The Ten Days of Teshuvah, the Nature of Time, and the Blessing of Peace

Just over 100 years ago – 102 1/2 years ago, in time measured by the calendar – two great Jewish thinkers debated the question of how time can be measured. The topic of their debate goes to the essence of what the Ten Days of Penitence can teach us.

On April 6, 1922, in Paris, Henri Bergson took on Albert Einstein on the question of time itself. Bergson’s position, which he first expressed in his doctoral thesis, and his book Time and Free Will: An Essay On The Immediate Data of Consciousness, was that time is fundamentally different than space. While time can be measured by the clock, that is not actual reality, but is rather an abstraction, and it deprives it of the quality of “duration”, which “properly so-called, cannot be measured”.

This is because measurement requires an externally observable standard. Duration is the memory of one thing changing into the next. A clock has no way of measuring that; only human experience can. A clock can tell you that it is 1:59 PM and then that it is 2:00 PM, but cannot experience the change from one to the other.

To Albert Einstein, whose presentation that day had prompted an unplanned response from Bergson, time could be measured, even if it would be perceived differently by human observers, as displayed by his Theory of Relativity; that latter fact is attributable to psychology and human perception.

To Bergson, by contrast, that differentiation was fundamental; the “Philosopher’s Time“ was the real time which infused actual meaning into that which the clock purported to measure. He compared this to listening to music, in which tunes and melodies blend together rather than exist as separate notes. This reflects how duration is felt in consciousness. To represent time as discrete quantitative measurements, he argued, lost the truth of human experience.
To Einstein, two events are simultaneous if they take place at the same point, as measured by the clock. However, to Bergson, “the simultaneity between the event and the clock’s reading is given by the perception that unites them in indivisible act”. (The subjective nature of “simultaneity” impacts Jewish law in areas such as the concept of “tokh kdei dibbur”; see Shiurei Halakhah of R. Yosef Yehudah Leib Bloch, p. 115).
Einstein was generally perceived as the victor in the exchange, although later evaluations have displayed the truth of both perspectives (an extensive analysis of the debate can be found in The Blind Spot, by Adam Frank, Marcelo Gleiser and Evan Thompson). That is quite fitting, as the crux of the issue is the potential for human understanding to redefine that which seems to be otherwise objectively defined.
This, in turn, goes to the essence of the concept of Teshuvah, which we are told to seek especially during the ten days between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur (Rosh HaShanah 18a, interpreting Isaiah 55:6). The concept of redemptive repentance is a glorious gift, but the notion of any particularly conducive slice of time requires explanation.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Blachman, in his lectures, building on the writings of R. Moshe Cordevero and R. Moshe Chaim Lutzato, has noted the connection of this idea to the marking at this season of the moment of the creation of the world, and, with it, humanity. The period between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur is not merely a birthday; it is a time when human beings take note of the purpose of creation, and make a conscious decision to realign their values with that goal, and choose to perceive time as functioning in the service of that end. When they do so, all of their other choices, even those that have come before, can be harnessed towards that goal, and labeled as such.

The Torah a number of times repeats the complex prohibition of “ribbit”, collecting interest on loans. Theories abound as to why, indeed, the Torah prohibits this, when the practice is widely accepted, if done under reasonable conditions and rates. Even by Torah law, it is considered acceptable, for example, for one to rent out a car or a house and to charge for the usage of those properties; why can one not do the same with his money, an equally valuable asset?

One approach can be found in Rabbi Shalom Yosef Gelber’s Netivot Shalom to the laws of Ribbit. Unlike a standard rental, where the owner may legitimately charge for the use of his property, in the case of money, there is no inherent increased value beyond the principal. The added value that will emerge from the money only develops through the effort and the ingenuity that the borrower will bring to it. Without this, the money will not grow itself. Accordingly, any fee that the lender is intending to impose is actually coming out of the assets that rightfully are the domain of the borrower.
This attitude echoes one that was found in early philosophers, such as Aristotle. In the language of one fourteenth century theologian who adapted his position, “money that lies fallow does not naturally produce any fruit, but the vine bears fruit naturally “. What, then, does the lender provide the borrower? Time in which to apply his efforts.

It is time that makes all the difference, a theme emphasized in Edward Chancellor’s book The Price of Time: The Real Story of Interest. And yet, the idea that time is the lender’s to provide may be the offensive message. That same theologian, he notes, asserted that time belongs to God, and the usurious lender is “a thief of time” as he “cannot make a profit from selling someone else’s property”. Indeed, the Talmud, citing R. Nachman, defines prohibited interest as “a price for waiting” (Bava Metzia 63b).
Rabbi Gelber would add that he is taking the borrower’s property as well: his ability to impose his own definition upon time, to characterize it through his initiative and sense of purpose.

As the rabbi says in the classic joke, both of the old Jews were right. Albert Einstein was correct that time has its own undeniable path, marching forward whether we notice it or not, slipping away even if we fail to pay attention. And yet Henri Bergson was right too: it is our perception of the melody that time plays, when one moment leads to another, and when we listen to it, that makes it worth measuring in the first place.
On Rosh Hashanah we draw from the merit of the Akedah of Isaac, which we read about on the second day. The nature of that ordeal is subject to much interpretation, but the Torah explicitly describes it as a “nisayon” (Gen. 22:1), a term which itself requires explanation. To render it simply as a “test”, as if God does not know what his creations are capable of, is clearly inadequate.

Rabbi Chaim Yaakov Goldvicht, in his lectures, would discuss the purpose of a nisayon as a method of allowing one’s inherent potential to become actual. One may be born with all kinds of tendencies and abilities, but they only become his actual possession when he rises to the moment of challenge and decides deliberately to utilize them. Through the experience of nisayon, man becomes the actual owner of what was heretofore only potential.

The Rabbis emphasize a theme, in connection with Rosh Hashanah of Tichleh Shana v’Kililoteha, Tachel shana v’Birkhoteha: may the previous year with all of its curses be consigned to the past, and may the new year of blessings begin (Megillah 32b). However, it is important to appreciate that this is not merely good wishes. It is, as expressed in the Talmud, a type of mandate – a theme that dictates how various rituals are arranged. In other words, the transition from calamity to blessing is not merely a hope of the Jewish people, but a responsibility.

Rabbi Shaul Alter suggested that the word tichleh can be connected to the word kli, meaning a vessel. If indeed the previous year is to transform in its effect, it is because we have become different containers. We have not simply endured experiences passively and survived, but we have chosen how to react to them and how to internalize their lessons, emerging greater and more prepared in the aftermath.

That same concept of kli is invoked by the closing mishnah in the Talmud (Uktzin 3:12) in addressing where berakhah comes from. We are told there is no vessel that can contain blessing like shalom. This is, it would seem, a bilateral point. If we indeed wish to become capable of absorbing and increasing blessing, we must, in the words of the Psalmist (34:15), “Pursue Peace.”
At the same time, the definition of peace – a word that is so often appropriated casually and drained of significance – can look be defined from this context as well. If it indeed enables blessings to flourish, it can be seen as a genuine shalom. If it is merely an illusory “peace in our time” stripped of any lasting character or association with benefit or righteousness, then that is not shalom at all.

Creating a year of blessing is an imperative. It is not simply an instruction to allow the calendar to change and hope or even to pray for the best. It is to enter the new unit of time as different people elevated by the challenges of the previous year, so that anguish can become anticipation, adversity can become adaptation, and ultimately experience is elevation.

When the sun sets at the close of Yom Kippur, the calendar will resume counting days, just as it always has. What those days will mean, however – and what they can add up to – will not necessarily be the same as it did before. That is up to those who live them.