Spoken Word Messages - Page 89

In addition to the false fears that destroy the effectiveness of men (most of which are vainly imagined and are without substance), it must also be admitted that there are fears which are not false-that some fears have their foundation in fact-for example, the fears of a man whose life is filled with wrong, and who knows it, and who vainly tries to quiet his fear of consequences. Not all who carry such fears are known to us. Some walk our streets, and live long, and never rise above their fears—and "die many times before their death" as Shakespeare wrote of those who die a thousand deaths.

The war of nerves, so-called, is a new name for an old stratagem—the stratagem of deliberately bringing about a state of fear in the lives of men. It has long been known that if you can strike fear into the heart of a man you have already gone far toward destroying his effectiveness. Fear is, no doubt, a "secret weapon" of Satan himself—and of many who have sought to emulate him—who would like others to be paralyzed by fear so that they may accomplish their own purposes.

One of the accepted methods of teaching and learning is by the process of repetition. By saying a thing over and over again, eventually it may become ingrained. But, effective as it is, this process may become very tiresome. Perplexed parents frequently become weary of the number of times they have to remind their children of even the simplest rules of conduct, with little apparent carry-over effect—and frequently from children comes the impatient reply: "O we know! We've heard that before!" After having gone through such repeat performances times without number, exhausted mothers and fathers have often despaired.

We pause again, as we do each recurring year at this season, between the birthdays of two American patriots whom time has given the mark of greatness—two men who have outlived all of the pettiness and prejudices, all of the misunderstandings and misrepresentations of their own generations—who have outlived all partisanship, to find permanent place in the minds and hearts of Americans and of freedom-loving peoples everywhere.

In this day and age, whenever anyone speaks of the social precautions which were formerly observed for the safeguarding of womanhood in general, and of young girls in particular, one is likely to be accused of being Victorian-which is another way of saying that the idea is thought to be stuffy and old-fashioned. But when safeguarding the most precious things in life becomes old-fashioned, civilization will be on its way out, together with the finest things that the finest people of all ages have stood for.

Like fashions and customs in a good many other things, the words of our language come and go. Many times within our generation we have seen words suddenly come into daily usage, and we have seen words gradually fall into disuse, almost without our being aware of it. One, such word that was once used more often and with much meaning, and which more recently seems to be on the wane, is the word "chaperonage." To those who have lived through earlier decades, it stirs memories. But to many of today's youth it has little or no meaning outside the dictionary. But old-fashioned as it is, the word still has a meaning, and old-fashioned as it may seem to say so, that meaning has a fundamental significance.

The conduct of men is modified by laws which provide penalties for almost every outward act of evil that could be named or devised. Whether enforced or not, there are on the statute books prohibitions and punishments for immorality, theft, drunkenness, bearing false witness, violence, duplicity, and dishonorable dealings of every kind and description, notwithstanding which the multiplicity of violations is appalling. And these outward evidences of an inward condition bring us face to face with the truth that no present means of physical enforcement can prevent evil, so long as the greater offenses are committed within the minds of men and in the secret places of their hearts.

"But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions." (Matthew 19:22.) The problem of the young man and his choices in life is always with us—and likewise of young women. Many of our own young men today—rich young men, all of then—rich in the heritage of country, rich in opportunity, rich in friends and in prospects for happiness—have, by the millions,  had to decide between clinging to their accustomed comfort and personal convenience, or offering themselves in defense of a cause. But it isn't only a time of war that brings such decisions before us.

There comes to mind one of the pastimes of our childhood when we paused with wide-eyed children to watch the billposter, harbinger of circuses and travelling shows, skillfully ply paste and brush, and somehow make the parts of a ready-made picture, piece by piece, slip precariously into place—thus to tell all passers by of things to come.

The cycle of fashion in human affairs has often been observed and commented upon. Succeeding generations come back to old styles, modified, but strikingly similar. Not only in such things as dress, in literature, and in art do we tend to move recurrently, but also in thought. And not only does the aggregate thinking of the world tend to repeat itself, but each man in his own life tends to go through phases from faith to doubt, and back again from skepticism to belief. In childhood, an implicit faith in an intelligent direction of the universe and in the reality and approachability of God is the likely condition. And then comes a little learning—so tritely but truly described as being "a dangerous thing"—a smattering of knowledge acquired here and there, a fragment of fact, which, unrelated to the whole, would seem to discredit the pattern of faith.

