A Yom Kippur Lesson on the Stoic Dichotomy of Control and How to Take the Reins for the New Year

We are currently in another year of the Jewish High Holiday period, which starts on Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) and ends after Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). It is within this ten-day period (עשרת ימי תשובה) that Jews traditionally lean into introspection, reconnection, and improving oneself. There are a sheer amount of services and prayers that take place during this holiday period. There is one liturgical poem (פיוט; piyut) that is read both on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur that I want to focus on today: Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תקף).

The premise of this liturgical poem is that G-d is Judge and He is judging our actions. He has a Book of Life and a Book of Death. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written in which Book we will be inscribed. On Yom Kippur, the Books are sealed. As we see in the poem, the Books act as a metaphor of who is going to live and going to die in the upcoming year. When I analyzed this piyut nine years ago, the framework presented in Unetaneh Tokef is figurative because, well, this is a poem. As we will see, this poem has great insight, even though there are not literal Books. 

This is a poem that helps us to come to terms with our own mortality. One of the ways it inadvertently does so is by using the dichotomy of control. The dichotomy of control, which is most commonly associated with Stoicism, is the idea some things are in your control and others are not. This is true when you divide a task, goal, event, or occurrence into small enough pieces. The dichotomy of control framework has us categorize things into either being in our control or not. We are then to focus on what is within our control. This concept exists in the well-known Serenity Prayer:

G-d grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

This dichotomy plays out in Unetaneh Tokef. The piyut list a series of ways that people die, including by water, by fire, by hunger, by earthquake, and by plague, e.g., COVID-19. It also says that it will be determined who will be at ease and who will suffer, who will become poor and who will become rich, and who will be cast down and who will be raised high. We have no control of whether death comes from us. It is not a matter of if we will die, but how, when, and where. As for becoming poor or rich, that one is trickier. We can have control over our performance at work, but we cannot control whether economic conditions shut down our place of employment or certain other dynamics in the workplace. There are many external events over which we do not have control. After this list of events over which we have little to no control, the poem creates a "but" statement to counter a feeling of fatalism:

ותשובה ותפלה וצדקה מעהירין את רע הגזרה

But repentance, prayer, and charity avert the evil [severity] of the decree. 

While there are a myriad of events and actions outside of our control, Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are things we can do to help mitigate the circumstances, whether they are our fault or not. The poem provides us with three solutions. As the Lubavitcher Rebbe aptly illustrates, the English translations do not capture the profundity of what these options actually entail:

• Repentance (תשובה). What is interesting about the Jewish concept of teshuvah is that it has the same root as the verb "to return" (לשוב). Rather than become a new person, one is "returning" to one's original self. In Judaism, that original nature is deemed good. I have theological qualms believing everyone is good deep down. I think being human means that there is potential to be good, but that is not the same as being fundamentally good. Perhaps that is what we are returning to: actualizing our potential to be good in the world. In any case, I still like the concept of teshuvah. Whether it is Greek tragedies, Calvinist predestination, Marxism, Freudian thought, or genetic determinism, there has been many schools of thought that believe that we are puppets of fate. What is great about teshuvah is that with effort, discipline, and will, we have the ability and freedom to change for the better. 
• Prayer (תפלה). There is a separate verb that means "to pray, request, beseech" (לבקש). The word comes from the reflexive verb "to judge oneself" (התפלל). While there is an element of interacting with the Divine, there is a major aspect of self-evaluation and self-judgment. This is not about a process of asking for what we need. This is about developing the self-awareness to become better people. 
• Charity (צדקה). The idea of charity comes from the Latin word caritas, which means "from the heart." The closest Hebrew gets to this idea is the word חסד. In Judaism, the word צדקה comes from the root of צדק: justice. We give not because we feel warm-hearted, but because it is the right thing to do. It reminds us that we have a responsibility to help out other human beings. It also reminds us that nothing ultimately belongs to us. While the concept of צדקה is traditionally about how one gives money, I believe that giving one's time or effort, or even extending a kind word, is also an extension of the concept of צדקה. Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler said that the extent to which we love is the extent to which we give. 

