Ecclesiastes 8:16 says, "When I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to see the matters that are performed on the earth, as both during the day and during the night, one does not see sleep in his eyes."
Kohelet Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on Ecclesiastes, dives deep into this verse. It asks, what does it really mean to not see "sleep" in your eyes? The Rabbis offer a fascinating interpretation: "Sleep [shena] is expounded to mean that he does not see change [shinui] in his eyes."
Think about that for a moment. Are we so fixated on our quest for wisdom, for understanding the world around us, that we become blind to the need for personal transformation? Do we miss the chance to evolve, to grow, to become better versions of ourselves?
The Rabbis don't stop there. They go on to say that "one does not see repentance, and does not perform it." In other words, we become so consumed that we don't even recognize the need to turn back, to make amends, to seek forgiveness. This idea of turning back is known as teshuvah, and it's a cornerstone of Jewish thought.
Then comes a truly intriguing statement: "There are two good matters that are close to you and distant from you, distant from you and close to you." What could these be? The text identifies them as repentance and death.
Repentance, teshuvah, is both near and far. Kohelet Rabbah explains that "if you believe that repentance is easily accessible, it will be distant from you." It’s like thinking, "Oh, I can always apologize later," and then never actually doing it. But, the text continues, "If you acknowledge how difficult it is, your repentance will be effective." Recognizing the weight of our actions, the effort it takes to truly change – that’s when teshuvah becomes real, becomes close.
Death is the other matter, also both near and far. We know, intellectually, that death is a part of life. It’s always there, looming in the distance. But how often do we truly live with that awareness? Kohelet Rabbah suggests that "awareness that death may be imminent will lead to repentance and postponing death." Not in a literal, magical way, of course. But in the sense that recognizing our mortality can spur us to live more authentically, to repair broken relationships, and to make the most of the time we have. It pushes us toward teshuvah.
So, what's the takeaway from all of this? Maybe it's a call to find balance. To pursue wisdom, yes, but not at the expense of our own spiritual growth. To remember that teshuvah is always possible, even when it feels daunting. And to live with the awareness of our own mortality, not in a morbid way, but as a reminder to cherish each moment and to strive to become the best versions of ourselves. Can we really afford to let life put us to sleep?