The New Year brings with it the annually recurring question, to resolve or not to resolve. No doubt some of us have quit making resolutions, and some of us are still making and breaking them. Too often resolutions that wait for the New Year, and which are made dramatically with the ringing of the bells, play out undramaticallv and ingloriously. Usually the resolutions that stay with us are those we make quietly and earnestly to ourselves when we feel the strength and the need to do so— without waiting for a great occasion. And so we are not calling for any overt or declamatory resolutions, but we could, all of us, use some quiet personal determination about many things—one of which could be the resolve in the year ahead to do our own thinking—to cut through the maze of misinformation and ready-made opinion and look for the facts and the reasons behind the facts.

This day between Christmas and the New Year would seem to be a good time to remind ourselves of some realities that bear repetition. If we were to measure the accomplishment of ultimate purposes in terms of the lifetime of any one man or any one generation, many things that are certain of eventual fulfillment would seem to have been vain and hopeless. Progress is slow at best, and, at times, certainly, it would seem that we move in the wrong direction. The race of men learn stubbornly.

There are many thoughts that crowd in upon us at Christmas—but most of all, perhaps, our thoughts at this season are of home and those we love; and, if we were free to go our own way, the footsteps of most of us would turn homeward at Christmas. This year perhaps the greatest unfulfilled longing in all the world is the longing expressed by the words, "I want to go home." There are millions of men in far countries and strange places, on battlefields and on broad seas, friend and foe alike, in whose hearts this thought will not be stilled: "I want to go home." There are millions, both friend and foe alike, who yearn at home to welcome those who would come if they could.

In spite of a long-advocated tolerance, there are times when all of us find annoyance because someone has disagreed with us. But the fact remains that to establish something on the basis of opinion without proof, or authority without reason, is as difficult now as it ever was, or more so—even though it may be annoying. In governments, as long as we have known anything about them, as far back as history has anything to say concerning them, men who have attempted by sheer authority to impose edicts without reason and fiats without the conversion and support of those whom they affect, have seen the beginning of trouble—but not the end. But governments are not the only ones who have been historically guilty of such things. Men in their private lives have been guilty. Social, religious, scientific, and professional movements, societies, and institutions have sometimes been guilty.

At some time or other during his life, perhaps everyone asks himself: "Why should I conform to the accepted rules? Why should I maintain standards and ideals? Why should the promises or threatened punishments of a remote hereafter restrict my way of life? Maybe all this moral restraint is merely something my parents taught me because their parents taught them. Maybe this old idea of virtue's being its own reward has no justification in fact."

There is a question that has been pressing itself upon our thoughts, which, because of a traditional reticence, is sometimes difficult to speak of—but neither can it be ignored. Perhaps it can best be introduced by a quoted statement—a statement to the effect that "the greatest evil of the age is unchastity."

With almost unbelievable swiftness, another year has come and gone, to bring us again to the season of Thanksgiving—a season in which we make grateful acknowledgment of the yield of the good earth and of the providence of the Father of all men. Here in America Thanksgiving has deep significance for us, because, unfailingly through the years, in war and in peace, despite all the factors of disturbance and all the failings of men, we have been richly blessed.

The question of expediency frequently arises to plague us—the question as to whether or not, under pressure of circumstances, to accomplish seemingly desirable ends, we should resort to things which, ordinarily, we would not do—the question as to whether or not evil is to be condoned in some people, and some places, and under some circumstances, and not under others. Expediency, in the terms in which we have reference to it, has been defined as "subordination of moral principle for the sake of facilitating an end or purpose; conducive to special advantage rather than what is universally right; characterized by mere utility rather than principle"—and much has been written and spoken in justification of the uses of such false expediency—in justification for employing evil devices with allegedly good motive.

We are reminded today that before another week shall have passed, November 11 will have come and gone again, thus marking, almost unbelievably it seems, a quarter of a century since an Armistice was reached in World War 1.

There has long been a philosophy too widely entertained that a personal weakness could be offset by a legal device. For example, there have been those who have supposed that if a man weren't fundamentally honest, you could make him honest merely by passing a law against dishonesty, or that if a man weren't disposed to be moral, you could assure his morality by legislating against immorality. And this line of thinking has gone yet further.

