Orchard (9780062974761)

by Hopen, David

  * * *

  “MORAL INTUITIONISM,” RABBI BLOOM EXPLAINED on our first day back, dividing us into factions for an impromptu debate, “is the idea that our natural inclinations are sufficient to guide us ethically.” Amir and Noah, Rabbi Bloom decided, were to argue in favor of deferring to larger collaborative structures, like rabbinical tradition and government, while Evan and I were responsible for arguing that individuals ought to be left alone to adjudicate moral decisions. (Oliver was offered the chance to join either side or to provide a third approach. Respectfully, he abstained from the exercise.)

  “So what you’re telling me,” Amir said, matched up against me, pulling irritably on his beard, “is that you’re totally cool with allowing someone like Evan Stark to look inward for moral direction?”

  “You’re assuming he has an inside,” Oliver chimed in, legs crossed. “That there’s more than just, you know, endless black void down there.”

  “Well,” I said defensively, annoyed by Amir’s aggression, clearly honed through years of organized debate, “I’d argue that that’s kind of a reductive way of framing what I’m—”

  Evan put up a hand, cutting me off. “Eden, don’t respond. Amir can’t help that he’s been subjected to moral weakness all his life.”

  Rabbi Bloom sighed. “As I remind you all too often,” he said, sipping black coffee while he refereed, “let’s refrain from ad hominem.”

  Amir snorted. “Believing certain people should not be left to their own devices—how exactly does that make me weak?”

  Rabbi Bloom stroked his clean-shaven chin. “You know what? Let’s return to before Mr. Eden was interrupted, shall we? Ari, how might you respond?”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess my position would be that we feel certain emotional impulses when we make decisions, and that these impulses are to be trusted, because they’re just as important as logic or reason or anything else. Essentially, we should be able to go with our gut.”

  “So, in your estimation,” Rabbi Bloom said, “it’s as Hume would put it? Morality is whatever gives us ‘the pleasing sentiment of approbation,’ and immorality the contrary?”

  “Actually, to a large extent, yes,” I said, inordinately pleased with myself for eliciting Hume’s posthumous approval. “I think that, when it comes down to it, we should be able to feel whether something is right or wrong.”

  Evan nodded with an indistinct smile, glancing at Rabbi Bloom before writing something into his notebook. Rabbi Bloom, however, didn’t meet Evan’s eyes.

  “Isn’t that kind of slippery, though?” Noah said. “Like, what if something feels right to me but wrong to you?”

  Oliver waved at Rabbi Bloom in exaggerated deference. “If I may?”

  “Please, Mr. Bellow. Enlighten us.”

  “Maybe I’m someone who not everyone always considers all too, I don’t know, what’s the word? Ethical, let’s call it,” Oliver said, “but don’t some things kind of have to be objective? Like, yeah, call me old-fashioned, but cold-blooded murder is cold-blooded murder, right? It’s wrong, however you slice it. I don’t care where you are, I don’t care how many books you’ve read, that’s just plain, old sinful.” I thought briefly, of all things, of Mordechai protesting against letting someone drown.

  Rabbi Bloom looked around the table, waiting for someone to bite. After some hesitation, I did.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “No what?” Amir asked.

  “I disagree.”

  Oliver whistled in amusement. “I don’t know which Torah they teach in Brooklyn, Eden, but you’re telling me you don’t think murder is, like, universally wrong?”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “I know it’s wrong and I can feel it’s wrong. But I just don’t think you can prove it. Objectively, I mean.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Evan, to my left, nodding in approval. I didn’t know whether to feel proud or ashamed. “Even I’ll admit he’s right,” Evan said. “Because basically, the whole idea of one objective, universal truth is a bunch of bullshit.”

  Rabbi Bloom leaned forward on his elbows. “Mr. Stark.”

  “Sorry, but come on, think about it,” Evan said. “Take Torah values. Religious law. If God is the epicenter of morality—if God is morality, then all of his dictums have to be moral, don’t they?”

  “I mean, no,” Amir said, “that’s not an accepted Halachic position, that’s just you applying contemporary standards to an ancient and much more complicated system.”

