the silent sermon of the months. 1: january: the sermon of the past

Irish Jesuit Province

The Silent Sermon of the Months. 1: January: The Sermon of the PastAuthor(s): Jos. GuinanSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 45, No. 523 (Jan., 1917), pp. 1-5Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20504704 .

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THE IRISH MONTHLY

JANUARY. 1917

THE SILENT SERMON OF THE

MONTHS

1.-JANUARY-THE SERMON OF THE PAST

A HAPPY new year ! A bright new year I A glad new year! They are pleasant, cheermg words, how ever lightly or conventionally spoken; and, if

they butter no bread, as the homely saying has it, they help somehow to lift up the sad heart, and

make it feel younger, which is something to be grate ful for in this grey world of many cares and sorrows.

But, although they sound so sweet and so soothing, good wishes and greetings cannot banish the feeling of

melancholy associated with the old year that is dead and gone for ever. To every reflecting mind, to 'every one " that considereth in the heart," there must needs come

with the young year the great, solemn thought of the irrevocable Past.

There is sober oomfort in the present, no doubt; for, among earthly pleasures, what can ever equal the delirious joy of living, of being here and now, above instead of below the sod. And, however gloomy the prospect may be,

Hope's beautiful, rosy finger will point encouragingly to the Future, which must, at last, be blessed. Yes, the morrow cometh, ever tardily yet surely cometh, when it will dawn fair.

VoL. xiv.-No. 523. 61



2 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Ay, so we are fain to believe with that blessed optimism, which must be a reflection of God's own smile. But, all the same, we look back on our journey with regret, witlh sentiments that are tinctured with sadness in spite of our selves. And why? Because the golden opportunities were and are not. We cannot call them back. What we have

done, we have done. What we have no done when we might have, must remain for ever a blank in our record. Let us examine our consciences, as our Prayer Book reminds us.

If there is something to be proud of, to glory in, as of course there must be, perhaps there is something to be ashamed of, also; something we could wish had not been, were it only an unnecessary harsh word, or the omission of a kind one which possibly might have saved a soul. " The

kindly word unspoken is a sin," says John Boyle O'Reilly, with a beautiful little touch of human sympathy and insight that must bring a pang of remorse to many. But, alas, it

is unavailing, for well does Aristotle say in his "Ethics": " Of this alone even God is deprived, the power of making

things that are past never to have been." What, then, is the silent sermon of the first month of

the year, dark, lowering January, the opener of the gates of human destiny? It is the lesson of looking backward. Like the wedding guest in the " Ancient Mariner," you " cannot choose but hear it," anxious though you are to join the merry party at the feast.

This is what the bright new year tells to the young and to the old, as it stands triumphantly on the grave of its already forgotten predecessors.

The youth in the pride of budding manhood and the maiden in the morning glory of dawning womanhood notice with surprise, as they linger and dawdle on the sunny slope

of life's hill, that the starting point, childhood, has already receded far away, and is now well nigh lost in the mist,

through which little active forms are dimly seen commenc ing the merry climb with shouts of laughter. Others higher up, who experienced the same strange feeling only a short time ago, as it would seem, now find themselves near the

summit, or perhaps on it.



THE SILENT SERMON OF THE MONTHS 3

AMeasured by the Psalmist's generous estimate of three score years and ten, half the journey of life is now com pleted, and the remainder will be downhill, all downhill. Some thirty-five paces have been made up the easy, pleasant ascent, in the company of the gay, the joyous throng, who trod it so lightly; and now the thoughtless

wayfarers are dismayed at the great change that has in

sensibly taken place within themselves, a change in mind, in outlook, in judgment of men and things, as well as in

body. They are in a different company now, a grave, serious, introspective company, who walk warily, slowly, sadly; who look back betimes wistfully, and with many a secret sigh. Their prevailing tendency, however, is to gaze downward to the valley below where the goal looms up ghost-like in the gloom. And whilst it terrifies some, to others-the religious-minded and God-fearing-it is the light in the window, which reminds them they are nearing the smiles and welcome of home.

