UPTON,
Sept. 26, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--I am much exercised in my mind about school sermons. It
seems to me that we ought to make more of them than we do. We have our
sermons here, very wisely, I think, at the evening service. The boys
are more alert, the preacher is presumably in a more genial mood, the
chapel is warm and brightly lighted, the music has had a comforting and
stimulating effect upon the mind; it is exactly the time when the boys
are ready and disposed to be interested in themselves, their lives and
characters; they are hopeful, serious, ardent. The iron is hot, and it
is just the moment to strike.
Well, it seems to me that the opportunity is often missed. In the first
place, all the clerical members of the staff are asked to preach in
turn--"given a mount," as the boys say. The headmaster preaches once a
month, and a certain number of outside preachers, old Uptonians, local
clergy, and others are imported.
Now the first point that strikes me is that to suppose that every
clergyman is ipso facto capable of preaching at all is a great mistake.
I suppose that every thoughtful Christian must have enough materials
for a few sermons; there must be some aspects of truth that come home
to every individual in a striking manner, some lessons of character
which he has learnt. But he need not necessarily have the art of
expressing himself in a penetrating and incisive way. It seems to me a
mistaken sort of conscientiousness which makes it necessary for every
preacher to compose his own sermons. I do not see why the sermons of
great preachers should not frankly be read; one hears a dull sermon by
a tired man on a subject of which Newman has treated with exquisite
lucidity and feeling in one of his parochial sermons. Why is it better
to hear tedious considerations on the same point expressed in a
commonplace way than to listen to the words of a master of the art, and
one too who saw, like Newman, very deep into the human heart? I would
have a man frankly say at the beginning of his sermon that he had been
thinking about a particular point, and that he was going to read one of
Newman's sermons on the subject. Then, if any passage was obscure or
compressed, he might explain it a little.
Again, I want more homeliness, more simplicity, more directness in
sermons; and so few people seem to be aware that these qualities of
expression are not only the result of being a homely, simple, and
direct character, but are a matter of long practice and careful art.
Then, again, I want sermons to be more shrewd and incisive. Holiness,
saintliness, and piety are virtues which are foreign to the character
of boys. If any proof of it is needed, it is only too true that if a
boy applies any of the three adjectives holy, saintly, or pious to a
person, it is not intended to be a compliment. The words in their
mouths imply sanctimonious pretension, and a certain Pharisaical and
even hypocritical scrupulousness. It is a great mistake to overlook
this fact; I do not mean that a preacher should not attempt to praise
these virtues, but if he does, he ought to be able to translate his
thoughts into language which will approve itself to boys; he ought to
be able to make it clear that such qualities are not inconsistent with
manliness, humour, and kindliness. A school preacher ought to be able
to indulge a vein of gentle satire; he ought to be able to make boys
ashamed of their absurd conventionalism; he ought to give the
impression that because he is a Christian he is none the less a man of
the world in the right sense. He ought not to uphold what, for want of
a better word, I will call a feminine religion, a religion of sainted
choir-boys and exemplary death-beds. A boy does not want to be gentle,
meek, and mild, and I fear I cannot say that it is to be desired that
he should. But if a man is shrewd and even humorous first, he can lift
his audience into purer and higher regions afterwards; and he will then
be listened to, because his hearers will feel that the qualities they
most admire--strength, keenness, good humour--need not be left behind
at the threshold of the Christian life, but may be used and practised
in the higher regions.
Then, too, I think that there is a sad want of variety. How rarely does
one hear a biographical sermon; and yet biography is one of the things
to which almost all boys will listen spellbound. I wish that a preacher
would sometimes just tell the story of some gallant Christian life,
showing the boys that they too may live such lives if they have the
will. Preachers dwell far too much on the side of self-sacrifice and
self-abnegation. Those, it seems to me, are much more mature ideals. I
wish that they would dwell more upon the enjoyment, the interest, the
amusement of being good in a vigorous way.
