why's everybody always pickin' on me

People compose yourselves. This is a bris. We are performing a bris here, not a burlesque show. This is not a school play! This is not a baggy pants farce! This is a bris. An ancient, sacred ceremony, symbolizing the covenant between God and Abraham... or something.

— "The Bris" Seinfeld, 1993

Remember that episode of Seinfeld? It was just one of a number of storylines on the long running comedy that poked fun at Jewish tradition. Show creators Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David were not especially observant as Jews growing up in Brooklyn, but they were keenly aware of the many rituals and foibles that "their people" displayed. Anti-Semitism was addressed in the episode where Jerry was labeled an "anti-dentite" based on his attitude towards his dentist. Hitler was hilariously mocked by Elaine's boss Mr. Pitt (as played to deadpan perfection by the late Ian Abercrombie) when he delivered a speech about Poland Springs water. The whole setting of Del Boca Vista, the fictitious, but all-too-real, Florida retirement community where Jerry's parents resided, could only have been imagined by someone with intimate insight into the real thing.

The episode "The Bris," first broadcast in October 1993, was unusual in its subject matter. The self-proclaimed "show about nothing" was actually about something. While Seinfeld sporadically included a smattering of Jewish references throughout its nine-season run, "The Bris" presented a scenario that most non-Jews would never get the opportunity to witness. The segment was replete with terms unfamiliar to most gentiles, like "mohel" and the word "bris" itself. Of course, its main goal was to be funny, but it managed to weave some of the actual parts of the ceremony into the narrative. Series co-star Jason Alexander later lamented that he didn't care for the child-hating aspect of the mohel character, but you gotta do what you can to be funny.

Well, I am very familiar with the liturgy of brit milah (ritual circumcision), having witnessed many, including one that was performed right in my own dining room, (and by "witnessed," I mean "turned away at the crucial moment, along with every other male in the room," with the exception of the mohel... I assume.) Every bris is nearly identical — a lot of explanation to the uninitiated, a lot of chanting and recitation in Hebrew, a certain amount of screaming and crying (some of it even from the baby), followed by the ever-present bagels-and-such spread, which is prevalent at most Jewish home-based ceremonies. Now, in these days of social distancing, a gathering such as a bris is subject to a different set of protocol. Yesterday, my wife and I attended one such bris using the modern miracle of the Zoom meeting. And this one had all the makings of a Seinfeld episode, circa 2021... but not for the reasons you might think.

The rabbi's wife at my brother-in-law's shul (a Yiddish word meaning "synagogue" that Jews like to use to make them feel more like Jews) had a baby last week and, as per tradition, he was to have a circumcision on the eighth day after his birth. A link to join a Zoom bris was sent out to members of his congregation, as well as friends and relatives across the country and those who made a small contribution in honor of the blessed event (that's where we fit in). Mrs. Pincus and I huddled around my computer screen about fifteen minutes prior to the appointed time, just to make sure all systems were working properly. Several other folks had the same idea. Soon little blocks were slowly populating my computer monitor, some with silent faces adjusting camera positions or some just staring blankly at us, waiting for this thing to begin and be over. Everyone's audio was automatically muted, as predetermined by the admin, in this case — the rabbi and new proud father. Mrs. P and I watched in amusement as folks got up from their desks and wandered out of the room. Others squinted, waiting for something to happen, as they ate from a plate placed just out of view of the camera. One little window displayed two curious little girls — one wearing glittery cat ears perched atop her head — peering into the camera as though they were observing some poor fellow who had fallen down a well.

And then Gary appeared.

As proclaimed by his on-screen name, Gary chose to view the upcoming bris via the technology afforded him by his iPad. From the angle in which we saw Gary, his iPad must have been laying flat on a desk or table and he appeared to be hovering above it. Instead of a familiar backdrop of a bookcase or a shelving unit filled with Judaica-heavy knick-knacks, Gary had only a blank ceiling behind him. Every so often, when he would consciously move the unit or accidentally bump the table, and we would catch a glimpse of a clock hanging on the wall. This would appear in the bottom portion of the screen because of the unnatural angle at which the iPad was situated. In addition to a splendid view of Gary's ceiling, we were also treated to a medical examination-quality perspective of Gary's nasal cavity. 

As the time clicked closer to the beginning of the bris, the rabbi popped in to say that the baby's fussing will cause an unavoidable delay. He promised to be back as soon as the "guest of honor" had calmed down. As consolation, those who logged in early were subjected to a lengthy display of Gary picking his nose. Extensively. In full view of the camera and a virtual roomful of eager — now disgusted — "guests." Gary showed no sign of slowing down. He dug and prodded and scratched and drilled. He poked and jabbed and excavated and plowed. I could not overt my eyes. I was rivetted, as though I was driving slowly past a a multi-car pile-up on the Expressway, hoping not to see any carnage, but secretly wishing the opposite. Except I had zero desire to see anything that Gary extracted from his nostrils.

Finally, the actual ceremony began. The rabbi offered a heartfelt "welcome" to all who joined, mentioning select few by name. He introduced the tradition of "the bris" by saying "you all know the story" — then he proceeded to tell the story. His wife briefly entered the frame and waved, then a committee of bearded, tallis-swathed men hijacked the action, chanting quickly in Hebrew and rocking their bodies in complementary rhythm. It didn't matter that the actual act of circumcision was performed off-screen, Gary was otherwise preoccupied

I could not tear myself away from Gary. And Gary could tear himself away from his nose. Gary was diligent, not letting some little bris interrupt him from the task at hand. A few times, Gary's screen upended — probably from an errant bump. For a fleeting moment, his little allotted rectangle resembled a hand-held camera scene from a late-era Friday the 13th sequel with blurred body parts being tossed about in dim lighting. Almost as quick, Gary righted his device and was back to "cleaning house" with nary a breather. Gary stood out among the sea of smiling faces across my monitor. But I could only focus on Gary. Could I be the only one who could see this?

Somewhere along the line, while my attention was, unfortunately, elsewhere, the ceremony ended in a hail of "mazal tov"s. The rabbi and his wife were beaming in their little cube at the center of the screen. Guests were merely gesturing applause since everyone was still muted. The rabbi thanked everyone for their attendance and promptly clicked his "Exit Meeting" button. His square disappeared. Gary stuck around for some further probiscal maintenance. Mrs. Pincus and I did not.

This, too, was not a school play! This, too, was not a baggy pants farce! I'm just not sure it was indeed a bris.

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