The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible

by A. J. Jacobs

  On the other hand, I'm freaked out. I've already been overwhelmed by the complexity of my own tradition, and now I'm going to venture into even more foreign territory. I told Julie I had a stress headache.

  "You don't have to do it, you know," said Julie.

  "If I don't, I'll only be telling half the story," I said.

  "But it's a big half."

  True. But like Nachshon, the Israelite who marched into the Red Sea, I'm going to wade into the water and see what happens. Before I do, though, I have to wrestle with a bunch of Big Issues.

  The first Big Issue is this: If I'm going to switch my focus to the New Testament, should I continue following all the rules of the Hebrew Bible? In other words, should I keep my beard and fringes? Or should I break out the Gillette Mach3 and order shrimp fajitas?

  After asking this question to pretty much every Christian expert I meet, I've come to this definitive conclusion: I don't know.

  You can find a small group--a very small group--of Christians who say that every single Old Testament rule should still be followed by everyone. The ultralegalist camp. They quote these words from Jesus found in Matthew 5:17-18:

  Think not that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets; I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them. For truly, I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is accomplished.

  Jesus is God, but he affirms that the laws of the ancient Israelites still stand.

  On the other end of the spectrum are those Christians who say that Jesus overrode all rules in the Old Testament. He created a new covenant. His death was the ultimate sacrifice, so there's no need for animal sacrifice--or, for that matter, any other Old Testament laws. Even the famous Ten Commandments are rendered unnecessary by Jesus.

  Consider Matthew 22:37-39, in which Jesus is asked by a lawyer what is the great commandment of the law.

  Jesus responds:

  You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.

  This is the great and first commandment.

  And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

  Some Christians say all of the other eight commandments flow from those two. You love your neighbor, so you don't lie to him. You love your neighbor, so you don't steal from him. The Old Testament is important historically, but as a moral guidebook, it has been superseded.

  And then there's the vast middle ground. Most Christians I met draw a distinction between (a) moral laws and (b) ritual laws. The moral laws are the ones such as those found in the Ten Commandments: no killing, no coveting, and so forth. Those we still need to follow. Ritual laws are the ones about avoiding bacon and not wearing clothes of mixed fibers. Jesus made those laws obsolete.

  What does obsolete mean? Is it a sin to keep a beard and avoid shellfish? Or is it just unnecessary, like wearing sunscreen indoors? Ask ten people, and, once again, you'll get ten different answers. But most seem to say, go ahead, wear that sunscreen. It won't hurt. You need to accept Jesus, but you don't need to shave the beard.

  Which is a relief. I want to keep the beard. I'm not ready to give up my rituals. That would feel like I ran seventeen miles of a marathon. So unless there's a contradiction in the laws--for instance, the literal interpretation of eye for an eye contradicts the literal interpretation of turn the other cheek--I'll follow both Old and New.

  My second Big Issue is this: As a Jewish person, how do I treat the issue of the divinity of Christ?

  For the bona fide literal New Testament experience, I should accept Jesus as Lord. But I just can't do it. I've read the New Testament several times, and though I think of Jesus as a great man, I don't come away from the experience accepting him as savior. I've had no road-to-Damascus moment yet.

  The closest I've come to such a moment was probably during college when I grew strangely envious of my best friend's Catholicism. He went to mass several times a week and did the sign of the cross before every meal. We ate together at least once a day, and I always felt awkward while I waited for him to finish his prayer. Awkward and superficial. Here he was, funny and smart, but he had something deeper going on than I did. I'd pretend not to look, but I was fixated by the sign of the cross. It's such a simple and beautiful ritual. What if I started doing it with him at dinner? Just to see what it's like? To see if I felt anything? Would my friend be weirded out? Probably. So I never tried it.

  Same goes for now. I could adopt the cognitive-dissonance strategy: If I act like Jesus is God, eventually maybe I will start to believe that Jesus is God. That's been my tactic with the God of the Hebrew Bible, and it's actually started to work. But there's a difference. When I do it with the Hebrew God, I feel like I'm trying on my forefathers' robes and sandals. There's a family connection. Doing it with Jesus would feel uncomfortable. I've come to value my heritage enough that it'd feel disloyal to convert.

  Which naturally leads to this quandary: If I don't accept Christ, can I get anything out of the New Testament at all? What if I follow the moral teachings of Jesus but don't worship him as God? Or is that just a fool's errand? Again, depends whom you ask.

  The more humanist mainline Christian denominations say, yes, it's OK to follow Jesus's ethics without converting to Christianity. Ask a Unitarian or more liberal Lutherans, and they'll tell you there is much to be learned from Christ the moral teacher. This is Christianity with a strong dash of Enlightenment.

  The most extreme example of this comes from Enlightenment's archbishop himself, Thomas Jefferson. His version of Christianity is so one-sided it almost seems a parody of this position. In the early 1800s Jefferson created an edition of the Bible called the Jefferson Bible. He stripped away all the supernatural references. Gone was the Resurrection. Gone was the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Gone was the virgin birth. Jefferson's idea was that Christ was a great moral philosopher. So Jefferson kept only Christ's moral teachings: forgiveness, loving thy neighbor, and striving for peace. He called them "the most sublime and benevolent code of morals which has ever been offered to man."

