Dave Newton: As a parent ‘put your confidence in God - in the one who holds your child more tightly than you ever could.’

Dave, let’s start out with you telling us a bit about yourself.

OK so I am Dave Newton. I’m an Elim Pentecostal, ordained minister, working as the National Director of Scripture Union (SU) England and Wales. My background has got two sides to it. One is youth mission and ministry – I worked for Youth for Christ (YfC) for many years and now work for SU. The second side to my work is that in-between I was the principal of Regents Theological College in Malvern and director of training for the Elim movement. Born and brought up in Merseyside I now live in Malvern which is a beautiful part of the world, married to Liz and have three children who are all adults.

Tell us a bit about your childhood—what was life and faith like in the Newton home?

I grew up in a home shaped by ministry. My parents were both missionaries before they met; my mum was steady and faithful, my dad more of a maverick. He was kicked out of Morocco in the early ‘70s for being a Christian but snuck back in just to see my mum while they were courting. That gives you a glimpse of his character.

Dad had an RAF background and was radically converted while serving. He bought himself out because he felt a higher calling—not to serve Queen and country, but the King of Kings. From then on, he was all-in with ministry.

I was the middle of three brothers. John, the eldest, was orderly and calm; Steve, the youngest, was full of life and adventure. I was the sporty, slightly mischievous one—somewhere in the middle. There was a lot of energy in the house. It wasn’t unusual for Sunday mornings to start with a scuffle between us, which usually ended with Dad separating me from the others and sticking me in the corner of his study while he prepped for his sermon.

More than anything, they gave me a foundation of faith, a sense that God is real and present, and a life of faith is worth pursuing

But even those moments were formational. Sitting quietly in his study taught me not only about discipline but also about presence. Dad loved to walk to church, and I’d often go with him. We rarely talked; we just walked, side by side. It was enough to be together.

Dad was definitely a disciplinarian, but I knew his heart was for Jesus. Mum was the quiet, consistent, prayerful one. I don’t think a night went by without her reading the Bible and praying with us. We had a little prayer routine, always praying for a list of people, many of whom I never knew, that shaped me.

It sounds like your parents influenced your faith significantly. Can you summarise what they taught you, spiritually speaking?

They were people of discipline. In hindsight, some might call it legalism—no TV on Sundays, no shopping, no football. But to them, it was devotion. Sunday was set apart. We spent most of it at church.

Their faith was lived out in front of us. Our home was always open. Every Christmas, some stranger from church with nowhere to go would be at our dinner table. Hospitality was just part of who we were.

They gave us space to be who we were. We were three very different boys, and they didn’t try to fit us into a mould. And they involved us early in ministry. I was picking songs for the evening service when I was eight or nine. It felt natural. Ministry was something we did together.

Were there particular habits or traditions that built your family culture?

Definitely. We had one of those old plaques on the wall: “God is the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation.” It sounds quaint now, but it was deeply formative. There was a sense that God was present, in our house, at our table, in our lives.

Every meal began with grace, not out of habit, but gratitude. And we lived on very little. My dad’s income came from whatever the congregation gave each week. Some weeks that was £50. But my parents modelled trust in God’s provision; that left an impression.

A key memory for me was kneeling on the kitchen floor with my mum on Easter Sunday when I was four, telling her I wanted to give my life to Jesus. We prayed together, and that was it. No bells or whistles—just a moment of sincere faith, which felt completely normal in our home.

How did your faith develop as you hit your teenage years?

There was definitely a shift around the end of primary school and start of secondary. That’s when the peer pressure kicks in. Suddenly, being different matters. You either blend in or you own it.

I chose to own it. I’m a bit stubborn like that. I remember not going to a friend’s birthday party because it was on a Sunday. My mates thought I was mad, but I just told them, “It’s Sunday. This is what we do.”

It wasn’t a burden. It was just our life. And as I moved into secondary school, I began to own my faith more. It wasn’t just something I inherited from my parents, it became mine.

I had opportunities to serve. I was preaching at 14; my first sermon was probably terrible, but people gave me a chance. I remember doing sketch-board evangelism in town when I was 13. I turned around and saw a group of my schoolmates watching. I had a split second to decide—am I going to fudge this or own it? I chose to own it.

That confidence came from the way my parents raised me—believing in me, cheering me on.

Did your journey ever take you in a different theological or spiritual direction than your parents?

In some ways, yes. I ended up becoming the youth worker at the church my dad had once pastored. But when we stepped away from that, my wife and I looked for a different kind of church. We were aware of the fruit of the Spirit from our Holiness upbringing but were keen to explore the power of the Spirit, I guess we were hungry to explore how the Spirit moved. We found a Pentecostal church we loved—not because of the label, but because of the people. There was a desire in us for more of God’s presence, and that shaped our next steps.

If you could thank your parents for one thing in your spiritual journey, what would it be?

Their resilience. They weren’t flashy or fussed. They just got on with it. They taught us that we could make something out of nothing.

