The Year of Living Biblically Part 7

I came for the dancing. There's a part in the Bible where King David celebrates the arrival of the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem. This was an older David, years after he slew Goliath with a rock and sling. He has defeated his increasingly paranoid mentor Saul to become king of Israel. And he brings home the ark, a sacred box containing the Ten Commandments. He celebrates by dancing. And, man, does he dance. He dances with such abandon, with such joy, that he doesn't notice that his robe is flying up, exposing his nakedness to the young handmaidens in the kingdom.

His uptight wife, Michal, is appalled. She makes the mistake of scolding King David, and, as a result, is cursed with childlessness.

The unhappy ending seems unduly harsh. But I do love the image of the king doing a wild holy jig. The joy of religion; that's what David was feeling, and that's something I underestimated--or pretty much ignored--in my secular life. I want to feel what David felt, so I took a subway to Crown Heights, Brooklyn, on a Tuesday evening.

The occasion is a Jewish holiday called Simchas Torah, the last night before the sukkah is taken down. It's not in the Bible proper, but it does celebrate something biblical: the end to the annual reading of the five books of Moses. And it sounded too interesting to miss.

My guide, Gershon, is a friend of a friend. He's a kind, bespectacled, newlywed Hasid whose outgoing voice-mail message says: "Your next action could change the world, so make it a good one."

As we walk, I get to see a side of ultra-Orthodox Jews that I'd never seen before. They always look so somber on the subway, so purposeful. But here they are, well, wasted. They're weaving down the sidewalks, some holding bottles of Crown Royal whiskey, some singing loudly in Hebrew.

On this holiday, it's not just OK to drink, it's pretty much mandatory. Gershon and I go to his parents' house and pound a few shots of vodka in their front-yard sukkah. It's raining, and the raindrops fall through the gaps in the sukkah roof and splash into our gla.s.ses.

When Gershon says the prayers in Hebrew before drinking, I sneak a peek at him. His eyes are half-closed, his eyelids fluttering, his eyeb.a.l.l.s rolled toward the back of his head. Will I ever come close to that spiritual state? Will I get my longed-for epiphany? I'm worried that I won't.

After our vodka shots, we head over to the party's headquarters-- the huge building known as 770 Eastern Parkway, the nerve center of this branch of Hasidism. (The sect is called Lubavitchers, and its members are the least insular of the Hasidic Jews, committed to bringing unaffiliated Jews into the fold.) I'm wearing black pants and a black sweater to better blend in with the Hasidim. I forgot to bring the crucial yarmulke, but Gershon lends me one of his.

"We dance for our animal nature," says Gershon, as we step across the puddles. "The Torah is for both sides of the nature. The reading is for the divine side, and the dancing is for the animal side."

As we approach within a few yards of 770--as it's called--Gershon asks me: "You ever been bungee jumping?"

"No."

"Well, I have. The instructors say to just jump, don't think about it. That's what you have to do here."

I see what he means. Just getting inside is going to be an extreme sport. The doors are glutted with dozens of revelers in their black coats-- all men, no women (the Hasidim aren't much for gender mixing). We have to elbow our way through.

A fat, red-bearded guy comes up to Gershon and hugs him. Red Beard goes off on a drunken I-love-you-man, you-are-the-greatest-guy-Iknow rant that lasts a good two minutes.

Gershon finally extracts himself.

"Who was that?" I ask.

"Never met him before in my life."

We squeeze our way inside. And there, an ocean of undulating black hats. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them in a hall the size of a large gymnasium. It's as loud as any concert I've ever been to. But instead of drums and guitar, it's a village of men singing Ay yi yi yi. Ay yi yi yi.

The floor is exactly like a Seattle mosh pit circa 1992. Everyone's b.u.mping, smacking, thumping into one another. One guy barrels into me so hard that he sends me stumbling. "Hey you with the beard!" he says. Everyone looks up. He unleashes a deep laugh.

We are making a slow, huge circle, sort of a Holy Roller derby. If you look up, you can see the occasional Hasid bouncing up in the air like a pogo stick. When there is a patch of free s.p.a.ce on the floor--which isn't often--a reveler will do a somersault. Two men are swapping their black hats repeatedly as if they were reenacting a Laurel and Hardy scene.

