Money – Fetishizing the Future Shabbat 119

We encounter today a story which may take some of us back to our childhood:

Joseph-who-honours-Shabbat had in his vicinity a certain gentile who owned much property. Soothsayers  warned the gentile:  ’Joseph-who-honours-Shabbat will consume all your property.’ 

So he went, sold all his property, and bought a precious stone with the proceeds, which he set in his turban.  As he was crossing a bridge the wind blew it off and cast it into the water.  A fish then swallowed it.

The fish was subsequently hauled up and brought to market on the Shabbat eve towards sunset.

‘Who will buy this fish just now?’ cried the fish sellers.

‘Go and take them to Joseph-who-honours-Shabbat,’ they were told, ‘as he is accustomed to buy in order to honour the Shabbat.’

So they took it to him.  He bought it, opened it and found the jewel therein.  He sold the jewel for thirteen roomfuls  of gold coins. 

A certain old man met him and said, ‘He who lends to Shabbat,  Shabbat repays him.’

It certainly works as a nice story for the children, but I think there’s actually a whole lot more going on here.

In the character of the gentile , (I’m not sure why it’s a gentile, and I don’t really attribute much significance to it, surely there have been many Jews who would fit this mould!), we meet a man who is deeply anxious about his property, about his money.

This manifests itself in a variety of ways.  It is significant that he consults soothsayers in order to learn the fate of his fortune – he is caught up in the future, worried about the fate of his wealth.

He does not seem to be able to enjoy the benefits and luxuries that his wealth might proffer upon him in the present, his peace of mind does not seem to have increased in proportion to the size of his bank account.  Rather, he seems to be enacting that other dictum of the sages:

‘More possessions leads to more worry.’ (Pirkei Avot 2:8)

So he engages soothsayers and, more than this, he responds to their warning with credulity.  I want to say that this is characteristic of a mind that is ill at ease, that it responds to the most unfounded and paranoid of suggestions and treats them as hard fact.  Something about its lack of centring, about its lack of rootedness, means that it lacks contact and connection with the plain realities in front of it, with the starting point of hard evidence which the simplest of minds would readily grasp.  No, it is fragile, hallucinatory, and all too susceptible to the crazy doomsday whisperings of the unsound, to the tale of his undoing which arrests him.

Perhaps he is indeed haunted by such a sensation, he may in some sense be feeling that he is coming undone, unstuck,  and that this proclamation of such by the other is only a confirmation of what he has known for a long time, of the worm-like secret which has been eating away at him over the years.  He is perhaps unable to bear the burden of plenty, to live with the inequality that his wealth creates.  Something about it separates him from his fellows, and this alienation, this exile, has become for him a torment of soul shredding proportions.

Let us now turn to his response to the soothsayer’s warnings.  He decides that the best strategy is to sell all of his property and concentrate his wealth into one precious jewel.

On one level, this would seem to only be taking him further from any capacity to enjoy his wealth, to derive actual and material benefit from it.  In his determination to prevent someone else from stealing or obtaining his property, he has in a sense stolen it from himself; he has removed from himself any advantage of his affluence.

The concentration of the wealth into the jewel seems to symbolise a process of fetishization.  The jewel is of virtually no use, but it instead embodies a magical quality for its owner.  It is his superstitious response to the otherworldly prophecies he receives; he responds to the witchcraft with some sorcery of his own.

His money is in transit: the more he tightens his grip on it, the further it slips away from him.

And yet, with all of this paranoia surrounding his money, he exposes it in its totality to the slightest act of nature, to a gust of wind which removes his turban and blows it into the water.  One almost has to read an unconsciously wilful act of neglect here; he almost couldn’t bear the tension and was somehow desiring its end.  The death drive, with its magnetic force of dissolution, seems to have overwhelmed him.

In the character of Joseph-who-honours-Shabbat we seem to encounter someone of precisely the opposite nature.  The name by which he is known, Yosef Mokir Shabbei, might also be translated as Joseph-whose-wealth-was-Shabbat.  He holds Shabbat dear, he cherishes and values something which has a powerful impact on his soul and spirit, something which is very much tangible in the here and now.  He is not distracted by the future, he is not imprisoned by worry and a sense of impending doom.  He is bound to the moment, living in intimate proximity to the source of his joy.

The jewel comes to Joseph not because he is looking to get rich, not because he has bought a lottery ticket or invested in a spirit of speculation.  His wealth arrives because he has a reputation for sparing no expense, for using every last penny he has, in order to honour Shabbat, in order to enrich the day one with every possible delight.

He comes to wealth because he has no interest in looking after his money, in worrying about its future life.  He has a healthy relationship with his property, he understands that if it is not used, if it is not put to work in enhancing the finer and more sacred aspects of life, then it becomes empty, it becomes a tormenting and divisive fetish.

