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Word Gems exploring self-realization, sacred personhood, and full humanity
The Strategically-Designed Classroom
return to the main-page article on "Hell"
Edward C. Randall reports that a confused discarnate fellow, via the mediumship of Mrs. French, made an appearance. He'd been a businessman during mortal life, but had cared for no one but himself and making money.
the man who was trapped in a room filled with money
AMONG the many thousand cases that I In came into our mission work, some teaching great lessons stand out prominently. There lived in my home city a few years ago a man of great wealth. He had reached the age of four-score and ten, was of unimpeachable character and at the head of some of our largest financial institutions, but he was close in money matters, very close, and saved the pennies as well as the dollars. I knew him intimately, for I had an office for some years in the same building and saw him frequently. He was counted a good citizen, but not much given to relieving distress,—such was the public estimation of his character. The day came when he passed from the world of men, and was soon forgotten. Five years elapsed, during which period I went on with my work, helping those whom my co-workers brought, regardless of who or what they were, for in the democracy of death wealth and worldly distinction are lost, and only character survives. I recall vividly the evening I shall describe, for it taught one of the greatest lessons I have ever had from this source. This night I was not alone with Mrs. French; I had as a guest Louis P. Kirchmeyer, who had psychic sight and could actually see spirit people before they spoke, as could Mrs. French. If a spirit was personally known, either could call him by name, and if I knew him well, I could usually recognize his voice. This condition made identity in such cases beyond question. Again, this chapel in my home where my work was carried on, with the non-luminous ribbon of light above our heads, indicated that conditions were favorable. There was never a night when we knew who would come or what we should be called upon to do, as much depended on our mental and physical condition, and then atmospheric conditions had to be considered. I seldom asked for any particular individual,—ours was a scientific work, and those who needed help were brought in after the lecture, usually. "It is so cold and dark," a voice came out of the darkness. Mr. Kirchmeyer and Mrs. French both psychically saw and recognized the gentleman mentioned above, and told me his name. After he spoke, I recognized his voice, which was somewhat peculiar. I had a high regard for this man, and, considering the lapse of five years since his passing on, was startled by what he said. "Mr. W," I said, "I am surprised after this lapse of years to hear you make such a statement. Tell me more of your condition." "There is around and about me a wall of money, nothing but money; it shuts out the light. It is so dark, and wherever I go I cannot get away from it, around it or over it," he replied. "This man," said one of the spirit group who was helping in the work, "spent his whole life in accumulating money. It dominated his whole thought, it was all he builded, and in coming into this life he found only the condition he had created, and, never having developed his spirit, he sheds no light on his pathway." "Having from experience learned how to help in such cases by suggestion, I said, "Mr. W, I think you can see light if you will look. What do you see?" "It is coming," he said, "just a ray, but wait, I see a highway leading away in the distance." "And what do you see on that highway?" I asked. "Nothing," he answered, "not a living thing." "Look again," I replied. "Yes," he said, "I now see sign boards along the sides as far as the eye will reach." "And what, if anything, is printed on those sign boards?" I asked. "I can only read on the first one the word 'charity.' What does it mean?" he said. "I will tell him what it means," the same spirit who had spoken before answered. "This man never thought of charity, which is the helping of others, either by kindly words or by material aid, so with all his millions of money he came into this world a spiritual pauper. He has now found the light, will realize his mis-spent life, and must learn what charity is. When he has practiced it, he can read the second, sign. That highway is his to travel; it is long, but it will ultimately lead him to happiness and to a wealth he has never known."
Uncle Wendlin and the death-bed repentance Dad and Uncle Joe had done farmwork for my great-uncle Wendlin all of their lives. It was presumed, therefore, that, upon his passing, they would inherit some farmland. This, in fact, happened, but not without unexpected drama. Uncle Wendlin, an eccentric bachelor farmer, was, shall we say, not famous in the extended family for warm and fuzzy affection. My aunts would tell me stories about his spectacular unkindnesses. And, in his ingracious and solitary ways, he was no friend of the church, either. Knowing well his history, upon the reading of his will, the family was shocked, and even outraged, to learn that he had left a very large portion of his considerable estate to the local parish. My aunts and uncles were convinced that the local Nice Young Man at Church, having fanned the flames of eternal hellfire imagery, had coerced and intimidated dying Uncle into changing his will at the last moment - a kind of cosmic plea-bargaining to get a "better deal" in the afterlife.
What Uncle Wendlin didn't know is that he had actually made his spiritual situation worse by "caving" at the end; in that, by reinforcing his fears through action and decision, he brought to his spirit even greater darkness.
my great-uncle Wendlin, a once-wealthy farmer owning large tracts of land, now endlessly trods his vast acreage
Via psychic-medium, I requested to speak with Uncle Wendlin, and he readily responded, but not with grace. His soul-energy was much different than Dad's. He was churlish, easily offended, smug, arrogant, combative - just as I remembered him of 40 years ago. "Do you live on a farm, Uncle Wendlin?" "Nooo, there's no work like that anymore, I just spend my time walking in the fields." "What do you mean by that, Uncle? Do you have a house, or a horse, or a cow?" Uncle gave a short reply reiterating that his life is one of solitary walking. His spirit was cold, defensive, aloof. I suddenly got the picture. Uncle Wendlin was nowhere near Summerland. He had lived a selfish life, had helped few, was concerned only about accumulating the wealth of farmland; and now his higher self had consigned him to living alone. All alone. He now existed in a world where he was the only one. And all he was allowed to do was to walk on that farmland which he had worshipped - day after day, year after year, walk on that farmland; a kind of agrarian Silas Marner, ever counting his acres. All this was a custom-designed hell, just for him, one that would teach him the futility of his own miserly ways by utter submersion in it - the perfect aversion therapy. "Do you ever see Dad, Uncle?" Uncle Wendlin indicated that he was angry with Dad, didn't want to see him. I think I understand why. My suggestion, at age 17, to convert Uncle's hayfield into pastureland was dismissed in a huff; but, upon Uncle's passing, Dad proceeded exactly with that plan. No doubt Uncle, with a long memory, was still miffed about that insolence. Maybe I could offer him a small compliment: "Uncle Wendlin, I remember when I was a little boy you would give me candy when I came to your house. That was nice of you." But Uncle would not receive this small offering of pleasantry. He grumbled and said it wasn't important, don't talk about it. I know what he was really saying. His own sense of self-loathing, of shame and guilt, would not allow him to see himself as a "good person." It was time to leave Uncle and his angry spirit, but as I departed I decided to plant within his thoughts something that would eventually help him: "Uncle Wendlin, if you ever get tired of walking those fields, I want you to know that you can leave that dark world anytime you want to. All you have to do is ask for help, and someone will come to show you a better way!" I knew that Uncle would gruffly dismiss me, as he has always done. He did not disappoint me. But I also knew that part of him would not forget what I just said; and, at the right time, when he's finally exhausted and demoralized, traumatized by the stark aloneness, and ready to do better, he will remember things we said today.
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