The Sefirat HaOmer count places us in a unique period of both mourning and anticipation—a bridge between the liberation of Pesach and the revelation of Shavuot. On one hand, we commemorate the tragic deaths of Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students, who, according to tradition, perished because they “did not treat one another with respect.” On the other hand, we prepare to celebrate Zman Matan Torateinu, the giving of the Torah—the ultimate symbol of unity and Divine truth.
How could his disciples fail in this essential area? And even if they did, why such a severe punishment? Couldn’t a lesser consequence have sufficed?
At first glance, the tragedy we mourn over—the death of Rabbi Akiva’s disciples—seems perplexing. Rabbi Akiva was the sage who famously taught that “Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha”—Love your fellow as yourself—“is a foundational principle of the Torah.” How could his disciples fail in this essential area? And even if they did, why such a severe punishment? Couldn’t a lesser consequence have sufficed?
To understand this, we must delve deeper into what was missing. It wasn’t necessarily love they lacked—but respect.
Between Love and Respect
We often conflate love with respect. We assume that if we love someone, we automatically value them and, therefore, respect them. But closer examination suggests otherwise. A parent may love their child deeply and still dismiss their ideas as naive. A friend may feel real affection but subtly belittle the other’s intelligence or decisions. Respect is not just an emotion—it is an act of recognition. It means taking another person’s thoughts, perspectives, and voice seriously. One can love deeply, fiercely, with great self sacrifice—and still fail to truly respect.
In the context of marriage, the Rambam notes: “A man should respect his wife more than himself, and love her as himself” (Rambam, Hilchot Ishut 15:19). To love someone is to care deeply, to cherish, to protect. But to truly respect them is to listen with the understanding that their thoughts, their insights, and their perspective is meaningful.
To respect someone is to recognize the weight of their thoughts, the dignity of their perspective, and the sacredness of their individual voice
Respect is not merely a byproduct of love—it is an entirely separate commitment. To respect someone is to recognize the weight of their thoughts, the dignity of their perspective, and the sacredness of their individual voice. In marriage, respect means seeing your spouse not only as someone beloved but as a partner in truth. In the strongest marriages, respect reveals that the one closest to you may hold the missing piece to your inner story, expanding love into realms you hadn’t yet imagined.
This distinction becomes even more profound in the Torah world. Each person’s view is not just an opinion—it is a reflection of their unique spark in the Divine symphony. Just as the 600,000 letters of the Torah correspond to the souls of Israel, no Jewish voice can be dismissed, none can be ignored. To respect someone is not just to tolerate them—it is to recognize their piece of the whole as essential, irreplaceable, and vital.
In today’s Jewish world, this distinction is especially relevant. Many of our internal divisions are not rooted in hatred but in a lack of respect. Even acts of kindness across ideological lines—like Charedim offering cholent to protesting secular Israelis—may demonstrate warmth and goodwill but cannot resolve the deeper divide. People feel dismissed, unheard, misunderstood. And as a result, the truth—that elusive Divine ideal we all strive for—is often lost in the noise.
Why Loss of Respect is Destructive
Why should a lack of respect be so catastrophic? Why would it justify the spiritual and physical loss of an entire generation of Torah scholars?
The reason is because respect is essential for truth, and truth is essential for Torah. Without mutual respect, people do not truly listen to one another. And if voices are not heard, insights are lost. Echo chambers form. Status replaces substance. And Torah—the living, breathing revelation of truth—becomes fossilized in a single, narrow mindset.
As the Mishnah teaches: “Who is wise? One who learns from everyone” (Avot 4:1). But that wisdom is impossible if we only respect those who agree with us—or those who come from the right circles. Of course, we may feel a deep, sincere love for every Jew, but what’s so easy to miss is that love doesn’t translate into respecting his ideas. These are two distinct emotions.
As the father of the modern Yeshiva, Rav Chaim of Volozhin taught us not only to study Torah, but even to seek truth with humility. If we are his heirs, we must carry forward his commitment to genuine engagement—even with views that differ vastly from our own.
In Ruach Chaim on Pirkei Avot 1:4, Rav Chaim writes that a student must not accept his teacher’s words blindly if he has valid objections—for sometimes, the truth lies with the student. This was clearly not a call for rebellion, but for integrity: a belief that truth is the goal, not status or hierarchy.