What has roused these thoughts in me are two sermons I have lately
heard here. On Sunday week a great preacher came here, and spoke with
extraordinary force and sense upon the benefits to be derived from
making the most of chapel services. I never heard the thing better
done. He gave the simplest motives for doing it. He said that we all
believed in goodness in our hearts, and that a service, if we came to
it in the right way, was a means of hammering goodness in. That it was
a good thing that chapel services were compulsory, because if they were
optional, a great many boys would stay away out of pure laziness, and
lose much good thereby. And as they were compulsory, we had better make
the most we could of them. He went on to speak of attention, of
posture, and so forth. There are a certain number of big boys here, who
have an offensive habit of putting their heads down upon their arms on
the book-board during a sermon, and courting sleep. The preacher made a
pause at this point, and said that it was, of course, true that an
attitude of extreme devotion did not always mean a corresponding
seriousness of mind. There was a faint ripple of mirth at this, and
then, one by one, the boys who were engaged in attempting to sleep
raised themselves slowly up in a sheepish manner, trying to look as if
they were only altering their position naturally. It was intensely
ludicrous; but so good for the offenders! And then the preacher rose
into a higher vein, and said how the thought of the school chapel would
come back to the boys in distant days; that the careless would wish in
vain that they had found the peace of Christ there, and that those who
had worshipped in spirit and truth would be thankful that it had been
so. And then he drew a little picture of a manly, pure, and kind ideal
of a boy's life in words that made all hearts go out to him. Boys are
heedless creatures; but I am sure that many of them, for a day or two
at all events, tried to live a better life in the spirit of that strong
and simple message.
Well, yesterday we had a man of a very different sort; earnest enough
and high-minded, I am sure, but he seemed to have forgotten, if he had
ever known, what a boy's heart and mind were like. The sermon was
devoted to imploring boys to take Orders, and he drew a dismal picture
of the sacrifices the step entailed, and depicted, in a singularly
unattractive vein, the life of a city curate. Now the only way to make
the thought of such a life appeal to boys is to indicate the bravery,
the interest of it all, the certainty that you are helping human
beings, the enjoyment which always attaches to human relationship.
The result was, I confess, extremely depressing. He made a fervent
appeal at the end; "The call," he said, "comes to you now and to-day."
I watched from my stall with, I am sorry to say, immense amusement, the
proceedings of a great, burly, red-faced boy, a prominent football
player, and a very decent sort of fellow. He had fallen asleep early in
the discourse; and at this urgent invitation, he opened one eye and
cast it upon the preacher with a serene and contented air. Finding that
the call did not appear to him to be particularly imperative, he slowly
closed it again, and, with a good-tempered sigh, addressed himself once
more to repose. I laughed secretly, hoping the preacher did not observe
his hearer.
But, seriously, it seemed to me a lamentable waste of opportunities.
The Sunday evening service is the one time in the week when there is a
chance of putting religion before the boys in a beautiful light. Most
of them desire to be good, I think; their half-formed wishes, their
faltering hopes, their feeble desires, ought to be tenderly met, and
lifted, and encouraged. At times, too, a stern morality ought to be
preached and enforced; wilful transgression ought to be held up in a
terrible light. I do not really mind how it is done, but the heart
ought somehow to be stirred and awakened. There is room for
denunciation and there is room for encouragement. Best of all is a due
admixture of both; if sin can be shown in its true colours, if the
darkness, the horror, the misery of the vicious life can be displayed,
and the spirit then pointed to the true and right path, the most is
done that can be done.
But we grow so miserably stereotyped and mannerised. My cautious
colleagues are dreadfully afraid of anything which they call
revivalistic, and, indeed, of anything which is unconventional. I
should like to see the Sunday sermon made one of the most stirring
events of the week, as Arnold made it at Rugby. I should like preachers
to be selected with the utmost care, and told beforehand what they were
to preach about. No instruction is wanted in a school chapel--the boys
get plenty of that in their Divinity lessons. What is wanted is that
the heart should be touched, and that faint strivings after purity and
goodness should be enforced and helped. To give the spirit wings, that
ought to be the object. But so often we have to listen to a
conscientious discourse, in which the preacher, after saying that the
scene in which the narrative is laid is too well known to need
description, proceeds to paint an ugly picture out of The Land and the
Book or Farrar's Life of Christ. The story is then tediously related,
and we end by a few ethical considerations, taken out of the footnotes
of the Cambridge Bible for Schools or Homiletical Hints, which make
even the most ardent Christian feel that after all the pursuit of
perfection is a very dreary business.
But a brave, wise-hearted, and simple man, speaking from the heart to
the heart, not as one who has attained to a standard of impossible
perfection, but as an elder pilgrim, a little older, a little stronger,
a little farther on the way--what cannot such an one do to set feeble
feet on the path, and turn souls to the light? Boys are often
pathetically anxious to be good; but they are creatures of impulse, and
what they need is to feel that goodness is interesting, beautiful, and
desirable. . . . Ever yours,