Miracles Are Seen In Light
2023-04-19 21:00:38 UTC
"Miracles violate every law of reality as this world judges it. Every law of time
and space, of magnitude and mass is transcended, for what the Holy Spirit enables
you to do is clearly not of this world." - ACIM
Just as, if anything matters, death matters; if anything matters, miracles matter.
Thus, how tremendous A Course in Miracles, and Christianity must be, if they be true.
The Man Who Could Work Miracles, - by H.G. Wells
A Pantoum In Prose
- Youtube Audio Book
https://tinyurl.com/Man-WhoCould-Work-Miracles-pdf - .pdf
IT IS DOUBTFUL whether the gift was innate. For my own part, I think it came to
him suddenly. Indeed, until he was thirty he was a sceptic, and did not believe
in miraculous powers. And here, since it is the most convenient place, I must
mention that he was a little man, and had eyes of a hot brown, very erect red
hair, a moustache with ends that he twisted up, and freckles. His name was George
McWhirter Fotheringay−−not the sort of name by any means to lead to any
expectation of miracles−−and he was clerk at Gomshott's. He was greatly addicted
to assertive argument. It was while he was asserting the impossibility of
miracles that he had his first intimation of his extraordinary powers. This
particular argument was being held in the bar of the Long Dragon, and Toddy
Beamish was conducting the opposition by a monotonous but effective "So /you/
say," that drove Mr. Fotheringay to the very limit of his patience.
There were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist, landlord Cox, and
Miss Maybridge, the perfectly respectable and rather portly barmaid of the Dragon.
Miss Maybridge was standing with her back to Mr. Fotheringay, washing glasses;
the others were watching him, more or less amused by the present ineffectiveness
of the assertive method. Goaded by the Torres Vedras tactics of Mr. Beamish, Mr.
Fotheringay determined to make an unusual rhetorical effort. "Looky here, Mr.
Beamish," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Let us clearly understand what a miracle is. It's
something contrariwise to the course of nature done by power of Will, something
what couldn't happen without being specially willed."
"So /you/ say," said Mr. Beamish, repulsing him.
Mr. Fotheringay appealed to the cyclist, who had hitherto been a silent auditor,
and received his assent−−given with a hesitating cough and a glance at Mr.
Beamish. The landlord would express no opinion, and Mr. Fotheringay, returning to
Mr. Beamish, received the unexpected concession of a qualified assent to his
definition of a miracle.
"For instance," said Mr. Fotheringay, greatly encouraged. "Here would be a
miracle. That lamp, in the natural course of nature, couldn't burn like that
upsy−down, could it, Beamish?"
"/You/ say it couldn't," said Beamish.
"And you?" said Fotheringay. "You don't mean to say−−eh?"
"No," said Beamish reluctantly. "No, it couldn't."
"Very well," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Then here comes someone, as it might be me,
along here, and stands as it might be here, and says to that lamp, as I might do,
collecting all my will−−Turn upsy−down without breaking, and go on burning steady,
and−−Hullo!"
It was enough to make anyone say "Hullo!" The impossible, the incredible, was
visible to them all. The lamp hung inverted in the air, burning quietly with its
flame pointing down. It was as solid, as indisputable as ever a lamp was, the
prosaic common lamp of the Long Dragon bar.
Mr. Fotheringay stood with an extended forefinger and the knitted brows of one
anticipating a catastrophic smash. The cyclist, who was sitting next the lamp,
ducked and jumped across the bar. Everybody jumped, more or less. Miss Maybridge
turned and screamed. For nearly three seconds the lamp remained still. A faint
cry of mental distress came from Mr. Fotheringay. "I can't keep it up," he said,
"any longer." He staggered back, and the inverted lamp suddenly flared, fell
against the corner of the bar, bounced aside, smashed upon the floor, and went out.
It was lucky it had a metal receiver, or the whole place would have been in a
blaze. Mr. Cox was the first to speak, and his remark, shorn of needless
excrescences, was to the effect that Fotheringay was a fool. Fotheringay was
beyond disputing even so fundamental a proposition as that! He was astonished
beyond measure at the thing that had occurred. The subsequent conversation threw
absolutely no light on the matter so far as Fotheringay was concerned; the general
opinion not only followed Mr. Cox very closely but very vehemently. Everyone
accused Fotheringay of a silly trick, and presented him to himself as a foolish
destroyer of comfort and security. His mind was in a tornado of perplexity, he
was himself inclined to agree with them, and he made a remarkably ineffectual
opposition to the proposal of his departure.
He went home flushed and heated, coat−collar crumpled, eyes smarting and ears red.
He watched each of the ten street lamps nervously as he passed it. lt was only
when he found himself alone in his little bed−room in Church Row that he was able
to grapple seriously with his memories of the occurrence, and ask, "What on earth
happened?"
He had removed his coat and boots, and was sitting on the bed with his hands in
his pockets repeating the text of his defence for the seventeenth time, "I didn't
want the confounded thing to upset," when it occurred to him that at the precise
moment he had said the commanding words he had inadvertently willed the thing he
said, and that when he had seen the lamp in the air he had felt it depended on him
to maintain it there without being clear how this was to be done. He had not a
particularly complex mind, or he might have stuck for a time at that
"inadvertently willed," embracing, as it does, the abstrusest problems of
voluntary action; but as it was, the idea came to him with a quite acceptable
haziness. And from that, following, as I must admit, no clear logical path, he
came to the test of experiment.
He pointed resolutely to his candle and collected his mind, though he felt he did
a foolish thing. "Be raised up," he said. But in a second that feeling vanished.
The candle was raised, hung in the air one giddy moment, and as Mr. Fotheringay
gasped, fell with a smash on his toilet−table, leaving him in darkness save for
the expiring glow of its wick.
For a time Mr. Fotheringay sat in the darkness, perfectly still. "It did happen,
after all," he said. "And 'ow I'm to explain it I don't know." He sighed
heavily, and began feeling in his pockets for a match. He could find none, and he
rose and groped about the toilet−table. "I wish I had a match," he said. He
resorted to his coat, and there was none there, and then it dawned upon him that
miracles were possible even with matches. He extended a hand and scowled at it in
the dark. "Let there be a match in that hand," he said. He felt some light
object fall across his palm, and his fingers closed upon a match.
After several ineffectual attempts to light this, he discovered it was a
safety−match. He threw it down, and then it occurred to him that he might have
willed it lit. He did, and perceived it burning in the midst of his toilet−table
mat. He caught it up hastily, and it went out. His perception of possibilities
enlarged, and he felt for and replaced the candle in its candlestick. "Here! you
be lit," said Mr. Fotheringay, and forthwith the candle was flaring, and he saw a
little black hole in the toilet−cover, with a wisp of smoke rising from it. For a
time he stared from this to the little flame and back, and then looked up and met
his own gaze in the looking glass. By this help he communed with himself in
silence for a time.
"How about miracles now?" said Mr. Fotheringay at last, addressing his reflection.
The subsequent meditations of Mr. Fotheringay were of a severe but confused
description. So far, he could see it was a case of pure willing with him. The
nature of his experiences so far disinclined him for any further experiments, at
least until he had reconsidered them. But he lifted a sheet of paper, and turned
a glass of water pink and then green, and he created a snail, which he
miraculously annihilated, and got himself a miraculous new tooth−brush. Somewhen
in the small hours he had reached the fact that his will−power must be of a
particularly rare and pungent quality, a fact of which he had certainly had
inklings before, but no certain assurance. The scare and perplexity of his first
discovery was now qualified by pride in this evidence of singularity and by vague
intimations of advantage. He became aware that the church clock was striking one,
and as it did not occur to him that his daily duties at Gomshott's might be
miraculously dispensed with, he resumed undressing, in order to get to bed without
further delay. As he struggled to get his shirt over his head, he was struck with
a brilliant idea. "Let me be in bed," he said, and found himself so. "Undressed,"
he stipulated; and, finding the sheets cold, added hastily, "and in my
nightshirt−−no, in a nice soft woollen nightshirt. Ah!" he said with immense
enjoyment. "And now let me be comfortably asleep. . . . ."
He awoke at his usual hour and was pensive all through breakfast−time, wondering
whether his overnight experience might not be a particularly vivid dream. At
length his mind turned again to cautious experiments. For instance, he had three
eggs for breakfast; two his landlady had supplied, good, but shoppy, and one was a
delicious fresh goose−egg, laid, cooked, and served by his extraordinary will. He
hurried off to Gomshott's in a state of profound but carefully concealed
excitement, and only remembered the shell of the third egg when his landlady spoke
of it that night. All day he could do no work because of this astonishingly new
self−knowledge, but this caused him no inconvenience, because he made up for it
miraculously in his last ten minutes.
As the day wore on his state of mind passed from wonder to elation, albeit the
circumstances of his dismissal from the Long Dragon were still disagreeable to
recall, and a garbled account of the matter that had reached his colleagues led to
some badinage. It was evident he must be careful how he lifted frangible
articles, but in other ways his gift promised more and more as he turned it over
in his mind. He intended among other things to increase his personal property by
unostentatious acts of creation. He called into existence a pair of very splendid
diamond studs, and hastily annihilated them again as young Gomshott came across
the counting−house to his desk. He was afraid young Gomshott might wonder how he
had come by them. He saw quite clearly the gift required caution and watchfulness
in its exercise, but so far as he could judge the difficulties attending its
mastery would be no greater than those he had already faced in the study of
cycling. It was that analogy, perhaps, quite as much as the feeling that he would
be unwelcome in the Long Dragon, that drove him out after supper into the lane
beyond the gas−works, to rehearse a few miracles in private.