Through the actions of self-reflection, changing our behavior, and doing acts of kindness, Unetaneh Tokef teaches us that we turn abstract values into the fulfillment of what Jewish values are supposed to exemplify. By becoming better people through our thoughts, speech, and action, we can bring about a year of sweetness, joy, and abundance. 

Chanukah Gelt: The Significance of Giving Money on Chanukah

To quote Adam Sandler, "Chanukah is the Festival of Lights. Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights." In American culture, there is this pervasive myth that during Chanukah, Jewish children receive an awesome present each night. Giving Chanukah presents was not a practice until the late nineteenth century when Christmas became a federal holiday in the 1870s. The trend of exchanging Chanukah gifts did not really take off until the 1950s. The idea of Chanukah gift exchange is both modern and in response to Christmas so that Jews could better assimilate and not feel left out during the holiday season.

Before this Chanukah gift-giving extravaganza, there was a precursor: Chanukah gelt (חנוכה געלט). Chanukah gelt refers to money given to children on Chanukah. Looking at the history of the practice, giving money for Chanukah dates back to the sixteenth century. The practice itself came in a couple of variants. One was the Italian and Sephardic practice of money to purchase clothes for poor students studying Torah. In eastern Europe, it was either done to do outreach for Jews in more remote areas or to fundraise to keep yeshivas afloat. Another variant is that is a time to give tzedakah (charity). This is particularly the case when reading the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (139:1), where it states that one is to give lots of tzedakah during Chanukah because the days of Chanukah are auspicious to correcting the flaws of the soul. What is it about Chanukah that allows for tzedakah to have such power? At least when looking at the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, giving tzedakah is supposed to avert the Divine decree (assuming you read Unataneh Tokef literally, which I don't). So what is the connection between money and Chanukah? Perhaps looking at explanations behind the practice could help:

1. In Hebrew, the word Chanukah (חנכה) has the same three-letter root as "education" (חינוך). After the Greeks were defeated, the Jews had to reeducate their people, especially the children. Providing education takes funding. Giving money is to remind ourselves that children are an investment in the future of the Jewish people (Sifsei Chaim). This would explain why younger individuals were the typical recipients of the original variants of Chanukah gelt. 
2. One of the major motifs of Chanukah is the cultural clash between the Greek hedonism and Jewish spirituality. With this motif in mind, the Greeks treated wealth more as an ends than anything else. In Judaism, we treat it as a means. We remind ourselves that with so many other things, we have the power to do good or evil with money. We have the choice as to whether to elevate something as seemingly mundane as money to something holier. By giving money on Chanukah, we illustrate what sort of good we can do when we give [money].   
3. The Talmud (Shabbat 22a) discusses a case where a poor person does not have enough money to buy Chanukah candles and Kiddush wine for Shabbat. The candles took precedence over Shabbat, interestingly enough. To make sure this hypothetical did not turn into reality, one is to give enough money to make sure all Jews have enough money for both (Magen Avraham). This argument falls short with regards to connecting money to Chanukah. The reason for that is that giving money to make sure there is enough to celebrate holidays is not unique to Chanukah. Plus, the practice of giving money on Chanukah started centuries after this Talmudic debate. 
4. R. Josh Flug suggests that after the war, the winners would distribute the loot to the soldiers and the poor. Giving gelt can be seen both as a commemoration of winning the war and helping those affected by the war.
5. After the war between the Maccabees and the Greeks, the Hasmonean dynasty minted coins in 142 BCE with an image of a menorah. This minting was meant to represent a high point of Jewish freedom in the Second Temple era.

How do we tie these ideas together to get a clear picture behind the meaning of giving money on Chanukah? In the Chanukah story, we are taught that the ancient Greeks were obsessed with aesthetics. It was a "thinking culture that appreciated beauty." The issue was not with beauty so much as it was the extent to which it was admired. Having the physical valued at that extreme resulted in hedonism.

