Counting the Omer

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I never liked math in school so
fifty days of counting was never
destined to be my favorite Jewish tradition.

It’s not that I wasn’t good at it.
When I bothered to do the work
it always ended with the teacher saying

see . . . you can do it. But the idea of
doing it forty nine days in a row
seven weeks of seven days

let alone an entire school year
was not a commitment I was
ready to make to algebra.

I knew for certain algebra was
not the key to my freedom from
Egypt, or even homework.

To be honest I wasn’t really
thinking much about what Egypt
had to do with me.

I had to look up the word omer
to see it was an ancient unit of measure
equal to one tenth of an epha.

I had to look up the word epha
to see it was an ancient unit of measure
equal to about a bushel.

I’d heard the word bushel before
so I didn’t bother to look it up.
I’ve barely come to terms with

the metric system and I still don’t know
exactly how much of my personal
barley harvest I should bring

to my rabbi. You see there are no
priests or Temple these days so if I’m to
behave like a respectable Jew

I’ve got to do more than count
from one to forty nine. I’ve got to find
new ways to count

with all the respect to the old.
So you’ll forgive me, rabbi,
if I show up at the door.

I live in Van Nuys under the shadow
of a brewery, so obtaining an omer
of barley isn’t really an issue.

I think they make us count from
one to forty-nine because when we
left our houses in Egypt

(you see, now I’m acknowledging
I had a house in Egypt) our feet grew
easily tired and there was

so much to complain about.
When our head guy disappeared
up the mountain, we hardly

took a breath before we tried to
innovate with a golden calf.
(Not every new idea works.)

Now, on our annual journey between
slavery and Torah we’ve got a daily
math problem to do.

Something to distract us from idols
and second guessing our own risk
towards freedom.

Today is the thirty-first day
making four weeks and three days
of the counting of the Omer.

Just eighteen more to go.
(See, I’m doing math of my own
free will now.)

Eighteen more days ’til
we receive the ultimate rule-book
of our freedom.

The words our
children’s children will be reading
’til their dying day.

These poems are offered free for your enjoyment. If you use them as part of an event, meeting, educational or liturgical setting, please consider tipping the author.

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