Slogans to Fail By

Slogans are hardly a contemporary phenomenon. “For God and Israel” and “Remember the Red Sea” still reverberate down to us from Old Testament time. And I suspect that not a single war or political campaign has ever been waged without generating slogans, because slogans are campaign devices. The very phrase from which the word slogan comes, in Gaelic, is “rallying cry.” Now, if we recognize these bugle calls or drum rolls for what they are, fair enough. We need to remember that limitation, however, lest we mistakenly conclude that a slogan or memorable aphorism helps us get down to essentials. In most cases, slogans simply uncover gross alternatives, thus helping us choose sides.

Choosing up sides need not be negative, but it is always simplistic. While our day does not mark the beginning of slogans, we surely live in a time when slogans are endemic. Of course, all civilizations contribute to folk wisdom, usually through such devices as the riddle, the fable, or the proverb. Occasionally, slogans form part of that contribution. What makes me a little uneasy is the possibility that our age will make its sole contribution through slogans.

Modern advertising makes very skillful use of the slogan. Student protests, which have given a certain legitimacy to persuasion by placard or argument by demonstration, should have prepared us for “No nukes is good nukes.” Now that slogan may be mildly clever, but it is hardly profound. Bertrand Russell’s “Better Red than dead” is almost dishearteningly reductive. Quite candidly, I struggled to read any more of Bertrand Russell after hearing him say that. Not all slogans are quite so dramatic. We need to remember, however, that all slogans are imperative, simplistic, emotional, romantic. Because of these characteristics, slogans appeal to the adolescent in each one of us. In the beloved westerns of my youth, the color of a man’s hat was all I had to know to recognize whether he was one of the good guys or bad guys. A slogan requires the same reductive thinking. If we remember that a slogan is almost a demand that we become a juvenile again, we likely will not be exploited by the slogans that simply engulf us.

Now, I did not entitle my talk “Slogans to Fail By” in order to provide a list of some that will help us succeed and others that will inevitably block our way. To be blunt, all slogans will fail us if we ask of them more than they can give. Used fairly and sensitively, however, slogans can be extremely effective. Consider, for example, an AT&T campaign encouraging us to make more long-distance telephone calls: “Reach out and touch someone.” In 1955, that slogan would never have worked at all. Back then, static was insistent and inevitable. One had to shout to be heard and strain to hear. “Reach out and touch someone” would simply have become the butt of heavy-handed humor. Implicitly recognizing past difficulties, AT&T’s campaign suggests that modern technical developments are so extraordinary that calling any distance is like calling the next room. “Reach out.” Think of the intimacy that slogan suggests: first the physical presence, then an emotional undercurrent that makes us want to “reach out.” This slogan is a beautifully appropriate image in trying to establish current possibilities that erase any lingering memory of what making a long distance call used to be.

Unfortunately, most of us are not nearly as sophisticated as we need to be in how we use, or are used by, slogans. From the days of “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” a slogan referring to the Oregon Territory’s northern boundary at latitude 54°40', we have been willing to accept political slogans that are little more than a superficial pledge of allegiance. If Americans had really fought for “fifty-four forty,” British Columbia would be in the United States now. Specifically, during the 1840s, Great Britain, Russia, and the United States were contesting for this territory, until Russia finally pulled out of the negotiations. Without too much rancor—surely without a fight—Great Britain and the United States settled on the forty-ninth parallel. We should remember that “Fifty-four Forty or Fight” was not developed so much as a basis for actual negotiation as it was to win an election, and it did win the 1844 election for President James K. Polk.

What we must ask whenever we confront a slogan is, “What’s left out?” We must do so because every slogan employs some emotional appeal. We therefore tend to substitute the slogan for thought. A slogan’s very incisiveness seems to suggest that it has done the work for us: it has cut through all the extraneous material and identified the essential meaning. As a result, we often overlook what has been left out. Consider a few examples.

