Rev John Watson Or Ian Maclaren

During the course of my ministry, and especially of recent years, I have

been moved to certain actions for which there seemed no reason, and

which I only performed under the influence of a sudden impulse. As often

as I yielded to this inward guidance, and before the issue was

determined, my mind had a sense of relief and satisfaction, and in all

distinct and important cases my course was in the end most fully

justified With the afterlook one is most thankful that on certain

occasions he was not disobedient to the touch of the unseen, and only

bitterly regrets that on other occasions he was callous and wilful or

was overcome by shame and timidity. What seem just and temperate

inferences from such experiences will be indicated after they have been

described, and it only remains for me to assure my readers that they are

selected from carefully treasured memories, and will be given in as full

and accurate detail as may be possible in circumstances which involve

other people and one's own private life.



It was my privilege, before I came to Sefton Park Church, to serve as

colleague with a venerable minister to whom I was sincerely attached and

who showed me much kindness. We both felt the separation keenly and kept

up a constant correspondence, while this good and affectionate man

followed my work with spiritual interest and constant prayer. When news

came one day that he was dangerously ill it was natural that his friend

should be gravely concerned, and as the days of anxiety grew, that the

matter should take firm hold of the mind. It was a great relief to

learn, towards the end of a week, that the sickness had abated, and

when, on Sunday morning, a letter came with strong and final assurance

of recovery the strain was quite relaxed, and I did my duty at morning

service with a light heart. During the afternoon my satisfaction began

to fail, and I grew uneasy till, by evening service, the letter of the

morning counted for nothing.



After returning home my mind was torn with anxiety and became most

miserable, fearing that this good man was still in danger and, it might

be, near unto death. Gradually the conviction deepened and took hold of

me that he was dying and that I would never see him again, till at last

it was laid on me that if I hoped to receive his blessing I must make

haste, and by-and-by that I had better go at once. It did not seem as if

I had now any choice, and I certainly had no longer any doubt; so,

having written to break two engagements for Monday, I left at midnight

for Glasgow. As I whirled through the darkness it certainly did occur

to me that I had done an unusual thing, for here was a fairly busy man

leaving his work and going a long night's journey to visit a sick

friend, of whose well-being he had been assured on good authority. By

every evidence which could tell on another person he was acting

foolishly, and yet he was obeying an almost irresistible impulse.



The day broke as we climbed the ascent beyond Moffat, and I was now only

concerned lest time should be lost on the way. On arrival I drove

rapidly to the well-known house, and was in no way astonished that the

servant who opened the door should be weeping bitterly, for the fact

that word had come from that very house that all was going well did not

now weigh one grain against my own inward knowledge.



"He had a relapse yesterday afternoon, and he is ... dying now." No one

in the room seemed surprised that I should have come, although they had

not sent for me, and I held my reverend father's hand till he fell

asleep in about twenty minutes. He was beyond speech when I came, but,

as we believed, recognised me and was content. My night's journey was a

pious act, for which I thanked God, and my absolute conviction is that I

was guided to its performance by spiritual influence.



Some years ago I was at work one forenoon in my study, and very busy,

when my mind became distracted and I could not think out my sermon. It

was as if a side stream had rushed into a river, confusing and

discolouring the water; and at last, when the confusion was over and the

water was clear, I was conscious of a new subject. Some short time

before, a brother minister, whom I knew well and greatly respected, had

suffered from dissension in his congregation and had received our

sincere sympathy. He had not, however, been in my mind that day, but now

I found myself unable to think of anything else. My imagination began to

work in the case till I seemed, in the midst of the circumstances, as if

I were the sufferer. Very soon a suggestion arose and grew into a

commandment, that I should offer to take a day's duty for my brother.

At this point I pulled myself together and resisted what seemed a

vagrant notion. "Was such a thing ever heard of,--that for no reason

save a vague sympathy one should leave one's own pulpit and undertake

the work of another, who had not asked him and might not want him?" So I

turned to my manuscript to complete a broken sentence, but could only

write "Dear A. B." Nothing remained but to submit to this mysterious

dictation and compose a letter as best one could, till the question of

date arose. There I paused and waited, when an exact day came up before

my mind, and so I concluded the letter. It was, however, too absurd to

send; and so, having rid myself of this irrelevancy, I threw the letter

into the fire and set to work again; but all day I was haunted by the

idea that my brother needed my help. In the evening a letter came from

him, written that very forenoon, explaining that it would be a great

service to him and his people if I could preach some Sunday soon in his

church, and that, owing to certain circumstances, the service would be

doubled if I could come on such and such a day; and it was my date! My

course was perfectly plain, and I at once accepted his invitation under

a distinct sense of a special call, and my only regret was that I had

not posted my first letter.



