Following Our Visions

HE call certain men visionary. They are always seeing visions and dreaming dreams, but their visions and dreams are never realized. Raphael was once asked how he painted his wonderful pictures. He answered: “I dream dreams and I see visions, and then I paint my dreams and visions.” That is what we should do with all the beautiful and noble things that come into our hearts and minds as we think and ponder. Everything lovely that rises before us in thought and feeling we should set to work to make true in our life and character. We see heavenly visions sometimes in books, as we read the thoughts that others have written. Every book that is worth reading sets some noble ideal before its readers. The test of a good novel, from a moral point of a ieart dPatDen

view, is found in the impression it leaves on those who read it, the vision it puts into their hearts. If it is merely sentimental, if it has no high aim, if it does not inspire us to live more heroically, more helpfully, more kindly, more unselfishly, and to attain better things in character, it is not worth while to read it. But every book that starts in us the longing to make more of our life, or that causes us to desire to be truer-hearted gentler, purer, more Christlike, is a book worth while, and we should be obedient to its vision. Every beautiful life we see presents also before us a heavenly vision. Christ reveals Himself in His friends. There are some Christians who, by reason of their beautiful life, sweet spirit, and noble faithfulness, make us instinctively think of Christ. One said of another: “You have only to shake hands with that man to feel that he is a follower of Christ.” A little child, when asked if he knew about Jesus, said: “Yes, He lives in our street.” There was some one the child knew who was so beautiful in spirit, so gentle, so foUotDitTQ flDur mon

kind, that he visioned forth the child’s thought of Christ. Many of us know such a person. We cannot do anything mean or false or wrong in his presence.

‘’Each soul whispers to itself: “Twere like a

breach Of reverence in a temple, could I dare Here speak untruth, here wrong my inmost

thought. Here I grow strong and pure; here I may yield Without shamefacedness the little brought From out my poorer life, and stand revealed And glad and trusting, in the sweet arid rare And tender presence which hath filled this air I ’ ‘’

In every such life a heavenly vision is granted to us to which we should be eagerly, earnestly obedient. It is a call to us to come up higher. Its influence upon us should be refining, inspiring, purifying.

If our devotional life is sincere, we are ever looking upon heavenly visions. What is prayer? It is coming into the very presence of Christ. John was not nearer when he lay upon his Lord’s bosom, nor Mary when she [93] sat at His feet and listened to His words, than we are when we pray or read the Scriptures, or when we sit at the communion table* There rises before us in such sacred moments a vision of what we ought to be, of what Christ would have us become, of what we may attain through grace. In such experiences all that is best in us struggles to become real in our life and character. In the holy light we see the faults and flaws in our character and are ashamed of them. We have a glimpse of ideal spiritual beauty and long to reach it. We should not allow such visions of the true life to rise before us, and then be just the same faulty persons afterward as we were before — we should go away to grow toward the beauty of our visions. Every time we worship reverently in our Father’s house our hearts are lifted up. We look into God’s face, and have new visions of life and of duty. What kind of persons ought we to be after such experiences? How much influence do our Sundays have on our Mondays .? How much better are we after see- [94] ing Christ? Are we obedient to the heavenly

visions?

Christina Rossetti in one of her poems tells how once, in a dream, she saw the lovely flowers that bloom in Paradise, more fair than waking eyes ever saw on earth, and how she saw the Beautiful Gate, and had a glimpse of the supernal splendors of the home of the blessed, and then adds:

/ hope to see these things again,

But not as once in dreams by night;
To see them with my very sight,

And touch and handle and attain;
To have all heaven beneath my feet
For narrow way that once they trod;
To have my part with all the saints,
And with my God.

That is very beautiful. But we need not wait to get to heaven to realize our heavenly visions. We should seek to make them real, in some measure at least, in this world. Sometimes after ecstatic experiences in certain holy moments our fervor is kindled and we think we are ready for great heroisms, for [95] a 1$tatt (BarDen

large tasks, for splendid self-denials. But the test of life to which most of us are called during the week will not be in conspicuous things which people will talk about, but in the little common things of the common days. Charles Wagner tells us that, instead of living among the stars, we would better learn to love the flowers that grow at our feet. A heavenly vision which we cannot bring down into our common every-day life means very little for us. In one of Murillo’s pictures we see the interior of a convent kitchen. Instead, however, of mortals in working dress, we see angels in white garments at the lowly work. One is putting the kettle on the fire, another is lifting a pail of water, another is at the dresser reaching up for dishes. Then there is a little cherub wanting to help, but continually getting in the way of the others and hindering them. The artist means that we may bring heaven down into all the lowly ways of earth, and that even kitchen service may be made as heavenly as work of angels in heaven.

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]Iore heavenly grace is required ofttimes for the common tasks than would be needed for great things. There are times when we think we could go to the martyr’s death for Christ, but cannot even keep sweet under provocation, or be kind to a disagreeable neighbor, or bear opposition. If we would obey the heavenly visions that come to us on Sunday we must be Christlike in all little things or ways on Monday. One writes on living out visions:

“/ have seen the vision of thee, 0 Christ! Now what wilt thou have me to do? For the hardest work in all the world I offer Thee service true J

“Go hack, my child, to thy little cares;
Thou hast known them very long.
Bear for me yet a little while
Thy feeling of bitter wrong.^^

“Lord Christ, I am ready for martyrdom For banishment, death or pain.^^

“Patiently still thine heartache hide; Sing at thy task again.” [97] “/ am strong and eager and loving, Lord;

I have courage rare to endure.’^ “Are thine ears averse to slander, child?