There was possibly a certain want of originality in his attempts, for apart from
his will−power Mr. Fotheringay was not a very exceptional man. The miracle of
Moses' rod came to his mind, but the night was dark and unfavourable to the proper
control of large miraculous snakes. Then he recollected the story of "Tannhauser"
that he had read on the back of the Philharmonic programme. That seemed to him
singularly attractive and harmless. He stuck his walking−stick−−a very nice
Poona−Penang lawyer−−into the turf that edged the footpath, and commanded the dry
wood to blossom. The air was immediately full of the scent of roses, and by means
of a match he saw for himself that this beautiful miracle was indeed accomplished.
His satisfaction was ended by advancing footsteps. Afraid of a premature
discovery of his powers, he addressed the blossoming stick hastily: "Go back."
What he meant was "Change back;" but of course he was confused. The stick receded
at a considerable velocity, and incontinently came a cry of anger and a bad word
from the approaching person. "Who are you throwing brambles at, you fool?" cried
a voice. "That got me on the shin."
"I'm sorry, old chap," said Mr. Fotheringay, and then realising the awkward nature
of the explanation, caught nervously at his moustache. He saw Winch, one of the
three Immering constables, advancing.
"What d'yer mean by it?" asked the constable. "Hullo! it's you, is it? The gent
that broke the lamp at the Long Dragon!"
"I don't mean anything by it," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Nothing at all."
"What d'yer do it for then?"
"Oh, bother!" said Mr. Fotheringay.
"Bother indeed! D'yer know that stick hurt? What d'yer do it for, eh?"
For the moment Mr. Fotheringay could not think what he had done it for. His
silence seemed to irritate Mr. Winch. "You've been assaulting the police, young
man, this time. That's what /you/ done."
"Look here, Mr. Winch," said Mr. Fotheringay, annoyed and confused, "I'm very
sorry. The fact is−−−−"
"Well?"
He could think of no way but the truth. "I was working a miracle." He tried to
speak in an off−hand way, but try as he would he couldn't.
"Working a−−−−! 'Ere, don't you talk rot. Working a miracle, indeed! Miracle!
Well, that's downright funny! Why, you's the chap that don't believe in miracles.
. . . Fact is, this is another of your silly conjuring tricks−−that's what this
is. Now, I tell you−−−−"
But Mr. Fotheringay never heard what Mr. Winch was going to tell him. He realised
he had given himself away, flung his valuable secret to all the winds of heaven. A
violent gust of irritation swept him to action. He turned on the constable
swiftly and fiercely. "Here," he said, "I've had enough of this, I have! I'll
show you a silly conjuring trick, I will! Go to Hades! Go, now!"
He was alone!
Mr. Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night nor did he trouble to see
what had become of his flowering stick. He returned to the town, scared and very
quiet, and went to his bed−room. "Lord!" he said, "it's a powerful gift−−an
extremely powerful gift. I didn't hardly mean as much as that. Not really. . . .
I wonder what Hades is like!"
He sat on the bed taking off his boots. Struck by a happy thought he transferred
the constable to San Francisco, and without any more interference with normal
causation went soberly to bed. In the night he dreamt of the anger of Winch.
The next day Mr. Fotheringay heard two interesting items of news. Someone had
planted a most beautiful climbing rose against the elder Mr. Gomshott's private
house in the Lullaborough Road, and the river as far as Rawling's Mill was to be
dragged for Constable Winch.
Mr. Fotheringay was abstracted and thoughtful all that day, and performed no
miracles except certain provisions for Winch, and the miracle of completing his
day's work with punctual perfection in spite of all the bee−swarm of thoughts that
hummed through his mind. And the extraordinary abstraction and meekness of his
manner was remarked by several people, and made a matter for jesting. For the
most part he was thinking of Winch.
On Sunday evening he went to chapel and oddly enough, Mr. Maydig, who took a
certain interest in occult matters, preached about "things that are not lawful."
Mr. Fotheringay was not a regular chapel goer, but the system of assertive
scepticism, to which I have already alluded, was now very much shaken. The tenor
of the sermon threw an entirely new light on these novel gifts, and he suddenly
decided to consult Mr. Maydig immediately after the service. So soon as that was
determined, he found himself wondering why he had not done so before.
Mr. Maydig, a lean, excitable man with quite remarkably long wrists and neck, was
gratified at a request for a private conversation from a young man whose
carelessness in religious matters was a subject for general remark in the town.
After a few necessary delays, he conducted him to the study of the Manse, which
was contiguous to the dispel, seated him comfortably, and, standing in front of a
cheerful fire−−his legs threw a Rhodian arch of shadow on the opposite
wall−−requested Mr. Fotheringay to state his business.
At first Mr. Fotheringay was a little abashed, and found some difficulty in
opening the matter. "You will scarcely believe me, Mr. Maydig, I am afraid"−−and
so forth for some time. He tried a question at last, and asked Mr. Maydig his
opinion of miracles.
Mr. Maydig was still saying "Well" in an extremely judicial tone, when Mr.
Fotheringay interrupted again: "You don't believe, I suppose, that some common
sort of person−−like myself, for instance−−as it might be sitting here now, might
have some sort of twist inside him that made him able to do things by his will."
"It's possible," said Mr. Maydig. "Something of the sort, perhaps, is possible."
"If I might make free with something here, I think I might show you by a sort of
experiment," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Now, take that tobacco−jar on the table, for
instance. What I want to know is whether what I am going to do with it is a
miracle or not. Just half a minute, Mr. Maydig, please."
He knitted his brows, pointed to the tobacco−jar and said: "Be a bowl of violets."
The tobacco−jar did as it was ordered.
Mr. Maydig started violently at the change, and stood looking from the
thaumaturgist to the bowl of flowers. He said nothing. Presently he ventured to
lean over the table and smell the violets; they were fresh−picked and very fine
ones. Then he stared at Mr. Fotheringay again.
"How did you do that?" he asked.
Mr. Fotheringay pulled his moustache. "Just told it−−and there you are. Is that
a miracle, or is it black art, or what is it? And what do you think's the matter
with me? That's what I want to ask."
"It's a most extraordinary occurrence."
"And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that than you
did. It came quite sudden. It's something odd about my will, I suppose, and
that's as far as I can see."
"Is that−−the only thing? Could you do other things besides that?"
"Lord, yes! said Mr. Fotheringay. "Just anything." He thought, and suddenly
recalled a conjuring entertainment he had seen. "Here!" He pointed. "Change into
a bowl of fish−−no, not that−−change into a glass bowl full of water with goldfish
swimming in it. That's better! You see that, Mr. Maydig?"
"It's astonishing. It's incredible. You are either a most extraordinary . . .
But no−−"
"I could change it into anything," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Just anything. Here!
be a pigeon, will you?"
In another moment a blue pigeon was fluttering round the room and making Mr.
Maydig duck every time it came near him. "Stop there, will you," said Mr.
Fotheringay; and the pigeon hung motionless in the air. "I could change it back
to a bowl of flowers," he said, and after replacing the pigeon on the table worked
that miracle. "I expect you will want your pipe in a bit," he said, and restored
the tobacco−jar.
Mr. Maydig had followed all these later changes in a sort of ejaculatory silence.
He stared at Mr. Fotheringay and, in a very gingerly manner, picked up the
tobacco−jar, examined it, replaced it on the table. "Well!" was the only
expression of his feelings.
"Now, after that it's easier to explain what I came about," said Mr. Fotheringay;
and proceeded to a lengthy and involved narrative of his strange experiences,
beginning with the affair of the lamp in the Long Dragon and complicated by
persistent allusions to Winch. As he went on, the transient pride Mr. Maydig's
consternation had caused passed away; he became the very ordinary Mr. Fotheringay
of everyday intercourse again. Mr. Maydig listened intently, the tobacco−jar in
his hand, and his bearing changed also with the course of the narrative.
Presently, while Mr. Fotheringay was dealing with the miracle of the third egg,
the minister interrupted with a fluttering extended hand −−
"It is possible," he said. "It is credible. It is amazing, of course, but it
reconciles a number of amazing difficulties. The power to work miracles is a
gift−−a peculiar quality like genius or second sight−−hitherto it has come very
rarely and to exceptional people. But in this case . . . I have always wondered
at the miracles of Mahomet, and at Yogi's miracles, and the miracles of Madame
Blavatsky. But, of course! Yes, it is simply a gift! It carries out so
beautifully the arguments of that great thinker"−−Mr. Maydig's voice sank−−"his
Grace the Duke of Argyll. Here we plumb some profounder law−−deeper than the
ordinary laws of nature. Yes−−yes. Go on. Go on!"
Mr. Fotheringay proceeded to tell of his misadventure with Winch, and Mr. Maydig,
no longer overawed or scared, began to jerk his limbs about and interject
astonishment. "It's this what troubled me most," proceeded Mr. Fotheringay; "it's
this I'm most mijitly in want of advice for; of course he's at San
Francisco−−wherever San Francisco may be−−but of course it's awkward for both of
us, as you'll see, Mr. Maydig. I don't see how he can understand what has
happened, and I daresay he's scared and exasperated something tremendous, and
trying to get at me. I daresay he keeps on starting off to come here. I send him
back, by a miracle, every few hours, when I think of it. And of course, that's a
thing he won't be able to understand, and it's bound to annoy him; and, of course,
if he takes a ticket every time it will cost him a lot of money. I done the best
I could for him, but of course it's difficult for him to put himself in my place.
