All friendship, all love, human and Divine, is purely spiritual.  It was after He was risen that He influenced even the disciples most.  Hence, in reflecting the character of Christ, it is no real obstacle that we may never have been in visible contact with Himself.

There lived once a young girl whose perfect grace of character was the wonder of those who knew her.  She wore on her neck a gold locket which no one was ever allowed to open.  One day, in a moment of unusual confidence, one of her companions was allowed to touch its spring and learn its secret.  She saw written these words—­

“Whom having not seen I love.”

That was the secret of her beautiful life.  She had been changed into the Same Image.

Now this is not imitation, but a much deeper thing.  Mark this distinction, for the difference in the process, as well as in the result, may be as great as that between a photograph secured by the infallible pencil of the sun, and the rude outline from a school-boy’s chalk.  Imitation is mechanical, reflection organic.  The one is occasional, the other habitual.  In the one case, man comes to God and imitates him; in the other, God comes to man and imprints Himself upon him.  It is quite true that there is an imitation of Christ which amounts to reflection.  But Paul’s term includes all that the other holds, and is open to no mistake.

What, then, is the practical lesson?  It is obvious.  “Make Christ your most constant companion”—­this is what it practically means for us.  Be more under His influence than under any other influence.  Ten minutes spent in His society every day, ay, two minutes if it be face to face, and heart to heart, will make the whole day different.  Every character has an inward spring,—­let Christ be it.  Every action has a key-note,—­let Christ set it.

Yesterday you got a certain letter.  You sat down and wrote a reply which almost scorched the paper.  You picked the cruelest adjectives you knew and sent it forth, without a pang to do its ruthless work.  You did that because your life was set in the wrong key.  You began the day with the mirror placed at the wrong angle.

Tomorrow at day-break, turn it towards Him, and even to your enemy the fashion of your countenance will be changed.  Whatever you then do, one thing you will find you could not do—­you could not write that letter.  Your first impulse may be the same, your judgment may be unchanged, but if you try it the ink will dry on your pen, and you will rise from your desk an unavenged, but a greater and more Christian man.  Throughout the whole day your actions, down to the last detail, will do homage to that early vision.

Yesterday you thought mostly about yourself.  Today the poor will meet you, and you will feed them.  The helpless, the tempted, the sad, will throng about you, and each you will befriend.  Where were all these people yesterday?  Where they are today, but you did not see them.  It is in reflected light that the poor are seen.  But your soul today is