After she had left, he exclaimed, “Kosher! You keep kosher?”
“Of course! Bento, what did you think? I’m a rabbi.”
“And I’m a bewildered philosopher. You agree that there is no supernatural God who has wishes or makes demands or is pleased or vexed or even aware of our desires, our prayers, or our very existence?”
“Most certainly, I agree.”
“And you agree that the entire Torah—including Leviticus with the Ha-lakha and all its arcane dietary rules—is a collection of theological, legal, mythological, political writings compiled by Ezra two thousand years ago?”
“Indeed.”
“And that you are going to create a new enlightened Judaism?”
“That is my hope.”
“But because of laws that you know to be sheer invention you cannot take lunch with me?”
“Ah, there you are not right, Bento.” Franco reached into his bag and extracted a packet. “The family I visited in The Hague has prepared food. Let us share a Jewish meal.”
As Franco unwrapped smoked herring, bread, cheese, and two apples, Bento continued. “But, Franco, I ask again, why stay kosher? How can you switch off your rational mind? I can’t. It pains me to see a man of such intelligence obediently bowing to such arbitrary laws. And Franco, please, I beg you, spare me the standard answer that you must keep the two-thousand-year tradition alive.”
Franco swallowed a mouthful of herring, took a sip of water, and thought for a few moments. “I once again assure you that I, like you—like you, Bento—disapprove of the irrationality in our religion. Consider how I appealed to reason when I spoke to my congregation about the false Messiah. I, like you, want to change our religion, but unlike you I think it must be changed from the inside. In fact it is through witnessing what has happened to you that I have concluded it can be changed only from the inside. If I am to be effective in changing Judaism and move my congregation away from supernatural explanations, then I must first gain their confidence. They must view me as one of them and that includes keeping kosher. As a rabbi in my community, it is necessary—it is imperative—that any Jew in the world feel comfortable visiting me and eating in my home.”
“And so you follow all the other laws and the ceremonial rituals?”
“I obey the Sabbath. I lay tefillin, I say prayers at meals, and, of course, I lead many of the services at the synagogue—that is, until recently. Bento, you know that the rabbi must immerse himself fully in the community religious life—”
“And,” Bento interrupted, “you do this solely to gain the confidence of the people?”
Franco hesitated for a moment. “Not solely. It would be dishonest to say so. Many times, when performing my ceremonial duties, I overlook the content of the words and lose myself in the ritual and in the pleasant wave of feelings that sweep over me. The chants inspire and transport me. And I love the poetry of the psalms, of all the piyyutim. I love the cadence, the alliteration, and am much moved by the pathos about aging and facing death and yearning for salvation.
“But there’s something even more important,” Franco continued. “When I read and chant the Hebrew melodies together with the entire congregation, I feel safe; I feel at home, almost merged with my people. Knowing that everyone else there shares the same despair and the same yearning fills me with love for every person. Did you never have these experiences, Bento?”
“I’m sure I did when I was young. But not now. Not for many years. Unlike you, I’m not able to turn my attention away from the meaning of the words. My mind is always vigilant, and once I grew old enough to examine the actual meaning of the Torah, my connection to community began to fade.”
“You see,” Franco clasped Bento’s arm, “right there, we have a fundamental difference. I don’t agree that all feelings must be subservient to reason. There are some feelings that deserve equal status to reason. Take nostalgia, for example. When I lead prayers, I connect to my past, to my father and grandfather, and, yes, Bento, I dare to say it, I think of my ancestors who, for two thousand years, have been saying the same lines, chanting the same prayers, singing the same melodies. At those moments, I lose my self-importance, my separateness, and become a part, a very small part, of an unbroken stream of community. That thought offers me something invaluable—how to describe it?—a connection, a union with others that is vastly comforting. I need this. I imagine everyone does.”
“But, Franco, what is the advantage of these feelings? What is the advantage in drawing further away from true understanding? Further from a true knowledge of God?”