When applied to the idea of money, that sort of thinking typically results in splurging on material items. The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Likutei Sichot) believed that when the Greeks came into the land of Israel, it was not an issue of taking the possessions so much as it was infusing their values with the possessions so the possessions could be used for egotistical and ungodly purposes.

Money is a medium of exchanging for goods and services. It is a vital part of an economy. With Judaism, it is not about amassing ridiculous amounts of wealth for its own sake. At the same time, a Jewish live does not mean living a monastic or aesthetic life. Money is a means to an end, and as these explanations show, we are to transcend ourselves by using that G-d-given free will to disperse that money.

When we interact with something such as pervasive as money, we have to ask ourselves what our potential is. We can use Chanukah money to help Torah scholars, children, or the poor. We can use the practice of giving Chanukah gelt as a means of making us more generous or more grateful people. Chanukah teaches a lot about potential and what it means to be the best version of ourselves. A ragtag team of soldiers took their potential and fought against a well-trained army against all odds. While G-d gave us potential by being "created in His Image," potential goes to waste if it is not acted upon. To paraphrase R. Jonathan Sacks, we will be remembered for how we give, not on how we spend or take. We have to be willing to put our money where our mouth is if we are to actualize our potential. The Maccabees lived their lives not just in dedication, but also in giving.

A few questions to ponder as you give Chanukah gelt this year: Do we want to live according to our values?  Does being free simply mean doing whatever you feel like or does it mean taking that free will and transcending oneself? Do we want to make an impact on the world by what we give? Ultimately, can we put our money where our mouth is so we can not just "talk the talk" but also "walk the walk?"

Parsha Behar: What Is the Ultimate Form of Poverty Relief?

In the wonderful world of public policy, there is much contention around the topic of poverty. Generally speaking, liberals advocate for more welfare as a means to alleviate poverty, while conservatives advocate for job creation. There seems to be little that either side agrees on, although this report co-sponsored by the American Enterprise Institute and Brookings Institution is a nice start.   What is interesting about this week's Torah portion is that Jewish tradition weighs in on the issue:

וכי ימוך אחיך ומטה ידו עמך והחזקת בו גר ותושב וחי עמך.

If your brother becomes impoverished and his means falter in your proximity, you shall strengthen him, stranger or resident, so that he can live with you. -Leviticus 25:35

While this doesn't seemingly relate to public policy, let us take a look at Rambam's (Maimonides) eight levels of giving tzedakah ("charity") [Mishneh Torah, Mattanot Aniyim 10] in reverse order: 

8. When donations are given grudgingly

7. When one gives less than he should, but does happily

6. When one gives directly to the poor upon being asked

5. When one gives directly to the poor without being asked

4. When the recipient is aware of the donor's identity, but the donor doesn't know the identity

3. When the donor is aware of the recipient's identity, but the recipient doesn't know the identity

2. When neither donor nor recipient know the other's identity

1. Giving a substantial gift in a dignified manner, extending a large loan, or helping the poor person find employment so that his hand is fortified and he doesn't have to ask for money [alms] (Mattanot Aniyim 10:7)

For Rambam, Leviticus 25:35 is the prooftext for what constitutes the highest level of tzedakah, and it also teaches us that poverty is something we should prevent. If someone loses their job, it is our responsibility to make sure the situation doesn't go from bad to worse. That could help explain why, in the following verse of Leviticus 25:36, that we are not meant to give a loan with interest (Sforno).

