The Year of Living Biblically Part 22

First, there's the comfortable old position: agnosticism. I haven't erased that totally, and it especially pops up whenever I read about religious extremism.

The second phase is all about a newfound reverence for life. Life isn't just a series of molecular reactions. There's a divine spark in there. The official term is "vitalism." I'd always thought of vitalism as a nineteenth-century relic--in the same category as leeches and phrenology. But now I'm a believer, at least sometimes.

The third phase, the highest level, is when I believe in something more specific, a G.o.d who cares, who pays attention to my life, who loves. Why wouldn't there be a G.o.d? It makes just as much sense as having no G.o.d. Otherwise, existence itself is just too random.

Phase three is an amazing and uplifting state. For instance, my Hollywood dreams are in meltdown mode. My previous book--the one about the encyclopedia--was optioned for a movie. But now the director won't email me back. And when I call his a.s.sistant, she always tells me to hold, then returns to report--surprise!--he's not there right now but I am welcome to leave a message. Hmmm. I wonder: Could he be breaking the commandment not to lie?

It's annoying, but things happen for a reason, right? It wasn't meant to be. Perhaps something better will come out of it. Maybe Scorsese will call me out of the blue and tell me that encyclopedias have replaced bloodshed as his new obsession.

Julie always told me that things happen for a reason. To which I would reply, Sure, things happen for a reason. Certain chemical reactions take place in people's brains, and they cause those people to move their mouths and arms. That's the reason. But, I thought, there's no greater purpose. Now I sometimes think Julie's right. There is is a reason. There has to be. Otherwise, it's all too absurd. The world can't be that Dadaist. a reason. There has to be. Otherwise, it's all too absurd. The world can't be that Dadaist.

It's certainly a healthier way to look at life. I feel better when I see the world this way. I ask Elton Richards, the pastor out to pasture, about this. Maybe I should commit myself to believing in G.o.d for the simple reason that it will make my life better.

"You could," he says. "But it feels a little too calculated for me."

It smacks of Pascal's wager. This was devised by Blaise Pascal, the seventeenth-century French mathematician. He said we should believe in G.o.d because the cost is minimal, but the potential benefit of heaven is huge. Believe in G.o.d just to avoid h.e.l.l. Pretty cynical, really. Or to use a more recent metaphor, maybe it's the Matrix Matrix wager. Am I taking a blue pill just because it's a happier worldview? wager. Am I taking a blue pill just because it's a happier worldview?

"I think you should believe for a more organic reason," says Elton. "If you're going to believe at all."

He who pursues righteousness and kindness will find life and honor. --PROVERBS 21:21 --PROVERBS 21:21 Day 239. I've been trying to be as compa.s.sionate as possible. Often this requires energy and planning--going to the soup kitchen, for instance.

But today G.o.d or fate gave me a big, juicy softball: An old lady asked me to help her across the street. Never in my thirty-eight years has an old lady asked me to help her across the street. I didn't think those things happened anymore. I thought it was just an expression, like kittens getting stuck in trees.

But after lunch, outside the Jewish Theological Seminary, where I was meeting a friend, this kindly old octogenarian woman tells me that she is worried about making it across Broadway's six lanes alone, and could I maybe help.

I'd be glad to. Though actually ecstatic ecstatic is a better word. She locks her arm in mine--I figure she's safely past the age when I can't touch her--and we walk across, me holding my right hand out in a stern stoptraffic position, which was totally unnecessary, since the cars were safely motionless at the red light. is a better word. She locks her arm in mine--I figure she's safely past the age when I can't touch her--and we walk across, me holding my right hand out in a stern stoptraffic position, which was totally unnecessary, since the cars were safely motionless at the red light.

I am so happy about the situation, I stay with her for another several blocks, which, oddly enough, doesn't creep her out.

Be glad in the Lord, and rejoice, O righteous, and shout for joy, all you upright in heart!

--PSALMS 32:11.

Day 240. Mr. Berkowitz is over to pray again today. I can only say no to him so many times. He's giving me another kind but stern lecture. "You have to say a prayer in the morning," says Mr. Berkowitz.

"Right," I say.

"You have to say a prayer over bread."

"Right."

"Did you say the prayer over bread today, Arnold?"

"Right."

"Arnold, I asked you a question. Are you paying attention?"

I am busted. I had tuned out. Mr. Berkowitz is frustrated; not angry, but frustrated.

"Yes, yes, I said the prayer over bread."

"OK," he says.

Then it's on to learning the Hebrew alphabet.

"Aleph, beth, daleth."

"No, aleph, beth, gimel. gimel."

"Aleph, beth, gimel, daleth."

