FIDELITY: A HOMILY FOR THE NEW YEAR

Evening Star, Issue 20374, 4 January 1930, Page 2

FIDELITY: A HOMILY FOR THE NEW YEAR

fTas subject of this article was suggested . by the story which a wellknown American writer told some time ago. Hfe said his little grandson j l sitting on his knee, informed him; of Certain happenings at the Sunday school ; amongst others that a new boy had come,' and the teacher, gave him a gracious welcome. “ S>he always does that to every new scholar, and hids him come again. Then the grandson considered for a moment, and at length he said: * Grandpa, I have never been new.’ Now I understand the little lad perfectly. For he was not jealous, and he did not covet for himself the glory that belongeth unto others, hut • he felt the isolation of a fidelity that hath always been, and therefore is {taken for granted.” Is not that true of more than* half of the things that befall ns in life? - » s .... * a,.., ' Let" ns begin with the New Year. How few think of" the fidelity which ite arrival indicates! W© hav© felt What seemed the solid, immovable earth under our feet for the last twelve months, and yet it was flying through space at an enormous rate. On Tuesday night last, at 12. a.tn., it completed a twelve months’ journey round, the sun of nigh on six hundred millions of miles. It was shaken by three different motions. “It turns on its axis ' rolling eastward at the rate—measured . from a point on the Equator - —of 1,000; miles an honr. It is flying round the sun at the rate of 60,000 miles in the same time. In company with the aun and its sister planets it is rushing through space towards some nnguessed and far-off goal at the rat© of 52,000 miles an hour.” But the amazing {thing is that, all the mighty forces which draw or drive the earth and the myriad planets through boundless space ire so nicely adjusted that we are not .conscious of the slightest movement or shock. They do not break the stem of a flower or mirk© the feet of a jshild stumble. Moreover, their movements . are so nicely timed that they can be. calculated to a;- second. This little earth of ours, after its amazing journey of over’ five hundred millions of miles, arrives punctually on time. There are no complaints, about delays such as w© hear of in, connection with our trains or steamers. No matter what we do, sleep or make, work, or* idle, all goes forward on the earth we {tread with perfect punctuality through •very minute of the year. It is, perhaps, the most marvellous example of a {fidelity that has .so constantly been that we rarely think of it; take it all for granted. • * * s And yet it would he weii, and the ■new year would be a better year in •very way, if we ha'd a deeper sense of gratitude to the Faithful On© who {Watches over and directs the “ march {of; the worlds, so that we are fed and feel

secure amid the mighty forces that are momentarily deploying - us. For neither reasons nor revelation will allow us to escape the conclusion that it is not blind powex - , but an intelligent Mind and Will that is in all and over all. If that be so, then we have the direst example of a faithfulness that is taken as a matter of course, and accepted without thought or thanks. The vast majority of men and women sit-down daily at the great feast of life, and never as much as say “ Thank you ” to the Giver. The accomplished French writer Scherer, in one of his ‘Essays on English Literature,’ says: “ In a certain sense Paganism is more religious than Christianity, and associates the Deity with ©very act of human ;]{ r o more naturally, and more of necessity from the very fact that it has a god for everything—for the domestic hearth, for love, for marriage, for fighting—there is not a circumstance in which their gods have not a locus standi. . . It is by no means the same with the moderns, iu whom the much more exalted but much vaguer idea of Providence has replaced the crowd of special detities.” In the widely prevalent arid saeularity of our day there is too good ground for Scherer’s criticism. In this relation we will do well to recall Shakespeare’s words, and he instructed thereby: I hat© ingratitude more in man Than lying vainness, babbling drunkenness, ' Or any taint of vice whoso strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood. '

But to come nearer home—though how can we be nearer home than to One who is “nearer'to us than breathing and closer than hands or than feet”?—-think of the men and women to whose unthanked faithfulness we ■owe the better part of our life—even our life itself. Think of the fathers and mothers • who thought and wrought for us, even before we were horn. Think of the servants who did the dirty work for us; who washed our clothes and cleaned our shoes; the long line of the faithful who are not famous and without whose fidelity and sacrifice and care and hard hands and bent backs we should not have gloves to wear or easy chairs to sit,in to-day. In one of Browning’s ‘ Dramatic Idylls ’ he adapts the legend of the Battle of Marathon—that great fight in which the heroic Greeks rolled back the Persian invaders and saved Europe. According to the legend, there was one man who was largely instrumental in winning the fight. He was clad only in sheepskin, and had neither helmet nor shirt. His only weapon was a ploughshare, with which he drove into the ranks of his foes. The battle won, he could not be found, nor did anybody know his name. When the sacred oracles were appealed to, their only reply was: “Never mind 'about his name. Call him the man with the ploughshare.” How many battles we all win because some anonymous fidelity has been exerted on our behalf! W© have been held back from evil, or strengthened unto good through, influences set in motion by agencies we pould,not. trace, or persons whose very names we have never heard. In our gar-

dens we stand and admire the beanty and brilliancy of the roses twined up over wooden props. These latter mutilated, twisted, rough, uncouth-looking poles never draw opr attention. Yet without their help to hold up the gay roses or the sweet peas, what would become of their bloom and beauty? And so the crowds of the forgotten faithful were yet tho supports without which the great and famous could never have gained the shining aureoles that crown them now. • • • ♦ . But how often it is true that tho fidelity is taken as a matter of course, is unrecognised and nnthanked? In no sphere is this ingratitude so shameless and wicked as in the case of children to their parents. We see every now and again in the newspapers about fathers and mothers having to call in tho aid of the law to secure help from their sons and daughters. {Recently we cam© on a particularly tragic and pathetic illustration of this. We condense the story. Early in the morning tho caretaker of a cemetery going his rounds saw what looked like a big bundle on the yellow earth beside a new dug grave, lb was an old woman not quite dead. A bottle of poison was in one hand, in the other a short message of farewell: “Children, I am through with life, and seek rest.” She was old, poorly dressed, had reared ten children. Her mind was not working very clearly. She had said to herself: “ If I die beside this grave right hero they will, maybe, put me in it, and that will be convenient for everybody.” But she was not to escape so easily. Civilisation, which had not cared much about her or her- children and her struggle for seventy odd years against poverty and cruelty, made suicide a crime, and her a criminal. Policemen were brought, an ambulance, the hospital, and the poison was drained out. Then her story was wormed from Per. The poison was the cheapest she could get, and had not been quite effective. Her husband was dead and could not help. H{er ten children would not. So she decided, as she put it, “to seek rest.” In a way it was not surprising; but what was surprising was the answer she gave to the doctor who asked her her name; “No, I will not tell you my naitie. I don’t want to disgrace my children!”

Was there ever a more pitiful story of pride and heroism? And it is the story of many an isolated fidelity, a. fidelity that never wins a “ thank you ” or a “ well done ’’ from those who profit by it. In pre-Reformation times in some of tho English churches there used to be kept a little lamp Continually burning called “ the Lamp of Poor Souls.” People were thereby reminded to pray for the souls of the dead whose kinsfolk were too poor to pay for prayers and masses. Let us trim this Lamp of Poor Souls. Not in the catalogue, their names arc written That holy, church doth keep, from age to age; Yet fondly do I read the cherished titles Inscribed on memory’s page. Mystic Theresa’s name is not among them, - ■ No meek Elizabeth is written there, Or sweet St. Agnes, with her palm and halo, Her white hand clasped in prayer. No, maybe not. Nevertheless, we shall not doubt their names will be found in the muster roll of Him who appraised the widow’s mite and rewards tho cup of cold water. And our relation to them may determine our destiny, even as did that of Dives to Lazarus.