The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible

by A. J. Jacobs

  Without my year, I wouldn't have been open to that feeling I got on the dance floor. And for that alone, all the craziness and Handy Seats and locusts and snakes might have been worth it.

  The end of all things is at hand . . . --1 PETER 4:7

  Day 378. One day to go. I've decided not to go on a Bible binge this last day. I don't want to waste it running around like a kaparot chicken. I try to make it a slow day, a day of meditation. I want to try to get a little perspective. Such as:

  Did the Bible make me a better person? It's hard to say for sure, but I hope it did. A little, at least. The other day I handed out flyers at a Save Darfur rally, but then got angry at the people who walked by without acknowledging me. I came up with elaborate revenge fantasies in which they read about the rally in the New York Times and felt guilty for not taking my flyer, even tracking me down to apologize. In other words, I'm pretending to be a better person, which is a good first step, if C. S. Lewis is to be believed.

  I'm more tolerant, especially of religion, if that helps my case. Here's how I know this: When Jasper was born, my Orthodox aunt Kate gave him a bunch of building blocks with Hebrew letters and paintings of biblical scenes. I didn't want Jasper using them because I was worried the blocks would somehow imprint on his brain and eventually convert him to Hasidism. Nowadays I'm not just OK with him playing with his Bible blocks, I like it. I want him to know his religion.

  And the Bible itself? What do I think of it after my yearlong immersion?

  When I started my project, Elton Richards made that majestic food analogy: He said my quest was like a banquet table, and not everyone would sit with me at my banquet table, but I have a hunger and thirst, so I deserve to nourish it. I loved the way he talked. I decided that by year's end, I would employ an extended food metaphor of my own. I think I have one now. It may not be majestic, but here goes:

  There's a phrase called "Cafeteria Christianity." It's a derisive term used by fundamentalist Christians to describe moderate Christians. The idea is that the moderates pick and choose the parts of the Bible they want to follow. They take a nice helping of mercy and compassion. But the ban on homosexuality? They leave that on the countertop.

  Fundamentalist Jews don't use the phrase "Cafeteria Judaism," but they have the same critique. You must follow all of the Torah, not just the parts that are palatable.

  Their point is, the religious moderates are inconsistent. They're just making the Bible conform to their own values.

  The year showed me beyond a doubt that everyone practices cafeteria religion. It's not just moderates. Fundamentalists do it too. They can't heap everything on their plate. Otherwise they'd kick women out of church for saying hello ("the women should keep silence in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak . . ."--1 Corinthians 14:34) and boot out men for talking about the "Tennessee Titans" ("make no mention of the names of other gods . . ."--Exodus 23:13).

  But the more important lesson was this: there's nothing wrong with choosing. Cafeterias aren't bad per se. I've had some great meals at cafeterias. I've also had some turkey tetrazzini that gave me the dry heaves for sixteen hours. The key is in choosing the right dishes. You need to pick the nurturing ones (compassion), the healthy ones (love thy neighbor), not the bitter ones. Religious leaders don't know everything about every food, but maybe the good ones can guide you to what is fresh. They can be like a helpful lunch lady who--OK, I've taken the metaphor too far.

  Now, this does bring up the problem of authority. Once you acknowledge that we pick and choose from the Bible, doesn't that destroy its credibility? Doesn't that knock the legs out from under it? Why should we put stock in any of the Bible?

  "That's the big question," says one of my rabbis, Robbie Harris. I put the question to Robbie as well as every other member of my advisory board. There's no simple or totally satisfying answer. But let me offer two interesting ideas from them:

  The first is from the pastor out to pasture, Elton Richards. Here's his metaphor: Try thinking of the Bible as a snapshot of something divine. It may not be a perfect picture. It may have flaws: a thumb on the lens, faded colors in the corners. But it still helps to visualize.