It's a time-consuming visit--a ninety-minute chunk out of my day. But in the end, I'm glad he came over, because Mr. Berkowitz said two things that struck me as astoundingly wise.

The first was about how much he loves doing the commandments. "To me, going to pray is like going to do a hundred-thousand-dollar deal," he said.

This is a mind-set I'm trying to adopt. I shouldn't look at the Bible as a collection of pesky tasks on my to-do list. I have to look forward to the commandments. I have to love them.

And in a few cases--just a handful, really--I'm starting to. Like, with the Sabbath. I used to orient my week around Monday, the start of the secular workweek. Now it's the Sabbath. Everything leads up to the Sabbath. On Friday morning I start prepping for it like I'm going on a big date. I make a huge pot of coffee so that I don't have to do anything resembling cooking on the Sabbath. I pile my research books in a corner.

And when the sun sets, I flip off my computer and get to work not working. Because resting is, paradoxically, difficult. The writer Judith Shulevitz talks about how avoiding business requires much effort. She's right. You can't talk about work, you can't even think about work. A notion about Esquire Esquire will creep into my brain--I have to write that article on weddings for Thursday--and I'll squash it down. Another will pop up. It's like mental Whac-a-Mole. By the end of Sat.u.r.day, as the sun finally sets, I feel as if I've done something strenuous but healthy, like I've taken a run through Central Park. I feel good, like I deserved the endorphin rush the Sabbath gave me. And then I start to look forward to next week's Sabbath. will creep into my brain--I have to write that article on weddings for Thursday--and I'll squash it down. Another will pop up. It's like mental Whac-a-Mole. By the end of Sat.u.r.day, as the sun finally sets, I feel as if I've done something strenuous but healthy, like I've taken a run through Central Park. I feel good, like I deserved the endorphin rush the Sabbath gave me. And then I start to look forward to next week's Sabbath.

The second thing Mr. Berkowitz says is this: "It's a different way of looking at the world. Your life isn't about rights. It's about responsibilities." It's the biblical version of that famous quote from our first Catholic president: "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." It's a good way to think. It's not my natural mind-set, far from it, but I'm giving it a shot.

Consider speech. As a journalist--even though I spent most of my career as a frivolous entertainment journalist--I've been obsessed with my right to free speech. If I was an absolutist in any sense, then it was as a zealot for the First Amendment. Journalists should be allowed to say whatever they want. It's our right. The American way. Take no prisoners. But now I'm trying to balance that mind-set with my responsibility not to engage in evil tongue or the written equivalent. In my article on tuxedos, do I really need to make a cheap joke at David Arquette's expense? Does it make the world a better place? As much as it pains me, I leave my article free from Arquette abuse.

Month Nine: May

In the beginning was the Word . . . --JOHN 1:1 --JOHN 1:1 Day 243. Today is the first day of my New Testament life. I'm as nervous as I've been since the start of this experiment, more nervous than even the very first day, more nervous than when I called up Guru Gil.

On the one hand, I can't wait to dive in. It should be a ma.s.sive education. Before this year, I knew only the very basics of the New Testament and Christianity. Well, the basics plus the random facts that I still remember from the encyclopedia (for example, some early Christians believed that the creation of the world was equivalent to conception, and it occurred on March 25, lending symbolic weight to Jesus's birth nine months later on December 25). But I want more in-depth knowledge. So this will be good for me.

Plus, it feels timely. It's hard to argue with the fact that the New Testament holds more sway in America today than the Old. Or, to be more precise, the Christian literal interpretation of the Bible holds more sway than the Jewish method of exegesis. I don't buy that we're on the verge of a theocracy, but certainly evangelical Christianity--both in its conservative and progressive forms--has a ma.s.sive impact on our lives.

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 pa.s.s away, not an iota, not a dot, will pa.s.s from the law until all is accomplished.

Jesus is G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 sh.e.l.lfish? 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 ma.s.s 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 G.o.d, eventually maybe I will start to believe that Jesus is G.o.d. That's been my tactic with the G.o.d of the Hebrew Bible, and it's actually started to work. But there's a difference. When I do it with the Hebrew G.o.d, 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 wors.h.i.+p him as G.o.d? 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. 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.signments. 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 h.o.m.os.e.xuality, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d-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 h.o.m.os.e.xuality 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 gla.s.s, 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 ma.s.sive, 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 paris.h.i.+oners attend one of the Bible studies in the cla.s.srooms 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 cla.s.s called Growing Families, in room 255. There are about thirty churchgoers already a.s.sembled, mostly white, mostly crisply dressed, engaging in a prestudy mingle.

"h.e.l.lo, 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?"