by A. J. Jacobs
“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” asks Yossi.
“Right.”
“OK, then give me your left arm.”
I stick out my arm, palm up, and Yossi places the black box on my left biceps. As prescribed by custom, I wrap the band around my arm seven times, starting below the elbow and ending at the wrist. Well, actually, I do it five times and then run out of arm. So I start over with Yossi’s help, which isn’t easy for him, as it requires him to do reverse wrapping.
“It’s like tying a tie on someone else,” he says.
He finally wraps it the proper seven times. Yossi puts the other black box on my forehead, and points to a part in the prayer book. I read, “Blessed be the Name of His glorious kingdom for ever and ever.”
The tefillin is tight, creating six little lumps of forearm. The experience isn’t frightening or odd, as I’d imagined. It is more…comforting. The wrapped arm reminds me of getting my blood pressure taken, so my unconscious logic probably went like this:
Getting my blood pressure taken is good for me.
This feels like I’m getting my blood pressure taken.
Therefore it must be good for me.
Or maybe it’s that it reminds me of getting swaddled. I used to envy Jasper whenever I rolled him into a human burrito in his swaddling blanket. Perhaps this was God swaddling me.
Or maybe it’s something about connecting with my father’s father. My aunt had recently told me that my grandfather used to wrap tefillin. Which startled me. I knew that he was more religious than most of my secular family. But wrapping tefillin? That’s seriously religious. And if he did it, you know his dad did it. And so on back for hundreds of years.
As Yossi helps me unwind the straps from my arm and head, I feel relief. Not just that I hadn’t totally messed up the ritual. But relief that, after trying to do DIY religion for months, I’d finally done it the approved way. The Vilna Gaon would be happy.
It didn’t send me into the mystical trance that I seek, but it was far more moving than I thought it’d be. As strange as the ritual is, it also has beauty. As I walk home, I feel my red heifer–inspired skepticism ebb away.
Finally, Moses finished writing all the words of these teachings in a book.
—DEUTERONOMY 31:24 (GWT)
Day 181. My Esquire boss just sent me a final version of the article I wrote about the Wikipedia, the online collaborative encyclopedia. I admire the Wikipedia, though I do so with much guilt, since it’s the enemy of my beloved Britannica.
In any case, I’ve decided—and my aunt Kate would kill me if she heard this—that the Wikipedia and the Bible have a lot in common. Hardcore believers say that the Bible emerged from God’s oven like a fully baked cake. Or, to be precise, several fully baked pieces. Moses transcribed the first five books. King David wrote Psalms. The Gospel of St. Luke was written solely by St. Luke. Every book of the Bible was written by a single author who transcribed God’s words.
The alternative is called the documentary hypothesis. This says that the Bible has many, many authors and editors. The first five books of Moses didn’t come from Moses alone. They are a patchwork from four anonymous sources who have been named J, E, P, and D. Each writer has his own linguistic quirks and theological passions. P, for instance, short for “Priestly,” was fascinated by the laws. The sections on food and sex prohibitions in Leviticus, for instance, come from the Priestly source.
The passages have been chopped and pieced together by various editors. In short, the hypothesis says that the Bible has evolved, like humans themselves. Like a Wikipedia entry.
I believe the documentary hypothesis. And, as with creationism versus evolution, I just can’t see myself ever embracing the alternative. I’m too in awe of archaeology and secular historical scholarship to reject it. I’m too attached to the idea that everything has untidy origins.
The challenge is finding meaning, guidance, and sacredness in the Bible even if I don’t believe that God sat behind His big oak desk in heaven and dictated the words verbatim to a bunch of flawless secretaries. Or maybe the fundamentalists are right, and this is impossible.
For the company of the godless is barren…
—JOB 15:34
Day 181, afternoon. I was on the subway today, sitting a few seats down from a Buddhist monk. He looked at me, with my white raiment and bushy beard, I looked at him, with his orange robes, and we exchanged a knowing nod and smile.
It was a great moment. I felt like I’d been let through the velvet rope at a holy nightclub.