Is thine heart devout and pure?

“Glad art thou in thy neighbor’s joyf
Sufferest thou his need?
Ah, then I know that thou hast seen
The vision of my face indeed!’’

There are visions of human need which inspire love in men’s hearts and send them out to do Christ’s work in marvellous ways. The vision of a lost race brought Christ to this world and His compassion for sinning and perishing men led Him to His cross. A vision of heathen lands in their darkness and sin leads earnest souls to volunteer for foreign mission work. Pity for needy ones in the great cities has led noble men and women to give their lives to the work of rescuing the fallen and the outcast.

The story of Dr. Barnardo, the friend of

waifs and strays, is a story of obedience to a

heavenly vision. One bitter winter’s night one

of the boys Dr. Barnardo had been teaching asked leave to remain all night in the stable where the little school was held. “Oh, no! run away home,” said the doctor. “Got no home,” said the boy. “Be off,” said the teacher sharply; “go to your mother.” The boy said he had no mother, had no father, didn’t live anywhere, had no friends. Dr. Barnardo talked with him further, and learned that he was only one of many waifs who literally had no home, no father, no mother, no friends, lived nowhere. The boy led him out — it was midnight — and showed him where a number of these boys stayed. Peeping into barrels, boxes, and holes, and striking matches, he found at last a woebegone group of eleven poor boys, from nine to eighteen years old, sleeping in all postures, clad in their rags, with nothing to cover them, exposed to the bitter wind — a spectacle to angels and men, sorrowful enough to break any heart of love.

“Shall I wake ’em up.^” asked Jim Jarvis,

the boy-guide who had brought Dr. Bar-

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nardo to this scene of want. “Shall I show you another lay, sir? There’s lots more.” But the young student had seen enough. Sick at heart, he went home, saddened, amazed, bewildered, but the vision of misery and wretchedness he had seen led to his devoting his life to the saving of waifs and strays. During the forty years that he lived, giving himself wholly to this one work, he rescued more than fifty thousand children from the gutter, fed them, trained them, and set most of them, at least, in honest ways of life. He organized a great rescue work which is going on, now that he is gone. All this because he was not disobedient to the vision which broke upon his eyes that cold midnight. Wherever a vision of suffering, of need, of degradation, of want, or of sin is shown to us, it should be regarded as a call to us to do something to give relief, to rescue, or to save.

The Scriptures present certain visions of

heavenly life which are meant to draw us up

to their own high ideal. One of these is love.

“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another,” said the Master. The rule of love He also gave: “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.” St. Paul writes out the lesson of love in words with which all are familiar:

Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaiinteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not provoked, taketh not account of evil; rep joiceth not in unrighteousness, hut rejoiceth with the truth; heareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

These words, as we think of them, bring up a heavenly vision before us. Love, first of all, sweetens the disposition, the spirit, the temper, the manners, the whole life. Then it makes us interested in others. In a Salvation Army Rescue Home there is a motto on the mantelpiece, consisting of only one word — “Others.” That is the key-word of Christianity — “Others,” never self. Self is a blight- [101] a ieatt mvun

ing spirit. It quenches all that is beautiful in any life. It is like the upas-tree; in its atmosphere nothing lovely will grow. “Others” is Christ’s word. He forgot Himself. He lived to bless others. He died to save others. His gospel teaches us to do the same. He bids us go two miles when only one mile is required, to forget self and gladly to make any sacrifice in saving and helping others. There is a story of a boy who, when his little brother feared to leap over the crack in the ice, laid himself down across it, making a bridge of his body on which his brother crept over. That is what love requires us to do — become a bridge over streams and chasms, over needs and difficulties, on which others may cross to better things, to new hope and joy and success.

George Macdonald teaches this lesson in a striking way. A little child asks the traveller what lies over the hill, and he says there is a hill, then a valley, then a brook, then more hills and valleys, and a river now and then, leading at last to a stair, — [ 102] follotDing €>ur lijstoniS

Built of all colors of lovely stones, —

A stair up into the sky, Where no one is weary, and no one moans

Or wants to be laid by.

Then the child eagerly cries:

“/ will go.” — “But the steps are very steep; If yon would climb up there, You must lie at the foot, as still as sleep, A very step of the stairs.

“Feet of others on you will stand
To reach the stones high-piled.
But One will stoop and take your hand,
And say, ‘Come up, my child!’”

The way to climb upward on this great heavenly stair of love is to be a stone, a step of the stair, on which feet of others will press as they go upward. This is the vision. If we are obedient to it, it will lead us at last to blessedness.

Cle flDne Citng to ?^o

“Trust Him in the common light;
Trust Him in the awesome night;

“Trust Him when the earth doth quake; Trust him when thy heart doth ache;

“Trust Him when thy brain doth reel
And thy friend turns on his heel;

“Trust Him when the way is rough,
Cry not yet, ‘It is enough!’

“But obey with true endeavor,
Else the salt hath lost his savor.’*