Tag Archives: Sunday School

Is Sunday School going extinct?

Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have. ~ Margaret Mead

There’s one in every crowd or in this case, committee. Leave it to a science teacher who never graduated out of the preschool days of asking why to be the one in this case. I fervently believe and espouse in the college courses where I inspire future science teachers, one of the reasons we have to market science courses to high school learners is because we urged our youngest learners to stop asking so many questions when they were in preschool. Preschoolers make the best scientists because they still have the it factor, and it meaning a healthy dose of curiosity.

I am not one for sophomoric humor (despite living with boys where I get a HEALTHY exposure), but I have never graduated out of that preschool sense of awe and wonder regarding God’s creation and definitely not now, nor anytime – ever – quit asking questions of how the world works. This questioning (while not the Spanish inquisition) can, at times, exasperate those around me.

I am a thinker and a dreamer, spending much time reflecting (and as I like to call it ruminating) over thoughts. If I were to describe myself, I would tell you that God made me a BIG IDEAS kind of girl. When in his word He tells us to take delight in Him and He will give us the desires of our hearts, I take that to heart (and I am not trying to be pun-ny). I DREAM big and have ceaseless fascinations.

Currently I am serving an advisory role in my church’s Christian Education committee and we, too, are experiencing what countless other churches are – a decline in Sunday school enrollment. Our church conducted a survey asking all kinds of questions about people’s thoughts about Sunday school and small groups as those serve a similar function in our church. The results provided some useful data for this science education teacher’s mind, but there was one nagging question that my ruminations could not let go and was the one question we didn’t ask.

And like that, I became a one woman crusader on a quest to uncover answers. How can I make an informed decision to go forward if I don’t know why people are making the decision not to attend? So what would any wannabe social scientist and anthropologist do in the modern world? Yep, you guessed it! She uses social media to poll her friends. About now, Margaret Mead might be rolling over in her grave.

I didn’t mean this as a quantitative analysis, but rather as a snapshot of today. I was blown away by the responses I received, but more so by the raw honesty from not only my community but from others in communities far away as well. Some of the answers moved me to tears and reminded me that we can never as a church community forget that just because the doors of the church are open that not everyone feels welcome.

Here is a snippet of the responses thus far: (SS = Sunday School and SG = small group)

We are slow starters. Don’t always make it to church.

My child says he learns more at AWANA and it is much more fun than SS.

My kids learn more at AWANA and dread SS.

Live too far out to come back into town for SG.

2 hours is a long time to sit for little ones on Sunday morning.

School/sports activities.

Too much on the plate/agenda.

Live too far out. SS offering would have to be something really good for me to come.

Cannot hear well and miss out on the conversations in the SS class.

Doesn’t read well and is terrified to be called on to read in the SS class.

Don’t know the Bible well enough to attend with others who know more.

Not making SS a priority.

Hates that sports occur on Sundays but feel that child would not be able to play if they didn’t participate.

SS is boring. (Adults & kids responed)

Very difficult choice for sports families.

Sunday morning is the only time my family can sit down together and interact.

If parents don’t make it a priority, it will never be for the kids.

Do not see the value in SS because it is rare to find devoted teachers rather ones going through the motions.

Just plain worn out after a tough work week.

Feel guilty just dropping off kids for SS (and not staying). Easier for all to stay home.

Kids went up until jr high and then dreaded SS so much I quit fighting them on it.

Changes in SS approaches didn’t work for us.

Treats are always good! But that only works for so long.

Wed night education is great, but for high schoolers it is tough to sit another hour after sitting in school all day.

Don’t know anyone there. SS is clique-y.

Disappointment in the offerings for studies in SS.

Feel awful when we miss a few weeks and are behind on the study.

I am all for transparency and try to model it in every leadership role I have including home, work, volunteering, and church family. The last answer in the ones above is mine. We are a sports family and sometimes we have to miss because of a sporting event where my children are playing. I get overwhelmed when I get behind in anything and even though I don’t believe Jesus would care, I don’t like feeling overwhelmed when I walk in. Growing up, Sunday School was one of my most favorite places in the world to be. We were at the church about every time the door was opened. In fact on a recent trip to tour the South of my childhood, I went to visit all my old churches. Those old buildings were like beacons calling me home. What I wonder now is if the Sunday School of my childhood is not relevant to my world today, then what do we do? How does the church of today stay relevant while trying to reach people where they are and still offer education?

While my methods were not, at all, scientific, my heart is in a place that truly wants to make a difference. Now that I have scratched the surface of why we aren’t gathering together, my next step will be to find out what people want out of a church (which to me means family) without “diluting the gospel”. No matter what that looks like, I will continue to go out to love and serve others.

I think that is what Jesus would have wanted all along.

One of the churches of my childhood. Britt David Baptist in Columbus, GA.

Please join the conversation by answering the question: If your church has Sunday School (or small group) AND you don’t attend, what is your reason for not participating? Feel free to reply here or to message me at mominmn@hotmail.com if you don’t want others to see your thoughts. Your thoughts will really help me to help others.

