Simultaneous Joy and Pain: The Wisdom of the Counting of the Omer

(Originally published on Huffingtonpost.com, based on a sermon I delivered on April 29, 2013)

This year at our Passover Seder, I experienced something deeply powerful -- something I had not felt in the context of Passover before. Like many, we spend much of our Seder going around the table, each reading a section from the Haggadah out loud. Generally, because our Seder is populated partially by adults and partially by very young, mostly illiterate children, we move from adult to adult, skipping over the smaller folks at our table. But this year, when my husband finished reading his part, my Kindergarten age son said he'd like a turn to read.

And all of a sudden, space and time expanded for me, while I assume it continued at a normal pace for everyone else. It felt like a worm hole opened, and in what must have actually been only a second between my son saying he wanted to read and his starting to pronounce the Haggadah's words, his entire life so far from his birth until that moment flashed through my mind. And in that 5 1/2 years contracted down into 1/60th of a minute, I felt the most profound, overwhelming joy, and at the very same time, an all-consuming sadness. Joy at the fact that my son could actually do what he was doing: he could read, was somehow growing up, increasingly less toddler like and more and more fully real. Sadness that my son could actually do what he was doing: he could read, was somehow growing up, increasingly less toddler like and more and more fully real.

This is the time of year when we Jews find ourselves in the middle of the annual observance known as Sefirat haOmer, the Counting of the Omer. As such, beginning on the second day of Passover, each day (technically evening since Jewish days start at night) we say a blessing and literally count which day and week it is in the seven-week cycle, leading us up to Shavuot, which falls on the 50th day. What began as an ancient agricultural-spiritual holiday to mark the weeks between barley and wheat harvests has evolved significantly over time.

Thanks to the rabbis of the Talmud, we understand the Counting of the Omer primarily as the communal spiritual re-enactment of our ancestor's process of journeying from the Egypt for 49 days to the Torah being given to them at Mt. Sinai.

Thanks to the Kabbalists, we also understand the Omer time as an individual opportunity to refine and perfect areas of our own lives as we leave our own individual Mitzrayim -- whatever narrow and constricted parts of ourselves hold us back, and then travel to a place where we too can be open and receptive to whatever Revelation awaits us.

In either case, most important is the idea that we count up, not down, to express our ancestors and our own increasing excitement as they and we step closer and closer toward Revelation.

But the period of the Omer, as you might know, is also overshadowed with the tone and rituals of mourning, thus the associated prohibitions against haircuts, shaving or getting married, except on Lag B'Omer , the 33rd day of the Omer. The question is: Why? Why the sadness and mourning, if the time should have been completely celebratory? Think about it: Our ancestors were finally free -- no Egypt, no taskmasters. They could live life on their terms and would soon culminate their seven-week trip with the most momentous, holy experience of meeting the Divine and receiving of the Torah. Not much to be sad about, right? There are a few explanations for the mournful tone of the Omer period, mainly having to do with a plague that was said to have ravaged a Jewish community at the time of the Mishnah's composition. But I wonder if there isn't something more at play?

When we think about our own journeys out of whatever enslaves us, into moments of liberation and redemption and then ultimately to moments of real awakening and revelation, what are they really like? Are they filled only with excitement and joy? Or are they more complicated than that?

As a person whose job privileges her to share many important moments in people's lives, I have seen this complexity -- simultaneous overflowing joy and sadness -- particularly, but not exclusively at life-cycle events, made manifest in tears. Tears that society and Hallmark card commercials suggest are wholly joyous, but which I know also contain an honest sorrow. Both feelings evoked by the same experience, at once deep happiness for the arrival at a new marker, and also grief that the arrival at said marker comes with the knowledge that all the previous markers won't be sought out and reached again. It's in these moments that we live in both worlds, but out of which we all have to make a choice: which sensibility we will choose to let color our experience? When we arrive at these crossroads, one the path of joy and optimism and one the path of sadness and regret, how do we choose which route to take?

