the year of living biblically

I've been reading The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs, who's at least a big a skeptic as am I when it comes to religion. The book is interesting and funny and gives ample justice to the wacky parts of the bible as well as the more serious ones. The gist of the The Year of Living Biblically is that Jacob (his bible name) tries to live the book as literally as possible for 365 straight days. It sounds easier than it is, even if you're trying real hard to do it.

Of course, once it's been decided that one will live biblically then one first has to decide what that means. Old School or New School? Deuteronomy or Matthew? Abraham or Jesus? Torah, King James Revised, or the Good Word? Pick and choose, or take it all? During Jacob's spiritual journey he consults all sorts of biblical scholars and viewpoints from Ezekial to Marcus Borg, to Leviticus, to a Shatnez tester, to Appalachian snake-handlers. It fun, thought-provoking, and quietly inspirational.

That spirit, the spirit of being biblical, is what purportedly led the Chassid, Matisyahu (literally gift of God), to take up singing reggae, rap, and rock to the misaligned youth of today. It couldn't have been the kosher kitchen (because they don't keep one) that led him to Grinders Sculpture Park this week. Technically the venue name is CrossRoads KC at Grinders but on Tuesday, Matisyahu was there intoning Bob Marley, the Grateful Dead, and Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach just after the sun went down. His voice seemed a little over-worked but like A.J.'s book, it was a nice summer breeze. Due to the all-ages nature of the show, the air was full of cell-phone cameras, patchouli, and home-grown.

And because ticket sales were slow, CrossRoads offered a last minute, golden, two-for-the-price-of-one ticket. In the spirit of Jacob, I gave my extra ticket to the most devout looking person I could find hanging out near the gate, meaning the person with the most unkempt beard. He was either a rabbinical student or a homeless person, but he got a ticket to Matisyahu.

When the person at the gate asked for ID to prove I was 21, I grabbed my beard at the chin between my fist and said, "good enough?"

"No! Got to see ID."

"Pray for reason." I said.

Her partner slapped a wristband on me.

Once inside I looked up the diminutive impressario Stretch to see if kept a kosher kitchen. He smiled, "pepperoni's a problem." Then I went to the bar. "What do you got that's kosher?" I asked the waifish, tie-dyed, Bedouin behind the bar.

All I got was shrug. I'd have settled for a smirk. "Gin and tonic then with a lime twist. A double."

"You'd have thought they'd of had something!" said the person next to me in line.

I took the drink, tipped the barkeep and then told em both. "Boulevard Pale Ale is kosher. Check the bottle."

Maytisyahu fulfilled some standard myths and some non-standard ones. His head remained covered while in public even when jumping on and off the 8-ft. tall speakers (this small act sent the crowd into a tizzy; "Look, up in the sky, a Jew!"), tassels attached to the corners of his shirt, keeping the beard, and dancing and whirling about the stage like Tevye. From our vantage point at the front-row corner of the stage we were able to witness the roadie refilling Matishyahu's stage glass more than a few times with a cold malty beverage. No doubt the kosher Boulevard Pale Ale. A perfect summer, Reggaeton brew.