“Advantage? How about survival? Hasn’t man always lived in some kind of community, even if simply a family? How else could we survive? You have no joy in community at all? No sense of being a part of a group?”
Bento started to shake his head but quickly caught himself. “I experienced that, oddly enough, on the day before our last meeting. On the way to Amsterdam I saw a group of Ashkenazi Jews engaged in the Tashlich ceremony. I was on the trekschuit but quickly jumped off, followed them, and was welcomed and offered bread by an older woman named Rifke. I don’t know why her name sticks in my mind. I listened to the ceremony, feeling pleasantly warm and unusually drawn to the whole community. Instead of tossing Rifke’s bread in the water, I ate it. Slowly. And it was uncommonly good. But then, as I continued on my way, my warm nostalgic feeling soon faded. The whole experience was another reminder that my cherem affected me more than I had thought. But now, finally, the pain of expulsion has faded, and I experience no need, none whatsoever, for immersion in a community.”
“But, Bento, explain to me: how can you, how do you, live in such solitude? You are not by nature a cold, distant person. I’m certain of that because, whenever we are together, I feel such a strong connection—on your part as well as mine. I know there is love between us.”
“Yes, I too feel and treasure our love most keenly.” Bento gazed into Franco’s eyes just for a moment and then looked away. “Solitude. You ask about my solitude. There are times I suffer from it. And I so regret that I haven’t been able to share my ideas with you. When I am trying to clarify my ideas, I often have daydreams of discussing them with you.”
“Bento, who knows—this may be our last chance. Please talk about them now. At least, tell me of some of the major directions you’ve taken.”
“Yes, I want to, but to start? I’ll begin with my own starting point—what am I? What is my core, my essence? What is it that makes me what I am? What is it that results in my being this person rather than any other? When I think of being, a fundamental truth seems self-evident: I, like every living thing, strive to persevere in my own being. I would say that this conatus , the desire to continue to flourish, powers all of a person’s endeavors.”
“So you begin with the solitary individual rather than with the opposite pole of community, which I hold paramount?”
“But I don’t envision man as a creature of solitude. It’s just that I have a different perspective on the idea of connection. I seek the joyous experience that issues not so much from connection as from the loss of separateness.”
Franco shook his head in puzzlement. “Here you are just beginning, and I’m already confused. Aren’t connection and loss of separation the same?”
“There’s a subtle but crucial difference. Let me try to explain. As you know, at the very foundation of my thinking is the idea that through logic alone we can comprehend some of the essence of Nature or God. I say ‘some’ because the actual being of God is a mystery over and beyond thinking. God is infinite, and since we are only finite creatures, our vision is limited. Am I being clear?”
“So far.”
“Therefore,” Bento continued, “to increase our understanding, we must try to view this world sub specie aeternitatis—from the aspect of eternity. In other words, we have to overcome the obstructions to our knowledge that result from our attachment to our own self.” Bento paused. “Franco, you have such a quizzical look.??
?
“I’m lost. You were going to explain your loss of separation. What happened to that?”
“Patience, Franco. That comes next. First I’ve got to provide the background. As I was saying, to view the world sub species aeternitatis I must cast off my own identity—that is, my attachment to myself—and view everything from the absolute adequate and true perspective. When I can do that, I cease to experience boundaries between myself and others. Once this happens, a great calmness floods in, and no event concerning me, even my death, makes any difference. And when others achieve this perspective, we will befriend one another, want for others what we want for ourselves, and act with high-mindedness. This blessed and joyful experience is thus a consequence of a loss of separation rather than a connection. So you see there is a difference—the difference between men huddling together for warmth and safety versus men who together share an enlightened joyous view of Nature or God.”
Franco, still looking puzzled, said, “I’m trying to understand, but it’s not easy because I’ve never had that experience, Bento. To lose your own identity—that is hard to imagine. It gives me a headache to think of it. And it seems so solitary—and so cold.”