I thought afterwards that his clothes might have got scorched, you know−−if Hades
is all it's supposed to be−−before I shifted him. In that case I suppose they'd
have locked him up in San Francisco. Of course I willed him a new suit of clothes
on him directly I thought of it. But, you see, I'm already in a deuce of a tangle−−"
Mr. Maydig looked serious. "I see you are in a tangle. Yes, it's a difficult
position. How you are to end it . . ." He became diffuse and inconclusive.
"However, we'll leave Winch for a little and discuss the larger question. I don't
think this is a case of the black art or anything of the sort. I don't think
there is any taint of criminality about it at all, Mr. Fotheringay−−none whatever,
unless you are suppressing material facts. No, it's miracles−−pure
miracles−−miracles, if I may say so, of the very highest class."
He began to pace the hearthrug and gesticulate, while Mr. Fotheringay sat with his
arm on the table and his head on his arm, looking worried. "I don't see how I'm
to manage about Winch," he said.
"A gift of working miracles−−apparently a very powerful gift," said Mr. Maydig,
"will find a way about Winch−−never fear. My dear Sir, you are a most important
man−−a man of the most astonishing possibilities. As evidence, for example!
And−−in other ways, the things you may do . . ."
"Yes, /I've/ thought of a thing or two," said Mr. Fotheringay. "But−−some of the
things came a bit twisty. You saw that fish at first? Wrong sort of bowl and
wrong sort of fish. And I thought I'd ask someone."
"A proper course," said Mr. Maydig, "a very proper course−−altogether the proper
course." He stopped and looked at Mr. Fotheringay. "It's practically an
unlimited gift. Let us test your powers, for instance. If they really /are/ . . .
If they really are all they seem to be."
And so, incredible as it may seem, in the study of the little house behind the
Congregational Chapel, on the evening of Sunday, Nov. 10, 1896, Mr. Fotheringay,
egged on and inspired by Mr. Maydig, began to work miracles. The reader's
attention is specially and definitely called to the date. He will object,
probably has already objected, that certain points in this story are improbable,
that if any things of the sort already described had indeed occurred, they would
have been in all the papers a year ago. The details immediately following he will
find particularly hard to accept, because among other things they involve the
conclusion that he or she, the reader in question, must have been killed in a
violent and unprecedented manner more than a year ago. Now a miracle is nothing
if not improbable, and as a matter of fact the reader /was/ killed in a violent
and unprecedented manner a year ago. In the subsequent course of this story that
will become perfectly clear and credible, as every right−minded and reasonable
reader will admit. But this is not the place for the end of the story, being but
little beyond the hither side of the middle. And at first the miracles worked by
Mr. Fotheringay were timid little miracles−−little things with the cups and
parlour fitments−−as feeble as the miracles of Theosophists, and, feeble as they
were, they were received with awe by his collaborator. He would have preferred to
settle the Winch business out of hand, but Mr. Maydig would not let him. But
after they had worked a dozen of these domestic trivialities, their sense of power
grew, their imagination began to show signs of stimulation, and their ambition
enlarged. Their first larger enterprise was due to hunger and the negligence of
Mrs. Minchin, Mr. Maydig's housekeeper. The meal to which the minister conducted
Mr. Fotheringay was certainly ill−laid and uninviting as refreshment for two
industrious miracle−workers; but they were seated, and Mr. Maydig was descanting
in sorrow rather than in anger upon his housekeeper's shortcomings, before it
occurred to Mr. Fotheringay that an opportunity lay before him. "Don't you think,
Mr. Maydig," he said; "if it isn't a liberty, /I/−−"
"My dear Mr. Fotheringay! Of course! No−−I didn't think."
Mr. Fotheringay waved his hand. "What shall we have?" he said, in a large,
inclusive spirit, and, at Mr. Maydig's order, revised the supper very thoroughly.
"As for me," he said, eyeing Mr. Maydig's selection, "I am always particularly
fond of a tankard of stout and a nice Welsh rarebit, and I'll order that. I ain't
much given to Burgundy," and forthwith stout and Welsh rarebit promptly appeared
at his command. They sat long at their supper, talking like equals, as Mr.
Fotheringay presently perceived, with a glow of surprise and gratification, of all
the miracles they would presently do. "And, by the bye, Mr. Maydig," said Mr.
Fotheringay, "I might perhaps be able to help you−−in a domestic way."
"Don't quite follow," said Mr. Maydig pouring out a glass of miraculous old Burgundy.
Mr. Fotheringay helped himself to a second Welsh rarebit out of vacancy, and took
a mouthful. "I was thinking," he said, "I might be able (chum, chum) to work
(chum, chum) a miracle with Mrs. Minchin (chum, chum) −− make her a better woman."
Mr. Maydig put down the glass and looked doubtful. "She's −− She strongly objects
to interference, you know, Mr. Fotheringay. And −− as a matter of fact −− it's
well past eleven and she's probably in bed and asleep. Do you think, on the
whole−−−−"
Mr. Fotheringay considered these objections. "I don't see that it shouldn't be
done in her sleep."
For a time Mr. Maydig opposed the idea, and then he yielded. Mr. Fotheringay
issued his orders, and a little less at their ease, perhaps, the two gentlemen
proceeded with their repast. Mr. Maydig was enlarging on the changes he might
expect in his housekeeper next day, with an optimism that seemed even to Mr.
Fotheringay's supper senses a little forced and hectic, when a series of confused
noises from upstairs began. Their eyes exchanged interrogations, and Mr. Maydig
left the room hastily. Mr. Fotheringay heard him calling up to his housekeeper
and then his footsteps going softly up to her.
In a minute or so the minister returned, his step light, his face radiant.
"Wonderful!" he said, "and touching! Most touching!"
He began pacing the hearthrug. "A repentance −− a most touching repentance −−
through the crack of the door. Poor woman! A most wonderful change! She had got
up. She must have got up at once. She had got up out of her sleep to smash a
private bottle of brandy in her box. And to confess it too! . . . But this gives
us −− it opens −− a most amazing vista of possibilities. If we can work this
miraculous change in her. . ."
"The thing's unlimited seemingly," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And about Mr. Winch−−−−"
"Altogether unlimited." And from the hearthrug Mr. Maydig, waving the Winch
difficulty aside, unfolded a series of wonderful proposals −− proposals he
invented as he went along.
Now what those proposals were does not concern the essentials of this story.
Suffice it that they were designed in a spirit of infinite benevolence, the sort
of benevolence that used to be called post−prandial. Suffice it, too, that the
problem of Winch remained unsolved. Nor is it necessary to describe how far that
series got to its fulfilment. There were astonishing changes. The small hours
found Mr. Maydig and Mr. Fotheringay careering across the chilly market−square
under the still moon, in a sort of ecstasy of thaumaturgy, Mr. Maydig all flap and
gesture, Mr. Fotheringay short and bristling, and no longer abashed at his
greatness. They had reformed every drunkard in the Parliamentary division,
changed all the beer and alcohol to water (Mr. Maydig had overruled Mr.
Fotheringay on this point); they had, further, greatly improved the railway
communication of the place, drained Flinder's swamp, improved the soil of One Tree
Hill, and cured the Vicar's wart. And they were going to see what could be done
with the injured pier at South Bridge. "The place," gasped Mr. Maydig, "won't be
the same place to−morrow. How surprised and thankful everyone will be!" And just
at that moment the church clock struck three.
"I say," said Mr. Fotheringay, "that's three o'clock! I must be getting back.
I've got to be at business by eight. And besides, Mrs. Wimms−−"
"We're only beginning," said Mr. Maydig, full of the sweetness of unlimited power.
"We're only beginning. Think of all the good we're doing. When people wake−−−−"
"But−−−−," said Mr. Fotheringay.
Mr. Maydig gripped his arm suddenly. His eyes were bright and wild. "My dear
chap," he said, "there's no hurry. "Look"−−he pointed to the moon at the
zenith−−"Joshua!"
"Joshua?" said Mr. Fotheringay.
"Joshua," said Mr. Maydig. "Why not? Stop it."
Mr. Fotheringay looked at the moon.
"That's a bit tall," he said after a pause.
"Why not?" said Mr. Maydig. "Of course it doesn't stop. You stop the rotation of
the earth, you know. Time stops. It isn't as if we were doing harm."
"H'm!" said Mr. Fotheringay. "Well." He sighed. "I'll try. Here−−"
He buttoned up his jacket and addressed himself to the habitable globe, with as
good an assumption of confidence as lay in his power. "Jest stop rotating, will
you," said Mr. Fotheringay.
Incontinently he was flying head over heels through the air at the rate of dozens
of miles a minute. In spite of the innumerable circles he was describing per
second, he thought; for thought is wonderful−−sometimes as sluggish as flowing
pitch, sometimes as instantaneous as light. He thought in a second, and willed.
"Let me come down safe and sound. Whatever else happens, let me down safe and sound."
He willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid flight
through the air, were already beginning to singe. He came down with a forcible,
but by no means injurious bump in what appeared to be a mound of fresh−turned
earth. A large mass of metal and masonry, extraordinarily like the clock−tower in
the middle of the market−square, hit the earth near him, ricochetted over him, and
flew into stonework, bricks, and masonry, like a bursting bomb. A hurtling cow
hit one of the larger blocks and smashed like an egg. There was a crash that made
all the most violent crashes of his past life seem like the sound of falling dust,
and this was followed by a descending series of lesser crashes. A vast wind
roared throughout earth and heaven' so that he could scarcely lift his head to
look. For a while he was too breathless and astonished even to see where he was
or what had happened. And his first movement was to feel his head and reassure
himself that his streaming hair was still his own.
"Lord!" gasped Mr. Fotheringay, scarce able to speak for the gale, "I've had a
squeak! What's gone wrong? Storms and thunder. And only a minute ago a fine
night. It's Maydig set me on to this sort of thing. What a wind! If I go on
fooling in this way I'm bound to have a thundering accident! . . .
"Where's Maydig?
"What a confounded mess everything's in!"
He looked about him so far as his flapping jacket would permit. The appearance of
things was really extremely strange. "The sky's all right anyhow," said Mr.
Fotheringay. "And that's about all that is all right. And even there it looks
like a terrific gale coming up. But there's the moon overhead. just as it was
just now. Bright as midday. But as for the rest−−Where's the village?
Where's−−where's anything? And what on earth set this wind a−blowing? I didn't
order no wind."
Mr. Fotheringay struggled to get to his feet in vain, and after one failure,
remained on all fours, holding on. He surveyed the moonlit world to leeward, with
the tails of his jacket streaming over his head. "There's something seriously
wrong," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And what it is−−goodness knows."
Far and wide nothing was visible in the white glare through the haze of dust that
drove before a screaming gale but tumbled masses of earth and heaps of inchoate
ruins, no trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only a wilderness of disorder
vanishing at last into the darkness beneath the whirling columns and streamers,
the lightnings and thunderings of a swiftly rising storm. Near him in the livid
glare was something that might once have been an elm−tree, a smashed mass of
splinters, shivered from boughs to base, and further a twisted mass of iron
girders−−only too evidently the viaduct−−rose out of the piled confusion.
You see when Mr. Fotheringay had arrested the rotation of the solid globe, he had
made no stipulation concerning the trifling movables upon its surface. And the
earth spins so fast that the surface at its equator is travelling at rather more
than a thousand miles an hour, and in these latitudes at more than half that pace.
So that the village, and Mr. Maydig, and Mr. Fotheringay, and everybody and
everything had been jerked violently forward at about nine miles per second −−
that is to say, much more violently than if they had been fired out of a cannon.
And every human being, every living creature, every house, and every tree −− all
the world as we know it −− had been so jerked and smashed and utterly destroyed.
That was all.
These things Mr. Fotheringay did not, of course, fully appreciate. But he
perceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great disgust of
miracles came upon him. He was in darkness now, for the clouds had swept together
and blotted out his momentary glimpse of the moon, and the air was full of fitful
struggling tortured wraiths of hail. A great roaring of wind and waters filled
earth and sky, and, peering under his hand through the dust and sleet to windward,
he saw by the play of the lightnings a vast wall of water pouring towards him.
"Maydig!" screamed Mr. Fotheringay's feeble voice amid the elemental uproar.
"Here!−−Maydig!"
"Stop!" cried Mr. Fotheringay to the advancing water. "Oh, for goodness' sake, stop!"
"Just a moment," said Mr. Fotheringay to the lightnings and thunder. "Stop jest a
moment while I collect my thoughts. . . . And now what shall I do?" he said. "What
shall I do? Lord! I wish Maydig was about."
"I know," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And for goodness' sake let's have it right this
time."
He remained on all fours, leaning against the wind, very intent to have everything
right.
"Ah!" he said. "Let nothing what I'm going to order happen until I say 'Off!' . .
. Lord! I wish I'd thought of that before!"
He lifted his little voice against the whirlwind, shouting louder and louder in
the vain desire to hear himself speak. "Now then!−−here goes! Mind about that
what I said just now. In the first place, when all I've got to say is done, let
me lose my miraculous power, let my will become just like anybody else's will, and
all these dangerous miracles be stopped. I don't like them. I'd rather I didn't
work 'em. Ever so much. That's the first thing. And the second is−−let me be
back just before the miracles begin; let everything be just as it was before that
blessed lamp turned up. It's a big job, but it's the last. Have you got it? No
more miracles, everything as it was−−me back in the Long Dragon just before I
drank my half−pint. That's it! Yes."
He dug his fingers into the mould, closed his eyes, and said "Off!"
Everything became perfectly still. He perceived that he was standing erect.
"So /you/ say," said a voice.
He opened his eyes. He was in the bar of the Long Dragon, arguing about miracles
with Toddy Beamish. He had a vague sense of some great thing forgotten that
instantaneously passed. You see, except for the loss of his miraculous powers,
everything was back as it had been; his mind and memory therefore were now just as
they had been at the time when this story began. So that he knew absolutely
nothing of all that is told here, knows nothing of all that is told here to this
day. And among other things, of course, he still did not believe in miracles.
"I tell you that miracles, properly speaking, can't possibly happen," he said,
"whatever you like to hold. And I'm prepared to prove it up to the hilt."
"That's what /you/ think," said Toddy Beamish, and "Prove it if you can."
"Looky here, Mr. Beamish," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Let us clearly understand what a
miracle is. It's something contrariwise to the course of nature done by power of
Will . . ."
--
"Miracles violate every law of reality as this world judges it. Every law of time
and space, of magnitude and mass is transcended, for what the Holy Spirit enables
you to do is clearly beyond all of them." - ACIM
Just as, if anything matters, death matters; if anything matters, miracles matter.
Thus, how tremendous A Course in Miracles, and Christianity must be, if they be true.
"The power to work miracles belongs to you." - A Course In Miracles
"Jesus said to him, “If you can believe, all things *are* possible to him who
believes.”
- Jesus Christ, Mark 9:23, Holy Bible, New Testament, NKJV
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+9%3A23&version=NKJV
"Miracles are everyone's right, but purification is necessary first." - ACIM
"There is no order of difficulty in miracles." It is as easy to move a mountain
as it is to move a grain of sand. Yet can you move a grain of sand?
"By demonstrating to yourself there is no order of difficulty in miracles, you
will convince yourself that, in your natural state, there is no difficulty at all
*because* it is a state of grace." - ACIM
"The miracle is the only device at your immediate disposal for controlling time.
Only revelation transcends it, having nothing to do with time at all."
"Revelation is literally unspeakable because it is an experience of unspeakable love."
"If you hope to spare yourself from fear, there are some things you must realize,
and realize fully. The mind is very powerful, and never loses its creative force.
It never sleeps. Every instant it is creating. It is hard to recognize that
thought and belief combine into a power surge that can literally move mountains."
- A Course In Miracles
"So Jesus answered and said to them, “Have faith in God. For assuredly, I say to
you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be cast into the sea,’ and
does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done,
he will have whatever he says. Therefore I say to you, whatever things you ask
when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them."
- Jesus Christ, Mark 11:22-24, New Testament, Holy Bible, NKJV
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+11%3A22-24&version=NKJV
"Miracles are seen in light."
"It is important to remember that miracles and vision necessarily go together.
This needs repeating, and frequent repeating. It is a central idea in your new
thought system, and the perception that it produces. The miracle is always there.
Its presence is not caused by your vision; its absence is not the result of your
failure to see. It is only your awareness of miracles that is affected. You will
see them in the light; you will not see them in the dark.
To you, then, light is crucial."
- A Course in Miracles, Workbook, "Miracles are seen in light" Lesson 91
"When you have looked on what seemed terrifying, and seen it change to sights of
loveliness and peace; when you have looked on scenes of violence and death, and
watched them change to quiet views of gardens under open skies, with clear,
life-giving water running happily beside them in dancing brooks that never waste
away; who need persuade you to accept the gift of vision? And after vision, who
is there who could refuse what must come after? Think but an instant just on
this; you can behold the holiness God gave his Son. And never need you think that
there is something else for you to see."
- A Course in Miracles, Chapter 20, "The Vision of Holiness," Section 8, "The
Vision of Sinlessness"
So this says you could change the world like Television.
"There is no problem, no event or situation, no perplexity that vision will not
solve."
"Vision is freely given to those who ask to see."
"this world is an hallucination... Hallucinations disappear when they are
recognized for what they are..."
"And all you need to do is recognize that *you* did this."
"There is no world! This is the central thought the course attempts to teach."
- A Course in Miracles, Workbook, Lesson 132
If miracles exist there is no world. If the world exists, there are no miracles.
"This world is full of miracles."
- A Course in Miracles, Chapter 28, Section 2
"Through prayer love is received, and through miracles love is expressed."
To work miracles *pray,* and *will*.
i.e. "I pray to God for, ______ Amen."
"I will, ______ Amen."
"Prayer is a way of asking for something. It is the medium of miracles. But the
only meaningful prayer is for forgiveness, because those who have been forgiven
have everything. Once forgiveness has been accepted, prayer in the usual sense
becomes utterly meaningless. The prayer for forgiveness is nothing more than a
request that you may be able to recognize what you already have. In electing
perception instead of knowledge, you placed yourself in a position where you could
resemble your Father only by perceiving miraculously. You have lost the knowledge
that you yourself are a miracle of God. Creation is your Source and your only
real function." - ACIM
"the purpose of this course is to help you remember what you are" - ACIM
"Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall
be added to you."
