The Omer and the Ascents
In Jerusalem, ascents never entirely end. They overlap, interrupt one another, descend in order to rise again, or remain suspended somewhere between stone and breath. One counts them not only in prayers or calendars, but in stairways, terraces, elevators, roads climbing dry hills, apartment towers hanging over valleys, and in the weary rhythm of feet moving upward toward another uncertain day.
This year, the convergence feels particularly dense. The Jewish world has just completed the counting of the Omer and now moves between Parshat Beha‘alotekha in Israel and Parshat Nasso in the diaspora, with their lingering echoes of the Priestly Blessing, lamps, elevation, and sacred service. At the same time, the Eastern Orthodox and Oriental Churches of Jerusalem have just celebrated Ascension according to their calendars and entered the special liturgical interval before Pentecost – those ten days when one of the most beloved prayers disappears from the services:
“Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth…”
During these ten days, Eastern Christians stop reciting the ancient prayer “Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth…” – a profoundly Semitic invocation of divine presence and breath, suspended liturgically until Pentecost.
For a brief period, the prayer falls silent in the Byzantine tradition. Jesus Christ has ascended, but the Spirit has not yet descended. The Church stands waiting in suspended breath.
Jerusalem understands such restrained moments perhaps better than most cities. Here, revelation rarely arrives without delay, fracture, confusion, or heat. Sacred time does not flow cleanly. Calendars overlap. Feasts collide. Processions cross one another in narrow streets while helicopters pass overhead and warning sirens occasionally interrupt evening prayer.
The Omer itself already contains this tension. It is not triumph but counting. Not possession but preparation. The grain has not yet become bread. The harvest remains vulnerable to drought, war, fire, politics, exhaustion, and human cruelty. One counts upward while remaining close to the ground.
That movement fascinated me again this year while writing the following Yiddish poem that I wrote these days.
דער עומר און די עליייה
מען הײבט דעם עומר אױף װי געהעריק
אײדער די זוּן פֿאַרברענט די לאַנד־שטחים
אַ מאַס גערשטן, אַ ביסל ערד און שװײס ־
אַ רוּאיקע באַװעגוּנג ־ די אומװעלט ציטערט פֿון אױפֿגײענדיקס.
מען צײלט טעג, טרעפּ און מדריגות
פֿון אָװנט צו אָװנט מיט אונטערבאַהאַלטענער נשימה ־
די זאַנגען װאַקסן ־ ניט אין הימל
נאָר פֿון דער רױטער אדמה צװישן ים, װעלדער און װוּסטענישן.
The Omer and the Ascents
One lifts the Omer properly,
before the sun burns the stretches of land —
a measure of barley, a little earth and sweat —
a quiet movement — the world trembles from what is rising.
One counts days, steps and degrees,
from evening to evening with restrained breath —
the stalks grow — not in heaven,
but from the red earth between sea, forests and deserts.
The counting of the Omer has always been connected to movement. Ancient Judaism linked it to pilgrimage, agricultural labor, revelation, and waiting. But in modern Jerusalem, ascent has acquired additional meanings. Aliyah/עלייה is no longer only pilgrimage toward the Temple or immigration toward Zion. It has become vertical urban existence itself.
People ascend constantly there:
escalators in shopping centers,
concrete staircases climbing impossible slopes,
light rail stations,
hospital elevators,
military observation posts,
parking towers,
bridges,
highways,
apartment blocks rising over old valleys.
The city physically climbs upward even while spiritually uncertain.
And perhaps this is why the old liturgical language still survives here with surprising force. Ancient words continue to inhabit new infrastructures. Elevators become “ma‘aliyot/מעליות close to maalot/מעלות – ascents. Burden and elevation remain linked. One rises while carrying weight.
Saint Thérèse of Lisieux once spoke of wanting an elevator to God instead of heroic spiritual climbing. In Hebrew, that image unexpectedly acquires a literal quality. The aliyot/עליות are also the portions of the weekly reading proclaimed from “high” on the platform in the center of the synagogue from which the Torah is read. Modern ascents are mechanized. Steel cables now perform part of humanity’s vertical longing.
Yet the spiritual uncertainty remains.
