Open Door

The longest day: June 20/21; the summer solstice. In Britain, the longest day is very long. That’s because Britain is just north of the 49^th parallel; that is 49 degrees north of the Equator. At this latitude, the sun is above the horizon for 16 hours and 12 minutes on the summer solstice. By contrast, the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean, where Israel is situated lies just north of the 30^th parallel. So, while in the middle of Britain, the sun will set at 21:22; in Israel, the sun will set at 19:48. But the difference between the two locations is not confined to the actual moment of sunset. Anyone who has been in Israel in the summer, and has watched the sun sink into the Mediterranean, will have witnessed a very sudden change from day to night; at 49 degrees north, by contrast, the sky darkens much more slowly.

It’s interesting to note this distinction between Britain and Israel because while in Britain the flow of the year is very much taken up with the significant changes in the hours of light and darkness, the Jewish calendar is shaped by its formation in the Middle East, where the difference in the hours of daylight across the year is less evident. And of course, there is another significant distinction between the two locations that influences the place of the sun in the minds of those who live 49 degrees north compared with those who live 30 degrees north: the heat of the sun. Here in Britain, as soon as we reach the spring solstice, our longing for light is only equalled by our longing for warmth, and we can’t wait for the lengthening days with the promise of an increase in the sun’s intensity. In Israel, by contrast, as spring turns to summer, keeping out of the heat of the day is a major preoccupation. And so, while the changing seasons are important to the Jewish calendar, and the addition of an extra month to the 3rd, 6th, 8th, 11th, 14th, 17th and 19th years of a nineteen year cycle, ensures that the seasonal festivals of Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot are celebrated in due season, the main focus of the calendar is on the journey of the moon as it waxes and wanes, and each month is aligned with the moon.

For those who live in Britain and who also live the rhythms of the Jewish calendar, life is a bit complicated! This year there are 13 months, which means all the festivals are being celebrated quite late in the sun year, including, Shavuot, which will begin on the evening of June 11 – just 10 days before the summer solstice. To take advantage of this fortuitous connection we are holding an all-night study marathon – a traditional way of celebrating Shavuot. After the evening service at 10 p.m., following sunset, the marathon will begin at 11 p.m. and conclude at 5 a.m., shortly after sunrise, with a morning service on the beach – weather (and sun) permitting! Participants, sponsored to study the first and last verses of all 54 portions of the Torah, will endeavour to last the night. Hopefully, plentiful quantities of coffee, water, cheesecake and sandwiches will aid our efforts. Sponsorship forms are available from the office, with proceeds going to Brighton Voices in Exile, the refugee charity we support with our weekly donations of toiletries and non-perishable foods. If you don’t think you will be able to manage a whole night, do come along for as long as you can and share the fun!

Chag Samei’ach!

‘I am but dust and ashes’. A famous phrase: Where does it come from? In Genesis chapter 18 (:27), we read that Abraham spoke these words in the midst of his bargaining with the Eternal One over the fate of the ‘wicked’ cities of Sodom and Gomorrah: ‘Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak to my Lord, yet I am dust and ashes’. Interestingly, in Hebrew, the two words, ‘dust’ and ‘ashes’ – afar and eifar – share the same root: Ayin Pei Reish.

Abraham’s realisation recalls the second account of the creation of humanity in Genesis chapter 2 (:7): ‘Then the Eternal God formed the human [ha-adam]; dust from the ground [afar min-ha-adamah].’ At the conclusion of the narrative, after the first two humans have eaten of the forbidden tree and ‘the eyes of both of them were opened’ (Genesis 3:7), they learnt the shadow side of their affinity with the ground: ‘In the sweat of your face, you shall eat bread, until you return to the ground [el-ha-adamah]; for out of it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you shall return’ [ki afar atah, v’afar tashuv] (3:19).

