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Recently, on Children's Sunday, we went through the ritual of presenting the third graders with their own Bibles. Some of the children receiving Bibles were brand new to church life. We may have been giving them the first Bibles they would see in their homes.

To liven things up, I gave the children a pop quiz. I said, "I'm going to call out three names of books in the Bible. You tell me which ones are false. First, the Gospel of John, the Gospel of Paul, and the Gospel of Stewart." The adults laughed and the children knew that there was no Gospel of Stewart in the Canon. As for the Gospel of Paul, they claimed a deep familiarity with it.

I realized I had to make my public quiz easier. I told them there would only be one true book in the next list, and I asked them to choose among the books of Malachi, Shalakai, and Jai-Alai.

"The book of Jai-Alai is the right one," called out a child. Jai-Alai is a popular betting sport in Connecticut. Sadly, it would be more familiar to the average child than a book of the Old Testament.

"Okay, now try this list: Habbakuk, Chewbacca, and Pistachio." The children laughed. They thought that all three were made up.

"That's why we are giving you these Bibles," I said, undiscouraged.

My quiz confirmed yet again that I can never assume biblical literacy in my New England congregation. Here in my mainline Protestant Congregational church that lies in the shadow of Yale University, the preacher can never be too basic.

Increasingly, people wander into our church with a similar story. They were raised by parents who believed children ought to "choose their religion for themselves." They had parents of different faiths or no faith who preached a generic morality across the dinner table in the hope that something would sink in. Then, after these children were old enough to have busy social schedules, they were offered the option of attending religious institutions their parents had thus far ignored. Few chose to.

I compare this method to sitting your child down and saying, "Now, Johnny, I want you to choose your own career path in life, and so I'm not going to teach you to read."

Today, as adults, with vaguely spiritual yearnings for community in an atomized New England city, these people shop for churches. These adults bravely try to follow the worship service, but I know that ultimately it will be the stories of the Bible that will open their hearts to Christ and this Christian community.

Few praise their parents for raising them without any religious training. They have been left without a framework in which to consider life's mysteries, and when they do enter a church, they feel illiterate.

Yet those who were unchurched are not the only ones who feel this way. Often I am pulled aside by parents who confess that even though they were raised in the church, they do not feel able to share the basics of their faith. Some were raised on sermons that skirted the Scripture or apologized for it. One new member told our denominational executive that while he was church shopping, he had visited 12 churches in which he could not tell whether the minister believed in Christ.

Adults raised in Christian churches will volunteer for the nursery but seldom to teach Sunday school. They worry that they cannot answer their children's basic questions about how churches operate and support themselves, let alone explain ancient rituals and traditions. I understand, because I am a product of the same religious education as many of my members.

In one church I was raised in, Sunday school was small and unimaginative. "Draw a picture of the baby Jesus," we were told each week. "Okay, now you can trace him. Want to make him into a puppet?" The Jesus of my grade-school years was more cute than compelling.

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August 9 1999, Vol. 43, No. 9