VEGETARIANISM: IT'S NOT SO EASY

How hard should it be for a Jew to become a vegetarian?

Fruits and vegetables spring forth directly from pristine earth. They are neither milchig nor fleishig, and they can’t become treife, right? Well, it’s not so easy.

I have often suggested that religious Jews become vegetarians, since they would not then have to worry about how flexible the schechita knife is, or whether the kashering salt is properly sifted. Fish should raise its own special concerns, determining whether the scales are sufficiently scaly, and whether its fins are merely legs in disguise. Dairy, too, poses its own set of problems, e.g., How close to the action did the mashgi’ach really get? Did he actually touch the udders? Or, did he merely flip the switch on the milking machine?

I say that vegetarianism is the only way to go.

Then I thought, uh, oh, not so fast. Vegetarianism, I realized, is even harder. Leafy vegetables, like lettuce and spinach, might be rife with little buggies, so each leaf need be soaked separately and washed with a soapy cloth. The buds on Brussels sprouts and asparagus are so tight that they can’t be sufficiently cleaned, even if you kashered them with steel wool. So, they are completely out. And, did you ever notice that cucumbers, apples and the like are covered with some kind of wax to make them shiny? Where did that wax come from? Tomatoes are impossible to peel, and what insecticide do they use to spray the cherries and potatoes? Do you see a hechsher on it?

What about salad dressing? It causes its own problems. You may think that one with the hechsher is pareve. Again, it’s not so easy. It could be pareve, but still manufactured on dairy equipment, and what are you going to do about that?

I bet you never thought of that.

Well, my beloved, I have a hard time believing that God is that worried about flexible schechita knives when He has to deal with nuclear war and global warming. So, go put a quarter in the pushke, say you’re sorry, and go fix yourself a sawdust sandwich. And, don’t forget to wash your hands and make a Motzi.

THE WAGES OF TRUTH TELLING

Cruise: “I want the truth!”

Nicholson: “You can’t handle the truth!”

Cruise and Nicholson’s repartee in A Few Good Men, is deliberately left unresolved. So too for the ages, a conundrum: Will we tell the truth? Can we handle the truth?

It takes tremendous self-discipline not to dance the jig when some sanctimonious snot like Senator Craig is caught with his pants down. Let’s put aside for now our delight in schadenfreude and even the intrinsic nature of the act he committed, however it not be forgotten that playing footsie in a public bathroom with someone unknown does rise to the level of a crime.

Nonetheless, this issue here is lying and hypocrisy, the typical refuges of the arrogant and the morally trapped. Lying may be an objective matter; you either did or didn’t. Hypocrisy is a tougher call, because it begs the question of judging a foe by a standard to which we ourselves might fail. That is, pointing a finger at hypocrisy may in itself be hypocritical.

Yet, we are usually well attuned when we witness hypocrisy, and not merely everyday inconsistency, even though we cannot define it. Perhaps we recognize hypocrisy because of its intimations of superiority and smugness. Perhaps it’s because we know that awareness of ones own moral turpitude should lead to introspection and humility, not condemnation of someone who has stumbled.

A hypothetical: Let’s say that one day, someone who aspires to position of public trust – political clergy, civic leadership – says forthrightly, “Ladies and gentlemen, before you go searching through my life and moral flaws, let me be upfront: Ten years ago, I had an extramarital affair. I have since led a monogamous life, with good faith to my wife, family, and community. It has not been easy to regain their trust, but gratefully, I have been forgiven by the significant people in my life.

“I put this truth before you so that there will be no sense of betrayal from my constituants down the road, and so that I might be attributed the merit of telling the truth rather than have salacious secrets forever dog me.”

Enough of the hypothetical. We reluctantly return to reality. What is the sense, beyond altruism, for an aspirant to public trust to tell the truth? At best, his/her truth-telling would be treated for a couple of weeks as an interesting novelty. Then it would certainly give way to accusations that the confession was little more than political posturing.

Finally, our penchant for the lurid would be victorious over altruism and candor. The candidate would be subjected to the same witch hunt had the indiscretion been disclosed by a yellow-dog journalist: Who was the paramour? When? Where? Microphones jammed in the faces of wife, heretofore girlfriends, hotel bellmen? The leering eye of suspicion that this confession was merely a throw-‘em-a-bone to cover up even worse peccadilloes?

Sadly, we will cynically gobble it all up. People like Senator Craig will still and always be arrogant, hypocritical liars. But, when we total up the score, what difference in the world of realpolitik does it make to tell the truth? What is it worth besides a little transitory admiration and praise for refreshing candor?

Is this about people like Senator Craig? Or is it equally about people like you and me who place so little lasting value on the truth?

We all bang our fists, from Geraldo and O’Reilly to the rest of us circling vultures, “I want the truth!” But then a craggy, cynical voice, tempered by decades of reality, upbraids us unforgivingly, “The truth? You can’t handle the truth!”