Truth Matters
I am standing in Kenya, with my left foot in the Northern Hemisphere and my right foot in the Southern.
A line on the ground indicates the equator.
Young men—asking for nothing, but hoping for tips—entertain and educate tourists, like me, about the Coriolis effect.
They pour water into bowls with small holes at the bottom and let the water empty on either side of the line.
On the north side, the water spirals out clockwise.
On the line, it flows straight out.
On the south side, it spirals out counterclockwise.
It’s cool.
However.
Later in life, I find out that what I saw and believed was a sham.
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The direction of the swirl you see when a sink or toilet empties is caused by the shape of the bowl and how the water enters it, not the Earth’s rotation.
The Coriolis effect doesn’t work on small bodies of water.
The Coriolis effect matters when the length scale is large (kilometers or more) and the motion lasts long enough (hours to days).
The directions of the swirls I witnessed were determined by the way the pans were handled.
I have always wondered what the young men told themselves so they could sleep at night.
I’m not comfortable with knowingly deceiving others.
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Throughout the Ancient Near East, animals were sacrificed and their entrails examined to discern the divine will.
Extispicy (a name for this form of divination) was prevalent throughout the Etruscan Empire.
Archaeologists have discovered ancient clay models of animal innards which were used as reference material.
In rabbinical school, I learned that animal sacrifice ceased because the temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and there wasn’t a place to do it.
I think (and most historians would agree with me) that it had more to do with people realizing that, well, um, the results weren’t so accurate.
I can imagine that if I were a student in Nimrod’s School of the Divination Arts—at some point I’d say, “Well, this is just silly.”
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Summer camp
I’m 16.
It’s a hot day.
Jacob and Isaac, identical twins, thirsty for a soda and needing a quarter for the machine, ask me to trade one of my quarters for a 2.5 escudo (Portuguese) coin.
As I make the trade so they can get their Coke, they sell the deal, confirming each other’s words, “The escudo is worth like $1—much more than 25¢.” “Oh, way more.” “It’s worth about $2.” “We shouldn’t even make this trade.” “You only need to go to the bank when you are home, and they’ll give you like $2.” “Maybe more.”
I believe them.
Why would they lie?
I can’t believe they knowingly lied.
I just can’t believe it.
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The three traditional Hebrew Friday night blessings are:
- Candles: Bless (the) God (of our understanding) who commanded us to light the Sabbath candles
- Wine: Bless (the) God (of our understanding) who creates the fruit of the vine
- Challah: Bless (the) God (of our understanding) who brings grains from the earth
But, um, here’s the thing—that first prayer—the one about the candles—talks about (the) God (of our understanding) commanding us to light Sabbath candles.
Do you remember being commanded to do that?
Were you there?
I think I would remember God commanding me to light candles.
Maybe it means “us,” as in the Jewish people who received commandments through Moses?
There’s a problem with that.
The modern Friday night prayers and traditions are not recorded anywhere in the Bible.
While one can find commandments in Exodus 20:8 and Deuteronomy 5:12 about observing and honoring the Sabbath, there are zero details about saying these prayers, let alone details about a pair of taper candles, (sweet concord grape) wine (from a ceremonial, silver cup), or (braided) challah.
Ask any rabbi, and I promise, they’ll tell you that these prayers were not revealed directly at the top of Mount Sinai.
All rabbis know these are words created by other rabbis.
So, why say words we know aren’t true?
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On Friday nights, I do the three rituals and say the three blessings.
I enjoy saying the words and performing the rituals, and I love knowing that my grandparents—and countless other relatives going back generations—have done and said them, too.
So, how do I—Mr. Super Truthful Honesty—say words I know are as true as sheep livers predicting the future?
Here’s how I keep from breaking my rigorous insistence on honesty: I make a disclaimer, saying beforehand, ”these are traditional words said, not factual statements.”
I like standing with both feet planted on the side of honesty.
