We count the Omer up and not down. Usually, we count down in anticipation of an event. The reason for the counting up is that we are preparing to become a people.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

We are now 41 days into the Omer. Every night we count upward — one day, two days, three days — until eventually we reach Shavuot and the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai.

But it raises an interesting question.

Normally, when people are anticipating something important, they count down, not up.

At Cape Canaveral there’s a countdown for a rocket launch. On New Year’s Eve we count down to midnight. If someone is finishing a prison sentence, he counts down the days until release. When I was in the army and getting close to getting out, I was counting down the days too.

So why during the Omer do we count upward?

One answer is that we are anticipating receiving the Torah. But there is something deeper going on. The counting is not merely marking time. It is a process of building.

The Jewish people had just come out of Egypt after centuries of slavery and subjugation. Freedom is not automatic. You cannot take a slave people one day and expect them to become a free nation the next.

In fact, the Torah itself tells us this.

When the Jews left Egypt, God did not take them directly into the Land of Israel through the land of the Philistines because, as the Torah says, they might see war, become frightened, and run back to Egypt. Physically leaving slavery is easier than mentally becoming free.

Freedom requires preparation.

That is what the counting of the Omer represents. Every day the people are building themselves up internally — spiritually, morally, and nationally — preparing to receive the Torah, which in many ways functions as our constitution.

You can even see this idea reflected in political history.

The The Conservative Sensibility and other writings by George Will discuss how constitutional liberty did not suddenly appear in America overnight. The ideas behind limited government developed gradually through English history — from the Magna Carta to the Glorious Revolution — establishing the principle that even kings are subject to law.

Only after generations of developing those ideas could the United States Constitutional Convention produce a constitution in which power was limited and authority balanced.

The Torah is teaching something similar.

To become a free people, authority must be limited, but the people must also be united around a mission and a moral purpose. That is why the Mishkan — the Tabernacle — stood in the center of the camp. It reminded the people why they had been taken out of Egypt and what freedom was supposed to mean.

Freedom is not merely the absence of slavery. Freedom is having a higher purpose.

And that is why we count up during the Omer.

Every single day we are building ourselves higher — building ourselves into a people capable of receiving the Torah and capable of remaining free.

Something to think about.

The reason that the Mishkan, or Tabernacle was in the center of the Israelite camp in the wilderness was to teach the Jews that the Torah is their constitution. That they are on a mission from God.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parsha, of course, continues with all the counting in the wilderness. Every time we turn around there’s another census. And the obvious question is: why all the counting? Doesn’t God already know how many people there are?

But the counting is not for God. It’s for us.

The Torah is teaching that every individual counts. Nobody is extra. Every person matters. Every tribe has its role, every family its mission, every individual their contribution.

But at the same time, the Torah is teaching something equally important: individuality alone is not enough. A nation cannot survive if it is only a collection of individuals with no common purpose.

And that is really the challenge facing the Jewish people in the wilderness.

Remember, these are former slaves. They lived for generations in Egypt under a system where human beings were expendable. If a slave died, nobody cared. You simply replaced him with another slave.

God takes these former slaves out of Egypt, but now they must become a nation. And you cannot simply take people out of slavery and instantly expect them to know how to build a free society. Freedom requires education. It requires responsibility. It requires a mission.

History shows this problem very clearly. In the early nineteenth century, there were movements to return freed slaves from America back to Africa, in places such as Liberia and Sierra Leone. But many of the societies they established ended up imitating the plantation systems they had known in America. People often reproduce the systems they grew up under.

The Torah is trying to prevent exactly that.

The Jewish people are not supposed to recreate Egypt in another form. They are supposed to build something entirely different: a society where every human being has value because every human being is created in the image of God.

That is why even an eved — often translated as a slave — still possesses rights in Jewish law. In fact, the Hebrew word eved can also mean servant. The Torah does not accept the Egyptian idea that human beings are disposable property.

And that brings us to the structure of the camp itself.

The Mishkan, the Tabernacle, stands in the center of the camp. Why?

Because the Torah is teaching that while every tribe is unique, and every individual matters, the nation must still revolve around a common center. The center is not power. It is not wealth. It is not a king. The center is God, the Torah, and the covenant.

That shared covenant is what turns a group of former slaves into a nation.

Interestingly enough, you can even see a similar idea reflected in the Hebrew name for the United States. In Hebrew, America is not literally called “the United States.” It is called Artzot HaBrit — “the Lands of the Covenant” or “the Lands of the Agreement.” It’s a conceptual translation emphasizing the constitutional bond that unites the states.