I tell you, I've never seen such pure joy. It is thick, atmospheric, like someone had released a huge canister of nitrous oxide into the room. Here we are, hundreds of dancing King Davids. Even for a control freak like me, there's no choice but to go along with it. You are overwhelmed. You follow the sweaty, bouncing, shouting, ay-yi-yi ay-yi-yi-ing hordes, or you are trampled.

I swing from emotion to emotion: terror that I'll be crushed, fascination that humans act this way, paranoia that they'll deal with the interloper in a manner I'd never forget (think Deliverance Deliverance meets meets Yentl Yentl). But occasionally I swing to delirious happiness. I don't know if I feel G.o.d. And it isn't as intense as the epiphanies I had as a kid. But a couple of times that night, I feel something transcendent, something that melts away the future and the past and the deadlines and the MasterCard bills and puts me squarely in the moment. At least for a few seconds, there is no difference between me and Jacob, my biblical alter ego.

After three hours of dancing--at one in the morning--I tell Gershon that I'm going to go, even though the hardcore dancers stay on till six. He walks me out. "Remember," he says to me as we shake hands goodbye on the street corner, "sometimes you have to look beyond the weirdness. It's like the temple in ancient Jerusalem. If you went there, you'd see oxen being slaughtered and all sorts of things. But look beyond the weirdness, to what it means."

As I ride the subway home, with the Ay-yi-yi Ay-yi-yi-ing still echoing in my ears, I try to think of the meaning beyond the weirdness. Here's what I decide: Underneath my repression, maybe I have a closeted mystical side. Maybe I'm a rational Presbyterian on the outside, but an emotional Baptist on the inside. Given the right circ.u.mstances, maybe everyone is, even Henry Kissinger.

The next morning, I tell Julie about my wild night of dancing with Hasidic men and how I got a taste of pure joy.

"And where were the women during this thing?"

"Well, they were watching. They have these observation windows."

"Observation windows?" Julie looks p.i.s.sed.

It's strange. Naturally, I noticed the gender segregation--but there were so many odd and overwhelming things about the night that I didn't laser in on that one. It's the obliviousness that comes with being in the majority.

"Yeah," I say. "Well, I was trying not to be judgmental."

"Well, seems like they're being judgmental of women."

I can sense Julie becoming more and more skeptical of religion, or at least hardcore religion.

Before my project, Julie was the mildly proreligion one in the family. She believed in a G.o.d of some sort, or at least a universe that wasn't morally apathetic. "Things happen for a reason," she was always telling me when I'd moan about some career setback. She loves the rituals of Hanukkah and Pa.s.sover. She's already started coming up with themes for Jasper's bar mitzvah (soccer! The Academy Awards!).

But now, I feel her drawing away--even as I start to warm to some aspects of religious life. It's the difference between living the Bible and living with someone who is living the Bible.

. . . He had done so, walking naked and barefoot. --ISAIAH 20:2 --ISAIAH 20:2 Day 61. I'm typing this right after midnight. The Psalms urge us to rise at midnight and praise G.o.d, so I've been doing that for a week. I promised Julie I'd do it only for a week, since I've had to set an alarm for 11:58 p.m., two hours into her sleep cycle.

It's the end of my experiment's second month, and here's what I'm feeling: exhilarated, confused, overwhelmed, underqualified, fascinated, and scared. Also, embarra.s.sed.

My biblical alter ego Jacob is starting to look freakish. I've got ta.s.sels hanging from my garments. I take this purity-insuring Handy Seat everywhere. My beard has gone beyond s.h.a.ggy. It now hangs a good two inches below my chin, and it's starting to make curlicues and shoot off in unexpected directions. (Julie wanted to go to Halloween with me as Tom Hanks from Cast Away Cast Away and her as the volleyball, but I can't do Halloween because it's a pagan holiday.) and her as the volleyball, but I can't do Halloween because it's a pagan holiday.) Yes, of course, part of me likes the attention. I write memoirs for a living, for Pete's sake. And, yes, I know I brought this on myself--no one's forcing me to follow the Bible at knifepoint. But the constant stares and quizzical looks--it'd be enough to make anyone, even me, self-conscious. A bit paranoid, even.