  "I need something specific," says Elton. "Beauty is a general thing. It's abstract. I need to see a rose. When I see that Jesus embraced lepers, that's a reason for me to embrace those with AIDS. If he embraced Samaritans, that's a reason for me to fight racism."

  The second is from Robbie himself. He says we can't insist that the Bible marks the end of our relationship with God. Who are we to say that the Bible contained all the wisdom? "If you insist that God revealed himself only at one time, at one particular place, using these discrete words, and never any time other than that--that in itself is a kind of idolatry." His point is: You can commit idolatry on the Bible itself. You can start to worship the words instead of the spirit. You need to "meet God halfway in the woods."

  Which brings up another question: Do I believe in a traditional biblical God? Well, not in the sense that the ancient Israelites believed in Him. I could never make the full leap to accepting a God who rolls up His sleeves and fiddles with our lives like a novelist does his characters. I'm still agnostic. But in the words Elton Richards, I'm now a reverent agnostic. Which isn't an oxymoron, I swear. I now believe that whether or not there's a God, there is such a thing as sacredness. Life is sacred. The Sabbath can be a sacred day. Prayer can be a sacred ritual. There is something transcendent, beyond the everyday. It's possible that humans created this sacredness ourselves, but that doesn't take away from its power or importance.

  I come away from this year with my own cafeteria religion. I'll be doing things differently than I did thirteen months ago, things both big (resting on the Sabbath) and small (wearing more white clothes). And I'll keep on saying prayers of thanksgiving. I'm not sure whom I'm thanking, but I've become addicted to the act of thanking (see the overlong acknowledgments section).

  There is . . . a time for every matter under heaven.

  --ECCLESIASTES 3:1

  Day 381. My favorite book, Ecclesiastes, has these famous lines:

  For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven; a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted.

  This is the time for me to uproot my topiary.

  I've been anxious about this for weeks. First of all, I'd heard nightmare stories about kids who didn't recognize their fathers postshave. Some of these kids went on extended crying jags. They'd scream about this strange man in their house. The relationship took weeks to recover.

  I'm so paranoid about this, I came up with an idea of how to prep Jasper for the day of defoliation. It involved breaking the Second Commandment--you shall not make any images--but I did it anyway. A couple of weeks ago, I went to Staples and printed out a large color photo of my face circa 2005, from the era of smooth cheeks. I attached the photo to a Popsicle stick. Then, every morning, for an hour while I fed him breakfast, I'd hold the photo in front of my face like a mask. I made holes for the eyes and mouth. He seemed a little weirded out.

  Now the day is here. I spend the morning inspecting my beard. I go into the living room to get in some last-minute prayers. Julie's in there.

  "You OK?" asks Julie.

  "Not really."

  "Well, you're making me really happy. Try to focus on that."

  The shave itself is scheduled for two o'clock on September 18. The publisher sent a photographer over to get before and after shots, so I spend a few minutes staring at the camera and trying not to look too much like a terrorist. Don't want to scare off potential book buyers.

  Luckily, the photographer doesn't ask me to smile. This would have been hard. My mood is black for several reasons. First, there's always an immediate postpartum depression after finishing a big project. I felt it Uwhen I read the entry on Zywiec in the encyclopedia. I feel unmoored and a little scared. What do I do? I don't have structure. Second, my beard has been with
me for so long, it's taken on its own identity, almost become a living organism. I feel like I'm losing a pet rabbit.

  And third, I'm not just shaving my beard, I'm amputating a large part of my identity. In a couple of hours, I won't be Jacob anymore. I'll be back to being a regular old, unremarkable New Yorker, one of millions.

  It's two o'clock when I take the first snip out of my beard. It's not easy, the logistics of shaving this thing. You can't just put on some cream and whip out the razor. First, I hack away at the beard for forty-five minutes with a big silver pair of scissors. The clumps of hair float down, turning the sink black and making the floor look like a Supercuts franchise. The beard eventually shrinks down to the length of putting-green grass. I sweep up all the tufts and stuff them into a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. Not sure what I'm going to do with this bag of hair. Maybe give away patches with the first one hundred copies of the book.