Here, at the halfway mark of my journey, I’ve had an unexpected mental shift. I feel closer to the ultrareligious New Yorkers than I do the secular. The guy with the fish on his bumper sticker. The black man with the kufi. The Hasidim with their swinging fringes. These are my compatriots. They think about God and faith and prayer all the time, just like I do.
Yes, there’s still a difference between me and my alter ego Jacob—but Jacob is gaining strength. In fact, he’s often the dominant one, quizzically observing my secular self. Jacob looks at the world and says, “Secular people are the freaks, not religious people. How can you not think about the Big Questions all the time? How can you put so much energy into caring about earthly matters, like basketball games or Esquire’s sell-through rates or the divorce proceedings of TV actresses?”
I’m still aware of the Bible’s crazy parts. I haven’t forgotten about the red heifer. But I find myself compelled to look for the Bible’s good parts—or at least put the insane parts in context. Yes, it’s crazy that I have to grow a huge beard. But if you think about it, it’s actually a humane hairstyle. You’re not supposed to shave the corners—the payot—the same word used when God tells us to leave the corners of the field unharvested. As with the side locks and edible crickets, maybe the beard teaches us to remember the less fortunate.
Last week, as part of my equal-time policy, I read Mark Twain’s Letters from the Earth. It’s both very funny and wildly sacrilegious. At one point Twain says he doesn’t understand why the Bible so despises those who piss against a wall. He’s referring to this verse in the King James version of the Bible:
And it came to pass, when he began to reign, as soon as he sat on his throne, that he slew all the house of Baasha: he left him not one that pisseth against a wall, neither of his kinsfolks, nor of his friends (1 Kings 16:11).
Twain writes: “A person could piss against a tree, he could piss on his mother, he could piss on his own breeches and get off, but he must not piss against the wall—that would be going quite too far.”
Yet I knew from my research that those who “piss against the wall” was an idiom for adult men, since men would go behind a wall to get a modicum of privacy. Not quite as nonsensical. I want to stick up for the Bible, maybe insert a footnote in Twain’s book.
Today a friend of mine who knows of my biblical quest sent me a funny email. It’s the third time I’ve gotten this email since I started. Depending on the version, it’s either an open letter to conservative Jewish radio host Dr. Laura Schlessinger or one to a strict evangelical minister. It first started circulating a few years ago and inspired a scene on The West Wing in which President Josiah Bartlet dresses down a barely disguised fictional version of Dr. Laura.
The email thanks Dr. Laura/the minister for reminding us that the Bible condemns homosexuality (Leviticus 18:22). But the writer has some questions.
Should he stone his mother for working on Saturday?
If he sells his daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus, what would be a good price for her?
He wants to burn a bull in sacrifice, but what should he do about his pesky, complaining neighbors?
The Bible says we can’t touch the skin of a dead pig, so he should avoid directly touching a football. But can he play football if he wears gloves?
The first time I read this email, I thought: Excellent. What a great critique of those who follow the Bible literally, but haphazardly. It imagines a world of
biblical literalism free from picking and choosing—the world I’m trying to create.
And now, here it was again, for the third time. As always, I was amused, and agreed with the gay-rights thesis. But here’s the odd thing: I also got a little defensive. I wanted to send the author a note. Yes, the mixing fibers sounds berserk, but maybe the emailer should talk to Mr. Berkowitz about the glory of following things we can’t explain.
Also, I know from my encyclopedia-reading days that a football is not made of pigskin anymore. NFL footballs are made of regular old cowhide. And my son’s football is some sort of plastic. The email commits the same fallacy that it satirizes: It overliteralizes the word pigskin.
The email did make me think twice about touching pig carcasses. I don’t have any pigskin clothes, so that’s good. But to be really safe, I’m avoiding contact with playing cards, because they’re often made of gelatin, which can be made of pigs. So even if poker didn’t lead to greed and coveting, it would be off-limits for me.