Rambam gives us two options that can translate into public policy: a direct cash transfer to the poor (either in the form of a gift or loan) or finding the individual a job. Both of these options are on the top of the hierarchy from a Jewish standpoint. Nevertheless, one could still get into the debate of which is more effective. When stating the most important level of giving a donation, Rambam puts a conditional clause at the end: "so that his hand is fortified and he doesn't have to ask for money [alms]." Does this clause apply to all three forms of giving, or strictly the last one? While the text is not explicit on the matter, I would argue that the clause only applies to job creation. For one, lending a large sum of money puts considerable strain on a relationship. Plus, in the Birkat Hamazon, there is a blessing about mercy in which we ask that we never become dependent on a loan. The Rabbis in the Pirke Avot (2:2) were also astute to point out that Torah study without work leads to sin, and the Bible points out that we were meant to work for six days and rest on the seventh (Exodus 34:21). Essentially, work is the best way to keep someone from becoming idle and poor (Proverbs 10:4).

Some things here don't necessarily translate into modern-day times, such as dealing with retired people since retirement really wasn't a concept in pre-modern times. One could also argue that in-kind transfers (as opposed to direct cash transfers) such as food stamps didn't exist, therefore Rambam couldn't recommend them in his list. On the other hand, as he states in the Mishneh Torah, the whole purpose is to make sure that we don't have to ask for money more, that there isn't a dependency on loans. Another point is that the verse states twice that you should help "within your proximity" (עמך). We are meant to do what is within our sphere of influence, and also remember that we are to do what works. If the goal is to make sure people are not in poverty, we want to pull them out of that situation as long as possible. There is plenty of evidence showing that being on unemployment insurance lengthens the period that one is in financial duress. Food stamps also create a disincentive to work, thereby prolonging the time at which one is stuck in a state of seemingly perpetual government dependence. While some things do change, one thing is for certain here: the Rabbis were right back in the day in saying that having people work was a good idea, and focusing on job creation as a form of poverty relief is still a good policy idea now. 

Parsha Ki Tavo: Modern-Day, Spiritual Fruitfulness

This week's Torah portion, Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8) commences with the practice of tithing one's first fruits (Deuteronomy 26:1-15). Based on Rashi's commentary, we know that the tithing was limited to the Seven Species (26:2), as well as the fact that they were confined to the Temple in Jerusalem during the season of rejoicing, i.e., between Shavuot and Sukkot (26:11). The first fruits from a tree that is less than three years old were sacrificed to G-d (26:2), whereas the first fruits from trees from fruit three years or older were donated to "the Levite, stranger, orphan, and widow" (26:12).  What we are observing is a form of sacrifice that has not been practiced since the fall of the Second Temple. Much like with the other forms of sacrifice, that's nearly 2,000 years of what seems to be total irrelevance to Jewish practice. Do we gloss over or dismiss the passage regarding fruit tithing because there currently is no Temple and sacrifices have since then ceased, or should we analyze the text to pull out more eternal and essential messages given within the passage? This would be a pretty short blog entry if I went for the former, so let's go with the latter here, shall we?

The first thing we should ask ourselves is why this practice existed in the first place. Fruit has a special place in Judaism. Aside from the separate blessing for [many] fruits (borei pri ha'etz; and borei pri hagafen for grapes), fruits are commonplace throughout Jewish holidays (e.g., apples on Rosh Hashanah, etrog for Sukkot, the Tu BeShevat seder, charoset at the Passover seder), so I'd say that fruit has plenty of symbolism in Judaism. Furthermore, when Judaism began, Jewish society was predominantly agrarian in nature. Since many Jews were farmers, fruit was a representation of a Jew's livelihood.

When we acquire the fruit of our labors, whether that is in the form of a paycheck or in actual agricultural produce, it becomes so easy to say "I worked for it. Everything I have earned is mine. Why should I have to part with anything that I have done through drudgery and labor?" Yes, we should make sure that we have are needs provided for, because "If I'm not for myself, who will be (Pirke Avot 1:14)?" However, when life is based on greed, we create instability and volatility in our interpersonal relations and institutions. What we need here is a spiritual view of economics that is well-balanced. When we think solely about ourselves, we lull ourselves into being greedy. The problem is that we don't live in isolation from others. We have G-d, family, friends, community, and society to worry about. To go back to that wonderful Jewish saying (ibid), "if I'm only for myself, then what am I?" One of the friendly reminders that G-d gives us in this tithing practice is that everything is not ours. We are not put on Earth simply to accrue material wealth. We are meant to use that material wealth as a positive force in society, to bring about a sense of responsibility to others, not to mention righteousness in this world. That is why the first fruits [that come from trees that a three-plus years old] are to be given to those who are less fortunate (Deuteronomy 26:12-13), which also is a reminder that we are to treat individuals with dignity because they are "created in His Image." The fruits of one's labor has purpose that transcends ourselves.

