The Year of Living Biblically Part 16

Pigeons, interestingly, are kosher--they're related to the doves mentioned in the Bible.

"It has to be a wild bird, not domesticated. It has to be female, it has to be sitting on the eggs, not next to the eggs."

We're at his dining room table, which is covered with half-open books and plastic cups. Mr. Berkowitz occasionally pauses in his speech to flip through his books. There's a colorful tome on kosher birds and a tablet-sized book on Jewish law. There's also a Hebrew ma.n.u.script devoted exclusively to the study of this single commandment, complete with diagrams of men climbing ladders, and photos of backlit eggs.

I express my concern that maybe the pigeons don't love the experience. Mr. Berkowitz shakes his head.

"Don't feel bad, because, first, G.o.d gave us this mitzvah. And, second, you ever eat an egg before?"

"Yeah."

"You feel badly about that? Your wife makes a scrambled egg, do you feel bad?" Mr. Berkowitz takes on a mock-petrified voice: "Oh no, don't do that! Not a scrambled egg!"

Speaking of which, most of Mr. Berkowitz's clients put the pigeon egg back in the nest--the option I've chosen. But some take their egg home for a hard-boiled snack.

"Have you tried it?" I ask.

"I once tasted it. I ate it raw."

"Raw? How'd it taste?"

"Tasted like a regular egg."

He shrugs his shoulders. No big deal.

The time for egg gathering is at hand. He leads me into a dark room off the entrance hall and flips on his gray flashlight. It's a huge and powerful flashlight--the kind used for spelunking or locating fugitives in the woods--and more than bright enough to help me see the nests.

The nests are actually two white plastic boxes--originally olive boxes from the grocery--each with a pigeon and some shredded newspaper inside. Mine is on the right.

"You have to do something to send her away," says Mr. Berkowitz. "You can't just scream at her, 'Fly away, birdie!' That won't work. It has to be a physical action."

I stamp my feet, wave my arms. Nothing. The pigeon--a big one, about the size of a football--clucks contentedly, enjoying the show.

"Open the window and reach in."

"Won't she fly into the room?"

"Don't worry about it."

I open the window and reach in. I'm wearing thick blue insulated ski gloves, official pigeon-shooing equipment provided by Mr. Berkowitz. Overcoming a lifelong revulsion to pigeons, I nudge the bird with my index finger.

She flutters up and away.

I take off the glove and pick up the egg. It's cream colored and warm, about the size of a walnut. I hold it up for Mrs. Berkowitz to snap a photo.

Mr. Berkowitz tells me now is the time to ask G.o.d for anything. "To have more children, make a million dollars a year, become a big scholar. Whatever you want."

In the outlying edges of Judaism (and I should stress that most Jews have never heard of this commandment, much less fulfilled it), the bird's nest ritual has taken on mystical meaning, seen as good luck, especially for infertile couples.

I make my wish for a safe delivery for our twins and soon after am shooed gently away from Mr. Berkowitz's apartment.

On the subway home, I'm euphoric. I just followed a rule that maybe a few dozen people in America have followed. I'm one of the faithful elite. But that feeling soon fades to worry. If there is a G.o.d, did I just please Him? Or did I maybe get Him angry? If His nest egg rule is meant to teach compa.s.sion, wouldn't it have been compa.s.sionate not to pester the pigeons with a high-wattage flashlight and a crazy dance?

"O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!" --2 SAMUEL 18:33 --2 SAMUEL 18:33 Day 161. Jasper has been suffering from what Julie calls, in honor of my project, a series of minor plagues. Rashes, colds, coughs. And today he got hit with a bad one. He suffered a major fracture in his left leg.

I was at a meeting when it all went down, but apparently he stepped on his toy truck the wrong way and snapped his thigh bone. He paused that terrible calm-before-the-storm pause and then just let out a category five wail.

The doctor told us that Jasper must be a invalid for at least the next six weeks. No playground, no sports, no playdates, no dancing, no walking. Just sitting. A baby Buddhist.

I can't tell you how depressed this makes me. So far we've been lucky to avoid much time in the hospital with Jasper. And this will, G.o.d willing, eventually heal. But Jasper's stunned. He looks beaten for the first time in his life. He looks like Jack Nicholson after getting electroshock therapy in One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.

I got a taste--just a little taste--of what King David meant when his rebellious son, Absalom, was killed: And the king was deeply moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept; and as he went, he said, "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!" (2 Samuel 18:33).