One afternoon, to take my third instance, I made up my list of sick

visits and started to overtake them. After completing the first, and

while going along a main road, I felt a strong impulse to turn down a

side street and call on a family living in it. The impulse grew so

urgent that it could not be resisted, and I rang the bell, considering

on the doorstep what reason I should give for an unexpected call. When

the door opened it turned out that strangers now occupied the house, and

that my family had gone to another address, which was in the same street

but could not be given. This was enough, it might appear, to turn me

from aimless visiting, but still the pressure continued as if a hand

were drawing me, and I set out to discover their new house, till I had

disturbed four families with vain inquiries. Then the remembrance of my

unmade and imperative calls came upon me, and I abandoned my fruitless

quest with some sense of shame. Had a busy clergyman not enough to do

without such a wild-goose chase?--and one grudged the time one had lost.



Next morning the head of that household I had yesterday sought in vain

came into my study with such evident sorrow on his face that one

hastened to meet him with anxious inquiries. "Yes, we are in great

trouble; yesterday our little one (a young baby) took very ill and died

in the afternoon. My wife was utterly overcome by the shock and we would

have sent for you at the time but had no messenger. I wish you had been

there--if you had only known!"



"And the time?"



"About half-past three."



So I had known, but had been too impatient.



Many other cases have occurred when it has been laid on me to call at a

certain house, where there seemed so little reason that I used to invent

excuses, and where I found some one especially needing advice or

comfort; or I called and had not courage to lead up to the matter, so

that the call was of no avail, and afterwards some one has asked whether

I knew, for she had waited for a word. Nor do I remember any case where,

being inwardly moved to go after this fashion, it appeared in the end

that I had been befooled. And so, having stated these facts out of many,

I offer three inferences.



(1) That people may live in an atmosphere of sympathy which will be a

communicating medium. When some one appears to read another's thoughts,

as we have all seen done at public exhibitions, it was evidently by

physical signs, and it served no good purpose. It was a mechanical gift

and was used for an amusement. This is knowledge of another kind,

whose conditions are spiritual and whose ends are ethical. Between you

and the person there must be some common feeling; it rises to a height

in the hour of trouble; and its call is for help. The correspondence

here is between heart and heart, and the medium through which the

message passes is love.



(2) That this love is but another name for Christ, who is the head of

the body; and here one falls back on St. Paul's profound and

illuminating illustration. It is Christ who unites the whole race, and

especially all Christian folk, by His incarnation. Into Him are gathered

all the fears, sorrows, pains, troubles of each member, so that He feels

with all, and from him flows the same feeling to other members of the

body. He is the common spring of sensitiveness and sympathy, who

connects each man with his neighbour and makes of thousands a living

organic spiritual unity.



(3) That in proportion as one abides in Christ he will be in touch with

his brethren. If it seem to one marvellous and almost incredible that

any person should be affected by another's sorrow whom he does not at

the moment see, is it not marvellous, although quite credible, that we

are so often indifferent to sorrow which we do see? Is it not the case

that one of a delicate soul will detect secret trouble in the failure

of a smile, in a sub-tone of voice, in a fleeting shadow on the face?

"How did he know?" we duller people say. "By his fellowship with Christ"

is the only answer. "Why did we not know?" On account of our hardness

and selfishness. If one live self-centred--ever concerned about his own

affairs, there is no callousness to which he may not yet descend; if one

live the selfless life, there is no mysterious secret of sympathy which

may not be his. Wherefore if any one desire to live in nervous touch

with his fellows, so that their sorrows be his own and he be their quick

helper, if he desire to share with Christ the world burden, let him open

his heart to the Spirit of the Lord. In proportion as we live for

ourselves are we separated from our families, our friends, our

neighbours; in proportion as we enter into the life of the Cross we are

one with them all, being one with Christ, who is one with God.