Today is Lag BaOmer, the 33rd day in the 50-day stretch between Passover and Shavuot.
Lag BaOmer has always been shrouded in mystery. Why are these days, when spring is sprouting, considered to be a time of semi-solemnity? And why is there a little oasis in this melancholy time—the 33rd day—for joy and celebration?
The Talmud only speaks about this with riddles. Apparently there was some sort of enigmatic plague that struck the students of Rabbi Akiva in the 2nd century CE, at the time of the Bar Kokhba revolt against Rome. The nature of the plague is obscure (askara, says the text: croup, or diphtheria), leading some commentators to speculate about whether or not it was a literal plague (i.e, that the Romans were the plague):
אמרו שנים עשר אלף זוגים תלמידים היו לו לרבי עקיבא מגבת עד אנטיפרס וכולן מתו בפרק אחד מפני שלא נהגו כבוד זה לזה…תנא כולם מתו מפסח ועד עצרת אמר רב חמא בר אבא ואיתימא ר' חייא בר אבין כולם מתו מיתה רעה מאי היא א"ר נחמן אסכרה
Rabbi Akiva had 12,000 pairs of students from Givat to Antipras, and all of them died in a single period of time—because they did not treat one another with respect. It was taught: All of them died between Passover and Shavuot.
Rabbi Hama bar Abba, and some say Rabbi Hiyya bar Avin, said: All of them died a terrible death. What was it? Rabbi Nachman said: askara.
—Yevamot 62b
Note that there’s nothing here about the 33rd day. Lag BaOmer only appears in later texts. According to post-Talmudic sources, the plague “ceased” or “ebbed” on the 33rd day in between Pesach and Shavuot; it’s still not clear. But the tradition arose that it should be a minor holiday, a mini-day of joy in the midst of a more sober time.
From there, the tradition piled on. For Kabbalists, Lag BaOmer became a day of celebration for its mystical significance, including its connections to Rabbi Akiva and his premier student Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, both of whom are considered mystics par excellence. And like virtually every other holiday, modern Israel has invested this day with new meanings and customs—especially, in normal years, building bonfires in the fields.
Frankly, all this has always seemed rather obscure to me. Don’t get me wrong, I celebrate Lag BaOmer and love it. But the reasons are still bewildering. What really happened during the days of Rabbi Akiva? Why a happy day in the middle of the period? Who knows?
But this year, it seems to me that the original meaning of the season has a new resonance.
Imagine that in Rabbi Akiva’s time, there was a real, literal plague that ravaged the countryside.
And imagine, too, that the suffering was exacerbated by those who blamed others for the plague, who spread conspiracy theories, who mocked their neighbor’s fears and concerns, and who scorned those who tried to take public health seriously? Is this so far removed from the Talmud’s assertion that “they died because they did not treat one another with respect”?
And what if Lag BaOmer was the day that the plague’s “curve was flattened,” so to speak? The day when finally people were able to see that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and these days of sickness would eventually come to an end, as long as personal responsibility and ethical leadership were allowed to prevail?
Imagine Lag BaOmer as tradition’s way of saying: keep up the good practices that you are observing and this plague won’t last forever. Keep counting the days, each one is a precious step towards a cure.
Note that the plague didn’t end on the 33rd; there were still weeks to go of thoughtful containment and protection from whatever was devastating the community. But it was a day of hope: a time to realize that, in a few weeks’ time, the barley would be harvested, people would be fed, and life would someday go on—hopefully, not “back to normal”, but with lessons learned.
When the light is visible on the horizon, it is appropriate to pause and celebrate. It’s even appropriate to kindle our own fires, bonfires in the fields to light up the darkness.