The Seekers

by Jessie E. Sampter

The second problem is a more conscious one, the problem of moral and religious education for our children. For ourselves—so think many among us—we do not need a philosophy or religion; we are good enough without having any reason for being good. But we think our children need some instruction and guidance, something to satisfy the blessed cravings and doubts that we have long since killed within ourselves. For barely one among us fails to remember his fifteen-year-old questionings and strivings, and his defeat, when at last he decided to think no more, because his problem was insoluble. But even these who are so well contented with their own hard-won torpor want something better for their children. The question is asked again and again: “Shall we teach our children what we do not believe? And can we teach them what we do believe?”

In this book I attempt to solve both problems at once, and through the children to speak to their parents. For many who will not admit the least interest in the vital questions that have created every religion and philosophy throughout time, still are interested and will listen when the problem touches their own children. And only through the creative, open and daring mind of youth, not yet either stiffened or broken, can the spirit of a larger and a richer faith give new inspiration.

I am convinced that to-day all thoughtful men believe the same, where vital questions arise, and that each man sees a different angle of the same truth, which grows and grows in our vision, with the growing knowledge of man. All our ministers with their different churches, and our congregations with their sectarian prejudices, have at heart a common goal, a faith that needs only to be spoken to be believed. Let their children draw them together. Find a common religion to be taught in the school—where this necessity is the present problem of all educators, and where so far ethical courses and emasculated Christianity have given no solution—and from that larger patriotism of a common faith in childhood will spring the faith bigger than ethics and philanthropics, big enough to include all churches and systems in an unseen brotherhood.

Were I able to carry out this idea in a school, I would have classes or clubs, such as the Seekers, for all girls and boys of about the third or fourth high-school year. Then, for the younger children as well as for the older ones, I would have songs and readings at the assembly, which would suggest or picture forth the inmost spirit of our modern faith. These songs and readings I would let the older pupils choose and discuss in their clubs; and I would leave in their hands, as much as possible, the social and spiritual regulation of the school life. Faith and action go together. Each without the other is barren.

My purpose in this book is then twofold: to record how such clubs and classes work in practice, and thereby suggest a method from experience; also to give, in such large and perhaps superficial aspect as the means necessitate, the main outline of my thought. Not mine alone, but yours and every man’s. I bring no news; but only an old, forgotten story, new and strange to our widened knowledge. Accept its large intent, if you reject its lesser achievement; admit that this is the only possible truth in the light of our present knowledge. Though you believe more than this, accept at least the Seekers’ path as pointing toward the goal. To these children it gave a way and a light; it satisfied a need and answered a question, and brought new weapons for the battle of thought wherein most of us fail from weariness. For them it has already succeeded, whatever its coming fate.

Unless one sees a glimpse of truth at fifteen, enough to recognize it, one is not likely to discern it later, through the mist of unformed knowledge. And at fifteen one craves this something that can relate and shape all thought. So it happened that I organized the club of Seekers, composed of very different girls and boys, because of this one common need.

The conditions necessary for membership were few. The first condition, the one in its nature inevitable, was that each member should be interested and enthusiastic in our quest, a seeker from need and desire. Only such would have stayed with us. And this, perhaps, was a selective process of extreme rigor. Otherwise the conditions of membership were not of the sort to put a premium on extraordinary ability. They were that the members should be over fourteen, and under seventeen, and should have finished their elementary school course. I also limited the membership in number. Among my acquaintances were many more girls who would have wished to join us, but no more than the two boys. I explain this not by the fact that boys are less interested in these questions, but that their interest develops later. If I had sought boys of eighteen or nineteen, I could have found them easily. At the time, however, I did not realize this fact.

I think that the children were average of their kind. The kind, nevertheless, may have carried with it some intellectual superiority or precocity, such as the effects of environment and urban life. For these things, through the chance of acquaintanceship, they had in common: they were all bred in New York City, in educated families of the upper middle class (though not all of well-to-do parents), and all but one, Ruth, who is a Christian Scientist, of homes unusually liberal in their religious thought. Therefore these children were free from those clogging superstitions and false perspectives which result from early training in any symbolic and fixed creed. Take these influences for what they were worth. Beyond them the children had no special advantage or disadvantage.

I say all this as a defence against a possible criticism: namely, that the children seem, by their comprehension and original ideas, to be far above the average boys and girls of the same age. This I deny, and for good reasons. Naturally I have meant this experiment of a class in religious philosophy for adolescent boys and girls to be general in its application. And I believe it to be so. Most grown people have forgotten how they felt and thought at fifteen, and are apt to underrate the mental processes of boys and girls. I myself at that age felt so keenly the lack of sympathy in older people that I made a point of remembering and writing down certain experiences. I questioned several friends, and at last got admissions from them that they, too, had thought in the same way at fifteen. But no doubt they still look upon themselves as unique in this respect, for at fifteen we all think ourselves exceptions, and no matter how commonplace we may be now we are apt vaguely to keep that memory.

Then, too, one must not forget the effect of conscious and unconscious suggestion. I had my plans carefully made, and knew exactly in what direction I meant to lead our ideas, but the children knew very little of this foreplanning, and went of themselves where I wished them to go. No doubt suggestion blazed trails for them through this wilderness, if it did not make a path, and, as my record will prove, my questions often stimulated them to answers that would not otherwise have been possible. But often their answers were wholly unexpected and surprising. As our name tells, we are seekers, and I have found, at the very least, as much as they. Above all, my boundless faith in the young was justified. And my critics must admit that they have not this faith themselves, and so could never have put it to the test of experience, as I have done.