The Formative Years: Laying a Foundation for Life
*"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth; while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them."* (Eccl 12:1)
A few weeks ago I received a letter signed by twenty-five young men from this congregation, asking me to deliver a course of lectures directed specifically to them, if I thought it appropriate. I'm especially pleased to see so many of you sitting before me tonight. In responding to this request, I'm simply representing the deep interest that both the church and the world feel toward those who will soon be the chief actors in life, and by whom history will be made.
Several factors make this subject worth our attention. Above all, there's the beauty of youth: not inherently greater than the beauty found in other stages of life, but far more captivating. Like the seasons of the year, every age has its own distinctive appeal. Winter arrives first with its frost and snow, hanging icicles everywhere like brilliant diamonds gleaming in the sunlight. It's as if a magician had waved his wand over the earth and transformed it into a palace of crystalline wonders. Spring follows with its renewing vitality, coaxing buds to open on trees and flowers, stirring birds back into song, and dressing the earth once more in her fresh beauty. Then comes summer with its golden harvest: grain bending low as if bowing in worship, the wind whispering gently through the fields to the farmer's delight, until the earth seems to laugh with the richness of her abundance. Finally, autumn turns the fields brown and, with an artist's touch, paints the forests in rainbow hues. As this shifting panorama passes before us and we watch nature's changing magnificence, we can't help but declare: "God has made everything beautiful in its time!"
The same holds true for the great stages of human life. Think of the moonlit peace that crowns a godly old age: a life spent toiling through scorching days for God and humanity, now with its work complete, sitting with folded hands at the edge of the cold river, waiting for the call to "the shining shore." Or consider the moral grandeur found in middle life, when virtuous men stand like great cliffs facing the roaring sea, bearing up under responsibilities in the fullness of their strength that might seem enough to crush an angel. But youthful beauty carries a glow on its cheek that captures the imagination, not simply for the promise it holds, but for the qualities that belong uniquely to youth itself. Who doesn't admire its freshness of feeling, still untouched by disappointment and care, resting on it like dew on an autumn morning? Who doesn't rejoice in the frankness and trust of youth, responding generously to every gesture of kindness, opening the door of its heart to every invitation of love, and pouring out its own affections without measure or calculation? When these characteristics come together in their common combination, it's no wonder that the old sometimes bow before the young in the homage of true reverence.
This brings me to the sad interest we feel in young people, something you can't possibly understand at the dawn of life. You won't appreciate it until you occupy our positions and look back on the sufferings of the past. For many, life remains clouded with failure and disappointment right to the end. Trying to escape this gloom, people retreat in memory to the dreamland of their youth. They gaze at those early pictures that Hope, with her delicate brush, painted on the canvas, pictures that now only mock them with their false magic. Just as an author revises his book in light of the criticisms it received, bringing it out in greater perfection than before, so a vain wish springs up in the heart: if only it were possible to start at the beginning and put out a second, improved edition of one's life. This cannot be allowed. We make only one journey through time, and it must close with whatever success or failure has attended it. Young men, there is an inexpressible sadness when those who are leaving life with a broken heart turn their gaze on you who are springing up around them. They seek with heartfelt advice to guard you from the mistakes that have made their own lives a sad failure. The tremor of a tear can be felt in every voice that speaks from a disappointed life.
Beyond all this, we must care deeply for the young, who are always the hope of the Church and the world. I may have flattered you by painting the loveliness of your early morning hour; let me set beside it, in sharp contrast, the strength of your coming noon. Soldiers speak of "the joy of battle" when the initial fear vanishes in the first clash of arms. In the same way, there is a proud enthusiasm in bearing the responsibilities of an honorable career, felt most when duty presses hardest, and in conscious weakness we stagger beneath the burden. Then it is that weakness becomes strength, and the hero asks to live until his task is finished. Some are now laying down the solemn trusts with which they were charged; others are still in the sweat and dust of the arena; but all look behind them to see if the race coming after is a royal race: stalwart champions for the true and the right, who with faces set like flint, like those iron beaks that cut their way through the ice of the Northern rivers, make opposition itself contribute to brilliant achievements. A strong man is willing to die if he leaves a son equal to himself. But if that son is a man of brighter nature, of larger culture, of nobler aspirations, he will rejoice to divest himself of his own honors and cast them as a priestly robe upon the one who bears his name and office.
Such, my young friends, are the grounds of that almost paternal affection universally felt for those who are just buckling on the armor of duty. We cannot look upon the flush of hope that brightens your cheek without a prayer for your welfare: that Heaven may guide you by a straighter path than ours, freer from difficulties, and leading to nobler rewards. In the remainder of this introductory lecture, I will simply impress upon you THE IMPORTANCE OF THIS FORMING PERIOD OF YOUR EARTHLY CAREER.
