Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Religion in Social Conversation

It is unfortunate that religion has come to be tabooed in ordinary social conversation. We can talk about politics, business, literature, music, art, our homes, our friends, the weather, but we seem to regard the religious life as too sacred to be brought into common conversation. This may be partly because of reserve, partly because we fear the suspicion of ostentation, partly because we have reacted against the Phariseeism which delights in exhibitory piety. But, whatever the cause, the result is unfortunate. There is no more reason why religious convictions should be excluded from common conversation than political convictions; no more reason why we should tacitly forbid all reference to our religious life than why we should put a similar prohibition on our art, literature, or domestic life.

— Lyman Abbott (1835-1922)

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Earth

Sad is my lot; among the shining spheres 

Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, 

And ever, in my never-ending flight, 

Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears. 

Young wives’ and new-born infants’ hapless biers 

Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight; 

Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light; 

Pain and remorse and want fill up my years. 

My happier children’s farther-piercing eyes 

Into the blessed solvent future climb, 

And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning; 

But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, 

And, shut within the blind obscure of time, 

Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.

— William Roscoe (born March 8, 1753)

Prayer From Correspondences

O thou Spirit of Truth; visit our minds once more!

Give us to read, in letters of light, the language celestial,

Written all over the earth — written all over the sky:

Thus may we bring our hearts at length to know our Creator,

Seeing in all things around types of the Infinite Mind.

— Christopher Pearse Cranch (born March 8, 1813)

Friday, March 7, 2014

Obsolescent Souls

The universe is not big enough to contain perpetually all the human souls and the other living beings that have been here for their short spans. A theory of personal resurrection or reincarnation of the individual is untenable when we but pause to consider the magnitude of the idea. On the contrary, I must believe that rather than the survival of all, we must look for survival only in the spirit of the good we have done in passing through. This is as feasible and credible as Henry Ford's own practice of discarding the old models of his automobile. When obsolete, an automobile is thrown in the scrap heap. Once here and gone, the human life has likewise served Its purpose. If it has been a good life, it has been sufficient. There is no need for another.

— Luther Burbank (born March 7, 1849)

Luther Burbank (1849-1926)

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Moderation

Almost all error is some truth carried to excess: almost all sin is some good or useful principle suffered to be immoderate and ungovernable, or suppressed and denied its proper influence and action. Let, then, moderation be a leading trait of our virtue and piety. Nothing is more wise and more admirable in action than to be resolute, and yet calm; earnest, and yet self-possessed; decided, and yet modest; to contend for truth and right with meekness and charity; to give without pride, and to withhold without meanness; to rejoice with moderation, and to suffer with patience.

— Orville Dewey (1794-1882)

Saturday, March 1, 2014

March

Beneath the sheltering walls the thin snow clings, —
Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white,
Disjointed, crumbling, on unfriendly fields.
The inky pools surrender tardily 
At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink
From jagged rims of ice; a subtle red
Of life is kindling every twig and stalk
Of lowly meadow growths; the willows wrap 
Their stems in furry white; the pines grow gray
A little in the biting wind; mid-day
Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out
Alert for sun.
Ah, March! we know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!

— Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)