I remember asking for a birthday party when I turned eight. We didn’t have any money, but my dad went to a local tyre shop and brought back 20 old tyres. We had the best party: tyre Jenga, tyre races, you name it. That sums up their attitude: creative, can-do, joyful in the moment.

More than anything, they gave me a foundation of faith, a sense that God is real and present, and a life of faith is worth pursuing.

Read more:

Olly Goldenberg: I am so grateful to be able to pass on the spiritual legacy of my parents to my children

What are your overriding memories of being a father yourself?

Becoming a father was, for me, a collision of privilege, responsibility, and a constant rebalancing of priorities. If I could sum up the past 28 years of parenting in a few words, those would be those.

There’s a moment many parents remember: standing in the hospital room, baby in arms, and the door closing behind the nurses. You realise with sudden clarity—They’re leaving me with this child. What now? That’s when the enormity hits. The joy, the awe, and yes, the terrifying responsibility.

Liz, my wife, is a nurse, she’s capable and calm in medical emergencies. But even she was daunted when we were left alone with our newborn. That moment was the start of a lifetime of learning—how to love, lead, and lean on God like never before.

What were some of the biggest challenges you faced early on?

Parenting has had its highs and lows, but nothing prepared us for the health scare with our daughter, Hannah. After an initially smooth journey with our firstborn, we found ourselves plunged into uncertainty just weeks after Hannah’s birth. She couldn’t breathe through her nose due to a flap of skin, and newborns, we discovered, breathe only through their noses. She needed surgery within 24 hours.

That early scare led to regular procedures to widen her nasal passages, but the real shock came during one of these routine operations. Doctors discovered a hole at the base of her skull, through which part of her brain had descended into the bridge of her nose—a condition that, if infected, would have resulted in meningitis. The fact that she’d lived with this condition for three years without infection was nothing short of miraculous.

Parenting has been one of the greatest joys and challenges of my life. It’s taught me that God isn’t asking for perfection—He’s asking for trust

The surgery that followed was daunting—an eight-hour operation that sounded more like science fiction than medical intervention. The night before, as I sat with Hannah in the hospital, I wrestled with God. What if we lost her? What if she came back changed? What if she didn’t remember who we were?

In that moment, stripped of certainty, I found myself declaring, God, even if this doesn’t work out, You are still good. You are still God. That wasn’t just words, it was faith being tested in fire. When she woke after surgery and recognised me with a cheeky, “Dad, what am I wearing?” That told me all I needed to know!

How did those experiences affect your parenting approach?

That experience, like many others, taught us something profound – parents are not always in control. We are called to steward, to guide, to love, but transformation belongs to God.

There were times when our children wrestled with faith or drifted from it, and we were tempted to take the blame or frantically try to fix it. A wise older man in our church once told me, “You can condition behaviour to look like following Jesus, but only God can change the heart.” That gave me permission to stop striving and start praying with more trust.

If I could give my younger self advice, it would be that: put your confidence in God. Not in your parenting skills, not in your child’s behaviour, but in the one who holds your child more tightly than you ever could.

How did faith shape the rhythm of everyday life in your home?

Liz and I are pragmatists by nature. We’re not the type to sit for hours reading books or praying quietly, at least I’m not—our faith is woven into the ordinary. That meant talking to our children about financial needs or health concerns and praying together, even when they were young. If something broke, we prayed. If someone was sick, we prayed. No topic was off-limits.

Once we created a “prayer wall” in our home. A whole section of the hallway was covered in scribbles, drawings, notes—anything the kids wanted to pray for. It could be world peace or a stubbed toe. But it taught us all that prayer isn’t an event, it’s a rhythm. That wall became a spiritual memory board of God’s faithfulness.

Be open and honest with your kids and ensure they know that it’s safe for them to ask anything

Music was another bridge. Our eldest loved music, so we found ways for him to serve in church through it although more often he would want to gig anywhere else. Each of our children had different passions, and rather than dragging them into church life, we tried to draw church into the places they loved—be it sports, music, or community.

We even approached Sunday sport differently. I coached my son’s football team for years and often saw the sidelines as my mission field. Yes, church is important but so is being the church wherever we are.

Were there things that didn’t work so well?

Not everything went to plan. I didn’t do much of the bedtime Bible reading—I’ll admit that was Liz’s strength. She’d read Bible storybooks, Narnia, and even Pilgrim’s Progress. We loved Veggie Tales and all the songs which were on repeat. It worked for us—but looking back, I wonder if we could’ve built stronger bedtime habits like my mum did with me.

What advice would you give to parents today?

Be open and honest with your kids and ensure they know that it’s safe for them to ask anything. Liz, being a gynaecology nurse, made sure that was the case in our house. No question was off-limits, and our rule was: answer what they’re asking, at the level they’re ready for. Not too much, not too little.

Any final thoughts for those in the thick of parenting?

Parenting has been one of the greatest joys and challenges of my life. It’s taught me that God isn’t asking for perfection—He’s asking for trust. And when we involve him in the ordinary, He does extraordinary things. So, to the tired parent who wonders if you’re doing enough: if you’re praying, showing up, loving well, and trusting God—then yes, you are.