He looked no more than 14 as he came forward to welcome me with a hearty handshake. Assuming he was a primary school pupil, I asked about his teacher. He responded, “Hello, ma’am. I am the teacher.” Still skeptical, I began a full-scale inquisition: How old are you? How long have you been a teacher? Which class do you teach? And finally: Are you really the teacher?
Squeezed together with girls about her same age, Mary sat on a bamboo pew in the sanctuary. It was the first morning of a three-day children’s trauma healing workshop. The list of things written in her new notebook included: too much housework, loss of my parents and missing school.
As president and CEO of Presbyterian Mo-Ranch Assembly, a camp and conference center on 500 acres along the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas, Dick Powell had a problem.
Children from the Rio Grande Valley weren’t coming to Mo-Ranch for camp in any recognizable numbers.
Since my kids are out of the house, I figured I could finally donate the parenting books I’d gathered over the years. So many of the titles offered a nugget that helped me feel like I was not the only one navigating the complexity of parenthood. Into the box went some of my favorites — How to Behave So Your Children Will, Too and The Blessing of a Skinned Knee. As I packed, I realized that much of the parenting advice applies to leadership in small churches.
Imagine the week before Easter, if you will, through the eyes of a 6-year-old. The sanctuary on Palm Sunday looks different, to say the least. Big green branches are being waved, shouts of “Hosanna!” are called out from the usually orderly people in the pews, and the pastor talks of a parade with a king entering the city, surrounded by adoring citizens.
The soup at Heritage Presbyterian Church in Glendale, Arizona, is a recipe for encouraging mission support.
A Sunday school class composed of elementary and middle-school students has generated mission interest through a soup-making venture aimed at helping Presbyterian Mission. They assembled the ingredients, put them in jars they had labeled, and sold the mixture to the congregation. The children used the proceeds to give a pair of goats, a family of chickens, a piglet and six refugee food baskets through the Presbyterian Giving Catalog.
You would never know from the joyful exuberance of the dancing children that they live in the midst of grinding poverty.
The Sancti Spiritus Presbyterian Church of the Presbyterian Reformed Church in Cuba established a mission in Toyos — one of the poorest neighborhoods in the town of Sancti Spiritus — to provide hope to the barrio’s hopeless.
The children practiced long and hard to sing their song on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. When the big day came, they clambered to the front of the sanctuary, listened to the first few plinks on the piano and watched for the nod to begin from their Sunday school teacher.
Can million-dollar donations to anti-hunger groups be a bad thing? Should Christians who are called to serve and work toward eliminating hunger and poverty in our community’s question corporate generosity as a viable tool to achieve a goal? Food activist and author Andrew Fisher presented these questions and more at a University of Louisville event on Sept. 4 that was co-sponsored by the Presbyterian Hunger Program. Fisher spoke to an audience of approximately 50 graduate and undergraduate students and a smaller number of community members interested in hunger issues, detailing the “unholy alliance” that exists between corporate America and anti-hunger organizations.
First Presbyterian Church in Dickson, Tennessee, was in a rut. The pastor of more than 30 years had retired a year before, and the six-member session was keeping the church together. But they were barely surviving. It was all they could do to keep up with their regular tasks, let alone start any new creative ventures.