The Omer tradition, linking Passover to Shavuot, gives us the answer. This set of seven weeks, each made up of seven days, enables us to live in the real, complicated world of emotional complexity, fully, experiencing both joy and sadness -- incarnate in each day of the counting. But when the last day of the Omer concludes, the mourning ends. There is a reason that the moment of Revelation happens the first day of the eighth week, the 50th day -- the day after the last day of the counting. Because to experience Revelation, we can't be in mourning. We have to release it, and take that deep breath that acknowledges that we have a choice to make: Will we view life as some sort of diminishing, increasingly limiting count down to the end -- a road that ultimately leads us back to Mitzrayim, to the death of the spirit -- or will we see life as opening to an unending fount of opportunity, hope and joy -- a road that is the promise of a Revelation at a mountain point in an open, awaiting, uncharted land?

The wisdom of the Counting of the Omer is that it enables us to live in both worlds for a bit. The moments in between, those moments where only a second in real time passes, but a lifetime flashes through our mind's eye, those moments between Mitzrayim and the Mountain, that's when the real awakening happens. But you can't stand at Sinai unless you are awake -- heart, mind, body and spirit not somewhere back where you've been before, back in Mitzrayim, but open to the only place and moment there really is: the Present.

Back to our Seder: So I'm in this out-of-place-and-time experience, fully immersed in my seemingly conflicting feelings. And then, I hear my son carefully sound out: "God -- took -- us -- out -- of -- E...E...E...g...." And just like that, I am back. Back from this journey into the realm of my own reflections and emotions, because my son needs my help. "Egypt" I say. "Egypt with -- a -- strong -- hand..." he continues. And my eyes well. And there is no longer any sadness. But neither is there joy. I am simply and only and entirely filled with the most deep and overwhelming sense of gratitude and wonder instead.

Are We There Yet? On Sea Crossing, Mountain Climbing, Departures, Arrivals, and the Space In Between

 Each year at the Passover Seder, we read these words:

“This year we are here, next year, in the land of Israel. 

 This year we are slaves, next year, free people.”[i] 

We navigate the entire Seder through this dichotomy, as if dancing back and forth between the imprisoning constriction of Mitzrayim and the boundless openness that true freedom seemingly provides.  We engage in story-telling, observe and consume edible symbols, and physically mimic different postures evoking these same themes of slavery and freedom,  disgrace and glory, degradation and praise, departure and arrival.  And ultimately, we culminate the Passover Seder with the same hopeful words every year:

           “L’shanah haba’ah b’Yirushalyim – Next year in Jerusalem!” 

Which can lead one to wonder: will we ever actually get there? To that state of shalom/peace and shaleim/wholeness that Jerusalem represents? Will we ever actually arrive at the freedom, liberation, openness, and fulfillment that is the yearning and promise of every previous Seder’s beginning and end?   What’s the point of telling the same story with the same unfinished ending over and over again if we never really get anywhere?

Because ultimately, there is only one story to tell, and it is the Truth of our lives.  How often do we find ourselves in our relationships, our work, our education, our bodies, thinking “I’ll be satisfied when:”  
*my partner understands or does what I need him/her to
*I get that next promotion or title
*I attain my degree
*I lose that last 5 pounds...
 - only to arrive at that milestone to discover another "I'll be satisfied when" destination marker somewhere yet to be attained in the future? 

An interesting insight comes from what is generally perceived as our ancestors’ culminating moment of true freedom from the grips of Egypt: the Crossing of the Sea.  In a section detailing the various occasions upon which a person should utter a blessing of gratitude, the Talmudic sages point out, “One who sees the abrot/crossings of the Sea [of Reeds]…must give thanks and praise to God.”[ii]  But what does it mean to see the abrot/ crossings of the Sea?  When exactly should one utter gratitude at such an occasion: once safely across when the miracle is complete and finish line crossed or somewhere along the way when the fullness of the miracle is not yet realized?  Nineteenth century scholar Rabbi Naftali Zvi Berlin notes Exodus 14:29, “The Israelites went on dry land into the midst of the sea.”  Picking up on the past-tense phrase “the Israelites went,” Berlin asserts what most tend to think: that it would only make sense to offer praise once completely across the parted sea, safely on the other side. We cannot, after all, offer gratitude for something that is yet to be done, can we?  But Twentieth Century commentator RabbiBaruch HaLevi Epstein, Berlin’s nephew, disagrees.  Noting Rashi’s definition of abrot/ crossings as “the place through which they traversed the sea,”[iii] Epstein asserts that our ancestors offered thanksgiving while walking the entire length of the crossing.  As Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg so masterfully surmises in her book The Particulars of Rapture: “…the Talmud is urging praise and thanksgiving while one is in the midst of the narrative.  Before the tension is resolved, before one has emerged from the undetermined, ominous passage - that is the time for gratitude and song.”[iv]