Ah, how stealthily the silent-footed years glide by. They are stealing on us like the incoming tide on a calm summer day, wavelet lapping gently on wavelet, noise lesslv, imperceptibly, yet surely and irresistibly till the water drives the children from their play on the shore and ruins their baby-houses. So do the years creep in on us, obliterating the sand-castles we have reared with untiring industry in youth's happy morn. Or, to vary the comparison, time glides away from us like the outgoing tide, and, while the gay barque with " Youth on

the prow, and pleasure at the helm," floats idly over the

calm blue sea, it is soon left hopelessly stranded on the beach. But, unlike the course of nature, the tide we have missed will never return, and we must even leave the gilded

vessel there to become an unsightly hulk. And thus it is in life's voyage. Our ship goes out in all its bedizened glory, and struggles into port a battered, sea-tossed wreck.

How quickly dreamy, careless childhood passes into plea sant, buoyant boyhood, or girlhood, and that again rapidly into the full flush of joyous, golden youth. How soon comes staid, serious middle-age, when the " silver grey

peeps through the sunny hair," and the treacherous hand of



4 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Time surreptitiously writes the tell-tale wrinkles on the brow, that was once so smooth. Indeed, we grow old with out being ourselves aware of it, although all others see it plainly, but are too kind to tell us so, because they fear

we might be loth to admit it. Ah, what a cheat is age; it will try to beguile and hoodwink us to the very end. "

I think my age was only yesterday," said the old peasant of ninety-five," and he spoke a true word, in his quaint, homely way, for what is life but a span, a step from the cradle to the grave. A little while, a very little while, and we shall be spoken of in the Past Tense; we shall be numbered among those who were. We drop out of the ranks quietly, almost unnoticed, and the world goes march ing on and forgets us.

The Sacred Scriptures bring this truth home to us in simple yet forcible language in narrating the astonishing length of years which God was pleased to grant to some of the patriarchs of the first age of the world. Listen to those astounding obituary notices, and mark well how the record ends in each case.

" And all the days that Adam lived came to 930 years, and he died."

" And all the days of Jared were 962 years, and he died."

" And all the days of Methusala were 969 years, and he died."

What a wonderful thing would it have been had Methusala lived under the new, instead of the old Dispensa tion. Let us try to imagine how much of the world's history might have been crowded into the life of one man. Born in the beginning of the Christian era, let us say, he would have lived through the Ten Persecutions, witnessed the fall of the mighty Roman Empire, and the triumph of the Church in all lands. He might have seen in the flesh

Rollo, Charlemagne, Alfred the Great, and Brian Boru. 'And he might have received the blessing of the hundredth

Pope. Or, had the year 969 A.D. witnessed his birth, instead of his death, he might have gone through the Crusades, fought at the Battle of Hastings, visited the



THE SILENT SERMON OF THE MONTHS 5

court of the Grand Monarque, and finally assisted at the Coronation of Queen Victoria, as the Grand old Man of the nineteenth century. But the last word in the chronicle of his achievements would have been just the same-" and he died."

" But, why intrude these melancholy thoughts on our happy new year ?" you may say, " Is not the world sad enough, without trying to make it more so?"

Because, I answer, they are salutary reflections, consol ing, if bitter-sweet, to the earnest,_ sober-minded Christian,

who cheerfully recognises, from the start, that the journey leads to rest-and rest is the end and reward of labour.

Youth's butterfly hour is indeed delightful; and, in after years, it smiles back to us with the witching smile of sweet sixteen; but, has it shot no Parthian arrows in its flight? Ay, there's the rub. Surely, it is well to be among those who, if grown homely are grown wise, and who can say in a higher and better sense than that of Horace, " To-morrow do thy best, for I have lived to-day."'

Jos. GUINAN.

"GIVE AND IT SHALL BE GIVEN TO YOU."

Giver of All Thyself didst give For us Thy Life that we might Live; And now that we may Thee possess Thou askest but our nothingness.

O sweet exchange of earth for Heav'n; " Give-and to you it shall be giv'n;"

Help us-Dear Lord! to face the strife And win-with Thee-Eternal Life.

W.L., C.ss.R.



the silent sermon of the months. 1: january: the sermon of the past

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