- Jesus Christ, Matt 6:33, New Testament, Holy Bible
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%206%3A33&version=NKJV
and space, of magnitude and mass is transcended, for what the Holy Spirit enables
you to do is clearly not of this world." - ACIM
Just as, if anything matters, death matters; if anything matters, miracles matter.
Thus, how tremendous A Course in Miracles, and Christianity must be, if they be true.
The Man Who Could Work Miracles, - by H.G. Wells
A Pantoum In Prose
- Youtube Audio Book
https://tinyurl.com/Man-WhoCould-Work-Miracles-pdf - .pdf
IT IS DOUBTFUL whether the gift was innate. For my own part, I think it came to
him suddenly. Indeed, until he was thirty he was a sceptic, and did not believe
in miraculous powers. And here, since it is the most convenient place, I must
mention that he was a little man, and had eyes of a hot brown, very erect red
hair, a moustache with ends that he twisted up, and freckles. His name was George
McWhirter Fotheringay−−not the sort of name by any means to lead to any
expectation of miracles−−and he was clerk at Gomshott's. He was greatly addicted
to assertive argument. It was while he was asserting the impossibility of
miracles that he had his first intimation of his extraordinary powers. This
particular argument was being held in the bar of the Long Dragon, and Toddy
Beamish was conducting the opposition by a monotonous but effective "So /you/
say," that drove Mr. Fotheringay to the very limit of his patience.
There were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist, landlord Cox, and
Miss Maybridge, the perfectly respectable and rather portly barmaid of the Dragon.
Miss Maybridge was standing with her back to Mr. Fotheringay, washing glasses;
the others were watching him, more or less amused by the present ineffectiveness
of the assertive method. Goaded by the Torres Vedras tactics of Mr. Beamish, Mr.
Fotheringay determined to make an unusual rhetorical effort. "Looky here, Mr.
Beamish," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Let us clearly understand what a miracle is. It's
something contrariwise to the course of nature done by power of Will, something
what couldn't happen without being specially willed."
"So /you/ say," said Mr. Beamish, repulsing him.
Mr. Fotheringay appealed to the cyclist, who had hitherto been a silent auditor,
and received his assent−−given with a hesitating cough and a glance at Mr.
Beamish. The landlord would express no opinion, and Mr. Fotheringay, returning to
Mr. Beamish, received the unexpected concession of a qualified assent to his
definition of a miracle.
"For instance," said Mr. Fotheringay, greatly encouraged. "Here would be a
miracle. That lamp, in the natural course of nature, couldn't burn like that
upsy−down, could it, Beamish?"
"/You/ say it couldn't," said Beamish.
"And you?" said Fotheringay. "You don't mean to say−−eh?"
"No," said Beamish reluctantly. "No, it couldn't."
"Very well," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Then here comes someone, as it might be me,
along here, and stands as it might be here, and says to that lamp, as I might do,
collecting all my will−−Turn upsy−down without breaking, and go on burning steady,
and−−Hullo!"
It was enough to make anyone say "Hullo!" The impossible, the incredible, was
visible to them all. The lamp hung inverted in the air, burning quietly with its
flame pointing down. It was as solid, as indisputable as ever a lamp was, the
prosaic common lamp of the Long Dragon bar.
Mr. Fotheringay stood with an extended forefinger and the knitted brows of one
anticipating a catastrophic smash. The cyclist, who was sitting next the lamp,
ducked and jumped across the bar. Everybody jumped, more or less. Miss Maybridge
turned and screamed. For nearly three seconds the lamp remained still. A faint
cry of mental distress came from Mr. Fotheringay. "I can't keep it up," he said,
"any longer." He staggered back, and the inverted lamp suddenly flared, fell
against the corner of the bar, bounced aside, smashed upon the floor, and went out.
It was lucky it had a metal receiver, or the whole place would have been in a
blaze. Mr. Cox was the first to speak, and his remark, shorn of needless
excrescences, was to the effect that Fotheringay was a fool. Fotheringay was
beyond disputing even so fundamental a proposition as that! He was astonished
beyond measure at the thing that had occurred. The subsequent conversation threw
absolutely no light on the matter so far as Fotheringay was concerned; the general
opinion not only followed Mr. Cox very closely but very vehemently. Everyone
accused Fotheringay of a silly trick, and presented him to himself as a foolish
destroyer of comfort and security. His mind was in a tornado of perplexity, he
was himself inclined to agree with them, and he made a remarkably ineffectual
opposition to the proposal of his departure.
He went home flushed and heated, coat−collar crumpled, eyes smarting and ears red.
He watched each of the ten street lamps nervously as he passed it. lt was only
when he found himself alone in his little bed−room in Church Row that he was able
to grapple seriously with his memories of the occurrence, and ask, "What on earth
happened?"
He had removed his coat and boots, and was sitting on the bed with his hands in
his pockets repeating the text of his defence for the seventeenth time, "I didn't
want the confounded thing to upset," when it occurred to him that at the precise
moment he had said the commanding words he had inadvertently willed the thing he
said, and that when he had seen the lamp in the air he had felt it depended on him
to maintain it there without being clear how this was to be done. He had not a
particularly complex mind, or he might have stuck for a time at that
"inadvertently willed," embracing, as it does, the abstrusest problems of
voluntary action; but as it was, the idea came to him with a quite acceptable
haziness. And from that, following, as I must admit, no clear logical path, he
came to the test of experiment.
He pointed resolutely to his candle and collected his mind, though he felt he did
a foolish thing. "Be raised up," he said. But in a second that feeling vanished.
The candle was raised, hung in the air one giddy moment, and as Mr. Fotheringay
gasped, fell with a smash on his toilet−table, leaving him in darkness save for
the expiring glow of its wick.
For a time Mr. Fotheringay sat in the darkness, perfectly still. "It did happen,
after all," he said. "And 'ow I'm to explain it I don't know." He sighed
heavily, and began feeling in his pockets for a match. He could find none, and he
rose and groped about the toilet−table. "I wish I had a match," he said. He
resorted to his coat, and there was none there, and then it dawned upon him that
miracles were possible even with matches. He extended a hand and scowled at it in
the dark. "Let there be a match in that hand," he said. He felt some light
object fall across his palm, and his fingers closed upon a match.
After several ineffectual attempts to light this, he discovered it was a
safety−match. He threw it down, and then it occurred to him that he might have
willed it lit. He did, and perceived it burning in the midst of his toilet−table
mat. He caught it up hastily, and it went out. His perception of possibilities
enlarged, and he felt for and replaced the candle in its candlestick. "Here! you
be lit," said Mr. Fotheringay, and forthwith the candle was flaring, and he saw a
little black hole in the toilet−cover, with a wisp of smoke rising from it. For a
time he stared from this to the little flame and back, and then looked up and met
his own gaze in the looking glass. By this help he communed with himself in
silence for a time.
"How about miracles now?" said Mr. Fotheringay at last, addressing his reflection.
The subsequent meditations of Mr. Fotheringay were of a severe but confused
description. So far, he could see it was a case of pure willing with him. The
nature of his experiences so far disinclined him for any further experiments, at
least until he had reconsidered them. But he lifted a sheet of paper, and turned
a glass of water pink and then green, and he created a snail, which he
miraculously annihilated, and got himself a miraculous new tooth−brush. Somewhen
in the small hours he had reached the fact that his will−power must be of a
particularly rare and pungent quality, a fact of which he had certainly had
inklings before, but no certain assurance. The scare and perplexity of his first
discovery was now qualified by pride in this evidence of singularity and by vague
intimations of advantage. He became aware that the church clock was striking one,
and as it did not occur to him that his daily duties at Gomshott's might be
miraculously dispensed with, he resumed undressing, in order to get to bed without
further delay. As he struggled to get his shirt over his head, he was struck with
a brilliant idea. "Let me be in bed," he said, and found himself so. "Undressed,"
he stipulated; and, finding the sheets cold, added hastily, "and in my
nightshirt−−no, in a nice soft woollen nightshirt. Ah!" he said with immense
enjoyment. "And now let me be comfortably asleep. . . . ."
He awoke at his usual hour and was pensive all through breakfast−time, wondering
whether his overnight experience might not be a particularly vivid dream. At
length his mind turned again to cautious experiments. For instance, he had three
eggs for breakfast; two his landlady had supplied, good, but shoppy, and one was a
delicious fresh goose−egg, laid, cooked, and served by his extraordinary will. He
hurried off to Gomshott's in a state of profound but carefully concealed
excitement, and only remembered the shell of the third egg when his landlady spoke
of it that night. All day he could do no work because of this astonishingly new
self−knowledge, but this caused him no inconvenience, because he made up for it
miraculously in his last ten minutes.
As the day wore on his state of mind passed from wonder to elation, albeit the
circumstances of his dismissal from the Long Dragon were still disagreeable to
recall, and a garbled account of the matter that had reached his colleagues led to
some badinage. It was evident he must be careful how he lifted frangible
articles, but in other ways his gift promised more and more as he turned it over
in his mind. He intended among other things to increase his personal property by
unostentatious acts of creation. He called into existence a pair of very splendid
diamond studs, and hastily annihilated them again as young Gomshott came across
the counting−house to his desk. He was afraid young Gomshott might wonder how he
had come by them. He saw quite clearly the gift required caution and watchfulness
in its exercise, but so far as he could judge the difficulties attending its
mastery would be no greater than those he had already faced in the study of
cycling. It was that analogy, perhaps, quite as much as the feeling that he would
be unwelcome in the Long Dragon, that drove him out after supper into the lane
beyond the gas−works, to rehearse a few miracles in private.