We are dust and ashes. The message is one of humility. And yet… In one of the works of ‘wisdom’ literature included in the Bible, the Book of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes), we read towards the end of the final chapter (12:7): ‘The dust returns to the ground as it was; but the spirit [ha-ru’ach] returns to God, Who gave it’. Quoted in the funeral service, these words remind us that according to Jewish teaching, we are more than dust and ashes. The verse in Genesis chapter 2 (:7) that begins: ‘Then the Eternal God formed the human being [ha-adam]; dust from the ground [afar min-ha-adamah],’ concludes: ‘and He blew into its nostrils the breath of life [nishmat chayyim], and the human [ha-adam] became a living being [nefesh chayyah].’ Significantly, the designation ‘living being’, nefesh chayyah, is applied in the first account of creation to the other living creatures, too (Gen. 1:20). And so, after the flood, although humanity is permitted for the first time to eat flesh (initially, all human and animal life is vegetarian – Gen. 1:29-30), the eating of blood is prohibited: ‘But flesh [basar] with its being [b’nafsho], which is its blood [damo] may not be eaten’ (Gen. 9:4). All living creatures, it seems, are more than dust and ashes…

Of course, all of this is debatable. From a material, scientific perspective, life is ‘matter’, and ‘matter’ is made up of tiny particles – molecules and the atoms within them. ‘The breath of life’ is not a mysterious added extra; a gift breathed into us by the Divine. And yet, the sense that we are more than matter is not just the preserve of religious systems of thought; many people feel strongly that what animates our ‘matter’ cannot simply be explained in physical, biological and chemical terms. At the same time, Abraham’s realisation that he was ‘dust and ashes’ is an important corrective to humanity’s potential for arrogance and hubris. Rabbi Bunim of P’shiskha (1765-1827), whose teachings were transmitted orally, taught: “Everyone should have two pockets, each containing a slip of paper. On one should be written: ‘I am but dust and ashes’ [quoting Genesis 18:27], and on the other: ‘The world was created for my sake’ [quoting Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 37b]. From time to time we must reach into one pocket, or the other. The secret of living comes from knowing when to reach into each one.”

After over four years of homelessness, Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue is coming home! How wonderful it will be to be able to settle back into our own abode after 50 months living in rented accommodation. We have been so fortunate to have been able to meet at Ralli Hall on Shabbat, and to have had a temporary office/meeting place. But, as the saying goes, ‘there’s no place like home.’

Of course, our home is not as it was before we left. There is no going back; our return to 6 Lansdowne Road represents a new beginning. We will make a new home in a new building, designed to meet our needs today and in the years to come; a building encompassing spaces of different sizes that can be used flexibly. And so, devoid of fixed seating and a bimah, the fully accessible Sanctuary on the ground floor, with its stunning, inspiring new Ark, can also be used as a large meeting hall for celebrations, meetings, social and cultural activities. And then, upstairs, another, smaller social area – for gatherings, children’s activities, adult education, film screenings – alongside a foyer, an office, the library, two education rooms and a small pastoral room. Who would have thought so much could be squeezed out of the rectangular plot that was the original synagogue building! And that’s not all: the downstairs kitchen and ‘dumb-waiter’ make it possible for food to be served on both floors. Most important, with the inclusion of a lift, everyone can benefit from all the facilities that the building has to offer.

Naturally, those who have been members for many years will miss aspects of the old synagogue. It is for this reason that important elements of the old have been integrated into the new, including, the ner tamid that now hangs in front of the new Ark, the stained-glass windows that adorn the large stairwell, the beautiful mosaics that will continue to inspire, and Tree of Life that remains the focus of remembrance of those who have gone before us. Needless to say, no one will miss the inefficient heating system, the ever-leaking roof, and the intermittent floods…

On Shabbat Chanukkah we will hold our first service and a day of celebration – please see the programme for details of all the activities that will be on offer. As we recall the Maccabees, who reclaimed and rededicated the Temple in 164 BCE, making it the home of the Jewish people once again, we will reclaim the building as our old/new home, and rededicate our synagogue. But the differences between then and now are as important as the similarities: Unlike, the Temple that once stood in Jerusalem, a synagogue, based on a Greek word that is a translation for the Hebrew, k’hillah, meaning, ‘assembly’, is not a place. A synagogue is a congregation that gathers together for the sacred purposes of study, prayer, mutual support and ethical action. As we reclaim 6 Lansdowne Road may we rededicate our vibrant and diverse community to the renewal of Jewish life. Chanukkah Samei’ach!