We notice that the first thing he does on obtaining the jewel, presumably once Shabbat was finished, was to undo its fetishization, to release its value into an abundance of gold coins which could then be spent, which could be used to bring better things, things of real value, into the world.

The soothsayers’ wording is particularly prescient, they use the term ‘akhil’, literally ‘eat’, to describe what Joseph will do to the gentile’s wealth.  He will re-translate it into something tangible, something nourishing, something which can actually enhance a person’s health and wellbeing.

The story ends with the observation of the wise old man that one who lends to Shabbat will be repaid by Shabbat.

On one level, this speaks of the difficulty in keeping Shabbat at a basic level, in the financial and career sacrifice that it seems to demand of us.  It is a non-trivial challenge to prioritise Shabbat when other demands are in the foreground, demands which whisper to us of the security and future benefit they will bring to us and our families.  Trust in Shabbat, he promises, and you will be repaid.

On another level however, he is speaking of the shift in perspective that Shabbat might offer us.  ‘Suspend your concern for the future, release yourself from the anxious worship of financial accumulation and embrace the life of the spirit, the immediacy of your desire.  Use this pause to connect and re-root, and all manner of surprising benefits will follow in its wake.’

As we said recently, Shabbat offers us a loosening of the soul, a release from the ordinary anxieties that separate us from our truer selves.  Money, and our complicated and tortuous relationship with it, can play a big part in this alienation, in the ways in which we fail to live in the present, we fail to be present, on account  of the future.

It is the perfect seducer, it begins with the promise of answering real and palpable needs, then at some point it takes on magical qualities, promising us everything the future has to offer, provided we make a Faustian pact against the present.

Eventually we might fetishize it, we forget why we wanted it, but we only know that we must have it, that it is all that matters.

It has perhaps never been harder to untangle ourselves from this web of confusion, never has there been an age where genuine value and monetary value have been so messily interlinked and amalgamated.  The theology of the market, whose collapse we are still struggling to really understand, has profoundly and disturbingly warped our thinking.

We can only hope that the experience of Shabbat, the joy in real and present experience that it offers, can help us to re-calibrate our inner scales somewhat, and that we can return to our lives a little more attentive to the right things, a little less haunted by what the soothsayers might threaten.

Desire, not Apocalypse Shabbat 118

R. Simeon b. Pazzi said in the name of R. Joshua b. Levi in Bar Kappara’s name: He who observes [the practice of] three meals on the Sabbath is saved from three evils: the travails (birthpangs) of the Messiah,  the retribution and judgment of Gehinnom,  and the wars of Gog and Magog.

In spite of appearances, there is something quite profound being hinted at here, something which connects our conceptions of Shabbat, Time and Apocalyptic thinking.

I do not read this as teaching that we will be literally saved from three actual future events.  Rather, if we manage to immerse ourselves in Shabbat sufficiently, if we allow it to teach us what it means to be properly oriented and rooted in this-worldliness, then we will be spared from the anxieties of the apocalypse.

We will be spared from them because we will cease to think of them, because we will overcome that tendency so ingrained in us to ignore the positivity and possibility in our immediate surroundings.  All too often, we allow our desires and hopes to become suspended, helplessly, in the future.

And let us make no mistake, we all have our personal versions of Gehinnom, of Gog and Magog, our deepest and most concerning worries about what might be in the future, about what might befall us, about what we might lack.

And I would not contend for one second that these fears are without foundation, without good and sensible justification.

But the very fact that they are so real, so alive, so tangible – this is the reason why we would do so well to detach from them, to loosen their grip on us, to stop them from ruining our present.

Shabbat comes to help us with this, to weaken the sense that we are omnipotent and can fully control our future.  It creates a nurturing space wherein we are forced to stop doing and encouraged to concentrate on simply being.

In the passage from Genesis we say at Kiddush on Friday night, we are told that:

On the seventh day, God ceased the work which he had done

And he rested on the seventh day from the work that he had done. (Gen. 2:2)

At a first glance, this sounds quite repetitive, but on reading it carefully, I hear the idea that there is a difference between ‘ceasing to work’ and ‘resting from work’.

To cease is physical, is objective; it is easily defined and can be legislated for.

To rest from work is a more subtle thing; it is a state of mind, a loosening of the soul, a challenge to the personality.  It is the injunction to leave behind the worry and stress which drive us throughout the week, which perpetually propel us in our worldly enterprise.

The word Shabbat is taken from this latter concept, it is about ‘resting from’, and in doing so, finding peace.

I feel this might somehow sound trite, that the idea might seem a little bit simplistic.  But I am convinced that we don’t quite get how bound up with the future we actually are, how detrimentally our thinking is affected by a strange contradiction of aspiration and anxiety.

