Rabbi's Message
New Meanings in Old Stories
Although Lag B’Omer, the 33rd Day of the Omer period between Passover and Shavuot has come and gone, its message is still relevant and meaningful given our present situation. Lag B’Omer is a mysterious holiday, to say the least... There is no mention of the celebration itself in the Torah; instead, it is related to a biblical event. The Torah states: “And from the day on which you bring the sheaf (Omer) of elevation offering the day after the Sabbath-you shall count off seven weeks."
The rabbis make clear what the Torah leaves obscure. We count the days from Passover to Shavuot. We connect these two ancient agricultural festivals when our ancestors moved from Passover's harvest of barley to Shavuot's harvest of wheat. We bind the freedom celebrated on Passover with the Torah given on Shavuot. Freedom must be bound to commitment.
Long ago, our people worried about the impending harvest and asked, "Would the wheat crop be bountiful?” This led to the Omer gaining semi-mourning status in which wedding celebrations, for example, are forbidden. These restrictions are lifted on Lag B’Omer.
The rabbis again elaborate. (Those guys could really tell some stories!) In the days of Rabbi Akiva, a plague decimated his followers, killing thousands of the famed rabbi's students. But then, on Lag B’Omer, the plague mysteriously ebbed. The sick recovered and regained their strength. People left their homes. They congregated once again in large groups. Thus, Lag B’Omer became a day of celebration on which various prohibitions and restrictions are lifted.
The rabbis continue spinning their tales. Lag B’Omer, they teach, is the yahrzeit of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, a contemporary of Akiva, who was spared the plague and even the destruction that the Romans meted out after the failed Bar Kokhba rebellion. According to tradition, Shimon bar Yohai, is the author of the Zohar, the central text of Jewish mysticism. To this very day, on Lag B’Omer, people still flock to his grave which is located in Meron in the northern part of Israel. They exclaim that he is a light that continues to illuminate our paths. They dance around giant bonfires. They cut children's hair for the first time because this too is forbidden during the Omer.
But Rabbi Shimon was a strange and mercurial figure. Because he defied the Romans, he was sentenced to death. He, and his son, managed to escape and hide in a cave. They remained there for twelve years sustained only by a carob tree and a well of water. While in hiding, they continued their study of Torah day and night.
When Shimon and his son Eleazar finally emerged from the cave, he became enraged that people were going about their business and not devoting themselves to the study of Torah. How could they be doing mundane things like plowing and sowing? And, according to the Talmud, every place that Rabbi Shimon and his son Rabbi Eleazar directed their eyes was immediately incinerated.
God then chastised them, “Did you emerge from the cave in order to destroy My world? Return to your cave." And so, they returned to the cave for another year. This time Rabbi Shimon emerged a changed man. And everywhere that Rabbi Eleazar would strike, Rabbi Shimon would heal."
What a bizarre story!" I exclaim every year when I reread it around this holiday of Lag B’Omer. And yet, this year, it has taken on new meaning. Our tradition's stories and texts appear different in the shadow of Covid-19. That is, of course, one of the wonders of tradition. If we hold on to its tales long enough, they speak to us in new, and different ways. Perhaps they lead us out of our current despair. And so, while I do not very much like carob, my home has become my cave. And your home has become your cave.
There we are banished to its comforts. I am trapped within its walls, and although more often than not feasting on home cooked meals, Shimon's fears, and even at times his scorn, of the outside world have become my own.
---Perhaps that person, standing next to me in the vegetable aisle, is a danger to me.
---Perhaps I could inadvertently, and unknowingly, infect someone.
The Talmud warns, “The retreat to the inner world offers a tempting allure. It can make us hate what lies outside our doors." I remind myself. I did not choose to retreat. I do so for the sake of others. This cave is likewise imposed, and I must too stay long enough to bring healing.
For now, I hold on to the stories. I hold on to the legends. I pour over their words. The ancient tradition offers new meaning and unexpected sustenance during this time of uncertainty and confusion. The light will one day re-emerge.
