Joanne Sherman: Tales out of (Sunday) school

Author’s note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent who are now fully grown and walk among us.

“This isn’t going to end well,” I was warned by my nearest and dearest. 

I’d volunteered to substitute for an ailing Sunday school teacher, minding her class of 5- and 6-year olds. All I had to do was teach kids to cut out paper angels with blunt scissors. Come on. How hard could that be?

Nearest and dearest was concerned because at that time our boys were in high school, so I hadn’t had recent experience with little ones. “It’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Our kids survived.” 

He walked away muttering, “Was that because you were their mother or in spite of it?” 

Since the jury was still out, I took the high road, ignoring the comment.

Performance anxiety kicked in that Sunday morning when I was handed a three-page lesson plan. So much for cut-and-paste. Turns out these kids didn’t go to Sunday school to make paper angels. They were there to learn about holiness and saintliness. From me. And for that hour, 13 wee souls were in my hands. 

I expected this baker’s dozen would march in, single file, like good onward Christian soldiers, but they tumbled in and never once did I get all the soldiers’ bottoms on their little chairs at the same moment. 

Instructions said I should start with the Lord’s Prayer, but as I did, Nolan began to cry. Joleen told me it was Nolan’s week to lead the prayer. That was O.K. by me, so I put away my prayer cheat sheet. (Just kidding, I know it, calm down.) 

Every kid has their own version of this prayer. Nolan wiped his eyes and runny nose on the back of his hands and holding them solemnly together, snotty little fingers pointed towards the ceiling, gave us his: “Our Father has a car in heaven …”.

It got worse but I let him finish, then, recited the prayer the proper way. Thirteen blank faces stared up at me. Clearly they preferred Nolan’s version. 

“Today’s lesson is about the Good Samaritan,” I told them and read the parable, which had been paraphrased to be more easily understood by youngsters. But whoever did the paraphrasing didn’t know squat about youngsters or that certain words cause pandemonium. It was the part of the parable where the man is stripped of his clothes and left naked at the edge of the road that the room exploded with screams, giggles and mayhem.

“Naked! Oh, gross!” Completely naked or only partly naked? These kids wanted all the sordid details and it became a rowdy competition to see how often each could screech the word “naked” in a sentence. 

So I lied and said that the robbers let him keep his underwear and that calmed everyone down.

I continued reading, but no one listened. Three of the boys were engaged in a contest to see who could flick spitballs across the room into the straw collection basket. Fancy was busy braiding Ruby’s hair and several of them were trying to see how far back they could lean in their chairs without tipping completely backwards and cracking open their tiny, fragile skulls. 

Attention focused on me again at that part of the parable where the Good Samaritan put his clothes on the semi-naked man. 

“Does that mean now the Good Dalmatian is naked?” Lucille asked. They assured me and each other that under no circumstances would they ever walk naked down the street leading a donkey. I lied again and said he was wearing long johns. 

The Golden Rule lesson went haywire because every kid wanted to shout their favorite: Wash your hands after the bathroom; Don’t put the kitten in the dishwasher again; If mom says no, ask dad. 

“Those are all good,” I said, “but they’re not the Golden Rule. Who knows it? Don’t shout, please raise your hands.” 

Elvira raised her hand and shouted, “Do under others what they do under you.” 

I explained that Elvira was kind of correct, but it was too late. She was already crying because Nolan called her stupid, then Ruby cried because Elvira was her best friend.

“Be quiet!” I shouted. Twenty-six frightened eyes widened and 13 chins trembled, but God bless them, they got quiet. So quiet the teacher from the next room checked if we were all right. 

After she left, I handed out the blunt scissors and taught them how to cut out angels. When Sunday school was over they were smiling and in my book, that’s a win. 

Author’s note: The following year I became their weekly Sunday school teacher and – so far – they’ve all survived. Was it because of me or in spite of me? The jury’s still out.