Thus was born the "Brit Milah" ceremony (translation from Hebrew is "Convenant of Circumcision"), also called - in Yiddish - a "bris." It is Judaism's oldest ritual, a link across generations, that dates back more than 4,050 years. On a bright October afternoon, family and friends congregated in the Salt Lake City home of Kirstie and Micah Rosenfield. They'd come, some by plane, to celebrate the birth of the Rosenfields' third son, Ezra, and to witness his bris. Performing the ritual circumcision, as Abraham had done for his own newborn son Isaac, was none other than the baby's father. "We're here to celebrate the birth of our latest," Rosenfield said as guests began to fill the home. "It's a moment of sacred initiation. . . The ritual unites Jews across the globe. From Salt Lake to New Hampshire, to China and Israel."

Not all dads are up for carrying out this rite, so Jewish law allows parents to appoint someone else to do the deed. Enter the "mohel," the ritual circumciser, who is trained in the procedure and the religious significance of the ceremony. Rosenfield, a 39-year-old family physician, happens to be Utah's only mohel. He was certified by the Reform Jewish movement, in a program devised to train doctors, which means in Orthodox circles his certification goes unrecognized. Never mind the six months of religious study and the years of medical school and practice. Or the particular clamp he relies on for the procedure, his use of local anesthesia, the level of his own religious observance and the fact that he is by profession not a rabbi or a cantor but something else (thereby, theoretically, taking away business from professional mohels). All of these things, in the eyes of the Orthodox community, are strikes against him. But Rosenfield, who became certified more than 7 years ago, is proud of what he's doing and unruffled by those who dismiss him.

"In Judaism, a rabbi is a person. A cantor is a person. They are no closer to God than you or I," he explained in a phone call this week. "I live my life according to my understanding of Jewish law. . .That's what I love about Judaism. Nothing is set in stone. You have to interpret it. . .It's not just blindly accepted." The physician-mohel also knows, firsthand, he offers a service that's hard to come by in these parts.

When Kirstie was pregnant with their first child, a now 7-year-old son named Asa, the Rosenfields were living in Boise, Idaho. They didn't know the sex of the baby, and in preparing for the possibility of a bris, Rosenfield did some research and discovered that between Calgary and Las Vegas, Portland and Denver, there were no mohels to be found. So he figured, why not him? As a doctor, he was well-versed in the surgical procedure. As a Jew, he was spiritually in touch and eager to learn more.

In the kitchen, before the ceremony, guests unveiled treats - including pies, coffee cake, bagels and fruit salad - for the celebratory feast that would follow. "A little minor surgery, a little nosh," one of them quipped. Ezra's mother, Kirstie, nervously paced about. She'd been here before, what with having two other boys, but even so the minutes leading up to the ritual weren't any easier.

"It's not the best day of a mom's career," she said. "I usually stand in the back, chat with friends and grab the baby as fast as I can." As she prepared to take cover, Micah's father, Jay Rosenfield, got ready to take his front row seat to the Brit Milah ceremony. He has eight grandsons, and just as he did for Ezra's older brothers, Asa and Zev, the grandfather - draped in his prayer shawl - would serve as the "sandek," the person honored with holding Ezra and sitting beside him during the procedure and ceremony. "I've never looked," he said. Not everyone attending the bris was Jewish. Among the guests was Megan Selman, a member of the LDS Church who worked for three years as the Rosenfields' nanny. "It's crazy, and I feel badly for the baby," she said. "But if you know what's going on, it's cool. I love the history, the traditions."

The actual procedure took less than a minute, closer to 30 seconds. And baby Ezra, who'd received local anesthesia, cried out when his diaper was opened but barely made a sound during the circumcision. The bulk of the ceremony was dedicated to blessings, explanation and songs. There was a seat reserved as the Chair of Elijah, the prophet who Jews believe will usher in the Messiah. "Any child has the potential to be the Messiah," Rosenfield explained. "The potential to fix the world, to heal the world."

With his circumcision, baby Ezra became linked to the Jewish people and to God. "Just as he has entered this covenant, so may he attain the blessings of Torah, of "chuppah" (the canopy used in Jewish weddings) and a life of good deeds," Rosenfield said. Beneath their chuppah, which symbolizes the home a couple creates, the Rosenfield family stood for Ezra's formal Hebrew naming ceremony - another component of a Brit Milah. The chuppah, an additional element added by Rosenfield, was the same one the couple stood beneath at their wedding. It was made of a tablecloth that belonged to Kirstie's grandmother and the poles holding it were lifted by her and Micah's parents. All signs of the ties that bind family.

In the case of Ezra, whose name is already Hebrew, there were no surprises. But the newborn, cradled in the arms of his mother, was formally introduced to the community as "Ezra ben Micah ben Ketzia" - "ben" meaning "son of" and "Ketzia" being Kirstie's Hebrew name. Rabbi Tracee Rosen, of Salt Lake City's Congregation Kol Ami, was on hand to perform the naming ceremony and she explained the significance of a Hebrew name. "You always carry the name of your parents, when they're alive and when they're gone," she said. For Rosenfield's mother, Barbara, the bris proved especially moving. "I got really emotional at the end, when [Micah] said his son should bring good things to the world," she said later. "My husband had a two-year bout of cancer, and we didn't know if he'd be here. We're so grateful [he is]."