And remarkably, that Hebrew term already appears in the 1790s.

That is essentially what the Torah is doing in the wilderness. God is creating a constitutional people. The Torah functions as the constitution, the covenant that binds the tribes together into one nation.

Everybody counts. Every tribe matters. But the nation survives only when all those individuals unite around something higher than themselves.

Something to think about.

The Book of Numbers is called this because there are so much census taking of the Jews. The question is why? The answer is to show that there are no extra people. Everyone counts.

A reflection on Parashat Bemidbar, the beginning of the Book of Numbers captures one of the deepest themes of the opening census: the tension between the individual and the collective.

The English title “Numbers” emphasizes the counting, but the Hebrew title “Bamidbar” — “in the wilderness” — points to the human and spiritual journey. The counting is not because God lacks information. Rather, the Torah is teaching the people how to see one another.

A striking aspect of the census is that every person is counted within a framework:

• by tribe,
• by family,
• by role,
• by mission.

The priests, Levites, and tribes are each counted separately because each has a distinct responsibility. The Torah is teaching that equality does not mean sameness. Every person matters, but not everyone serves in the same way. A society functions when different people contribute different strengths toward a shared purpose.

An observation that “everybody counts, but everybody is also part of something greater” is really the heart of the parashah. Judaism rejects two extremes:

• the idea that the individual is meaningless before the collective,
• and the idea that the individual alone is all that matters.

The Mishkan at the center of the camp symbolizes that balance. Each tribe has its own banner and identity, yet all are organized around a common spiritual center.

The Holocaust Numbers on their own become abstract. Human beings cannot emotionally grasp “six million.” But one pair of shoes, one child’s toy, one family photograph — suddenly the enormity becomes real because the statistic becomes personal.

A reference to Joseph Stalin highlights this danger of abstraction. Once people become merely numbers, society can lose its moral compass. The Torah’s census works in the opposite direction: it counts people precisely in order to affirm their dignity.

That is why the image from Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum is so haunting. The shoes remind us that every number was a life:

• a person with hopes,
• a family,
• a story,
• a mission.

So paradoxically, the Torah uses numbers to teach us not to reduce people to numbers.

That is a profound lesson not only for the wilderness generation, but for every modern society — governments, corporations, armies, even social media cultures — where people can easily become statistics instead of human beings created with dignity and purpose.

The name of the portion of the week is Bemidbar, in the wilderness. The Jewish people were organized by tribes surrounding the Tabernacle. This was to show that, while each tribe had its own mission and unique qualities, they were united in their mission for God.

Quick Devar Torah — Parshat Bamidbar

Parshat Bamidbar begins the book known in English as Numbers, because there is so much counting. But the Hebrew name, Bamidbar — “in the wilderness” — may be even deeper.

In the wilderness, there is no natural order. It is open, empty, unsettled space. And what does the Torah do there? It organizes the Jewish people. Every tribe is counted. Every tribe has a leader. Every tribe has its flag, its place, and its mission.

The message is powerful: every person counts. There is no extra Jew, no unnecessary tribe, no meaningless role. But individuality is not chaos. Each tribe has its own identity, yet all are arranged around the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Their uniqueness is united by a common center: Torah, holiness, and purpose.

That idea echoes beautifully in American history. At George Washington’s inauguration in 1789, he took the oath on a Bible loaned by St. John’s Masonic Lodge, opened to Genesis 49–50, where Jacob blesses his sons. Sources differ on whether that passage was chosen deliberately or opened there in haste, but the symbolism is striking: Jacob recognizes that each tribe has its own character and destiny, yet all must remain part of one covenantal family.

So too with the early United States: thirteen states, each with its own identity, but united around a Constitution and a shared mission.

That is the lesson of Bamidbar. Freedom does not mean everyone going in a different direction. True freedom requires order, purpose, and unity. Each person has a flag, each tribe has a mission — but all must be gathered around something greater than themselves.

Something to think about.

Nations do not suddenly cease to exist. They get destroyed from within through corruption and violence. Long before the barbarians conquered Rome it was destroyed by these things.

This week’s Haftorah really underlines what we’ve been seeing in the parsha, especially the Tochacha — the rebuke in Book of Leviticus. The Torah warns us what happens if society abandons the values of justice, honesty, and responsibility.

And — spoiler alert — it does not end well.