Thinking about Sunday

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When I was a little girl the church we attended had recently built a new and bigger sanctuary and chapel and created a “campus” by building a large gymnasium and classroom building. Unlike the modern trend of bulldozing the old church and Sunday school classrooms, the wise souls in leadership at Hilton Terrace Baptist kept those buildings intact, creating a place for Children’s Church on Sunday mornings and a large area for the women’s quilting group to keep frames up year-round. Going to the BIG church was a BIG deal. Usually the only times children were present was for special performances, the less attended evening church, or Vacation Bible School, otherwise we were in our own church just up the hill a small piece. I really lived an insulated life because that church was not only our house of worship, but also served as our version of the YMCA because the leaders were forward thinking, putting in a skating rink in the gym and placing an emphasis on children and families. Of all the days of the week we were there, Wednesday evenings were my favorite. This was the time when it felt like I had the biggest family in the world as we all gathered on that same gym floor to eat together –like clockwork every week.

photo captured by Microsoft maps

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when this happened, but I remember how grown up I felt when a tiny little box arrived for me. The box contained an assortment of envelopes, mostly white but a few of assorted colors thrown in too. Sometimes I refer to my childhood church as “old church”, and these offering envelopes were an old church experience for me. I was so proud to be a “regular” that had my own way of contributing to the place that I loved. In my youthful way of thinking, it never crossed my mind that I was a “donor”. I doubt I even knew what that word meant as I stuck a few coins here or there in my various envelopes and marched them right on into Children’s Church each week.

Yesterday sitting in a grown-up church over a thousand miles away from that childhood one, I was thinking about the significance of the day on the calendar when my mind did a play on words. For most, the day was a typical day of worship, just two Sundays before Thanksgiving, but for others it is a day to have real conversations about another kind of donor: those who chose to donate their organs and tissues. It is not an easy conversation, and one that my tiny little Georgia peach self would have never imagined she would be thinking about years later. But think I did!

Many know the story of choosing in our darkest hour to ask if Reed could be a donor, honoring a promise made to a nine-year old child was also something my childhood dreams of motherhood never imagined. But we made the decision to give the biggest gift we would ever give – our son. We chose donation because the then twelve-year old Reed would have wanted us to do so. Of all the decisions we made the night of the school bus crash that changed our lives forever, that was one that made the most sense and one which has always brought us peace.

My childhood coin-filled envelopes probably made a small impact on our church and God’s kingdom, but choosing for our child to become a donor was one that would be life-changing for many. Making that decision did not negate or lessen our grief by one second, but through our pain we provided others joy. And if there was anything, other than his incredible faith, our boy would ever want to be known for, his love for giving to others was it.

The next days and weeks were filled with hospital stays and countless hours at doctor’s and therapist’s offices. Three months later, while our family was literally split in two, Super S and I living four hours away at a rehabilitative hospital, and the girls and Daniel back home, we were all together at the hospital for Mother’s Day. Second only to the year we lost our first baby; this was going to go down as the worst Mother’s Day in history. Reeling from the pain of not having our firstborn, but wanting to spend time with the three beautiful blessings we were still parenting, I experienced one of the most agonizing roller coaster rides of my life. Back then, the days were bad, but the nights – oh the nights – were horrible, filled with pain and night-terrors. Hospitals are not spas and I was exhausted. Everyone was having a great time in the hospital and I asked if it would be okay to just take a break, knowing full well I wanted to find a place to release from my eyes what my heart was feeling. Instead of going on a walk, I retreated to the back seat of our mini-van parked in the basement parking garage of the St. Mary’s hospital with plans to cry my little heart out and perhaps take a nap. My focus was singular. Nothing else mattered but a good crying session and rest from what was the most difficult season I had ever faced in my life. As I approached the cold, cemented structure, I noticed the lack of cars in the garage. It was Sunday – Mother’s Day – after all. The rest of the world was out eating, going to church, planting flowers, and enjoying the sunshine. As I approached our vehicle, I realized the only other one in the entire place was parked right next to ours. So much for a retreat! I was beyond caring – as in DID. NOT. GIVE. A. HOOT – if the owner of that full-sized van came back and found me sleeping in mine. Maybe it was the proximity of the two automobiles or maybe it was something much more divine (because I never saw that van again), my eyes were drawn to its bumper sticker.

Donate your organs . . . because heaven doesn’t need them.

The theology may not be sound, but at that moment, I didn’t care. The flood of grief came pouring out. The anguish of not having my son on Mother’s Day felt as if some cosmic force was ripping my own heart out of my body. Yet mixed in with my electrifyingly burning heart was the joy of all the bumper stickers in the world, God chose to place that one in my line of sight. I cried tears of joy for a God-sighting and for the families who were the recipients of our donor.

And yes, I took that nap . . .

resting peacefully knowing the God of my childhood was still faithful to the little girl who grew up to raise a superhero.

To learn more about organ and tissue donation (and becoming a superhero): please visit this website.