Consider, then, that this period encompasses no less than one-third of all the years given to us on earth. Platitudes about life's brevity make little impression, but here's a concrete illustration that grips both conscience and heart: one-third of life spent simply preparing to live. Dwell on this fact until its enormous significance weighs on you like a shadow. Death has already advanced one-third of the way at the very moment when you whisper to yourself, almost mockingly, "Now I'm going to begin life." Yes, beginning life when the candle has already burned down one-third of the way to its base! This arrangement isn't arbitrary. You must climb these twenty steps to reach early adulthood, arriving only at the first landing. Five more steps remain, exceedingly narrow and steep, before you're entrusted with responsibilities that only death can take from you. Nature herself marks off this period of human growth through her law of physical and mental maturity. The few cases of precocious development are weak exceptions to the rule. Even differences in climate, which may lengthen or shorten the growth period, equally determine the period of decline. Across the globe, the same proportion is preserved between the stages of human life.
Looking at this from a practical angle, let's consider how small a portion of our entire existence actually contains our real, effective life on earth. Scripture tells us that "the days of our youth are threescore years and ten," but how quickly the prime of life passes, when our energy fades and we stop pursuing new ventures? And even worse, how soon the feeling of isolation creeps over us? Those who walked alongside us in various relationships have somehow fallen through the broken planks of the bridge into the churning waters below. By the time we reach old age, we find ourselves more alone than we were as children nestled with our brothers and sisters in our parents' home. This picture may seem too dark to you, perhaps sending a shiver down your spine. Yet I'm asking you to look at it with the seriousness it deserves: this division of life into thirds. We spend the first third learning how to live, the last third learning how to die, and the middle section (which may stretch longer than either extreme) contains the narrow window into which all our truly productive life is compressed.
I've said that nature's decree assigning such a long period for human growth isn't arbitrary. Instead, we should recognize it as the arrangement of a supremely wise and gracious Providence. Human beings are far too precious to grow up like weeds. The prophet's gourd grew in a single night and perished just as quickly, but humanity was made to endure. Within our mortal frame, God has imprisoned an immortal spirit, and the life of this spirit is measured as the hands move on the face of that clock hanging on the walls of eternity. This is why we take so long to grow. And if it seems to you that spending one-third of mortal life just preparing to live is excessive, remember that time has no measure except eternity, and only in its disciplinary and educational relation to eternity does time have any significance at all. Twenty years isn't too long to form habits that will become our second nature, or to establish principles that will govern our activity forever, or to shape a character that, through its own development, will crystallize into a form of beauty destined to endure as long as the heavens remain. How it contradicts the logic of both reason and conscience to waste any portion of youth (so necessary to the life that follows) in idleness or folly. And when that time is gone, it leaves a record we must surely face at the judgment bar.
II. *Consider that, within this period, a character of some sort must be formed.* We don't get to choose whether this happens or not. We can use our opportunities or squander them: either way, the process of development continues. No amount of rational protest or willpower can stop the law that governs how character crystallizes into its final form. Nothing could be more mistaken than to think anything has a neutral influence on the young. At no point in our earthly existence do our actions stand separate from the dispositions that produce them, and this is especially true during youth, the first stage of that continuous education where everything becomes part of our very substance. Every sight, every sound, every thought, every deed goes straight into character. Everything is positive, nothing neutral in life's discipline. Through every waking moment, character builds itself through accretions infinitely smaller than those by which coral insects construct the islands of the sea. Just as a plant absorbs color from light, drinks moisture through its leaves from the air, or draws nutrients through its delicate fibers from the soil, so in youth we absorb the influences around us that grow into the entire framework of our future being. Remember too that character, once formed this way, stays with us as an enduring possession. During our mortal life it can be modified, both for good and evil. It can improve. It can deteriorate. In a religious sense, it can even be transformed. Yet even in the realm of grace, the natural traits that ground all individuality will surface: only in the Christian, they are redeemed, controlled, and beautified by divine love. The fact pressing most urgently on my young friends tonight is this: the foundation of this lasting structure is laid in our early years. The saying that "the boy is father of the man" is proven by a thousand examples. Children of genius almost universally show in childhood the very tastes that distinguish them in their prime. When we pass from a state of trial to one of reward, even death (which doesn't interrupt the continuity of our being) makes no fundamental change in that character on which the final judgment has stamped the seal of destiny. From this perspective, how unspeakably important is this period of youth, when life is running into its mold not only for the near future, but for the great hereafter! It has been truly said:
Plant an action and you harvest a habit. Plant a habit and you harvest a character. Plant a character and you harvest a destiny.