  And now for the razor. Actually, I bought a new razor for the occasion. In this year, a lot has happened in the razor industry. Back when I was shaving regularly, they had a mere three blades. Now these newfangled five-bladed ones have popped up. I lather up, jut out my chin, and put the razor to my neck. I hear that familiar scrape. A stripe of skin appears. And another. After ten minutes, I wash off the rest of the shaving cream, and there it is. My face.

  Man, I look weird. I feel naked, vulnerable. My cheeks are tingling, like my face just got out of a yearlong steam bath.

  Julie has been watching the last five minutes. "You look like you're fourteen!"

  And it's true. Maybe it's an optical illusion--like how a little circle looks even smaller when it's next to a huge circle--but I could pass for an eighth-grader.

  Julie grabs my cheeks and pulls me toward her. I kiss her for the first time in two months. Which is lovely. I had forgotten how her lips felt.

  The photographer was kind enough to bring champagne. He pops it over our sink and pours some glasses for me, him, and Julie. I'm about to take a sip, when I pause. I say a silent prayer of thanks for the champagne. The prayer feels good, different, unforced. I'm off the clock.

  He shall restore what he took by robbery . . . --LEVITICUS 6:4

  Day 387. It's been a week since the shave. The first day was the worst. I felt unanchored. Too many choices. It reminded me of the overwhelming freedom I experienced on that first day of freshman year at college, but without any of the exhilaration and double the dread.

  Oh, and lots of guilt. I felt like I was getting away with all sorts of transgressions. I went to the barber and had my hair washed by a woman. All the while I was thinking, "Can I really do this? Can I really flip through the People magazine while she's trimming my sideburns? Can I really buy a banana on the way home without worrying if it's from a tree that's more than four years old?" It still seemed wrong.

  Every day the guilt recedes a little. Every day I get a bit more accustomed to choice. Choice isn't necessarily a bad thing, I tell myself. And at least my year helped narrow my choices.

  I'll never be Jacob again. I'll never live with so many restrictions. But a part of my biblical alter ego has carried over. If my Bible self had a footlong beard, what remains is barely a five o'clock shadow, but it's there. I think it'll always be there.

  Right now I'm at the post office, Jasper in tow. I told him I was running an errand, and he insisted on coming, since he's somehow gotten the idea that errands are as exciting as the Central Park merry-go-round. We wait fifteen minutes before getting to the front of the line. I slide a brown bubble-wrap package onto the scale. Six dollars to go to Monte Sereno, California. I pay my money. In three days my ex-girlfriend will open her mailbox to find her black leather Bible with its tissue-thin pages and faded gold embossing, the 1,536 pages that have shaped my year.

  Jasper and I leave the post office, turn left, and head toward home for a quiet Friday night.

  A Note from the Author

  All the events in this book are true. Some of the sequences have been rearranged, and, in certain cases, the names and identifying details have been changed. Unless otherwise specified, the Bible quotations are from the Revised Standard Version.

  Notes

  INTRODUCTION

  Forgive me. I know I used the I'm-as-Jewish-as-the-Olive-Garden-is-Italian line in my last book. But it just happens to be the best description of my ethnicity.

  THE PREPARATION

  It's nearly impossible to get an accurate count on the number of different Bible editions. "In English, there are more than 3,000 versions of the entire Bible or portions of the Bible," writes Kenneth C. Davis in Don't Know Much About the Bible. Kevin Phillips's book American Theocracy gives a much higher number: 7,000.

  Thanks to professor Julie Galambush for tipping me off to the anesthesia brouhaha.

  To be precise: The Protestant Old Testament has 39 books, but the Jewish and Catholic versions have a different count. The Hebrew Bible comes in at 35 books, because several books--like Kings and Chronicles--are not split into two parts. The Catholic Old Testament totals 46 books, since it contains sections not found in the Protestant version, such as Tobit, Judith, and Maccabees.

