Rabbi Stiefel's Monthly Article

Current May 2026

A Time of Uncertainty

Each spring, when I plant seeds in the ground, I feel that familiar mix of excitement and quiet trepidation. I picture the abundance of August in my garden--tomatoes heavy on the vine, herbs spilling over their beds, but I also wonder whether the seeds will take. Will they survive transplanting? Will some unseen creature undo weeks of care overnight? Only when the first vegetables are ready to harvest do I finally exhale and even celebrate a little.

This rhythm reflects the seven-week journey between Passover and Shavuot, called Sefirat haOmer, the counting of the Omer. Shavuot marks the moment when the Israelites stood at Sinai, receiving Torah and stepping fully into the covenant. It represents a profound transition: from the constriction of Egypt into the expansiveness of freedom. 

At the same time, the counting of the Omer is rooted in the ancient agricultural cycle, leading toward the wheat harvest. For 49 days, beginning on the second night of Passover, we count each evening, marking time with intention and awareness.

This period carries its own tension. Will the rains arrive in just the right balance? Will the crops endure? The rabbis of the Talmud understood this fragility well. In Bava Batra (147a), they observed how even the direction of the wind could determine success or failure; what nourishes one crop may harm another. Beneath their words is a truth that feels especially close to the surface right now: so much is uncertain. At any moment, the balance can shift.

We do not need to look far to feel this. We are living in a time when the ground itself can seem unstable politically, socially, environmentally. From a perspective that values pluralism, dignity, and democratic norms, the current moment can feel particularly precarious. Institutions we once assumed were sturdy show signs of strain. Public discourse grows harsher, less tethered to facts. The winds, it seems, are shifting in ways that nourish some while leaving others exposed. Like the ancient farmers, we find ourselves asking: will what we are tending endure?

The Omer invites us into precisely this in-between space, a time of waiting, of attention, of holding hope and uncertainty together. The grain grows toward ripeness, but it is not yet ready. The outcome is not yet known.

How much of our lives are lived in that space? We plant, we nurture, we organize, we speak out, we try to build a more just and compassionate world, and still, we do not know what will come. The question lingers: how will this turn out?

The journey from Passover to Shavuot reminds us that we do not simply arrive at freedom. The Exodus does not end at the sea; it continues into the wilderness. Our pursuit of freedom also exposes us to risk, vulnerability, and the possibility of failure. It asks something of us: patience, courage, and a willingness to remain engaged even when the outcome is unclear.

And perhaps that is the deeper lesson of both the garden and the Omer. We are not promised certainty. We are not guaranteed a perfect harvest of crops, of institutions, or of ideals. But we are called to the work nonetheless: to plant, to tend, to protect what is fragile, and to keep faith with the possibility of growth.

Along the way, we root ourselves in what is in the soil beneath our hands, in the daily act of counting, in the steady commitments we make to one another. In that groundedness, we discover a different kind of abundance: not one that depends on certainty or control, but one that emerges from persistence and care.