DIGNITY IS AS DIGNITY LOOKS . . . MAYBE

I must be getting old, because I find myself crankily placing more and more stock in the way people choose to make up, dress and comport themselves as a window to their ultimate credibility.

This came to mind immediately as I watched the press conference of that Raelian priestess a couple of months ago, announcing the first successful incident of human cloning. Certainly, a preponderance of evidence, omissive and comissive, instantly brings her credibility into question. Yet, in my curmudgeonry, I could not help but think that her case was that much less compelling simply because she had made herself up to look like an aged-out Parisian street-walker, a page out of the sketchbook of Toulouse Lautrec.

Do not lecture me, please. I know only too well every biblical and rabbinic adage about inner grace, the folly of ephemeral beauty, judging wine-by-its-bottle . . . Forgive me, though, if I am showing my wrinkles by giving the benefit of scientific and humanitarian doubt to the dignified visages of Jonas Salk, Albert Schweitzer, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Sir Winston Churchill, and even the popularly mythologized images of Gregor Mendel, St. Francis of Assisi, and Moses Maimonides. Bella Abzug’s hats might have been outrageous, but her appearance was impeccable. Likewise Gloria Steinem, Geraldine Ferraro, Barbara Jordan, and the other notables who led women to their rightful position of societal equality. Dare we deny that their outward demeanor invites us to place credence in their inner wisdom?

Our faith may loudly tout the virtues of inward reverence over outward ostentation. Yet, the fondest recollection of my most saintly mentors is of their aura – immaculate appearance, simplicity of dress, meticulous cleanliness and a carriage that bespoke dignity without the specter of arrogance. Was it their inner sanctity manifesting itself outwardly? Or, was it their effort to honor God through their appearance that beckoned us to be touched by the inspiration within them?

I came from an era that denied in the extreme the virtue of outward appearance, as if it were somehow a bar to inner qualities. I too espoused that doctrine. Those of us who aspired to the clergy were especially vulnerable to the notion that we could bring religion to the masses by un-stuffing the shirts that had turned our parents’ churches and synagogues so sonorous.

I now gag with embarrassment at the thought of how second-naturedly I came to my office in jeans and work shirt, yesterday’s unshaved stubble still on my face. It became a running joke that the only time I wore a suit was “to speak to Christians or perform a funeral.” Some joke. I guess that even then I knew unconsciously that at demanding times, authority required a demeanor conferred by ones carriage and appearance.

Did my “just-call-me-your-pal” attitude win many souls for the faith? I can honestly say that it did not help. This was likely because of my own ambivalence as to whether acting like one of the kids garnered more influence with them than being benevolently parental . . . whether playing poker with “the boys” made me a more accessible religious exemplar than by striving for scholarship, piety and moral rectitude. Does the clergyman fulfill his highest destiny when he exudes the aura of “Rabbi Skippy,” as my friend Michael indelicately puts it, or when he aspires to stand in the footprints of Moses, Isaiah or Jesus?

Words spoken to me by my most beloved teacher still burn in my ears. There I stood in the A&P parking lot a few months out of yeshiva, dressed and coiffed much like the young suburbanites whose congregation I led. He took one wistful look at me and whispered in my ear, “You need not become like them in order to influence them.”

Alas, it took my foray into the corporate world to convince me that a white shirt, dark suit, conservative tie and well-shined shoes conveyed the sense of dignity that I needed to influence critical people with the gravitas of my message.

When I reentered the ministry, nearing my 50th birthday, I came back as a full-fledged “suit,” even when well-meaning congregants encouraged me to dress down. Did it help? Did it hinder? I know that my relationship with the children was built well more on parental than buddy-buddy credibility. I know that I was far more conscious about deporting myself as a person of the cloth, not as just another good-time-Charlie. And, I know that in moments of failure – when I spoke or acted foolishly, arrogantly, or rashly – the sin was made all the more grievous by the inconsistency between my outward trappings and the egregious lack of dignity underneath them.

Do not remind me of the obvious: Priestly vestments, prayer shawls, academic robes, have all been used to snooker credulous people into placing their faith in cruel, manipulative, self-serving people. Yet, as I grow more circumspect, I am compelled to believe that the propriety of ones appearance can confer a sense of dignity that makes our ears eager to hear thoughtful, well considered observation, not phantasmagoric tales of impregnation by little green men.

Or maybe I am just getting old and cranky . . .