Hebrews 11:37-38 They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins… This chapter is the most audacious of all poems — it is the epic of failure. Other poets have recited the conquests of their legendary heroes; it was reserved for the poet of faith to recite an ode not less magnificent in honour of heroes all foiled and fallen. That is the way of the Bible. That is why the Bible is the comforter of the weary, the inspiration of all hope-blasted and heart-broken victims of life's illusions. No good man has wholly prospered in his aims; the best men mourn the failure of all that they best conceived. No true heart in this house of God is satisfied with itself. In proportion to its truth and nobleness it mourns the failure of its highest aims. All this, at least — in part. Enough to inspire thoughts of sadness. Let us listen to this voice which comes to us across the rolling waves of all the centuries, chanting the higher victories and the diviner gains of the heroes of faith. So shall we be comforted under every failure and re-inspired after every defeat. All these died in faith, not having received the promises — disappointed, cheated of the lower, the temporal, the material, yet receiving a spiritual, a higher and eternal fulfilment. An epic of failure! We have learned that the throne of highest glory is the cross of the world's rejection. At the feet of that colossal Failure who was gibbeted on Calvary we lose our carnal ideals and learn to read the divinest and most lasting triumphs in the defeats which seemed most shameful. Need I waste any word in explanation? The Failure I join with the poet of faith to celebrate is not that which springs from cowardice, from sloth, or from incapacity. Surely not! There are men who fail for no other reason than thai they are invertebrate sluggards, or waste their energies on aims that are unworthy and perishable. These I sing not; they are better forgotten. The charity of God has ordained that they pass quickly out of human memory. Before you sneer at any man as a "failure" be sure you inquire whether the conditions of success were not then absent, or worse, whether the world, snarling at all noble enterprise, was not too strong for him. Fools sneer when wise men err! Before you scornfully label any man "failure," call to mind some of history's divinest defeats — Socrates, hemlock-cup in hand; Paul of Tarsus in Nero's dungeon; Jesus Christ on the Cross! Nothing is more tragic than the way society sometimes arrays its forces against daring and aspiring youth. It is an envious world. And not unseldom death overtakes a brave young soul before he has fought his way to victory. So it was with that Italian painter who, reduced to painting shop-signs for a livelihood, died by the roadside of starvation and a broken heart. After his death men woke up to find that an artist had been amongst them. That his soul was great can save no hero of faith from neglect and oblivion, if he have not built some brazen monument solid on the brute earth. That he left his generation richer in faith, in hope, in aspiration, is nothing. That he preserved it from brutishness, from moral stagnation, is nothing. How can these trifling divinities atone for his failure to run a successful church, or make a pile, or initiate a spirited foreign policy? These be thy gods, O Israel! But, Vivas to those noble failures I we exclaim. Vivas to the young men and maidens, over whose unfulfilled plans an early grave closed! Vivas to all thinkers who died with their theories un-demonstrated! Vivas to all statesmen hustled from power by a recreant and godless people, to die amid the shattered fragments of a just and righteous policy! Vivas to the merchant who, rather than riot in plundered thousands, died an honest bankrupt! Vivas to the incorruptible pauper, who might have exchanged the poorhouse for a palace, could he but have smiled and been a villain! Virus to the shackled and branded criminal, doomed to perpetual prison and disgrace by the lie of perjured witnesses! Vivas to all true souls who have perished in just causes amid rabble execrations! Vivas to all who have attempted great things for humanity and God, and — failed! Spanning my native Tay, a strong and stately viaduct successfally defies all pressure of wind and wave, bearing mighty engines with living freights from shore to shore in all weathers. Yet it is built upon a past failure! a few years ago another structure stood in its place, it was at once a thing of beauty to the eye and of profit to the shareholder. The engineer was honest and capable, and was knighted for his pains. But it fell before the strong winds of a night, and with it fell, not only four-score human beings, but the reputation, and, alas! the reason, of its constructor. Shall we upbraid him? Say, rather, shall we not praise him who, first of the whole race of men, attempted a design so vast, and built the longest bridge in the world! Other engineers came after him. They improved upon his ideas. They learned from his mistakes. The result is a bridge which seems good for the service of many generations. Vivas to those who have failed I I say that the Tay Bridge was built not alone by the successful men who reaped the subsequent rewards, it is built also upon the souls of the nameless workmen who perished in its construction, and upon the soul and mind of poor, demented Sir Thomas Bouch. No need to pile up illustrations. It is plain that humanity might have prospered fairly well without its successes, but could have progressed no jot or tittle without its defeats. Having regard to the conditions of human life, it is plain that defeat is not less essential than victory; misdirection and error prepare the way for solid and enduring good. If I may choose, I will have for my portion the failures of mankind; he may have the successes who will. Vivas to those who have failed! Of whom the Mammon-worshipping world was not worthy. Failure? Let us not breathe the word in connection with any honest effort. Let us not so insult the memory of the baffled brave. No true ideal is finally dishonoured; no true effort is wasted; no true worker wholly perishes. From his loss humanity achieves a greater gain. Our future is built upon his past. He himself may perish, Moses-like, upon some lonely Nebo, but we pass over into the promised land! (W. Walsh.) Parallel Verses KJV: They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; |
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