William Penn is accredited with the statement—"If men be good, government cannot be bad." On first hearing, one may be inclined to challenge the idea, but a more studied consideration of it will reveal its fundamental truth. It is true that there may be exceptions; it is true that history records innumerable incidents of conquest, forced slavery, and subjugation of unwilling peoples, by tyrants and usurpers. But these apparent exceptions do not invalidate the rule. In the first place, no tyrant stands alone.

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. It is this that gives us the wisdom to save a part of our harvest so that we may plant and harvest again. It is the assurance a future that induces us to work beyond the point of satisfying our immediate needs. It is in anticipation of a future that we save.

We have read somewhere currently a brief statement of a challenging idea: "The greater the truth, the greater the danger." Certainly the record will show that those who have advocated great truths, before the world generally has accepted them, have often stood in great danger. The history of martyrdom in all fields of thought and learning will bear this out. Prophets who have forecast coming events have often died for their testimony, but the generations have lived to see, often to their sorrow, the fulfillment of prophetic word.

The characteristic technique of the sleight-of-hand performer is to divert attention from what he doesn't want us to see and focus attention on what he does want us to see. He may employ a casual and disarming line of talk or a few false motions, or both—but all to one purpose: to take our minds off reality and to make unreality seem real. In some respects the illustration would seem to have pertinence to the pattern of our current living—a pattern so complicated, so crowded with immediate problems, so dominated by startling news, that we sometimes stand in danger of thinking too much about what is happening and not enough about why—too much about effects and not enough about causes—too much about symptoms and not enough about the disease. The doctor who goes about prescribing for symptoms only, may relieve the patient, but the chances for permanent cure are not so good unless he looks beyond symptoms to discover causes.

A trend that has always caused apprehension among far-thinking men is encroachment upon judiciary function—the short-circuiting of the processes of justice, whereby various non-judicial agencies or officers accuse, try, convict, pronounce sentence, and execute judgment without what has traditionally come to be known as "due process of law."

Among the dictator nations there is an avid recognition of the fact that control of what is taught in the schools is a long step toward control of the future and so a deliberate policy of indoctrination is pursued, which, if permitted to proceed unchecked and unchallenged, can go far to assure any regime, any philosophy, any system of government, any ideology, the loyalty and devotion, right or wrong, of the youth of the land who will soon become the citizens of the land. And by this means, barring some outside circumstance or contrary influence, a generation or a nation of people could be reared with their hearts set upon false standards and their feet planted on crumbling foundations.

We have come again to the time when, in spite of all the pursuits of war, millions of students return to the schoolroom, there to learn from books, from teachers, and from association with their comrades, the lessons of life in all its fields of knowledge. And because our children spend so much of their time within school walls, and derive so many of their fixed impressions and habits and attitudes from the hours and the days spent there, parents have both the right and the obligation to know what is being taught them, and how, and for what purpose, and by whom.

For sometime now, perhaps prematurely, perhaps not, a favorite topic of speculation has been concerning conditions "after the war." Often such speculation confines itself entirely to the realm of material comforts and conveniences, and the more imaginative and extravagant speculators envision for us, in word and picture, the immediate birth of a streamlined world with ready-made luxury and chromium trimmings for all. If such things are possible, we have no quarrel with them.

When anyone undertakes to catalogue the predominant vices of men, always well toward the top of the list is the prevalent human failing called "jealousy." Jealousy has played a prominent role in many, if not most, of the troubles of men, and is so closely associated with some of our other notable vices that sometimes it is rather difficult to isolate. It is a first cousin of envy, which in turn is a close relative of covetousness, and all of them are near of kin to hate and bitterness and the broken lives and sorrows that follow.

There is a prevalent type of counterfeit humor which must not go unmentioned. It has to do with whispering huddles that proceed with sly side glances and break up with mirthless laughter—such huddles as can be seen almost anywhere—in the best and in the worst places. They are the mark of those who have mistaken bad stories for good humor, which brings us to remind ourselves that the whispered story which has indecency as its principal ingredient is not humorous even though cautious but attentive groups often disperse with loud laughter after someone has told one.