“Solitary and yet, paradoxically, this idea can bind all men together—it is being simultaneously apart from and a part of. I don’t suggest or prefer solitude. In fact I have no doubt that if you and I could meet for daily discussions, our strivings for understanding would be greatly augmented. It seems paradoxical to say that men are most useful to one another when each pursues his own advantage. But when they are men of reason, it is so. Enlightened egoism leads to mutual utility. We all have in common our ability to reason, and a true earthly paradise will occur when our commitment to understanding Nature, or God, replaces all other affiliations, be they religious, cultural, or national.”
“Bento, if I grasp your meaning, I fear this kind of paradise is still a thousand years away. And I also wonder if I, or anyone who does not have your type of mind and your breadth and depth, will have the ability to grasp these ideas fully.”
“I don’t doubt it takes effort. All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare. Yet I do have a community of Collegiants and other philosophers who read and comprehend my words, though it is true that many of them write me far too many letters asking for greater clarification. I don’t expect my ideas to be read and understood by the unprepared mind. On the contrary, many would be confused or unsettled, and I would advise them not to read my work. I write in Latin for the philosophical mind, and I hope only that some of the minds I influence will in turn influence others. For example, at present Johan De Witt, our grand pensionary, and Henry Oldenburg, secretary of the British Royal Society, are among my correspondents. But if you are thinking that my work may never be published for a greater audience, you may be right. It is very possible that my ideas will have to wait a thousand years.”
The two men lapsed into silence until Bento added, “So, given all I have said about my reliance on reason, you see now why I oppose reading and speaking words and prayers without regard to their content? This internal cleavage cannot be good for the health of your mind. I don’t believe that ritual can coexist with the alert reasoning mind. I believe they are sharp antagonists.”
“I don’t regard ritual as dangerous, Bento. Remember, I’ve been indoctrinated into the beliefs and rituals of both Catholicism and Judaism and in the past two years have been studying Islam as well. The more I read, the more I am struck by how every religion, without exception, inspires a sense of community, employs ritual and music, and develops a mythology full of stories of miraculous events. And every religion, without exception, promises everlasting life, providing one lives according to some prescribed manner. Isn’t it remarkable that religions emerging independently in different parts of the world so resemble one another?”
“Your point being?”
“My point, Bento, is that if ritual, ceremony, and yes, superstition also are so deeply embedded in the very nature of human beings, then perhaps it is legitimate to conclude that we humans require them.”
“I don’t require them. Children require things that adults do not. The man of two thousand years ago required things that man today does not. I think the reason for superstition in all these cultures was that ancient man was terrified by the mysterious capriciousness of existence. He lacked the knowledge that might provide the one thing he needed most of all—explanations. And in those ancient days he grasped at the one available form of explanation—the supernatural—with prayer and sacrifice and kosher laws and—”
“And? Go further, Bento—what function does explanation serve?”
“Explanation soothes. It relieves the anguish of uncertainty. Ancient man wanted to persist, was fearful of death, helpless against much in his environment, and explanation provided the sense, or at least the illusion, of control. He concluded that if all that occurs is supernaturally caused, then perhaps a way might be found to placate the supernatural.”
“Bento, it’s not that we disagree on this; it’s just that our methods are different. Changing age-old thinking is a slow process. You cannot do everything at once. Change, even from the inside, must be slow.”
“I’m certain you are right, but I’m also certain that much of the slowness stems from the tenacity with which aging rabbis and priests cling to power. It was so with Rabbi Mortera, and it is so today with Rabbi Aboab. Earlier I shuddered as you described how he fanned the flames of belief in Sabbatai Zevi. I lived among the superstitious my entire youth; I am nonetheless shocked at this Zevi frenzy. How can Jews believe such nonsense? It seems impossible to overestimate their capacity for irrationality. Somewhere in this world, with every blink of the eye, a fool is born.”
