I hobbled into Sunday School and sat down with a grimace. Earlier that week I’d twisted my ankle in some really deep snow. I didn’t bother to pray about it, assuming it would heal with time. And as usual, I was barely awake enough to answer questions about the Christian Science Bible Lesson that my new Sunday School teacher, Mr. Overton, asked. I responded with my habitual “I don’t know” or “I don’t care.”
Mr. Overton was a lawyer, and each week he spent time outlining each section of the Bible Lesson and getting us to think about what it meant. He asked us what questions each section raised. Why had Mary Baker Eddy chosen each of the 26 rotating topics? What did these topics mean to humanity and what did they mean to each of us? Why did Christian Science matter? How could we practice it effectively?
Mr. Overton wasn’t a teacher who wanted pat answers. He wanted us to show him that we could think. I knew this, but at the time Sunday School was something I did to get to the next thing. What was that? My Sunday afternoon nap. I typically stayed up all night Saturday reading. It was my reward to myself for being a good kid and completing all of my homework during the week. I felt entitled. After all, Sunday School wasn’t really my thing, and, frankly, neither was Christian Science.