  “Right,” Noah said. “Plus, like, maybe God creates morality.”

  “Well, hold on.” I wondered why I felt this strange urge to defend Evan. “Whether God creates morality doesn’t really make much of a difference for this argument, does it?”

  Amir frowned. “What? Sure it does. If God creates morality, then he’s synonymous with morality.”

  Noah drummed his hands on the surface of the conference table. “Yeah, as in, God can create morality, put it into place and then chill. He can give us commands that are moral, or that have nothing to do with morality, or—”

  “Again, that’s all unimportant,” Evan snapped. “You’re missing Eden’s point. The details are irrelevant. Because whatever the Torah contains must be, at minimum, not immoral. But really, of course, that threshold is way too low. Embarrassingly low. Everything it contains should be moral.”

  “Mr. Stark,” Rabbi Bloom said cautiously, “maybe let’s tread carefully.”

  “Oh, please,” Evan said, “now this is controversial? You’re going to tell me that every last part of Torah is defensible on normative moral grounds? Slavery, corporeal punishments, Amalek—”

  “We can’t pretend to understand everything,” Rabbi Bloom said. “There are things that exceed human comprehension, things that challenge—”

  “Yeah, a lovely idea. But that’s not just blind faith, then, Rabbi, that’s lethally nearsighted. Because either certain commands are fundamentally immoral, in which case God is immoral, in which case we have ourselves a bit of an issue, don’t we? Or, on the other hand, maybe such commands are not intended to last forever, are supposed to evolve, but then morality doesn’t age very well. Pick your poison, because either way, doesn’t that give us a collection of artificial, terrifyingly meaningless boundaries?”

  “No,” Amir said harshly, massaging his forehead with the intensity of someone attempting to untangle complex mental knots, “because, again, you’re just applying incongruous standards. Like, what if human beings simply weren’t ready at Sinai? God couldn’t just impose crazy laws on moral cavemen all at once, laws we couldn’t understand and that didn’t make sense according to cultural and historical standards. In that case, God’s way of transmitting morals is pretty genius. Gradual, steady, increasingly ethical.”

  Evan shook his head. “That’s an appealing option to you? Is it any better to worship a God who can reveal Himself in miracles that shock society’s historical and cultural standards but apparently cannot convince His own people to renounce indentured servitude? In my mind, we’re better off just calling the whole thing like it really is.”

  Noah studied Evan’s face. “Which is?”

  “I see three options.” Evan closed his notebook, smiling slightly. “Door number one: newsflash, God isn’t moral. Door two: God didn’t write what we think is our Torah. That’s maybe our most palatable option. And then, there’s lucky number three: God doesn’t exist. I’ll let you guys pick the winner. Kind of depressing, right?”

  “Right,” Noah said. “It is, if you actually believe that.”

  “Well, the good news is you don’t have to believe that,” Evan said. “Because there’s a way out—cast aside this particular model of religion and embrace a completely new paradigm, one that doesn’t reduce to three depressing dead ends.”

  “Yeah?” I said. I rubbed my palm against my neck. “So what is this new model?”

  Evan hesitated, looking unsure of himself suddenly, as if he’d revealed more
than intended and wasn’t yet certain how to proceed. We waited for his answer but it didn’t come. The bell rang; we stood, gathered our things. Amir, still in debate mode, too exasperated to make eye contact, hurried toward the door. Rabbi Bloom, however, stood in his way. “Given the nature of today’s debate, which I think deserves a proper response, I’m going to request you each do some writing on the topic.”

  Oliver groaned, throwing back his head. “Haven’t we written enough? Can’t we make this a writing-free zone?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Rabbi Bloom said, “because to think well, as Orwell taught, we need to write well. And so to solidify these thoughts, I’d like you each to write a paper on this subject.”

  Amir pulled at his backpack straps. “On insane religious gibberish, you mean?”

  “On whether you agree with Mr. Stark’s hypothesis. You’ll have free rein to come up with something innovative. Ten pages. Assume you’ll receive feedback, and that the feedback will count. I’d like this to be some of your best work.”