Franco took his final bite of apple, grinned, and asked, “Bento, may I make a Franco observation?”
“Ah, my dessert! What could be better. Let me prepare.” Bento leaned back and settled himself into the bolster. “I think I’m about to learn something about myself.”
“You’ve said that we must liberate ourselves from the bondage of passion, and yet, today, your own passion has broken through several times. Though you are entirely forgiving of a man who tried to kill you, you are full of passion about Rabbi Aboab and those who choose to accept the new Messiah.”
Bento nodded, “Yes, that is true.”
“I’ll go further—you were also more understanding of the Jewish assassin than you were of my wife’s viewpoints. Is that not so?”
Bento again nodded, this time more warily. “Continue, teacher.”
“Once you told me that human emotions could be understood just as lines, planes, and bodies. Right?”
Another nod.
“Then shall we try to apply that very principle to your vituperative response to Rabbi Aboab and the gullible followers of Sabbatai Zevi? And to my wife, Sarah?”
Bento looked quizzical. “Where are you heading, Franco?”
“I’m asking you to turn your instruments of understanding onto your own emotions. Remember your words to me when I was so enraged at the assassin. ‘Everything, every fact, bar none,’ you said, ‘has a cause, and we must understand that everything necessarily occurs.’ Do I have that right?”
“Your memory is impeccable, Franco.”
“Thank you. So let us apply the same reasoned approach today.”
“You know I can’t decline that invitation while at the same time claiming that the pursuit of reason is my raison d’être.”
“Good. Do you remember the moral of the Talmudic tale about Rabbi Yohanon?”
Bento nodded. “The prisoner cannot free himself. No doubt you’re suggesting I can free others but not myself?”
“Exactly. Perhaps I can see some things about Bento Spinoza that he himself cannot.”
Bento smiled. “And why is your vision sharper than his?”
“Just as you described a few minutes ago: your own self is in the way and obstructs your vision. Take, for e
xample, your harsh comments about the gullible fools in Amsterdam taken in by the false Messiah. Your passionate vitriol and their gullibility are necessarily so. It could not have been different. And, Bento, I have some notions about the sources of their behavior and of yours.”
“And? Go on.”
“First of all, it’s of interest that you and I witness the same events and we have different responses. To quote you, ‘It’s our mind that makes it so.’ Right?”
“Again, right.”
“I’m personally not surprised or perplexed by the gullibility of the Marrano populace.” Franco now spoke with much ease and conviction. “They necessarily believe in the Messiah. Of course we Marranos are susceptible to messianic thinking! After all, in our Catholic indoctrination, weren’t we constantly confronted by the idea of Jesus as a man who was more than mere man, as a man who was sent to Earth on a mission? And of course Marranos are not outraged by Sabbatai Zevi’s conversion under duress. Did not we Marranos experience forced conversion firsthand? And, what’s more, many of us have had the personal experience of reconversion as a better Jew.”
“Right, right, and right, Franco. You see how much I will miss speaking to you! You’re helping me identify my unfree areas. You are right: my words about Sabbatai Zevi, Rabbi Aboab, and gullible fools are not in accord with reason. A free man does not disturb his peace with such feelings of scorn or indignation. I still have work to do controlling my passions.”
“Once you told me that reason is no match for passion and that our only way of freeing ourselves from passion is to turn reason into a passion.”
“Aha, I think I know what you may be implying—that I have so transformed reason that it is at times indistinguishable from unreason.”
“Exactly. I’ve noticed that your anger and ill-tempered accusations emerge only when reason is threatened.”
“Reason and freedom both,” added Bento.
Franco hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. “On second thought, there is one other time when I saw your passions arise: when we discussed the place and rights of women. I believe that your arguments proving women’s inferior intelligence lack your usual rigor. For example, you stated that women did not share rulership, yet you neglected the existence of powerful queens—for example, Cleopatra of Egypt, Elizabeth of England, and Isabella of Spain and—”