THE GIFT OF VISION
WE have already seen how it was often given to St. Columba to know of
events that were happening far away from the place where he might be,
and how by his gift of prophecy he could sometimes foretell what would
come to pass in the future. As he grew older it seemed to those who
knew him intimately that these flashes of supernatural insight became
more frequent, and that the things of the next world were growing daily
more familiar to him as the time of his earthly pilgrimage drew to an
end. Many instances of this have been recorded by his biographers.
One morning at Iona when the Mass was about to be celebrated, Columba
sent word to the priest whose turn it was to offer the Holy Sacrifice
that day, to do it in honour of the glorious birthday of St. Brendan.
The monk could not understand his abbot's behest as no word had reached
Iona of the holy Brendan's death. Columba then told him that during the
night he had seen in a vision the soul of Brendan ascending to heaven
surrounded by a great company of rejoicing angels; he knew therefore
that he had entered into his rest.
On another occasion he ordered that the Mass for the feast of a bishop
should be sung. Now there was no feast marked in the calendar for that
day, and the monks asked their holy abbot to tell them the name of the
bishop in whose honour the Holy Mysteries were to be celebrated.
"Last night," he replied, "I saw the soul of Columban, the Bishop of
Leinster, in heaven, surrounded with the glory of the blessed; it is in
his honour that we must offer the Holy Sacrifice to-day."
Columba had a deep love and reverence for all honest labour done for
God. One night he told his monks that he had just seen entering into
heaven the soul of a blacksmith whom he had known long ago in Ireland.
"He has bought eternal life," he said, "with the labours of the
earthly. He was charitable and gave of his poverty to the poor,
therefore the Lord of the Poor has rewarded him."
In the course of his travels in the Highlands he met one day in a
lonely gorge a countryman in great distress. He was returning from a
journey, and had heard that during his absence from home, a band of
Saxon marauders had laid waste his little farm and burnt his house to
the ground. He was in an anguish of fear lest his wife and children
should have perished. Columba comforted him with kind words.
"Go in peace, my good man," he said, "your cattle and all your
possessions have, it is true, been carried off by the robbers; but God
has been merciful. Your dear little family is safe; go, for your loved
ones are waiting for you, and comfort their sorrowing hearts."
Again, a year after the attempt had been made to murder Columba and the
monk Finn Lugh had saved his life, the Saint asked his companion if he
remembered the occurrence.
"It is just a year ago to-day," he said, "since Donnell tried to murder
me, and our dear Finn Lugh would have given his life for mine. At this
very moment the would-be murderer has been struck down by an enemy in
punishment for his evil deeds."
One of the Saxon converts of the Saint had joined the community at
Iona, and had been given charge of the bakehouse. Columba would often
go to encourage him in his labours and to speak to him of the things of
God. One day the Saxon saw him suddenly raise his eyes to heaven and
join his hands in prayer. "Happy, happy woman," he cried, "to whom it
is given to enter into the heavenly kingdom, carried by the hands of
the angels."
A year afterwards when speaking to the same man, he said to him, "Do
you remember the woman whose soul I saw a year ago ascending into
heaven? I see her now coming to fetch the soul of her husband who is
just dead. She is fighting with her prayers for that beloved soul
against the powers of evil, and the angels are praying with her. See!
she conquers, she bears him off, for he has led a good and upright
life, and the two who loved each other so dearly on this earth are
united for ever in the joy and glory of heaven."
Columbcille seems indeed to have had some such intimation from God of
the death of the greater number of his friends; a vision of the glory
of that celestial country into which he was himself soon to enter, and
after which he sighed with such ardent longing. If the angels had been
with him in his youth, much more did they surround him in his later
years.
Many stories are told of his celestial visions as he prayed in the
forests of Skye, dear to him for their loneliness and silence. One dy,
when he was at Iona he went out, giving orders that no one was to
follow him. He was going to pray, he said, on a little hill to the west
of Iona, which was one of his favourite retreats. One young brother,
more curious than the rest, had heard strange tales about the holy
abbot, and followed him carefully from afar to see what was going to
happen. When he had come within a short distance of the place of
prayer, he saw the Saint standing with arms raised to heaven,
surrounded by a troop of white-robed angels. The young monk, trembling
lest he should be discovered, made his way back to the monastery as
quickly as he could.
When Columba rose during the night as was his habit to kneel in prayer
on the cold floor of his cell, his heavenly visitors would throng
around him, mingling their praise with his. It was not surprising that
the things of heaven should be so near to one who cared so little for
the things of earth. He would go out on a winter's night, says his
biographer, and stand in the waters of an icy stream during the time it
took him to recite the Psalter, that he might obtain grace by his
sufferings for the souls of the obstinate sinners who refused to amend
their lives. One day when he was praying in a lonely spot, a poor woman
came in sight gathering wild herbs and nettles. Columba spoke to her
and asked her what she was doing.
"I am gathering herbs for food," she replied, "for I have but one cow
and it gives no milk; the poor must live as they can." Columba
reproached himself bitterly that this poor woman should fare worse than
he did. "We seek to win heaven," he cried, "by our austerities, and
this poor woman, who is under no such obligation, outdoes us."
Henceforward he declared he would make his meal of the wild herbs and
nettles that he had seen her gathering, and gave strict orders that
nothing else should be served to him. He even reproved Baithen, whom he
so dearly loved, with unwonted severity, because, unable to bear the
sight of his abbot's wretched fare, he had put a little piece of butter
into the pot in which it was being cooked.
The heavenly light that the holy Brendan had seen surrounding Columba
on that memorable day at Teilte was now frequently beheld by his
companions. At night it could be seen shining through the chinks in the
rough door of his little cell when all was in darkness, and the silence
of the night was only broken by the voice of the holy abbot praying and
singing the praises of God.
One winter's night, one of the younger brethren had remained in the
church to pray after all had gone to rest. At midnight the door opened
softly and Columba entered. A glory of golden light came with him,
illuminating the church from wall to wall and from floor to roof. The
little chapel where the brother knelt was flooded with the strange
radiance and his soul was filled with a heavenly consolation. Columba
knelt for many hours in prayer, and still the heavenly light shone
round him as he prayed; while the brother watched him awestruck,
scarcely daring to move for fear of being heard. The next day he was
sent for by the abbot, who blessed him and gently bade him say nothing
of what he had seen during the night.
Two of his religious, Baithen the beloved, and Diarmaid his faithful
attendant, who were often in his cell to help him with his work and to
carry out his instructions, noticed one day a sudden ray of joy shining
from their master's eyes. A moment later the joyful expression gave
place to one of intense sadness, and they begged Columba to reveal to
them what it was that caused him grief.
"My children," said the Saint, "it is twenty years to-day since I
first set foot in Caledonia. Earnestly I have been beseeching our
Heavenly Father to bring my days of exile to an end, and to receive me
into the heavenly country after which our hearts must ever yearn. It
seemed to me that God had heard my prayer, and that I already saw the
holy angels coming to bear my soul to its eternal Home, when suddenly
they faded from my sight, and I saw them no more. It has been revealed
to me that by reason of the prayers of those who love me on earth, the
time of my sojourning has been prolonged. Therefore am I sad, beloved
of my heart, because four long years must elapse before those heavenly
messengers return. Then they will come once more and I shall depart
with them to rejoice for ever in the presence of my God."