The Haftorah from Book of Jeremiah points to the same thing. Jeremiah describes all the societal problems tearing the nation apart from within. One of the great lessons here is that countries are usually not destroyed from the outside first. They collapse internally long before the enemy arrives at the gates.

The classic example is the Fall of the Western Roman Empire. Rome was already decaying before the barbarians invaded. There were crushing taxes, corruption, violence, political instability, and loss of social trust. The outside invasion was really the final stage of a much deeper internal breakdown.

The same could be said of the Dissolution of the Soviet Union. People inside the Soviet Union already knew the system was corrupt and failing. There’s the famous joke about Leonid Brezhnev showing his mother all his luxuries — the palace, the cars, the dacha — and she asks nervously, “Leon, what happens if the Communists come back?”

Everybody understood the hypocrisy.

In fact, as early as 1969, Andrei Amalrik predicted the Soviet collapse. He explained that corruption, economic mismanagement, and internal decay would eventually destroy the system from within. The authorities hated what he wrote, but history proved him right.

And that is exactly what the Torah is saying in the Tochacha. The collapse never happens overnight. The Torah repeatedly says: “And if you do not listen…” — warning after warning after warning. Problems ignored become crises. Crises ignored become destruction.

There’s also the famous story about Maimonides. A community wrote to him complaining that everything was going wrong — the children were rebellious, the community was struggling, nothing was functioning properly. Maimonides answered with just one line: “Check the butcher.”

They investigated and discovered the butcher’s knife was not kosher. Maimonides understood something profound: when a society begins cutting corners morally and spiritually, the breakdown spreads everywhere else as well.

That’s the message of both the parsha and the Haftorah. A society survives not merely because it is strong militarily or wealthy economically, but because it is honest, just, and trustworthy. Once corruption, dishonesty, and mistrust take over, the destruction has already begun from within.

So it’s definitely something to think about.

The warnings in this week’s portion do not mention a lack of spirituality. It goes into the breakdown of society. And that breakdown is caused by fear & insecurity. That eventually leads to disaster.

The Torah captures something central about the tochacha in Parashat Bechukotai: the collapse described by the Torah is not random punishment descending from Heaven, but the gradual unraveling of society itself.

What’s especially insightful is the progression it points out.

The Torah does not begin with:

• “You failed to bring the offerings correctly,” or
• “You made a ritual mistake in the Temple.”

Instead, it begins with fear, mistrust, insecurity, and social breakdown:

• “You will flee though none pursues you.”
• People will fear one another.
• Economic life becomes unstable.
• Agriculture fails.
• Violence spreads.
• Political independence collapses.
• Finally comes exile.

The Torah is essentially describing what we would today call civilizational decline.

And as noted, after each stage comes:

“And if after this you do not listen to Me…”

Meaning: pay attention to the warning signs. A healthy society does not collapse overnight. It deteriorates step by step when people stop trusting one another and stop seeing themselves as responsible for the collective good.

That also ties beautifully into the prophets of the First Temple period. The prophets repeatedly warned that ritual alone could not save society. Isaiah says God is tired of offerings without justice. Amos condemns corruption and exploitation despite religious observance. The message is:
spirituality without a moral society is hollow.

At the same time, the Torah is not rejecting spirituality either. Rather, it insists on the partnership:

• spirituality must elevate society,
• and society must sustain spirituality.

Without ethics, religion becomes empty ritual.
Without higher values, society becomes pure self-interest and eventually collapses.

Friedrich Hayek understood something many economists ignore: markets depend on trust. Contracts, investment, credit, and commerce all assume a moral framework. If everyone believes everyone else is cheating, the economy freezes. The Torah understood this thousands of years earlier.

There is a story from Bnei Brak that illustrates that idea perfectly. Competition itself is not condemned. Judaism is not against ambition, success, or business rivalry. The key question is whether competition destroys the social fabric or strengthens it.

The older printer understood:

• parnassah ultimately comes from God,
• competition should improve society rather than poison it,
• and unity and mutual respect come before profit.

That is a profoundly Torah-based economic philosophy: vigorous competition combined with communal responsibility.

“The spirituality has to back up society, but society has to back up the spirituality.”

That may actually summarize the entire structure of Sefer Vayikra:

• holiness,
• ritual,
• ethics,
• economics,
• justice,
• and national survival
  are all interconnected.

The tochacha is therefore not merely a threat. It is a diagnosis of how societies decay when trust, morality, and responsibility disappear.

The Torah states that if you carry out the mitzvot then you will be blessed with a good economy. The meaning of this is that the wealth is spread by the businessman hiring people to increase his earnings and paying the employee a decent salary so that all benefit.