  The term midrash has a couple of meanings. It can be used to describe Jewish folklore such as the Nachshon tale. But it also has a wider meaning, namely, the collection of rabbinic sermons and commentaries on the Bible. For more, see the Encyclopedia Judaica's midrash entry, which comes right after the entry on Bette Midler.

  DAY 2

  Other suspects that have been mentioned as the actual forbidden fruit: the fig, pomegranate, grapes, and wheat.

  For more on Genesis' fertility themes, see Who Wrote the Bible? by Richard Elliott Friedman.

  I got concerned that my memory had distorted the meaning of cognitive dissonance. And there are a bunch of definitions nowadays. But I found the original 1959 paper establishing the theory, and it says that when there is a conflict between a person's thoughts and actions, the "the private opinion changes so as to bring it into closer correspondence with the overt behavior." See www.psych classics.yorku.ca/Festinger/index.htm.

  DAY 6

  My wife's ex-boyfriend's gadget is called a Light Wedge, in case you want to buy one.

  Yes, I know the whole "Eskimos have lots of words for snow" is kind of an urban legend. See Word Myths by David Wilton, p. 53, which says, "So, how many Eskimo words for snow are there? The answer is either a few or a lot, depending on how you count." Does that clarify it?

  The rabbi who talks about coveting Jaguars is Joseph Telushkin, author of Biblical Literacy, as referenced in Don't Know Much About the Bible.

  DAY 23

  For an excellent article on Proverbs and spanking, see www.religioustol erance.org/spankin13.htm.

  DAY 31

  Speaking of calendars, I didn't pay proper attention this year to the intricacies of the biblical calendar. Forgive me. I could have spent a year unraveling the debates on this topic alone. There's the well-known Hebrew calendar, but also the Karaite calendar and the Samaritan calendar.

  DAY 40

  I still have no idea what that "Don't Look Back" sign at the airport was all about. If you do, let me know.

  The polls in question include Gallup and CBS News. Here's a good article on it: www.straightdope.com/columns/061110.html.

  DAY 42

  The Jubilee year hasn't been observed since the time of the Temple (The Second Jewish Book of Why, p. 262). The Sabbath year is still observed in some form, but only in Israel (ibid., p. 320).

  DAY 44

  I first learned about the "domino" phrase in the book Serving the Word: Literalism in America from the Pulpit to the Bench, a very interesting look at fundamentalism.

  The history of literalism is actually far more complex and subtle than my thirty-second summary. (I know, shocking!) There's much debate over how literally the ancients took the Bible. Some religious scholars--including Karen Armstrong and Marcus Borg--argue they didn't take it literally at all (see the discussion of mythos and
logos in Day 272). These scholars say the ancients saw the Bible stories as myth--true on a deep metaphorical level, not as hard fact. It wasn't supposed to be reportage like The Wall Street Journal. Borg quotes a Georgian aphorism: "It is true, and it is not true."

  Most scholars agree that at some point--after the Gutenberg Bible was printed? after the Renaissance?--believers started taking the Bible as factual, literal truth. And it was this literal interpretation of the Bible that spawned the dueling worldviews of modernism and fundamentalism. To complicate matters further, there are many alternatives to modernism and fundamentalism. For instance, geneticist Francis Collins wrote The Language of God, about how religion and science can be reconciled.

  In Jewish biblical interpretation, the literal meaning of a passage is sometimes called "pshat" and the interpretation is called "derush." And if you want to get really technical, there are four levels of biblical interpretation in traditional Judaism: "pshat (the literal meaning of the text), remez (its allusions), derush (the homilies that can be derived from it), and sod (its mystical secrets)." They spell out the acronym "pardes," which means orchard (from the Lubavitcher website sichosinenglish.org).