red and confused. And even our own doesn't seem to
have entirely escaped the subtle contagion. The ground is a bit swampy
in places, boggy.

Low-lying land runs to bog and swamp. And the air gets thick with heavy
vapours. And strange will-of-the-wisp lights form out of the foul damp
gasses, and they flit about in the gloom this way and that. And people
are led astray by them deeper into swamp and bog. It's surprising to
find how many, that grow up in well-lit neighbourhoods, wander off after
the swamp lights, and even follow them so contentedly. That's partly
due, without doubt, to the false lights borrowing so much of the mere
outer incidentals from the true. And they succeed in producing a make-up
that easily deceives the unwary and untaught.

There's a teaching to-day, for instance, that magnifies bodily healing.
The name of Christ is freely used. And the old Book of God freely
quoted. And men are really healed. There can be no question of that.
There are sufficient facts at hand to make that incontestably clear.

But bodily healing does not necessarily argue divine power. There are
results secured through the operation of unfamiliar mental powers that
seem miraculous. And clearly there are devilish miracles as well as
divine. Miracles simply reveal a supernatural power, that is, a power
above the ordinary workings of nature. Then one must apply a touchstone,
a test, to learn what that power is.

It is striking that in this teaching I speak of now there is never
mention of the atoning blood of Christ. And this is the sure touchstone
by which to detect the real thing of light and the make-believe. The
outstanding thing in the life of Christ is His death, and the tremendous
meaning which His own teaching put into that fact of His death.

There is none of the red tinge to this make-believe light. It has the
unwholesome unnatural tingeing of swamp lights. And those who are healed
through this teaching will find themselves in a bondage the more
terrible because so subtle. And only the power of the blood of Christ
can ever break that bondage.

There was the real thing of light. Here _is_ the real thing of light.
There's a distinct tingeing of red in it. It's the only light. It only
is the light. Every other is a make-pretend light, however subtle its
imitations and reflections: it will lead only into swamp and bog and
ditch and worse.

And then John goes on to add a very simple bit that has not always been
quite un