Has a nation ever swapped its gods? And they’re not
even gods. Yet My people have traded their glory for what is useless.
—Jeremiah 2:11
Maxwell “Max” Goldstein was a well-to-do merchant, the
kind who had built his fortune the old-fashioned way: through hard work, sharp
instincts, and an uncanny ability to spot a profitable deal from ten miles
away.
Then his sister came along.
“Max, be a dear and take my son into the business,” she
said. “Show him the ropes.”
Max agreed, against his better judgment. The boy was
family, after all. He had no experience, no talent, no apparent interest in
commerce, but Max would do his duty.
His first mistake.
Eager to set the young man on his way, Max handed him
$10,000 and a simple task: “Buy something useful. Something we can sell at a
profit.”
The nephew returned a week later beaming with pride.
Behind him, laborers unloaded crate after crate. Max leaned in for a closer
look. Toothpicks. Not a few. Not a dozen crates. Hundreds.
Max’s mouth opened, then closed. He blinked. Then, finding
his voice, he said, “Tell me, my dear nephew, are we in the fine dining
business?”
“No, Uncle.”
“Do we supply restaurants? Catering halls? Toothpick
collectors?”
“No, Uncle.”
Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “So why, in the name
of all that is sensible, did you take $10,000 and spend every last cent on
thousands of boxes of toothpicks?”
The nephew brightened. “Because they were a bargain!”
Max sat down. He poured himself a drink. He took a long,
long sip.
Then he did the only thing he could: shoved the boxes into
storage and relegated his nephew to office errands.
Months passed. Max worked hard, his business thrived, and
he slowly repressed the memory of the Great Toothpick Debacle. Then his sister
called.
“Max, darling, give my son another chance. Everyone makes
mistakes!”
Mistakes. Yes. What was one more?
Max sighed and, against his better judgment (again),
handed his nephew another $10,000. He also gave him one simple instruction: “Do
not, under any circumstances, buy more toothpicks.”
The boy left. Max waited.
A week later, his nephew returned, brimming with
confidence, and behind him? Crates. Piles of them. Not toothpicks this time.
No, no. This time, the young man had found something much more valuable.
Shofars.
Hundreds upon hundreds of ram’s horns.
Max stared at the warehouse filling with shofars. He
stared at his nephew. He stared at the ceiling as though looking for answers.
“You bought…shofars?”
“Yes, Uncle!” the boy said enthusiastically. “It’s almost
Rosh Hashanah! A very important item!”
Max rubbed his temples. “Even if you sold one to every
shul in the country, they need exactly one.” He gestured at the crates.
“We now have enough to last until the great shofar of the Messianic Era!”
Once again, the nephew was demoted to office chores. Max,
meanwhile, was left with a warehouse packed with religious items and enough
toothpicks to supply the world’s dental industry for a decade.
So, he did what any man in his position would do. He found
two experienced traders and offered them a deal: Get rid of this inventory, and
there’s a fat commission in it for you.
Weeks passed. Then both traders returned, triumphant.
“Max, great news!” said the first. “I found a buyer for
the toothpicks. And you’ll never believe it, he’s got a warehouse full of
shofars to trade!”
“Max, great news!” said the second. “I found a buyer for
the shofars. And you’ll never believe it, he’s got a warehouse full of
toothpicks to trade!”
Max took a deep breath. He counted to ten. He counted to
twenty. Then he had another drink.
Later that evening, his nephew approached him, looking
smug.
“You see, Uncle? You were so upset with me, but even your
expert traders didn’t do any better than I did. They also ended up with shofars
and toothpicks!”
Max lost his temper. “Fool! They had lousy merchandise to
start with. It’s no wonder they didn’t do any better. You, on the other hand, I
gave you cash. You could have bought anything. But what did you choose?
Toothpicks and ram’s horns!”
Jeremiah’s Rebuke
This was Jeremiah’s complaint, and he didn’t sugarcoat
it.
“Has a nation ever swapped its gods? And they’re not even
gods!” Look around, he said. Did you ever see a nation ditch its idols for a
different brand of idols? Not likely. And if they did, so what? One lump of
carved wood is as useless as the next. A pile of pebbles, a statue with eyes
that don’t blink, still a statue.
“Yet My people,” he thundered, “have traded their glory
for what is useless.” Not even a lateral move. This was a downgrade. A
nosedive. They were chosen to serve the living God, and instead, they went
shopping for knockoff divinities, bargain-bin deities made of stone and wishful
thinking.
Like the clueless nephew who spent a fortune on crates of
unwanted shofars and toothpicks, the people squandered their inheritance on
worthless trinkets.
