some of the factors that make up our lives, at some of the things we do, and at some of the thinking, both true and false, that we indulge in. One of the fallacies that often appears under this critical scrutiny is the old and unimpressive excuse that we must do certain things merely because "everybody is doing them"—which of course is threadbare and untenable.

With the breathless passing of many days, we come again upon the changing of the year, which acutely reminds us of the passing of our lives and of the pace at which we are all moving toward whatever eventualities await us.

It had been our hope, with yours, that we could greet you this Christmas with the world at peace. But this cherished blessing is not yet ours. Perhaps more longing thoughts for the absent, and more prayers, spoken and unspoken, are in the hearts of men than ever before. Perhaps so many never yearned so fervently for peace, and perhaps so few ever had it. Never, perhaps, were so many groping for some meaning and purpose and plan in the events they see before them. But notwithstanding many things to the contrary—notwithstanding vacant chairs and hearts heavy in their loneliness—the spirit of Christmas moves in, and takes over. Time does not dissipate it.

Those who are discouraged, and especially those who are both young and discouraged, are sometimes heard to ask why they were born. Many who have encountered disappointments from which they think for the moment they cannot recover—young people whose dreams have been shattered, whose ambitions have been indefinitely postponed, who breathlessly have expected much from life and find that it has not fulfilled their expectations—are sometimes heard despondently to ask the question.

The pattern of history would seem to indicate that the moment a despot thinks he has stamped out all independence of thought he is due to find that he likely hasn't stamped it out at all—but has merely driven it under ground, as has been dramatically demonstrated in many countries within our own recent times.

Using the term in its broadcast meaning, history has produced many non-conformists. Every generation produces many non-conformists. And, indeed, every community, and perhaps almost every family, produces its quota of those who fail to conform—those who don't go along with their associates and contemporaries; those who want to be different; those who, for one reason or another, have their own ideas and reserve the right to express them—or to live them. Now, non-conformity does not necessarily imply either a desirable or an undesirable quality.

A much-quoted thought, recorded by the pen of Victor Hugo, has come down the years for our pondering: "There is one thing stronger than all the armies in the world; and that is an idea whose time has arrived." We are so accustomed to think and to speak in terms of money and lands and goods that we may lose sight of the fact that behind all tangible forces is the greater force of intangibles—the thoughts of men, the forces beyond men, and the ideas and motives and principles that put tangibles to good or evil purposes.

All of us at times deplore mistakes we have made in the past and ask why we couldn't have known the future and thereby have avoided our mistakes. Of all the reasons given by men for their desire to know the future, this one would seem to be the most valid—to help us avoid mistakes. But even this reason might readily be ruled out when we remind ourselves how often we ignore even those things we do know—both about the present and the future and how often we ignore those things, which the past has taught us about the future. We already know the future in principle. Causes which have once produced specific effects may again be expected to produce the same effects.

Among the frequent and persistent questions concerning the future are these: "Why can't we know the future?" and "Why shouldn't we know the future?" There are a number of possible answers, perhaps none of them fully satisfying—but all of them very much in point—and one possible answer would seem to be that oftentimes we can't know more about the future, because oftentimes it doesn't exist. By this we mean that many things that will happen in the future will depend upon what we do and upon what others do, and since neither we nor they may yet have made decisions in these matters, the results that are to follow those decisions may not now be known.