Wanda Kidd
I saw a college student at church on Sunday carrying a Bible, and I am sorry to say I was startled. I looked twice to make sure that was what he was holding. Yep, right there on a big black leather book, it said “Holy Bible” in gold-embossed letters. I’ve heard it said that this generation of young people says they are looking for a little structure and a sense of accountability.
I want to say, “Boy, you should have been around in the 1950s-70s, because we had some accountability, especially at church.”
Reflecting on that moment, I am reminded of how things once were. There was a whole department in Nashville, TN, the Mecca of Baptist Life, called the Sunday School Board. Today, only a remnant remains. Back in the day, it held a “High and Holy” place in every Southern Baptist Church. The Board sent out the Sunday School Quarterly and all materials for anything Baptist-related—except for the Women’s Missionary Union, which retained some independence after declaring itself an auxiliary. One way the Sunday School Board wielded disproportionate influence was through the seemingly innocent “offering envelope.”
Each year, someone set up a table in their church vestibule and alphabetized the offering boxes for pickup before the first of the year. Each envelope was dated, and you did not want to fall behind. One might assume the box with your name on it simply held dollar-shaped white envelopes. It was simply a place to put the quarter your father gave you on your way out the door on Sunday morning.
It was, however, so much more.
The envelope included a place to report your offering and a brief questionnaire assessing your Christian fidelity for the week.
Did you do your daily Bible reading?
Did you study your Sunday school lesson?
Were you on time?
How many people did you visit?
Would you be attending worship?
Percentages were even assigned to each box so you could know your weekly grade. I am not sure whether those questions made us better Christians, kept us on task, or just encouraged dishonesty.
This litmus test information was not just between Jesus, us, and our Sunday School Superintendent. No, sir. This data was shared with your Baptist State Convention and passed along to the Sunday School Board bean counters, who compiled a report from the numbers.
When tallied, the information was published and bragged about on stages across the South. It seemed important that those of us filling out this information weekly not to let everyone down, so we fudged the info just a little each week. We subconsciously knew we had an image to maintain.
(Credit: Vidrera/Getty Images for Unsplash+)
But as important as the offering envelopes were to the church culture of the mid- to late-twentieth century, other traditions stood out even more. Chief among them was Promotion Sunday and the perfect-attendance presentation.
Promotion Sunday was usually early in September because it came after public school began, and things just worked better when coordinated, like the rule against white shoes after Labor Day. All of the Sunday School classes, from Beginners to the Alice McBane Class, gathered in the sanctuary during the Sunday School hour.
We sat with our old teachers and waited for our new teacher to stand and call out our names. Then we followed them to our new space.
Before assigning new classes, we paused to honor the people in our group who had perfect attendance the previous year. Even though most families stayed put in that era, earning recognition was still an accomplishment, since just about everyone traveled at some point. The church had a workaround for this issue: if you visited another church and brought back a dated bulletin signed by that pastor or Sunday School Superintendent, you received credit for attendance.
My sister hated this plan. She wanted to slip in and out of the churches we visited, but I loved meeting new people and explaining our goal. To be honest, they often acted as if they did not share my passion for perfect attendance, but I was not deterred.
With signed bulletins from Louisiana to New York State, my sister and I qualified for the perfect attendance presentation seven years in a row, but we were not the stars.
Each year, anticipation grew as we waited for “Cat Baby” to receive his additional bar. He was the most beloved member of our congregation. He delivered papers to almost everyone in town, was unfailingly joyful, and shared that joy with an exuberant hello and a raised hand wherever he saw you. The universal response from people of all walks of life, on the street or in a restaurant, was “Well, hello, Cat Baby.”
The only time I remember applause in our church other than before Bill Gaither’s music was introduced was when George’s name was called, and he went forward to receive his additional bar for his pin.
By the time I moved away in middle school, Cat Baby wore the original pin, the surrounding wreath, and thirteen additional bars every Sunday.
Many of these things seem cheesy to us today, yet they ironically created a level playing field for people of all kinds to shine and be valued. I miss some of those traditions that let people know they were seen and valued. As I looked at that young man’s Bible, I calculated he had at least on 80% on his envelope score for the week.
I smiled, knowing he would never understand my affirmation, but I valued his sincere effort.
(Credit: Ben White/Unsplash)
Retired campus minister, campus ministry coordinator for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship of North Carolina, and Collegiate Specialist for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship.