All the Sunday School classes were gathered at a plaza in Buenos Aires. After months of preparation, we were there for the churchwide tournament. Participation was mandatory; the competition was public. Glory or shame for all to see. Our task was to recite by memory an arbitrary list created by the teachers — the Lord’s Prayer, Psalm 23, names of all twelve apostles, the books of the New Testament and, for extra credit, the Old Testament ... in order. A church elder stood ready to score children in each category.
My arrogant 9-year-old self stepped up first. Everyone knew I was going to be a pastor. My parents had helped me. My sister and I had practiced. I had to know this stuff. The elder at the “Lord’s Prayer station” nodded for me to begin.
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