In the autumn, the leaves fall – hence in North America, autumn is referred to as ‘Fall.’ Note: ‘Fall’ – not ‘The Fall.’ ‘The Fall’ is the way in which Christianity understands the expulsion of the first human beings from the Garden of Eden after eating the forbidden fruit (Genesis 3). Each and every human being thereafter, according to Christian teaching, is born, bearing the ‘original sin’ committed by Adam and Eve. This is not the way that Jewish teaching understands the story. This year, we begin the cycle of Torah readings again on October 10 with B’reishit, the first portion, which recounts the tales of how the world came to be, including the creation of humanity. From a Jewish perspective, the Garden of Eden was humanity’s kindergarten; the location of humanity’s childhood. The first human beings had to leave the garden because they had to grow up – and growing up involved, as it does with all children, transgressing parental rules and boundaries. Adam and Eve did not ‘fall’, they went out into the world and learnt what it means to work in order to eat and to endure pain and suffering.

So: ‘Fall’ does not feature in British English vocabulary, and ‘The Fall’ is not a Jewish concept. Nevertheless, Jewish teaching is concerned with ‘falling’. We read in the second blessing of the daily prayer, Ha-T’fillah, literally, ‘The Prayer’ – also known as the Amidah, ‘standing’ [prayer] – that God ‘supports [the] falling’ – someikh nof’lim. Beginning, Attah gibbor l’olam Adonai, literally, ‘You are mighty forever, Eternal One,’ the blessing expresses God’s powers: You ‘sustain the living with love, enliven the dead with abundant compassion, support the falling, heal the sick, release captives, and keep faith with those who sleep in the dust.’ We all ‘fall’ at one time or another: we ‘fall on hard times’, we ‘fall ill’, physically and/or mentally – these are, indeed English expressions. As with the actual experience of falling, all the ways in which we can and do fall are disorientating. The notion that we are supported when we fall expresses a deep human need to be accompanied and held in our distress and anguish. The Eternal One is not a magician with a wand, who conjures away our torments. The power of God is in the powerful all-encompassing acknowledgement of the unavoidable trials of life. Wherever we are, at any time in our lives, whatever happens to us, whatever mess we get ourselves into, even in the deepest pit of despair, that acknowledgement is available to us. It begins, when we acknowledge ourselves and one another. Ultimately, we are all walking alongside one another on the perilous journey of life. When we recognise this, we know that all we have to do is turn to one another to find the support we need when we fall, and to be the support that another person needs when they fall. As the leaves fall, and the season turns towards winter, may we all find and offer that support. Shanah Tovah!

Do you remember the spectacular April Fools’ yarn spun by The Guardian newspaper in 1977 over several pages about that amazing archipelago of islands of the ‘republic of San Seriffe’ that rushed around the Indian Ocean? While I started work at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue on December 1, 2000, my formal induction as Rabbi was held on April 1, 2001. What a strange way to spend April Fools Day!  Perhaps, some would think that it was not an auspicious beginning for either Rabbi or congregation. And yet, here we are in 2015, and B&HPS is now 80 years old.

More important, our synagogue is not, simply, still functioning 80 years after it was established; it is thriving. As we mark our 80th anniversary, the redevelopment of our building is underway, and before the secular year ends, we will be back home at 6 Landsdowne Road. And, of course, it’s not just that ‘the bricks and mortar’ of B&HPS is in the process of being redesigned and renewed. In recent years, we have attracted increasing numbers of new members of all ages, and in particular, younger people – and now have a monthly Shabbatots group of 25 babies to 7-year-olds – plus two new-borns already in 2015. So, contrary to statistics on the decline of the Jewish community in Britain, B&HPS is flourishing – not unlike that incredible mobile archipelago, in defiance of the laws of logic and probability; except in our case, it is not an April Fool.

Why is this? There is no doubt in my mind that the secret to our success lies in our commitment to celebrating Jewish life in relevant and meaningful ways, and how we practice our values of inclusivity and equality. I am proud to be the rabbi of a congregation that welcomes those who are Jewish, Jew-ish, and not Jewish at all, and embraces people of all backgrounds and circumstances, lifestyles, sexualities and genders. As the name of our synagogue magazine proclaims, those who come to the congregation will find an open door. Of course, those who hold views that are anti-Semitic, Islamophobic, xenophobic, racist, misogynistic, homophobic, or transphobic, or who express bigotry of any kind, would need to go on a journey before they would feel at home with us. B&HPS is open to all those, who share our commitment to reinvigorating Jewish life and our Liberal and Progressive values.

