The Bris
By Charles Tanowitz
The bris -- circumcision of a new baby boy -- is at once the most wonderful custom in the Jewish religion, and its most barbaric. But the disparities don't end there. For example, just as it invites a crowd of Jews to descend on one small house for a celebration, it also repulses non-Jews so much that many are just happy simply to have someplace else to be.
When I invited my co-workers to my son's bris, they initially shuddered, then were relieved to find it fell on Easter Sunday. But this aversion was due to their limited understanding of the custom: the mere act of watching a circumcision. What they missed was the meaning behind the ceremony: continuing the covenant between God and Abraham.
Yet even my more religious friends admit that the custom of gathering to watch a circumcision of an 8 day-old baby boy is somewhat unnerving.
"If a friend in any other religion told me this is what they did, I'd think 'that's disgusting,'" said one friend (interestingly a mother raising her son in a Kosher house steeped in Jewish culture).
Circumcision has recently come under fire by pediatricians and other medical professionals for being unnecessary and cruel, especially without any anesthesia. Some say it affects sexual pleasure later in life, others say it's just a waste of time and energy.
But to observant Jews it is neither an option, nor a waste of time. It is the event that directly connects my son to an event thousands of years ago that spawned the entire Jewish religion. It is a ritual that physically binds all Jewish men as one community, no matter the racial background or differing beliefs.
Unlike a Bar Mitzvah or wedding in which the religious ceremony may become overshadowed by the party surrounding the event, the bris remains true to its religious roots. One is given just eight days to tell the entirety of friends and family to show up at for the ceremony. As new parents, it's hard enough to stand up, let alone clean the house, order the food, and stand up through the ceremony.
But that's where the grandparents come in, or, more specifically, grandmothers. They come in and take over, ordering mounds of food, fawning over their new grandson, and barking out orders like a pair of generals leading the troops. When my mother and mother-in-law took charge, my wife and son retreated to the bedroom. It was where I found them cowering a few hours later, afraid to venture into the living room.
In all the books about having children, the author advises limiting visitors or else being prepared to be pushed aside by a stampeding hoard attempting to see the new baby. But Judaism says just the opposite: don't limit the visitors, embrace them and give them an exact time to see the new arrival.
Frankly, I think the Bris is far more of a celebration than a barbaric custom. It was a blessing for my son to learn that he is so loved that aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends would travel hundreds of miles just to see him.
And when the dust settled, the day itself was wonderful, filled with love, kindness, and plenty of lox.
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