III. *In youth the appetites and passions surge to the forefront and become hardest to control.* This is when the battle begins between the animal and spiritual sides of our nature, and it's largely decided which of the two will dominate for the rest of life. The danger is far from trivial. First, there's an intoxicating thrill in the first exercise of one's own will, free from the authority that has always restrained it. How easily this slides into stubbornness, in the impatient declaration of its own independence! Like the wild donkey that "snuffs up the wind at his pleasure," the lawless young person breaks free from all restraint and invites the very temptation that will be his downfall. Beyond this, the pleasures of the senses are all the more enticing because of their novelty and freshness. They appeal to the imagination, which drapes them in a veil of illusion that effectively hides "the dead men's bones and all uncleanness" lying within. The fatal poison has already entered the bloodstream, bringing its raving delirium, before the unfortunate victim even suspects danger. Add to all this that the wisdom meant to guide a person through life hasn't yet fully taken its throne in the soul, and experience hasn't yet taught it to rein in these fierce appetites by anticipating that eternal remorse, the sure consequence of dissipation and vice.
If, then, during this formative period of life our passions and appetites are at their strongest while our experience and knowledge are at their weakest, how crucial is the shield of parental control that protects us through the long years of immaturity and growth. And how necessary it is that we not be left to our own judgment until we've acquired principles that will keep us from being swept away by life's temptations and buried in the abyss below!
IV. *Finally, the trial period of youth is immediately followed by the formation of new relationships and the acceptance of solemn, irrevocable responsibilities.* Nothing surprises middle-aged people more than the recklessness with which young people form the most sacred and lasting bonds under the influence of mere whim or passing attraction. Young men and women come together in marriage and take on obligations that only death can break, driven by nothing more than personal preference. Without submitting their choice to careful judgment or passing it through the filter of conscience, they create ties that later bind them like iron bands to a prison wall. There's no point in railing against this foolishness. Wisdom raises her voice in solemn warning, but to no effect: the young are simply swept into these domestic and romantic commitments through the intoxication of an excited imagination, and that spell cannot be broken. The only real protection is to bring taste itself under the control of principle, specifically the principles taught in God's holy word, which take hold of the conscience and direct the affections toward everything beautiful and good. When taste is educated this way, it rises above the danger of mere caprice, and through its very instinct it makes choices that are both reasonable and safe.
The same holds true, my young friends, for the responsibilities you'll take on later in life. No one can predict what these will be. We approach them so gradually that we're already there before we've had a chance to assess them. What we call life's accidents drift us into new positions, and we find ourselves caught in this current or that. There we are in the center of a constant whirl with no way out, and there society drops on us the responsibilities we must carry until we die. I don't think I'm saying anything unusual when I observe that men are continually thrust into prominence as leaders of others, only to find themselves astonished at their own position. Often they pull back with apprehension and fear, thoroughly distrustful of their ability to meet expectations that nothing in their conscious experience seems to justify. What, then, is the only protection from disgraceful failure? It is that sound preparation made beforehand: the acquisition of a solid character and the adoption of principles capable of bearing the strain that will later be put on them. With a good foundation securely laid, the immediate preparation is soon made that will place any man on equal footing with life. I have a deep conviction (which you may take for what it's worth) that the person who deals honestly with himself, with the world, and with God will never be found unequal to any responsibility fairly laid on him through the agency of others. These sacred trusts fall on us from the God of Providence, and they mark out our appointed path of duty. In accepting them we may, in all humility and faith, rest on the Divine promise: "as your days, so shall your strength be" (Deut 33:25). In bringing these thoughts to a close, let me add that the young men of this generation, and of those which are to follow, enter life under increasingly severe demands. The whole past of history has been merely a preparation for the present and future, with their momentous issues. You recall the energetic appeal that flashed like fire from Napoleon's soul to his soldiers in Egypt, when, pointing to the Pyramids, he said: "From the top of those Pyramids the centuries look down on you." Even so the young men of today are "surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses" (Heb 12:1) looking out from the historic past, and by a vast array of living witnesses breathless with anxiety to see how you are arming for the contests of the future. That future is pregnant with the most stupendous events. Knowledge is throwing her electric light to illuminate the path to be walked. Nature is yielding forces stored within her womb to drive the world forward with accelerating speed. Are we rushing near to the great catastrophe, when the final plunge will be made into the darkness that lies beyond? All signs show that the battles of the future are to be the battles worthy of the end, when "the moon will be turned into blood and the great and notable day of the Lord will come" (Acts 2:20). In any event, it is not the war of the pygmies, but of the giants, to which you are summoned. Let your armor be tried armor, of steel tempered in the fire, that can turn the point of every lance hurled against it. See well to it that, as the bud opens into the flower, your youth of preparation will bloom into brilliant and successful manhood.