  The Da Vinci Code tilts the way of Jefferson. Dan Brown doesn't come right out and say that Christ was totally human, but a Christ who marries and has kids sure makes him seem more like us mortal men.

  So that's one side. On the other side, most evangelical Christians would say that simply paying attention to Jesus's moral teachings is missing the point. The central message of the Gospels is that Jesus is God, He died for our sins, and He rose again on the third day. You need to accept Him.

  The emphasis on faith is a key difference between modern Judaism and current evangelical Christianity. Judaism has a slogan: deed over creed. There's an emphasis on behavior; follow the rules of the Torah, and eventually you'll come to believe. But evangelical Christianity says you must first believe in Jesus, then the good works will naturally follow. Charity and kindness alone cannot save you. You must, as the saying goes, be "justified by faith."

  Here's an email I got from a conservative evangelical Christian I contacted. He runs a website that tries to reconcile science with biblical literalism. He wrote:

  It is through being in Christ and following Him that we become transformed. Unless one takes this step, one cannot be truly transformed. So, after your year is over, you will go back to being a man who finds purpose in weird projects and writing assignments. Becoming a follower of Jesus Christ is much more rewarding.

  In short, I got schooled.

  And yet . . . I still want to explore Christian biblical literalism. It's not a minor thing. It's hugely relevant to my quest. So here's my revised plan: I'm going to visit some Christian communities that interpret the Bible literally. I will try to learn about them. And, when inspired, and when possible, I've decided that I should try to experience some of their teachings firsthand. Overall, it will be much less Do It Yourself than my trip through the Hebrew Scriptures. It'll be more like a guided tour.

 
Which brings me to my final Big Issue. Where to go on my tour? Christian biblical literalism comes in dozens of flavors. No way I could cover them all. I'll do my best. But I'll spend much of my time looking at the two poles that shape our moral debate:

  1. The Pat Robertson-Jerry Falwell-style conservative fundamentalists, who place a lot of emphasis on the issues of homosexuality, abortion, the Apocalypse, and George W. Bush's foreign policy.

  2. The Red-letter Christians, a growing evangelical group that focuses on social justice, poverty, and the environment.

  Both accept the Bible as the word of God, both accept Jesus as their savior, but they come out with radically different agendas.

  A disclaimer: I'm going to try to be fair, but I'm probably going to fail. It's the same problem I had when I went to the Creation Museum. There are limits to how far my mind can leap. I've been a moderate New York liberal all my life. Will I really be able to get inside the mind of a conservative evangelical from Virginia?

  "Judge not, that you be not judged."

  --MATTHEW 7:1

  Day 247. This evening I spend an hour on the phone talking to Pastor Elton Richards. He wants to give me a theological inoculation.

  I tell him I'm about to make a road trip to Jerry Falwell's church, and he wants to make sure I know that, in his opinion, Falwell's version of Christianity bears practically no relation to Jesus's message.

  "Take what they say, and in most cases, it's the exact opposite of Jesus's message. Jesus's message was one of inclusion. Theirs is of exclusion."

  "OK," I say.

  "And they're so focused on the other world and the end times. Jesus cared for the downtrodden and outcasts in this world."

  "Got it," I say.

  "It's this god-awful certainty that they have."

  I promise him and promise him again that I'll spend as much time looking at other, more progressive interpretations of Christianity.

  Falwell--who died several months after my visit--embodied a certain ultraliteral brand of Christianity. For decades he was the go-to guy when the mainstream media wanted a quote from the Christian right about homosexuality or abortion. He was the liberal's nightmare, the man who launched a thousand Aaron Sorkin plotlines.

  Here's my chance to see Falwell unfiltered. I take a flight to Richmond, Virginia, and drive a rental car to Thomas Road Baptist Church in Lynchburg. It's a big week in the Falwell universe. For its fiftieth year, the church has moved from its three-thousand-seat house of worship to a splashy new six-thousand-seat one.

  At nine-thirty in the morning, I park my car along with hundreds of others, pull open the glass, mall-like front doors, and step inside Falwell's enclave. Like all megachurches, it's not just a church. It's a complex.

  There's a massive, brightly lit walkway called "Main Street." There's a playground with a Noah's ark theme featuring pairs of wooden zebras and tigers, along with a huge whale's mouth that kids can climb into a la Jonah. There's a Starbucks-ish coffee shop called The Lion and the Lamb Cafe, where I get a pretty good iced coffee. Nearby a player piano tinkles Mrs. Falwell's favorite hymns.

  Services don't start for a while, but at ten, many of the parishioners attend one of the Bible studies in the classrooms off Main Street. You have an astounding range to choose from--thirty-eight in all, from a tutorial on the Apocalypse to a meeting targeted at Christian biker dudes.

