My own religious experience

A couple of dabs of holy oil and a few drops of water gently dribbled on to your head, or a chunk of your private parts removed with a knife? Baptism or brit — which introduction to religion seems more appealing?

Put like that, it’s a close-run thing isn’t it? In the past fortnight I have attended one of each. The baptism was more picturesque and doubtless it ups a child’s status in the kingdom of heaven, but back on earth, rather like a barmitzvah, I suspect all too often it’s the last religious experience the kid ever has. So a brit may be the better bargain. After all, circumcision lasts forever and if you want your son to be a doctor, what better way to start than with surgery?

There’s quite a lot of debate about circumcision nowadays, but what’s not to like? Five minutes and a few brachot after the deed was done, and with the exception of the baby himself and an eminent criminal lawyer who felt a bit queasy, we were all tucking into smoked salmon bagels. Why so relaxed? Because we know that in our lives as Jewish men, a brit will be the least of our problems.

As for the baptism — I didn’t just attend it, I was actually a godfather. Now I know that isn’t a very Yiddishe way of going on. We Jews don’t really do godfathers, not even in the Mafia: Don Corleone was a godfather, Meyer Lansky was just a big-time crook. My ill-suitedness for the role had been made known to the priest in advance and he had charitably turned the other cheek. So there I was, fontside — honoured to be chosen by the child’s parents as a good sort who might at least have kind thoughts about the lad and slip him a few quid for his birthday.