And so, as we embark on a season that includes the Festivals of Pesach and Shavuot, and recall the beginnings of our people, and the journey of our ancestors from Egypt to Sinai, from liberation to responsibility, let us also celebrate the renewal of our beloved congregation, the journey we have taken so far, and the commitment we are making to build a future for Liberal and Progressive Jewish life in Sussex. Chag Samei’ach!                       Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

‘All you need is love’. The Beatles’ lyric is emphatic that ‘love is all you need.’ From the perspective of Jewish teaching, love is crucial, but we also need social and economic justice. Indeed, there is a connection between love and justice. But first to love: The Torah makes it clear that Abraham loved both his sons – Ishmael, as well as Isaac (Genesis chapters 21-22). We also read in the Torah that Isaac’s son, Jacob, fell in love with Rachel, the younger daughter of his uncle Laban, when he first met her (Gen. 29: 11;18), and that he loved Rachel’s firstborn, Joseph, above all his other sons (Gen. 37:3).

In English idiom, we distinguish between ‘love’ and ‘being’ or ‘falling in love’: While ‘love’ is associated with the feeling of family members and very close friends for one another, ‘being’ or ‘falling in love’ is located in the arena of romance and Eros. Jacob demonstrated both types of love to excess: his passionate love for Rachel, led him to spurn her elder sister, Leah (Gen. 29: 25-31); his doting love for Joseph, made his other sons feel rejected and resentful (Gen. 37:4).

Love, in all its dimensions, is wonderful in moderation. But the Torah is not only concerned with love as emotion. In Leviticus chapter 19, in the parashah (portion), K’doshim, known as the ‘Holiness Code’, the commandments set out there include two injunctions about love: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself. I am the Eternal’ (19:18); and: ‘The stranger that sojourns with you shall be to you as a home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. I am the Eternal, your God’ (19:34). Significantly, in all contexts – emotional, romantic and social – the Hebrew idiom used is identical: ‘Love’ is AHaVah – based on the Hebrew root, Aleph – Hei – Beit.

But this is puzzling. How can ‘love’ be commanded? Not least: love for neighbours, who can test our tolerance to the limits; and love for strangers, whom we do not know. In my most recent Yom Kippur morning sermon, I shared the insight of Paul Mendes-Flohr in his Reflections on Leviticus 19:18, Love, Accusative and Dative (Syracuse University Press, 2007). He points out that ‘love’ in these contexts is not ‘love’s emotional embrace’, rather the neighbour and the stranger are ‘the intended recipients of love’s deeds’ (p. 11). In other words, we are obligated, not to feel loving – feelings cannot be commanded – but rather to act lovingly towards others. The exercise of justice dictates loving behaviour.

If loving neighbours and strangers presents a challenge, what about, loving God? ‘You shall love – v’AHaVta – the Eternal, your God with all your heart, and with all your being, and with all your might’ (Deuteronomy 6:5). Some people may, indeed, feel love for God. The Sh’ma, which includes this verse, makes it clear that to love the Eternal is to teach and practice God’s commandments. Ultimately, we demonstrate love for God, through loving, ethical conduct in all our human relationships.

I recall listening to Radio 4’s live coverage of the commemoration held at Auschwitz on 27^th January 1995 to mark the 50^th anniversary of the liberation of the camp by the Red Army. The message was crystal clear: with fewer and fewer survivors still alive, it was now incumbent on subsequent generations to remember what happened.  Five years later, in 2000, the British government inaugurated National Holocaust Memorial Day to be marked each year on January 27^th, and since that time, councils and schools up and down the country have held events and educational programmes.

An important aspect of these NHMD activities has been listening to the testimony of survivors – individuals like our own Rose Cannan, Margarete Mendelsohn, and Hans Levy. Both Rose and Margarete have written about their experiences of the early days of Nazi Germany, and Hans has been called upon to tell his story to various gatherings – including schoolchildren. We are honoured that they are prepared to share their memories with us.

In another 10 years or so, the last survivors of the Sho’ah will have passed away. How will we remember those days of terror and mayhem, when they are no longer around? Of course, we can read the survivor testimonies that have been published – and it is blessing for us that the stories of many survivors have been written down. Thanks to Steven Spielberg and others, thousands of hours of survivor testimony have also been recorded for posterity – and my own Uncle Jack, my father’s younger brother, thankfully, was interviewed before he died. In these different ways – through books, TV programmes, films, videos, and even YouTube recordings – those who did not have the privilege of meeting and listening to survivors, will have access to the accounts of their experiences.