I don't know from crossing the sea, but I do know that charting the course of our lives can often feel as if we are climbing a mountain, taking each step higher and higher in the hopes of one day reaching the very top.  Which is a noble goal, but that’s just not how mountain climbing works.  When climbing a large mountain, we work to ascend what seems like the tallest peak, only to arrive at that top to gaze on to the vision of a yet taller and grander peak in the distance.  And once we arrive at the tallest point, we don’t get to stay up there forever; the journey back down awaits.  Mountain ranges don’t provide one steady, evenly paced ascent or descent.  They are full of small and large elevations and depths that go on and on, from the smallest foothills to the most majestic highlands, and back down the range again. Think about where a mountain range ends?  It’s not at the height of the tallest peak.  It’s once the larger slopes merge into foothills that merge into flat ground again, back on the road, back on the journey, until arriving at the place where foothills emerge from flatland again. 

Why do we repeat the same story over and over again? Why do we never actually "get there?” Because every place we stand is “there,” if we only allow ourselves to be there.  Every place, every moment has the potential for constriction and release, for fear and hope, for degradation and praise, for brokenness and wholeness.  Our lives are not black and white; our souls are complicated amalgams of all these qualities, sometimes leaning one way, sometimes another; we live somewhere in the middle.  This is the Seder's ultimate lesson: we don’t have to wait until the height of achievement or the perfect moment to express gratitude, to change our own lives or make an impact in the world.  Every place, every moment is the perfect and best time from which to be grateful and catalyze repair.  Indeed, this year we are slaves, next year, free people.  

---

[i] From Ha Lachma Anya – This is the Bread of Affliction

[ii] Brachot 54a

[iii] See Rashi’s comment on the meaning of “abrot” in Brachot 54a

[iv] P. 216, see too Sforno and Nachmanides on Ex 15:1 and 15:19

Counting Up?

Earlier this week, I reviewed the concept of Sephirat haOmer/ the Counting of the Omer with our adult Bar/Bat Mitzvah class.  When I explained that we Jews mark the 49 day period of time between the 2^nd day of Pesach up to Shavuot  by literally counting each day, some of the students began to panic.  Truth be told, we studied the Counting of the Omer in the class last year, and there was no problem then.  So what was so problematic now?  Well, the class has been learning together for almost 2 years, much of their work in anticipation of being called to Torah on this Shavuot.  When I announced “Today is the 21^st day of the Counting of the Omer…” many misunderstood me to mean that there were 21 days remaining until Shavuot, assuming that they had miscounted, leaving 8 fewer days for them to practice, review etc.   But this wasn't a misunderstanding based on an error in calculation of time.  There were in fact still 29 days left until Shavuot. This was a misunderstanding about how we approach markers in time, because there is a major orienting difference between the way popular culture marks time verses how Jews do!

Generally speaking, at least in most circles of modern American society, the concept of counting down is the way we do things.  Think about the drum roll as David Letterman finally announces “…and number one on the top ten things that…”; or the anticipation in the “5,4,3,2,1” before midnight on the secular New Year; or even crossing off each day on a calendar in anticipation of experiencing a big event, thinking to yourself, ‘only _x_ many days until…."  In mainstream culture, we heighten anticipation and excitement through counting down.

Judaism teaches us something entirely different.  Jews always count up.  Not just on the counting of the Omer where we announce each day: “Today is the __x_ day, that is the __x_ day of the __x_ week of the Omer.”  We count up when it comes to marking Holy Days too: the 1^st day of Sukkot, the 2^nd day of Sukkot – not the 7^th to last day of Sukkot, the 6^th to last day of Sukkot, etc.   

