Every year, during this time, we count the Omer — marking the days between Pesach and Shavuot, from liberation from an oppressive, dehumanizing empire to receiving instructions about our path forward in service to the divine.
The beginning of this period is treated as a time of communal mourning, in which we do not cut hair, hold weddings, listen to music and the like. We’re told (Yevamot 62b, Shulchan Aruch OC 493:1-2) this is because Rabbi Akiva’s students got mysteriously ill during this time — and then mysteriously better on Lag BaOmer, so we observe it as a day of celebration.
As it happens, we read Rabbi Akiva’s favorite parshah right around now, too — Kedoshim.
In it, we find the verse that he referred to as the “clal gadol,” the “great principle,” of Torah. (Jerusalem Talmud Nedarim 30b).
It’s also the center of Torah — one of the defining literary motifs of biblical literature is a literary device called the chiasm, which is something of a “sandwich” structure (A-B-C-B-A) and in which the middle point — the middle word, verse, chapter, and so forth — is regarded as the most significant.
And if Leviticus is the middle book of Torah, Leviticus 19 is the middle chapter. And the middle verse? Leviticus 19:18. That clal gadol.
Find more resources on Kedoshim.
“You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against members of your people. Love your fellow as yourself: I am God.”
That’s the beating, living, pulsing heart of Torah. That’s what pumps blood out to the rest of Judaism, the rest of mitzvot, the rest of spirituality, the rest of service to the divine, the rest of our work down here as people, the rest of everything.
That line.
We serve God when we care for one another down here and work towards more justice, more equity, more respect, more dignity for everyone. Everything else is commentary.
And though there are those who like to talk about this verse isolated from its context, to talk about loving as though it’s not related to state power, privilege, access to resources, and more — the Torah certainly knew better.
What else is in this chiastic sandwich? As it turns out, an awful lot of mitzvot talking to the Israelites with power, warning them against the abuse of that power, or instructing them to use that power to care for or protect those who are marginalized or at risk.
You must leave food behind for the poor and the stranger when you gather from your harvest and vineyard. You must pay your workers on time. Disabled people must have equal access to resources in your community. Your justice system must actually be just, and not disproportionately harm those with less money.
Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.
You must not harm yourself. You should protect against child sexual abuse and honor elders.
National “others” shall be treated with care and respect — as your citizens, and you should love them as yourself.
Your love for the national “other” — for the “resident,” for the non-Jew, for the one who is not a part of our people but who “resides with you in your land.” Shall “be as for yourself.”
And on and on — there are more, of course.
All of these, mitzvot — commandments, laws, intractable obligations, in the general system of the covenant business — are the things that surround this centermost nugget, “You should love your neighbor as yourself.”
It’s not warm and fuzzy.
It’s not sweet.
It’s actually incredibly specific.
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How you love your neighbor as yourself is a series of concrete actions lived out in the world. What would you want if you were hungry? To live in a society that ensured that you had accessible food. If you’re a worker? To be paid on time. If you’re disabled? Your neighbors will not create obstacles to your participation or do something to make you unsafe. If you’re struggling to get by financially and run into legal issues, you’d want to live somewhere that doesn’t disproportionately incarcerate those who are poor or close to poverty, and enable the wealthy to get off scot-free. And so on.
How you love your neighbor as yourself is that you must set up systems that are just in actual reality.
How we love our neighbor is by fighting for a society in which we would be glad to live no matter how little privilege we had.
How we love our neighbor is by taking seriously the systemic change that must happen through a disability justice lens, a racial justice lens, a gender justice lens, an economic and labor justice lens. By addressing, with urgency, policing and carceral systems as they exist today. By radically reworking — as we consider the horrors that have unfolded in Israel/Palestine this year — our relationships with the “residents who reside with you in the land.” The non-Jews with whom we share space. And so much more.
Rabbi Akiva certainly knew this.
He was extremely involved in the Bar Kochba Revolt (132-136 CE), the last-stand uprising against Roman oppression and occupation in what’s now Israel/Palestine (which, sadly, turned out to be a disaster for the Jewish people). Many have posited that this time of mourning during the Omer is actually because his battles against Rome weren’t going very well — and, perhaps, we celebrate on Lag BaOmer because it’s the anniversary of a military success, however fleeting.
Loving our neighbor was no less than a revolutionary proposition, the opposite of everything for which Rome stood.
We cannot live Torah and exploit, oppress, send cops in riot gear, deny aid flotillas to starving people, bomb civilians, or engage in any of the other oppressive tools of Empire. It’s simply not possible. We must, in ways small and large, fight for societies that we would be glad to experience, no matter where we existed in the ecosystem.
And every year, during this season, our growing hair inscribes this awareness onto our bodies, trying to remind us who we have always been, who we have always meant to be.
Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg is the award-winning author of eight books, most recently “On Repentance and Repair: Making Amends in an Unapologetic World.” She now makes her primary writing home at LifeIsASacredText.com. Next month, T’ruah will honor her with a Rabbinic Human Rights Hero Award. To purchase gala tickets or make a donation in Rabbi Ruttenberg’s honor, click here.