View source for As If We Did Not

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<p>"There's so much bad in the best of us,<br>
  And so much good in the worst of us;<br>
  That is scarcely behooves any of us,<br>
  To complain about the rest of us."<br>
  —Robert Louis Stevenson<br><br>
There are some things which it would be better for us not to know. Or, if we do know them, it would better be for us to treat them as though we did not know them. We should never pry into other people's matters. We should respect every other man's privacy. Some people are always seeking to know others' private affairs. It is the worst kind of impudence to try to do this. But sometimes there are things told to us voluntarily in confidence, and of these we may not speak. To some people, however, a <em>secret </em>is a heavy burden. They go about "dying to tell," and yet they dare not tell. In some cases, however, keeping the secret proves impossible, and the thing is told—told, of course, as a <em>secret</em>, only to certain <em>trusted</em>people. But confidence has been violated, and the bearer of the burden has failed of entire loyalty and honor.<br><br>
It would have been a great deal better, if this betrayer of another's confidence had regarded himself as not knowing the thing which by the voice of his friend, he had come to know. It would have been better still, of course, if he really never had learned it. He had no right to hear it. He heard it only through the weakness of another. It is unkindness to many people, to ask them to be the custodians of <em>secrets </em>which they are not allowed to divulge. It is placing them in a position in which they cannot but suffer. It is subjecting them to a temptation which it is very hard for them to resist. We have no right to lay such a burden on any friend. Beside, if what we tell is something which ought not to be told—we have no right to tell it even to one person!<br><br>
But when another has been weak and has told <em>us </em>something which we are charged to repeat to no other being in the world, what is our duty? We may say, "Well, if my friend can trust <em>me </em>with this matter, there can be no harm in my trusting <em>another </em>friend with it." But the failure of another, to be true to himself and perfectly honorable, will never excuse us for failing in the same way. Our duty can be nothing less than the most sacred keeping of the secret confided to us. It is not ours to divulge to anyone. We should consider ourselves as not having heard it at all.<br><br>
Of course, we cannot work any sort of magic on ourselves by which the bit of knowledge communicated to us, shall be literally taken out of our memory and be a lost communication to us thenceforward. Some people seem to have <em>memories </em>out of which knowledge once possessed, does vanish so completely, that it cannot be found again. But usually it is not great secrets which have been whispered into the ear with solemn adjurations, which get lost out of memory. The things people forget most easily—are likely to be things of value, important facts, useful information, things they <em>ought </em>to remember. It should be possible, however, to forget in the same way, matters which we do not need to remember, which it is better that we do not remember.<br><br>
<em>We should train ourselves to forget people's faults.</em> We are told that God does not remember the sins of His people. His forgiveness obliterates even the memory of the evil things we have done. Of course there is a sense in which God cannot forget—but the meaning is that He remembers—as if He remembered not. We do not usually forget our brother's faults and follies. Nor are they before our minds—as if they were not. On the other hand, they are likely to be kept very much in evidence. One of the Beatitudes is, "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." If we remember the wrong things we see in others, how can we expect God not to remember the greater wrong things, which His pure eyes see in us?<br><br>
There are matters of knowledge of others, which come to us in an accidental way—which also should be to us as if we do not know them. Sometimes we are compelled to overhear words which were not meant for our ears, which no one supposes we have heard. The other day a friend wrote of being witness unintentionally of something which, if spoke of to others, would have led to very serious censure of the people concerned. Advice was asked. What should this friend do with the unwelcome knowledge? There can be only one answer to such a question. Things learned in any accidental way, when it was not intended that we should know of them—we are to consider ourselves as not knowing at all. There is no other honorable course. It is bad enough to divulge something which has been told us by another in great confidence, under charge of secrecy; but it is far worse to speak to anyone of things we have learned in a purely accidental way, which we have no right to know.<br><br>
There are things told us sometimes of others, evil stories perhaps, things which affect the good name of the person. These stories may be the result of miserable gossip. They may be altogether false, and gross misrepresentations. In this case, we certainly make ourselves sharers in the sin of the original maligners—if we repeat the stories to anyone. He who helps give wings to a <em>scandal </em>is himself a miserable scandalmonger.<br><br>
But supposing that the stories are true, what is our duty concerning them? Have we not a right to tell others, of evil things about a person when we have verified the stories? What gives us the right to do this? What makes it our <em>duty </em>to spread an evil report—even when we know it to be true? Clearly, whatever the case may be, the Christian way to deal with such matters, in whatever manner they may have come to our ears—is to be as if we did not know them.<br><br>
There is still another class of things we cannot help knowing, which it was well, if we would consider ourselves as not knowing. Sometimes we have unpleasant experiences with people. They speak of us injuriously or treat us unkindly. Sometimes the hurt they do to us, is from lack of <em>thought</em>, not from lack of <em>heart</em>. There is no intention to injure us or to cause us trouble or pain—it is the result of <em>thoughtlessness</em>.<br><br>
Sometimes, indeed, it may be an unkind spirit in those about us, which leads them to seek to vex us. In either case, it is not easy to endure the irritation, which we cannot but suffer.<br><br>
Here again there is a secret worth knowing, which, understood, takes away much of the suffering, and enables us to go through the experience quietly and patiently. There is a way of forgetting such hurts, which takes from them in a great measure their power to do us real injury. A boat ploughs its way through the water of the silver lake—but in a little while the water is as smooth as ever again, retaining no trace of the crude cleaving. One would not know the glassy waters had ever been ruffled. If we can learn the lake's lesson, it will add greatly not only to the quiet and beauty of our lives—but also to our own comfort. Whatever we may suffer from the unkindness or thoughtlessness of others, or from the uncongeniality of our environment, we shall not be disturbed or distressed. This is one of the blessings of Christian peace. We hide away in Christ, in the shelter of His love, in the secret of His presence, and there find refuge from the plotting of men and from the strife of tongues. The things which otherwise would cause us great suffering, do not touch us. We meet them as though they were not. In the shelter of the love of Christ—nothing harms us. We are so sustained that it is as though the trials had no existence.
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