And although I can’t be sure of the exact point in Jewish history that this understanding emerged, I imagine much of it comes from a  famous Talmudic machloket (disagreement) between the Houses of Hillel and Shammai, not on the way we count the Omer, but rather on the way we handle the Chanukah lights. (See Talmud Bavli Shabbat 21b).   Shammai’s school appreciated the idea of a countdown, and as such, believed that on the first day of Chanukah, we should light all 8 candles, and each subsequent day, take 1 away; Hillel’s camp took a different approach, saying we should light only 1 candle on the first night, and then continue adding 1 each night until all the candles on the menorah were lit on the final night.   Later rabbinic teachers offered reasons for their positions, asserting first that Shammai’s suggestion corresponded to the days of the holiday that remained, whereas Hillel’s corresponded to the days that had past. They offered a second reason: Shammai’s corresponded to the parallel sacrificial ritual of the Biblical Sukkot, whereas Hillel’s followed the legalistic notion that we “ma'alin ba'kodesh, v’ain moridin -  we increase in matters of holiness, not decrease.”  And because Jews today start with 1 candle and increase to 8, we deduce that the judgment went with Hillel.

So in matters of holiness, we count up, we build up, we lift up.  The drum rolls and anticipation of modern countdowns are one thing, but cultivating a sense of increased importance, an accumulating momentum that carries within it the experiences that have  come before it, proves entirely different, more challenging, and also more rewarding in the end.  To view life through the lens of the countdown insinuates an under-valueing of what has led up to any given experience.  It places emphasis entirely around the destination, with little if any value placed on the steps and stops along the path.  To see life through the lens of the "count up" enables us to celebrate our arrival at the finish line, but at the same time, to honor the significance of the journey we've travelled to get there. 

And so, for our Adult Bar/Bat Mitzvah students, I hope they know that the hours and hours of study they have undertaken are what will make Shavuot, when it arrives, most meaningful. And although they may sigh of relief once their aliyah is over, I hope they will also look back with great pride on the entire experience in all its fullness.  For the Jewish people, I pray our annual spiritual journey from the freedom of Passover to the receiving of Torah on Shavuot is enhanced and deepened by each opportunity we have to add another day to our Omer counting, as we build to 49.  And for all of us, regardless of faith, I dream we  might each honor and raise up every experience we have, both positive and negative, as a means of becoming the best of who we are meant to be so we can serve our world in a way that not only makes it better, but makes it whole.   

You Are What You Eat!

You Are What You Eat

I'm writing this on the 6th day of Passover, thus I find myself thinking a lot about food! The conscious choice to eliminate all things leaven for 1 week (7 or 8 days depending on your tradition) and to make sure to eat matzah each and every day is something that stays with me, both in my mind and my tummy! It's not without purpose. Eliminating leaven and eating matzah is supposed to remind us, in a most primal sort of way (you can't do much without food) that eliminating the "puff" and getting back to the most basic of things, can help us not only center our own lives, but make a difference in the lives of others too. But this being day 6, after 144 chametz-free hours, the visioning of all things leaven kicks in. Food is on my mind, but am I being mindful about it? Only another 48 hours will tell.

The first time I actually ever thought mindfully, I mean really mindfully, about food was when my first child was born.  Up until then, I never truly understood or behaved in a way supporting the notion that the food I put into my body was more than something to immediately satisfy my palate and its various cravings.  That the food I consumed could determine not only of my own, but my children’s health on all levels (physical, emotional, even spiritual) completely escaped me up until that point.  A light went off (as I imagine it does for so many) when, while nursing my son, I realized that if I chose to eat something made primarily of "ingredients" that ended in "ide", "ate",  "ose", or frankly of anything more than 2 syllables, my son would be "nourished" by that same "stuff."  And regardless, something that requires that many "quotation marks" probably isn't ok.  So, I began to seek out whole, organic produce and protein sources for my family.  Through that experience, I realized something else: that the food we consume actually impacts the health and balance, not only of our own bodies, but of our local community, and even the larger world as well.  When we make choices to consume locally produced foods, in-season, we assure that our local food economy is sustainable.  When that happens in each community, sustainability becomes possible all around.  People are healthier, and happier as it turns out. 

The downside: organic produce and protein are expensive.  It is not something that everyone can do.  But it doesn't have to be all or nothing either.  Even making small choices makes a difference.  Puchasing locally produced, in-season produce intentionally, once a week, is a great start.  Planting your own garden is another.  Another great idea is to support a CSA. 

Starting this Summer, my synagogue will be the delivery sight for a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) through Angelic Organics.  By purchasing “shares” of vegetables and/or fruits, local family organic farms harvest and then deliver organic fruits and veggies to be picked up. 

