Every morning, we started by praying. We had to fold our hands and put them on the edge of our table, our eyes had to be closed (they were strict about that), and then the teacher prayed:
"Dear Lord, thank you for this new morning and for ensuring we are all healthy again. We ask you if you want to be with us today, especially if you want to be with ..... (and then the name of a sick child was mentioned). Thank you. Amen'
We sang a psalm or a hymn. The teacher, Miss, told a story from the Bible. Every year, we start with the Creation story of Genesis, the apple of Eve, the two sons of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, and how Cain killed Abel. After this came the story of Abraham and Sarah, how Abraham had another wife, and Sarah couldn't have a child, how Abraham had to sacrifice his son, and the story of Lot, whose wife looked back and turned into a pillar of salt.
Until the Christmas holidays, we heard the stories from the Old Testament. Joseph, the youngest son, was tormented by his brothers but could interpret Pharaoh's dreams; Moses was placed in a wicker basket and found by Pharaoh's daughter and would later lead the People to the Promised Land. We heard about Moses’ sister being punished for wanting to dance. It was already clear that women played a minor role in those Bible stories. They were all bad, weak, or depraved.
As the days grew colder and shorter, the Bible stories were about Mary becoming pregnant by God. She was married to a carpenter but had a baby by God. The baby's name was Jesus. He was beautiful, and everyone was happy that he was born. A choir of angels appeared in the sky, for the angels were also so pleased with the birth of Jesus, who was born in a stable with an ox and a donkey. There were shepherds herding their sheep nearby; they heard those angels singing and saw a beautiful light over a hut. They went to have a look and found this lovely baby in a feeder for animals. Wise men had read that a king's child had been born; they were surprised to see Jesus in a stable, but they knew he must be that king's child, for there was a star right over the stable.
We didn't hear much more about Jesus until he was a bit bigger and so handsome that everyone in the temple was amazed by this clever boy. When he's a little older, he'll come loose. He rages like a wild man. He knocks sellers out of the temple because he disagrees with the money being made there. He's against those in authority, does things that can't be done, challenges people, and more people think he's excellent, and more people are against him.
Jesus is a rebel and appeals to me, no matter how small I am. It is such an exciting and beautiful story of Jesus, and I hang on to every word of Miss. He is already opposed, but Jesus is a hero, and there is nothing he cannot do. Jesus can walk on water, bring little dead girls back to life, make wine out of water, and feed a mass of people with a few fish and some loaves of bread. And Jesus doesn't have such a low opinion of women.
In short, even if Jesus' situation becomes increasingly precarious, I know that he will get out of it. In addition to being a hero, he is also the son of God. And God can do everything—even more than Jesus, for God made the heavens and the earth, men, animals, plants, and all the fruits. Of course, God loves his Son very much, and he will certainly help Jesus.
Unfortunately, this does not happen. It is incomprehensible, but Jesus is murdered. Jesus, my hero is killed. At first, he is treated terribly. God doesn't do anything. Jesus was his Son; he just let Jesus die. He makes them ridicule Jesus, and he makes them hurt Jesus. They put a crown of thorns on his head, and Jesus bleeds; he must carry a cross through the streets of Jerusalem, and people mock him. After this, he is nailed to a cross; they drive nails through his hands, and they drive nails through his feet. There hangs Jesus, the son of God. Before Jesus dies, he calls out to his Father, "Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?"
I'm utterly upset. I can't stop crying; this is not what I expected.
I come home crying.
"He's dead," I cry.
"Who's dead," my mother asks, startled.
"Jesus, the son of God, he could do anything, but now the Romans killed him."