The Year of Living Biblically Part 17

Julie glares at me.

"You guys seem nice," I say. "But I don't really want new friends right now. So I think I'll take a pa.s.s."

A few weeks ago, I read a book called Radical Honesty, Radical Honesty, which was about telling the truth in all situations. It talks about the scary thrill of total candor, the Six Flags-worthy adrenaline rush. I felt that. I heard myself saying the words, but they seemed unreal, like I was in an offBroadway production. which was about telling the truth in all situations. It talks about the scary thrill of total candor, the Six Flags-worthy adrenaline rush. I felt that. I heard myself saying the words, but they seemed unreal, like I was in an offBroadway production.

Julie is not glaring at me anymore. She's too angry to look in my direction.

"It's just that I don't have enough time to see our old friends, so I don't want to overcommit," I say, shrugging. Hoping to take the edge off, I add: "Just being honest."

"Well, I'd love to see you," says Julie. "A. J. can stay home."

Julie's friend pushes her stroller out of Homer's, shooting a glance over her shoulder as she leaves.

And it shall be to you as a sign on your hand and as a memorial between your eyes . . .

--EXO D U S 13:9.

Day 180. Today marks the twenty-sixth time I've been asked whether I'm going to sacrifice Jasper during my biblical year. No, I say politely, only Abraham was commanded to do that.

"No binding your son on top of a mountain?" asked David, a friend of Julie's who has drifted slowly toward Orthodox Judaism over the years. "No binding him."

David clearly knows his stuff: "The binding" is what some Jewish scholars call Abraham's near sacrifice of Isaac. Binding, I've noticed, is a huge theme in the Bible. Isaac's is the most famous, but there are plenty of other less violent examples. And those I am trying to do.

Last week I scratched Deuteronomy 14:25 off my list: "You shall bind money to your hand." This is one of the verses that my ex-uncle Gil took literally, and though most take it metaphorically (as advice to be careful with your money), I wanted to follow Gil, at least for a day.

When I woke up, I found a rubber band in Julie's desk and used it to strap a five-dollar bill on top of my left knuckles. I went about my day-- I visited the grocery and Starbucks. But it felt like I was tempting fate. New York still has a sizable crime rate, so this seemed about as clever as walking around Yellowstone National Park with a salmon strapped to my hand. Luckily, despite lingering stares, no one tried to grab my exposed cash.

There's another type of binding I've been doing every day. This one comes from Deuteronomy 6:8. It tells you to bind the commandments to your hand and between your eyes.

Since I began my year, I've been using this homespun method: I take two xeroxed copies of the Ten Commandments and fold each to the size of a Polaroid photo. Every morning I tie one around my wrist with a white string, the other around my head.

It's been startlingly effective. Just try forgetting about the word of G.o.d when it's right in front of your eyeb.a.l.l.s, obscuring a chunk of your view. Sometimes I imagine the commandments sinking through my skin and going straight to my brain like some sort of holy nicotine patch. If you look really closely, "Thou shalt not steal" is branded somewhere on my frontal lobe.

Even after I take off the string for the day (usually at about noon), I still have red indentations on my hand and head for hours afterward.

So in that sense, my binding feels good, righteous. But lately, my daily binding has also become tinged with guilt. I feel a tug from my ancestors or conscience or G.o.d that maybe now is the time to try the traditional Jewish method of binding the commandments to my arm and forehead: I should try to wrap tefillin.

I had a pa.s.sing familiarity with the Jewish prayer straps (they're usually called tefillin, but sometimes they're known as phylacteries). When I was fourteen, on an El Al flight to Israel, I saw the ritual for the first time: A group of Orthodox Jews stood in the airplane aisle with leather boxes on their heads that looked like jewelers' loupes. They wrapped straps, they bounced their heads back and forth, they chanted. It was mystifying and a bit frightening.

My only other brush with tefillin was a book I was sent a few years ago at Esquire. Esquire. It was by Leonard Nimoy-- It was by Leonard Nimoy--Star Trek's Spock himself-- who, as it turns out, is also a photographer and a quasireligious Jew. His book contained racy black-and-white photography of half-nude women wrapped in tefillin, a sort of Mapplethorpe-meets-Talmud motif. (Brief but relevant side note: You know Spock's famous split-fingered "Live long and prosper" salute? It's actually a sacred hand position used by the Jewish priestly cla.s.s, the kohanim. kohanim.) Tefillin have been around a very long time--archaeologists found a pair near the Dead Sea in Israel dating to right around the time of Christ. And some claim that Jesus himself put on tefillin every day, though he did criticize the bulky versions worn by the Pharisees.

But what about the origins of tefillin? What did they do in the beginning? In the time of Moses? No one's sure. Biblical scholar Oded Borowski--author of Daily Life in Biblical Times Daily Life in Biblical Times--told me it might have been much more primitive, perhaps a string with a scroll. Others say that perhaps nothing was worn at all: The pa.s.sage was originally meant metaphorically.

However it started, tefillin have evolved into an enormously intricate ritual. There are dozens of rules, right on down to a ban on pa.s.sing gas while wearing them.

I would be needing some help. I ask Yossi, one of my Orthodox advisers, to be my tefillin-wrapping tutor. He invites me to his house on the Upper West Side. It's late in the afternoon--ideally, tefillin should be wrapped early in the morning, but it's still acceptable to do it now.

Yossi welcomes me with a handshake, goes to his closet, and takes out a small blue velvet pouch. Inside are two black leather boxes, each with tiny scrolls of scripture inside and leather straps attached.

"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 G.o.d 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 his dad did it. And so on back for hundreds of years. 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) --DEUTERONOMY 31:24 (GWT) Day 181. My Esquire 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 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. 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d's words.

The alternative is called the doc.u.mentary 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 pa.s.sions. P, for instance, short for "Priestly," was fascinated by the laws. The sections on food and s.e.x prohibitions in Leviticus, for instance, come from the Priestly source.

The pa.s.sages 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 doc.u.mentary 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 scholars.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.dless is barren . . . --JOB 15:34 --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 s.h.i.+ft. I feel closer to the ultrareligious New Yorkers than I do the secular. The guy with the fish on his b.u.mper sticker. The black man with the kufi. The Hasidim with their swinging fringes. These are my compatriots. They think about G.o.d 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 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 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 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 G.o.d 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. 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 p.i.s.s against a wall. He's referring to this verse in the King James version of the Bible: It's both very funny and wildly sacrilegious. At one point Twain says he doesn't understand why the Bible so despises those who p.i.s.s against a wall. He's referring to this verse in the King James version of the Bible: And it came to pa.s.s, 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 p.i.s.seth against a wall, neither of his kinsfolks, nor of his friends (1 Kings 16:11).

Twain writes: "A person could p.i.s.s against a tree, he could p.i.s.s on his mother, he could p.i.s.s on his own breeches and get off, but he must not p.i.s.s against the wall--that would be going quite too far."

Yet I knew from my research that those who "p.i.s.s against the wall" was an idiom for adult men, since men would go behind a wall to get a modic.u.m 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 The West Wing in which President Josiah Bartlet dresses down a barely disguised fictional version of Dr. Laura. 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 h.o.m.os.e.xuality (Leviticus 18:22). But the writer has some questions.

Should he stone his mother for working on Sat.u.r.day?

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 footb.a.l.l.s 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. pigskin.

The email did make me think twice about touching pig carca.s.ses. 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 --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 olive and the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, aleph. 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 prophet motive."

I purse my lips and nod. A little part of me dies.

"Prophet," 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 --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 microphonelike 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 s.e.x 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 G.o.d's will.

"Maybe it's not so bad. Think about My Three Sons, 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.