Shabbat Greetings
We find ourselves in a stretch of sacred time that feels both structured and searching. We are counting the Omer, day by day, step by step, moving from liberation toward revelation. And yet, this journey is not smooth or linear. It rarely is.
Today, Pesach Sheni (2nd Passover) arrives like a quiet but radical interruption. A group of people, excluded from bringing the korban Pesach (the paschal offering) at its proper time, come forward and ask a simple, aching question: “Lamah nigara?” Why should we be left out? Their spiritual instinct is not resignation, but longing. And in response, Torah makes space for them. A second chance is created.
Pesach Sheni reminds us that holiness is not only found in perfection or punctuality. It lives in the insistence that it is never too late. Doors we assumed were closed may still open. Paths we thought we missed may still be walked. In a world that often feels unforgiving, this is a deeply compassionate spiritual truth: our story is not over simply because we fell behind.
Our Torah portion this week, Emor (Leviticus 21:1-24:23), too, speaks in the language of sacred time and sacred responsibility. It outlines the rhythm of holy days, the integrity of those who serve, and the fragile, precious nature of community. It reminds us that holiness is not abstract; it is embodied in how we mark time, how we treat one another, and how we carry both privilege and vulnerability.
And now we approach the 33rd day of the Omer this upcoming Monday evening/Tuesday, a day traditionally associated with a pause in mourning, with resilience, even with hidden joy. After weeks of disciplined counting, Lag BaOmer arrives like a breath, a reminder that even within grief, there can be light.
However, we cannot ignore the world we are living in. These days, many of us feel a kind of collective disorientation. There is suffering that feels relentless, divisions that feel entrenched, and uncertainty that weighs heavily. The question “Lamah nigara?” echoes still, not only in ancient wilderness, but in modern hearts. Why are some left out? Why is healing so uneven? Why does brokenness persist?
Our tradition does not offer easy answers. But it offers something else: a framework for staying spiritually alive within the struggle. Pesach Sheni teaches us to refuse despair. Emor reminds us to sanctify time even when life feels fractured. Finally, the counting of the Omer teaches us that growth is incremental, sometimes imperceptible, but real. Most importantly, we learn that second chances are not only given, they are also created. The people who approached Moses did not wait passively. They spoke. They reached. They demanded inclusion. There is a quiet courage in that act, one we are called to embody.
So as we move through these days, perhaps our spiritual work is this: to hold space for brokenness without surrendering to it, to believe in renewal even when it feels distant, and to help open doors, for both ourselves and for others, where they seem to have closed because holiness is not only in arriving at Sinai. It is in continuing the journey, even when the path is uncertain.
SHABBAT SHALOM