But our responsibility to remember the Sho’ah, when those who bear the memory are no longer alive, extends beyond reminding ourselves of what happened then. We have a responsibility to re-member Jewish life; to do what we can to ensure that Jewish life thrives now. On Shabbat Shuvah each year, we remember the Jews of Frydek-Mistek, deported between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur in 1942, as we read one of the congregation’s scrolls, entrusted to our care, and recall the names of those who were murdered. But we don’t just commemorate the Jews of Frydek-Mistek on our Czech Scroll Anniversary, we pay tribute to their memory whenever we gather ‘to meet, to study and to pray’, and conduct all the activities that go to make B&HPS a vibrant, dynamic, living Jewish community. 1,564 Czech scrolls were saved. Bearing the number 1,278, converted to Hebrew letters, our scroll spells Chai, Life (1+2+7+8 = 18; in Hebrew letters: Cheit – 8, Yud – 10). As we celebrate our 80^th birthday in 2015, may we continue to renew the life of our precious congregation, and go from strength to strength!

Sleep is essential to life – quite simply, we cannot live without it. Paradoxically, ‘lying down’ (for sleep) is often used, metaphorically, of death – as in the case of King David: ‘Then David lay down [Va-yishkav David] with his ancestors and was buried in the city of David’ (I Kings 2:10).

There are two very different expressions for ‘sleep’ in the TaNaKh, the Hebrew Bible. While the Hebrew root, Yud SHin Nun, denotes, ordinary ‘sleep’, another, Reish Dalet Mem, is used to describe ‘deep sleep’. But it’s not just a question of whether one, simply, ‘sleeps’, or ‘sleeps deeply’. After the autumn festival period concludes, we will begin reading the Torah again – going back to Genesis. A key verse in the second account of the creation of humanity points to a transformative element implicit in ‘deep sleep’. We read: ‘So the Eternal God caused a deep sleep [taRDeiMah] to fall upon the human being [ha-Adam]; and while ‘he’ slept [Va-yYiSHaN], God took one of ‘his’ sides, and then closed up the flesh in its place. / Then the Eternal God built the side taken from the human being into a woman …’ (Genesis 2:21-2). Often read as the ‘rib’ to ‘woman’ story because the gendered language assigns a masculine gender to ha-Adam, the plain meaning of the text is that while in a state of ‘deep sleep’, the singular human being was split in two. The technical expression, metamorphosis, is used to describe the process by which some animals physically change their body structure after birth. The Genesis text also seems to be describing a process of metamorphosis.

So: taRDeiMah; the deep sleep of transformation. And also the sleep of avoidance and denial: In flight from his prophetic mission to warn the city of Nineveh of its impending destruction, Jonah boarded a ship bound for Tarshish (1:1-3). When the Eternal sent a great storm, Jonah went down into the hold and fell into a deep sleep – va-yeiRaDaM (1:4-5). We read the Book of Jonah on Yom Kippur afternoon to remind ourselves that God forgives those who repent – even, as with the Ninevites, those who commit the most terrible deeds. There is also another message: We have to wake up to the challenges before us – and not try to escape them by running away or taking refuge in sleep. As Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon, 1135-1204) put it, on Rosh Ha-Shanah the voice of the shofar proclaims: ‘Awake, you sleepers, from your sleep! [Root: Yud SHin Nun] Arouse yourselves, you slumberers, from your deep slumber! [Root: Reish Dalet Mem] Examine your deeds, and turn in repentance’ (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot T’shuvah 3:4). To paraphrase Ecclesiastes: There is a time to wake, and a time to sleep. The Yamim Nora’im, Days of Awe, call us to wake up and renew our lives. The time for sleep will arrive when winter comes. Shanah Tovah!  Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Gold has an extremely long lineage as a much-prized precious metal. The account of the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the wilderness, makes it clear that gold was reserved for the most sacred of the sacred objects – for example, the Ark, the Ark cover, the Table, and the M’norah, the Seven-branched lampstand (T’rumah, Exodus 25:10ff.). Moreover, the lists of the precious materials used, always begins with gold: ‘and these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper…’ (Ex. 25:3. See also: Ex. 31:4).