As I sit here with Jasper on my lap watching Dora's singing backpack on the TV--it's two in the morning, and he won't sleep--I waste a lot of time retroactively bargaining with G.o.d about Jasper's leg. It's a habit of mine, this fake bargaining. I say, "G.o.d, let me break my leg instead of him. I would break both both legs. I'd break both legs and both arms. Would I amputate my legs? I don't think so. But I'd amputate one toe. OK, two toes." It's a macabre game, and a waste of G.o.d's time. legs. I'd break both legs and both arms. Would I amputate my legs? I don't think so. But I'd amputate one toe. OK, two toes." It's a macabre game, and a waste of G.o.d's time.

Tell the people of Israel to bring you a red heifer without defect, in which there is no blemish . . .

--NUMBERS 19:2.

Day 168. I finally got a call back from a Mississippi minister I've been trying to reach for weeks.

I want to talk to him about red heifers. The Bible's rule on red heifers makes my list of the Top Five Most Perplexing Commandments. It is found in Numbers 19, and it tells us to purify ourselves by finding a red cow. And not just any red cow--it must be a perfect red cow, an unblemished one, and one that has never plowed a field. Once I do this, I have to sacrifice the cow, burn it with cedar wood, mix the ashes with water, and have the resulting blend sprinkled on me by someone holding some hyssop. Only then will I be spiritually clean.

So how do I find an unblemished red cow in Manhattan? Well, I don't. They don't exist here. They don't exist anywhere yet. But maybe soon. On and off for the past twenty years, at a handful of ranches across America, people have been trying to breed just such an animal. The quest has created a bizarre alliance between ultrafundamentalist Christians and a group of ultra-Orthodox Jews, both of whom see it as a key to the end times.

The Jews need it because it will make them ritually pure from contact with dead people. Without that, they can't build the Third Temple in Jerusalem. Without the Third Temple, the Jewish Messiah will never come.

The ultrafundamentalist Christians need it for the same reason. Sort of. To them, the Jewish Messiah will be the false Messiah, the Antichrist. The true Christ will have an apocalyptic battle with the Antichrist, which will bring on the thousand-year reign of peace on earth. The Jews will convert to Christianity or be destroyed.

Cattle ranchers in Israel, Texas, Nebraska, and Mississippi have all tried or are currently trying to breed the ultimate rust-colored cow. It's a lot tougher than it sounds. According to tradition, the cow must be at least three years old and cannot have a single nonred hair. One promising Israeli calf got believers excited a couple of years ago. But in the end, she sprouted white hairs.

The Mississippi minister who called me today is a man named Dean Hubbard, a Kia car salesman who has been working on the red heifer project for years. He caught me on my cell phone as I was walking out of my building. But I was so eager to talk to him, I didn't want to call him back. I plopped down on a lobby chair and grilled him for an hour, nodding at my neighbors as they pa.s.sed by.

Dean is hard not to like. He's got a big voice and a big laugh. Dean became a minister in 1974 after he was zapped by 4,600 volts of electricity during a mishap at a radio station. He says G.o.d meant for him and me to talk. G.o.d has blessed him so far in life. Even when his wife died a few years ago, he says G.o.d provided him with another.

"I prayed to G.o.d for a new wife. I prayed I don't want a big one. I want a small one--about five foot three. I want her between fifty and sixty years old. I want her cute. And I said, I don't want to go far to find her. I want her to show up in my driveway. I gave G.o.d all these criteria. I prayed at two in the afternoon, because it says in the Bible that a man needs a female. And at seven that evening I walked to the end of my driveway to my mailbox, and there she was in a tennis skirt carrying a bunch of gardenias."

They are still happily married. And she's still small.

Hubbard works on the red heifer project with a born-again cattle rancher and preacher named Clyde Lott, also of Mississippi. About three years ago, Lott bred a cow they thought could be unblemished. But there was a problem.

"The thing about Mississippi is we have something called hoof-andmouth disease," says Hubbard. "The thing about Israel is there's a coming war. We don't want the cows over there now." So for safety, they shipped the cow off to Nebraska. Hubbard and Lott believe that the true world-changing red heifer must be born in Israel, so they are waiting till the political situation calms down before exporting this--or any other-- potential red mothers.

Their contact in Israel is a Ma.s.sachusetts-raised rabbi named Chaim Richman. Richman runs the Temple Inst.i.tute, which is a remarkable place staffed by people who make my ex-uncle Gil look moderate. Richman and his colleagues are awaiting the establishment of the Third Temple and the restoration of animal sacrifices. They aren't just waiting, though. They're preparing. They have a museum in Jerusalem with dozens of vessels and vestments preapproved for Temple use. If you want, you can browse the photos online. There's a three-p.r.o.nged fork for turning over the roasting goats. There's a golden flask, a menorah cleaner, and the sacred jewel-bedecked breastplate of the high priest. And so on.

