Day: March 20, 2026

On the Sawdust Trail: A Night at Billy Sunday’s Tabernacle, Philadelphia (Week One)

Curated from: The Philadelphia Evening Ledger. January 6, 1915:3.

You don’t just attend a Billy Sunday meeting—you step into it.

By the time I reached the tabernacle, the place was already alive. Not just crowded—alive. Policemen lined the edges, firemen stood ready, and yet there wasn’t even “the merest hint of disorder.” Whatever this thing was, it had structure. It had gravity. And it was pulling people in.

Colorized image of the Billy Sunday tabernacle in Philadelphia, c.1915.

Inside, the air carried that peculiar mixture of sawdust, sweat, and anticipation. Outside, though—that’s where you heard the real story.

A man near me, confident as a prophet, said to no one in particular:

“Billy Sunday has only started… it’s going to get worse and worse. He arouses more enthusiasm each day. If you don’t believe me, ask Scranton.”

That was the mood—this wasn’t the event. This was the beginning of the event.

The Crowd Watching the Crowd

It struck me quickly: people weren’t just watching Billy Sunday.

They were watching each other.

One visitor said it plainly:

“I was naturally interested in ‘Billy’ Sunday, and perhaps even more so in the crowd.”

And what a crowd it was.

A boy—no more than ten—hobbled in on crutches just to hear him. A sailor from the battleship Kansas had been waiting “for months” to catch a meeting. A woman stood nearby, nervous, almost whispering:

“Oh! no. I cannot give my name… my husband would throw a fit if he knew I had been in here.”

And yet—there she was.

That’s how you knew something was happening. Not just attendance—but risked attendance.

What People Were Saying

If you wanted to understand Billy Sunday, you didn’t start with the sermon.

You started with the talk afterward.

“What do you think of ‘Billy’?” someone asked.

The answers came quick, overlapping:

“Great.”
“Some man.”
“An ace.”
“I like him because he goes after the hypocrites.”

Others reached for bigger words:

“Wonderful… splendid… marvelous.”

But not everyone could quite put their finger on it.

One woman, looking slightly dazed, said:

“I have had so many things fired at me in the last hour that I can’t quite set my bearings.”

That may have been the most honest response of all.

More Than a Sermon

There was something else in the air—something heavier than excitement.

A man, speaking to a small group of women, said what many were thinking:

“I would like to see ‘Billy’ Sunday wake this city up and get the rum out of it… Look how many homes he would make happy.”

And then, almost quietly, another moment:

In the northeast corner of the tabernacle, someone reported hearing a man say:

“This is my last drink.”

No sermon transcript can capture that.

That’s the sawdust trail doing its work.

The Unexpected Details

Not everything was solemn.

Someone joked about the sawdust itself:

“They say Mr. Sunday hates noise, and I know I am going to sneeze. I always do when around sawdust.”

Even the ministers weren’t immune to the moment. One well-known clergyman was said to amuse himself before preaching by reading The Fun of Getting Thin—and now, thanks to the crowds, “occupies two seats.”

And everywhere—evidence of men lingering longer than usual:

“There were enough cigar butts left in the gutters… to start a true second-hand cigar store.”

It wasn’t tidy.

It wasn’t polished.

But it was real.

Order in the Midst of It All

For all its energy, the thing held together.

The crowds were vast, but they moved. The police managed them. The firemen stood watch. The machinery of the city seemed, for a moment, to cooperate with something larger than itself.

One observer summed it up best:

“To get and hold a vast throng like this on a weekday for the purpose of hearing the gospel certainly is a tribute to the man himself.”

And It’s Only the Beginning

If you stood there long enough, listening—not to the sermon, but to the people—you began to realize something:

The revival hadn’t peaked.

It hadn’t even arrived yet.

It was building.

You could hear it in the confidence of the man who said, “ask Scranton.”
You could see it in the boy on crutches.
You could feel it in the nervous woman who came anyway.
You could sense it in the man who muttered, “my last drink.”

Billy Sunday may have been the preacher.

But the city—
the crowd—
the conversations spilling out onto the streets—

They were becoming the message.

And Philadelphia, whether it knew it yet or not, was just getting started.

‘MA’ DOES MUCH TO HELP ‘PA’ IN HIS LABOR

Mrs. William A. Sunday always denies the statement so often and so lovingly made by her son, George, also of the party, that she is the ‘boss’ of the Sunday campaign, but that doesn’t do away with the fact that it was largely through her efforts that the wonderful system of the Sunday’s has been developed.

Along with her many charming feminine qualities Mrs. Sunday is a woman of unusual executive ability, and her keen ability to see the needs and apply the remedies required in work of this kind has made possible the plans whereby the campaigns are made so effective.

‘Do you not relieve Mr. Sunday many tasks, of seeing people, of making plans and of deciding questions concerning the work,’ Mrs. Sunday was asked.

‘Oh, Yes, we all give him as much help as we can, but in the last analysis it is ‘papa’ who decides, and we, of course, do all that I can in this line.’

It has even been said by people who ought to know that Mrs. Sunday frequently suggests phrases for some of his sermons, and also the subjects. This is what she says about that:

‘When I go around with ‘papa’ I don’t just sit and look about, but I think and plan. I frequently see things which might be of use to ‘papa’ and I tell him about them. He is always welcome to all that I have to give him, to every suggestion I can make.’

Besides the work which Mr. and Mrs. Sunday are doing and which they both consider ‘God’s work,’ the nearest thing to Mrs. Sunday’s heart is her home. Her children are very dear to her. By reason of campaigns held in cities far from their home in Winona Lake, Mr. and Mrs. Sunday see little of their children during the nine months when they are doing evangelistic work.

‘I make it a point to go back home two or three days at a time, just to be where we are at home,’ Mrs. Sunday declares. ‘One of my greatest sorrows is the fact that my boys must grow up without the direct influence of Mr. Sunday and myself.’

‘Do you ever feel unhappy about leaving home to begin a new campaign,’ Mrs. Sunday was asked.

‘Yes, we both feel that way sometimes, but the thought that this is the greatest work which we could be given to do, helps us. For several days before we leave home, however, Mr. Sunday is completely broken up, and frequently is unable to eat.’

The Sundays do not grudge the sacrifice that they give, but instead they enter into the work with vim and with an intense desire to ‘live up to what God expects them to do,’ as they express it.

Paul, the eight year old son of the Sundays, who broke an ankle while playing football in the autumn, has recovered and is back at school and back too at his favorite sports.

In a very different way, Mrs. Sunday has just as great getting powers as her husband and when she addresses a group of women her sincere manner, her definite message and her wide-awake methods win the immediate attention of her audience.

‘Ma’ has her trail hitters too, and when she extends the invitation to the women to accept Christ and to lead Christian lives many are eager to shake her hand and to promise better living in the future.

It is an interesting life that Mr. and Mrs. Sunday have led ever since they were married out in Chicago years ago. For two years after their marriage ‘Billy’ played ball but he finally gave that up to do permanent work in the Y. M. C. A., in which he had been working in the winter months. Soon after that he became assistant for Dr. Wilbur Chapman and upon the retirement of that evangelist from active revival work Mr. Sunday conducted revival services in towns outside of Chicago.

Since then he has been in revival work.

Mrs. Sunday was formerly Miss Helen Thompson, one of four daughters of pioneer Chicago business men. Before her marriage she was interested in the church and was an active worker and since that time she has always assisted Mr. Sunday in God’s work.

Cited from a period 1915 newspaper