The Catholics’ Jesus seemed far more flexible. Simply confess to, say, the violence thou had inflicted in self-defense last Friday on thy neighbor after he caught thou in a hotel room engaged in unmentionables with his wife during a champagne lunch catered by Burger King; then come Sunday, rattle off a few Hail Marys – and all would be forgiven! Just like that. Even were capital punishment exacted by a secular, unforgiving State, your soul still had a shot at the Kingdom of Heaven.
A devotee of the Calvinist Jesus enjoyed no such exonerating confessional. And it mattered little how many compensatory good deeds you might perform. Transit be it to heaven or hell was preordained, your route determined at birth. There wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it now. So why bother? Particularly if thy neighbor’s spouse is hot . . .
But however penetrating my grasp of Christian theology, what I wanted to know was who I was supposed to be. Though “nominally Jewish” apparently worked for the likes of Elizabeth Taylor {she had a thing about Jewish husbands (not always her own)}, or for Sammy Davis, Jr. (his deal? Haven’t a clue), I felt incomplete. Something was missing. And having been given parents utterly devoid of any ethnic sensibilities the remedy fell entirely to me. So as age 12 approached I announced to my mother and father that I was going to be Bar Mitzvahed, a rough Hebraic equivalent of being born again combined with a kind of confirmation.
I recall my non-believing parents’ poorly-suppressed exchange of looks of disbelief and their unspoken communal question: where did we go wrong? But good sports, on my 12th birthday they enrolled me in the Hebrew school / Bar Mitzvah boot camp attached to a nearby synagogue. There I would undertake preparation for what at age 13 would presumably eventuate in my transcendental reemergence as a mature, fully grown up Jewish man.
During the ensuing ten-month course of instruction I did my level best to master the relevant Hebrew prayers and bone up on Old Testament lore. Yet none of it moved me emotionally any closer to my presumed deep Hebraic roots (perhaps so deep as to be root bound).
The first hurdle was that by age 12 I was already well read in the sciences. The biblical instruction I now received – well it just didn’t add up. Every answer the rabbi gave with the patience of Job to my evermore challenging questions seemed only to compel a followup question – and then a question after that.
For example, Exodus tells us that it took Moses some 40 years to cover the several dozen miles from his escape point in Egypt to the Promised Land, Judea, i.e., the now Israeli border.
FORTY YEARS?! Had they hopped all the way on one foot they’d have made better time. The rabbi admitted he too had always wondered about that and why in the vastness of the Middle East God had them settle in one of the few places without oil.
My personal theory is that Moses’ flock, genetically alert to any and all possible future opportunities – as they went along they were checking out the terrain for its suitability for luxury homes and resort hotels. Or perhaps Moses, city boy turned impromptu desert guide, was simply lost. The Bible disdainfully notes his “wandering in the Sinai”. Well you don’t “wander” if you know where the hell you are going and how to get there. Evidently Moses did not.
Based on comparable experiences in my own later life, I am confident that Mrs. Moses was well aware of her husband’s plight. But in an archaic, intractably-patriarchal society like that of the ancient Hebrews, A WOMAN DOES NOT QUESTION HER HUSBAND’S AUTHORITY, WISDOM, NOR SENSE OF DIRECTION – NOT EVER – especially if he has a booming voice, and with the sun behind him could pass for Charlton Heston.
Now it is possible, I suppose, for Mrs. Moses to have tried approaching her husband, and with eyes fixed deferentially at the ground, saying to him:
“My most esteemed and learned husband:”
“Now what?”
“I could be mistaken, of course – you know how often I am – but I believe we may have passed the same sand dune before. Three times now.”
“Sand dunes look a lot alike.”
“Ah, of course, you’re right, sagacious spouse. I hadn’t thought of that. Still, don’t you think it might be a good idea, just to be on the safe side, if you were to politely ask God where in God’s name . . . ?”
“I’m not going to bother God. I know exactly where we are! Have a little faith, for God’s sakes!”
Then there was Jehovah’s bizarre way of conveying to Moses that he wished to have a word or two. You would think that being all powerful and all knowing, God would be technologically cutting- edge. But no. To contact Moses, instead of texting him on a 58th generation iPhone:
God sets fire to a bush!
That’s it.
I swear.
Says so in the Bible.
Presumably Moses spots this burning bush – or maybe follows the firetrucks – and he knows God is looking to give him some notes. A bit odd but okay, on its face a feasible means of communication.
Except – what if it’s raining? Or there’s a sandstorm? What if the Moseses were out shopping that day? Does the bush contain enough carbon to still be burning by the time they return home? Would a smoldering bush suffice? Our instructor had no answers.
But these and other eccentric demands the Good Book might be making on my credulity were minor. Dismissible. Nitpicks. Possibly mistranslations from the original Hebrew. Hey, so God had a few idiosyncrasies. I could have accepted that. Really. But by then, several weeks into our studies – it no longer mattered. I’m afraid those very few pages of Bible study were all it took.
Scarcely had we intractably secular, twelve-year-old kids (most wishing we were outside playing stickball) settled in at our splintery wooden desks that first day when God struck. The rabbi had done his best to prepare us for the faith-slaying biblical tsunami hurtling toward us, perhaps hoping to immunize us with euphemisms characterizing the Almighty as “somewhat of a stern God” who, if slighted, could “overreact a bit”.
“Stern”? “Overreact a bit”? Were we reading the same Bible? Could be the rabbi had an expurgated version, but in my copy get this:
Exodus:
“The Lord commands that ‘six days’ work shall be done but on the seventh thou shalt have a day of solemn rest’.”
Great! Six-day week. God’s a union man. Maybe a closet Democrat. But then comes:
“WHOEVER DOTH ANY WORK WHATSOEVER ON THE SABBATH SHALL BE PUT TO DEATH!”
“Put to death”? For, like, shopping on Sunday? Holy cow! No wonder there are no Jewish Walmarts.
And should God squander the death penalty on some indefatigable shopper, what’s left to punish far greater transgressions such as performing “unmentionables” with thy neighbor’s spouse? To where do we ratchet up from execution? I mean – what could be worse? Dismemberment? Forced attendance at a Trump rally?
to be continued…..