Luckily, I've found inspiration in the Bible. As the Brooklyn rabbi Andy Bachman suggested, I've been rereading the Prophets. He's right. They are amazing.

I love their message of social justice--especially Amos, Micah, and Isaiah. Again and again, they berate the hard-hearted rich who lie on beds of ivory and sip wine contentedly and "trample the heads of the poor into the dust of the earth." Their days are numbered.

But I also love the way they delivered that message. You see, the prophets didn't just utter their prophecies. They staged what are known as "prophetic acts"--wild, attention-grabbing, G.o.d-inspired pieces of performance art. The prophets were the inventors of street theater, as scholar Marcus Borg points out in his book Reading the Bible Again for the First Time. Reading the Bible Again for the First Time. They were ancient David Blaines, but with orders from G.o.d, not a network executive. They were ancient David Blaines, but with orders from G.o.d, not a network executive.

Consider Hosea, who married a prost.i.tute and named his children "Not pitied" and "Not my people." The names were a warning: Israel must repent for its idolatrous ways, or G.o.d will continue to have no pity and cut them off.

Even more radical was Isaiah, who walked naked and barefoot for three years among the people of Jerusalem. (This was symbolic of what would happen if Judah allied itself with Egypt and Ethiopia; they would be conquered, and everyone would end up naked captives.) Another prophet, Jeremiah, did wear clothes but walked the streets with a wooden yoke around his neck to signify the yoke of Babylonian rule.

But eclipsing them all was Ezekiel. He was the master. I knew from reading the encyclopedia that Ezekiel had eaten a scroll to symbolize his appropriation of its message. And yet that was tame compared to his other performances. One time, for instance, G.o.d told Ezekiel to carve a model of Jerusalem into a brick, then lie down beside the model on his left side. He continued lying there. For 390 days. Then Ezekiel turned to his right side to lie another forty days. These days were to symbolize the years that Israel and Judah would be in exile after the Babylonian conquering.

During his 430-day feat, Ezekiel was to eat a meager diet of bread-- cooked over human dung. Ezekiel pleaded with G.o.d, and G.o.d agreed to let him use cow dung as fuel instead.

As I enter my third month, Ezekiel and his fellow prophets have become my heroes. They were fearless. They literalized metaphors. They turned their lives into protest pieces. They proved that, in the name of truth, sometimes you can't be afraid to take a left turn from polite society and look absurd.

Maybe my alter ego Jacob is in the prophetic tradition of Ezekiel. I hope so. On the other hand, he could be way off. I imagine that for every Ezekiel, there were a couple hundred false prophets walking around Jerusalem with, say, loincloths on their heads and eating clumps of dirt.

I blow my shofar. It still sounds like a fax machine, but a healthy one.

Month Three: November

They shall be stoned with stones, their blood shall be upon them. --LEVITICUS 20:27 --LEVITICUS 20:27 Day 62. It's been more than a month since my mixed-fiber adventure. Time for me to tackle the second item on my list of Most Perplexing Laws: capital punishment.

The Hebrew scriptures prescribe a tremendous amount of capital punishment. Think Saudi Arabia, multiply by Texas, then triple that. It wasn't just for murder. You could also be executed for adultery, blasphemy, breaking the Sabbath, perjury, incest, b.e.s.t.i.a.lity, and witchcraft, among others. A rebellious son could be sentenced to death. As could a son who is a persistent drunkard and glutton.

The most commonly mentioned punishment method in the Hebrew Bible is stoning. So I figure, at the very least, I should try to stone. But how?

I can't tell you the number of people who have suggested that I get adulterers and blasphemers stoned in the cannabis sense. Which is an interesting idea. But I haven't smoked pot since I was at Brown University, when I wrote a paper for my anthropology cla.s.s on the hidden symbolism of bong hits. (Brown was the type of college where this paper actually earned a B+.) Instead I figured my loophole would be this: The Bible doesn't specify the size of the stones. So . . . pebbles.

