“Well, there are the Sunday-schools,” was, of course, the answer, but this always brought a peculiar smile to the face of the young minister.
He spent the whole of the afternoon of his first Sunday at Broad Street in the Sunday-school. The teachers were gratified, and they thanked him for his presence.
“Oh, do not thank me,” he said; “the Sunday-school is, of course, a part of the church. This is, therefore, my school, and I intend to be present at it every morning and afternoon.”
Now this was quite a new idea; and the teachers were not sure that they would like it. It had been a pet grievance with them that their old minister was never seen in the school, excepting on special occasions and by personal invitation. They were never tired of speaking about this at teachers’ meetings, when he was absent, and sometimes even in his presence. They often hinted, too, at the lack of sympathy manifested by the church, as if they were not themselves the church, or at least the most important part of it. They frequently declared that a minister’s place was in the Sunday-school, and that his duty in this respect was too often neglected. But all the same, when they were informed that the minister intended always to be at the school, most of the teachers felt embarrassed, not a few heads were shaken, and there were many muttered hopes that he would not interfere.
But he did, and that very speedily.
At first he offered to take any class from which the teacher was absent; and whenever he did so the children were very candid and unceremonious in their expression of the wish that their teacher would remain absent always. But the absentee was invariably visited the next day; and if he had not provided a substitute, or had only a trivial reason to give for his absence, that teacher was sure to have a bad quarter of an hour with the minister.
Then he adopted the plan of giving an address at the close of the school, and the address was exceedingly like a lesson, for he had a large blackboard on which he wrote points to be committed to memory; and he asked many questions, which happened to be mostly addressed to the classes that knew the least. After this had gone on for a few Sundays he called a teachers’ meeting, and astonished the teachers by the directness of his words to them.
“The most important part of the work of the church,” he said, “is the Sunday-school, which ought, therefore, to be in the hands of those whose whole hearts are in it. It is so great, and of such infinite moment, that it deserves to occupy the men and women of highest culture and talent; but it is work which is best done by those who love it, for without enthusiasm in the teachers Sunday-schools are a failure. I hope you will not be offended—but in any case I dare not hold my peace—when I say that in all departments of our own schools there are some classes which greatly need reform. There is a lack of discipline which is fatal; and I fear that sometimes whole classes are dismissed which have not had any real teaching at all. Now, my friends, this work must not be left in incompetent hands. For my own part, I tell you frankly that I dare not be a party to anything so disastrous to the future well-being of this church. Let no earnest teacher be discouraged; but let all who are not in earnest reconsider their position. The first thing for us to do is to form a Teachers’ Training Class, and let us also meet together for mutual preparation of the lesson. What times will be most convenient to you?”
The teachers, as a whole, did not approve of the minister taking things into his own hands in this fashion, and some of them ventured to say so.
“We’ve took this school ourselves heretofore, and we’re masters here,” said a man, his face flushing with anger. “If the minister likes to come and visit us sometimes, and say an encouraging word to us, why, we shall be glad to see him; but I, for one, ain’t agoing to be dictated to.”