Supporting a CSA is a great idea because it helps provide local farmers a secure market and in turn, you receive tons of organic fruits and/or veggies in season and as fresh as they can be – literally from farm to you!  It is an easy and great way to support those who literally live off the land as well as get in tune with how, when and what the land actually provides. 

If you go to NSCI or live near it, join my family in this.  A half veggie share (meaning a box delivered to NSCI every other week from mid-June through October) costs only $340, which you can divide in two payments of $170 each.  Full veggie and fruit shares are also available, as are extended season shares.  To get started, just go to: http://web.me.com/angelicorganics/Angelic_Organics___Chicago_CSA/Angelic_Organics___Buy_Our_Vegetables.html

They'll even give you $20 off if you use coupon code NS20. 

If you don't live near NSCI, you can search local CSAs in your town on the internet or check out your local farmer's market.

You know, Passover also marks an ancient agricultural time for planting. It precedes the major harvest that occurs 7 weeks and 1 day later on Shavuot. Tomorrow or Saturday night, Passover will end. But the work of the land will just be beginning. Our ancestors travelled to Jerusalem on Passover and Shavuot to pray and give thanks for a bountiful harvest that would sustain them and the entire community for the coming season. Perhaps their ancient ways can inform our choices and actions today.

To Sing is to be Redeemed

The primary antidote against isolation is the voice. The seemingly simple offering of conscious, intentional sound outside of oneself into the world is, even when expressing pain, a sign of great hope, as the act itself insists on someone or something to receive that sound.   Judaism establishes the power of the voice from the very beginning, as Torah describes the spoken word as the vehicle by which God creates the entire universe. When God desires to create a space other than God's Own Self, God does so by intoning words: "God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."(Genesis 1:2)  It is notable too that the first time our ancestors collectively connect to God in Torah (albeit seemingly unintentionally), they do so through their voices:  "…and the Israelites groaned from the bondage and cried out, and their plea from the bondage went up to God." (Ex. 2:23) And by the time our ancestors stand free and redeemed on the opposite side of the Reed Sea's shore, they vocalize their expression to God, this time intentionally and directly, through song! “Then Moses did sing, and all the Israelites with him, this song to Adonai….” (Exodus 15:1)

Indeed, the evolution of our ancestor’s pain and suffer-filled groans to their faith-filled, freedom’s song reflects not only their journey from slavery to freedom and redemption, but also their evolving relationship with the Divine.

At its best, the Seder holds this same potential for us.  In fact, the Mishnah envisioned the Seder's entire thematic arc to encompass just such an evolution: that we should begin with degradation and end with praise. (Pesachim 10:4) And as Jews, there is no better way to express praise but through song. 

So much of the Passover Seder is written in poetic verse or has evolved over time to be voiced in song.  Of course, we are familiar with the traditional melody of the Four Questions, the repetitive rhythm of the recitation of the Ten Plagues, the singing of Dayeinu, and the rousing “song-fest” that encompasses the conclusion of the Seder itself*, just to name a few places where the actual telling of the story occurs in song. 

The other major song of the Seder is, of course, Hallel. Hallel, made up primarily of Psalms, flanks the Seder meal, creating central foundations of “Songs of Praise” anchoring the entire Seder experience.  Its recitation or singing is introduced by the following passage:  

Therefore we owe it to God: to thank, to sing, to praise and honor,

to glorify and bless, to raise up and acclaim

the One who has done all these wonders for our ancestors and for us.

God took us from slavery to freedom,

from sorrow to joy,

from mourning to festivity,

from thick darkness to great light,

from enslavement to redemption!

Let us sing before God, a new song:

Hallelujah!

(introduction to Hallel "lfichach..." as translated by Noam Zion).

When we read this, we place ourselves in our ancestors’ shoes, and we rejoice for the redemption they experienced.  But when we include ourselves in the subject of the text, as it reads, ‘God took us…”, we come to see that not only are we celebrating the redemption our ancestors experienced, but we might also be singing out praise for every redemptive experience we’ve had and even the Redemption yet to come.    If the text were only referring to the Exodus redemption, a more appropriate conclusion to the passage above would be to use Exodus 15:1, “then Moses sang…”  Instead, we are called to sing before God; and our song is not to be one that has been sung before, but a new one! 

