1995, a Lutheran school grows in Austin . . . The road to St. Paul Lutheran School, Menard Avenue just north of Chicago Avenue, is paved with potholes. Nobody said the Christian life would be easy.

It's a Missouri Synod day school, one of 2,000 or so in the U.S.

Glen Kuck (say "Cook") is principal. On September 5 of this year of Our Lord, 1995, I sat in on classes with a view to seeing how religion is taught. At 9 a.m. I sat in the back of a room of 27 fifth- and sixth-graders, all black. Later I saw Kuck's son, the school's only white kid.

Kids sat attentively, neatly dressed. Kuck was a last-minute sub for a teacher who had to take her child to the hospital. He had greeted me at the door, leaving the room to do so. Later he did the same to confer with the pastor, Rev. Donald Gourlay. While he did this, the kids remained quiet with a minimum of soft conversation.

Kuck taught theology through Scripture. The day's class was about the law-vs.-gospel distinction -- a Lutheran staple.

Law vs. gospel on the West Side . . . Kuck takes them through the book, a Missouri Synod text called Faith Alive. We are on Chapter Two, "God's law and gospel," in the part about "getting a handle on Scripture," which is sprinkled with references to Old and New Testaments. Students read one by one, each from his or her Bible. Hands are up all over.

A kid reads and Kuck asks if the passage represents law or gospel. Each has pencil or pen and bends over the workbook to mark which it is, once that's determined.

Kuck moves things along. A girl mispronounces "awe." He picks up on it, explaining the word. "How would you feel if Michael Jordan came into the room?" he asks. "So much more so about God."

He's "winging it," he has told me. But he has both material and recital technique down cold. He also has personal authority. The kids cooperate.

He's not rigid. A girl calls a passage law, he says he's not sure. He stops to think, eventually tells her, "I think you're right. So put an 'L' by that."

A boy reads John 15, verse 12, "Love one another just as I love you . . . "

"That's gospel," the boy says. "Yes," says Kuck. "It's our reaction to God's love for us."

Sinners all . . . Another reads Romans 3, 23, ". . . all have sinned and all are justified by God's grace alone, through his act of liberation in Christ Jesus . . . "

"We are a long way from God's saving presence," says Kuck, preaching no cheap grace. "Sinfulness separates us. This is a law reference."

John 3, 16, "God loved the world so much that he gave his only son . . . "? "That's gospel," says Kuck, "the classic passage."

Now they sum it up in their own words, defining law and gospel, writing in the workbook, in space after "The Law says" and "The Gospel says." They set to it, working out definitions of two major themes of Christian theology.

It is something to be taken seriously. Overall, in this school is a solidity that relaxes and reassures. A decent sobriety prevails.

More discussion. "The law shows us sin, the gospel shows God's love for us," says Kuck. "If I made a doll house and you smashed it, I would have a hard time liking you. In a sense we do that with God's creation. But God still likes us."

Not all in the Old Testament is law, he says, nor is all in the New Testament gospel.

Bible-thumbers . . . Kids thumb Bibles, looking up passages.

He asks when you have to hear about the law. "When the person knew he did something wrong," says a student.

"No," says Kuck. "If they know they did wrong, that's when they need the gospel."

A boy shrugs when he's asked something. "Come on, don't shrug your shoulders," Kuck says. "I want you to think. The question is not hard."

A little later he asks how they feel when they're yelled at. "Ashamed," says a girl. "The law makes us feel guilty," he says. "Sometimes we need that."

When do you have to hear about the gospel? "When you're sad, depressed, feeling guilty," he explains. "Your mom is angry at you, but comes back five minutes later and says 'I still love you.' That's gospel."

He calls on a boy who says nothing, just sits there.

"We'll get back to you," he says. There's no getting off the hook. He spots those not with the program and verbally pokes them.

"How do you feel?" he asks another who seems inattentive. "These are not hard questions."

This is class out of the '40s, as at Fenwick High, where q-&-a was standard procedure. Class was a group effort, and all were expected to take part, as opposed to today's small-group discussions, with the teacher mainly a traffic director, promoting discussion. More self-direction, less teacher-direction. In which case is the kid better off?

Down to cases . . . This class considers cases, when to use law, when gospel:

* "Katie" won't welcome a new kid into the game. What to hit her with? Gospel, good news? "No, we have to set her straight with a reminder of the law," says Kuck.

* Another: a boy just heard his grandmother died: for him it's gospel; "it's a good time to share one's faith with the bereaved."

* Another regrets a rude remark: gospel, "she's aware of her sinfulness."

* "Grandpa Jim" rejects churchgoing, asks, "Who needs it?" says he's killed no one, stolen nothing, so didn't sin. Lay the law on him. "We are all sinful people."

Reciting time again. "Can't hear you," Kuck tells a girl. She bellows her answer, saucily.

Kuck sums up: "Law shows the need, gospel fills it. God can't do away with the punishment we deserve. The penalty has to be paid. Jesus paid it for us. God looks at us and no longer sees our sin."

A neat summary. The kids hear it, some more clearly than others, to be sure. But if they never hear it, they will never know it. There's something matter of fact about this place, common sense, straightforward. Not repressive, though. The climate seems nourishing for most.

Thirty in a room . . . To another class, combined first and second grade, with 13 first-graders facing one way, 17 second-graders another, at a 90-degree angle. A thirtyish white woman, teacher for both, is positioned in front of the firsters. The others are in the loop but don't have her to look at. Instead they have workbooks. It's called making do with less.

An aide, a forty-ish black woman, sits at the teacher's side, looking over the seconders from their side.

All the kids have pencils out and are recording things in their book, as did the older ones. This is common to both rooms: pencils out, workbooks open -- a low-tech way to keep all literally on the same page and interactive. It's nothing you need computers for, just decent books and reasonable order in the classroom.

A girl comes up, the teacher says quietly, "Sit down." Another does the same. Each returns to her seat, not visibly disturbed. Whatever it was, there was no time to deal with it: the teacher was busy with the other 29.

This is supposed to be a no-no, not to listen to a kid; but it seems reasonable. The child gets used to waiting her turn. She's part of a group and functioning as such. She can't get attention on demand.

On the board which the seconders face, two items are chalked: the day and date -- "Tuesday, September 5, 1995" -- and next to it the day's verse, "Memory: God saw all that He had made and it was very good. -- Genesis 1:31."

The Bible is taken for granted. The kids can take it seriously. It's part of their day, indeed part of their souls, which is what it's meant to be. Time enough later for critiquing and even debunking. For now it's the Bible, taken seriously as divine literature.

This class is about creation. The theme is caring for the earth. "Don't waste water" and "Plant new trees," the teacher writes on the board.

The second-graders are part of it, but she stands in front of the younger ones, presumably as needing more attention. But her instruction is aimed at all. There is some fidgeting, but that's all, and almost always attention to the work at hand, in this roomful of black children.

More to come . . . Day Two at St. Paul's, days at other Lutheran schools and at Presbyterian, Jewish, and Roman Catholic Sunday schools . . .