by A. J. Jacobs
Zywiec (a town in southern Poland known for its beer). What could I do next? The only intellectual adventure that seemed a worthy follow-up was to explore the most influential book in the world, the all-time best seller, the Bible.
Second, this project would be my visa to a spiritual world. I wouldn’t just be studying religion. I’d be living it. If I had what they call a God-shaped hole in my heart, this quest would allow me to fill it. If I had a hidden mystical side, this year would bring it out of the closet. If I wanted to understand my forefathers, this year would let me live like they did, but with less leprosy.
And third, this project would be a way to explore the huge and fascinating topic of biblical literalism. Millions of Americans say they take the Bible literally. According to a 2005 Gallup poll, the number hovers near 33 percent; a 2004 Newsweek poll put it at 55 percent. A literal interpretation of the Bible—both Jewish and Christian—shapes American policies on the Middle East, homosexuality, stem cell research, education, abortion—right on down to rules about buying beer on Sunday.
But my suspicion was that almost everyone’s literalism consisted of picking and choosing. People plucked out the parts that fit their agenda, whether that agenda was to the right or left. Not me. I thought, with some naïveté, I would peel away the layers of interpretation and find the true Bible underneath. I would do this by being the ultimate fundamentalist. I’d be fearless. I would do exactly what the Bible said, and in so doing, I’d discover what’s great and timeless in the Bible and what is outdated.
I told my wife, Julie, my idea, and warned her it might affect our life in a not-so-minor way. She didn’t gnash her teeth or tear out her hair. She just emitted a little sigh. “I was kind of hoping your next book would be a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt or something.”
Everyone—family, friends, coworkers—had the same concern: that I’d go native. That I’d end up as a beekeeper at a monastery, or I’d move into my ex-uncle Gil’s spare room in his Jerusalem apartment.
In a sense, they were right to worry. It’s impossible to immerse yourself in religion for twelve months and emerge unaffected. At least it was for me. Put it this way: If my former self and my current self met for coffee, they’d get along OK, but they’d both probably walk out of the Starbucks shaking their heads and saying to themselves, “That guy is kinda delusional.”
As with most biblical journeys, my year has taken me on detours I could never have predicted. I didn’t expect to herd sheep in Israel. Or fondle a pigeon egg. Or find solace in prayer. Or hear Amish jokes from the Amish. I didn’t expect to confront just how absurdly flawed I am. I didn’t expect to discover such strangeness in the Bible. And I didn’t expect to, as the Psalmist says, take refuge in the Bible and rejoice in it.
The Preparation
And he shall read in it all the days of his life…
—DEUTERONOMY 17:19
On the admittedly random day of July 7, 2005, I begin my preparations. I pull out a Bible that is tucked away in the corner of my bookshelf. I don’t even remember where I got it, but it looks like the Platonic ideal of a Bible. Like a Bible they’d use in a fifties Western to stop a bullet from piercing the hero’s chest. On the front, it says “Holy Bible” in faded gold embossing. The tissue-thin pages remind me of my beloved encyclopedia. The black leather cover smells exactly like my parents’ 1976 Plymouth Valiant. It feels good, comforting.
I crack open the Bible. The title page says, “This Bible is presented to…” and then, in handwritten bubble letters, the name of my ex-girl-friend. Huh. Somehow I had inadvertently pilfered my ex-girlfriend’s childhood Bible. I hope inadvertently. It’s been a decade since we broke up, and I can’t remember. Regardless, that’s not a good sign. At the very least, I need to return it when I’m done.
I’ve read bits and pieces of the Bible before, but never the whole thing, never straight through from Genesis to Revelation. So that’s what I do for four weeks, five hours a day. Luckily, I’m used to marathon reading from my Britannica project, so it felt pleasantly nostalgic.
As I read, I type into my PowerBook every rule, every guideline, every suggestion, every nugget of advice I find in the Bible. When I finish, I have a very long list. It runs seventy-two pages. More than seven hundred rules. The scope is astounding. All aspects of my life will be affected—the way I talk, walk, eat, bathe, dress, and hug my wife.
