Fully convinced of the reality of spirit communication, compiler, Professor Emeritus Hiram Corson, in Spirit Messages, shares spirit messages, which seemed to him best worth sharing—
I am assured through my own experience over here [in the world of spirits] that it is a growth for spirits to continue their relationship with their loved ones on Earth.
Death is really a gate and makes all life one.
I wish I had known more about it as a religion.
It was never presented to me in that light and what little I knew of it, I felt was a case for the scientific world.
But I see now its importance in the religious world.
I do not mean as a dressed-up philosophy with tags of creed and symbols of dogmas, but that religion, which makes men turn from the low and ignoble to all that is beautiful, majestic and grand.
The communication proper from father to son―of wife―or mother is all-important to me today and I speak for its wonderful effectiveness toward righteousness.
The wonderful pictures of a mother's devotion and undying faith, which all good men are fond of repeating in story―or colour should find a voice in the message of the mother to her darlings here.
And you and I know there is no power anywhere, which makes for righteousness like love.
So not to the spiritual adept alone does God send his messenger, but to every soul that walks the earth―the angel sometimes comes, and whether his message be received―or not, the life is better for the invisible presence and the whispered consolation.
Knowledge only comes after diligent search and knowledge of God―
He being unknowable must be sought with ardour and faithfulness over here, as in your world.
Some men see Him not even in the thunder―or the lightning―or the mighty mountains―or the ever-surging sea.
It is in the soul that the first knowledge of God finds expression, and then outward—outward―ever outward—it finds its way and touches every floweret tracing its ways to the source of all being.
Some souls are born spiritually blind just as some bodies are born with blind eyes, and it remains for us who have caught the shadow of his garment on the walls of the universe to take the hand of these and lead them to the light—to the Master who shall touch their eyes and make them see.
Today, my zeal is just as fervent, and I would give out everything—all and more—hoping that some seed might find soil receptive.
Your wisdom and consciousness of how much would go to waste would make you less prodigal in the sowing of seed.
But I am going to make a sort of farmer of you, for some of the seeds I put in your keeping, you will be bound to sow.
The world here [the spirit world] is so much a world of sense that I find it hard to realise that I am dead.
That sounds strange―perhaps I should modify it and say―
I find it strange to find myself considered dead, except in influence.
We have institutions and streets and all the things that makeup living―urban living―just the same as suburban living.
Most people, if they think of the spirit-realm at all, except as a place of pearly gates and golden streets and undimmed glory, like to dream of it as some beautiful, quiet, retired spot where all the active interests of glowing life cease―as if the spirit-world might be vast pasture land where the shepherd leads his flocks to dwell in beauty and quiet repose.
But this is false, my friend, as false as is the doctrine of brimstone and eternal torment.
The activities of the spiritual life are wonderful beyond expression.
It is no dreaming existence, but vivid and real and progressive and spirits gather together and plan and work for the uplifting of those in the mortal world and the unfortunates who are hastened into this world by undue exposure―privation―starvation―all the dreadful array of evils, which beset the ignorant and blind seekers after gold―or place.
And to those higher activities—research and study—discovery and application of laws of nature for the betterment of the world—mutual co-operation in artistic expression—poetry—art—music—all those divine arts are ours, and daily I thank God it is so.
All those divine arts are ours, and daily I thank God it is so.
You stand in the vestibule of life, and those who are near enough to catch glimpses of its beauty―whisperings of its harmony―inspirations of its prayers are your divine leaders― your poets―great artists of every kind, but not necessarily your ministers―your clergymen, for in many instances, they are but showmen standing at the tent door, howling about the wares, which the Lord keeps inside.
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