  “How long do we have?” Noah asked.

  “A week should be more than sufficient,” Rabbi Bloom said, and then we left, merging into the crowded hallway.

  * * *

  I LOITERED OUTSIDE AFTER SCHOOL ended, waiting for Kayla. Sophia emerged, probably heading home after a student council meeting, and so I wandered into the model temple to avoid her. We’d been operating this way for weeks, observing each other not as strangers but as if we were separated by some formidable physical distance, even when only desks apart. I said hello and not much else in biology, evaded her looks in English, still found myself unwittingly jotting down her answers to Hartman’s questions. Machado wrong: no voluptuousness to misery. Why didn’t Nietzsche know Dionysian only swallows you in madness?

  After a few more minutes Kayla finally left the building. She floated toward her car with her head down, earbuds in, books hugged to her chest, yellow backpack bouncing. When she spotted me reading the flash cards in the temple, however, she stopped short, grimacing. “Doing teshuva?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Kayla removed her headphones. “Is that right?”

  “I’ve been waiting.”

  She continued toward her car. “For someone else, I hope.”

  “For you,” I said, hastening to catch her.

  Again she stopped, arching on her tiptoes. “What do you need, Ari?”

  “To apologize again.”

  “Again? Maybe my memory fails me, but I don’t recall a first time.”

  “I tried having lunch with you. Remember?”

  “I remember you showing up with a sheepish look, expecting me to drop whatever I was doing to leap at the chance to join you, as if nothing happened. That I remember.”

  “How come you don’t answer texts?”

  “I’m not so into texts heavy on wit and light on remorse.”

  “Fine, you’re right. I’m sorry, Kayla. I was a total asshole. I was selfish and unappreciative and too stupid to immediately make things right. I miss being friends. Does any of that suffice?”

  She folded her headphones. “Yeah, that’ll do. Even if I am a tad suspicious.”

  “Of?”

  “Your motives.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She grasped at the ends of her hair. “Is it a coincidence you’re doing this now?”

  “No. I’m doing it now because I miss you.”

  “Not because your math grades suck?”

  “They’ve slipped, you’d kill me. But no. That’s not why, I swear.”

  “In that case, yes, I’ll allow you to accompany me.”

  “Home?”

  “What? No, don’t be overeager. Today’s Thursday. I volunteer on Thursdays.”

  “Of course you do. Remind me where?”

  “The homeless shelter. We’re making sandwiches. You’ll love it.”

  I spent the afternoon with her at the local chapter, dicing tomatoes, mashing tuna fish, wrapping whole-wheat sandwiches in tin foil.

  “You really do this every week?” I asked, after we’d finished. I was busy scrubbing mayonnaise from my shirt.

  “I do.” She used her gloved hand to wipe a chunk of tuna from my left cheek.

  “You’re a pretty good person, you know that?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the least we can do, right? This kind of thing makes you appreciate your privilege a bit more.”

  Removing my hairnet, following her to the parking lot, I tried focusing on things for which I felt actively grateful. I appreciated my mother. I appreciated my friends—Noah, at least, and Amir. I appreciated my ability to read and to write and to think. When this inevitably failed to inspire, I made a list of things I could appreciate more deeply: the intensity of my father’s conviction, without which most people live entire lives; my experience with Sophia, however short, however painful, which expanded my capacity to feel; the fact that we’d left Brooklyn, that we had a moderately stable income, that we had a warm place to sleep, even if it was dwarfed by neighboring mansions. I knew such gratitude was crucial to deepening my general sense of happiness, and still I couldn’t manage to feel anything more than abstractions.

  “This was nice, wasn’t it?” she said, unlocking her white Prius. “Kind of a refreshing change.”

  “I still smell like fish, not sure how refreshing that is.”

  “I meant, actually, that this is happening. That we’re hanging out.”

  I climbed into her passenger seat. “We always hang.”

  “Outside of school?”

  “What, you think I was avoiding you? I’m just busy, that’s all. I’ve got basketball and schoolwork and—”

  She reversed out of the lot, laughing. “I tutor, I head three different clubs, I volunteer and I have nearly a 4.0. If I have time, Ari, you have time.”

