Dear Friends,
The period between Passover and Shavuot is known as Sefirat HaOmer—the Counting of the Omer. By ritually announcing each day for seven weeks, we mark our ancestors’ journey from the shores of the Reed Sea to their arrival at the foot of Mt Sinai. It was there, of course, fifty days after departing Egypt, that they received the Torah and entered into a covenant with God and one another. The thirty-third day of this process is a special day known as Lag B’Omer—literally the 33rd Day of the Omer. According to the rabbis of old, this was the day that a plague which claimed the lives of 24,000 of Rabbi Akiba’s disciples finally ended. Because of that plague, the first 33 days of this period are considered days of communal mourning. But on Lag B’Omer the “tone” of the period shifts from sadness to joy. The day also marks the anniversary of the death of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, to whom the authorship of the Zohar, the seminal work of Jewish mysticism, is attributed.
One of the main customs of Lag B’Omer is the lighting of bonfires. (Scholars teach that the custom may have started as a way to celebrate the “spiritual light” brought into the world by Shimon ben Yochai.)
I had never observed Lag B’Omer, so when, during my first year of rabbinic studies in Jerusalem, a classmate suggested we go to the ultra-orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim to see the bonfires they set, I was excited. We went to the neighborhood and spent an hour wandering the streets. While we were there we received countless odd looks from the neighborhood’s residents and saw a few small fires. It was an interesting experience, but certainly not the profound spiritual encounter I had hoped for.
The next day I passed by my companion from the previous night. He was speaking to a number of classmates about the experience and said, “I couldn’t believe the bonfires we saw burning. You had to watch where you walked to make sure you didn’t step on one. It was one of the most remarkable experiences I’ve ever had.”
I was perplexed.
We had both been in Mea Shearim the night before.
We had both seen exactly the same thing.
But we had entirely different experiences that night.
I was struck by the fact that two people could be in the same place and see the same thing, but have completely different memories of the experience. And while I was, admittedly, initially rather judgmental of what I heard—his bonfire recollections sounded much like the fisherman whose catch grows larger with each retelling of his story—I eventually came to understand that evening as a metaphor for the most powerful argument for Judaism being lived in community. We can read the same text. We can observe the same rituals. But each of us will see and experience something different. Only when we come together to share those varied experiences with one another do we create the opportunity for learning and growth.
I look forward to seeing all of you for our TSTI Annual Meeting next week and our Shavuot Evening Study a week later.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen
