A theme of financial concern runs through these pages of the Talmud, made particularly explicit in the following question on 25b:
Who is rich?
We are given a variety of Rabbinic responses, and I’d like to reflect on them, and to link them to some of the surrounding passages.
First up we have Rabbi Meir’s answer:
Whoever finds peace of spirit in his wealth.
At a first glance, this sounds very similar to Ben Zoma’s idea from Avot 4:1, that the rich person is one who rejoices in his lot. And they are clearly coming from a similar place, they are both responding with the counter-intuitive notion that wealth is measured by one’s attitude, not by one’s possessions; by the spirit rather than the material.
That said, I think Rabbi Meir is perhaps less optimistic than Ben Zoma, perhaps slightly more conscious of the difficulty in always rejoicing in one’s lot. He talks of one who is happy, who finds peace, Ben Zoma talks of an active imperative, of making an effort to attain happiness, that it is something which can be worked at. Rabbi Meir is perhaps suggesting that one does need a certain level of sustenance, of financial security to be at peace in the world. But the important thing is to remember that peace is the end point, that the wealth is a means to achieving that.
He may be suggesting that one needs to be especially conscious of the different emotions that accompany one’s differing material conditions, and to ensure that one is able to find a level of comfort wherein one’s worries actually abate and an internal sense of wellbeing comes to the fore.
When one does not achieve this, something has gone wrong, something has been missed. There are many ways this can happen.
In some cases the anxiety which spurred one to generate the wealth, which was perhaps helpful in fuelling the work ethic, might still persist once financial success has been achieved. It may in fact even get stronger; the challenge to attain a certain level of security might have been helpful in containing a person’s anxiety, it might have acted as a vessel for it, given it an outlet. Without that yolk to harness it, without such an apparently urgent task to absorb one’s energies, one may find oneself quite lost, overrun with anxiety, eaten up by a mysterious restlessness, by a sense of unease and disquiet which don’t seem to have any intelligible source.
The anxiety must be worked on; one must find the level of peace to enable genuine enjoyment of one’s bounty.
In a similar manner, one may have been spurred on by envy or competition, which again might have served a certain purpose. But if they are left untended once that purpose is served, once one has in some sense made enough, or made it onto the path towards enough, then they will again torment and undo a person.
Envy is a powerful toxin to the mind, a destructive hatred which can only bring misery and keep happiness at bay.
And being competitive, whilst less incorrigibly ruinous, and whilst more easily harnessed to constructive ends, can also be a major thorn in one’s side if it is left unchecked, if it comes to exist as an absolute force in one’s life. If one is perpetually setting oneself up in opposition to others, if one’s sense of self is only secured through triumph and conquest, through perceived supremacy, then it is not really a sense of self at all. It is a sense of not-other, of better-than-other, and perhaps a misplaced sense at that .
It is the mark of a being that is fleeing, searching, forever looking outwards for affirmation. It suggest one is either unable or lacking the courage to look for that affirmation within, to learn to be intimate and comfortable with oneself.
There is another danger to prosperity, another block to it providing one with the contentment that it seems to promise. This is the inability to have a sense of ‘enough’, to sense that one has reached a level whereby having more might be more trouble than it is worth. ‘More’ can become a compulsion, something insatiable, something which unsettles the mind and makes peace an ever more distant prospect.
This consciousness seems to animate an earlier discussion on 22a:
Rav Yehuda said that Rav Asi said that Rav said: It is forbidden to count money opposite the Channuka lights.
When I said this to Shmuel, he said to me: And do the Channuka lights have such intrinsic sanctity?
Shmuel seems to be assuming that if the Channuka lights did have sanctity, kedusha, that it would be understandable that their light would be incompatible with such a use. Kedusha seems to be at odds with counting money, with the anxious weighing and measuring of one’s wealth. Again, it is not the having of money that is the problem, it is the obsessing over it, it is the possibility that it does not bring one peace – nachat ruach – that it continues to torment one long after the battle is won.
The Divine Presence cannot come to rest with a person when they are forever concerned with how much they have, with how they stack up against their neighbours. There is simply not room in such a mind, one is distracted and out of sync with peace.
The Gemara rejects Shmuel’s idea about Kedusha, and instead offers a different reasoning for the ruling:
That the mitzvot should not be disgraced in his eyes, shameful.
I think this is a more profound idea, that if one is using the mitzvah of Channuka to count his wealth, making the light of the miracle subordinate to one’s material hunger, then one has lost perspective on the meaning of the ritual, on the subtle sense of faith it embodies.
The light is the symbol of a spiritual uprising, of a battle for sanctity in the war of cultures. It stands for our rejection of a culture which –as Nietzsche suggests – had become decadent and decayed through its wealth and success, which had thoroughly lost touch with its earliest lofty ideals.
The light is designed to bring peace to a household, to one’s soul; and if it fails to achieve that, if it becomes an instrument towards further anxiety and unease, then one has truly disgraced and shamed the mitzvah. It has been defiled, corrupted.
So, that’s the first take on the meaning of wealth, Rabbi Meir’s view.
Rabbi Tarfon has a much more conventional take on things, one which requires considerably less thought and imagination:
Who is wealthy? – One who has a hundred vineyards and a hundred fields, and a hundred slaves to work in them.
Rabbi Tarfon was a wealthy man, but perhaps his comment is not as superficial as it might seem, perhaps he is trying to give an answer to that elusive question: ‘Just how much is enough?’.
He is perhaps saying that there is an objective scale in play, and that one should know that at a certain point one may be overstepping a certain line and over reaching. He might be trying to objectify greed, to give gluttony a measure.
Either way, we are probably tempted to take with a pinch of salt his famous injunction on 24b:
Rabbi Tarfon said: One may only light with olive oil.
That’s nice if you can afford it.
I don’t want to get heavily into it, but it’s interesting that his views on wealth come shortly after a discussion on 23b about Pe’ah, the injunction to leave the corner of one’s field for the poor. The concern there is to ensure that this remarkably progressive biblical idea is executed in a spirit of fairness, and that both landowner and pauper maintain their dignity through its enactment.
One may have a hundred fields, but with that comes greater responsibility, a greater need to be mindful of those less fortunate.
Following the opinion of Rabbi Tarfon, we hear from Rabbi Akiva:
The rich man is one who has a wife who embodies beauty in her actions.
Rabbi Akiva was more conscious than most of his dependence upon his wife, upon the faith, ambition and forbearance with which she supported him. He sensed that all the money in the world was worthless if one didn’t have a house filled with warmth and peace, if one’s partner in life was dominated by envy and all too keen to turn against the other when things became tough.
The woman, for Rabbi Akiva, creates everything that is of value: the home, the family, the friendships and the fabric of community. And she is also the source of specifically female wisdom and insight, of a maternal concern somewhat alien to men.
To be blessed is to live in the shadow of this, to be subsumed under its wings.
Last, and most prosaically, is the view of Rabbi Yosei:
Who is rich? – The person who has a toilet close to his table.
Some suggest that he suffered from intestine trouble, and was expressing his needs directly. Another view might be that he is defining wealth by utility alone, and emphasising this by reducing it to its most basic functionality. Wealth in his eyes, is about being able to service one’s bodily needs when necessary, to conflate it into something more than that, into a measure of one’s worth or success in life, is to ask for trouble. That path is an easy one to begin on, but it is a hard one to leave, a difficult illusion to outrun. Better not to be seduced by it, to keep one’s eyes firmly on the toilet.
Four men, four visions of the possibilities and dangers of wealth. In our affluent society, we might be particularly sensitive to these questions, and we might find ourselves particularly grateful for their encouragement to think about them.