But in real life, people who take things literally are often annoying.
That's an initial reaction to Esquire editor-at-large A.J. Jacob's quest in his new book, "The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible" (Simon and Schuster, $25).
He's going to take the Bible literally, I'm thinking for the first quarter of the book. Why doesn't he just become Orthodox? After all, Jacobs is Jewish. He's of the "High Holy Days, 20-minute Passover seder" Jews but a Jew nonetheless. Why doesn't he just follow the path of the increasing ba'alei teshuva, returnees to the faith, who have taken on a tradition that's been hammered out for centuries by rabbis and scholars who are far more knowledgeable? (Not to say that Jacobs isn't smart -- his last book, "The Know-It-All," catalogued his year reading the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. But that can't compare to scholars who study Talmud 24 hours a day, six days a week.)
In these objections, I am echoed by Jacobs' Aunt Kate, the black sheep of his secular family, who became Orthodox after marrying the cultish weirdo and now ex-Uncle Gil, one of the many ultrareligious characters who spice up the book. (The still-Orthodox Kate is more of an affront to his ultrasecular mother, who spits at a Chasid and scoffs at those on the religious extreme, than Aunt Marni, a vegan hippie, an extremist at the other end of the spectrum.)
"It's misguided," Kate tells her nephew. "You need the oral law. You can't just obey the written law. It doesn't make sense without the oral law."
But it makes sense for Jacobs, whose "religion," first and foremost, is rugged individualism. An atheist (even though he calls himself agnostic, for most of the book he struggles with the existence of God), whose faith in science, evolution and rationalism trumps tradition, Jacobs decides he must figure out how to follow the Bible -- both Jewish and Christian -- on his own.
Yes, he does have a spiritual advisory board, including rabbis, ministers and priests (and also informally comes to include the kindly Mr. Berkowitz, an inspector for shatnez, the commandment to not wear clothes made of a wool and linen blend, one of the top five perplexing biblical commandments Jacobs tackles). And Jacobs does have dozens, if not hundreds of books, Web sites and religious experts to consult, not to mention a humorous and comprehensive Esquire-like index: "Berkowitz, Mr. (Bill), AJ chided for missing prayers by," p 250. But he's going to do it himself because it's his visit to the spiritual world, an opportunity to discover his possible "hidden, mystical side."
"If I wanted to understand my forefathers, this year would let me live like they did but with less leprosy," he writes.
The year of living biblically would also let him explore biblical literalism, which 33 percent to 55 percent of Americans follow, according to Jacobs' research.
"But my suspicion was that almost everyone's literalism consisted of picking and choosing.... Not me," Jacobs thinks at the outset of his journey. "I would do exactly what the Bible said, and in so doing, I'd discover what's great and timeless in the Bible and what is outdated."
Most importantly, Jacobs is doing it on his own because he needs a book.
And if ever there was a moment in time -- and in American publishing -- for a book about living the Bible, this is it.
God is hip right now -- whether God's "Not Great" (Christopher Hitchens), a "Delusion" (Richard Dawkins) or a "Failed Hypothesis" (Victor J. Stenger) -- God is the cause for all good/evil in the world.
Which is what some believers and practitioners of religion might initially find annoying about Jacobs' quest: He's doing it for a book, like a game with his own rules (finding the original intent). He doesn't much believe in God, although he'd like to, so for him, the whole endeavor is much like reading the encyclopedia, except he wears kooky white clothes and grows a beard of such proportions it has to wear a hair mask in the hospital delivery room. It's just a stunt.
Or is it? "You're dealing with explosive stuff," one of his spiritual advisers cautions, adding that it's going to be hard to be objective. "People a lot smarter than you have devoted their lives to this. So you have to admit there is a possibility that you will be profoundly changed by the end."
One certainly hopes so. In the beginning of the book, Jacobs seems like a cheeky, narcissistic twit more obsessed with the state of his facial hair and his rankings on Amazon than anyone remotely interested in anything resembling a spiritual quest. Yes, he's really funny -- in that Jon Stewart/Beavis and Butt-head way -- but he's not necessarily the nicest human being on the planet.
But you know who is a saint? Jacobs' wife, Julie. With one toddler son and twins on the way during this quest, how she puts up with her husband's disorderly beard -- and conduct -- is nothing short of a miracle. It seems like the only thing she gains is the superpower to get answers to the question, "What are you thinking about?" when Jacobs really decides to stop all lying.
And his quest to take things literally often seems antithetical to religion. For example, when he tells his wife he can't take the dirty diapers to the trash -- "I use the Sabbath to weasel out of household tasks" -- he's reminiscent of the thousands of people who are so rigid in their practice (say, praying three times a day) they might miss the bigger picture (helping their wives, spending time with their family).
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