Almost Everything I Need to Know About God I Learned in Sunday School

The comedian Bill Cosby once said, "You are more likely to remember your childhood than the place you left your glasses."

He's right. My memories of Sunday school are crystal-clear. I remember a teacher who fell into an open baptistery while carrying a tray of cookies. I remember silver stars for bringing a Bible and gold stars for getting the questions right. I worked for three years to get enough stars for the major prize; only when I was 11 did I discover you could buy packets of stars at the local drugstore.

Set the way-back machine

So many people have asked me, "Did you really learn it all in Sunday school?" Perhaps I can explain by taking you back in time. I have just notched up a half-century, but whatever age you are, imagine you are just 7 years old. You have most of your teeth and an unforgettable hairstyle, and you're back in Sunday school again.

It's a hot summer afternoon, and the sunlight is streaming in through tall windows, catching specks of dust in its beams. I fancy I can still hear the old pedal organ that the teacher pounded furiously; it always seemed either tired or just plain cross at being woken. I remember — and can still smell — hymnbooks that were covered in what looked like linoleum.

The memory of my teachers comes back to me with stunning clarity. Mr. Clarke sits with a large black Bible on his lap and tells me the story of David and Goliath; Mr. Pendleton stares at me through his pince-nez, and I wonder how he balances them so finely on the end of such a small nose. Mr. Curtis had eyebrows that looked like butterflies. If you made him cross, his forehead would begin to shake, and if you were very clever you could almost make the butterflies take off.

Those faithful people taught simply, but these were not simple lessons; they were profound. I did not understand, as Mr. Pendleton told me the story of Peter sinking into the Sea of Galilee, that when I became a man, I, too, would know crushing failures. My old teacher said, "It is true that Peter failed, but that is only half the story. Peter walked on the water. The other disciples didn't flounder because they didn't try. Don't be like the fainthearted who never make a mistake because they never attempt anything."

Of course, Sunday school teachers had the same quality that grandparents have: They didn't mind telling the same story over and over again. And because they didn't mind telling it, and because I loved to hear it, they would relate to me often the story of the boy whose father made him the coat of many colors and who was sold into slavery by his brothers, found beginning in Genesis 37.

Of course my favorite part was when Joseph had his brothers exactly where he wanted them. I remember discussing it on the way home from Sunday school. "I wouldn't have given them anything to eat; I'd have dug the deepest pit in the whole world and left them in it for 50 years and then found the meanest wandering travelers and sold them all into slavery until they were dead."

Fast-forward to today

When I became a man I discovered this wasn't a childish emotion but a human one. The desire to get revenge on your enemies is very old and very deep. But I remember with frightening clarity the day when men and women hurt me more than I thought possible, and it dawned on me that the story I had heard from my teachers' lips all those years ago wasn't just an ancient tale. I was meant to copy Joseph and do the unthinkable. I was meant to forgive them.

But Joseph wasn't my only hero. I loved Elijah, the man who took on the prophets of Baal and beat them, as found in 1 Kings 18. But one day my teacher showed me that life, even for spiritual giants, was not always so simple:

"Elijah was afraid. He sat down under a tree and prayed that he might die. 'I've had enough Lord. Take my life.' " Is it possible that men and women who follow God can know such darkness? Yes it is. In fact, it is almost mandatory. God has a way of using our brokenness to touch the lives of others; we are little use in the kingdom unless we have cried.

A distinguished theologian was once asked to sum up the essence of what he believed. He answered in a heartbeat: "Jesus loves me, this I know; for the Bible tells me so." I remember my Sunday school superintendent teaching me that little song, but when I became a man it touched my life with enormous power.

I had spent my life trying to earn God's love. Much of that involved doing good things — attending meetings, reading the Bible regularly, praying as much as I could, but always there was the nagging doubt that I really wasn't good enough. And then one day a friend said to me, "Rob, God is for you. He is for you when you succeed and when you fail. He is for you when you share the faith with thousands and when you deny Him. He is for you when your mind is filled with certainty and when your heart is filled with doubt. God is for you."

I was just 4 years old when Miss Williams, my first Sunday school teacher, called for me. She seemed to be a thousand years old then, but this dear lady took my hand as we walked from my house to the little church on the corner of our street. She led me into the world of the giantslayer, the boy who brought his lunch to Jesus, and the disciple who failed but whom Jesus loved so very dearly. Just recently I met her again; age has robbed her of none of her sparkle, and she said with a twinkle in her eye, "Do you remember me?" I didn't have to ponder my reply for a second: "Miss Williams, thank you for those lessons — every single one of them. I will never forget you."