Claim:   Temple Baptist Church was built on land sold for fifty-seven cents, the amount saved by a little girl who had been turned away from its Sunday school.

Status:   Mixture.

Example:   [Collected on the Internet, 1999]

A sobbing little girl stood near a small church from which she had been turned away because it 'was too crowded'. "I can't go to Sunday School," she sobbed to the pastor as he walked by. Seeing her shabby, unkempt appearance, the pastor guessed the reason and, taking her by the hand, took her inside and found a place for her in the Sunday School class. The child was so touched that she went to bed that night thinking of the children who have no place to worship Jesus. Some two years later, this child lay dead in one of the poor tenement buildings and the parents called for the kindhearted pastor, who had befriended their daughter, to handle the final arrangements. As her poor little body was being moved, a worn and crumpled purse was found which seemed to have been rummaged from some trash dump. Inside was found 57 cents and a note scribble in childish handwriting which read, "This is to help build the little church bigger so more children can go to Sunday school." For two years she had saved for this offering of love. When the pastor tearfully read that note, he knew instantly what he would do. Carrying this note and the cracked, red pocketbook to the pulpit, he told the story of her unselfish love and devotion. He challenged his deacons to get busy and raise enough money for the larger building. But the story does not end there! A newspaper learned of the story and published it. It was read by a Realtor who offered them a parcel of land worth many thousands. When told that the church could not pay so much, he offered it for a 57 cent payment. Church members made large subscriptions. Checks came from far and wide. Within five years the little girl's gift had increased to $250,000.00 — a huge sum for that time (near the turn of the century). Her unselfish love had paid large dividends. When you are in the city of Philadelphia, look up Temple Baptist Church, with a seating capacity of 3,300, and Temple University, where hundreds of students are trained. Have a look, too, at the Good Samaritan Hospital and at a Sunday School building which houses hundreds of Sunday scholars, so that no child in the area will ever need to be left outside at Sunday school time. In one of the rooms of this building may be seen the picture of the sweet face of the little girl whose 57 cents, so sacrificially saved, made such remarkable history. Alongside of it is a portrait of her kind pastor, Dr. Russell H. Conwell, author of the book, Acres of Diamonds — a true story.

Origins:   It seems these days that no true story is deemed sufficiently inspirational but that it can't be made even more so by the addition of exaggerated and fabricated details. If a story about a sad little orphan makes you misty-eyed, the thinking goes, then transforming it into a tale about a whole busload of abandoned, homeless orphans will make you cry your heart out.

Here we have such a tale, one that contains a kernel of truth wrapped in a layer of exaggeration.

If there's anyone who knows the truth behind this story, it would be Russell H. Conwell, the kindly pastor described in this anecdote. He set down his version of these events in a chapter of his book Acres of Diamonds, and the details he relates are significantly different than the ones presented above.

For starters, he does tell of a little girl who was turned away from Sunday school because there was no room for her:

One afternoon a little girl, who had eagerly wished to go, turned back from the Sunday-school door, crying bitterly because there was no more room . . . [I] asked her why it was that she was crying, and she sobbingly replied that it was because they could not let her into the Sunday-school . . . I said to her that I would take her in, and I did so, and I said to her that we should some day have a room big enough for all who should come.

So far, so good. But what happened next? Unbeknownst to Dr. Conwell, the little girl went home and told her parents that she wanted to save money to build a larger church, and they indulged her by letting her run errands for pennies that she saved in a little bank. And then:

She was a lovable little thing — but in only a few weeks after that she was taken suddenly ill and died; and at the funeral her father told me, quietly, of how his little girl had been saving money for a building-fund. And there, at the funeral, he handed me what she had saved — just fifty-seven cents in pennies.

Dr. Conwell says nothing about being asked to handle the little girl's "final arrangements," makes no mention of a worn and crumpled purse with a note explaining the purpose of the girl's savings, and explains that the girl passed away a "few weeks" (not "two years") after he encountered her outside the church. In fact, there was no note nor any "cracked, red pocketbook" for him to "carry to the pulpit" and use to "challenge his deacons." What occurred next was somewhat more prosaic:

At a meeting of the church trustees I told of this gift of fifty-seven cents — the first gift toward the proposed building-fund of the new church that was some time to exist. For until then the matter had barely been spoken of, as a new church building had been simply a possibility for the future.

The trustees seemed much impressed, and it turned out that they were far more impressed than I could possibly have hoped, for in a few days one of them came to me and said that he thought it would be an excellent idea to buy a lot on Broad Street — the very lot on which the building now stands.

The immediate result of Dr. Conwell's tale of the little girl and her fifty-seven cents? Advice on a piece of property. Hardly the industrious fund-raising efforts this telling leads us to believe took place in short order. Dr. Conwell followed up on the advice:

I talked the matter over with the owner of the property, and told him of the beginning of the fund, the story of the little girl. The man was not one of our church, nor, in fact, was he a church-goer at all, but he listened attentively to the tale of the fifty-seven cents and simply said he was quite ready to go ahead and sell us that piece of land for ten thousand dollars, taking — and the unexpectedness of this deeply touched me — taking a first payment of just fifty-seven cents and letting the entire balance stand on a five-per-cent mortgage!

No mention of a newspaper article that publicized the story, or of a generous realtor who offered a "parcel of land worth many thousands" and dropped the price to fifty-seven cents when told "the church could not pay so much." Just a direct deal between Dr. Conwell and a property owner to buy a piece of land for $10,000 under some rather generous terms: no down payment and a low interest rate.

As things turned out, the church soon came to own the land free and clear, not because "church members made large subscriptions," but because the church received "a single large subscription — one of ten thousand dollars."

This anecdote has all the elements an inspirational tale needs: a little girl who saved her pennies after being turned away from a church that had no room for her, a stranger who was inspired by her story to offer his land to the church at some very favorable terms, and a benefactor who contributed $10,000 so that the church could buy the property outright instead of carrying a mortgage. So why cheapen it by making up details that simply aren't true? Because Dr. Conwell was akin to what today would be termed a "motivational speaker," and he altered and embellished his tales (including this one) at will to better suit his audience and get across the lessons he wanted to impart.

But "truth is stranger than fiction" is not merely an aphorism — sometimes it's advice that should be heeded.

Last updated:   16 December 1999

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  Sources:

    Conwell, Russell H.   Acres of Diamonds.

    New York: Harper & Brothers, 1915   (pp. 88-92).

    Tan, Paul Lee.   Encyclopedia of 7700 Illustrations.

    Rockville, Maryland: Assurance Publishers, 1979.   ISBN 0-88469-100-4   (p. 471).