A.J. Jacobs Omnibus: The Know-It-All, The Year of Living Biblically, My Life as an Experiment

by A. J. Jacobs

  “What are you doing?” Julie calls out.

  “I’m spotting our son,” I say as I wade toward Jasper.

  “Helmet,” says Julie.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, helmet.”

  Fudge. Maybe she’s right. Remember the example set by God, I tell myself. Remember that he gave humans free will. Which was a crazy generous thing to do. But God knew that humans are part-divine, so He wanted to give us the divine ability to make decisions. And just as importantly, to make mistakes.

  So I should do the same with Jasper. Slowly, reluctantly, I step out of the kiddie pool. I sit down on a sticky white plastic chair and watch Jasper. Who eventually smacks his butt on the pool bottom, appears dazed for about ten seconds before returning to jumping like a maniacal monkey.

  Month Twelve: August (and Some of September)

  Honor widows who are real widows.

  —1 TIMOTHY 5:3

  Day 336. Today, I met my great-aunt Joelle for lunch. Joelle’s the only other religious member of our family besides my Orthodox aunt Kate. She’s a practicing Catholic who happily thanks God, even when surrounded by agnostics like my family. She’s a former actress and singer (when our family sings “Happy Birthday to You,” her vibrato gives it a professional sheen), and the single most talkative person I’ve ever met. Her husband—a sweet navy veteran—died a few months ago at their house in Miami.

  The Bible says to comfort widows, which was one of the reasons I invited her to lunch. But as is often the case, I think she was more helpful to me than I was to her. She talked about God’s love, His unconditional love. “Sometimes I can’t believe how much God loves me. I think, ‘How can He love me that much? I don’t love myself nearly as much as He loves me.’” Even if life turns sour, or Joelle botches something, she can count on the unconditional love of God.

  When I left the lunch, I felt at peace for the first time in a week. Last week, you see, I had a bit of a mental breakdown about my Bible project. In the final stretch, I’ve been frantically trying to read every single book on religion, trying to interview every religious leader, trying to figure out how to obey every rule. What if I miss an insight? What if I overlook a potential translation? I haven’t paid God five shekels to redeem my firstborn son. I haven’t talked to a Seventh-day Adventist yet. What if they have the secret? I’ve barely made a dent in the Bible.

  But maybe God will forgive me for my lack of omniscience. If Joelle is right, He’ll still love me. I’ll never know everything. I can’t compete with Him. And if you want to see what happens when you try, just look at the overachievers behind the Tower of Babel.

  Again she conceived and bore a son…

  —GENESIS 29:34

  Day 359. Today is the birth of our twins. The date is our choice. We scheduled to have them emerge onto God’s Green Earth today, August 24, at nine in the morning. It’s right there in Julie’s computer calendar, like a routine eye exam with an ophthalmologist.

  It seems highly unbiblical. I can’t imagine that Rachel scheduled the birth of Joseph for the third day after the barley harvest. But our kids are positioned butt first in the womb, so the doctor says there’s no choice but a Caesarian section.

  It’s all very civilized, this birth. Nothing like Jasper’s. This time Julie has no contractions and lets out not a single lupine howl. She is wheeled on a gurney into the operating room with a little shower cap on her head. The anesthesiologist numbs her from the waist down, and that is it, she is ready to give birth.

  I strap a surgical mask over my nose and mouth and join Julie in the OR.

  “Uh-uh,” says the nurse. “You need one for your beard.”

  She escorts me out and gets me a second mask for the bottom of my face. I return.

  “We’re going to take off your wife’s gown now,” the nurse says. “So if you want to leave, now is the time…”

  “No thanks,” I say.

  An odd offer, I think. Oh, wait. She believes I’m an Orthodox Jew and might not want to see my wife’s nakedness.

  The atmosphere in the OR is an odd mix. It is, on the one hand, frighteningly gory. I’m stationed by Julie’s head, and the doctor has hung a little curtain across the stomach so as to block the really messy stuff, though I still see enough to nearly make me pass out. On the other hand, the atmosphere is almost relaxed. The doctors are chatting about weekend plans as if they are having a chicken salad in the cafeteria.