Month Seven: March
He who winks his eyes plans perverse things…
—PROVERBS 16:30
Day 184. Julie’s dad is visiting from Florida. We’re out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It’s proving to be a trying experience, mostly because her dad—a former software salesman—is indulging his weakness for particularly excruciating puns.
I can’t even remember how it came up, but over entrees he punned on the word olive and the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, aleph.
Then he looked at me and winked.
“You know, the Bible is antiwinking,” I say.
“Really? What’s the origin of that?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, when you get down to it, the Bible is all about the prophet motive.”
I purse my lips and nod. A little part of me dies.
“Proph-et,” he says. “Like the Prophet Elijah.”
“I got it.”
The Bible’s antiwinking bias (there are at least four warnings against winkers) is one of the least-studied scriptural motifs around. I found negligible literature on the topic. But it does seem wise and ahead of its time, the wink being perhaps the world’s creepiest gesture, with the winker coercing the winkee into being a part of his little cabal. If the Bible condemned people who call me “Captain”…well, a man can dream.
The Lord has made everything for its purpose.
—PROVERBS 16:4
Day 187. I blew my shofar on the first of the month, and frankly, I’m feeling much better about my skills. Mr. Berkowitz gave me a few pointers—including holding my shofar between my fingers like a giant cigarette—so it’s begun to sound respectable. I’m no Miles Davis, but I can hit a couple of clear notes.
Today, Julie and I have an appointment at Mount Sinai to get a sonogram. Julie is dreading it. It’s not so much a fear of hospitals. It’s a fear that we’ll find out the twins’ genders—and that they’ll both be boys. She’s wanted a daughter from day one.
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “There’s a seventy-five percent chance we’ll have at least one girl. My guess is two.”
An hour later, the Italian-accented nurse is sliding the microphone-like sonogram gadget over Julie’s stomach. She stops on the right side.
“OK, Baby A is a boy. That’s very clear. Baby A is a boy.”
Julie starts laughing nervously. She’s muttering, “Please be a girl, Baby B, please be a girl.”
The nurse is digging the gadget into the left side.
“And I’m sorry,” the nurse says.
At which point, my stomach drops, my pulse triples. What? What’s wrong?
“I’m sorry to say that you have two boys. Baby B is a boy.”
I’m relieved. For a moment, I thought that there was something seriously wrong with Baby B. But the only thing wrong is that he has a Y chromosome.
Julie isn’t relieved. Her face crinkles. She starts crying, then sobbing. My relief fades to mild depression.
“I know it’s stupid,” says Julie. She’s caught her breath now. “I’m mad at myself for being so upset. But it’s just the finality of it. I’ll never have a girl. That’s it.”
It’s true. I love Jasper—but three boys? That’s far too much testosterone for a two-bedroom New York apartment. That’s a future filled with hundreds of lacrosse games and countless hours discussing vehicle parts like backhoes and racks and pinions.
The doctor, a stout fiftyish man, comes in. He sees Julie’s wet cheeks.
“I used to do a lot of sex change operations,” he says, chuckling. “I could do one for you guys.”
Julie and I don’t even so much as smile. This doesn’t deter him.
“You know, Daniel is a nice name. A strong name. Dan. Daniel and the lion’s den.” The doctor’s name is Daniel, you see.
Daniel puts some petroleum jelly on Julie’s stomach for the sonogram. “Yesterday I used grape. This is raspberry.” The guy is relentless.
After the sonogram, Julie and I go out to lunch. We barely talk.
I’ve got to focus on being thankful. Perhaps this is God’s will.
“Maybe it’s not so bad. Think about My Three Sons,” I say. “They seemed happy.”
“That doesn’t help me,” says Julie. “The mother was dead.”
We sit silently for another couple of minutes.
“You know what my spiritual adviser Yossi would say?”
“What?”
“What seems terrible at first may turn out to be a great thing. You can’t predict.”
