The Year of Living Biblically is the journal of a “controlled experiment” by A. J. Jacobs, a New Yorker, nominally Jewish, erstwhile Who Wants to Be a Millionaire contestant, and self-absorbed, obsessive/compulsive writer for Esquire magazine. This experiment was to live for [only] one year following literally everything in the Bible, both Old and New Testaments, especially its 600+ laws and ordinances.
Most people he knew found the whole conceit silly. However, he didn’t “perform” this alone, but assembled a whole host of spiritual advisors of every Jewish and Christian stripe, personal and online, and a library of about 100 books. (One he read rather sparingly during the year, however, was the actual Bible.) I say “perform,” since this was done much less out a need for spiritual growth than as an exhibitionistic performance-art piece to be perpetuated for a few more years by its published documentation. For this he had role models: “The prophets didn’t just utter their prophecies. They staged what are known as ‘prophetic acts’ – wild, attention-grabbing, God-inspired pieces of performance art.” (88) So he grew his hair and bought a Biblical robe at a Hallowe’en costume store and tassels from Tassels Without Hassles. He took his Biblical 10-string harp out for walks (169), but unlike the prophets, he often ran away from people because he couldn’t explain or justify his bizarre behaviour. (On eating locusts: “It’ll be Fear Factor, Old Testament style.”) (174)
Most people he knew found the whole conceit silly. However, he didn’t “perform” this alone, but assembled a whole host of spiritual advisors of every Jewish and Christian stripe, personal and online, and a library of about 100 books. (One he read rather sparingly during the year, however, was the actual Bible.) I say “perform,” since this was done much less out a need for spiritual growth than as an exhibitionistic performance-art piece to be perpetuated for a few more years by its published documentation. For this he had role models: “The prophets didn’t just utter their prophecies. They staged what are known as ‘prophetic acts’ – wild, attention-grabbing, God-inspired pieces of performance art.” (88) So he grew his hair and bought a Biblical robe at a Hallowe’en costume store and tassels from Tassels Without Hassles. He took his Biblical 10-string harp out for walks (169), but unlike the prophets, he often ran away from people because he couldn’t explain or justify his bizarre behaviour. (On eating locusts: “It’ll be Fear Factor, Old Testament style.”) (174)
What was his spiritual state before starting out?: “I’ve rarely said the word 'Lord,' unless it’s followed by 'of the Rings.' I don’t often say 'God' without preceding it with 'Oh my.'” (21) His relationship with God had several other hurdles to jump: “Deuteronomy 5:9 the Bible says ‘I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.’ . . . Why should God punish my grandson for my sins? It seemed outrageously un-American.” (145)
People beside his skeptical wife noticed changes immediately: “I’ve even started to get the occasional positive comment about my looks. The Italian woman who works at the corner deli said she feels more sacred in my presence and is afraid to curse or gossip. And my co-worker Tom, whom I hadn’t seen in months, said he was all ready to greet me with a one-liner about Mel Gibson’s facial hair, then decided he couldn’t make a joke because he felt almost reverential. Reverential, that’s the word he used. I was on a high for two days afterward.” (180)
There is admittedly a good deal of information about Judeo-Christian groups across America, their practices and interpretations, beliefs and evasions. They range from the banal (Jerry Falwell was “disappointing”) to the bizarre (a visit to a Creationist museum with dinosaurs). We also read about Samaritans, red heifers, the origin of the mezzuzah, attaching the Ten Commandments between your eyes, and serpent-handlers. (Here’s where Bahá’ís can be grateful that we have no warring sects and conflicting ideologies and can all turn toward recognized authority for guidance.)
His spiritual odyssey included a trip to Jerusalem. “Walking around Jerusalem in my biblical persona is at once freeing and vaguely disappointing. In New York . . . I’m still unusual enough to stand out. But in Israel I’m just one of the messianic crowd.” (220) “I’m resting here on the stone steps [Jaffa Gate, Jerusalem], which . . . have a bumpy surface that makes them look like a Rice Krispies Treat.” (219)
Did he achieve any spiritual progress? “I get bored easily . . . Maybe spirituality attracts me for its novelty factor.” (193) “I have managed to slash my total production of white lies by one-third.” (195) “If you try to literally follow Leviticus 19:18 – ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’ – well, you can’t.” (323) “I’ve taken a step backward again, spiritually speaking. My faith is fragile. Little things jolt me back to pure agnosticism.” (193) “The truth is, I’ve begun to get really rigorous with my rituals. I hate missing my daily routine . . . Why? Perhaps because these rituals dovetail beautifully with my obsessive-compulsive disorder.” (148) He found a checkbook on a plane and mailed it to its owner, who replied with a thank-you-card and a gift card to Starbuck’s: “The checkbook triumph gives me such a moral high, I use the card to pay for the latte of the guy behind me at Starbuck’s. I got the idea from a religious website devoted to kindness.” (179)
His plethora of advisers gave a lot of mixed signals that would confuse anybody. For instance, following Deuteronomy 22:6: “[Mr. Berkowitz] has set up two pigeon nests on his third-floor windowsill . . . Whenever there’s a newly-laid egg, he allows a faithful seeker to come over, pay one hundred dollars to charity, shoo the mother pigeon away, pick up the egg, hold it aloft, say a prayer, place it back in the nest . . and thereby check off this commandment as officially ‘fulfilled.’”
And when his experiment was all over: “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.” (330) “I’m still agnostic [but] I’m now a reverent agnostic.” (329) I suspect his real religion is “America,” or even more specifically, “New York.”
Perhaps the best value of this book is that of laughter. In fact, I found the book not in the religion section, but the humour section, and it is marketed as such. Jacobs has a gift for funny characterizations, such as Guru Gil, his uncle in Israel. Here’s two samples of hilarious scenes:
On hundreds of Hassidic men dancing at Simchas Torah: “. . . 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 been to. But instead of drums and guitar, it’s a village of men singing Ay yi yi yi . . . Everyone’s bumping, smacking, thumping into one another . . . sort of a Holy Roller Derby.” (86)
On a circumcision support group: “They called themselves RECAP, short for Recover a Penis . . . ‘I don’t feel whole,’ said one. ‘I want to feel whole again.’ Another asked, ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to have sex with a foreskin? It must be like watching colour TV.’”
So shouldn’t I just lighten up and laugh along? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But I balance that with Bahá’u’lláh’s admonition: “This is not a Cause which may be made a plaything for your idle fancies, nor is it a field for the foolish and faint of heart.” (The Kitáb-i-Aqdas, par. 78)
Anyway, it is Jacobs who is laughing all the way to the bank, for even if my complaints are valid, the fact remains that I still bought and read his frivolous book. You’ve been amply warned.
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