It is Professor James who has said that a man does not double up his
fists because he is angry, or tremble because he is afraid; he is
afraid because he trembles, and is angry because he doubles up his
fist. So one may say that a man does not kneel because he is reverent;
he is reverent because he kneels. What power ritual has needs no
further demonstration than that afforded by the Society of Friends.
What ritual surpasses in power that of the Quaker meeting-house? What
vestments have given color and form to character more effectually than
the old-fashioned Quaker garb? If we wish our children to have the
spirit of courtesy, we insist that they acquire the habit of speaking
politely. If we wish them to have the spirit of reverence--there is no
knowing what we shall do, for most of us are very human and irrational.
That is the reason why we shall probably be careless in considering
the question of church attendance. There are some of us, perhaps,
who have the sense to give an intelligent answer to the question, Why
don't you have your children go to church? There is only one rational
answer to that question. It might be put into some such form as this:
"I have no special objection to churches. They are useful. So are
free libraries. People who have no books at home find free libraries
a great benefit; but my family have at home all the books they need.
So people who are not well supplied with religion derive undoubted
benefit from churches; but my family have at home all the religion they
need. The community would be about as well off without any churches
as it is with the churches it has. If no other charity seems more
important, I am willing to contribute to a church as I might to a free
library; but really I see no reason why I should go to church myself,
or expect my children to go." That is a rational answer. I know of no
other answer essentially different that could be called rational. An
equally rational answer can be given to the other question, Why do you
require your children to go to church? It might be put in these words:
"A church of some kind is essential to the welfare of this community.
Without any church, even the value of real estate in this place would
enormously depreciate. That shows how everybody recognizes the church
as a conservator of social morality. In this respect the church stands
alone. The sermons may be nearly as dull as those which I have to
preach to my children; the music may be even less entertaining; but
the congregation represents as no other body of people the moral sense
of the community. Besides that, the church is the only expression of
religion as something not merely individual but also organic. Inasmuch
as the church cannot be a church without a congregation, I am obliged,
if I believe all this, to take my share in maintaining the existence
of that congregation. And since the responsibility for seeing that
my children take their share cannot be put upon them, it rests upon
me. As a consequence, they no more question why they go to church than
they question why they go to meals. They are not being entertained;
they are not primarily even being instructed. For that reason it is
not necessary, though it may be advantageous, for them to understand
the sermon. They are forming a habit. On much the same grounds I am
acquainting them with the Bible. What they store in their memory now
they need not understand till later. There is a time for learning by
heart; there is a time for understanding. I no more propose to postpone
my children's practice in religious observances until they reach the
age of discretion, than I propose to postpone their practice in being
honest or in learning their five-finger exercises." That answer, like
the other, is rational.
A part of ritual is the observance of days and seasons. To this phase
of religion we may expect children to be sensitive. Paul's mother came
into the nursery one Sunday afternoon.
"What are you doing?"
"Studying."
Paul's mother was surprised.
"We try to keep Sunday different from other days. After this we shall
understand that you are not to study on Sundays."
A little more than two weeks later, Paul came home from school.
"Sammy is a funny boy," he remarked.
Sammy is a schoolmate.
"What has he done?" inquired Paul's mother.
"Why, Sammy gets his lessons on Sunday."
Two Sundays had sufficed for the establishment of a tradition in
religion so complete that a violation of it seemed grotesque.
In regard to the observance of Sunday, one household has reversed the
traditional rule. The ritual characteristic of that family originated
in a bachelor uncle's remark. He recalled how alluring were those books
which had been forbidden him, as a boy, on Sunday, and how gray a day
Sunday was because those books were proscribed. He advocated the plan
of selecting certain interesting books, which would be forbidden on
week-days. In other words, he would remove the ban from Sundays, and
put it on the other six days. His plan was adopted. Certain delights,
including several volumes of stories from the Bible, were confined to
Sunday. In consequence, Bible stories are in great favor, and Sunday is
a day of privilege. In that household the ritual of Sunday observance
is a ritual of liberty.
Besides wonder and ritual, there is a factor in religion on which
children seize. We may call it hero-worship. Others, following the lead
of psychologists, might prefer to name it imitation. As the children
of a certain family gather to look at Bible pictures, they are prone
to ask of any group of people depicted, "Are those people good?"
Reverence for what to them is an ideal may come later than wonder or
ritual, but it is sure to come in time to all children. Those parents
who are ready to take their children as they are and to help the growth
of the spirit as they help the growth of the body incur the peril of
always seeing in this reverence a searching inquisition of their own
lives. The nearest objects of hero-worship that a child has are his
parents. This fact may raise a disturbing inquiry: Shall they puzzle
him by setting forth two ideals of fatherhood, one incorporated in
themselves, the other involved in their representation of the character
of God? Shall they confuse the mind of the child by setting up two
inconsistent standards of human service, their own lives and what they
tell him of the life of Jesus of Nazareth? This dilemma of course is
avoided by such parents as hold either of those comfortable theories,
that religion is a theology and that religion is a luxury. In the
one case such questions are not pertinent; in the other they are
unimportant. If, however, we understand religion to be a mode of life,
we may find such questions as these driving us into an uncomfortable
corner. They seem to compel us to pose as exhorter and pattern, and to
force on us a paralyzing self-consciousness. Perhaps it will not harm
us to be occasionally reminded of the fact that we cannot expect our
children to become altogether different from what we are determined to
be; but to be always composing precepts and assuming the attitude of
examples seems to be but a feeble part to play. Happily, we need not
confine our children to the contemplation of ourselves. There are many
who, if we but let them, may share with us the burden of our children's
imitativeness. And here comes our reward, if we have cultivated
their imagination. We may be a bit stingy ourselves; but if we covet
generosity for our children, we can let Abram make the suggestion. We
may cherish our own resentments; but if we want our children to despise
theirs, we can let them join that group that heard Peter bidden to put
up his sword. Whatever may happen to us in the process will probably
do us no hurt. We may find another illustration of that which we
encountered at the beginning, that the principal part in the training
of our children is the training of ourselves. This may have meant to
us, when we started on our course, that the training of ourselves was
simply the preparation for the training of our children. By this time
we shall have discovered that it is not so much a preparation as an
outcome. This art of being a parent is an art of give and take. If it
is more blessed to give, as the Lord said, it is, as far as parents
are concerned, quite as obligatory to receive. As much, at least, as
this is the implication in one thing that our Lord did. Whether he ever
instructed a child in the faith we do not know; we have not been told.
What has been told is that when he wished to show his disciples--among
them some parents, we may surmise--what religion was, he took a child
and set him in the midst of them.