Editorial by Editor

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Tacoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 20, 1908

Editorial

By Editor

The Voice of Judgments

We have no sympathy with that tendency, the next thing to superstition, to interpret every occurrence and to anathematize all those who do not accept such interpretations. We believe in an overruling providence and in God's guiding hand in the affairs of life, but we can not always accept the credentials of the self-appointed interpreters of these providences who are watching for opportunities to make God responsible for their own vagaries. Nevertheless there are times when God speaks to the world by such manifestations as ought to command the attention of all who have eyes to see and ears to hear.

When San Francisco was torn and rent by the earthquake and swept by the tornado of flame, there were many who felt that these were the voices of God rebuking heaven-daring sin, and some of the dwellers in the ill-fated city thought that the end of the world had come. As soon, however, as the men of affairs had recovered from the stunning effects of the visitation, the spirit of commercialism gained the control, and the calamity was minimized in every possible way, in order to avoid disastrous results to a great center of commerce. This policy has been followed until the present time, and superhuman efforts have been put forth to remove the reminders of the great catastrophe, and to build a new San Francisco which should surpass the old city. To-day more lofty structures pierce the sky than were to be found in the city on the morning of April 18, 1906—the day of disaster. They tell of man's refusal to acknowledge the warning voice of God.

Attention has been directed to this matter in an emphatic way by a remarkable poem, written by Joaquin Miller, the “aged singer of the Sierras,” which appeared in the January number of The Circle. The spirit and message of this stirring production may be understood to some degree by the following extracts:—

“How beauteous her lifted brow! How heartfelt her harmonious song! How strong her heart, how more than strong She stands rewrought, refashioned now! Her concrete bastions, knit with steel, Sing symphonies in stately forms, Make harmonies that mock at storms, Make music that you can but feel. And yet, and yet what ropes of sand, What wisps of straw in God's right hand— And yet, my risen city, yet Your prophets must not now forget.”

The poet then sets forth in forceful strain the wrongs done to the Mexicans, the Chinese, and the Japanese, whose—

“. . . sober, sane life put to shame Your noisome, drunken penal band That howled in Labor's sacred name, Nor wrought, nor even lifted hand, Save but to stone and mock and moil Their betters who but asked to toil.”

As to whether God was dealing with men in vindication of justice and righteousness, this poem speaks in no uncertain way:—

“And say you God saw not, cared not? Nay, better say there is no God, Or that he slept, or quite forgot The lowly ways the heathen trod, What time he begged to toil for bread, With hollow cheek and bended head. “I call one witness, only one, In proof that God is God, and just: Yon high-heaved dome, débris and dust, With torn lips lifted to the sun, In desolation still, lords all— The rent and ruined City Hall. And there throbbed San Francisco's heart, And there her madness held high mart— Sold justice, sold black shame, sold hell. And here, right here, God's high hand fell, Fell hardest, hottest, first and worst— Yon huge high Hall, the most accurst!”

The poet closes his indictment of man and his vindication of God's dealing thus:—

“He knew the right, loved right afore— But loved his yellow metal more! And so the seven-headed beast, And lo, the last Belshazzar's feast.”

The voice of the poet sounds like that of the old prophets pointing out the meaning of dire occurrences, and urging a recognition of God and his message. Will there be any response? Judgments which do not lead to repentance usually harden the heart and open the way for greater manifestations of the divine displeasure, and this principle applies in other places as well as in San Francisco.