I will approach the first one very tenderly: President Spencer W. Kimball’s “Lengthen your stride.” That is a beautiful slogan, and President Kimball is so dear to all of us that we may assume no one would misuse it. But I have seen it misused again and again. People with failing programs lengthen their stride by doubling coercion: they make others follow new and wholly nagging procedures to support a discredited effort. How sad! President Kimball was careful when he first used this slogan. He gave some examples, some focus on how we might appropriately apply it. But when we adopt a slogan, write it down, or put it above our desk, we can easily distort its original meaning, and the very nature of slogans is such that we often fail to think them through.

My second example is “The show must go on.” That slogan has spurred the halt, the lame, and the nauseated to continue a performance that should have been canceled. Yet, somehow, “the show must go on.” Who says so? I suppose a vague theatrical tradition says a show must continue, but the slogan reveals a romantic and uncritical stance.

Another slogan I can hardly bear to discuss at length is a very venerable one: “Sink or swim.” This slogan offers just two choices, when an obvious third alternative is to avoid going into the water. “Sink or swim” is a self-inflicted limitation. We may finally choose to put ourselves in a binary situation where we must make one of two choices. More often than not, however, several choices are available beyond the two this slogan insists upon. We must not yield too quickly to an “either/or” imperative.

Somewhere between a slogan and a proverb (I will talk about proverbs later) is what I guess we could call a “progan” or “sloverb.” In this amalgam, we simply take some of the proverbs and put them together. The hard sense that a proverb usually carries makes it negotiable from civilization to civilization, although the imagery may change. For example, sayings reflecting the sense behind “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” can be found in Romanian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin (where it started). These little kernels of experiential wisdom end up in proverbial form. A progan, on the other hand, tries to take a slogan’s cryptic, pithy force and unite it with the essential wisdom of the proverb. Let me suggest a few such amalgams, for they are the real temptations. We usually understand what we are yielding ourselves to when we use, or are used by, a slogan. But a progan is another matter.

“Never put off till tomorrow what can be done today.” That is a progan for you. Note that it carries a superficial truth, and if we simply use it to get a sluggard out of bed, fair enough. If we want to go back to the slogan that probably undergirds this one, we can consider Horace’s “carpe diem,” meaning “seize the day.” This imperative suggests that we simply do in one day what seems to be available for that day. If we move on to what would be the proverb handling the same material, we might consider the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, let the morrow take thought for the things of itself” (D&C 84:84). This sentiment likewise occurs in Matthew: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” (Matt. 6:34).

“Never put off till tomorrow what can be done today” lacks the force of a slogan and misses the sense of a proverb. I can think of scores of things that would have been improved if I had put them off until tomorrow. In doing something I was not prepared to do, I have had to clutch the lapels of associates and point out that I got it done. We really face the same point in “If you want something accomplished, give it to a busy man.” What do we mean by done? That is really my problem with “Don’t put off till tomorrow.” Yes, I got it done—done in is often a better description. We need to watch statements such as these because we must still ask fundamental questions. A superficial truth masquerading as a profound one may not let us see the limit of its significance very quickly. While some truth appears in these aphoristic amalgams, they should not be used to justify excessive effort or rigid categories.

I worked very closely with President Ernest B. Wilkinson during much of his tenure at BYU. He was possibly the hardest working man I have ever known. He never “put off till tomorrow.” Yet toward the final years of his stay here, I pleaded with him to put off some of the things he insisted on handling before he was prepared to do them well. Some problems appear urgent at first glance, but later reflection shows that they are not really problems at all. Do not take this statement as justification for being merely tentative or dilatory. I simply meant that I often make mistakes by moving too briskly, by not reflecting before I act.