There was possibly a certain want of originality in his attempts, for apart from
his will−power Mr. Fotheringay was not a very exceptional man. The miracle of
Moses' rod came to his mind, but the night was dark and unfavourable to the proper
control of large miraculous snakes. Then he recollected the story of "Tannhauser"
that he had read on the back of the Philharmonic programme. That seemed to him
singularly attractive and harmless. He stuck his walking−stick−−a very nice
Poona−Penang lawyer−−into the turf that edged the footpath, and commanded the dry
wood to blossom. The air was immediately full of the scent of roses, and by means
of a match he saw for himself that this beautiful miracle was indeed accomplished.
His satisfaction was ended by advancing footsteps. Afraid of a premature
discovery of his powers, he addressed the blossoming stick hastily: "Go back."
What he meant was "Change back;" but of course he was confused. The stick receded
at a considerable velocity, and incontinently came a cry of anger and a bad word
from the approaching person. "Who are you throwing brambles at, you fool?" cried
a voice. "That got me on the shin."
"I'm sorry, old chap," said Mr. Fotheringay, and then realising the awkward nature
of the explanation, caught nervously at his moustache. He saw Winch, one of the
three Immering constables, advancing.
"What d'yer mean by it?" asked the constable. "Hullo! it's you, is it? The gent
that broke the lamp at the Long Dragon!"
"I don't mean anything by it," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Nothing at all."
"What d'yer do it for then?"
"Oh, bother!" said Mr. Fotheringay.
"Bother indeed! D'yer know that stick hurt? What d'yer do it for, eh?"
For the moment Mr. Fotheringay could not think what he had done it for. His
silence seemed to irritate Mr. Winch. "You've been assaulting the police, young
man, this time. That's what /you/ done."
"Look here, Mr. Winch," said Mr. Fotheringay, annoyed and confused, "I'm very
sorry. The fact is−−−−"
"Well?"
He could think of no way but the truth. "I was working a miracle." He tried to
speak in an off−hand way, but try as he would he couldn't.
"Working a−−−−! 'Ere, don't you talk rot. Working a miracle, indeed! Miracle!
Well, that's downright funny! Why, you's the chap that don't believe in miracles.
. . . Fact is, this is another of your silly conjuring tricks−−that's what this
is. Now, I tell you−−−−"
But Mr. Fotheringay never heard what Mr. Winch was going to tell him. He realised
he had given himself away, flung his valuable secret to all the winds of heaven. A
violent gust of irritation swept him to action. He turned on the constable
swiftly and fiercely. "Here," he said, "I've had enough of this, I have! I'll
show you a silly conjuring trick, I will! Go to Hades! Go, now!"
He was alone!
Mr. Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night nor did he trouble to see
what had become of his flowering stick. He returned to the town, scared and very
quiet, and went to his bed−room. "Lord!" he said, "it's a powerful gift−−an
extremely powerful gift. I didn't hardly mean as much as that. Not really. . . .
I wonder what Hades is like!"
He sat on the bed taking off his boots. Struck by a happy thought he transferred
the constable to San Francisco, and without any more interference with normal
causation went soberly to bed. In the night he dreamt of the anger of Winch.
The next day Mr. Fotheringay heard two interesting items of news. Someone had
planted a most beautiful climbing rose against the elder Mr. Gomshott's private
house in the Lullaborough Road, and the river as far as Rawling's Mill was to be
dragged for Constable Winch.
Mr. Fotheringay was abstracted and thoughtful all that day, and performed no
miracles except certain provisions for Winch, and the miracle of completing his
day's work with punctual perfection in spite of all the bee−swarm of thoughts that
hummed through his mind. And the extraordinary abstraction and meekness of his
manner was remarked by several people, and made a matter for jesting. For the
most part he was thinking of Winch.
On Sunday evening he went to chapel and oddly enough, Mr. Maydig, who took a
certain interest in occult matters, preached about "things that are not lawful."
Mr. Fotheringay was not a regular chapel goer, but the system of assertive
scepticism, to which I have already alluded, was now very much shaken. The tenor
of the sermon threw an entirely new light on these novel gifts, and he suddenly
decided to consult Mr. Maydig immediately after the service. So soon as that was
determined, he found himself wondering why he had not done so before.
Mr. Maydig, a lean, excitable man with quite remarkably long wrists and neck, was
gratified at a request for a private conversation from a young man whose
carelessness in religious matters was a subject for general remark in the town.
After a few necessary delays, he conducted him to the study of the Manse, which
was contiguous to the dispel, seated him comfortably, and, standing in front of a
cheerful fire−−his legs threw a Rhodian arch of shadow on the opposite
wall−−requested Mr. Fotheringay to state his business.
At first Mr. Fotheringay was a little abashed, and found some difficulty in
opening the matter. "You will scarcely believe me, Mr. Maydig, I am afraid"−−and
so forth for some time. He tried a question at last, and asked Mr. Maydig his
opinion of miracles.
Mr. Maydig was still saying "Well" in an extremely judicial tone, when Mr.
Fotheringay interrupted again: "You don't believe, I suppose, that some common
sort of person−−like myself, for instance−−as it might be sitting here now, might
have some sort of twist inside him that made him able to do things by his will."
"It's possible," said Mr. Maydig. "Something of the sort, perhaps, is possible."
"If I might make free with something here, I think I might show you by a sort of
experiment," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Now, take that tobacco−jar on the table, for
instance. What I want to know is whether what I am going to do with it is a
miracle or not. Just half a minute, Mr. Maydig, please."
He knitted his brows, pointed to the tobacco−jar and said: "Be a bowl of violets."
The tobacco−jar did as it was ordered.
Mr. Maydig started violently at the change, and stood looking from the
thaumaturgist to the bowl of flowers. He said nothing. Presently he ventured to
lean over the table and smell the violets; they were fresh−picked and very fine
ones. Then he stared at Mr. Fotheringay again.
"How did you do that?" he asked.
Mr. Fotheringay pulled his moustache. "Just told it−−and there you are. Is that
a miracle, or is it black art, or what is it? And what do you think's the matter
with me? That's what I want to ask."
"It's a most extraordinary occurrence."
"And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that than you
did. It came quite sudden. It's something odd about my will, I suppose, and
that's as far as I can see."
"Is that−−the only thing? Could you do other things besides that?"
"Lord, yes! said Mr. Fotheringay. "Just anything." He thought, and suddenly
recalled a conjuring entertainment he had seen. "Here!" He pointed. "Change into
a bowl of fish−−no, not that−−change into a glass bowl full of water with goldfish
swimming in it. That's better! You see that, Mr. Maydig?"
"It's astonishing. It's incredible. You are either a most extraordinary . . .
But no−−"
"I could change it into anything," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Just anything. Here!
be a pigeon, will you?"
In another moment a blue pigeon was fluttering round the room and making Mr.
Maydig duck every time it came near him. "Stop there, will you," said Mr.
Fotheringay; and the pigeon hung motionless in the air. "I could change it back
to a bowl of flowers," he said, and after replacing the pigeon on the table worked
that miracle. "I expect you will want your pipe in a bit," he said, and restored
the tobacco−jar.
Mr. Maydig had followed all these later changes in a sort of ejaculatory silence.
He stared at Mr. Fotheringay and, in a very gingerly manner, picked up the
tobacco−jar, examined it, replaced it on the table. "Well!" was the only
expression of his feelings.
"Now, after that it's easier to explain what I came about," said Mr. Fotheringay;
and proceeded to a lengthy and involved narrative of his strange experiences,
beginning with the affair of the lamp in the Long Dragon and complicated by
persistent allusions to Winch. As he went on, the transient pride Mr. Maydig's
consternation had caused passed away; he became the very ordinary Mr. Fotheringay
of everyday intercourse again. Mr. Maydig listened intently, the tobacco−jar in
his hand, and his bearing changed also with the course of the narrative.
Presently, while Mr. Fotheringay was dealing with the miracle of the third egg,
the minister interrupted with a fluttering extended hand −−
"It is possible," he said. "It is credible. It is amazing, of course, but it
reconciles a number of amazing difficulties. The power to work miracles is a
gift−−a peculiar quality like genius or second sight−−hitherto it has come very
rarely and to exceptional people. But in this case . . . I have always wondered
at the miracles of Mahomet, and at Yogi's miracles, and the miracles of Madame
Blavatsky. But, of course! Yes, it is simply a gift! It carries out so
beautifully the arguments of that great thinker"−−Mr. Maydig's voice sank−−"his
Grace the Duke of Argyll. Here we plumb some profounder law−−deeper than the
ordinary laws of nature. Yes−−yes. Go on. Go on!"
Mr. Fotheringay proceeded to tell of his misadventure with Winch, and Mr. Maydig,
no longer overawed or scared, began to jerk his limbs about and interject
astonishment. "It's this what troubled me most," proceeded Mr. Fotheringay; "it's
this I'm most mijitly in want of advice for; of course he's at San
Francisco−−wherever San Francisco may be−−but of course it's awkward for both of
us, as you'll see, Mr. Maydig. I don't see how he can understand what has
happened, and I daresay he's scared and exasperated something tremendous, and
trying to get at me. I daresay he keeps on starting off to come here. I send him
back, by a miracle, every few hours, when I think of it. And of course, that's a
thing he won't be able to understand, and it's bound to annoy him; and, of course,
if he takes a ticket every time it will cost him a lot of money. I done the best
I could for him, but of course it's difficult for him to put himself in my place.
