Dear Friends,
If I did the math right, these words reach you concurrent with a flurry of tax returns. It's time to go through our receipts, meet with our accountants, put our finances in order.
Some of us anticipate a refund this year. Others must pay. Reading the fine print on the worksheets, we consider a perennial question. Where’s our money coming from, and where’s it going?
Our Israelite ancestors must have wondered the same thing when they received a windfall before leaving Egypt. The Torah reports that on their way out of town, the freed slaves “borrowed” objects of silver, gold, and clothing from the Egyptians who, probably fearing another plague, were uncharacteristically “disposed favorably” toward their former captives (Ex. 12:36). Thrusting goblets and bracelets and silk and linen at them, they must have cried, “Take the money and leave us alone already!” “So the Israelites stripped the Egyptians,” the text reports (Ibid). (“Borrowed,” indeed!)
What did the Israelites do with all that loot?
As you might imagine, public opinion among the million-fold desert throng was not unanimous, which takes us to this week’s Torah portion. In Terumah, a word that means a donation, we read that members of the community were invited to donate a portion of their precious materials toward the building of a Tabernacle, a place for God to dwell among them. “You shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved,” God tells Moses (Ex. 25:2). No one forced anyone to finance this project, but many did, contributing the rare woods, metals, and fabrics that were required for a sanctuary that would befit God’s presence.
We can infer, however, that not everyone's philanthropic budget financed the Tabernacle. Soon after, a second, different public works project is also financed with the freewill contributions of the community. Enough gold earrings and baubles are donated and melted down to fashion a golden calf, a glitzy idol acclaimed with song and dance, sacrifice and fealty. Some three thousand Israelites, the Torah reports, determined that the golden calf was a worthy investment.
We scoff at such obvious folly. But the message of these two adjacent tales applies today more than ever. Namely: the way we spend our money reflects our priorities, our values.
Consider the different ends to which contributions went. In Parashat Terumah, the people’s wealth ultimately serves to bring God into the midst of the community—to create a home that would enshrine the Jewish principles of morality, holiness, and justice, and that would bind the members of the community each to the other. In one notable example, some of the gold given by the people was used to overlay—and inlay—the Ark of God’s commandments. Why put gold on the inside, where no one would ever see it? The Talmud suggests that the gold within and without signifies that the exterior reflects the spiritual luster of its innermost contents (Yoma 72b). Similarly, the way we spend our gold out in the world should (and does) reflect our innermost values.
In the Golden Calf story that we will read two parashiot from now, the people’s gold serves an unholy purpose. Their donations alienate God. A famous midrash depicts Moses descending Sinai, tablets in hand. So powerful and uplifting were the words inscribed on them, we read, that it was not Moses who carried the tablets, but the tablets that carried Moses. But when he approached the base of Mount Sinai, he spotted the golden calf. Then God’s holy words and the unholy idol confronted each other. The sacred letters detached themselves from the stone, and floated away. Moses was left holding a blank, inert thing, too heavy for him to carry.
It is not the case, the legend continues, that Moses threw the tablets to the ground, shattering them. He had no choice. Either he had to let go or be crushed beneath their weight. Once devoid of meaning, the stones became too much to bear (Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 45).
A line in the Talmud describes the use of wealth for such an ignoble end: “Hadein arka min hadein mashka,” literally, “Such a [shoddy] belt, and from such [fine] leather!” In other words, what a poor product, considering the precious goods invested in it. Too often our precious goods end up invested in valueless ends. No wonder the Talmud refers to a person who refuses to give charity as one who has committed idolatry (Ketubot 68a, cited in Joseph Telushkin, Jewish Wisdom, 16).
Judaism invests us with the freedom to invest our money where we see fit, but it also names the consequences. Our money can bring God into our midst, or it can finance any one of modern idolatry’s many forms. When, to the exclusion of God and Torah, our money sponsors power, materialism, or celebrity, we promote idolatry. Judaism discourages asceticism. It does not demand deprivation of our worldly goods or luxuries. But Torah urges us to choose our priorities wisely, and to allocate our currency accordingly. God’s home among humanity is built with donated resources. Could we allocate our resources to bring God into our midst? What causes might we support? Would we invest in a future free from fossil fuels? Would we give more to alleviate sickness or poverty? Would we build up our synagogues? Would we change our investments to end genocide? Right now, our investments in PetroChina (to name but one company) aid the Sudanese government, perpetuating the catastrophic situation in Darfur. If you want to know where to give and where not to give, look within and find your inlay of gold.
Do you know what the most important book in a Jewish home is? It's your checkbook! There we find the truest accounting of our values. Who benefits from our gold? Where do we spend the freewill offerings of our hearts? Take a look. It’s all there.
I opened a new personal checking account in August. The fact that I have only recorded MAYBE 4 transactions in my checkbook tells me that my heart is too scattered. Or, maybe I'm trying to hide my expenses from myself. Either way - this is an interesting point. And... April 15th is quickly approaching, which scares me.
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