Barnabas Up to Date

At the morning service in Chicago's McCormick Theological Seminary, second-year Student Harold M. Davis, 27, strode to the pulpit. His tie, as bright and many-colored as Joseph's coat, was the one vivid touch in the plain, crowded Victorian chapel. From Acts he read three short passages about Barnabas, "a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost," under whose teaching "the disciples were called Christians first in Antioch."

"When we think of the early church," preached Davis, "we often think only of the greater leaders. We forget the many not so well known, like Barnabas, whose interest was not in himself but in the church and in people with troubles, such as Paul when the other disciples were still afraid of him, or Mark when Paul in turn gave Mark up as a bad job . . ."

After a hymn, the seminarians streamed away to their classes. Like the Barnabases of the last 20 centuries, they would help keep the church going, though few of them would be remembered beyond their own generation.

Balancing Income. America's postwar seminary students are a mature and serious lot. They are also numerous: U.S. Protestant seminarians rose from 13,000 in 1938 to 24,000 in 1947, Roman Catholics from 16,000 to 23,000, and Jews from 900 to 2,000. At McCormick, which is Presbyterian, their average age is 28. Ten years ago it was 23.

More than a third of the Protestants and about a tenth of the Catholics and Jews (who usually start seminary training at an earlier age) are war veterans; most of the Protestants are married. Few are free from financial strain. Although nearly all the students at McCormick have a part-time preaching assignment, or work at other outside jobs, most of their wives also work.

Despite these worldly cares, which the apostles had in their time too, the postwar seminarians are a quality lot. Said McCormick Vice President Kenneth G. Neigh: "The level is far higher than when I graduated here in 1936." Last week, in other Chicago seminaries, officials agreed with Neigh. The men's wartime experience has much to do with this, but even more important is the growing conviction among Protestant seminarians that religion goes far beyond mere social service.

Murder v. Cards. Lincoln Reed, a 27-year-old senior at Chicago Theological Seminary (Congregational), said that his own reasons for choosing the ministry had "improved" since his first semester. "I came in for the typical vague Protestant reason of wanting to do good works. Now nearly all of us realize that humanitarianism is not enough. We take a more religious view of our work."

Many of them had already tried other work. Said McCormick's Robert W. Henderson: "I'd seen war and I was selling paint. Not that selling paint was wrong, but it wasn't enough." Former Lawyer James W. Angell "never felt law meant anything. Here I'm in touch with the basic issues of life." At Chicago Theological Seminary, Dennis Bennett, 31, said: "I was seven years in business, married, with two kids. I finally realized that I had never found a channel of expression."

Bennett's favorite theologian is Anglican C. S. Lewis (The Screwtape Letters, That Hideous Strength) of Oxford "because of his sly ability to prod you about your own shortcomings. He has you spotting your own sins and saying 'This is me' almost before you know it. When you read Lewis, you understand how the Devil can reduce a man to reading old newspapers, or why 'murder is no better than cards, if cards can do the trick.' "

Three other theologians whose work excites postwar seminarians: Manhattan's Reinhold Niebuhr, Basel's Karl Barth and Prague's Joseph Hromadka (TIME, Sept. 6), all members of Reformed churches.

With few exceptions (one is 16th Century John Calvin), contemporary theological writing seems to interest Protestant seminarians more than traditional works. One reason: their concern with religion's present and future "relevance." They speak of science and the problem of labor as "challenges."

Something Tough. The University of Chicago Divinity School, Baptist-administered though it enrolls many denominations, is trying to move religion up from an intellectual back seat on the same campus where scientists achieved the first atomic chain reaction. Said the Divinity School's dean of students, William N. Hawley: "Even scientists are having to reconsider religion because of the moral implications of their work. Secular minds are more open than they have been for a long time."

Said Vice President Neigh: "Many of our best men, who have their choice of a dozen calls, no longer want a comfortable middle-class congregation with a good salary. They want something tough, in mine towns or among working people." Student Raymond H. Swartzback made a typical observation: "Very few Presbyterians are in labor unions. Too many of our city churches are in the suburbs. We should break that pattern. If we don't, it will just be too bad."

A shrewd appraisal of these Barnabases-up-to-date came from Dr. Floyd V. Filson, who has been teaching the New Testament at McCormick for 25 years:

"They have a more serious interest in theology than formerly, yet recognize that religion and the problems of life are bound together . . . They study the Bible in a critical, historical way. The more they study, the more they seem to find that historical Christianity is intellectually sound and spiritually true. Whenever theology claims to know all the answers, it's unsound; we live by faith and can't know all the facts. But faith doesn't mean dodging facts. You won't find these men dodging anything."

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