Aside from teaching the importance of generosity, G-d is reminding us that what we need in life is a well-grounded sense of gratitude. The fruit tithing is a tithing of thanksgiving. The passage that is recited during the tithing (Deuteronomy 26:5-10), and one that also happens to be in the Passover Haggadah,  reminds us of the tough times and how events in life can and do get better. While the Jews were reduced to a state of destitution (Abraham ben Izra, commentary on Deuteronomy 26:7) while being slaves in Egypt, they could not even acquire their own possessions (Sforno, commentary on Deuteronomy 26:6). Once out of slavery, they were free and thus able to acquire the fruits of their own labor.

What is interesting is that other sacrifices were offered in silence, but in this case, the passage in Deuteronomy 26:5-10 had to be verbalized (ibid, 26:5). Gratitude is so important that it required the externality of verbalization of the gratitude. The Talmudic rabbis bring up that happiness is being satisfied with one's lot (Pirke Avot 4:1). With that, R. Mordechai Gifter, zt"l, went as far as saying that being joyful for having one's lot is a commandment (Deuteronomy 26:11). The Israelities in the Torah, even after being slaves in Egypt and wandering in the desert for forty years, were still meant to feel gratitude and joy. We are meant to reflect on what it is to have ups and downs in life, but nevertheless ultimately be joyful for what we have (ibid), which is to say that Judaism likes to end on a positive note.

Although we no longer have a sacrificial system, we are taught a great deal from fruit tithing about how to live our lives. Give what you can and be thankful for what you have. When we act generously and show gratitude, those actions bear fruit in our lives in ways we could not imagine possible.

Parsha Lech-Lecha: The Burden of Being Rich

The media frenzy that is directed towards the Occupy Wall Street movement has brought income inequality to the forefront of the American political discussion.  Those who are in poverty do not have it easy.  As a matter of fact, the Talmud (Baba Batra 116a) says that if you have fifty plagues on one side and poverty on the other, poverty is worse!  This hyperbolic statement shows us how just debilitating poverty can be.

How about the rich?  With the 99%/1% divide in this country, you would think that the rich have it so easy, that they don't have to deal with any issues.  If you think that it's clear sailing for the rich, you're wrong, and nothing shows that like this week's Torah portion.  As Abram was leaving Egypt, Torah said that Abram was very rich, in cattle, in silver, and in gold (Genesis 13:2).

וְאַבְרָם, כָּבֵד מְאֹד, בַּמִּקְנֶה, בַּכֶּסֶף וּבַזָּהָב.

What is interesting is that כָּבֵד does not simply mean "rich."  As Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz points out, כָּבֵד can also mean "heavy" or "burdensome."  Being rich beyond your wildest dreams means you can afford whatever you want.  How is it that being rich is burdensome?!


I have two possible answers for this question.


The first is that when one has a lot of money, it is all too tempting to succumb to avarice.  Money becomes the ends rather than the means, and maintaining a moral compass is all the more difficult, and as a result, the rich man's pursuit for acquiring more money for the sake of acquiring more money can result in ruining people's lives.