Many of the rules will be good for me and will, I hope, make me a better person by the end of the year. I’m thinking of: No lying. No coveting. No stealing. Love your neighbor. Honor your parents. Dozens of them. I’ll be the Gandhi of the Upper West Side.
But plenty of other rules don’t seem like they’ll make me more righteous at all. Just more strange, more obsessive, more likely to alienate friends and family: Bathe after sex. Don’t eat fruit from a tree planted less than five years ago. Pay the wages of a worker every day.
And a good number of the rules aren’t just baffling, but federally outlawed. As in: Destroy idols. Kill magicians. Sacrifice oxen.
This is going to be a monster project. I need a plan of attack. I need to make some decisions.
1. Which version of the Bible should I use?
The Bible I pulled from my bookshelf is called the Revised Standard Version, which it turns out is a well-respected translation, an offspring of the famed King James Version from 1611, but stripped of most of the “thee”s and “thou”s.
It’s a good start. But it’s just one of many, many versions—an estimated three thousand of them in English alone. One of my goals is to find out what the Bible really says, so I decide I can’t rely on any single translation. I want to compare and contrast at least some of those three thousand.
I go to a Bible bookstore in midtown Manhattan. It’s a huge Wal-Mart-sized store with fluorescent lighting and a long counter of cash registers at the front. My salesman is named Chris, a soft-spoken guy with the body of an Olympic power lifter. He shows me tables covered with Bibles of all shapes, sizes, and linguistic slants—from the plain-spoken English of the Good News Bible to the majestic cadence of the Jerusalem Bible.
He points out one Bible I might want. It’s designed to look exactly like a Seventeen magazine: An attractive (if long-sleeved) model graces the front, next to cover lines like “What’s Your Spiritual IQ?” Open it up and you’ll find sidebars such as “Rebecca the Control Freak.”
“This one’s good if you’re on the subway and are too embarrassed to be seen reading the Bible,” says Chris. “Because no one will ever know it’s a Bible.” It’s an odd and poignant selling point. You know you’re in a secular city when it’s considered more acceptable for a grown man to read a teen girl’s magazine than the Bible.
I leave the store with two shopping bags packed with Scripture. But my buying spree isn’t over. When I get home, I click on Amazon.com and get several Jewish translations of the Bible, and a half-dozen Bible commentaries. To be safe, I order The Bible for Dummies and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Bible—anything aimed at those with a sub-80 IQ.
That’s not to mention the Bibles sent to me by friends. One gave me the waterproof Outdoor Bible so that I could study the Scripture even during floods and other Old Testament weather patterns. Another sent me a hip-hop version, where the Twenty-third Psalm reads “The Lord is all that.” (The more traditional translation is “The Lord is my shepherd.”)
In short, I’ve got the proverbial stack of Bibles, almost waist high.
2. What does it mean to follow the Bible literally?
To follow the Bible literally—at face value, at its word, according to its plain meaning—isn’t just a daunting proposition. It’s a dangerous one.
Consider: In the third century, the scholar Origen is said to have interpreted literally Matthew 19:12—“There are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven”—and castrated himself. Origen later became a preeminent theologian of his age—and an advocate of figurative interpretation.
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Another example: In the mid-1800s, when anesthesia was first introduced for women in labor, there was an uproar. Many felt it violated God’s pronouncement in Genesis 3:16: “I will greatly multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children.” If Julie and I ever have another child, would I dare get between her and the epidural needle? Not a chance.
It’s a good bet that, at some time or other in history, every single passage in the Bible has been taken as literal. I’ve decided I can’t do that. That’d be misleading, unnecessarily flip, and would result in missing body parts. No, instead my plan is this: I will try to find the original intent of the biblical rule or teaching and follow that to the letter. If the passage is unquestionably figurative—and I’m going to say the eunuch one is—then I won’t obey it literally. But if there’s any doubt whatsoever—and most often there is—I will err on the side of being literal. When it says don’t tell lies, I’ll try not to tell any lies. When it says to stone blasphemers, I’ll pick up rocks.
