The Age of Miracles Past?
by C. T. Studd

I think not, sir! My wife and children are a visible proof of miracles–not dead nor starved in China, only because the God of miracles and love was alive, and faithful, and merciful, and at work, but only visible to those who have the royal ticket–and that is Faith–that of a little child. So now we have another telescope with which to see God. Things have taken on a new value. The jungle track is henceforth a sacred place, and so is the verandah. Every road and every verandah consecrated by the acts, not of man, but God Himself: revered, not because of the deaths and burials of the great, but because "we have received our dead as by a resurrection." We are disciples of Stephen, crying aloud: "God liveth, not in temples made with hands, but on roads, in African jungles, and on the verandahs of brick barns or hovels." We have a God too good and great for St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey. There is no particularly sacred place to us: rather there is no place that is not sacred: for He is everywhere–especially where there are His little fools of faith!

–From "Dawn in the Devil’s Den"