So our ancestors sang.  Not just those at the Reed Sea, but every generation that has come before us. So must we.  To sing is to enliven the spirit of Redemption that our ancestors experienced.   To sing is to connect to the generations between then and now in a way that insists that we have come from deep and nourished roots.  To sing is to tap into the most profound yearnings of our soul and offer those melodies into the harmony that abounds from the voices of countless others.  To sing is to know what true freedom really means.  To sing is to hope.  To sing is to affirm that we are not alone. To sing is to be redeemed.

Indeed, this year and every year, let us sing a new song before God.  Hallelujah!

*some do this before Nirzah and some after depending up family practice.



B’chol Dor va’Dor – In Each Generation

“…the Hagaddah has been translated more widely, and reprinted more often, than any other Jewish book … the Haggadah is our book of living memory. We are not merely telling a story here. We are being called to a radical act of empathy. Here we are, embarking on an ancient, perennial attempt to give human life – our lives – dignity.” – Jonathan Safran-Foer

Renowned author Jonathan Safran-Foer wrote these powerful words in the introduction to his magnificent New American Haggadah.[i] His message reflects a most powerful teaching of Passover: that through our telling and retelling of our story, we can bring light into a world of darkness, widening expanses on otherwise narrow pathways. The notion that our Passover Seder calls us to “a radical act of empathy” is a modern expression of the 2000 year old Mishna ideal: B’chol dor v’dor chayav adam lirot et atzmo kilu hu yatza mimitrazyim - In every generation, one is obligated to see oneself as if he or she personally came forth from Egypt.

When we retell the Exodus story, we remember the long-ago journey from the constricted isolation and despair of slavery to the wilderness redemption of Divine connection as free people. But there is more. On Passover, we strive to see ourselves as if we actually experienced that transformation. We don’t just retell – we retroject ourselves back into the story, or better, we bring the story to us in our world as if it were happening in real time. So it is not just about going back in time, but actually about bringing the past into the present, and then calling upon us to make the story our own. So when we talk about slavery, it isn’t something we “learn” about, but something we experience. When we talk about freedom, it isn’t something relegated to the rational intellect, but it extends within and throughout the realms of emotion and spirit. When we thank God for redemption, we aren’t thanking God for redeeming our ancestors; we are thanking God for redeeming us.

But more than blending past with present, ultimately, the Seder’s purpose inspires and beckons to us to act for a better future. When we retell the story, we aren’t just acting it out as if it were happening in real time. The truth is: It IS happening in real time. The redemption isn’t over. We don’t just imagine ourselves as slaves on Passover. As Leonard Fein[ii] wrote in his response to the traditional recitation of Avadim Hayinu:

“What can these words mean? We are slaves because today there are still people in chains around the world and no one can truly be free while others are in chains. Where there is poverty and hunger and homelessness, there is no freedom. Where there is prejudice and bigotry and discrimination, there is no freedom; where there is violence, torture and war, there is no freedom. And where each of us is less than he or she might be, we are not free, not yet.”
Passover is only days away, and undoubtedly as you read this, preparations are already being made for this year’s Seders set to begin on Friday evening, April 6th. As you prepare, take out your family’s Hagaddah. Look it over. Find the parts that speak to you and make sure to note those sections in your Seder. Add to your Hagaddah. If you find a poem, quote, news article, or story that resonates with the themes of Passover, include it in your Seder. And last, pick one area where freedom is absent and contribute to it, in some way, three times in the coming months before the Jewish New Year in September. Why? Jewish tradition asserts that by the time someone does something three times, it means they really mean it. To rise up from our tables at the Seder’s conclusion poised with a mission of bringing redemption is to uphold the best of Passover’s mission.

In the words of Safran-Foer again:
The Seder is a protest against despair. The universe might appear deaf to our fears and hopes, but we are not – so we gather, and share them, and pass them down. We have been waiting for this moment for thousands of years – more than one hundred generations of Jews have been here as we are – and we will continue to wait for it. And we will not wait idly.

[i] The Hagaddah is translated by the acclaimed Nathan Englander, with commentaries by Nathaniel Deutsch, Jeffrey Goldberg, Rebecca Newberger Goldstein, and Lemony Snicket, and illustrated beautifully by Oded Ezer.
[ii] Founder of Mazon, written in 1985.