A Short Address to the Members of the Fourth Form at Harrow.
By E. W. Howson, M.A.
Let me try to picture a scene for you. It is a spring day, towards the end of March, and a group of friends are walking along one of the high roads leading to Jerusalem. They are going, like many others, to attend the Feast of the Passover, in the Holy City, during the following week. Slightly in front of the rest walks Jesus Christ. There is something unusual, almost alarming, in His aspect, and the disciples who are following behind are watching Him with awe and wonder as He strides along with rapid steps. He is evidently possessed and agitated by some deep emotion, some inflexible purpose, which they do not fully comprehend. His thoughts are not their thoughts. They do not know what He knows—that in a few short days He, their Lord and Master, whom they fondly dream is destined to win an earthly crown, will be tried like a common felon and nailed to the bitter cross. They are thinking of a triumph and a throne, and are already discussing the honours which they hope to share. He is thinking of something widely different—of agony, desertion, and death.
Presently, two of His disciples—James and John—step forward, with their mother, Salome, to ask Him a question. Jesus looks round and says to her, "What wilt thou?" Salome, who, like many mothers, was ambitious for her sons, replies, "Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on Thy left, in Thy kingdom." The other disciples, who overheard her words, are annoyed at the request, which appears to them pushing and selfish. Why should James and John be singled out for special favour? They expect and hope that Jesus will rebuke them. Instead of which, He says gently, but very seriously, "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of? and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with?" It was a stern and searching challenge, and a coward would have hesitated to meet it. But James and John were no cowards. They took up the challenge at once, and simply and promptly they answered. Δυνάμεθα—"We can." The request may have been selfish, but the answer was brave; and, what was more, they were destined to seal that promise with their blood.
It is this answer—this one word (for in the Greek it is but one word), Δυνάμεθα, "We can"—which I wish to consider with you for a few minutes this evening.
For an answer like this is a key to character, and shows of what sort of stuff the men were made who gave it. You will find as you grow older that men may be roughly divided into two classes—those who face difficulty with a can, and those who face it with a can't. The former are the material from which heroes are made; the latter may be good, kind and pure, but sooner or later they fall behind, and become the followers, not the leaders, in the work of life.
There is an old Latin proverb—"Possunt quia posse videntur," "They can because they think they can." Nothing could be more true. For let a man only believe he can do a thing, and he is already half-way to the achievement of his purpose. It is the half-hearted, the faint-hearted, who fail. Belief is the thing we want. "All things are possible to him that believeth." You know this is true in your games. You know that the boy who goes shivering and shaking to the wicket is pretty sure to return after a few overs clean bowled. But it is equally true of every department of life. Napoleon said that the word "impossible" ought to be removed from the dictionary, and the boy or man who, when duty calls him, can answer calmly and deliberately, "I can," is the one who not only deserves but commands success.
"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low 'Thou must,'
The youth replies—'I can.'"
You remember, no doubt, the old Greek fable of Perseus—how, when he was a boy of fifteen, the goddess Athene appeared to him in a dream and showed him the hideous head of the Gorgon writhing with snakes. "Can you," she asked him, "face this wicked monster, and will you some day try to slay it?" "Yes," he said, "I can; if thou wilt help me, I can." And though Athene told him of all the long journey, and all the terrible perils in the way, he did not shrink or falter, but when he came to be a man he nobly fulfilled his resolution and promise. And this is only an allegory. It means, that if a man or boy has sufficient will and determination, there is no danger, no difficulty, no temptation, which he may not overcome by the assistance of divine support. Pray, every one of you, for God's best gift of a strong will. It is worth, believe me, all the knowledge, wealth, and popularity in the world.
Now, of course, I do not pretend that you and I are called on in our daily school life to act the hero or the martyr on the grander scale. Our life is cast in quiet ways. And yet, as surely as our Lord asked James and John, so He asks each one of us, "Can you drink of My cup? Can you be baptised with My baptism?"
What, then, is this cup, what is this baptism in your school life here at Harrow? For if we dare not share it we cannot be called His disciples. "No pain, no gain." "No sweat, no sweet." So ran the old sayings, and if we cannot bear His cross most assuredly we shall not deserve His crown. Let me, then, take a few homely instances to show what I think is the meaning of Christ's question here at Harrow for you.
You are, let us suppose, in your house with three or four other boys. You have all been talking together about your games, when suddenly the conversation takes a bad turn, and something is said, perhaps in jest, which is coarse or irreverent. The speaker is an influential boy, and you are rather proud to claim his acquaintance. It would be easy for you to join in the laugh; it will please him, it will show that you are as "knowing" as the rest. There is the temptation—it is a very common one; but the question is, can you resist it? Can you refuse the expected smile? Can you sacrifice the cheap popularity? Can you boldly say "Shut up"? Can you walk quietly out of the room? Can you? Very well, then, if so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
Do you think this is asking too much of you? Let me tell you, then, a story—it is a well-known one, but it will bear repetition—of an Eton boy. He was captain of the boats at Eton about fifty years ago, and it was the custom then at boat suppers for coarse and indecent songs to be sung. Patteson (for that was the boy's name) said that if he was present those songs should not be sung. He went to the supper as usual, and a boy got up to sing one of those songs. Patteson jumped up then and there and walked out of the room. I have not a doubt he was laughed at for his pains, and that he lost some of his popularity; but the protest was successful, and, so far as I know, the practice has never, from that day to this, been revived. Some thirty years later Patteson, who had learnt to drink the cup of Christ at school, became a bishop—a missionary bishop—and met a martyr's death in the far islands of the Pacific Ocean, a loyal servant of his Master to the last.
