Teaching My Son About Judaism, and Atheism

When my son Oliver was 4, he found Jesus. He discovered him, with kind eyes and flowing hair, in the pages of one of the “early reader” reference books he used to trawl through at the library. As he had with stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans, Oliver became captivated by the Christian Bible. The Crucifixion scene especially caught his interest; this was the illustration to which he returned, over and over again, running his fingers lightly across Jesus’ wrists, where the nails and flesh met.

For the next six months or so, Jesus became a regular fixture in our life. A game of charades would prompt Oliver to back up against the door, arms splayed, head lolling to one side on his imaginary cross. A family trip to Israel ended in tears because the rest of us were not willing to wait three hours in line to lay eyes on Jesus’ final resting place in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Oliver knew by then that some people believed Jesus was the son of God. I would even go so far as to say he believed it himself.