A lady came to me once and said: “Mr. Moody, I wish you would tell me how I can become a Christian.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she was in a very favorable mood; “but,” she said, “I don’t want to be one of your kind.”
“Well,” I asked, “have I got any peculiar kind? What is the matter with my Christianity?”
“Well,” she said, “my father was a doctor, and had a large practice, and he used to get so tired that he used to take us to the theater. There was a large family of girls, and we had tickets for the theaters three or four times a week. I suppose we were there a good deal oftener than we were in church. I am married to a lawyer, and he has a large practice. He gets so tired that he takes us out to the theater,” and she said, “I am far better acquainted with the theater and theater people than with the church and church people, and I don’t want to give up the theater.”
“Well,” I said, “did you ever hear me say anything about theaters? There have been reporters here every day for all the different papers, and they are giving my sermons verbatim in one paper. Have you ever seen anything in the sermons against the theaters?”
She said, “No.”
“Well,” I said, “I have seen you in the audience every afternoon for several weeks and have you heard me say anything against theaters?”
No, she hadn’t.
“Well,” I said, “what made you bring them up?” “Why, I supposed you didn’t believe in theaters.” “What made you think that?”
“Why,” she said, “Do you ever go?”
“No.”