Sunday school class with Jimmy Carter: What it was like
PLAINS, Ga. — It never got old.
No matter how many times one crammed into the modest sanctuary at Maranatha Baptist Church, there was always some wisdom to be gleaned from the measured, Bible-inspired words of Jimmy Carter.
This was another side of the 39th president, a down-to-earth man of steadfast faith who somehow found time to teach Sunday school classes when he wasn't building homes for the needy, or advocating for fair elections, or helping eradicate awful diseases.
For young and old, straight and gay, believers and nonbelievers, Black and white and brown, Maranatha was a far-off-the-beaten path destination in southwest Georgia where Carter, well into his 90s, stayed connected with his fellow citizens of the world.
Anyone willing to make the trek to his hometown of Plains, with its one blinking caution light and residents numbering in the hundreds, was rewarded with access to a white-haired man who once occupied the highest office in the land.
Carter taught his Sunday school class roughly twice a month to accommodate crowds that sometimes swelled to more than 500. (On the other Sundays, no more than a couple dozen regulars and a handful of visitors usually attended services).
Here, the former commander-in-chief and the onetime first lady, his wife of more than seven decades, were simply Mr. Jimmy and Ms. Rosalynn. And when it came to worshipping with them, all were welcome.
Sundays with Mr. Jimmy
Before the former president entered the sanctuary, with a bomb-sniffing dog outside and Secret Service agents scattered around, a strict set of rules would be laid out by Ms. Jan — Jan Williams, a longtime church member and friend of the Carters. She would have made quite a drill sergeant.
It felt like a good-cop, bad-cop routine. Ms. Jan barking out rules you knew had come straight from Mr. Jimmy, who studied nuclear physics and approached all things with an engineer's orderly mind.
Most important for those wanting a photo with the Carters — and nearly everyone did — you had to stay for the main 11 a.m. church service. Picture-taking began around noon.
If you left the church grounds before that, there was no coming back. If you stayed, you followed rules. No autographs. No handshakes. No attempts at conversation beyond a brief "good morning" or "thank you."
Carter, consistently in sports jacket, slacks and bolo tie, would start his lesson by moving around the sanctuary, asking with a straight face if there were any visitors — that always got a laugh — and where they were from. In my many trips to Maranatha, I'm sure I heard all 50 states, not to mention an array of far-flung countries.
If anyone answered Washington, D.C., the answer was predictable. "I used to live there," the one-term president would say, breaking into that toothy grin.
Carter's Bible lessons focused on central themes: God gives life, loves unconditionally and provides the freedom to live a completely successful life. But the lesson usually began with an anecdote about what he'd been up to or his perspective on world affairs.
Carter could talk about building homes with Habitat for Humanity or bemoan U.S. conflicts since World War II. He could talk about his work with The Elders, a group of former world leaders, or a trip out West to go trout fishing with Ted Turner. He could talk about The Carter Center's successes in eliminating the guinea worm, or his long friendships with Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan.
"Willie Nelson is an old friend. He used to come visit me in the White House," Carter related once, touching ever so gently on Nelson's affection for weed.
"I don't know what Willie and my children did after I went to bed. I've heard rumors," the former president said, with a sly grin and a wink that suggested he believed every word.
My favorite: Carter telling of his latest book project and how he had long used encyclopedias for research.
Carter decided the collection was taking up too much space, so he boxed it up and headed out to local schools and libraries, figuring someone would eagerly take a donation from an ex-president. Instead, he got a standard refrain: Sorry, no one uses encyclopedias anymore.
I recall the punchline. "How do I look up things now?" asked the man born five years after World War I ended. Pause. Then: "Google."
Memories of visits
During most of my visits to Maranatha, Carter spoke for 45 minutes without sitting down. His mind remained sharp, with only an occasional glance at the notes tucked inside his Bible, but his body became more and more feeble as he moved deeper into his 90s. He talked openly about the ravages of aging.
He resisted church members' pleadings to take a seat while teaching. I was there the first time he tried it, in August 2018.
"I'm uncomfortable sitting down," he said, "but I guess I'll get used to it."
Not that time. Carter sat for less than 10 minutes before rising. He stood at the table for the rest of class.
Returning the following year, Carter had relented to using a white, remote-controlled chair. After climbing aboard — voilà — a flick of a switch would slowly lift him above the lectern, visible even to those sitting in the back.
If there wasn't enough room in the sanctuary, rows of folding chairs were set up in the fellowship hall and a handful of tiny classrooms. Carter's lesson would be shown on TVs linked to a feed from the main room.
A letdown for visitors? Perhaps. But relegation to a back room had its benefits.
Carter, who usually arrived about 15 minutes before the start of his 10 a.m. lesson, would swing by these rooms before heading to the sanctuary. He would even take a few questions, which didn't happen in front of the big crowd.
After a 2018 profile by The Washington Post told of the Carters having regular Saturday night dinners at friend Jill Stuckey's house, which included one glass each of "bargain-brand Chardonnay," I asked Carter how many glasses of wine he'd had the night before.
"I'll say one," Carter replied with a sly grin. Stuckey, standing behind him, shook her head and held up two fingers.
No matter where you sat — main sanctuary or back room — everyone got their picture taken with Mr. Jimmy and Ms. Rosalynn. For many, this seemed the biggest reward.
When we first started attending, those pictures were taken under a tree just outside the church. After being diagnosed with cancer in 2015, Carter and his wife would pose with visitors inside the sanctuary. Carter liked to joke about what a burden it was to sit for all those pictures, which surely numbered in the hundreds of thousands.
"I'll be delighted to have photographs made with all of you," he quipped after one of his final lessons. "Actually, since I'm in church, I better say I'll be willing to have photographs made with all of you."
For my family, those pictures show a son growing from boy to man with Mr. Jimmy and Ms. Rosalynn filling out the frames. What a treasure they are.
The final lesson
Turnout for Carter's Sunday school lessons dipped during the Great Recession. But the crowds returned after his cancer announcement, with some folks lining up outside the church the night before.
Carter declared himself cancer-free, but other health challenges began to catch up with him. After an October 2019 fall at his home left him with a slightly fractured pelvis, the church announced Carter would not teach his next class on Nov. 3, a lesson we had planned to attend. Disappointed, we canceled our hotel reservation.
But Mr. Jimmy wasn't done just yet.
The church had canceled without checking with him. He made it clear that he was NOT canceling. We quickly rebooked. Carter's lesson that day, based on the Book of Job, was especially poignant in retrospect.
"I'm going to start by asking you a very profound question," he said. "How many of you believe in life after death?"
Carter conceded to having doubts for most of his life, right up to being stricken by cancer, which finally erased any skepticism. When the end on this world came, he would be ready.
"We don't have anything to dread after death," Carter said with a reassuring smile.
At the end of his lesson, he challenged everyone to do one good deed for a stranger. "I'm going to hold you to it," Carter promised.
He never got the chance.
His health continued to decline, sidelining him through the Christmas season. Then, the COVID-19 pandemic shut down the world in 2020.
By that summer, it was clear that Mr. Jimmy's treasured role as spreader of the gospel, which he began at 18 and resumed after his presidency, was over.
Paul Newberry, an Atlanta-based national sports writer and columnist for The Associated Press, traveled to Plains, Georgia, with his family and friends about 20 times to attend Carter's Sunday school classes. He was there for Carter's final lesson.