Or again—to take another instance—you have been playing a game and you have come back in a hurry rather late. You have an exercise to show up, and you have not left yourself time to finish it. Another boy in the house has already done his, and the work lies there on the table before your eyes. You are tempted to take it and copy it. It will save you from punishment. No one will be the wiser—except God (and for the moment you forget that). Other boys have often done it. Perhaps your friend offers to lend it you, and would think you something of a prig and simpleton to say no. Can you reject the temptation and refuse to look at it? Can you show up your exercise unfinished and bear the punishment it involves? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
Or, once more, we will say that you are waiting with your form for a master outside the form-room door. While you wait, an unpopular and helpless boy is being teased and pestered. I daresay his appearance is odd, and he is sensitive and excitable and easily provoked. You are tempted to join with the rest and add one more jest at his expense. It will, perhaps, sting him to the quick and make the tears start to his eyes, but you will earn a laugh and get the credit of being thought amusing. Can you check that jest? Can you speak up in defence of the weaker side? Can you take his part and protect him? Can you do more? Can you take the trouble, when the rest are gone, to say that you are sorry for him and give him a word of encouragement and sympathy? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
"They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three."
I know it is the fashion to say that the life of a boy at a public school is one long round of unbroken pleasure. There could not be a greater mistake. You are not all—you are not any of you—always happy. You have every now and then a cup of bitterness to drink. You may have had a quarrel with your best friend, and you find it hard, almost impossible, to forgive. You are too proud to make the first apology: he would think he had gained his point; and so bad blood gets worse, and soon you are barely on speaking terms. You have been trying to turn over a new leaf, to break off some bad habit which is growing on you like a creeper on a tree—to give up swearing, perhaps; to say your prayers more regularly—and then someone says, with a sneer, that you are turning "pi." You know how the sneer tells. Or perhaps you have been idle and you determine to make a fresh start. You prepare your work carefully, but when you are put on to construe your memory fails; you get turned, and your master thinks you still idle and will not believe that you have tried.
Such are some of your common trials. They may make you very unhappy, but they are God's way of testing you. Can you, He seems to say, do this and that for Me? Can you give up that bad habit, can you bear ridicule, can you do your duty patiently in spite of failure? Oh! answer boldly, "Yes—with Thy help we can." Never give up hope. Fight on and on. Despair is the devil's triumph. When he sees you throw up your hands and give way, he chuckles; for he knows that you are, or soon will be, at his mercy.
The fact is, we cannot go to heaven in an easy-chair, and these trials are, indeed, the hammer strokes which harden the metal of your character. Shirk and evade them, and you will never be a strong and useful man. Bear them, and you will be able to tackle other and fiercer temptations in the larger battle of life—to be brave and pure in your regiment, honest in business, valiant and self-denying in the Church.
But more than this lies in this little word Δυνάμεθα, "We can." For perhaps, as you grow older, you will be called upon to fill some high office of trust and responsibility. Will you, then, at that critical moment, prove worthy of the opportunity, or will you let false modesty, indolence, or nervousness, tempt you to decline it, and let the chance slip by which God has given you of useful service? Will you be one of those contemptible people who say, "No, thank you, it isn't good enough," or, "No, I'm afraid of what others would think or say of me"? Will you not rather rise to the occasion, in a spirit of alacrity, and say, "Yes, I can. I will not be content to lag in the poor-spirited ruck, who die unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. I, too, will take my part in the front rank, and strike as stout a blow as I can for the cause of truth and right"?
But if you are to give such an answer as this (and I trust you will), remember that you must give it relying on that strength which is greater than your own. If you don't, you will be ambitious and selfish, and I daresay successful, and nothing better. Listen to what Christ says: "Without Me ye can do nothing." It is His strength, His spirit, which alone can give the full force and the right direction to our wills. With Him everything, without Him nothing. "I can," said St. Paul in one of his bursts of enthusiasm, "I can do all things," but then he is careful to add, "through Christ which strengtheneth me." There is the secret, that is the only talisman of true success. Let us, then, pray to Him morning by morning, evening by evening, to give us His help.
"Be Thou our guard on peril's brink,
Be Thou our guide through weal and woe,
And make us of Thy cup to drink,
And teach us in Thy path to go.
For what is earthly shame or loss?
His promises are still our own,
The feeblest frame can bear His cross,
The lowliest spirit share His throne."
This, then, as I understand it, is the message contained in the words "We can." And whenever a fierce temptation comes upon you, as it will, perhaps, even to-morrow, and you are inclined to say to yourself, "No, I can't face this unpopularity; I can't do this irksome duty; I can't resist this temptation any longer; I can't go on fighting any more," then turn a deaf ear to Satan's whispers, and answer boldly, "I can."