Occasionally, we hear progans having almost proverbial force but which seem to me precisely wrong. My favorite example is this one: “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” That citation suggests an incredible fear of physical hurt, which is not really the greatest fear for most of us. For example, I will probably never get over a letter I once received as a young bishop. At the time, the Church was involved in delicate negotiations regarding the draft and missionary service, and I rather casually wrote to a young man’s draft board for him. I had heard, vaguely, that all writing to draft boards should be coordinated through Salt Lake, but I was only clarifying the young man’s residence in my ward, and I thought that such a statement on my part would not really matter. Shortly thereafter, however, I got a letter signed by all three members of the First Presidency. The opening line went as follows: “Bishop Thomas, you will never again. . . .” I did not even have to read any further. Anyone who gets a letter from the First Presidency saying, “You will never again . . .” would much prefer a physical beating. In this situation, the applicable proverb occurs in Ecclesiasticus. This proverb’s meaning is exactly opposite to the “sticks and stones” progan, and it goes marvelously to the point: “The stroke of the whip maketh marks on the flesh, but the stroke of the tongue breaketh the bones” (Ecclus. 28:17). The briefest experiential check testifies to the truth of this proverb.

Without simply belaboring a series, let me mention a couple more of the progans that are often so tempting. “Hard work never hurt anyone.” Each of us can understand the context from which this progan developed, but that type of thinking can be used to justify child labor. Hard work is not an end in itself. A far surer insight about work is also given in Ecclesiasticus: “The wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity of leisure; and he that hath little business shall become wise” (Ecclus. 38:24). We are probably not going to be very wise if we lack time to meditate. If we are working all the time, we cannot grant ourselves the luxury of meditation. Sadly, we are often rather pious about how hard we work. Instead of letting such a little progan dictate our attitudes, we need to ask the following questions: “How can this be used effectively?” “What is the truth here?” “How significant is it?” “Under what conditions might it be useful to me?” We must probe beyond the obvious if a progan is going to be useful to us at all.

At this point, I cannot resist making a comment about my favorite progan: “Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well.” Now if I really believed this progan, I would simply have to give up my beloved, weedy garden. I love that garden. I do not have time to create the kind of garden I want or the plot it deserves. But as I get out there, trying to coax those early peas through the snow or to provide support for my aggressive pole beans, I experience both therapy and providence. Now, I must admit I felt a little dashed when my young grandson, upon seeing my garden for the first time this year, said, “Grandpa, what ruined your garden?” But as I think about that garden, a little Shakespearean quote comes to my mind that I would want to share with anyone who questions my flawed effort: “An ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own.”¹ That garden is worthwhile to me. Of course, I understand the sentiment behind “Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well.” But if we generalize this progan until it becomes coercive, we sanction the same kind of effort for trivia that we give for what really deserves fine effort. I have no desire to calculate whether I can bring something to fulfillment before I start. More often than not, those efforts to calculate mean I never even start. Finally, of course, if we do everything with equal intensity, we have no best. We have no reserves. We have no ability to make something special that it is particularly worthwhile. To do something special, we may have to neglect something not quite so important, and we must not feel guilty about it. Rather than “Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well,” I would suggest “Relative effort is the father of excellence.” If we can discriminate between certain types of action and give our best when appropriate, excellence truly becomes possible. Otherwise, much of what we do is mediocre.

I have already suggested, at least by implication, that proverbial wisdom escapes the limitations of the slogan or the progan. Proverbs exist in almost every culture and in every language. Many countries have a long tradition of proverbial wisdom. When Nikita Khrushchev visited the United States as premier of Russia, for example, he sprinkled Russian proverbs throughout every speech. One of these I will never forget. It goes as follows: “It’s a very stormy night, and it’s very cold, and the church is far away. The tavern is equally far away, but I’ll go carefully.” This proverb beautifully summarizes the hard realism stemming from generations of near commitment versus real commitment. While the proverb may have developed in a particular culture, it will fit most times and places.

