Have Bris Bag, Will Travel--Even to Bikers’ Desert Outpost

I make a living doing the two things I enjoy most: practicing medicine and celebrating the Jewish faith. I am a physician and a mohel, one trained and authorized to perform ritual circumcisions.

To me, the brit milah (bris) is the medicine of pure joy, preserving a centuries-old tradition and sending a young child into the world with the happy blessings of family and friends.

“Fred, this one is a little different,” said the rabbi on the telephone. He gave me the number of the newborn’s father, Joseph.

I called. Joseph was a first-time father. Raised in a Reform household, he had done little to keep the tenets of the faith but said he felt very strongly that his son be raised as a Jew. His wife was considering converting to Judaism and also wanted the ritual.

Joseph said he lived “in the middle of nowhere,” a three-hour drive from Los Angeles. He gave me directions to a liquor store on the highway, where I was to call him and wait for a guide.

I have performed the brit milah in Beverly Hills mansions and in sparsely furnished apartments of newlyweds. I circumcised the child of a lesbian couple. I have performed circumcisions for fundamentalist Christians, who designed ceremonies to observe their religion’s Old Testament roots.

I keep a black bag packed with my sterilized instruments, a book from which I read the ancient Hebrew Scriptures and my yarmulke, ready to travel around Southern California.

So I set off to find Joseph and his family, driving east through the Mojave Desert; the dust-laden wind and the heat were relentless.

A mile outside Ridgecrest, I spotted the liquor store and pay phone.

Joseph answered: “That you, Doc? Don’t go nowhere. Someone’ll be right on down.”

“Hurry,” I thought, standing there in the heat in my dark suit and yarmulke.

A horn honked and a red Ford pickup emerged from a cloud of dust and skidded to a halt.

The door swung open and out stepped an enormous man with shoulder-length hair and sideburns. He was wearing blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that stopped about six inches above his belly.

“You the Doc?” he asked with a grin. “Well, follow me.”

The truck sped off down the highway and onto an unmarked dirt road. My tiny car sputtered behind.

As the dust swirled up around us, I remembered something my rabbi had told me: “The Jewish faith has something for everyone. And wherever you go, no matter how remote, you’ll find some Jews.”

My guide screeched to a halt in front of a small, brown trailer home. Several scraggly chickens scratched in the dirt. In front of the rickety wooden porch stood a line of gleaming Harley Davidson motorcycles. My escort pried open the door to the trailer, and we stepped inside.

The tiny home was filled with bikers, a sea of black leather and metal. There were 10 men--all large--wearing black boots, frayed and ripped jeans and belts with large silver buckles. “The Grim Reaper” was engraved on one. The six women were also wearing torn jeans with T-shirts. One had a tattoo depicting a hissing snake that ran the length of her arm.

A hand touched me on the shoulder.

“Hey, Doc, I’m Joe. Joseph. Thanks for coming out.”

Joseph had long, dark hair tied in a pony tail and a beard. He was shirtless. Hanging from a chain around his neck was a small Hebrew letter h , symbol for life.

In the tiny kitchen, Joseph’s wife, Susan, held Andrew, a round-faced infant wearing a tiny shirt marked “Honda.”

“A joke,” said Susan.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Joe really wanted to do this. We don’t go to temple or anything. That’s kind of hard way out here. But we know this is important. I was just wondering--will it hurt?”

“Only a little,” I promised. “Try not to be nervous.

“And Joe,” I said, “Can you find a shirt?”

On a small wooden table in the living room, I placed my instruments, two candles and four glasses of wine for the participants in the ceremony.

I began.

“ Brukheem Ha-ba-eem b’sheym adonai. Blessed are you who come in the name of God.

“The rite of circumcision has been enjoined upon us as a sign of our covenant with God.”

I introduced the godmother, godfather and the sandek , the “honored person” who holds the baby during the ceremony--usually the baby’s grandfather, but in this case, an older friend of the family. He was a strapping man with a dark bearded face, which grew softer and gentler, I thought, as my words continued.

“Blessed is the Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, by whose mitzvot we are hallowed.”

The child was passed from godmother to sandek to me, and the room fell silent. It is traditional and common for the sandek to hold the baby during the surgery, but I think it is safer to put the baby in a restraint on a table, the way the procedure is done in hospitals. I gently placed Andrew in the restraint and asked his father to stroke his head.

Two of the men went absolutely white. It is a common reaction--I’ve had sandeks pass out--but the queasiness would soon disappear.

I placed a small stainless steel clamp on the baby’s penis between the foreskin and the glans and shut it tight. Then with one precise stroke, I removed the foreskin.

The observers gasped. I removed the clamp. A tiny drop of blood, normal for the procedure, appeared. I dressed the cut with sterile gauze. Andrew didn’t cry.

“ Mazel Tov ,” I cried.

“ Mazel Tov ,” yelled the group.

“O God, we give thanks to you for the gift of our child, who has entered into the covenant of Abraham. Keep him from all harm, and grant that he may be a source of joy to us and all his dear ones.

“Be with us, and give us health and length of days. Teach us to rear our child with care and affection, with wisdom and understanding, that he may be a faithful child of our people and a blessing to the world.”

When the ceremony was over, it was time for the seudat mitzvah , the feast. The Talmud says it is a commandment to celebrate the brit milah with a meal. What, I wondered, would be served?

Within seconds, caps were popped off bottles of Bud, and someone passed around a tray of sandwiches.

On the long ride back to Los Angeles, I thought to myself how the brit milah that I had just performed is God’s promise that the Jewish people will continue to exist.

Even out in the Mojave Desert, in the middle of nowhere, it is imperative that the message not be lost.

I imagined Andrew grown up. If he’s lucky, I thought, he’ll appreciate his faith.