We Can.
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.'"