by Bruce Feiler
“I believe in God,” he said.
I indicated surprise. “So where is your God?” I said.
“God is everywhere, everyplace,” he said. “The problem with God is that what the early Israelites meant by God in the Bible is very different from what present-day religious people mean when they say God. If you talk with the bedouin about their religion, they have holy places and holy mountains. The early Israelites were much closer to the bedouin in that regard.”
“So what is God then?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know that when you go certain places you feel him, and you become a better person. When I go into the desert I become a better person.”
“And that’s not incompatible with what you know about science?”
“Absolutely not. Science is never going to prove the divine, but it’s never going to disprove it either. We explain many things, but we can’t explain what’s inside the human soul. That’s God.”
“What about the Bible?” I mentioned. “Is that part of your understanding?”
“Yes. Because I can’t always go to the desert, I can’t always take my children there. But I can read the stories. The way I see it, if you read the book, you also become a better person.”
“So you’re saying that the desert helps you to do that, and the Bible helps you to do that?”
“Yes, the desert and the Bible. They’re partners. They’re good partners.”
I repeated this story to Avner while we were sitting on the mountain. We had begun talking about the relationship between human evolution and the Bible, a conversation we had started in the Sinai. Night had fallen over the Holy Land, revealing a full constellation of sky, the color of onyx. Jupiter was directly in front of us, Avner pointed out, Mars to our left. The crescent moon was resting on its rounded bottom, an empty candy dish. The sky seemed so close that the stars appeared as if they could be plucked from their positions and placed somewhere else.
Avner emphasized that in nature, new species develop in response to evolutionary pressure. The giraffe needed to eat the leaves of trees, for example, so it developed a long neck. Humans, however, developed a complex brain, which gave us the ability to change the environment to suit our needs. “Here we find ourselves in a sunny place,” Avner said, “but instead of waiting for all the people with light skin to die off and all the people with dark skin to survive, we put on creams to protect ourselves. It’s the same with the sweet tooth, the seeking of deep-fried foods and meat. These were designed for the time when people could hardly get food and they needed to store extra fat in their bodies. But things change, and now we have access to more food. We all know it would be better not to eat too much red meat and sweets, but we love them. So instead of curbing our appetite, we developed medicines and surgical procedures like bypass.
“What I’m trying to say,” he continued, “is that in humans, evolution now involves creating behavior patterns that we pass from generation to generation. Our genes haven’t changed that much since neolithic times. And that collection of behavior patterns is culture. Culture is the way that a group of people develop together in order to survive, to maintain their way of life.
“And when we talk about culture,” he added, “it’s like talking about a different species of wildlife. That’s the way this group of people deal with the environment. Therefore, being a Palestinian, or an Israeli, or an Edomite, is not some collection of crazy things. It is the essence of being.”
“So what you’re suggesting,” I said, “is that this attachment to the desert I feel is probably not in my physical DNA?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think it’s in your cultural DNA—as a Westerner, a member of the Judeo-Christian world.”
“If that’s the case, then presumably the reason it got there is that this”—I tapped my Bible—“is one of the greatest sources of cultural DNA ever invented.”
“I agree,” he said. “In fact, I agree even more after our travels.”
“What do you mean?”
“I would have agreed before we worked together, but now it’s become so much more solid in my understanding, and my feelings.” The Hebrew Bible, he continued, is clearly the most important document of the ancient Near East. It’s important because so many other documents—the Prophets, the Gospels, the Koran—grew out of it. But it’s also important because it incorporates so many elements from documents that preceded it. “There are countless ideas in the Bible that cross borders and civilizations—Creation, the Flood, the idea of a contract between humans and God—which the text captures perfectly because it draws from so many different cultures.”
“So let me ask you what I asked Professor Malamat,” I said. “When you think of the Bible, what do you think of ?”