The Torah draws out a very important point about Parashat Behar-Bechukotai: the Torah’s blessings are not merely “rewards” in a simplistic sense, but the natural result of building a healthy and just society.

A few especially strong themes emerge from:

• In Book of Leviticus the Torah links morality, economics, and national stability together. The Sabbatical and Jubilee years prevent society from calcifying into permanent classes of rich and poor. The Torah is trying to preserve mobility, dignity, and social cohesion.
• Capitalism is important and nuanced. The Torah is not advocating forced equality; rather, it recognizes that investment, entrepreneurship, and productive labor create prosperity for everyone. A successful businessman hiring workers is not merely enriching himself — he is creating livelihoods, commerce, and stability for the broader society.
• An example from the post–American Civil War South illustrates how reliability, discipline, and willingness to work become forms of economic capital. Employers valued workers who could help businesses succeed, and once a worker proved valuable, market competition itself encouraged better wages and stability. That cycle strengthened entire communities.
• This also connects this beautifully to modern Israel. A strong economy is not separate from national defense; it is part of national defense. During wartime, military strength depends on factories, technology, commerce, reserves, and public confidence. The Torah’s promise of security is therefore deeply practical: a united and productive society can withstand enormous pressures.
• The same was true during World War II. The Allied victory depended not only on soldiers, but on industrial production, logistics, and economic resilience. The “arsenal of democracy” mattered because economic strength sustains military strength.

What makes this especially compelling is that it avoids viewing the blessings as magical. “Rains in their season” symbolizes a society functioning properly — economically, morally, socially, and spiritually. When people trust one another, invest in one another, and act ethically, society becomes stable and prosperous. When exploitation, division, and selfishness dominate, the opposite occurs.

So the Torah’s message is:
If you build a just society, the blessings follow naturally.

Something very worthwhile to think about.

Lag Baomer reminds us that our society cannot be static. We can raise or lower our status, economically, socially, or religiously. It is all up to us.

The connection between Lag BaOmer and Parshat Behar-Bechukotai is very meaningful. Both revolve around the idea of breaking out of stagnation—whether spiritual, social, or economic—and restoring dignity and possibility.

Core Parallels

• Lag BaOmer marks the end of the plague that killed Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students “because they did not treat one another with respect” (Yevamot 62b). The mourning period (no weddings, no music) ends on the 33rd day, and we celebrate with bonfires—spreading light—and renewed joy.
• Parshat Behar gives us the laws of Shemitah (the sabbatical year) and Yovel (the Jubilee). Every seven years the land rests and debts are released; every fifty years, land returns to its original owners, slaves go free, and society gets a structural “reset.” The Torah is explicitly worried about permanent stratification: “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is Mine…” (Vayikra 25:23).

The Torah is saying: A healthy society cannot be static. If people are locked into their station, resentment builds, dignity erodes, and eventually the system breaks—exactly as has been described with the French and Russian revolutions. Shemitah/Yovel is God’s built-in mechanism to prevent that.

Dignity and Respect

When the poor come to collect pe’ah (corner of the field) or gleanings, they get raw produce—not ready bread—so they can feel “I earned this.” That’s profound psychological wisdom. The same principle underlies Rabbi Akiva’s students’ sin: treating another Torah scholar as beneath you is a denial of their dignity. Both the economic laws and the Omer story scream: every human being carries the image of God; disrespecting that image collapses the society that allows it.

The Gilded Age / Elon Musk example is a modern illustration of the Jubilee spirit. America’s greatest strength has been relative social mobility—the sense that a person is not permanently defined by where they were born. When that mobility stalls, the “students stop respecting one another” dynamic you mentioned kicks in: ideological disputes turn tribal and ugly. Lag BaOmer comes to remind us to keep the disagreement at the level of ideas, not personal destruction.

Rabbi Akiva’s Guiding Light

And of course, Rabbi Akiva is the perfect bridge. The man who said “Love your fellow as yourself—that is the great principle of the Torah” (after his students died for violating it) becomes the teacher whose yahrtzeit we celebrate with bonfires on Lag BaOmer. The light we spread isn’t just Torah scholarship; it’s the light of ahavat Yisrael and basic human respect that must permeate society.

One small additional thought: the Zohar and later sources connect Lag BaOmer to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai revealing the “inner light” of Torah. That hidden light can only shine when the outer structure—respect, dignity, mobility—is healthy. Shemitah clears the ground so the deeper light can emerge.