The second answer is that money is actually a great responsibility.  Everyone in life has their tests.  What is the test for the rich man?  Generosity.  There is the story that the Chofetz Chaim had a nightmare.  What was that nightmare?  Being rich.  Why was that a nightmare?  Because he realized that he would have to distribute a huge amount of tzedakah.  Doing so requires a lot of time and effort.  He wouldn't have had any time left to study Torah, which for him being a rabbi, was a nightmare. Testing one's generosity amidst a load of wealth is never an easy task.  It takes strong moral fiber to successfully pull it off.  Even though the obligation of most citizens will never reach the level of the rich, it should nevertheless make our awareness to the responsibility to help the poor all the more heightened.

Is There a Way Out of Giving Tzedakah?

From a Jewish standpoint, whether we can justify our avoidance of giving tzedakah seems to be strange at the least, if not down right immoral.  The Talmud (Baba Batra 9a) states that giving tzedakah is greater than all the other mitzvot.  Deuteronomy 15:7-11 tells us that it is our responsibility to give enough to the poor to the point at which poverty no longer exists [in the Land of Israel].  However, it is anything but easy to adhere to the well-established custom of giving ten percent of one's earnings.  People give all sorts of explanations as to why they avoid giving tzedakah. 

In R. Elliot Dorff's book Tikkun Olam (p. 108-110), he actually gives such explanations as to how people shirk on giving tzedakah.  Are the reasons people give justifiable or are they petty excuses to perpetuate their selfishness?  Upon examining the reasons giving in Dorff's book, we can better answer the question.  

1) "It's my money.  I've earned it.  Why should people who didn't work for it get any of my money?  I'll do what I want with it."  Having a job is a huge indicator of whether one is in poverty.  75% of America's poor are currently unemployed.  Since a large percentage of the poor in this country don't work, resentment from those who work is not uncommon, and on some level, is understandable.  Although Judaism comes with a healthy does of property rights and capitalist ethos, it also comes with a more distributive sense of justice than that of libertarianism.  In Jewish thought, we find a middle ground between aestheticism and obsession with physicality (i.e., hedonism).  Judaism takes the mundane and elevates it to the holy.  Money is no exception.  Rather than take the self-absorbed route of unadulterated greed, Judaism asks that a certain portion of one's assets are used to help out those in need.  Judaism calls the individual to transcend the self, hence the more communal call of justice.

2) "It's demeaning to accept tzedakah."  It depends on the situation.  Begging, especially if "done for a living," is innately humiliating.  It erodes self-worth and what it means to be "created in His image."  However, if the tzedakah given is used to help an individual get back on his feet during his temporary stint, then it's much more acceptable.

3) "I might reinforce physically harmful behavior."  If you give the poor cash, you very well could be perpetuating a drinking or drug problem.  This is more of a common occurrence than we would ever care for, but it's no excuse to not give.  If you find this potential to be disconcerting, you can always help out by either giving food or clothing.  

4) "Giving tzedakah will encourage the poor to stay poor."  This is one of my major gripes with tzedakah as a practice.  If the premise behind giving tzedakah is to alleviate poverty, then it does not adequately, as an institution, perform its function since it is not addressing root causes.  Giving money disincentivizes poor individuals to look for work and stand on their own two feet in order to escape poverty.  With the ever-prevailing mentality of self-entitlement in this country, it becomes all the more difficult to have this not be a worry.  Any tzedakah [program] should entail incentives to get poor people to find employment and stand on their own two feet.  The Talmud (Baba Batra 116a) states that if you had fifty plagues on one side and poverty on the other, poverty outweighs the other fifty plagues.  We should do our utmost to get people out of poverty, which is why the highest of Maimonides' Eight Levels of Tzedakah (MT, Laws of Charity, 10:7-14) is giving someone a loan in which they can be self-reliant.

5) "I might be duped into giving to a fraudulent case."  Rabbi Chayim Halberstam, better known as the Sanzer Rebbe, said that he'd rather give to a hundred fraudulent cases for every legitimate case rather than deprive that one legitimate poor person.  I find that attitude to be highly counter-productive to the purpose of tzedakah.  The primary purpose is to help the poor, which is why giving tzedakah even for an ulterior motive is still acceptable (Pesachim 8a-b).  If this is of concern, I would advise the following.  On an individual level (e.g., a single beggar), give non-cash options such as food or clothing.  On an institutional level, do your research prior to giving so you can avoid giving to an institution that does something like give an exorbitant amount on fundraising or salaries for the higher-ups (see here and here).  Skepticism about fraud makes one more cautious, but it's no reason not to give at all.  