Yossi had been talking to me about this the other day. We were discussing the biblical story of Esther. This is the tale of a pagan king who went on a kingdomwide search to find a new queen for himself. He set it up as a beauty pageant, and a surprisingly carnal one. Each contestant would be primped for an entire year—six months with oil of myrrh, six months with perfumes and spices—then be sent in to spend the night with the king. The winner—the one the king loved “above all the women”—was a Jewish exile named Esther. The king crowned her his queen. This mixed marriage would have been viewed with horror by the Jews of the day. But here’s the twist: It turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. Because Esther ended up convincing the king to spare the Jews, against the wishes of his evil adviser Haman. Bad can lead to good. We don’t know the greater plan.
“I agree with that intellectually,” Julie says. “But right now, it’s a little hard to swallow.”
Yeah. It’s not helping me much either.
My mouth is filled with thy praise and with thy glory all the day.
—PSALMS 71:8
Day 191. Speaking of Yossi, he gave me a stern talking-to today. I was over at his house on the Upper West Side. We are sitting on a couch in his living room, a room dominated by books. There’s a huge set of shelves stuffed with hardcovers, paperbacks, and pamphlets on whatever biblical topic you can think of, even the obscure ones like polygamy and gleanings.
“I love saying prayers of thanksgiving,” I say, “because it makes me more grateful for life. But I still have trouble with the prayers where you’re glorifying God…”
“You’re on thin ice there,” he says.
He told me: Stop looking at the Bible as a self-help book. That is the way I view it a lot of the time. I ask myself, “How can religion make me more joyous? How can it give my life more meaning? How can it help me raise my son so he won’t end up an embezzler or a racketeer?”
But religion is more than that. It’s about serving God. Yossi tells me this story:
Two men do their daily prayers while at work. One spends twenty minutes in his office behind a closed door and afterward feels refreshed and uplifted, like he just had a therapy session. The other is so busy, he can squeeze in only a five-minute prayer session between phone calls. He recites his prayers superfast in a supply closet.
Who has done the better thing?
“The first,” I say.
“No,” says Yossi. “The s
econd.”
The second guy was doing it only for God. He was sacrificing his time. There was no benefit to himself.
I think: That’s interesting. Prayers are a good way to teach me the concept of sacrificing my time for the higher good. I’ll become a more selfless person. A better person.
And then I realize: I’m back to self-help again. I can’t escape it.
“I will ask you a question; hide nothing from me.”
—JEREMIAH 38:14
Day 196. Wednesday morning, March 15, I wake up early to make my pilgrimage to the Holy Land. That is, if I can get through El Al airline security at Newark.
The security officer—a feisty, olive-skinned Israeli woman—grills me but good. I don’t fit into any of her categories—a beard, but not the traditional black hat or coat? Thus commences a half hour of questions.
“What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Kheel.”
“Why do you have such a big beard?”
“I’m writing a book about the Bible, and [here a one-minute summary of my premise].”
“Hmm. Did you celebrate Purim?’
“Technically, it’s not mandated by the Bible proper, so no.”
“What does the ‘J-R’ at the end of your name stand for?”
“Junior.”
“Why are you a Junior if you’re Jewish?”
“My parents weren’t so observant.”
“Did you have a bar mitzvah?”
“Uh, no.”
By the end, my mouth is dry, my palms are damp, and I feel like I have just been on worst first date in history—but for some reason, she lets me board.
Go up to a land flowing with milk and honey…
—EXODUS 33:3
Day 197. The plane touches down in Tel Aviv, and I hop on the one-hour shuttle bus to Jerusalem with a couple of Scandinavian tourists.
I’m a mess. I’m jet-lagged and energized at the same time. And above all, I’m jittery. I’m jittery about meeting Gil. I’m jittery about trying to wrap my brain around this unfathomably historic place in a mere weeklong stay. I’m jittery about Jerusalem syndrome: the bonafide psychological disorder in which tourists become delusional during their time in Israel and end up wandering the streets in a white gown and spouting moralizing sermons. Among the symptoms: “the need to scream, shout, or sing out loud psalms, verses from the Bible, religious hymns, or spirituals.” I doubt I’ll fall prey to it—I’m too self-controlled—but you never know. Also, as I have been since 9/11, I’m jittery about terrorism.