  “Hold my hand,” says Julie.

  “Well, you’re impure for a week after the birth, so I can only hold it before the birth.”

  “Please don’t—”

  At 9:50 a.m. our doctor reaches in and scoops out one little man. At 9:52 she reaches in and scoops out another. I officially have a whole bunch of sons.

  I look at my boys as they squirm around under a huge heat lamp. The boys themselves are another strange mixture. On the one hand, they’re such little animals—tiny, naked, slimy little animals. They even sound like animals. Their crying isn’t human, it’s more like ducks quacking. On the other hand, I can already see something transcendent in them. When they pry their eyes open—blue eyes on both of them? where did that come from?—I spot what a nun I know calls “God’s DNA.” Those eyes are alive.

  When the doctor plucks out our sons one after the other, I flash back to perhaps the most unforgettable delivery in the Bible. Yes, even in the OR, the Bible still colors my thinking. This was the birth of the twins Perez and Zerah. It goes like this: There was a struggle between the sons to see which one could be born first. One son—Zerah—stuck his hand out of his mother’s womb, and the midwife tied a scarlet thread around his wrist. Then he pulled his hand back inside. The second son, Perez, then maneuvered around him and got out first. The Bible doesn’t say who was considered oldest in this unusual scenario. I like to think it was Zerah, since he breached the womb with his hand, much as an NFL player scores a touchdown if he gets the ball over the line.

  I’m glad I flashed to this story. Not because of the red ribbon twist. But because, if you remember, their conception is a good metaphor for my boys. Those ancient twins were conceived in complicated circumstances—the offspring of Judah and his daughter-in-law Tamar, who disguised herself as a prostitute. Mine, too, have a complicated origin. But that doesn’t, I hope, doom them.

  And now that I type this up, I’m wondering if the Perez-Zerah story could be a Big Metaphor for my year. Maybe it applies to the Bible itself. The Bible may have not been dictated by God, it may have had a messy and complicated birth, one filled with political agendas and outdated ideas—but that doesn’t mean the Bible can’t be beautiful and sacred.

  Little children, you are of God…

  —1 JOHN 4:4

  Day 361. They released Julie and the twins from the hospital at eleven o’clock on the third day. It would have been sooner, but we lost about forty-five minutes to the hospital guards who double-checked and triple-checked our wrist bracelet IDs and social security numbers to make sure we hadn’t swiped the wrong babies.

  We’ve been home for two days now, and I’ve been spending the majority of that time snapping these little body suits on them. Man, these things have a lot of snaps. What the fudge happened to good old zippers?

  Jasper has been dealing with his brothers with an interesting strategy: complete denial. He refuses to acknowledge them. Won’t even look at them. They can be howling right in front of his face, but he’ll use his X-ray vision to stare right through their skulls.

  As for me, I know this will surprise you: I’m deliriously tired. Yesterday Julie was making a sandwich in the kitchen and I playfully patted her on the butt when I walked by. The only thing was, it wasn’t Julie. It was my mom. My mom was visiting the twins. And in my bleary-eyed state, I had confused Julie for my mom. This is definitely forbidden by Leviticus.

  I’ve barely been able to do anything biblical since the birth. I’m losing valuable time. I decided to extend my project another month, but Julie bargained m
e down to two weeks.

  It doesn’t help matters that the boys—Zane and Lucas—are on completely different schedules and refuse to cooperate. Their rivalry is, yes, biblical. The younger one is tiny—barely five pounds—and the older is a big lug, almost seven, and they’re constantly battling each other to get access to Julie’s milk supply. The younger one is sneaky. I think he can sense when the older one is stirring, and he’ll start wailing to make sure he gets first crack. He’s the Jacob to his brother’s Esau—the mischievous underdog. Is it bad that I root for him? I’ve rooted for underdogs all my life, so I almost can’t help it. I’m sure it’s temporary. It better be. I’ve seen what favoritism can do—Jacob favored Joseph, and it got Joseph tossed in a pit by his jealous brothers.

  Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

  —LUKE 6:37

  Day 363. I finally told my parents that I had met my ex-uncle and was including him in the book. I emailed them the sections with Gil so they could be prepared.

  They weren’t happy. They told me I didn’t expose Gil’s dark side enough. They asked if I had to make him such a prominent part of the book. They wanted me to be clear he was an ex-uncle. They disputed the part where I said Gil was the most exotic creature in the family. But in the end, they were forgiving. They didn’t make me change a thing. “We’ll live with it,” Mom wrote. “We love you.” Their son did the equivalent of eating the husks thrown to the swine, and they welcomed me home with a hug.

  He that is eight days old among you shall be circumcised.

  —GENESIS 17:12

  Day 366. My twin sons have been in this world for eight days, which means today is the day to follow one of the first biblical commands: Circumcision.

  I actually knew quite a bit about circumcision even before my biblical adventure. Perhaps too much. For a year or so in my early career as a journalist, I wrote a surprising number of magazine articles about circumcision. It was my first real beat. I was living in San Francisco at the time, and my eccentric aunt Marti introduced me to some anticircumcision activists who saw the snipping of the foreskin as cruel and unnecessary. As Marti put it: “It’s the only men’s issue I care about.”

  The hardest of the hard core didn’t just want to outlaw circumcision, they wanted to reverse their own circumcisions. I remember attending a support group meeting that was bizarre even by the standards of San Francisco support groups. They called themselves RECAP, short for Recover A Penis (a rival group was called BUFF—Brothers United for Future Foreskins).

  The meeting was held in the basement of a church—either an extremely liberal church or a church that didn’t know to whom it was renting space. A dozen men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle. Some were ponytailed hippies, some resembled the Leather Dude in the Village People, a few were just plain vanilla guys who looked like they could have worked in the loan department at Citibank.

  “I don’t feel whole,” said one. “I want to feel whole again.”

  Another asked: “Can you imagine what it’s like to have sex with a foreskin? It must be like watching color TV.” (I never was able to confirm this, but the claim is that circumcision blunts the sensation.)

  Most of the time was spent discussing homespun methods that would allow the men to regrow their foreskins. I’ll spare you the details. I’m sure the internet has plenty more information for those who are interested.

  Sexual sensitivity aside, the medical aspect of circumsicion remains a matter of debate. The American Academy of Pediatrics makes no recommendation either way. Circumcision may reduce penile cancer, and there’s now compelling evidence it lowers men’s susceptibility to AIDS. (After my biblical year ended, the World Heath Organization recommended medical circumcision be practiced in high-risk locales.)

  So when our first son, Jasper, was born, I had mixed feelings about circumcising him. I didn’t think he’d end up in a San Francisco basement venting his anger, but why put him through the pain? There’s no rational reason for it. At least there wasn’t before this latest round of AIDS studies. And even if it makes good medical sense, should we really turn the procedure into a party with sesame bagels and veggie cream cheese?

  My aunts fueled my confusion. I was subjected to dueling campaigns. On the one hand, my Orthodox aunt Kate left voice mails encouraging us to go ahead with it. On the other, Marti sent pamphlets with stomach-churning stories of circumcisions gone bad.

  In the end, Julie put her foot down. Jasper would have a circumcision, and it would be at our apartment, and it would be done by a family friend, Lew Sank, a New Jersey pediatrician who also has mohel credentials.

  When the day came, and the family gathered, I did my best to ignore what was actually happening. I deluded myself into thinking of it as a brunch, with a short detour into some minor medical procedure.

  I distanced myself with jokes. Of which Lew—like all mohels—had plenty.

  “Did you hear the one about the guy who converted to Judaism as an adult? He has to get a circumcision, but he’s nervous about it. So he asks his Jewish friend Abe, does it hurt? And Abe says, ‘Oy. When I had mine done, I couldn’t walk or talk for a year.’”

  The only terrifying moment was when I spotted a knife on the table the size of a small machete. It turned out to be for the cutting of the ceremonial bread. So that, too, turned into something of a joke.