We allow ourselves to become trapped in instrumental thinking, believing that we’re always doing something in order to get to the next thing, to progress, to get promoted, to become wiser.  It’s like an addiction, and it’s a never ending battle to escape from its grasp, to simply exist in the moment, to savour the delectable peace in standing still and connecting with our own depths.

This too can become clichéd, but there really is a sense that all this worry, all this future oriented concern, keeps us on the surface, in the external world, and keeps us utterly distracted and distant from what’s really going on in our selves, in our unconscious.

And again, the unconscious is not some storehouse of dreams, symbols and fantasises, a censored version of consciousness.  It’s a river of molten lava, a fluid and dynamic energy field; it is the source of all the originality, spontaneity and authenticity that we bring into life.

It’s not simply the stuff we’ve repressed, that’s just a small part of it.  It’s where brain, body and mind meet in a pre-conscious and non-articulate way, the site of an indomitable individuality which will only ever be partially integrated into language, culture and society.

It is what is absolutely real for every individual, and which every manner of anxious and neurotic defence try to keep us away from.

It is intimately connected with desire, with the heart’s desire, and it is striking that we are instructed to connect with Shabbat through engaging with nothing less than desire.  In the passage above we are rewarded not for meditating and spiritually contemplating the essence of Shabbat, but through eating three meals, through refreshing our body with the simple delight of desirable food.

The next passage develops this further:

Rab Judah said in Rab’s name: He who delights in the Sabbath is granted his heart’s desires, for it is said: ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord; And he shall give thee the desires of thine heart’ (Ps 37.4).

 Now, I do not know what this ‘delight’ refers to; but when it is said: ’And thou shalt call the Sabbath a delight’ (Isaiah 58.13),  you must say that it refers to the delight of the Sabbath.

Not only is the injunction here to ‘delight’ in Shabbat, but the very reward that is promised is the granting of the ‘desires of the heart’.

To be in touch with desire, to be alert to the soul’s longing and questing, ‘mishalot libekha’ as it is in the Hebrew, is to be freed from the enslavement of the future, of the tendency to imagine our own personal apocalypse.

And there is a subtle but important qualification here, to be connected and comfortable with one’s unique and individual desire is not necessarily to be a hedonist, to be nihilistically chasing all manner of physical gratification.  It can very often be the case that to be trapped in the cycle of chasing and craving a specific form of gratification can actually be another form of defence from facing up to one’s genuine and deeper desire.  It can be a bulwark against the authentically personal way in which one needs to live creatively, to express one’s being in the world.

Desire is about knowing one’s depths; not about reacting to one’s surface.

It is about being able to bear the present, about not needing to hide in concerns about the future.

The liberating effect of desire is also suggested by another part of the Talmudic discussion today:

R. Johanan said in R. Jose’s name: He who delights in the Sabbath is given an unbounded heritage, for it is written, Then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord, and I will make thee to ride upon the high places of the earth; and I will feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father.

Delighting in Shabbat adjusts the character of our world, it broadens us, loosens the tightness of our worry, allows the expression and energy of our desire to flow more easily.  Something about our existence becomes unbounded, freer; more playful and spontaneous.  And all of these benefits will help guard us against seduction by the future.

This train of thought also allows us to better understand the idea that Shabbat is ‘Me-ein Olam Haba’, a foretaste of the World to Come.  It is not that Shabbat is a sample of some future world; rather, learning to dwell in the present creates the possibility of experiencing a time related redemption in everyday life.  The structure of our relationship with time changes, the future is experienced as the healthy offshoot of our being in the present, not as the neurotic source of our disregarding the present.  The future is driven by the present, and not the other way round.

I am becoming increasingly convinced that ‘olam haba’, and the similar phrase ‘chayeii olam’, do not refer to some kind of afterlife, to some supernatural other world.  Rather, they refer to the way that we experience our time and our activities in this world, to the openness and possibility that are embodied by the way we live in the moment.

Do our actions open us to greater levels of relatedness, engagedness, or do they deaden us, restricting us to a limited and enclosed terrain?

This is the sense in which ‘olam haba’ – the world of becoming – is something worth trying to attain, to become attuned to.

Song is a vital part of the delight of Shabbat, and one of my favourites, the 11th century Ma Yedidut, gives poetic expression to many of these themes.  In a famous line the author declares:

Your wants are forbidden, as is the making of future oriented calculations. 

Desire, however, is permitted. 

This gap between the pettiness of our wants and the eternal profundity of our desire, the endless mystery it contains, is something with which Shabbat tries to enlighten us.

May we blessed with the delight of many Shabbatot, and may we learn from them how to live confidently and securely in a desire-enriched present.

Are we running on empty? Berakhot 40 and 41

Rabbi Zeira, and some say Rabbi Ĥinnana bar Pappa, said: Come and see that the attribute of flesh and blood is unlike the attribute of the Holy One, Blessed be He.

