p. 43 | MORAL COURAGE

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 8, 1862

MORAL COURAGE.

THAT was a noble reply when the Sultan of Turkey offered Kossuth wealth and power if he would embrace the Moslem faith; “Welcome, if need be, the ax or the gibbet; but curses on the tongue that dares to make to me so infamous a proposal!” He was a refugee in the domains of the Sultan, and to refuse compliance with his wishes might be death; but the great Hungarian had resolved that, come what might, his conscience should be free. The words of Zwingle, when emolument was offered him if he would adhere to the Romish tenets, were as noble: “Do not think that for any money I will suppress a single syllable of the truth.”

No one can fail to admire the moral courage that prompted these replies, or the strong language of the replies themselves. Moral courage never uses weak words. The Saviour enunciated the principle of true moral courage when he said, “Let your communication be yea, yea; nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.” A man's strength of character may be correctly measured by the manner in which he answers an opponent. “I have been bullied,” wrote the Countess of Dorset to Sir Joseph Williamson, who had nominated to her a candidate for the borough of Appleby, “by an usurper. I have been neglected by a court, but I will not be dictated by a subject—your man shan't stand!” We need nothing more to tell us that the Countess was a strong woman. When President Lincoln, while on his way to the capital, asked the Democratic Legislature of New Jersey if they would sustain him should it be necessary “to put the foot down firmly,” it understood him, and applauded. He did not say that “if he should be reduced to the dire necessity of resorting to coercion to uphold the principles of constitutional liberty for which the fathers,” etc., but should it be necessary “to put the foot down firmly.” These few meaning words showed that he had moral stamina. The plain Saxon of his Inaugural sent to the winds the schemes of compromisers. In blunt, bold words, he thrust the principles of equity and of the Constitution into the face of the nation, and declared that he would stand by those principles. The people took heart—their sense of justice woke—they knew their man, and re-echoed his voice.

There are comparatively few who, under all circumstances, dare speak their real sentiments. Let one glance over The Congressional Globe for the last decade, and he will see how lamentably the truism is verified. Our Charles Sumners and Andrew Johnsons can hardly be called representative men. They are

“Like Druid rocks, Or spires of land that stand apart, Cleft from the main.”

Men like Sumner are known as “radicals,” and men like Johnson as “renegades,” and such epithets are often but other words for saying that a man dare assert that his soul is his own. But, with all the abuse heaped upon them, such men are regarded with universal confidence; and they alone. When the calculating politician wishes to know on which side of a political question Sumner will be found, he secretly asks himself which side has the claim of humanity—he is confident that Sumner will not swerve from that.

The reply of Parson Brownlow, the Tennessee patriot, is an example of true independence of spirit. He was in prison, and had suffered severely from an acute disease. “Brownlow,” said an officer, “you should not be here. Take the oath of allegiance to the Confederate Government, which will not only entitle you to a speedy release, but will insure you protection.” “Sir,” said Brownlow, “before I would take the oath to support such a hell-forsaken institution, I would suffer myself to rot or die with old age!” The answer, though characteristically Southern, reminds one of Luther's famous remark about entering Worms. The noble Tennessean was ready to sacrifice ease, health, and life itself for a principle. He meant to be his own man, and dared assert his claim to his manhood in unmistakable words.

Principles are bulwarks intrusted us by God. If we fail to defend them, we are conquered, ruined. To defend our principles requires plain, truthful speech. “Let your yea, be yea; and your nay, nay;” says the sacred writer, “les ye fall into condemnation.” It requires moral courage to obey the injunction. We are prone to dissemble; considerations of kindness often lead us into deception; we must train ourselves to truth. A man trained to truth finds in truth his moral atmosphere, and his soul dilates and becomes godlike in the clear, pure air. His uncompromising words come forth in the day of trial as spontaneously as those of Kossuth, Zwingle, or Brownlow. He lives for his spiritual nature. He is willing to sacrifice everything temporal, so he may go pure and unshackled at last to the presence of his Maker.

“After time, And that full voice that circles round the grave, Will mark him nobly.”—Butterworth.