So yes—Lag BaOmer and Parshat Behar speak with one voice: Fix the disrespect, prevent permanent stagnation, guard everyone’s dignity, and let the light spread.

May we see the light of mutual respect and renewed possibility in our own time.

It was no accident that the founding fathers chose a verse from this week’s portion to be laced on the Liberty Bell. It sent the message that in America we are not bound by our previous economic status. We can overcome our past.

A powerful connection that really captures the spirit of both the Torah portion (Behar) and the American founding ethos.

The verse on the Liberty Bell—”Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof”—comes directly from Leviticus 25:10, in the context of the Yovel (Jubilee year). Every 50 years (after 7 cycles of 7 years), the shofar sounds on Yom Kippur, and a dramatic societal reset happens:

• Land returns to its original tribal/family owners (preventing permanent accumulation or loss of ancestral inheritance).
• Hebrew indentured servants are freed.
• Debts are released.
• Economic and social imbalances are corrected so no one stays trapped in generational poverty or servitude forever.

It’s not modern “equality of outcome” (forcing identical results), but a restoration of equality of opportunity and dignity under the law. Everyone gets a fresh start to build again, rooted in the idea that the land ultimately belongs to God, not to any human dynasty. Status isn’t permanent—your ancestors’ success or failure doesn’t lock in your fate.

The Founding generation (many deeply familiar with the Bible) chose this verse deliberately when ordering the bell in 1751 for the Pennsylvania State House. It resonated with their vision of a society without hereditary lords and serfs, where individuals could rise through effort, virtue, and providence. “Liberty” here echoes the Torah’s deror—release, freedom to breathe and rebuild.

My personal family story illustrates this. Immigrant poverty to substance through opportunity—that’s the American (and deeply biblical) narrative repeated across countless groups. The Torah institutionalizes this as law, not just aspiration: society periodically levels the playing field so talent and work can flourish again, without feudal traps.

It’s a profound reminder that true freedom includes economic and social mobility, not just political independence. The bell became a symbol for abolitionists later too, extending that “proclaim liberty” call even further.

The Book of Leviticus ends with a reminder that all the work that we do in the Tabernacle is irrelevant if our society does not reflect our moral and ethical values.

The transition at the end of Vayikra (Leviticus) is one of the most powerful structural lessons in the entire Torah.

After chapters upon chapters of detailed korbanot, purity laws, priestly service, and the intricate workings of the Mishkan — all the “ritual” that can feel so technical — the book pivots hard into Shemitah, Yovel, prohibitions on interest (ribbit), caring for the poor, honest weights and measures, not hating your brother in your heart, loving the stranger, and the ultimate warning of tochacha (rebuke) if society fails.

The Torah is telling us: the Mikdash (Temple) without a holy society is pointless. The altar is not an end in itself. It’s a training ground.

Rituals shape character

Nowhere does the Torah say God needs the offerings. He “smells the pleasing aroma” (reiach nichoach), which the classical commentators understand as an expression of delight in our improved intent and discipline, not in the physical smoke. The whole system exists to refine us.

Maimonides (Rambam) in Guide for the Perplexed says the sacrificial order itself was a concession to take a people coming out of idolatry and gradually elevate them. The real goal is always ethical monotheism lived out in community.

Bottom-up society

This is why the Torah gives us almost no political theory in the modern sense. No detailed constitution for the king, no central economic plan. Instead, it gives us Shabbat, Shemitah, Yovel, family law, charity laws (tzedakah), judicial integrity, and interpersonal commandments. Build the people right, and the society follows. Fail at the personal and interpersonal level, and no amount of top-down legislation or charismatic leadership will save you.

John Adams wrote in that 1798 letter:

“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”

The Soviet Union for example, had beautiful paper documents. Worthless in practice because the human material was corrupted by the system (or the system selected for corrupt people).

The Torah agrees. That’s why the tochacha (Leviticus 26) is so terrifying — it’s not primarily about individual sinners, but about what happens to the land and the nation when the society as a whole abandons the covenant. Exile isn’t just punishment; it’s the natural consequence of a broken social-moral fabric.

Personal takeaway

This is why traditional Jewish life has always emphasized that the beis hamikdash (Temple) will be rebuilt when we’re ready for it — not when the politics align or the architecture is ready. The daily work of middot (character traits), bein adam l’chaveiro (between man and fellow), and creating pockets of chesed and integrity is what actually prepares the ground.

The ritual and the social are not separate categories. They’re two sides of the same project: making human beings who can live in closeness to God and to each other.