Bibliomancy: an ancient practice for our times?

Do we live in a providential universe or is everything random? I often ask this question.

As a child I was raised to believe that although coincidences happen, the universe is essentially happenstance.

As an adult, I’ve come to embrace an older worldview, one that undergirds many of the texts and traditions dear to me: things happen for a reason. Whether it’s Marcus Aurelius insisting over and over again that there is a logical force governing the cosmos, or the authors of the Midrash maintaining that God’s role as creator of the world is constant, rather than a singular event, this notion of order has deepening appeal.

In spite of this, my childhood scepticism remains deeply rooted, implanted by the invisible hand of a largely secular worldview. I doubt this will ever entirely change. But one divinatory practice seems to resurface again and again in my life: bibliomancy. Strictly speaking, bibliomancy means prediction through books. The prefix biblio- is Greek for “book”, and the suffix -mancy means “prediction,” “divination,” or “prophecy.”

A story springs to mind.

Last summer my wife and I were visiting with friends on an enchanting farm in northern California, and I had the honor to appear as a guest on a podcast run by two Thai forest monks: the Clear Mountain Monastery Project. Ajahn Kovilo and Ajahn Nisabho invited me to speak about prayer, meditation, and mysticism in Judaism. Before the recording began, the two monks asked for a few moments of silent meditation. It was like a glass of cool water on a sweltering day— I was overjoyed to have a few minutes to myself. Lying on my desk in front of the laptop from which I’d record was an old psalter that I’ve had since my early twenties. Various layers of handwritten notes decorate the margins, palimpsests of my past selves.

I decided to open the book at random, though I was seeking something very specific: solace. I was nervous before this particular podcast. Although I am practiced at the art of public speaking (I lecture to auditoriums with as many as 270 students at my university), there’s no energy return on zoom— at least not for me. And I was also feeling insecure: in the month or so leading up to the podcast I had not been immersed in kabbalistic texts and traditions. Like many of my passions, the pursuit of wisdom from the Jewish mystical tradition comes and goes. I try not to beat myself up about my inconsistencies, but Puritan patterns from my native Massachusetts are firmly lodged, and difficult to dislodge.

When I opened the book my eye fell immediately on the following verse (Ps. 119:141):

“Though I am insignificant and despised, I have not forgotten your precepts.”

It was like a revelation, a beam of light. Immediately my consciousness was flooded with a sense of calm and confidence. Every word felt weighty. Tzair (“insignificant”) also means “young” or “inexperienced.” Anochi (“I [am]”) evokes famous passages in Genesis and Exodus I won’t belabor the reader with now. Nivzeh (“despised”) reminded me of the autobiographical preface to an elegant work of a sixteenth-century Jewish physician from Italy, whose encyclopedia of biblical antiquities inspired me when I was in my twenties. Piqudekha (“your instructions”) made me think of my late mentor and master Sol Cohen z”l, who had much to say about this particular synonym for Torah. Lo shachachti (“I have not forgotten”) convinced me that in spite of my summer cessation from Kabbalah studies, I still knew things.

With my eyes closed, I savored the sounds of the words, and when I looked up from the psalter, I was ready to record the interview.

Examples of such bibliomantic moments in my life could be multiplied. As it turns out, it’s an old Jewish custom to open sacred books (chiefly the Tanakh) at random, read a verse, and meditate on its significance or relevance. It’s also a common practice in Islam, (fāl), as my friend Taimoor reminds me.

My childhood prepared me to seek solace in books, but in a more conventional way. Trusting the providential force that guides the universe, as the Stoics would put it, was an attitude unknown to me until recently.

In a swiftly changing world, where so many certainties of my youth and young adulthood have yielded to a more chaotic, fluid reality, I’ll continue to take succor from signs, whatever their origin.