3. Should I obey the Old Testament, the New Testament, or both?
Many, perhaps most, of the teachings in the two testaments are similar, but some are significantly different. So I’ve decided to split up my quest.
I will devote most of my year—eight months or so—to the Old Testament, since that’s where you’ll find the bulk of the Bible’s rules. The Old Testament consists of thirty-nine books that mix narrative, genealogy, poetry, and lots and lots of laws. The first five books alone—the books of Moses—have hundreds of decrees, including the crucial Ten Commandments, as well as some of the more seemingly atavistic ones about executing homosexuals. That’s not to mention divinely inspired advice in later Old Testament books. The Proverbs—a collection of King Solomon’s wisdom—offer guidance on child rearing and marriage. The Psalms tell you how to worship. I’ll be abiding by everything. Or trying to.
Being officially Jewish, I feel much more comfortable living and writing about the Old Testament. (Or, as many Jews prefer to call it, the Hebrew Bible, since old implies “outdated,” and new implies “improved”). But in the final four months of my year, I want to explore—in at least some way—the teachings of the Christian Bible, the New Testament.
To ignore the New Testament would be to ignore half of the story. The evangelical movement and its literal interpretation of the Bible hold enormous sway, both for the good (they were powerful advocates for aiding Darfur) and, to my secular mind, the not-so-good (far-right fundamentalists are driving the creationism movement).
Naturally, there’s the most famous of all Christian literalists—the conservatives in the Jerry Falwell/Pat Robertson mold. I plan to meet them later this year. But I also want to look at evangelical groups such as the “Red-letter Christians,” which focus on what they see as literal adherence to Jesus’s teachings about compassion, nonviolence, and the redistribution of wealth.
It’s debatable whether the New Testament even has a legal code—it depends on your definition of “law”—but it has many teachings that have been followed with varying degrees of literalness, from Jesus’s “turn the other cheek” and “love your enemy” to the Apostle Paul’s decree that men should have short hair. Frankly, I haven’t hammered out all the details of my New Testament plan but hope to figure it out once I get my spiritual footing.
4. Should I have guides?
The Bible says, “It is not good for the man to be alone.” Plus, I’m flying blind here. So over the course of a couple of weeks, I assemble a board of spiritual advisers: rabbis, ministers, and priests, some of them conservative, some of them one four-letter word away from excommunication. Some are friends of friends, some are names I stumbled upon in Bible commentary books. I’ll be talking to them as much as possible.
Plus, I make a pledge to get out of the house. I’ll visit a bunch of groups that take the Bible literally in their own way: the ultra-Orthodox Jews, the ancient sect of Samaritans, and the Amish, among others.
My guides will give me advice and context. But they won’t be the final word. The Bible will. I don’t want to follow any single tradition exclusively. As naïve or misguided as it may be, I want to discover the Bible for myself, even if it entails trekking down some circuitous paths. “DIY religion,” as my friend calls it. Perhaps I’ll find the beauty of a particular tradition fits me best. Or perhaps I’ll start my own sect of Judeo-Christianity. I don’t know.
As I expected, not everyone thinks my project is a great idea. My aunt Kate—who has remained an Orthodox Jew even after her divorce from the controversial Gil—told me I was, as our people say, meshuga.
I first floated the idea by Kate in early August. We were at my grandfather’s house sitting around his big dining room table. Kate had just finished changing after a dip in the pool. (She won’t wear a bathing suit for modesty reasons, so she plunged in with her long, black billowy dress, which impressed me. The thing looked heavy enough to sink a lifeguard.) When I explained the premise of my book, her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Really?” she said.
Then she laughed. I think part of her was happy that someone in our godless family was showing some interest in religion.
After which she got concerned: “It’s misguided. You need the oral law. You can’t just obey the written law. It doesn’t make sense without the oral law.”