I thought afterwards that his clothes might have got scorched, you know−−if Hades
is all it's supposed to be−−before I shifted him. In that case I suppose they'd
have locked him up in San Francisco. Of course I willed him a new suit of clothes
on him directly I thought of it. But, you see, I'm already in a deuce of a tangle−−"
Mr. Maydig looked serious. "I see you are in a tangle. Yes, it's a difficult
position. How you are to end it . . ." He became diffuse and inconclusive.
"However, we'll leave Winch for a little and discuss the larger question. I don't
think this is a case of the black art or anything of the sort. I don't think
there is any taint of criminality about it at all, Mr. Fotheringay−−none whatever,
unless you are suppressing material facts. No, it's miracles−−pure
miracles−−miracles, if I may say so, of the very highest class."
He began to pace the hearthrug and gesticulate, while Mr. Fotheringay sat with his
arm on the table and his head on his arm, looking worried. "I don't see how I'm
to manage about Winch," he said.
"A gift of working miracles−−apparently a very powerful gift," said Mr. Maydig,
"will find a way about Winch−−never fear. My dear Sir, you are a most important
man−−a man of the most astonishing possibilities. As evidence, for example!
And−−in other ways, the things you may do . . ."
"Yes, /I've/ thought of a thing or two," said Mr. Fotheringay. "But−−some of the
things came a bit twisty. You saw that fish at first? Wrong sort of bowl and
wrong sort of fish. And I thought I'd ask someone."
"A proper course," said Mr. Maydig, "a very proper course−−altogether the proper
course." He stopped and looked at Mr. Fotheringay. "It's practically an
unlimited gift. Let us test your powers, for instance. If they really /are/ . . .
If they really are all they seem to be."
And so, incredible as it may seem, in the study of the little house behind the
Congregational Chapel, on the evening of Sunday, Nov. 10, 1896, Mr. Fotheringay,
egged on and inspired by Mr. Maydig, began to work miracles. The reader's
attention is specially and definitely called to the date. He will object,
probably has already objected, that certain points in this story are improbable,
that if any things of the sort already described had indeed occurred, they would
have been in all the papers a year ago. The details immediately following he will
find particularly hard to accept, because among other things they involve the
conclusion that he or she, the reader in question, must have been killed in a
violent and unprecedented manner more than a year ago. Now a miracle is nothing
if not improbable, and as a matter of fact the reader /was/ killed in a violent
and unprecedented manner a year ago. In the subsequent course of this story that
will become perfectly clear and credible, as every right−minded and reasonable
reader will admit. But this is not the place for the end of the story, being but
little beyond the hither side of the middle. And at first the miracles worked by
Mr. Fotheringay were timid little miracles−−little things with the cups and
parlour fitments−−as feeble as the miracles of Theosophists, and, feeble as they
were, they were received with awe by his collaborator. He would have preferred to
settle the Winch business out of hand, but Mr. Maydig would not let him. But
after they had worked a dozen of these domestic trivialities, their sense of power
grew, their imagination began to show signs of stimulation, and their ambition
enlarged. Their first larger enterprise was due to hunger and the negligence of
Mrs. Minchin, Mr. Maydig's housekeeper. The meal to which the minister conducted
Mr. Fotheringay was certainly ill−laid and uninviting as refreshment for two
industrious miracle−workers; but they were seated, and Mr. Maydig was descanting
in sorrow rather than in anger upon his housekeeper's shortcomings, before it
occurred to Mr. Fotheringay that an opportunity lay before him. "Don't you think,
Mr. Maydig," he said; "if it isn't a liberty, /I/−−"
"My dear Mr. Fotheringay! Of course! No−−I didn't think."
Mr. Fotheringay waved his hand. "What shall we have?" he said, in a large,
inclusive spirit, and, at Mr. Maydig's order, revised the supper very thoroughly.
"As for me," he said, eyeing Mr. Maydig's selection, "I am always particularly
fond of a tankard of stout and a nice Welsh rarebit, and I'll order that. I ain't
much given to Burgundy," and forthwith stout and Welsh rarebit promptly appeared
at his command. They sat long at their supper, talking like equals, as Mr.
Fotheringay presently perceived, with a glow of surprise and gratification, of all
the miracles they would presently do. "And, by the bye, Mr. Maydig," said Mr.
Fotheringay, "I might perhaps be able to help you−−in a domestic way."
"Don't quite follow," said Mr. Maydig pouring out a glass of miraculous old Burgundy.
Mr. Fotheringay helped himself to a second Welsh rarebit out of vacancy, and took
a mouthful. "I was thinking," he said, "I might be able (chum, chum) to work
(chum, chum) a miracle with Mrs. Minchin (chum, chum) −− make her a better woman."
Mr. Maydig put down the glass and looked doubtful. "She's −− She strongly objects
to interference, you know, Mr. Fotheringay. And −− as a matter of fact −− it's
well past eleven and she's probably in bed and asleep. Do you think, on the
whole−−−−"
Mr. Fotheringay considered these objections. "I don't see that it shouldn't be
done in her sleep."
For a time Mr. Maydig opposed the idea, and then he yielded. Mr. Fotheringay
issued his orders, and a little less at their ease, perhaps, the two gentlemen
proceeded with their repast. Mr. Maydig was enlarging on the changes he might
expect in his housekeeper next day, with an optimism that seemed even to Mr.
Fotheringay's supper senses a little forced and hectic, when a series of confused
noises from upstairs began. Their eyes exchanged interrogations, and Mr. Maydig
left the room hastily. Mr. Fotheringay heard him calling up to his housekeeper
and then his footsteps going softly up to her.
In a minute or so the minister returned, his step light, his face radiant.
"Wonderful!" he said, "and touching! Most touching!"
He began pacing the hearthrug. "A repentance −− a most touching repentance −−
through the crack of the door. Poor woman! A most wonderful change! She had got
up. She must have got up at once. She had got up out of her sleep to smash a
private bottle of brandy in her box. And to confess it too! . . . But this gives
us −− it opens −− a most amazing vista of possibilities. If we can work this
miraculous change in her. . ."
"The thing's unlimited seemingly," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And about Mr. Winch−−−−"
"Altogether unlimited." And from the hearthrug Mr. Maydig, waving the Winch
difficulty aside, unfolded a series of wonderful proposals −− proposals he
invented as he went along.
Now what those proposals were does not concern the essentials of this story.
Suffice it that they were designed in a spirit of infinite benevolence, the sort
of benevolence that used to be called post−prandial. Suffice it, too, that the
problem of Winch remained unsolved. Nor is it necessary to describe how far that
series got to its fulfilment. There were astonishing changes. The small hours
found Mr. Maydig and Mr. Fotheringay careering across the chilly market−square
under the still moon, in a sort of ecstasy of thaumaturgy, Mr. Maydig all flap and
gesture, Mr. Fotheringay short and bristling, and no longer abashed at his
greatness. They had reformed every drunkard in the Parliamentary division,
changed all the beer and alcohol to water (Mr. Maydig had overruled Mr.
Fotheringay on this point); they had, further, greatly improved the railway
communication of the place, drained Flinder's swamp, improved the soil of One Tree
Hill, and cured the Vicar's wart. And they were going to see what could be done
with the injured pier at South Bridge. "The place," gasped Mr. Maydig, "won't be
the same place to−morrow. How surprised and thankful everyone will be!" And just
at that moment the church clock struck three.
"I say," said Mr. Fotheringay, "that's three o'clock! I must be getting back.
I've got to be at business by eight. And besides, Mrs. Wimms−−"
"We're only beginning," said Mr. Maydig, full of the sweetness of unlimited power.
"We're only beginning. Think of all the good we're doing. When people wake−−−−"
"But−−−−," said Mr. Fotheringay.
Mr. Maydig gripped his arm suddenly. His eyes were bright and wild. "My dear
chap," he said, "there's no hurry. "Look"−−he pointed to the moon at the
zenith−−"Joshua!"
"Joshua?" said Mr. Fotheringay.
"Joshua," said Mr. Maydig. "Why not? Stop it."
Mr. Fotheringay looked at the moon.
"That's a bit tall," he said after a pause.
"Why not?" said Mr. Maydig. "Of course it doesn't stop. You stop the rotation of
the earth, you know. Time stops. It isn't as if we were doing harm."
"H'm!" said Mr. Fotheringay. "Well." He sighed. "I'll try. Here−−"
He buttoned up his jacket and addressed himself to the habitable globe, with as
good an assumption of confidence as lay in his power. "Jest stop rotating, will
you," said Mr. Fotheringay.
Incontinently he was flying head over heels through the air at the rate of dozens
of miles a minute. In spite of the innumerable circles he was describing per
second, he thought; for thought is wonderful−−sometimes as sluggish as flowing
pitch, sometimes as instantaneous as light. He thought in a second, and willed.
"Let me come down safe and sound. Whatever else happens, let me down safe and sound."
He willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid flight
through the air, were already beginning to singe. He came down with a forcible,
but by no means injurious bump in what appeared to be a mound of fresh−turned
earth. A large mass of metal and masonry, extraordinarily like the clock−tower in
the middle of the market−square, hit the earth near him, ricochetted over him, and
flew into stonework, bricks, and masonry, like a bursting bomb. A hurtling cow
hit one of the larger blocks and smashed like an egg. There was a crash that made
all the most violent crashes of his past life seem like the sound of falling dust,
and this was followed by a descending series of lesser crashes. A vast wind
roared throughout earth and heaven' so that he could scarcely lift his head to
look. For a while he was too breathless and astonished even to see where he was
or what had happened. And his first movement was to feel his head and reassure
himself that his streaming hair was still his own.