Taking a deep breath

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Growing up, our family did two things almost without fail. Both followed other anchors in my life, as if that was that natural order in our home. Following basketball games, we often went out with other coaches’ and team members’ families for dessert. My standard order was hot fudge cake at Shoney’s. That succulent tower of chocolate cake, ice cream, fudge and whipping cream is still my all-time favorite dessert. The second thing we did rather dependably followed Sunday morning services. We went to eat at a local restaurant, known as The Varsity. Growing up, I didn’t much appreciate this second one, because I wanted to go eat at some hip cool fast-food restaurant rather one that served good ol’ Southern cooking. At that time in my life, I wanted to venture on the edge of dining, and not be stuck in deeply entrenched ruts. Right now (older and wiser), I wish The Varsity was still open, and I could force (I mean, take) my kids to eat there.

There are several things that I vividly remember about both of those old hang outs. First and foremost, each time we went there I was surrounded by people who loved Jesus (and who loved us). I don’t know that I can adequately describe that feeling. Growing up the way I did, there is just something about Southern people who love Jesus. They have an air to them – full of life, hearty talks, and bellies full from all the tables piled with food. It’s true what the Bible says about Christians having an aroma. Then and now, my soul senses want to soak up every molecule. Another thing that defines those memories is the ease of Southern hospitality. I miss “Yes ma’am’s” and “No sir’s”, and I really miss being called, “Shug or Honey” by just about everyone, including the waitress. Formal rituals dot every rhythm of society in those memories, but yet those rhythms come with ease. Finally laughter punctuates every memory. Next to salvation and creation, I think laughter was one of God’s finest masterpieces.

The flavor of my childhood is not something I experience often these days. It’s not that I live among heathens who also happen to be curmudgeons. Quite the opposite, I live among wonderfully vibrant and caring people (who also love Jesus and who love to laugh), but that Southern hospitality (and sometimes craziness) is seldom found in my neck of the woods.

Following my talk to the sweetest bunch of Sunday school ladies ever, a group of us decided to high tail it over to the Cracker Barrel for lunch. There were six of us at our table, but seated at the table directly behind us were fellow worshippers from that morning. We created such ruckus at our table that one gentleman from the other asked if he could be re-seated . . . with us . . . because we were having too much fun. His proclamation reminded me so much of some of Granddaddy’s friends that I wanted to jump up and hug him.

I shared both laughter and tears with sweet Miss C. Love her!

I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Florida to South Dakota, but that day surrounded by new sisters is one I will remember. A biscuit is a biscuit no matter where you eat it; so, it wasn’t the food that made the lunch memorable. It was the essence. There were stories swapped, tears shed both in laughter and in awe of God’s amazing grace in trials of life. There were hands held and prayers shared.

Somewhere in that crowded restaurant, God reminded me that the things longed for aren’t always that far away because I took a deep breath and inhaled the precious air of my childhood.

Not at my table

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Twice on my trip to Kentucky, I was invited to dine at the home of one of the most adorable Sunday school teachers. Cloaked inside her petite exterior is one of the biggest hearts I have ever met. A heart that has been equipped with the gift of hospitality which made my own heart do flipper-de-loos each time I crossed the steps into her adorable cottage style home.

Lovingly known as “Miss E” to some, she has a personality that draws near. (On a side note, she is a teacher (not just on Sundays), and I have long been drawn to other lovers of learning.) Her humble home just exudes “Come on in. Sit a spell. And the proverbial Southern favorite, “Y’all eaten yet?”.

On that last one, she didn’t have to ask because we were invited there for that very reason. Well, that and of course, good old-fashioned girl time. One night we even had dinner and a movie – a chick flick with pizza and tissues. All girls will get that combination.

Clearly a proud momma, her decor consisted of artwork done by her very talented children. Rooms filled with a delightful mix of family heirlooms and inviting, cushioning chairs beckoned my soul to slow down and relax. All of it beautiful without being showy.

But there was something present that the eye could not see, but the spirit could certainly feel. This home – this communion of souls – was filled with the grace that only can be found when God’s love is present.

One moment will be forever etched in my memory. For our first dinner it was requested that we bring our own beverages to accompany the meal. Grabbing our favorite drinks – a Coke in a bottle and McD’s sweet tea in the Styrofoam cup – we happily arrived feeling we were allowed to add something to the evening’s experience.

As we gathered at the table, Miss E informed us that we could place our beverages in the goblets already on the table. One among us protested that wasn’t necessary. In a gentle but firm reply, we were informed that at her home we WOULD NOT be using those containers.

As my Mama would say, “We are not common people”. That old saying was fitting here. We were not just guests. No! We were beloved sisters in Christ – blessed with the gift of friendship.

Looking back, I realized that someday that’s how it will be at Jesus’ table. Imagine it! He will want only the best setting for his girls. All the junk (rage, bitterness, fear, worry, doubt) we allow into our lives really doesn’t belong at His table anyway. I don’t think Jesus cares about the quality of the china, but he does cars about the way we approach the table. It is the effort that we give to each other through his grace that matters. If that (like Miss E’s glasses) is how we come together, then the dining will be divinely appointed!

Not so long ago at the table of one sweet lady, I was served with Southern hospitality and dined, grace-filled, like royalty.

Comforted to know I really am, and thankful to have been reminded.

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

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Tag Archives: Sunday School

Is Sunday School going extinct?

Thinking about Sunday

Taking a deep breath

Not at my table