Goats (excerpt)
by Alan M. Berks© copyright 2000
Never say you don’t believe in God to a person who is so convinced God exists that he believes the Creator of the Universe blesses him every time he blinks unless you are prepared for a philosophical onslaught. Suddenly I find him serving the classical proofs of God at me like Pete Sampras at Wimbledon. But — hey — I just graduated from college. I had this class! I volley the refutations of those proofs right back at him like Andre Agassi on the backhand. Bam! Boom! Whawp!
“Look at the intricacy of the world!” he’s shouting and, by this time, people on the streets are starting to pay attention. “There has to be an Ultimate Designer.” Boom!
“But we can’t see design unless we know purpose,” I throw right back at him. Whap!
“What are you talking about, the world isn’t designed?”That’s an old lady out walking her poodle. A guy behind a falafel stand throws his two cents in. “ The world is beau-ti-ful,” he says. Previously unseen people are sticking their heads out from behind columns and standing up from their tables as we walk by like this is some kind of Busbee Berklee musical number with the Existence of God Dancers on a Hollywood set made up to look like an ancient city.
Something about the place, the air over Israel or something, makes the metaphysical seem to matter more somehow. People who live in Jerusalem — not just Jews, I swear — believe that God is actually closer to the city. He’s everywhere — he’s here now — but he’s closer to Jerusalem. So when you pray in Jerusalem, it’s a local call.
Finally I say — I didn’t know if I’d ever get another opportunity to have a conversation like this — I say, “You know what? If you know so much — ”I mean, I had to see what he was going to say. “If you are so sure of everything you believe — tell me, please — what is the purpose of Life?”
Suddenly everything gets quiet. Philip Marlowe stops in his tracks. I think his hat actually levitated off his head a few inches in excitement. Shhhhh. And he says, “I’m going to take you to The Rabbi, bi, bi, bi.”No more youth hostel. We are going directly to The Rabbi, bi. bi, bi. (I swear I heard an echo.)
Some orthodox — and please notice that I always say some — maintain an almost cult-like worship toward their Rabbi.
We walk the rest of the way in reverent silence. I have to admit that I’m flattered. He’s taking me directly to The Rabbi. Obviously, he recognizes my superior spiritual nature and above-average intelligence. General, all-around profundity. We walk through the labyrinth that is the ancient city (a city constructed before street signs and careful urban planning). We walk up a twisted staircase into a stone building full of rooms that seem themselves to be part of a maze. And in every room we walk through someone looks like they’re about to get up from their desk and stop us and ask us,“Where do you think you’re going?” until my guide silences them by saying, “I’m taking him to see the Rabbi, bi, bi, bi,” and they sit back down, noticeably more impressed with me.
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