6) "I might get mugged if I give to a beggar."  Especially if it's at night, a beggar can take advantage of your giving nature and decide to rob you, especially if they are on drugs.  To avoid this scenario, either give in a safer zone (e.g., with people around) or give tzedakah to foundations that help with the poor.  

7) "I don't know to whom I should give.  There are too many people in need."  Pirke Avot 2:16 says that you are not going to finish your task, but that does not mean you should desist from it.  We are individuals with limited spheres of influence and limited resources.  Just because you single handedly cannot fix poverty does not negate one's responsibility to give tzedakah.

Conclusion:  A large majority of these concerns are valid, and should treat them as such.  Although they give us reason to hesitate or limit the scope, it does not absolve us to give tzedakah.  The current way we approach tzedakah can use some re-vamping.  We first need to give tzedakah not just with the intention of doing good, but actually doing good, as opposed to giving to fraudsters.  While we need to worry about providing poor people with food in their bellies or a roof over their head so they can survive the next day, we more importantly need to focus on why poverty exists in the first place.  By creating programming that focuses on root causes (e.g., employment, education), we can head in a direction in which the amount of poor people decreases to the point of non-existence.

Judaism Is Capitalist But....

One can try to debate whether or not Judaism advocates capitalism or communism.  You can argue that Jews were disproportionately responsible for starting off Communist Russia, but you can also counter with the fact that such capitalist greats as Ludwig von Mises, Milton Friedman, and Ann Rynd were all Jewish.  Jews have been passionately active on both sides of the discussion, and that is how it goes for much of Jewish political history.  For the religion itself, Jewish business ethics presupposes open markets in which commerce is relatively free.  Take a look at the talmudic tractate Bava Batra.  The tractate deals primarily with property rights.  You also have to figure that the commandments of "you shall not steal" or "you shall not covet your neighbor's house" would be superfluous if the notion of property rights did not exist in Judaism.

However, Judaism does not believe in the stereotypical negative [and the overall inaccurate] portrayal of capitalism being inherently avaricious.  As stated in this Chabad article, Yossi Goldman says "I would describe it [Judaism's economic system] as 'capitalism with a conscience.' In promoting free enterprise, the Torah is clearly capitalistic. But it is a conditional capitalism, and certainly a compassionate capitalism."

A conditional, compassionate capitalism.  I can certainly buy that.  Secular culture views money differently than in Judaism.  In secular culture, it is considered the ends, whereas in Judaism, money is considered the means, the means to do good deeds and live a meaningful life.  Here are a few examples in Jewish practice that curtail the accruement of money and property as an absolute in life:

Shabbat.  "You shall work on six days, and rest on the seventh (Exodus 34:21)."  People throughout history have thought the Jews were crazy to take a day off of work.  After all, you are losing a seventh of your potential to make revenue.  This is particularly true when you are living in a predominantly Christian society in which most do not work on Saturday (i.e., they shop instead) and "take their 'Sabbath'" on Sunday.  To celebrate the Sabbath is to rest one's bodies and souls, not to mention taking one's mind off of commerce and workaholism for a day.

Shmita.  The Torah was given to a predominantly agrarian society.  This agrarian society had a seven-year agriculture cycle.  On the seventh year, they would give the land a rest (Exodus 23:10-11, Leviticus 25:1-7, 20-22) in order to not cause land erosion.