The traditional Jewish position is this: The Bible—known as the written law—was composed in shorthand. It’s so condensed, it’s almost in code. Which is where the oral law comes in. The rabbis have unraveled the Bible for us in books such as the Talmud, which are based on the oral teachings of the elders. When the Bible says to “rest” on the Sabbath, you need the rabbis to tell you what “rest” means. Can you exercise? Can you cook? Can you log on to drugstore.com?
Without the rabbis, I’m like the protagonist of the early eighties TV show The Greatest American Hero—he found a bright red suit that gave him all these superpowers, but he lost the instruction manual, so he was always flying into walls.
Some conservative Christians were also baffled by my undertaking. They said I couldn’t truly understand the Bible without accepting the divinity of Christ. They said that many of these laws—like the ones about animal sacrifice—were nullified by Jesus’s death.
And I did start to have doubts. These were good points. I felt torn, anxious about my approach, my monumental ignorance, my lack of preparation, about all the inevitable blunders I’d make. And the more I read, the more I absorbed the fact that the Bible isn’t just another book. It’s the book of books, as one of my Bible commentaries calls it. I love my encyclopedia, but the encyclopedia hasn’t spawned thousands of communities based on its words. It hasn’t shaped the actions, values, deaths, love lives, warfare, and fashion sense of millions of people over three millennia. No one has been executed for translating the encyclopedia into another language, as was William Tyndale when he published the first widely distributed English-language edition of the Bible. No president has been sworn in with the encyclopedia. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
Fortunately, I got a couple of pep talks from two of my favorite advisers. The first was Reverend Elton Richards, my friend David’s father, who just retired as minister of his Lutheran congregation in Des Moines, Iowa. He calls himself a “pastor out to pasture.” I told him about the doubters.
“You just have to tell them that you have a hunger and a thirst. And you may not sit at the same banquet table as them, but you have a hunger and thirst. So they shouldn’t judge you.”
I love the way he talks. By the end, perhaps I’ll be able to speak in majestic food metaphors like Reverend Richards.
I also had breakfast with Rabbi Andy Bachman, a brilliant man who heads up one of Brooklyn’s largest synagogues, Congregation Beth Elohim. He told me a midrash—a story or legend that is not in the Bible proper, but which deals with biblical events. This midrash is about the parting of the Red Sea.
“We all think of the scene in The Ten Commandme
nts movie with Charlton Heston, where Moses lifted up his rod, and the waters rolled back. But this midrash says that’s not how it happened. Moses lifted up his rod, and the sea did not part. The Egyptians were closing in, and the sea wasn’t moving. So a Hebrew named Nachshon just walked into the water. He waded up to his ankles, then his knees, then his waist, then his shoulders. And right when water was about to get up to his nostrils, the sea parted. The point is, sometimes miracles occur only when you jump in.”
So I did. And here is what happened.
Month One: September
Fear God and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.
—ECCLESIASTES 12:13
It’s the first day, and I already feel like the water is three feet over my head.
I have chosen September 1 to start my project, and from the moment I wake up, the Bible consumes my life. I can’t do anything without fearing I’m breaking a biblical law. Before I so much as inhale or exhale, I have to run through a long mental checklist of the rules.
It begins when I open my closet to get dressed. The Bible forbids men to wear women’s clothing (Deuteronomy 22:5), so that comfortable Dickinson College sweatshirt is off-limits. It was originally my wife’s.
The Bible says to avoid wearing clothes made of mixed fibers (Leviticus 19:19), so I have to mothball my poly-cotton Esquire magazine T-shirt.
And loafers? Am I allowed to wear leather? I go to the living room, click on my PowerBook and open my Biblical Rules file. I scroll down to the ones about animals. Pigskin and snakeskin are questionable, but it looks like regular old cow leather is permissible.
But wait—am I even allowed to use the computer? The Bible, as you might have guessed, doesn’t address the issue specifically, so I give it a tentative yes. Maybe sometime down the road, I could try stone tablets.
And then I stumble. Within a half hour of waking, I check the Amazon.com sales ranking of my last book. How many sins does that comprise? Pride? Envy? Greed? I can’t even count.