The American Dream seems to be making headlines again.  A lot of people seem to be afraid.  Fear, of course, is the watchword of our era.  But that’s for another time.  There are, of course, many and perhaps endless permutations of “The American Dream.”  But as I’ve heard it, it seems to be that anybody, anybody, with hard work, perseverance … and little luck, can grow up to be rich.  And now, we are told, the American Dream is in jeopardy.

It’s an interesting dream, and it presupposes that the greatest achievement in life, the great goal of life, is to become rich.  And not just “rich,” but stinking rich.  Filthy rich.  A kid from the ghetto or anywhere else who becomes a world class basketball or baseball or football star, or a rock star, or a movie star, or a Wall Street wizard and makes millions a year and is said to have fulfilled the American Dream.  It’s that dream that I’d like us to revisit this morning.

Of course it was Jesus who said it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to get into heaven. 

Confucius taught us, “The chase of gain is rich in hate.”  “If you cultivate wealth,” says Confucius, “you give up your humanity.  If you cultivate your humanity, you give up wealth.”

Buddhism teaches us, “Those who are unhappy in the world are unhappy because of their desire for personal happiness.  Those who are happy in the world are happy because of their desire for the happiness of others.”

The Qur’an puts it succinctly, “Those who save themselves from their own greed will surely do well.”

Sikhism is even more succinct.  And, if you’ll forgive an editorial comment, possibly the most powerful.  “When there is greed, the love is false.”

For Judaism I have a story to share.  It is called “The Successful Brother.”  One of the things I enjoy about it is that at the end it asks us to decide, what is success?  And I’d ask us to take up that question in our discussion after the service.  What is success?  What is, or what should be the American Dream?  What is it that we seek to preserve, to pass on to the next generation?  If you read my blog last year, you may have come across this story.  If so, I ask your indulgence … and forgiveness!  But it’s worth hearing aloud.  It is meant to be told.

Once upon a time, there was a village, and in this village lived two brothers.  The older brother, who was older by an entire ten minutes, for they were twins, thought of himself as much more clever than his younger brother, and always, always proclaimed that he would be by far the most successful.  “No you won’t,” the younger brother always answered.  “Yes, I will.”  “No, you won’t!”  “Yes, I will.” 

This continued for years.  And when the brothers reached the age of twenty, as they both now planned to leave their family home and seek work, they stood yet again in the village square arguing.  “Yes I will!”  “No you won’t!”  The people of the village had had enough, and they went to the Rabbi and said, “Rabbi, you must do something.  There is no peace here any more.  If you don’t do something, they will continue arguing for the rest of their lives. … and ours!”

The Rabbi thought about it a moment, and then said, “Send the brothers to me.”

It so happened that the Rabbi owned two parcels of land, exactly the same.  Fertile land – with room to grow vegetables and already thriving orchards of fruit trees, as well as groves of trees that had no particular value, except that they were inspiring to look at and lovely to walk through.  He made the brothers a deal: if they would stop arguing, he would loan each of them one parcel of land for forty years.  After forty years, they could keep whatever they had gained, but must then return the land to him. 

“But you won’t be here,” said the older brother.  For the Rabbi was already well past his fiftieth year.

“You are right,” said the Rabbi.  “But my grandchild who is but a week old will be.  On my grandchild’s fortieth birthday you will return and my grandchild will decide which of you is the most successful.”

Well, the Rabbi was very wise, and the grandchild was likely to be wise, and free use of a parcel of fertile land for forty years is not to be sneered at, and so the brothers agreed.  After a few years, both brothers were married, both had small homes and both were making a respectable living, sowing and reaping vegetables, and harvesting the plentiful fruit.

But then the market for fruit collapsed.  And at the same time, the market for wood shot into the sky like the moon at harvest time.  The younger brother struggled to get by.  But the older brother cut down all his fruit trees and the groves of trees that were lovely to look at and sold the wood for a huge profit.  With that profit he was able to build a fine large home, instead of the small home he and his family had been living in.  And instead of a rickety old cart pulled by one mule, he was able to buy a large carriage pulled by three mules!

But the older brother realized that having spent this money, he would need to replace his income from the fruit trees he had cut down.  He did so by planting vegetables everywhere.  His younger brother warned him that by leaving no land to fallow, he would make the land infertile, but the older brother scoffed.  “By then,” he said, “I will be so rich it won’t matter.”

In turn the older brother laughed at his younger brother, who would not even cut down the trees that were lovely to look at.  “Fool,” he said.  “You could still make a profit.”  But too many people from the village liked to stroll through the trees and watch the squirrels and other animals.  And the younger brother decided he just couldn’t cut them down.

In time, just as the younger brother predicted, the older brother’s land ceased to be able to grow a single vegetable.  The land was exhausted.  But the older brother was also right.  By then he had so much money he could buy his food.  And he did, at a low price, from his own brother.

Well, the forty years had passed.  Both brothers approached the Rabbi’s now forty year old grandchild to see who was the most successful.

The older brother was certain that he was.  He was rich.  He could move his beautiful house from the Rabbi’s land to land he had bought.  His family wanted for nothing and wore the finest clothes; could see the best doctors; the children had had the finest tutors.  What could be more successful than that?  Of course, the land he returned could not be given to someone else to farm for the fruit trees were gone, and the soil was depleted.  But that was not his problem.  As promised, he returned the land. 

The younger brother thought that he was the most successful.  His family had a place to live and food to eat.  They could not afford to buy a large parcel of land, but they had arranged to share some land with another family, so they had a place to move their modest house.  And they could give back to the Rabbi’s grandchild a healthy farm with an orchard, that could be lent to a new generation, and the village had a forest to walk in and enjoy.

The older brother scoffed.  “That’s nice,” he said.  “But I’m fifty times richer than you.”

And so dear friends, you are the advisors to the Rabbi’s grandchild.  Which brother was the most successful? 

Let us have our closing circle, something to eat, and then sit down and discuss it.