by Rabbi Joyce Newmark

May 08, 2008

This Shabbat is the 20th day of sefirat haomer, the counting of the omer, which is first described in the festival calendar found in parashat Emor: “You shall count from the eve of the second day of Pesach, when an omer of grain is to be brought as an offering, seven complete weeks. The day after the seventh week of your counting will make 50 days.” And so, beginning at the second seder, after darkness falls, we say the bracha and count the days and weeks of the omer, the period from Pesach to Shavuot.

In Temple times, the people brought the omer, a measure of grain of the first barley harvest, to the kohanim, and once they had shown their gratitude to God for their agricultural bounty through this ritual, they could begin to eat the produce of the new harvest. Of course, since the destruction of the Temple, we no longer bring the omer, but we retain the counting, as we retain so many references to the ritual practices of our ancestors.

But the significance of sefirat haomer has changed. In current Jewish practice, sefira is a time of sadness, a period of semi-mourning, and participation in joyous events is restricted. Weddings are not held, nor do Jews attend events involving music and dancing; some do not shave or have their hair cut in keeping with traditional mourning practice.

How did the period of sefira take on these characteristics? The Talmud in Yevamot teaches that it is because 12,000 of Rabbi Akiva’s students died from a plague one year between Pesach and Shavuot. And Rabbi Isaac Klein, z”l, suggested an even earlier reason why this period should have a somber quality: “The fruits of the field ripen during the time encompassed by sefira, and it is, therefore, a period of uncertainty — of hope and prayer that our physical sustenance will be continued in abundance.”

I’m struck by this idea of sefira as a time of uncertainty — and, therefore, hardly a time for celebration — because it fits nicely into my understanding of the connection between Pesach and Shavuot. We American Jews tend to reinterpret Jewish holidays to reflect American values. Our liturgy calls Pesach z’man heruteinu, the season of our freedom, and in America this translates to celebrating the end of slavery. It is possible to buy all sorts of contemporary Haggadot focusing on themes of liberation and civil rights and some communities hold special black-Jewish seders to commemorate a shared history of slavery and liberation.

In America, Pesach is about freedom because we take it for granted that freedom from slavery is an end in itself. But the Torah does not, in fact, condemn slavery as such; it regulates it. It seems that the Torah does not recognize freedom as an end for its own sake. Rather, freedom is important because of the greater purpose it serves.

Before God sends Moses to confront Pharaoh, God tells Moses that He will redeem the people from Egypt and then He says, “And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God. And you shall know that I, the Lord, am your God.” (Shemot 6:7) God then instructs Moses, go to Pharaoh and deliver My message — shlach et ami v’ya’avduni. Over and over again, before and after each plague, Moses went to Pharaoh and said, “Here is God’s message — let My people go so that they may serve Me.”

It becomes clear — God brings the people out of Egypt not simply to give them freedom, to end their slavery, but to bring them to Sinai to receive the Torah, to bind themselves to live by God’s laws. At the heart of Judaism is the binding together of freedom and responsibility, of Exodus and Revelation, and sefirat haomer connects these two events.

No wonder the mood is somber. The Torah tells us that our ancestors, newly released from slavery, were frightened and uncertain. When they faced difficulties they complained, they balked, and they even demanded to go back to Egypt. Would they even make it to Sinai? And once there, would they accept what God offered them? After all, a midrash tells us that God first offered the Torah to each of the other nations and each one rejected it. Would Israel find the strength to accept the awesome responsibility of being God’s treasured people?

Sefira reminds us that in every generation we face these questions again, both individually and collectively. Will we use our freedom for its intended purpose — to take up our responsibilities to God and our fellow human beings? In less than five weeks, on Shavuot, may we all be able to answer with a resounding Yes!

Rabbi Joyce Newmark, a resident of Teaneck, is a former religious leader of congregations in Leonia and Lancaster, Pa.

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