  With the imminent increase in my household, I opt for a class called Growing Families, in room 255. There are about thirty churchgoers already assembled, mostly white, mostly crisply dressed, engaging in a prestudy mingle.

  "Hello, I'm glad you could come," says a fortysomething woman. She eyes my beard. "We welcome people from all, uh, walks of life."

  "Thanks."

  "Do you have a growing family?" she asks.

  "Yes, I have a son--and two more on the way."

  "Wow! And you live here in Lynchburg?"

  "No." I pause. "New York."

  "Great! What are you doing here?"

  "Um, just traveling around the South a bit."

  Oh, man. Biblically, I should have been honest and told her about my book, but I only have a day here at Falwell's headquarters, and I didn't want to waste any time.

  "You're here with your wife?"

  "Uh, yeah. She's back at the hotel."

  Another lie. I didn't want to seem like a lout who abandoned his pregnant spouse, which is what I did.

  "She didn't want to come?"

  "She was going to, but, uh, she had morning sickness."

  And on it grows, the tangled web. She keeps asking questions, I keep spitting out lies.

  Mercifully, the meeting starts. The pastor, a man who looks like a thinner, younger, brown-haired Falwell, has some announcements. An upcoming luau, a couple's twentieth wedding anniversary--and a welcome to me, soon-to-be-father of twins. The parishioners applaud. I wave a sheepish thank-you.

  Man, these people are friendly. That's the overwhelming first impression: They're disorientingly friendly. When I walked into the church, an official greeter named Tip said "Good morning!" with such enthusiasm, I'd have to append a half dozen exclamation points to get across his tone. Nobody is aloof. Everybody keeps eye contact. Everyone smiles. In my four hours there, I got more pats on the back, arms on the shoulders, and double-handed clasps than I've gotten in ten years in New York.

  I know that this friendliness has limits--and disturbing ones. I know that Falwell has said "AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals." I know that after 9/11 he said "the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays, and the lesbians . . . the ACLU . . . I point the finger in their face and say 'You helped this happen.' " I know that he recently said that we shouldn't worry about so-called global warming because, in Psalms 119:90, it says God has "established the earth and it abideth." I know that his magazine crowbarred poor pursecarrying Teletubby Tinky Winky out of the closet.

  Presumably, Tip and others share these views. But that intolerance coexists with a stunning bonhomie. The place is a study in sweet and sour.

  After about fifteen minutes of announcements with no end in sight, I decide I need to get out of there. This was no different than a thousand other churches or temples in America. I need something more spicy.

  "Be right back," I lie to the guy next to me, as I slip out. "I have to go to the bathroom."

  I wander down a flight of stairs to the singles seminar. That could be good.

  The woman at the singles welcoming table asks how old I am.

  "Thirty-seven," I say.

  "You're right in there," she points. "It's for singles thirty-five to fifty."

  That hurts. I am in the oldsters' group. By the way, another fib. I am thirty-eight. Vanity.

  The leader of the singles group is a burly ex-military guy with a bald head, a gray goatee, wire-rimmed glasses balanced on his forehead, and a huge amount of energy. He seems more into tough love than the folks at the Growing Families class.

  He paces back and forth, telling us that we should give up the idea that we're perfect.

  "Anyone ever say bad things about other people?"

  We nod.

  "Anyone ever think bad sexual thoughts?"

  Yes.

  "Anyone ever have envy?"

  Yes.

  "Anyone ever lie?"

  It's a sermon directed at me.

  "Did I ever tell you the story of when I was working as Dr. Falwell's bodyguard?" says our leader. "I handed him the mail one Tuesday, and he says to me, 'Did you vote today?' And I said, 'Um . . . um . . . um . . . yeah.' But I hadn't. I lied. I lied to Dr. Falwell. I had forgotten that it was Election Day. But I know that I have voted in every election since."

  I can't figure out how this applies to dating, but there's no time for questions. The class ends at eleven o'clock, and the featured show begins right after: Falwell's sermon.

  The sermon takes place in an enormous room with comfy, Loews Cineplex-style seats; three swiveling TV camer
as; and two huge screens that display the hymn lyrics karaoke-style over photos of seagulls and purple orchids.

  On the side are two "Cry Rooms." When I saw the words Cry Room on the church map, I thought it was for parishioners who became too wildly emotional. Actually, it's a soundproof space for screaming babies.

  Falwell himself walks onto the stage. There he is: He's got that familiar silver hair with the tidy part. He's packing a few more pounds than he used to. As the three-hundred-person choir sings a hymn, Falwell leans way back on his heels, his hands clasped together in front of him, smiling beatifically.

  Falwell starts with some announcements of his own--that the cafe is open from eight in the morning to eleven at night, that Rick Stanley, the stepbrother of Elvis Presley, is visiting today. And then Falwell puts his hands on the pulpit and begins his sermon proper. And here's the thing about the sermon. It is kind of . . . bland. There was no fire, no brimstone, no homophobic remarks, no warnings of the imminent Apocalypse.