The clash between caring and spending

According to a Hasidic story, a righteous man who is nearing death asks an angel to give him a sneak peek of heaven and hell.

First he is taken to hell, where he finds a gorgeous room with a large banquet table that is laden with delicacies and decorated with fine china, silver and crystal. But the people around the table are wailing and emaciated. He looks closely and sees that their elbows cannot bend. Surrounded by a wealth of food, they remain hungry.

Then he visits heaven and is surprised to find an identical room with an identical table, the same food and people with the same ailment. But those people, the ones in heaven, are joyful because, though their elbows do not bend, they have learned to feed each other.

This story seems particularly poignant during this fall season as we Jews approach the harvest festival of Sukkot and we Americans debate health care reform.

With the tale’s pointed lessons about the importance of community members caring for one other, it prompts questions about our fundamental beliefs:

What should a government provide for its people? What do we do when capitalism and the free market leave our neighbors destitute and ill? Is health care a right or a privilege? When should a government interfere with business? Should our compassion extend to people who are not legal citizens?

As a Jew, I would add another series of questions to the mix: Do Jewish values clash with the prevailing attitudes of modern America? If so, which values determine our course of action?

In talking about the health care debate with a colleague, he suggested that the real issue is the assumptions upon which we begin our discussions.

Is our first thought — the one that is unspoken, assumed and the basis for all decisions — of values or of money? Do we build on the notion that we are morally obligated to care for our workers, our citizens and then begin to crunch numbers and plans? Or do we focus instead on preserving resources and then hope to provide good enough care with minimal expense?

Our answers will be different if we function according to American or Jewish values.

We Americans function according to a Wild West, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality, my colleague said. In spite of Medicare and our various welfare programs, we now deride those who cannot fend for themselves.

I would take it a step further. America was founded to offer the opportunity for “the pursuit of happiness.” It idealizes fierce personal independence and proclaims a spirit of liberty that inspires immigrants and citizens to shed their pasts and reinvent themselves. According to legend (and our Jewish immigrant stories), anybody can strike it rich if they come armed with a great idea and a powerful work ethic.

But America is also the place of sharp elbows, where winning is praised above all else and the wealthy are lauded as successful. America has been and is much more than that, of course, but the spirit of today’s America chooses beauty over righteousness, outrageousness over wisdom and wealth over acts of kindness.

Judaism, on the other hand, praises scholars, righteous people and those who do great things. Whereas America teaches us to do good because it feels good, Judaism teaches us to do good no matter what. Do good because you must do good, regardless of how you feel — clothe the naked, visit the sick, comfort the bereaved and bury the dead.

Judaism emphasizes life in community. We are important not just because of our relationship with God but because of how we conduct ourselves with others.

The Jewish value of re’ut (loosely translated as solidarity or neighborliness) alludes to caring not just for other Jews but for all those around us.

“Ve’ahavta l’re’echa kamocha,” Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:10), seems to imply that we should to care for all our neighbors — those who look like us and those who do not. Leviticus 19:16 clearly instructs: “Lo taamod al dam re’echa,” “do not stand idly by while your neighbor’s blood is being shed.”

As Jews, we are obligated to give tzedakah and to engage in acts of lovingkindness. We are commanded to welcome the stranger and to do our part to heal the world.

So what does that mean for us as American Jews? Do we choose the “get ahead” mentality or the vision of heaven in which we feed the person sitting beside us? Do we work to ensure that any person who visits an emergency room will be served or do we demand that illegal immigrants suffer the consequences of their illegal entry into this country?

I cannot answer these questions for anybody but me. I can, however, recognize the split identities that we American Jews negotiate. Our juxtaposed sets of values are particularly clear during the High Holidays.

During Sukkot, which begins Friday night, Oct. 2, we celebrate not just by sharing meals with family and friends but also by building temporary huts in which we are told to eat, learn and sleep.

Dwelling in the sukkah always touches me as a bit radical, a minor act of rebellion in suburban America, where we could instead choose to dine in insulated, temperature-controlled and bee-free houses.

But the constructs of our lives are fragile and stability is transient, Sukkot reminds us: We could lose our jobs, lose our homes and be left exposed to the storms and dangers of life.

What happens then? The answer lies in the values according to which we’ve shaped our world.