Ancient Israel called its proverbs hokmah. A reasonable translation of this word would be “practical wisdom.” Israel’s proverbs stemmed from experience, and for me, the Israelite proverbs provide an almost unending source of stimulation, criticism, and insight. They are usually realistic, incisive, reflective, and, more often than not, visual. In fact, effective proverbs usually exhibit such graphic imagery that we cannot escape their impact. Consider this one: “As the climbing up a sandy way is to the feet of the aged, so is a wife full of words to a quiet man” (Ecclus. 25:20). If we are young and can move rather rapidly, we can counter the sand dunes’ sliding effect just a bit. But if we are old and slow, we have to slide back as far as the sand wants to take us, taking at least one stride backward for every two we take forward. This image’s power increases when we recognize that the wife is not full of talk but words, “words to a quiet man.” Of course, the proverb applies equally to a husband heaping words on a quiet woman. Regardless, the point is effectively, lastingly made.

Proverbs often embody a profound principle that can prompt extensive analysis. “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city” (Prov. 16:32). That little aphorism sums up almost a whole course in mental health. Taking a city is not ruling a city. If we cannot rule ourselves, we cannot rule a city. Another proverb concerning weakness required many readings before I understood it: “When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider diligently what is before thee: and put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite” (Prov. 23:1). With incredible insight, this passage addresses those who have a weakness they regularly indulge. If we place ourselves in a position where somebody can indulge that very weakness, we might as well cut our throats at once because we will surely give in again. Such is human experience.

I learned to appreciate the almost ruthless realism of Proverbs when I was a young graduate student in New York. I was working part of the day to help pay my way through Columbia, and I got a job as a gold courier. That title is not quite as fancy as it sounds. I took gold leaf around to custom bookbinders in lower Manhattan. The gold leaf had to be delivered personally, so I did a lot of traveling. I got to know lower Manhattan rather well. I had only been there a couple of months, however, when I saw a crowd, a rather large crowd for that part of the town, all looking at something in the center. Since I am taller than most, I could peer over the people’s heads. I saw, to my horror, that two men were beating a woman. Everyone was just watching. I thought, “Well, if no one else is going to get into this, I guess I’d better,” so I started pushing my way through the crowd. One fellow that I elbowed aside said, “Hey, Bud, new to New York?” I said, “Well, yes, what’s that got to do with . . .” He said, “Ah, look around.” Only then did I see the pickpockets fleecing the people who were all gawking. As I looked closer, I saw that the woman was not really being beaten. The whole thing was very cleverly done. It looked like she was being beaten, but the “blood” on her face was really ketchup, and I realized it was all part of an act. I walked away remembering Proverbs 26:17: “He that passeth by, and meddleth with strife belonging not to him, is like one that taketh a dog by the ears.” Simply the terrible realism of the Proverbs again.

The best little essay ever written on alcoholism is in Proverbs 23. In several verses, we read a very graphic account of what being drunk is like. For those of us who have never been drunk, those verses provide as good a description as we are likely to find. The final comment of this nightmarish description is dishearteningly revealing: “I will seek it again” (Prov. 23:35). This little essay underscores the fact that no one ever became a drunkard through one wrong choice, or two, or ten, or fifty; rather, hundreds of wrong choices lead to the addiction.

Now, one need not become contentious about slogans, cynical about progans, or completely persuaded about proverbs. Nevertheless, we should learn to distinguish clearly between these rhetorical devices. If we use a slogan, we should use it fairly. The temptation is to turn the slogan into a bit of a club, a bit of a persuader, to make people uneasy, to push people to make the emotional leaps that allow them to be exploited. How often in patriotic matters do we reduce ourselves to slogans! Some of us may not know the most famous slogan in the history of Utah state politics. A man by the name of Dern was running for governor against a man by the name of Mabey. Dern won in a walk, and his slogan was as follows: “We need a Dern good governor and we don’t mean Mabey.”

If we remember how limited the legitimate role of slogans is, we can avoid being exploited by them. With progans, we must guard against superficial truths being treated as if they were profound. In general, one can trust proverbs. They are the distilled wisdom of years and thousands.