There have been movements against ritual circumcision Ð but within the Jewish community, naysayers have gathered little backing. Rather, Rosenfield says the birth of sons brings unaffiliated Jews "out of the woodwork." They may do nothing Jewishly, but when it comes to Brit Milah, "people surprise themselves," he said.

It's the covenant that continues to connect Jewish people, to previous generations, to their biblical ancestors and to God - irrespective of an individual's religiosity. In fact, Baruch (Benedict) Spinoza, the 17th century Dutch philosopher who spearheaded modern Biblical criticism and was considered an atheist, once said that circumcision was the key to Jewish survival. The ritual distinguished Jews as a people, especially in Europe, where few non-Jews were circumcised. Centuries after Spinoza's time and during World War II, Nazis often forced men to drop their pants for inspection.

Though some research has shown medical benefits of circumcision - a lowered risk of penile cancer, infections and sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV - the American Academy of Pediatrics takes a neutral stance on the procedure. So does Rosenfield, when it comes to his medical practice, where he performs about four circumcisions each month. When he's serving as a mohel, however, it's all about the ritual, the rite of passage, a significance beyond and above surgery. "Bottom line: It's a 'simcha,' a celebration of the baby's birth. . .a chance to welcome the baby into the world," he said. And since the actual circumcision takes less than a minute, he encourages people to not "get caught up" in the procedure and instead "concentrate on the celebrating and sharing the joy."

This is exactly what the Rosenfields, their family and their friends did as they milled about outside after the ceremony. They enjoyed one another, shared stories, laughs and pieces of cake. And Ezra, who slept soundly, was held by loved ones, oggled and adored. The latest link in one family's commitment to a more than 4,050-year-old chain.

Article originally published on Salt Lake Tribune Online issue of 12/02/2005

A bris ceremony has two parts: the actual circumcision, and the naming. A rabbi joins parents and close friends along with a specially trained person known as a 'model' for a bris ceremony. In the picture above, a mohel circumcisies a child.

Who's circumcised?
Rates of newborn male circumcisions vary according to religious and cultural affiliation, geography and race.

Religious and cultural affiliation: Circumcision is customary in the Jewish, Muslim, Coptic Christian and Ethiopian Orthodox traditions. It is also common in a number of Australian Aborigninal and African religious practices.

Geography: The procedure is uncommon in South America, Central America, Asia (with the exception of the Philippines and South Korea) and most of Europe. In Canada, 48 percent of males are circumcised. In the U.S., overall estimates stand at about 65 percent. Within the U.S., there are regional differences. In 1999, the circumcision rates were: Northeast (65.4%), Midwest (81.4%), South (64.1%) and West (36.7%).

Race: American white males are more likely to be circumcised than blacks or Latinos. A 1997 report indicated that 81 percent of whites, 64 percent of blacks and 54 percent of Latinos were circumcised. But studies show that newborn Latino boys usually are not circumcised, which accounts for the much lower rate of circumcision in the West as indicated above.

Sources: Wikipedia, American Academy of Pediatrics, National Center for Health Statistics.

Some Brit Milah guidelines

* The ceremony takes place during daylight hours when a newborn boy is eight days old - even if that day falls on the Jewish Sabbath or Yom Kippur, the holiest day for Jews.
* Only if there are health concerns can the ritual be postponed.
* Other than 8-day-old boys, circumcision is required of male converts to Judaism. This requirement helped account for the greater number of female converts to Judaism, as opposed to males, in ancient times. So writes Rabbi Joseph Telushkin in his book, Jewish Literacy, before he goes on to say, "By dropping the demands for circumcision and observance of Jewish law, Christianity made conversion a much easier procedure than did Judaism."
* In cases where would-be converts are already circumcised, a symbolic drop of blood from the penis fulfills the requirement.
In a place like Utah, where the Jewish community is small, demand for a mohel is limited. Salt Lake City's Micah Rosenfield says he's called upon locally, on average, about once a month. But he's also travelled to places like Helena, Mont., Boise, Idaho and even Los Angeles to perform ceremonies.
Meanwhile, Rabbi Benny Zippel, an Orthodox rabbi with Chabad of Utah, says a mohel from Los Angeles flies in at least six times a year to do ritual circumcisions. When families can't afford the flight and fee, he says Chabad helps pay the way.
Elsewhere in the country, local mohelim are much more busy. Rabbi Ariel Asa in Atlanta says he does anywhere from 10 to 20 Brit Milah ceremonies each month. His numbers, however, are a far cry from those of counterparts.
Fred Kogen, in Los Angeles, completes about seven ritual circumcisions a week.
He says he's the first full-time physician-mohel in the United States and, in his 20 years of service, he's done 5,000 ceremonies in nine states and in three places overseas - Gibraltar, Hong Kong and Beijing.
In New York, Cantor Philip Sherman has all of these mohelim beat. He's done more than 17,000 ritual circumcisions in his 28 years of practice, serves the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, and has also been flown to Asia for his services.
He juggles multiple appointments, daily - five on Wednesday. His record? Nine ritual circumcisions in one day, including a set of triplets.
And if it's a girl?
There is no formal liturgy nor a surgical procedure, but to celebrate the birth of Jewish girls, more and more parents are having special baby naming - Hebrew naming - ceremonies for their daughters.