The Spinoza Problem (47 page)

Major Nazi war criminals! Indeed.
A smile flitted across Alfred’s lips.

 

 

M
eanwhile, in Rijnsburg on VE day, Selma de Vries-Cohen and her elderly mother, Sophie, climbed down the ladder of their tiny room and for the first time in years stepped outside into the sunlight. They walked around the side of the house to the Spinozahuis entrance, where they signed the guest registry—the first signature in four years: “In grateful remembrance of the time we were allowed to hide here. To the Spinoza House and to those who cared so excellently for us and saved our lives from the German threat.”

B
ento, shaking his head in astonishment, walked over to the
huishouder
and murmured in Dutch that they would not be having lunch after all.

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.”