A few days ago, I gathered a handful of small white pebbles from Central Park, which I stuffed in my back pants pocket. Now all I needed were some victims. I decided to start with Sabbath breakers. That's easy enough to find in this workaholic city. I noticed that a potbellied guy at the Avis down our block had worked on both Sat.u.r.day and Sunday. So no matter what, he's a Sabbath breaker.

Here's the thing, though: Even with pebbles, it is surprisingly hard to stone people.

My plan had been to walk nonchalantly past the Sabbath violator and chuck the pebbles at the small of his back. But after a couple of failed pa.s.ses, I realized it was a bad idea. A chucked pebble, no matter how small, does not go unnoticed.

My revised plan: I would pretend to be clumsy and drop the pebble on his shoe. So I did.

And in this way I stoned. But it was probably the most polite stoning in history--I said, "I'm sorry," and then leaned down to pick up the pebble. And he leaned down at the same time, and we almost b.u.t.ted heads, and then he apologized, then I apologized again.

Highly unsatisfying.

Today I get another chance. I am resting in a small public park on the Upper West Side, the kind where you see retirees eating tuna sandwiches on benches.

"Hey, you're dressed queer."

I look over. The speaker is an elderly man, mid-seventies, I'd guess. He is tall and thin and is wearing one of those caps that cabbies wore in movies from the forties.

"You're dressed queer," he snarls. "Why you dressed so queer?"

I have on my usual ta.s.sels, and, for good measure, have worn some sandals and am carrying a knotty maple walking stick I'd bought on the internet for twenty-five dollars.

"I'm trying to live by the rules of the Bible. The Ten Commandments, stoning adulterers . . ."

"You're stoning adulterers?"

"Yeah, I'm stoning adulterers."

"I'm an adulterer."

"You're currently an adulterer?"

"Yeah. Tonight, tomorrow, yesterday, two weeks from now. You gonna stone me?"

"If I could, yes, that'd be great."

"I'll punch you in the face. I'll send you to the cemetery."

He is serious. This isn't a cutesy grumpy old man. This is an angry old man. This is a man with seven decades of hostility behind him. I fish out my pebbles from my back pocket.

"I wouldn't stone you with big stones," I say. "Just these little guys."

I open my palm to show him the pebbles. He lunges at me, grabbing one out of my hand, then flinging it at my face. It whizzes by my cheek.

I am stunned for a second. I hadn't expected this grizzled old man to make the first move. But now there is nothing stopping me from retaliating. An eye for an eye.

I take one of the remaining pebbles and whip it at his chest. It bounces off.

"I'll punch you right in the kisser," he says.

"Well, you really shouldn't commit adultery," I say.

We stare at each other. My pulse has doubled.

Yes, he is a septuagenarian. Yes, he had just threatened me using corny Honeymooners Honeymooners dialogue. But you could tell: This man has a strong dark side. dialogue. But you could tell: This man has a strong dark side.

Our glaring contest lasts ten seconds, then he walks away, brus.h.i.+ng by me as he leaves.

When I was a kid, I saw an episode of All in the Family All in the Family in which Meathead--Rob Reiner's wussy peacenik character--socked some guy in the jaw. Meathead was very upset about this. But he wasn't upset that he committed violence; he was upset because it felt so in which Meathead--Rob Reiner's wussy peacenik character--socked some guy in the jaw. Meathead was very upset about this. But he wasn't upset that he committed violence; he was upset because it felt so good good to commit violence. to commit violence.

I can relate. Even though mine was a stoning lite, barely fulfilling the letter of the law, I can't deny: It felt good to chuck a rock at this nasty old man. It felt primal. It felt like I was getting vengeance on him. This guy wasn't just an adulterer, he was a bully. I wanted him to feel the pain he'd inflicted on others, even if that pain was a tap on the chest.