He deepens this point in his commentary on Avot 3:2: “Two who sit together and there are no words of Torah between them—it is a session of scoffers.” Rav Chaim explains that even if they are each learning individually, if they do not engage with each other’s Torah, it reflects a subtle scorn: “for each one mocks the Torah of his fellow.” The failure is not in the learning, but in the refusal to consider that someone else—perhaps even someone very different—might hold a piece of the truth I need.
This isn’t merely dishonor toward the person; it’s a diminishment of the Torah itself. When we sit beside someone who may carry a spark of Divine insight and choose not to ask, not to listen, not to engage—we are not safeguarding truth; we are missing part of it.
When we sit beside someone who may carry a spark of Divine insight and choose not to ask, not to listen, not to engage—we are not safeguarding truth; we are missing part of it
Today, in our own communities, this lesson remains urgent. We often sit at the same table—or across the same ideological divide—as other sincere Torah scholars. Yet, we do not truly engage. Whether due to pride, fear of influence, or assumptions of superiority, we fail to ask: What truth might they hold? And what might they learn from us? Rav Chaim’s Torah calls us to do better—to honor every sincere learner, to be thirsty for words of Torah even when they come from unfamiliar mouths, and to believe that the Shechinah still rests where truth is sought with humility.
Respect, not just love, is what allows Torah to thrive—through sincere debate, honest questions, and the courage to listen. Only when every voice is given its rightful place can the fullness of Torah emerge.
When students blindly revere their teachers without critical engagement, or when authority is accepted without dialogue, truth is not transmitted—it is stifled. Respect, not just love, is what allows Torah to thrive—through sincere debate, honest questions, and the courage to listen. Only when every voice is given its rightful place can the fullness of Torah emerge. And only then can we begin to approach the days when Godliness is evident throughout the world—in every heart and mind—because every soul’s perspective has been welcomed into the sacred conversation.
From Tragedy to Revelation: The Journey of the Omer
A striking analogy can be drawn from Aesop’s fable The Emperor’s New Clothes. Only a child—too insignificant to care about status—was able to say what everyone else knew but dared not speak. When we speak only to those we “respect,” as defined by an ideological tribe or status class, the truth becomes invisible. Those most likely to speak honestly—outsiders, dissenters, students—are often the least respected.
In such a system, truth dies silently.
In the absence of a true exchange, even sincere Torah can become narrow, uncorrected, and over time, distorted
This may explain why such a massive tragedy befell Rabbi Akiva’s students. Rabbi Akiva’s disciples were set to carry Torah to all future generations—including us. But without mutual respect, ideas aren’t properly challenged, refined, or tested. And in the absence of a true exchange, even sincere Torah can become narrow, uncorrected, and over time, distorted. What should have been a source of life becomes fragile, unable to endure. And that, in the long term, is a spiritual death sentence.
The Omer leads us from Egypt to Sinai—from liberation to revelation. Along the way, we must shed not only the chains of Pharaoh but also the chains of ego, arrogance, and superiority. We must open ourselves up to voices different from our own—especially within our own nation.
Is it a coincidence that the holidays marking Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom HaAtzmaut, and Yom Yerushalayim—all defining the divides between Torah communities—fall during the Sefirah? Perhaps they serve as reminders of the need to hear each other, to be truly respectful of other opinions, acknowledging that perhaps “they” are right or there is some truth to their position.
Receiving the Torah With Respect
The world is not one note, and neither is Torah. It speaks in seventy voices, carried through countless lives and experiences. No one facet can hold it alone. Just as a body needs many limbs to walk, build, and reach, the Torah needs many souls to understand, interpret, and live its truth.
Is it a coincidence that the holidays marking Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom HaAtzmaut, and Yom Yerushalayim—all defining the divides between Torah communities—fall during the Sefirah?
If we emerge from Sefirat HaOmer with a commitment not only to love, but to honor—to make space for each person’s voice and each soul’s portion in Torah—then we are ready to receive it anew. On Shavuot, we rise as one people—to witness earth and heaven joined—not by sameness, but by shared purpose. And in that unity, the Torah descends again.
For only when we gather in wholeness can we begin to glimpse the wholeness of Torah.
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