But the Torah also makes it clear that gold is not sacred in itself. Right in the middle of the account of the building of the Mishkan, the narrative turns to the construction of an utterly profane idol out of gold (Ki Tissa, Ex. 32). During Moses’ absence on the mountain, Aaron managed the fears of the people and staved off rebellion, by telling them to bring their gold jewellery, which he melded into a ‘molten calf’ – eigel masseichah. Most English translations of the story, say, ‘Golden Calf’. By contrast, the Hebrew original points to the process by which the idol was made: when heated, gold is a malleable substance; from the perspective of the Torah, it’s what you do with it that counts.

Perhaps, one of the reasons why gold has always captured the human imagination is because it mirrors that golden orb in the sky, the Sun. From time immemorial, human beings have understood that the Sun is essential to life, bringing warmth and enabling vegetation to flourish. And from the moment the first human beings created fire, we became aware of our power to mimic the Sun and create light and heat – even in the midst of darkness. But there’s a catch: Fire has the power to destroy, raging out of control – as forest fires in the intense dry heat regularly testify. One of the messages of the juxtaposition presented in the Torah between the accounts of the building of the Mishkan and the building of the eigel masseichah is not simply that gold may be put to very different purposes. My dad was a mining engineer in South Africa in the 1940s and told me about the dangers and ingenuity involved in extracting gold. As miners of this planet’s rich resources, we are challenged to take responsibility for how we use and abuse, both, our fellow human beings and the gifts of the Earth.

As usual, the Torah provides us with object lessons. But summer is the time when schools shut up shop and we have the opportunity to stop being students for a while and enjoy the warmer weather. So, may we be blessed with sunny days – and gentle rain at night!

May is my favourite month of the year: the confidence that spring has finally sprung enhanced by the hope of summer just around the corner… And then there are the flowering trees. Of these, I most love the horse-chestnut. When I was young, its blooms seemed to me like ice-cream cones. I wasn’t aware then of the English name. My parents used the German, which I still think captures their majestic beauty perfectly: kastanien.

Of course, I am a bit biased when it comes to May. I was born on the 3^rd of the month – and very delighted when I discovered that I share the same birthday as one of my favourite poets, Yehudah Amicai. In fact, on May 3^rd this year it will be the 90^th anniversary of his birth (in 1924). And then, two of the heroes of my Socialist youth, came into the world on May 5^th: Karl Marx in 1818; Sylvia Pankhurst in 1882 – just a year before Marx died.

May has also proved to be a very significant month in the life of the Jewish people. It was on May 14^th 1948 that the modern State of Israel was established, immediately following the end of the ‘British Mandate in Palestine.’ The Hebrew date is the 5^th of Iyyar. Babylonian in origin, Iyyar comes from the Akkadian, ayyaru, meaning, ‘rosette’, ‘blossom’ – so the perfect name for the month of blooms. Before the Babylonian exile (following the destruction of the first Temple in 586 BCE), the month was known by its Hebrew name, Ziv (I Kings 6:1; 37), meaning, ‘bright’, ‘light’ or ‘glow’ (see Daniel 2:31).

Sadly, there is a sorrowful counterpoint to the glorious abundance of Iyyar. Iyyar falls within the seven-week period of the counting of the Omer (originally a sheaf of grain waived daily by the priests in Temple times), from the 2^nd day of Pesach to the day before Festival of Shavuot. In rabbinic times the weeks of the Omer became a time of mourning, following the crushing of the Bar Kochba revolt by the Romans in 135 CE, which included the execution of Rabbi Akiva and his disciples. According to rabbinic legend, one of these disciples, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, escaped and lived in a cave for 13 years, where he wrote the Zohar, the mystical interpretation of the Torah. He died on Iyyar 18^th, corresponding to the 33^rd day of the Omer, and so, in honour of his memory, Lag Ba-Omer [L = 30; g = 3] interrupts the mourning period and is celebrated as a holiday. This year Lag Ba-Omer is on May 17^th (eve) / 18^th.

But we are running ahead of ourselves. Before May/Iyyar: April/Nisan (another Babylonian name) – called Aviv, ‘spring’, in the Torah (Exodus 13:4) – and the celebration of the Festival of Pesach for seven days from Nisan 15^th. This year, Pesach begins on the evening of April 14^th. May ‘the season of our liberation’, that recalls the Exodus from Egypt, mark a time of renewal in all our lives. Chag Samei’ach!