A stitch in time saves nine but haste makes waste. Many hands make light work but too many cooks spoil the broth. Why build a tower you cannot complete? Who would not sue for peace when faced by a mightier army?
There is a passion in our character that enjoys risk. Our stories, songs and histories are crammed with tales of ordinary folk attaining extraordinary outcomes against all odds. The old risky favourites of Romeo and Juliet or David against Goliath change actors constantly and never lose their appeal. At the other end of the book, tales of common sense and prudence are only worth repeating if they have a bizarre or unexpected element attached to them. Biologists might not list risk-taking as a defining characteristic of life. Our literature and behaviour do.
When Jesus is advising cautious common sense and the Book of Wisdom is encouraging prudence, both are speaking to a world that relishes adventure and misadventure with little regard for the bland tales of the sensible.
For most of us, a certain amount of risk-taking is essential. But when does a risk become irresponsible? That is a line that is easier to draw for particular cases – do not build towers you cannot complete and do not attack armies twice your strength. In most situations, the common sense option is not always clear. Identifying the person who is wise is not clear either.
At every level of our lives we have experts, idealists, gurus and specialists who can lead or mislead us religiously, politically, economically or even socially. Our history books are good at recording the mistakes. Sadly the successes are brushed away too easily.
Where somebody achieves something great, we like to tell of their subsequent illness, tragedy or unfair treatment. These compete with the main story for prominence and regularly eclipse them completely. An Irish proverb says that there is no genius without faults. These faults play too big a role in our stories. The mistakes of others become all too evident under the glare of hindsight. How could anybody have believed that such a venture could succeed? But as hindsight is not usually available at the time of a decision, it is unfair to make such a harsh condition.
If people had not taken risks in the past, we would still be grunting at each other in caves.
The word may be softened by its overuse but it is the people who rose to the challenge that who have made an attempt to improve our knowledge and understanding of the world.
Attempting improvement is the triumph of prudence.
As a Christian virtue, prudence is the common sense that drives us carefully towards decision. It is a caution but not a restraint.
Nobody can predict the future but a prudent person will second-guess probable outcomes. This prudence has given countless people the courage to try. Some are glories, others are successes and others are not.
Prudence is not infallibility. When we consider the ones who failed, we rarely show any admiration for their courage. We are likely to laugh at their misguided idealism. We rarely admire the honesty of their passion. Most people are prudent. A few are not.
In our thoughts, words and deeds, all our greatest discoveries are refinements of other people’s misguided attempts.
When Jesus taught his disciples to avoid doing the obviously stupid, he did not add that they should not take risks. Salvation was a risk. Apart from remembering the achievers, maybe we could also show more appreciation of those who tried but did not succeed. Prudence learns from their mistakes.