  During Jasper’s circumcision, Julie and I refused to watch the actual cutting. We both went into our bedroom and shut the door, and held hands, and talked very loudly about whether the dolphin-themed mobile took AA batteries or C batteries so as to drown out the crying. Two and a half years later, circumcisions two and three are upon me. And despite the existence of bagels and the mohel Lew, these feel different: This time I plan to watch. If I’m choosing to do this to my sons—this, the fifth and final law on my list of Most Perplexing Rules in the Bible—I can at least face up to my choice.

  Circumcision is a huge part of the Bible; it merits eighty-seven mentions. It was seen as the way to seal the covenant between God and humans. A signature in blood. Abraham was the pioneer. God appeared to him and instructed him to circumcise all males in his house, and all newborns after eight days. Abraham had no newborns at the time, so the first inductees were his elder son, Ishmael (who was thirteen years old), and Abraham himself, who was all of ninety-nine years old.

  In the New Testament, circumcision becomes optional, at best. The Apostle Paul—whose mission was to expand the Christian faith beyond the Jewish people—said that circumcision wasn’t necessary. You didn’t need the physical proof as long as you changed your heart. The phrase he used was circumcised “in the heart.” Some passages do indicate that Paul is fine with circumcision for those who are direct descendants of the Israelites.

  “So are you going to do the circumcision yourself?” asks Julie’s brother Eric.

  “I hear there are some nice flint rocks in Central Park,” adds her other brother, Doug.

  “Very good,” I say.

  I’m not in the mood for jokes; I’m too anxious. My forehead is damp.

  I mutter something about how the Bible doesn’t mandate that the father perform the ceremony.

  Actually, we’re about as far from a flint rock as possible. Lew has come with a case full of gleaming metal equipment, which he’s laid out on our dining room table. He snaps on his white surgical gloves, ties on a yellow apron, and pulls out a box of alcohol wipes.

  “Who’s first?” asks Lew.

  “Zane?” I say.

  “OK, bring him over.”

  He looks so tiny on the table, as small as a soup bowl at a dinner setting.

  I glance around the room. My sister-in-law is staring out the window. My mom is flipping through a Thomas the Tank Engine brochure. Julie has her back to the table. No one is looking at Zane.

  I gaze back at my son, who has started to cry. A bus rumbles by in the background. My teeth are clenched. I’m squinting, some sort of compromise between open and closed eyes.

/>   Lew attaches some clamps. More crying. He takes out a brown leather strap. And scalpels. Drops of blood stain the towel. Zane is now wailing, openmouthed.

  In a sense, it’s all very hygienic, medical, sanitized. And yet…nothing can disguise the fact that what is happening on that table is deeply primitive. It’s the most primitive thing I’ve seen in my entire biblical year.

  There, on a patch of white gauze, is a piece of my son. He has sacrificed a part of his body to join an ancient community. Lew reads a prayer from a xeroxed sheet of paper. “May He who blessed our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses and Aaron, David and Solomon, bless this tender infant…”

  These are no longer just meaningless names. These are the men I’d spent my year with. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. This was a chain that—if Lew continued spouting names for several hours—would presumably reach Charles Jacobowitz and Arnold Jacobs and A. J. Jacobs. Who am I to break thousands of years of tradition? Circumcision is a crazy, irrational ritual. But here’s the thing: It’s my heritage’s crazy, irrational ritual. So maybe I shouldn’t dismiss it.

  So whatever you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.

  —MATTHEW 7:12

  Day 372. A few days ago, right before Labor Day weekend, the hallway outside our apartment began to smell.

  “It’s like rotten turnips,” Julie said. “You smell it, don’t you?”

  I did, but told Julie it was probably nothing. Our mysterious neighbor in 5R—a woman I’ve never met—loves to cook exotic dishes made from animals unknown. This was probably just a recipe gone awry. But the smell didn’t fade by morning. Julie called the building staff; they “checked it out” and found nothing. Over Labor Day, our neighbors all left Manhattan. The building was empty except for me, Julie, our kids, and that smell. Which got worse. And worse. You couldn’t tell where it was coming from—it seemed to soak the hall.