“I think of creation. I don’t think of written material at all. These are stories that were crystallized over time, the deepest creativity of a certain culture. If the Bible comes from people, and not from God, as I believe it does, then it’s the essence of being human. It’s the story of the creation of a people. I don’t know of any other created thing that has had such lasting impact, and I wonder, I still wonder, why the Bible is greater than the collected works of Mozart, or Shakespeare, or Greek mythology?”
We took up that question. We agreed that the Bible shares with those works the ability to appeal to almost anyone. If you’re a woman who can’t have a baby, you can relate to it. If you’re a brother who fights with your brother, you can relate to it. If you’re a person who works your whole life toward a dream and are denied it, you can relate to it. Also, the Bible, like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony or the Mona Lisa, is infinitely complex and infinitely simple. You can read it as a story, or you can read it as a philosophical tract.
But therein also lies a difference. Unlike most works of art, the Bible is ultimately about the relationship between people and God. It shares that subject matter with Greek mythology, of course, as well as with other ancient religions that have long since died out. So why did biblical religion survive? One answer seems to be the abstract nature of God, his ability to be everywhere, not just on top of Mount Olympus, say, tinkering with events on earth. “In Greek mythology, you have moira, fate,” Avner said. “You’re born with everything already written among the gods. You cannot change things.
“With monotheism,” he continued, “God is the deity, but humans can choose whether they follow him or not. As human beings, we are responsible for our own actions. We can go one way, or the other. But the right way is the moral way.”
“So if what you’re saying is correct,” I said, “then the great irony of this story is that for all that’s written down, the most important thing about the Bible is not what’s written.”
“Because it’s written by each individual who encounters the text.”
“Each reader.”
“That’s right. We take what’s written, ask questions, and struggle for answers.”
“We ‘go forth.’ ”
“And it’s that process,” Avner said, “that longing, that desire to touch the untouchable . . .”
“That takes us to God,” I said.
He grinned. “Where else could it lead?”
Midnight was nearing by the time we pulled out our Bibles to read Moses’ valedictory speech. A slight chill filled the air, and we slipped into our sleeping bags. We decided not to build a fire for fear of drawing attention to ourselves, and used flashlights to read. Occasionally the wind would howl, or a tuft of sagebrush would blow in front of us, and we’d stop: We’d been discovered! But then nothing would happen, we’d relax, and return to our books.
While Deuteronomy unfolds as a sort of Reader’s Digest condensation of the preceding four books, the language is different, more sanctified. The tone would be familiar to anyone who attends religious services today. As Moses says in Deuteronomy 5, “Hear, O Israel, the laws and rules that I proclaim you this day! Study them and observe them faithfully!” What emerges is a portrait of an inex
tricable bond between the people of Israel and God. As commentator Everett Fox observes, every act that Israel performs as a community, and every one done by its individuals, is to be seen in the light of God’s moral and ethical code. “Breaking one of God’s rules means not merely a violation of a statute but an affront to the suzerain, the sovereign Lord, and thus a grave risk to society’s well-being and even to its very existence.”
Moses, in his final oration, emphasizes this blunt choice between right and wrong. “I set before you this day life and prosperity, death and adversity,” he says in Deuteronomy 30. On the one hand, if the people love God and walk in his ways, they will thrive in the land they are about to invade. But if they turn to other gods, he says, they shall certainly perish. “Choose life,” Moses says, “by loving the Lord your God, heeding His commands, and holding fast to him.”
In Deuteronomy 31 Moses then publicly blesses Joshua, his successor. “Be strong and resolute, for it is you who shall go with this people into the land that the Lord swore to their fathers to give them, and it is you who shall apportion it to them. And the Lord Himself will go before you.” At this point, Moses and Joshua enter the Tent of Meeting, where God issues a dire prediction: Israel will, indeed, go astray in the new land. “They will forsake Me and break My covenant,” God says. “Then My anger will flare up against them, and I will abandon them.”
God instructs Moses to write a poem and teach it to Israel, in order that they will not forget him. “Give ear, O heavens, let me speak,” the poem begins, invoking the most sacred ingredient of the desert, water. “Let the earth hear the words I utter!/May my discourse come down as the rain, /My speech distill as the dew.” The poem goes on to predict the ultimate rebellion by the people against God, but says, in the end, that God will not forsake Israel. “For the Lord will vindicate His people /And take revenge for His servants.”
“So after all their time in the desert,” I said, “the Israelites still haven’t learned their lesson?”
“Monotheism, as we saw, is not a straight path,” Avner said.
“But what Moses seems to be saying is that it’s not enough just for individuals to have a connection to God. The entire community must have a relationship with God.”
“It’s like Rami said back in the Negev,” Avner said. “‘You can’t survive by yourself in the desert, you have to come together.’ ”
As he spoke I heard a rustling over the hill. “Do you hear something?” I said. He listened for a few seconds. “Probably just the wind,” he said. “Okay,” I agreed, and we chuckled.
I returned to the topic. “It can be beneficial to be with people who share your beliefs. But it can also be destructive. Look how many people died so far in the Five Books, and look how many people are going to die in the conquest. Culture may be beautiful, but it’s also deadly.”
“That’s because culture is like creating a new species,” Avner said. “And species fight for their territory, for their resources, for their existence.”
“God’s the same way,” I said. “According to the story, he’s beautiful, but deadly, too.”
“And people are made in God’s image.”
As he said that, I heard another sound. This time Avner heard it, too. We sat upright and listened toward the wind. Several seconds passed, then two dark shadows emerged over the hill and began striding in our direction. We didn’t move. It didn’t take long for the figures to reach us. Two broad-shouldered men appeared, each wearing a dark shirt and trousers, a cap, and boots, and each carrying a gun. They greeted us in English. We greeted them back.
What followed was a typical bedouin meeting scene. We invited them to sit down. They did. We offered them something to drink. They accepted. No one said anything for a few minutes. Finally, the taller of the two men, with a mustache, lifted his head, smiled, and announced, “We are from the police. You are not supposed to be here. You know it. We know it. What are we going to do about it?”
If nothing else, he was admirably polite.
“This is a very dangerous area,” he continued. “There are smugglers who could shoot you, or hyenas who could eat you. We are concerned about your safety and security. Do you understand?”
“We understand,” Avner said.
“So what do you want to do now?” the man asked.
“I want to tell you why we are here,” Avner said. He then proceeded through a gentle recitation of our reasons for being on Mount Nebo. We had been working together for several years, he said, on a project retracing the Bible through the Middle East. We had been to Turkey, Israel, the Palestinian Territories, Egypt, the Sinai, and now Jordan.
“You are Israeli?” the man asked.
“And American,” I said.
“You are welcome,” the man said.
We had visited many places, Avner continued. We had interviewed many people. And this was the last night of our journey and we wanted to end where Moses ended, on top of Mount Nebo. The man seemed not to understand what Avner had said. “You have been where?” he wanted to know. “Doing what?”“The Bible?” he repeated, in a manner that indicated he didn’t know what that was. “One of the holy books,” I said. “And you are writing a book?” he repeated. “Yes,” I said. “And your book is going to replace the Bible?” he asked. The conversation was not going well.
After a while he began going through our bags, looking at my notebooks and camera, our maps and dirty clothes. He looked at my passport with its many stamps from around the Middle East. Finally he seemed to understand. “I think your work is very important,” he said. “I think I will ask my supervisor to let you stay here for the night.” Thank you, we said. Thank you. “Why don’t you just pack up your belongings and we’ll drive down to the jail in Ma’daba and ask his permission?” My heart sank. Even if we did get our approval, our chances of getting them to drive us back to the mountain by sunrise seemed slight.
“Perhaps you and I can drive there,” I said cheerily, “and the other two can stay here with our belongings.” He didn’t like that idea. “I’m afraid—” At this point, the other officer began speaking to his partner in Arabic. It was clear he was arguing our case. Finally, the two men stood up. “You have been traveling for years,” the first man said. “You are working very hard. We would feel bad if we interrupted your work. Bad for ourselves, bad for our country. We will drive back to Ma’daba and ask our supervisor to help you.
“But this place is unsafe,” he continued. “There are smugglers who could shoot you, and hyenas who could eat you. So we will send two officers to protect you. They will have guns.” Thank you, we said. We understand. “And will you be one of those officers?” I asked the man. “No, I have to work in the morning,” he said. “If I could, I would like to come back. Because this is a very special place.”
After they left, we sat in shocked silence for a while. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. We could no longer hear them or their car. Had they really driven back to Ma’daba? Were they really going to send officers to guard us? We were afraid to sleep, having assured them we had no intention of doing so. We’d just be talking. Also, there was the matter of the smugglers. Seemed unlikely, but we didn’t know.
An hour passed with still no sign. The moon was over Jerusalem now. It had turned the color of cantaloupe. Avner began drifting off and in a few minutes was sound asleep. It was after 2 A.M. by now and we were due at the monastery by five. I lay down to sleep, but kept thinking of the imminent arrival of our guards. I felt partly agitated by the thought of their returning, partly comforted. Either way, I was unable to sleep. My mind drifted to our earlier conversation about the nature of God.
When I first started out on this journey, I convinced myself that this trip was not about me and my spirit, or me and my God. It didn’t take long for me to realize that that idea was self-protective folly. It would be impossible to do what we did—to spend so much time visiting biblical sites, and so much time reading the Bible—and not come face-to-face with questions of fai
th and divinity. If anything, these issues emerged from our earliest days in Turkey and continued until the end, forming an emotional undercurrent to the trip. This undercurrent grew out of a series of unexpected moments: driving across the plains of Mesopotamia to Harran, riding a horse with Yehuda Avni in the Galilee, floating in the rowboat on Lake Timsah, sitting alongside the burning bush in Sinai. I began to realize that this set of experiences—this thread of personal moments—had calmed me in ways I hadn’t anticipated, had prepared me somehow for tests I had yet to face in my life. Above all, I felt a deep sense of peace from having spent so long in the presence of such elemental ideas—land, water, walking, family, nation, and, yes, God.
But were experiencing those feelings enough for me to know that I had encountered God? One monumental problem I faced in trying to answer that question is that God in the Bible is such a variable character—here an angel, there a visitor, here a warrior, there a gentle provider, here a wrathful tyrant, there a bestower of life. And that’s just in the Five Books, before the rest of the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, the Talmud, the Koran, and the writings of countless philosophers, physicists, gurus, rabbis, pastors, and priests. I had grown up with the inescapable question “Do you believe in God?” Now I realized that the question was merely a beginning. “Do you believe in God?” must be followed immediately by “Which version of God?” The creator God of Genesis, the destroyer God of Numbers, the Christian God of Saint Catherine’s, the Muslim God of Jebel Haroun, the deeply personal God that Doug Clark found on Mount Nebo. Could it be that spending several years in the birthplace of the word of God might bring you no closer to God himself because words are inadequate to the task?
The answer to that question, I believe, is yes and no. When I set out on this trip, I basically believed there was a unified notion of God and that I either shared it or didn’t. This journey would plant me squarely in that spot, or it wouldn’t. What I didn’t expect is that the journey would do something else entirely. First, it showed me that there is no single place, no such thing as an accepted notion of God. If anything, admitting that I didn’t know what God was, but that I was consumed by doubt and fascination on the matter, brought me into line with a rich theological tradition. For many, doubt is a prerequisite for faith. As Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth-century C.E. bishop, wrote in his Life of Moses: “The true vision and the knowledge of what we seek consists precisely in not seeing, in an awareness that our goal transcends all knowledge and is everywhere cut from us by the darkness of incomprehensibility.” What Gregory recommended was doing what Abraham and Moses had done: realize that we could not see God intellectually but that if we let ourselves be enveloped in, say, the cloud that descended upon Mount Sinai, we could feel his presence.