I like Dean, but I'm no fan of his and Chaim Richman's project. It's not just that it's zany--I'm certainly not opposed to occasional zaniness--it's that it's potentially dangerous. If the red heifer arrives, it'll be seen by some as divine permission to build a Third Temple. Where would it go? On the Temple Mount, which is currently under the administration of Muslims--home to their sacred Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque. Then it really might be the end of the world.

Frankly, the apocalypse sections in the Bible leave me cold. It's one of the few topics in my biblical year that I can't even begin to wrap my brain around. Not that I don't believe we could be living in the end times. I do. I think about it way too much. I worry about which lithium-deprived manic-depressive misfit will finally decide to use the nuclear bomb.

But I don't believe the Bible predicts how the world will be destroyed. The main apocalyptic text in the Bible is the Book of Revelation (not Revelations, as I always thought). The writing is poetic, vivid, and terrifying. Killer horses with heads like lions and tails like serpents stampede across the earth. People are thrown into lakes of fire. The sky opens up like a scroll being unfurled. If it weren't in the public domain, I could see Jerry Bruckheimer optioning it.

How to interpret this notoriously complex text?

A few fundamentalists go with the ultraliteral. In the very near future, just like Revelation says, seven angels will sound seven trumpets. The sun will go black, and locusts will cover the earth. A red dragon with seven heads will try to attack the Messiah as a child, but G.o.d will save him.

A step down the literalism ladder are those who say that the main points of Revelation are true--the world will end in a battle between Christ and the Antichrist--but some pa.s.sages use symbolic language.

For instance: I was watching Pat Robertson's The 700 Club The 700 Club--the fundamentalist version of the Today Today show--and there was a news story about how the Israeli army is using nanotechnology with the hopes of creating "killer bionic hornets." Robertson--actually, it was Robertson's son Gordon, sitting in for Pat--said this was fulfillment of Revelation prophecy. Specifically, this pa.s.sage about deadly insects: show--and there was a news story about how the Israeli army is using nanotechnology with the hopes of creating "killer bionic hornets." Robertson--actually, it was Robertson's son Gordon, sitting in for Pat--said this was fulfillment of Revelation prophecy. Specifically, this pa.s.sage about deadly insects: And the noise of their wings was like the noise of many chariots with horses rushing into battle. They have tails like unto scorpions, and stings, and their power of hurting men for five months lies in their tails.

So that's one side. At the other end of the spectrum are the religious moderates who say that no part of the Book of Revelation should be taken literally. And, just as important, no part of the Book of Revelation should be taken as a Nostradamus-like prediction of events in centuries to come. Instead the Book of Revelation referred to the political situation at the time it was written at the time it was written.

In this view, the book is an extended allegory about the persecution of the Christians by the Roman Empire. The seven-headed beast, for instance, is the city of Rome, a reference to the seven hills it was founded on. The elaborate symbolism was partly to avoid censorship, partly because it's a hallmark of a then-flourishing genre called apocalyptic literature.

"To take Revelation literally is entirely missing the point," says Elton Richards, my pastor out to pasture. "It'd be like taking Aesop's fables as literally true."

Their hearts are far from me . . .

--ISAIAH 29:13.

Day 169. I've taken a step backward again, spiritually speaking. My faith is fragile. Little things jolt me back to pure agnosticism. All that talk of red heifers and pigeons--that did it. As will a story about a suicide bomber, which reminds me of religion's dark side. Or even a quote like the one from the philosopher interviewed in the New York Times, New York Times, in which he said that ethical monotheism is the single worst idea that humans have come up with. in which he said that ethical monotheism is the single worst idea that humans have come up with.

If my spirituality could be charted like the NASDAQ, the general trend so far is a gradual rise, but there are many valleys, and I'm in a deep one now. It's making me lazy. I forget to put on my fringes, and I tell myself, well, what's the big deal? I'll put them on tomorrow.

I'm still praying several times a day, but when I do, I'm saying the words with as much feeling as I give to a Taco Bell drive-through order. I often think of this verse in Isaiah where he lashes out against the Israelite hypocrites: Because this people draw near with their mouth and honor me with their lips, while their hearts are far from me, and their fear of me is a commandment of men learned by rote.

That describes me right now.

I even find myself being skeptical of those times when my heart was was near to G.o.d in the last few months. Perhaps it was an illusion. If I prayed to Apollo every day, would I start to feel a connection to Apollo? And what if I'm drawn to spirituality simply because I'm bored of the dry, dusty, rational mind-set that I've had these many years? I get bored easily. I can't sit through a sequel to a movie because I'm already tired of the characters. Maybe spirituality attracts me for its novelty factor. near to G.o.d in the last few months. Perhaps it was an illusion. If I prayed to Apollo every day, would I start to feel a connection to Apollo? And what if I'm drawn to spirituality simply because I'm bored of the dry, dusty, rational mind-set that I've had these many years? I get bored easily. I can't sit through a sequel to a movie because I'm already tired of the characters. Maybe spirituality attracts me for its novelty factor.