  “Fair, duly noted.”

  “It’s just that—I mean, don’t you feel that we have a lot in common?”

  A hazy sundown: orange and pink shafts of light filtering through the car’s windows, a flush of a breeze.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’m a better dresser, maybe, but otherwise definitely.”

  “I’m serious.”

  We fell into some silence. I directed her to make a left onto Milton Drive. “Harris Manor, in the flesh,” she said, whistling at Noah’s house as she turned into my driveway. “Seems like it’s gotten even bigger since the last time I was here.”

  “When was that?”

  “Third-grade birthday party, probably. Something prehistoric like that.”

  I undid my seatbelt but we kept sitting there in her car. My parents weren’t home. I felt acutely aware of the fact that we were alone, in private. Our bodies faced the same direction from separate seats, but we were close together, her right elbow grazing my left arm, unfamiliar desire stringing us together where we touched.

  “I’m sorry for saying that before,” she said, eyes fixed on my house. “I just—I guess I hate seeing you become someone else. I hated how you were basically, I don’t know, embarrassed of me, like you were hiding me. Can I say that much?”

  I didn’t think about it. I grabbed her, leaned forward. It was pleasant: less heart-stopping than other kisses, though unexpectedly arousing. In ways I couldn’t exactly define, actually, it felt right. She pulled back, laughing, wiping her hand, gently, over her lips. I went inside and set out to write the paper for Rabbi Bloom.

  * * *

  WALLOWING IN SELF-PITY, I’D ALLOWED the months after Early Decision to slip away. No longer could I afford delaying regular decision applications, I realized, the deadlines approaching rapidly. I submitted my paper (“Against Pure Reason,” in which I made the case that imagination and emotion, not logic alone, lead us to truth), and Rabbi Bloom did a lot of nodding as he read it over, urging me to muster hope and begin the application process anew. So I did. With little left to lose, with nothing in the way of expectations, I locked my door, accessed the fee waiver
secured by Rabbi Bloom and poured myself an inch of Jameson, which was leftover from that Friday night party I hosted unintentionally and which now resided in a shoe box in my closet. I started by listing every school I knew. I added schools I found online, random schools in interesting locations with appealing curricula and a focus on liberal arts. For good measure, I included Mrs. Ballinger’s list. It was an eclectic megillah:

  Cornell, Harvard, Stanford, Penn, Northwestern, Chicago, Yale, Princeton, Johns Hopkins, Brown, Dartmouth, Oberlin, Bennington, Queens College, Brooklyn College, Florida State, University of Florida, Emory, NYU, Miami, Bowdoin, Haverford . . .

  I sipped whiskey, made cuts. Eventually, I settled on a preliminary fifteen and, light-headed from the whiskey, went to work. Shamelessly, I reproduced my Columbia essay, inserting the name of the school for each application. If a school had too many supplementary questions—discuss a problem you’d like to solve; recount a failure; reflect on a time you altered a fundamental belief—I scrapped it without hesitation. After little more than two hours, I’d submitted a dozen applications, drained another glass and shut my computer.

  February

  It is true that both ethics and religion aim at one thing—to raise man above the filth of the narrow self-love and bring him to the heights of love-of-others. But still, they are as remote one from the other as the distance between the Thought of the Creator and the thought of people.

  —Ba’al HaSulam, The Essence of Religion and Its Purpose

  I have a question,” Evan said.

  It was a drab Tuesday. We were making our way, painstakingly, through The Methods of Ethics. Afternoon listlessness had overtaken the room: Oliver was too bored to muster sarcasm, Noah was sleepy-eyed from another extraordinary performance the previous night (seventeen points, ten rebounds, twelve assists) and even Amir, typically much too proud to admit something was difficult, especially if Evan understood it, was thoroughly lost. I’d been trying my best to stay alert, blinking away stagnant silences, resisting the soporific sound of rain streaming down the windows. Evan, meanwhile, had remained deferential until now, listening intently as Rabbi Bloom lectured, scribbling along the margins of his book.