"Lord!" gasped Mr. Fotheringay, scarce able to speak for the gale, "I've had a
squeak! What's gone wrong? Storms and thunder. And only a minute ago a fine
night. It's Maydig set me on to this sort of thing. What a wind! If I go on
fooling in this way I'm bound to have a thundering accident! . . .
"Where's Maydig?
"What a confounded mess everything's in!"
He looked about him so far as his flapping jacket would permit. The appearance of
things was really extremely strange. "The sky's all right anyhow," said Mr.
Fotheringay. "And that's about all that is all right. And even there it looks
like a terrific gale coming up. But there's the moon overhead. just as it was
just now. Bright as midday. But as for the rest−−Where's the village?
Where's−−where's anything? And what on earth set this wind a−blowing? I didn't
order no wind."
Mr. Fotheringay struggled to get to his feet in vain, and after one failure,
remained on all fours, holding on. He surveyed the moonlit world to leeward, with
the tails of his jacket streaming over his head. "There's something seriously
wrong," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And what it is−−goodness knows."
Far and wide nothing was visible in the white glare through the haze of dust that
drove before a screaming gale but tumbled masses of earth and heaps of inchoate
ruins, no trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only a wilderness of disorder
vanishing at last into the darkness beneath the whirling columns and streamers,
the lightnings and thunderings of a swiftly rising storm. Near him in the livid
glare was something that might once have been an elm−tree, a smashed mass of
splinters, shivered from boughs to base, and further a twisted mass of iron
girders−−only too evidently the viaduct−−rose out of the piled confusion.
You see when Mr. Fotheringay had arrested the rotation of the solid globe, he had
made no stipulation concerning the trifling movables upon its surface. And the
earth spins so fast that the surface at its equator is travelling at rather more
than a thousand miles an hour, and in these latitudes at more than half that pace.
So that the village, and Mr. Maydig, and Mr. Fotheringay, and everybody and
everything had been jerked violently forward at about nine miles per second −−
that is to say, much more violently than if they had been fired out of a cannon.
And every human being, every living creature, every house, and every tree −− all
the world as we know it −− had been so jerked and smashed and utterly destroyed.
That was all.
These things Mr. Fotheringay did not, of course, fully appreciate. But he
perceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great disgust of
miracles came upon him. He was in darkness now, for the clouds had swept together
and blotted out his momentary glimpse of the moon, and the air was full of fitful
struggling tortured wraiths of hail. A great roaring of wind and waters filled
earth and sky, and, peering under his hand through the dust and sleet to windward,
he saw by the play of the lightnings a vast wall of water pouring towards him.
"Maydig!" screamed Mr. Fotheringay's feeble voice amid the elemental uproar.
"Here!−−Maydig!"
"Stop!" cried Mr. Fotheringay to the advancing water. "Oh, for goodness' sake, stop!"
"Just a moment," said Mr. Fotheringay to the lightnings and thunder. "Stop jest a
moment while I collect my thoughts. . . . And now what shall I do?" he said. "What
shall I do? Lord! I wish Maydig was about."
"I know," said Mr. Fotheringay. "And for goodness' sake let's have it right this
time."
He remained on all fours, leaning against the wind, very intent to have everything
right.
"Ah!" he said. "Let nothing what I'm going to order happen until I say 'Off!' . .
. Lord! I wish I'd thought of that before!"
He lifted his little voice against the whirlwind, shouting louder and louder in
the vain desire to hear himself speak. "Now then!−−here goes! Mind about that
what I said just now. In the first place, when all I've got to say is done, let
me lose my miraculous power, let my will become just like anybody else's will, and
all these dangerous miracles be stopped. I don't like them. I'd rather I didn't
work 'em. Ever so much. That's the first thing. And the second is−−let me be
back just before the miracles begin; let everything be just as it was before that
blessed lamp turned up. It's a big job, but it's the last. Have you got it? No
more miracles, everything as it was−−me back in the Long Dragon just before I
drank my half−pint. That's it! Yes."
He dug his fingers into the mould, closed his eyes, and said "Off!"
Everything became perfectly still. He perceived that he was standing erect.
"So /you/ say," said a voice.
He opened his eyes. He was in the bar of the Long Dragon, arguing about miracles
with Toddy Beamish. He had a vague sense of some great thing forgotten that
instantaneously passed. You see, except for the loss of his miraculous powers,
everything was back as it had been; his mind and memory therefore were now just as
they had been at the time when this story began. So that he knew absolutely
nothing of all that is told here, knows nothing of all that is told here to this
day. And among other things, of course, he still did not believe in miracles.
"I tell you that miracles, properly speaking, can't possibly happen," he said,
"whatever you like to hold. And I'm prepared to prove it up to the hilt."
"That's what /you/ think," said Toddy Beamish, and "Prove it if you can."
"Looky here, Mr. Beamish," said Mr. Fotheringay. "Let us clearly understand what a
miracle is. It's something contrariwise to the course of nature done by power of
Will . . ."
--
"Miracles violate every law of reality as this world judges it. Every law of time
and space, of magnitude and mass is transcended, for what the Holy Spirit enables
you to do is clearly beyond all of them." - ACIM
Just as, if anything matters, death matters; if anything matters, miracles matter.
Thus, how tremendous A Course in Miracles, and Christianity must be, if they be true.
"The power to work miracles belongs to you." - A Course In Miracles
"Jesus said to him, “If you can believe, all things *are* possible to him who
believes.”
- Jesus Christ, Mark 9:23, Holy Bible, New Testament, NKJV
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+9%3A23&version=NKJV
"Miracles are everyone's right, but purification is necessary first." - ACIM
"There is no order of difficulty in miracles." It is as easy to move a mountain
as it is to move a grain of sand. Yet can you move a grain of sand?
"By demonstrating to yourself there is no order of difficulty in miracles, you
will convince yourself that, in your natural state, there is no difficulty at all
*because* it is a state of grace." - ACIM
"The miracle is the only device at your immediate disposal for controlling time.
Only revelation transcends it, having nothing to do with time at all."
"Revelation is literally unspeakable because it is an experience of unspeakable love."
"If you hope to spare yourself from fear, there are some things you must realize,
and realize fully. The mind is very powerful, and never loses its creative force.
It never sleeps. Every instant it is creating. It is hard to recognize that
thought and belief combine into a power surge that can literally move mountains."
- A Course In Miracles
"So Jesus answered and said to them, “Have faith in God. For assuredly, I say to
you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be cast into the sea,’ and
does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done,
he will have whatever he says. Therefore I say to you, whatever things you ask
when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them."
- Jesus Christ, Mark 11:22-24, New Testament, Holy Bible, NKJV
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+11%3A22-24&version=NKJV
"Miracles are seen in light."
"It is important to remember that miracles and vision necessarily go together.
This needs repeating, and frequent repeating. It is a central idea in your new
thought system, and the perception that it produces. The miracle is always there.
Its presence is not caused by your vision; its absence is not the result of your
failure to see. It is only your awareness of miracles that is affected. You will
see them in the light; you will not see them in the dark.
To you, then, light is crucial."
- A Course in Miracles, Workbook, "Miracles are seen in light" Lesson 91
"When you have looked on what seemed terrifying, and seen it change to sights of
loveliness and peace; when you have looked on scenes of violence and death, and
watched them change to quiet views of gardens under open skies, with clear,
life-giving water running happily beside them in dancing brooks that never waste
away; who need persuade you to accept the gift of vision? And after vision, who
is there who could refuse what must come after? Think but an instant just on
this; you can behold the holiness God gave his Son. And never need you think that
there is something else for you to see."
- A Course in Miracles, Chapter 20, "The Vision of Holiness," Section 8, "The
Vision of Sinlessness"
So this says you could change the world like Television.
"There is no problem, no event or situation, no perplexity that vision will not
solve."
"Vision is freely given to those who ask to see."
"this world is an hallucination... Hallucinations disappear when they are
recognized for what they are..."
"And all you need to do is recognize that *you* did this."
"There is no world! This is the central thought the course attempts to teach."
- A Course in Miracles, Workbook, Lesson 132
If miracles exist there is no world. If the world exists, there are no miracles.
"This world is full of miracles."
- A Course in Miracles, Chapter 28, Section 2
"Through prayer love is received, and through miracles love is expressed."
To work miracles *pray,* and *will*.
i.e. "I pray to God for, ______ Amen."
"I will, ______ Amen."
"Prayer is a way of asking for something. It is the medium of miracles. But the
only meaningful prayer is for forgiveness, because those who have been forgiven
have everything. Once forgiveness has been accepted, prayer in the usual sense
becomes utterly meaningless. The prayer for forgiveness is nothing more than a
request that you may be able to recognize what you already have. In electing
perception instead of knowledge, you placed yourself in a position where you could
resemble your Father only by perceiving miraculously. You have lost the knowledge
that you yourself are a miracle of God. Creation is your Source and your only
real function." - ACIM
"the purpose of this course is to help you remember what you are" - ACIM
"Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall
be added to you."
- Jesus Christ, Matt 6:33, New Testament, Holy Bible
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%206%3A33&version=NKJV