Like Meathead, I also knew that this was a morally stunted way to feel. Stoning is about as indefensible as you can get. It comes back to the old question: How can the Bible be so wise in some places and so barbaric in others? And why should we put any faith in a book that includes such brutality? Later that week, I ask my spiritual adviser Yossi about stoning. Yossi was born in Minnesota and calls himself a "Jewtheran"-- Jewish guilt and Lutheran repression mesh nicely, he told me. He's an ordained Orthodox rabbi but never practiced, instead opting for the shmata shmata trade--he sold scarves to, among others, the Amish. He's tall and broad shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard. In his spare time, Yossi writes wry essays about Jewish life, including a lament about how his favorite snack, Twinkies, recently became nonkosher. I met him through Aish HaTorah, an Orthodox outreach group. trade--he sold scarves to, among others, the Amish. He's tall and broad shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard. In his spare time, Yossi writes wry essays about Jewish life, including a lament about how his favorite snack, Twinkies, recently became nonkosher. I met him through Aish HaTorah, an Orthodox outreach group.

He isn't fazed by my question at all.

We don't stone people today because you need a biblical theocracy to enforce the stoning, he explains. No such society exists today. But even in ancient times, stoning wasn't barbaric.

"First of all, you didn't just heave stones," says Yossi. "The idea was to minimize the suffering. What we call 'stoning' was actually pus.h.i.+ng the person off the cliff so they would die immediately upon impact. The Talmud actually has specifications on how high the cliff must be. Also, the person getting executed was given strong drink to dull the pain."

Plus, the stonings were a rare thing. Some rabbis say executions occurred only once every seven years, others say even less often. There had to be two witnesses to the crime. And the adulterer had to be tried by a council of seventy elders. And, weirdly, the verdict of those seventy elders could not be unanimous--that might be a sign of corruption or brainwas.h.i.+ng. And so on.

I half-expected Yossi to say they gave the adulterer a ma.s.sage and a gift bag. He made a compelling case. And yet, I'm not totally sold. Were biblical times really so merciful? I suspect there might be some whitewas.h.i.+ng going on. As my year progresses, I'll need to delve deeper.

And you shall eat and be full, and you shall bless the Lord your G.o.d for the good land He has given you.

--DEUTERONOMY 8:10.

Day 64. A spiritual update: I'm still agnostic, but I do have some progress to report on the prayer front. I no longer dread prayer. And sometimes I'm even liking it. I've gone so far as to take the training wheels off and am testing out some of my own prayers instead of just repeating pa.s.sages from the Bible.

Elton Richards--the pastor out to pasture--broke down prayer for me into four types. It's a handy mnemonic: ACTS. A A for adoration (praising G.o.d). for adoration (praising G.o.d). C C for confession (telling G.o.d your sins). for confession (telling G.o.d your sins). T T for thanksgiving (being grateful to G.o.d for what you have). for thanksgiving (being grateful to G.o.d for what you have). S S for supplication (asking G.o.d to help you). for supplication (asking G.o.d to help you).

Right now, the one that's working for me best is T, T, thanksgiving. Adoration feels awkward to me. Confession feels forced. As for supplication, I'm doing it, but I feel greedy asking G.o.d to help my career. Should I really be cluttering His in-box by asking for better placement of thanksgiving. Adoration feels awkward to me. Confession feels forced. As for supplication, I'm doing it, but I feel greedy asking G.o.d to help my career. Should I really be cluttering His in-box by asking for better placement of The Know-It-All The Know-It-All at airport bookstores? at airport bookstores?

But thanksgiving, that I'm getting into. In Deuteronomy, the Bible says that we should thank the Lord when we've eaten our fill--grace after meals, it's called. Christians moved grace to the beginning of the meal, preappetizer. To be safe, I'm praying both before and after.

Today, before tasting my lunch of hummus and pita bread, I stand up from my seat at the kitchen table, close my eyes, and say in a hushed tone: "I'd like to thank G.o.d for the land that he provided so that this food might be grown."

Technically, that's enough. That fulfills the Bible's commandment. But while in thanksgiving mode, I decide to spread the grat.i.tude around: "I'd like to thank the farmer who grew the chickpeas for this hummus. And the workers who picked the chickpeas. And the truckers who drove them to the store. And the old Italian lady who sold the hummus to me at Zingone's deli and told me 'Lots of love.' Thank you."