This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
– T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Man”
The Rabbi on Saturday afternoon pledged to serve fresh lox at the Shabbos meal at the rehab center I was consigned to. I was lured to join 20 other residents around the tables, and I was very glad I did. The lox was delicious and a clear improvement over the standard fare and boredom at the rehab center.
My 100-year-old mother unexpectedly showed up. She sat next to me, Cathryn, and mom’s aide. I hadn’t seen mom in six weeks, and this was truly a joyous occasion. The Rabbi though, perhaps 45 years old, filled the cafeteria with bluster and pomposity; he didn’t stop speaking for at least an hour. He had his 6-year-old daughter lie down on the table in front of everybody, clasp her hands behind her back, and the Rabbi announced that he would now reenact the story of Abraham and Isaac from the Bible.
Cathryn tuned out, and mom fidgeted in her seat as the Rabbi explained that Abraham was called upon by the Lord to prove his fealty to God by slaughtering his first-born son on the top of the Jehovah-jireh mountain.
The Rabbi, who hadn’t stopped talking the entire time, walked over to a corner table, and picked up a knife and started walking back in the direction of his daughter. I called to the Rabbi as he walked past, “Put down that knife,” which he did.
He then walked over to his little girl who might easily have been traumatized for life, sat her up on the table, and told the story of how an angel sent by God stopped Abraham at the last minute.
All three patriarchal religions are based on this story, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, with some variation. The Rabbi asked if anyone had any questions and I responded, “How did these religions know that Abraham – which was my dad’s name – was actually listening to the word of God when he was about to slaughter his son and not to some delusional voice in his own head?” The Rabbi said, “Good question,” and then pathetically answered: “When God talks to you, you know it because you fill up with the majesty of God’s voice.”
I looked at the Rabbi. “Really?” I was thinking of the Crusades, of lynch mobs, religious fanatics of any sort. And I said “Really?” again and stared at the Rabbi while Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61” blared through my brain:
Oh, God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son” Abe said, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on” God said, “No” Abe say, “What?” God say, “You can do what you want, Abe, but The next time you see me comin’, you better run” Well, Abe said, “Where d’you want this killin’ done?” God said, “Out on Highway 61”
Not a single person in the rehab facility or, for that matter among the patients and young medical staff in the hospital have heard of Bob Dylan, and frankly could not care less.
And so begins the loss of cultural heritage, and an understanding of the religious underpinnings of the state to which so many U.S. politicians have now sworn their loyalty.
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