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What was it but ingratitude? "... when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful... " (Romans 1:21).
What was it that blinded with pride the eyes of that young man of that far distant time, dethroned him from his seat of authority and dignity and led him a bound slave from the wealth and comforts of his father's house to the hog pen? What was it that led him from the music of the voices of father and mother and sister and brother to the hard, cold, barren ground of the far country where only swine grunted and fugitive winds wailed their distress? What was it that tore from his back his woven robe, jerked from his feet the shoes of freedom, pulled from his finger the signet of love and left his shivering form to the mercy of such tattered rags as he could find?
What was it but ingratitude? When he knew his father he praised him not as his father, neither was he thankful.
The first step of a civilization toward disaster, and the first step of an individual toward disaster, are one and the same... INGRATITUDE!
The gratitude that most men have for their wives is, like a claw hammer coat, for special occasions. There was a time when she to him was dear and sweet, and gentle, and kind and good. There was a wonderful mystery in her personality, like the glow hovering above the mountain range as the day fades. Her love for him troubled all that was good and kind and pure in him and brought it to the surface. Every lovely thing his eyes saw and every tender note his ears heard reminded him of her. Every breath he drew was a breath of thanksgiving to God that He had fashioned her and breathed into her being all her excellencies and that He had given her to him. He was a thankful creature in those young and fresh and happy days.
But now that he has her, she takes her place along with the electric stove, the refrigerator, the radio, television and other utilities.
And to a lot of wives a hard-working, honest, loyal, sober husband coming home at night is just about as much to be thankful for as the coal the truckman is shoveling in the bin. You need coal and you need a husband. You have both. Both are routine; neither is anything for special thanksgiving.
You should visit some of your sisters and see the hot tears flow down their faces as they tell you how the drunken husband has beaten up the children. You will find plenty of them. You will find plenty of women in great and tragic distress because their son-in-law comes home at least once a week and beats up their daughter.
It will pay you well to have intelligent sympathy and warm love for your children; as they grow up they will become your friends as well as your children. They will confide in you rather than in the neighbors.
I came across one which was so appealing that it was a long time before I could lay it aside. It haunts me to this day. It was a picture of my father. As I sat there gazing at it, my memory trailed back over the years to the "public square" at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, where it was made. I remembered the time and the occasion.
The eyes, tinged with sadness, had a faraway look. The face was plain, and kind. The jaws were not set in defiance; they were relaxed, and resigned to whatever winds that blew. He was a plain and simple man. He believed in the "Good Master," and he believed in the "Good Book." He never heard of a "dispensation," but he trod softly in the house of God, and he spoke in subdued tones in the yard of his sick neighbor. One night, when he had gone beyond his three score and ten years, he lay his tall form down upon the bed of his sister, placed two large old-fashioned pillows under his tired head; as the night deepened, his breathing became increasingly difficult. He had nothing to say... no complaints and no requests. Next day, as the sun was high above the Tennessee hills, he looked straight at me; his jaws tightened, he took one last breath, and laid down his load.
Back to the picture. That picture made a silent appeal to me for a filial gratitude that I had not given. I had not been positively ungrateful, and I never caused him any trouble. I had simply taken him as a matter of routine. He was my father; I was his son. What was so exciting about that? Why make ado about that? It was natural, wasn't it? It was the ordinary, regular thing, wasn't it?
The strange, silent appeal of that face gazing at me there in that upstairs room deep in that winter night!
When but thirty years old He attracted and drew to Himself twelve of as matured and independent-minded men as could be found in all of Palestine. With the exception of the traitor, He bound them to Himself with hoops stronger than steel. All of those men, but one, sealed their loyalty to Him with their martyr's blood; John, so tradition tells us, died a natural death.
When He expounded the Scriptures, the hearts of His hearers "burned within" them. When He gave thanks and broke bread, His words and mien and manner were so engraven upon the minds of those present that they never forgot them.
And there never was anything artificial, strained, forced or unnatural about Him. He was so warm and friendly and human and natural that mothers brought their children to Him.
What was it, from the human standpoint, that made Him the glowing, magnetic, inspiring personality He was?
What was it but His innate attitude toward His Father and His Father's world, an attitude that sweetened every breath He drew with thanksgiving and praise? The lily's clothing had not been fashioned by "nature;" the lily's clothing had been fashioned by the hands of His Father. When the ravens were feeding they were not being fed by "nature;" they were being fed by His Father. The pitying eye of His Father was upon every sparrow that fell from its nest. Every hair of every head was "numbered," with all the Divine brooding and concern involved.
With our Lord everything from the Throne of God and clouds of glory to the sparrow's fall, the five loaves and two fishes, and every hair of every head was definitely related to His Father; none existed apart from the Father's love and care.
Just now the mountains and hills and valleys are aflame with imperial glory. We talk about "nature," but not as David did. When David spoke of nature, a river of praise flowed from his soul to God. "Bless the Lord, O my soul." When David was thinking of nature in the 104th Psalm, those were the first words he uttered.
David was intelligent. He knew that nature was the handiwork of a personal God. He knew that nature was as personal as a priceless work of art from a master's hand. He knew that there was thought and design and purpose behind every hue of color, behind every flaming world, every bud and every violet. The clouds were the chariot of the Almighty, and the winds were the wings upon which He walked. Nothing happened "according to the laws of nature." Everything was designed by God.
What is nature? It is the handiwork of God Ñ every stroke of it. What is the life of nature? It is the breath of God.
How can a man live in a world like this without praising God and giving thanks unto Him with every breath he draws?
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