Another Friday, another visit from the Lubavitch kids.
This week it was a dynamic duo: the slightly embarrassed, retiring Moishe, who’s been flying solo for the last few weeks, testing out his missionary wings with me like a bird fresh out of the nest.
On this day he’s accompanied by Shalom, acting as his handler or invigilator. Shalom is tall, skinny, pale, and sure of himself. He’s forceful in a passive way, not shy about closing the deal on getting me to put on tefillin, while insisting that I’m doing the mitzvah for myself, even when I tell him that I’m doing it only to make him happy. Shalom has the chutzpah to slip in, at the end, an insistence that I say a prayer beseeching the quick arrival of the Moshiach, which he knows I think is total BS.
The three of us warm up by chit-chatting about their fedoras. It’s a frequent opener since I’m such a fan of Lubavitch hat wear. And they engage enthusiastically.
Finally, I say to Moishe, “So, did you prepare something about the parsha?”
He smiles broadly, like he thought I’d never ask. Launches into his shpiel.
Parashat Ekev. Another chapter of Moses recapitulating the journey of previous Israelite generations who have been travelling through the desert toward the Promised Land.
It’s been forty years, so the generation that will finally enter the Promised Land are the grandchildren of the people who stood at Sinai to receive the Tablets of the Law.
Moishe says, “The Rebbe teaches that when Moses speaks of the journey through the desert, he is telling us Jews something important as well. Jews who will be exiled and live in lands that are not theirs. He is warning them of the vastness of the difficulties and challenges that lie ahead.”
I nod skeptically, as I usually do, but don’t interrupt. I know how hard Moishe works at preparing his weekly shpiel. He is naturally an introvert, speaks softly, swallows hard, and stumbles with his delivery.
Shalom is doing the same, silently encouraging Moishe along.
“And the Rebbe says there are snakes and scorpions in the desert. Which is a warning to the Jews. The desert conditions, like the conditions of life in the diaspora, will have hidden dangers. One danger is like the poison of the snake. The other is like the poison of the scorpion.”
I think I see where this is going. He’s going to somehow compare the serpent’s poison to the toxic influences of assimilation. It’s usually pretty predictable.
Moishe says, “The snake’s poison is warm and the scorpion’s poison is cold.”
What? I interrupt.
He repeats, “The snake’s poison is warm and the scorpion’s poison is cold.”
I say, “Who told you that? A snake’s poison isn’t warm. It can’t be. A snake is a cold-blooded animal.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me.
“I understand you want to make a point about the meaning of the poison, to compare it to a toxin that infects Jews who live in the desert of the diaspora. But you have to get the facts straight. A snake’s venom isn’t warm.”
Shalom comes to Moishe’s rescue.
“I think what he means by the snake’s poison being ‘warm’ is that it excites the body, while the scorpion’s poison is ‘cold’ because it shuts the body down. He’s talking about the excitement we feel with all the pleasures of living in the golus, and the spiritual numbing that takes place once assimilation sets in.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “I mean, I doubt that you’ve got your facts straight. I’ll tell you what. Let’s ask AI.”
And we do.
AI says exactly what I suspect: that a snake is cold-blooded and that its venom is similarly cold.
AI also tells us about how the toxins of snakes versus scorpions work in the bloodstream. Exactly the opposite of Moishe’s shpiel.
Snake venom acts on the nervous system to shut it down, not excite it. And scorpion venom actually stimulates the nervous system, overwhelming it to produce lethality.
I tell the boys, “Look, if you want to maintain credibility with your messaging, you have to at least get your facts straight.”
The boys don’t even crack a smile of acknowledgement.
Then Shalom says, “But the way we are explaining it is what the Rebbe says in one of his books.”
I say, “Well, either you don’t understand what the Rebbe meant by what he said, or he is literally incorrect.”
Shalom says, “But the Rebbe can’t be incorrect.”
“So the Rebbe knows more about snakes than herpetologists who study reptiles their whole lives?”
I can tell they have no idea what a herpetologist is. I don’t hold that against them, because I doubt most seculars know.
Shalom is steadfast. He repeats that the Rebbe can’t be wrong.
I say, “Look, you guys are very smart and studious. I respect that. Learning means asking questions. Just because the Rebbe says something doesn’t mean you can’t question it.”
Then I add, “No one is more certain that he understands something than a person who doesn’t actually fully understand.”
“The Rebbe understands,” says Shalom, looking at me with pity. He uses the present tense, as if the Rebbe were sitting in the chair next to him.
“Only Hashem fully understands,” I say, reaching for some common ground. “The rest of us are in a dark cave trying to discern shadows on a wall. Ever hear of Plato?”
Shalom smiles to humour me. Asks if I’m ready now to wrap tefillin. “For you, not for us,” he adds.
I do it, to lighten the mood.
