The 49-day period between Passover and Shavuot is known as the Omer. There is a biblical commandment to count each of these days, tracing the journey from the Exodus (which happens at Passover) to the revelation at Sinai (which is associated with Shavuot). This seven-week period is also associated with the grain harvest. The Torah says the Omer begins when the sickle is first put to the standing grain, and ends with Shavuot, the first-fruits festival.
The Omer is also traditionally treated as a period of semi-mourning in which many Jews refrain from getting married, cutting their hair or listening to music. The reason for this is the legend that 24,000 students of Rabbi Akiva died of plague during this period, but I have always wondered about this. There have been many plagues throughout Jewish history. Why should this one warrant a seven-week mourning period for all time? Might there be another reason the grain harvest, which really should be a joyful time, became a season of self-denial?
The Midrash offers us a hint. According to Genesis Rabbah 22:4, Abel, the second son of Eve and Adam, lived only seven weeks. Which seven weeks were these? For those who hold that the world was created in the fall, Abel lived from Sukkot to Hanukkah. For those who hold that the world is created in the spring, Abel lived from Passover to Shavuot, the precise seven weeks of the Omer.
Both of these periods relate to harvest. As we’ve said, Passover to Shavuot is the time of the grain harvest. But Sukkot is a harvest festival too, and Hanukkah was originally thought of as a second Sukkot. So there is some connection between Abel and harvest. If we go with the opinion that Abel lived during the spring, we can imagine his life as being of similar duration to the lifespan of grain. At the end of this period, Abel’s brother Cain (a farmer) kills him — the first murder in history.
Help us keep Jewish knowledge accessible to millions of people around the world.
Your donation to My Jewish Learning fuels endless journeys of Jewish discovery. With your help, My Jewish Learning can continue to provide nonstop opportunities for learning, connection and growth.
Many cultures have a figure who represents the life, death and rebirth of the vegetal life that sustains human beings. These characters often have to descend into the underworld, rise up out of the earth and return to human life. These sorts of stories make me wonder whether Abel could be seen as a mythic character of this kind, born at a season of harvest and then harvested just like the grain, reminding us of the abundance and loss of vegetal life cycles. Maybe it is not only Abel, but the harvest itself that we mourn during the Omer, for we must take life in order to eat. Semi-mourning during the Omer shows respect for the grain that is cut down.
I can imagine that mourning during the Omer also might be a way of holding our breath as the harvest comes in. Rejoicing too much might tempt the evil eye. Perhaps our ancestors felt it was better to be sober and restrained during the grain harvest than raucous. Sarah Chandler, an earth-based Jewish ritualist, has imagined Passover as a time when we refrain from leaven as a way of encouraging the harvest not to get wet and rot, which would have been devastating in ancient times. Perhaps we might apply this principle to the entire Omer period and see the abstention practices as a way of not counting our chickens before they’re hatched (or our grain before it’s piled). Rejoicing on Shavuot, when the first fruits have already been gathered, is a better option according to the tradition.
Consider also the story of Ruth, which we read publicly on Shavuot. A young Moabite widow who accompanies her mother-in-law back to Bethlehem, Ruth decides to go and glean in a field, picking up stray stalks of grain as the poor are allowed to do. The landowner, Boaz, is kind to her and asks her to stay in his field, reassuring her that he has ordered his workers not to molest her. This story shows how harvest was a time of vulnerability for those who could fall prey to drunken advances or other types of abuse. Encouraging care and sobriety during this time may have been a way of dampening harvest celebrations that could have consequences for the most vulnerable.
The traditional practice of counting the Omer and observing the quasi-mourning practices of this time largely skirts all this. This is true also of the kabbalistic way of counting the Omer, in which each day is attached to a particular combination of sefirot, or divine qualities, that humans can emulate. The kabbalistic practice is beautiful, allowing us to see this period as a time of personal healing and reflection. (I even created a calendar based on this practice that attaches a biblical woman to each of the 49 days and its unique combination of sefirot.) And yet, I value the raw power of the Omer as a way to honor the vegetal world and its cycles of growth, life and death. Perhaps counting the Omer isn’t only about us, but also about the plant world that we so depend on.
I find meaningful the idea that the 49 days of the Omer are a time when we hold our breath and wait for the grain to grow ripe and tall, when we acknowledge the hope and anxiety of the harvest season. The time we are now living through is also a season of uncertainty for so many. Perhaps in this moment, counting the Omer is exactly the practice we need.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on April 19, 2025. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
