For much of the twentieth century, Jack Benny was among the most beloved entertainers in America. Born Benjamin Kubelsky in 1894 to Polish Jewish immigrants in Chicago, he became a vaudeville violinist before finding his true calling in comedy. His radio program, which debuted in 1932, ran for decades and made him a household name; his television show continued his success into a new medium. Benny's genius lay in his persona—a character defined by vanity, perpetual claims to be thirty-nine years old, and, above all, legendary stinginess.
One famous routine captured this persona perfectly. A mugger confronts Benny with the classic ultimatum: "Your money or your life!" After a long, excruciating pause, the robber grows impatient: "Well?" Benny's reply: "Don't rush me—I'm thinking!"
It seems like a ridiculous response, the ultimate in misplaced priorities. Yet Jack Benny, a man who took the name of his ancestor Jacob, may have gotten this idea from him as well.
The Talmud (Chullin 91a) records that when Jacob crossed the Yabok River on that fateful night before his encounter with the angel of Esau, he returned alone to retrieve "pachim ketanim"—small, seemingly insignificant vessels he had left behind. It was during this solitary return that he encountered the mysterious stranger with whom he wrestled until dawn, a confrontation that left him wounded but transformed, emerging with a new name, Israel.
The Talmud draws a striking conclusion from this episode: "From here we learn that the possessions of the righteous are more beloved to them than their own bodies." The tzaddik, it seems, really does pause to think when confronted with the choice between money and life. How are we to understand this? Does the Torah truly endorse a miserly attachment to material goods? (see Iyun Yaakov; there are some sources that indicate some criticism of Jacob because of this; see Kli Yakar.)
The Talmud itself provides a bit more explanation: Why are the righteous so attached to their possessions? "Because they do not stretch out their hands in theft" (she'lo pashtu yedeihem be'gezel). The tzaddik's relationship to money is qualitatively different from that of the ordinary person precisely because every penny has been earned honestly. Each possession represents not merely economic value but moral achievement. The very care with which a tzaddikguards his resources reflects the care with which he accumulated them.
Further, suggests the Ben Yehoyada, Jacob was being deliberately extreme in his prioritization, in order to teach his children the importance of not stealing.
Other commentators take this in a different direction, explaining that the righteous view everything they have as a granted by God, and therefore recognize that every item in their possession has a purpose and should not go to waste. This connects to the broader prohibition of bal tashchit—the commandment against wanton destruction. The Sefer HaChinuch explains that this mitzvah teaches us to love and respect good things; the way of the righteous is to be happy with the world and not to destroy even a mustard seed. A tzaddik's attachment to his possessions reflects not greed but gratitude, and with that, a sense of purpose.
As R. Chaim Yaakov Goldvicht noted further, the tzaddik relates to everything given to him as an opportunity to develop potential. Money is not merely a medium of exchange or a measure of security. It is a divine grant, a set of resources entrusted to a person for the purpose of spiritual growth and service. Every dollar represents not just purchasing power but possibility—of charity, of hospitality, of supporting Torah, of acts of kindness that would otherwise be beyond reach.
R. Goldvicht extended this principle to encompass kavod—honor and reputation. Here too, he noted, there is a duality. Honor can be good or bad depending on its nature. When kavod reflects genuine human potential—the respect accorded to wisdom, achievement, or moral stature—it is something precious, because it represents the actualization of the divine image inherent in every person. But when kavodis merely external, a matter of titles and trappings disconnected from further accomplishment, it becomes hollow and corrupting.
How does one distinguish between the two? Consider whether you want others to have it. Authentic kavod, the kind that reflects genuine development, is something you naturally wish for others as well. You want your students to grow wise, your children to earn respect, your friends to be recognized for their contributions. However, if you find yourself jealously guarding your status, resentful when others receive recognition—this reveals that what you are protecting is not genuine honor but mere position. Such "honor" is a zero-sum game precisely because it has no real substance to multiply.
The same principle applies to every resource that life presents. The tzaddik views all of it—wealth, reputation, relationships, even challenges—as raw material for growth. Nothing is merely consumed; everything is invested.
While the Talmud clearly associates these vessels with mundane, inexpensive objects, there is a strand of thought that sees something special here. The Siftei Kohen al HaTorah of R. Mordechai HaKohen relates that after Jacob slept on twelve rocks that merged into one, upon waking, he found a jug of oil that miraculously remained full. He realized this was something worth protecting and extending himself for. This jug was later used to anoint the utensils and the individuals associated with the Tabernacle, as well as being involved in later miracles. Adds the Birkat Shmuel of R Shmuel Kaidanover: this was the jug found by the Maccabees that lasted for eight days. (See similarly in Megaleh Amukot to VaYishlach.)
This is not just wordplay, picking up on the usage of “pach”. The Jews’ earnest search for pure oil yielded one small jug, which they carefully cherished and protected, and found ways to get the most out of, an effort rewarded in kind by the famous miracle that Hanukkah commemorates. This is precisely the mentality of the righteous that the Talmud describes. The tzaddik cherishes what he has been given, recognizes its potential for holy purpose, and refuses to let it go to waste. And when a person treats divine gifts with such care—when he guards even the small vessels—Heaven responds in kind, expanding and multiplying what might otherwise have remained limited. The pachim ketanim that Jacob preserved became, generations later, the pach shemen that illuminates Jewish history. What seemed small became the vessel for a great light.
Indeed, the Maharshal, in his commentary to the Torah (quoted in Tzedah LaDerech), relates a tradition that God said to Jacob, "You risked your life for one small jug for Me. I will also repay your sons with a small jug, to the Hasmoneans who had a miracle performed for them through a small jug."
Jack Benny's pause was meant to display moral confusion. His ancestor and namesake Jacob's return for the pachim ketanim reveals moral clarity. The difference lies in not rejecting the material world, but in knowing what it is for.
R' Feldman