Do not say to your neighbor, "Go, and come again, tomorrow I will give it . . ."

--PROVERBS 3:28.

Day 177. I may have found a way to help my neighbor Nancy, the selfdescribed "kooky dog lady" who lives in apartment 5I. She knocked on my door today.

"Can I ask you a favor?" she says.

"Sure."

I could tell she hated this conversation already. I think she considers it an imposition to ask a waiter for the check, so asking me for a favor kills her.

"But I don't want you to do it because the Bible tells you to. I want you to do it because you want to."

"OK," I say. "Sometimes I can't tell the difference anymore, but OK."

"I have a book idea."

"Yup."

I guess I should have said something else, because Nancy gets skittish.

"I don't know." She turns to go away.

I finally squeeze it out of her: Nancy wants to write a book about her life in the sixties. About hanging with the cla.s.sic rockers: Janis Joplin, Frank Zappa, and especially Jimi Hendrix. She was good friends with Jimi. She sketched him for the cover of one of his alb.u.ms and collaborated with him on still-unpublished poems.

"What were the poems about?"

"Hippie stuff. Clouds. Sky. Love. I'll give them to you when I'm done with the book."

"How much have you written?"

"Only fifteen hundred pages. I've got a ways to go."

She smiles. She says she'd always been resistant to writing about her rocker days, but, well, it's been a long time. And, frankly, she needs the money.

I tell her I'd be happy to give whatever advice and/or referrals I can. I do want to help. Aside from a few blissful moments in the sixties, Nancy's life has been an unhappy one--an abusive mother, a rough marriage, inability to have kids, a fizzled career. She deserves something good. And if I help her, I will be "making a deposit of righteousness in G.o.d's bank," as I heard one preacher say.

But her question also nags me: Am I doing this just because of the Bible project? Or would I be this eager to help her no matter what?

"In the end, people appreciate frankness more than flattery." --PROVERBS 28:23 (TLB) --PROVERBS 28:23 (TLB) Day 179. I'm still wrestling with the no-lying commandment. It's brutal. But the Bible says to tell the truth, no matter what. People appreciate frankness. I need to follow the lead of those biblical heroes who take enormous risks to tell the truth.

Consider the prophet Nathan, who confronted King David. It's one of the Bible's most dramatic tales. The background is that David had wronged his loyal soldier Uriah by sleeping with Uriah's wife, Bathsheba, while Uriah was away at war. David got Bathsheba pregnant. To try to cover up his act, he arranged for Uriah's death.

So Nathan, one of the wisest people in the kingdom, told David a parable: There's a rich man and a poor man. The rich man has a vast herd of sheep. The poor man owns but one lamb. One day the rich man gets a visitor. What should he feed him for dinner? The rich man decides to slaughter the poor man's only lamb and serve that for dinner.

When he heard the parable, King David had the reaction most people have: The rich man is a horrible person. He's greedy and pitiless.

At which point Nathan reveals to King David: You You are the rich man. Nathan's point was, King David had everything--including multiple wives and concubines--and still chose to steal Uriah's wife. are the rich man. Nathan's point was, King David had everything--including multiple wives and concubines--and still chose to steal Uriah's wife.

Nathan was taking a huge risk--criticizing the king to his face could have backfired. But in this case, the truth worked. King David realized the prophet was right. He had acted evilly.

As you might imagine, I'm not the prophet Nathan. So far, my truth telling hasn't laid bare the hypocrisies of great men. But I have managed to slash my total production of white lies by one-third.

Sometimes this works well, other times not so much. Tonight, Julie, Jasper, and I go for a five o'clock dinner at Homer's, a greasy spoon tastefully decorated with a flat-screen TV playing nonstop Nickelodeon.

I'm busy cutting Jasper's hot dog while simultaneously making sure not to touch the skin myself, as it's impure. At the next table, as at pretty much every other table, is a family. A dad in typical Upper West Side khakis, a mom with a ponytail, a three-year-old girl busy with some Crayolas.

"Julie Schoenberg?" says the ponytailed woman.

It's an acquaintance Julie hasn't seen since college. Hugs are exchanged, compliments toward babies are extended, spouses introduced, mutual friends discussed.

At the end of the meal, we get our check, and Julie's friend says: "We should all get together and have a playdate sometime."

"Absolutely," says Julie.

"Uh, I don't know," I say.

Julie's friend laughs nervously, not sure what to make of that.