The Building Blocks of Resilient Character
"*For as the man is, so is his strength.*" (Judg 8:21)
This sharp observation appears tucked inside a parenthetical remark in the story of Gideon, the Hebrew judge. After defeating the Midianite armies in a series of battles, he finally captured their two kings, Zebah and Zalmunna. Referring to one of the atrocities they committed during their seven years of oppressing Israel, he asked them a pointed question: "What kind of men were those you killed at Tabor?" They answered, "They were like you: each one looked like the son of a king." Then Gideon said, "They were my brothers, my own mother's sons. As the Lord lives, if you had spared their lives, I would not kill you." He then ordered Jether, his firstborn son, to act as the avenger of blood: "Get up and kill them." When the young man held back from this grim duty out of youthful fear, Zebah and Zalmunna, with the warrior's sense of honor, asked to die by the hand of an equal. They said to Gideon, "You get up and strike us down yourself, for as the man is, so is his strength." I'm taking these words as a perfect expression of tonight's topic.
In both the moral and physical realms, a person's true measure lies in who they are: we understand what someone can accomplish when we understand their essential nature. In my last lecture, I emphasized how crucial youth is as the formative period for character. While character may shift in later years (either improving or declining), it will always bear the fundamental shape it acquired early on. But this raises an important question: what exactly do we mean by character? The word is vague enough, yet it always suggests something specific when we apply it to other people. How should we define it?
When we trace its origins, we discover that "character" is a Greek word imported directly into English. In its original verb form, it means to cut or engrave, as one might use an engraving tool on a seal. From there, the meaning naturally extends to whatever has been cut or engraved on that seal: the motto or message carved into its surface. This gives us characters of many different kinds and purposes. The letters of the alphabet are characters designed to represent specific sounds, showing their function in building words and sentences. The numbers we use in arithmetic, the symbols we employ in algebra, the designs sometimes carved on shields, the emblems displayed on banners to stir a people's patriotism: these examples (and I could list more) show the various ways we commonly use the word "character." But when we apply this term to human beings, or to moral beings of any kind, it might best be described as that collection of qualities that gives each person distinctness and individuality. This idea comes through vividly in the familiar lines from England's great playwright:
"A combination, and a form, indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man."
The point I want to emphasize here is that character is something we must acquire. It needs to rest on a foundation deeper than itself, sending its roots down into what we usually call "nature," just as the properties of matter exist within an unknown substance that they express and signify. Every plant contains a hidden power within its very life that determines how it develops in leaf, bud, flower, and fruit. Every animal has a fundamental quality that colors all its actions and distinguishes it from every other: the lion as the beast of prey, the lamb as the symbol of innocent meekness. In the same way, man, created in the image of God with knowledge, righteousness, and holiness, possessed a nature whose entire inclination was toward God in obedience to His will and worship of His glorious majesty. But in forming personal character, these original capacities and tendencies must move beyond the realm of instinctive impulses and be reproduced and consciously recognized in our awareness. When reason perceives them, judgment approves them, conscience endorses them, and the will adopts them, they become governing principles that shape our lives and direct our conduct. Therefore, keep in mind that all moral beings we know of (angels and men) were placed on probation so that through the free choice of their own will, original dispositions might crystallize into fixed principles and thus, through voluntary acceptance, form personal and permanent character. The same law applies in the sphere of grace. The principles of faith and obedience that the Holy Spirit plants in the renewed soul are gifts given from above. Nevertheless, the believer must accept them through his own free choice as the guiding principles of his life, and thus in the fullest sense make them his own. He is placed under various discipline until the end of life, subjecting these graces often to an agonizing test so that they may be woven into the very fabric of his being, until he grows "unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ." Right here we find the basis for our permanent sense of responsibility for our acts as the outflow of character. They are distinct expressions of our personal, individual will, just as the leaf and the fruit reveal the nature of the tree. And just as the leaves, in their decay, fertilize the soil and restore richness to the tree so it may produce more fruit, so these acts that flow from character return into it again, making it stronger either for good or evil. In this we see the seriousness of life as strictly an educational process, presenting every person at the bar of Christ, fitted by his training for the world of happiness or woe.
"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."
With this brief explanation of what we mean by the word character, we're ready to consider the elements that make it up and give it strength. When we use this term without a qualifying adjective, we mean it as praise. For instance, we say that someone is a person of character, meaning that he has a strong individual identity with clearly defined traits, and therefore can play his part in life and handle its many responsibilities. So what are the building blocks of a strong character? Let me answer this question in six ways:
