Motto: "Powerful am I, yet without vigor,
Well-received, by all cast out".
(François Villon, "Ballad of the Blois Contest")
Being a teacher at school: a profession not very well-regarded in current society. "You teachers never work, you're always on holiday!" "You're a teacher because you don't know how to do anything else better paid!" Recently, since teachers here in Belgium have been protesting against new decrees imposing savings, I've read such things more often than before, even though now we will have to do more with fewer resources.
But what about being a religion teacher? Religion, seen as a fifth wheel, which doesn't count towards the average grade and brings no practical benefits or skills, a subject as "gratuitous" or "useless" as art, and much less "beneficial" than a sports class. A subject viewed with condescension by both authorities and colleagues who teach "serious," scientific, verifiable, useful subjects.
And yet, this is what I chose to do, even though I pursued other studies before. I believe in what Saint Paul said, that power can reside in weakness. Ultimately, I sometimes get discouraged and feel that what I do serves no purpose.
But in fact, I'm not writing to complain: this was a kind of introduction to the core of the problem. Despite everything I wrote above, we have the opportunity to talk to young people about essential things and to encourage them to open up to them, and that matters. A position of strength, in alliance with power, has never truly served the Church. "Powerful am I, yet without vigor".
Being a teacher of "Orthodox religion," as it is officially called in the Belgian school curriculum, is at the same time a job built on shaky foundations, poorly evaluated, ill-regarded, suspected by some colleagues of being a sinecure – yet full of possibilities and creative freedom, despite the short time we have available. Paradoxical, like the Christian truth. As François Villon said in the ballad of the Blois contest.
Returning to colleagues, at first the inspector told us that, often, our role in schools is pastoral: we are the only adult representatives of Orthodoxy for those in the school, a reference for others. Generally, after a while, they realize that we are neither Taliban nor, frankly, truly stupid or limited (NB:if we are not), and they change their preconceived notions about the course or, who knows, even about Orthodoxy and Christianity in general.
Starting today, I would like to propose a chronicle of the religion teacher, in which I will recount small incidents from classes, the staff room, or the hallways.
My students come from different backgrounds, from many countries – all countries in Eastern Europe, Armenia, Turkey, Georgia, Egypt, Iraq, and I have small classes. Each year, students can choose between several "philosophical" courses of religion or non-confessional ethics. Sometimes they are born here, other times they came as young children or have just arrived in Belgium and still have significant problems with the French language and adaptation. Sometimes they come from mixed families – one parent is Orthodox, and the other is of a different denomination, or even another religion. Sometimes I even have students who are not Orthodox, or not even Christian; they come out of curiosity or follow a friend. Most of the time they don't know much, and their relationship with the Christian faith is primarily identity-based. Sometimes they feel they already know enough, or are full of obscure certainties that are difficult to shake.
In the best-case scenario, however, they have questions (and fortunately this is not rare):
"Madam, who made ("invented") the world?"
"Is it a sin to get a tattoo?"
"What happens after death?"
"Who created God?" (sic!)
"What is the difference between Catholics and Orthodox?"
"How can we be sure that what is written in the Bible is true?"
"When will the end of the world come?"
"Who is right: science or religion (or, more naively: Who made the world, science or religion?)"
Or, provocatively: "What's the point of the religion class, actually?"
To answer some of them, at least partially, I would have to start from afar. As some students amusingly told me, I always started from Adam and Eve when they asked me a question. But that was about 12 years ago. Students' attention span has decreased even more since then.
So how do you do it, when you only have an hour available?
For example, I always return to the essential and the basics. (Who is Jesus Christ and why God became man; the law of love. Or basic knowledge: what books are in the New Testament)
I make vocabulary sheets and main ideas with them.
I use simple phrases. I try to reduce to essentials, without forgetting the nuances.
I agree to change or shorten the subject if I see that a topic fails to capture their attention.
I combine subjects, I try to find out what they are taught in other subjects (everything is correlated, makes sense and can be filled with spirit).
I promote dialogue, as a form of group search. You never remember something better than when you discovered it because you searched for it.
Every year, I try new methods and bring new topics.
But... I also have questions! Do I simplify too much – or, on the contrary, complicate? Do they go through everything I tell them like a duck off a duck's back? I don't know. Everything always needs to be reinvented. Every year, month and day new challenges arise. I hope, however, that even when they seem to forget everything from one hour to the next, they are not like geese, but like lettuce, through which water passed without leaving traces, but cleaned it of sand.
(to be continued)
Alexandra de Moffarts
Photo by Mart Production / pexels.com