Tzedakah.  Tzedakah is a practice of giving money to help alleviate poverty.  With it comes the implication of societal responsibility.  As R. Joseph Telushkin points out in his second volume of Jewish Ethics (p. 206), there technically is no explicit command to tithe ten percent.  According to the Shulchan Aruch, the technical minimum is a third of a shekel (i.e., about $8).  Nevertheless, tradition teaches that a certain part of our income was never ours to begin with. Maimonides teaches that anyone who gives less than ten percent of their income is considered stingy, and giving twenty percent is praiseworthy.   

Tikkun Olam and Volunteerism.  Although tikkun olam really took off when it was an esoteric, Lurianic concept in Kabbalah, it has come to mean "repairing the world" in terms of Messianic hastening, or in more secular parlance, to "make the world a better place."  Judaism teaches that we can give money, but comparably as important, we also give our time.  That is why such mitzvahs as visiting the sick, burying the dead, and hospitality are important to emphasize because you are giving to someone else.  As the adage goes, time is money.  It is not about a rigid selfishness where you ask what's in it for you.  It's about the imperative to help others in need.  Communal responsibility, and arguably global responsibility, are Jewish in nature.

Capitalism is a great modus operandi.  It creates the ability to create wealth and a better standard of living for all.  What Judaism teaches is that it is not enough to make a lot of money and buy a lot of material goods.  Judaism teaches about purpose that can be found in the art of giving.  Judaism teaches that money isn't everything, even though it can help out others.  Judaism teaches us to use money to find higher purpose by using time and money to pursue holiness in one's life.

How Tzedakah Functions in Jewish Law

Every time I hear the word צדקה‎ translated as "charity," I want to shake my head, mainly because we have run into yet another instance where translation is inadequate.  In English, the word "charity" comes from the Latin word caritas, which means "from the bottom of the heart."  The etymology of the word "charity" is undoubtedly influenced by Christian thought.  For Christianity, you give because your love for Jesus is so overwhelming that your default is to give.  From a Christian perspective, the love you feel towards Jesus and the fellow human being to whom you give is the ultimate arbitrator in terms of how well you gave, whether you give a dollar or your entire savings.  However, Christianity views such things as large amounts of altruistic giving and vows of poverty in a positive light because money is an earthly attachment, which for Christians, is inherently a vice.

In Judaism, it is slightly different.  The primary purpose of giving money to the poor is not out of love, which is made clear by the word צדקה .צדקה comes from the root צדק, which means "justice."  We don't give because are hearts are inclined to do so.  We give because it's the right thing to do.  According to Deuteronomy 15:7-11, the ultimate purpose of giving is to help alleviate poverty.  That is why it is no accident that the highest level of giving, according to Maimonides' Eight Levels of Tzedakah, is to give a loan substantial enough where the recipient because self-reliant enough where he no longer has to depend on צדקה. 

Based on this, it would seem that צדקה functions as a means of poverty relief.  If that were solely the case, we would need to be able to explain why even someone dependent on צדקה has to give (Mishneh Torah, Mattenot Ani'im 7:5).  Having poor people give other poor people צדקה seems to be an inefficient way of dealing with the plight of poverty.  That is why צדקה functions in other ways.  As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks states, giving is an essential to human dignity.  If happiness is correlated with not what we take, but with what we give, the privelege of whatever wealth we have gives us the opportunity to do for others. 

This brings me to my second point.  In the Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 31:5), there is a dialogue based on Psalm 61:8.  David is talking to G-d and essentially demanding that He equalize the world [in terms of economic disparities].  G-d replied, "If I make all men economically equal, who will practice kindness and charity?"  Without poverty, people would be self-reliant.  There would be no need to practice compassion.  There would not even be a need to have intrapersonal relations if everyone's needs were provided for.  That is why many of the levels on Maimonides' hierarchy of giving have to do with the dignity of the recipient.  We are to develop giving souls, considerate souls, and bond with our fellow human being that needs our help.  צדקה is an act that simultaneously gives the giver and the recipient the dignity of being human.  

To conclude with a quote commonly attributed to Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the modern-day Mussar movement, "Spiritual life is superior to physical life, but do realize that the physical needs of another is an obligation of your spiritual life."