The attribute of flesh and blood is that an empty vessel holds that which is placed within it, while a full vessel does not hold it.

The attribute of the Holy One, Blessed be He, however, is not so, as if God adds to a person who is a full vessel in terms of knowledge or good attributes, he will hold it; a person who is an empty vessel will not hold it.

It is difficult to speak about the state of one’s spirit, of the plane of emotion that runs deeper than the surface.  We are forever employing forms of metaphor that only hint at the feelings, and we hope that we make ourselves understood through their use.

We speak of being high or low, open or closed, sensitive or numb.  And another of the key distinctions we use is between feeling full and empty.

We speak of fullness in terms of an abundance, of love, of energy, of will.  And it can also denote a certain contentment, completeness, peacefulness.

And we make speak of emptiness in terms of exhaustion and lethargy, and also in terms of impatience, irritability and a lack of concern.

What is quite perplexing though, and what the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan particularly emphasised, is that out of this absence, out of this emptiness, often emerges desire.  We might have thought that desire springs from a fullness of life, out of a sense of strength and of energy.   But no, it is not so;  in his view desire is born out of emptiness, out of a lack.

We should probably clarify what we mean here by desire.  Desire is not the healthy activity of fulfilling our genuine needs that comes about naturally, that is a basic expression of our personality and life force.  No, desire here is something more alien, something which is sought out in order to fill a void, in order to overcome the emptiness, in order to make us feel real.

Desire in this sense is seeking out stimulation, provocation, excitement, but doing it because we are otherwise too dead, because we are unable to connect with genuine energy, because the reality of our life is simply not what we want it to be, it doesn’t motivate us sufficiently.

To be sure, it is not always easy to distinguish between the healthy activity born of fullness and the desperate desire born out of emptiness.  It is perhaps the hardest thing in life to be able to read our own desire and know whether or not it is real, to discern whether it comes from a place of happiness or a river of sadness.  The words, the ideas, they can help, they are tools, but they never do the job on their own, the work is truly never completed.

But let us leave the question of desire for now and return to the idea of emptiness per se.  As the Talmud observes, physical emptiness is something very different from spiritual emptiness.  Physical emptiness is easily filled, and indeed, once filled, can be filled no more.  There are limits to what can be contained, if we are existing on the purely physical plane.

In the realm of the spirit however, emptiness is not so easily corrected, it becomes a rut, a trap, an inescapable vortex of negative energy.

Fullness however, has a very different dynamic.  Once it is attained, once the winds of inspiration have lifted us, it can continue to grow, to develop, to become richer.

But we can say more than this.  The key to physical containment, to being able to hold on to the love and energy which animate us at times, is the ability to give it spiritual expression.  When we successfully connect the two realms, when we are able to pour ourselves into something much bigger, into something which is greater than us yet intimately related to us, we achieve, quite literally, an expansion of our self.

The vastness of nature, the sense of the sublime, religious imagery of grandeur and infinity –  all of these allow us to stretch out our imaginative muscles, to experience an expansiveness which our purely physical existence precludes.

Rachel Elior suggests that the intricate mystical constructs of the Kabbalists came out of a Spanish Jewry which was oppressed and constricted  by the ravages of the Inquisition.  The physical reality of their lives was so limited, so difficult, that it was only through growing new fields in the imagination that they were able to keep their spirit alive.

Our circumstances are different, but the demands of contemporary life often seem endless and thankless, and we too, in spite of our physical affluence and abundance can often be left trapped and empty.  We too can find nourishment and space by engaging with the world of the spirit, by attempting to connect with something  larger.

One of the things we desperately cry out for at this time of year, in the heightened emotion of the Selichot service, is that God should not take his Holy Spirit away from us – ‘v’ruach kodshecha al tikach mimenu’.  We do not wish to be left abandoned, forsaken, we want to be full, to be complete, to be connected.  We need the possibility of a spiritual grounding in order to maintain and to root our physical lives.

Indeed, we say every day in the Amida, ‘umilfanecha malkeinu raykam al t’shiveinu’ – ‘and from before you, our Majesty, do not return us empty’.  The Divine presence is not something incidental, something that merely surrounds us.  It is something we need to bring inside us, something to combat the emptiness which can otherwise wreak havoc on us and unleash all manner of unholy desires.

And I think it is no co-incidence that we stumble into this discussion in the midst of a discussion of how to say grace after meals.  We seek fullness and satisfaction from food, and to an extent that is of course necessary and right.  But there is always a danger lurking, the possibility that we confuse our spiritual thirst and hunger for something physical, and that we eat in the wrong way, and use food to fill the wrong holes.

In the discourse of fullness and emptiness, the worlds of the physical and the spiritual become enmeshed and entangled.  The Talmud shows awareness of this, and recommends that we always listen, that we attend to what is really happening, and ensure that our responses are the right ones, the wise ones.