הײַיאָר די חדשות זינגען בליִענדיקע געגנטן און כרמים
פֿון לאַנד, פֿון שפֿעדיקער מילעך פֿון די שדות־באָדנס
װאוּ בינען שאַפֿן, װעבן האָניק װי עונג הנחות,
אַרױס פֿון דעם מדבר,
פּוּסט, תּהומדיק, אָן באַזיצן.
מען גײט אַרױף נאָר דורך אַראָפלאָזן
אַזױ בוּקט זיך דער שיבולת אין דעם װינט,
אַזױ פֿאַלט דאָס זױמען אין רײַכער ערד ־
כּדי שפּעטער אױף נײַס אױפֿצושטײן.
This year the news sings of blooming regions and vineyards,
of land, of abundant milk from the soils of the fields,
where bees labor, weaving honey like a delight of repose,
out of the wilderness,
empty, abyssal, without possession.
One ascends only through lowering oneself.
So the ear of grain bends in the wind,
so the seed falls into rich earth —
in order later to rise anew.
The period between Ascension and Pentecost in Eastern Christianity contains a similar paradox. Jesus Christ ascends and disappears from visible presence. The Spirit has not yet descended. Liturgically, something is missing. The Church waits almost exposed, unfinished.
That absence feels deeply familiar in Jerusalem today.
The city is full of unfinished ascents: political, religious, technological,
moral.
The wars of recent years have intensified this sensation. Even when cafés remain open and trains continue moving, many people live with restrained breath. Heat itself seems heavier. Stones retain memory. Entire districts carry invisible layers of grief, fear, exhaustion, vigilance, or expectation.
And yet ordinary life persists with astonishing stubbornness.
People continue carrying bread home for the evening meal.
אין ירושלים גײען מענטשן אױף־אױף־אַרױף מדריגות, סטאַדיעס
מיט מידע פֿיס און ליכטיקע פּנימער
עמעצער טראָגט ברױט־לחם, עמעצער אַ משא
און עמעצער נאָר די שטיקלעך לחם פֿאַר דער װעטשערע.
אַן עלייה איז ניט װי אַ פֿאַן אין דעם װינט,
אָפֿיציעלע נעמען געחתמעט אױף פּאַפּירן ־
דאָך אַ צאַפּלען פֿאַר דער שכינה:
זי שװעבט און פֿאַרפֿאָלגט ־
װי אַ צלם־רוח און יאַגט נאָך די מענטשן.
In Jerusalem people go up-up-up
stairs, terraces, stadiums,
with weary feet and luminous faces.
Someone carries bread,
someone a burden,
and someone only pieces of bread for the evening meal.
An aliyah is not like a flag in the wind,
official names signed upon papers —
rather a trembling before the Shekhinah:
she hovers and pursues,
like a phantom-image spirit chasing after people.
The old Jewish and Christian languages never entirely separated ascent from burden. The Hebrew word ol/עול means both yoke and spiritual obligation. Offerings ascend in smoke, yet those who carry them remain flesh and blood. Revelation itself can become dangerous if detached from humility. Burdens seem to be only heavy while the word shows a light-ascending movement up in the air, refreshingly.
Modern technological civilization often promises ascent without burden: speed without patience, elevation without repentance, connection without rootedness. Jerusalem resists such simplifications. Here, even elevators seem haunted by older meanings.
One still senses that ascent can fail. Sacrifice and destruction may become confused.
Revelation without moral grounding may turn into fire.
אָבער נאָך די נעכטיקע טעג
קוּמען שױן די ענגע װאָכן
װען שטײַנער געדענקען די צאַנקן
און די שכינה װאַנדערט זיך אין דער װילדער װעלט.
דער בית איז חרוב אין רום
אױך אין זײנע חלומדיקע, לשונדיקע װעזן ־
אין צעשפּרײַטע ניגונים בײַ די טױערן פֿון דער גלות
און די קינדער שמועסן זיך פֿרײלעך בשקיעת־השמש.
But after the nightly days
the narrow weeks already come,
when stones remember the flames,
and the Shekhinah wanders through the wild world.
The House lies destroyed in space,
also in its dreamlike, linguistic beings —
in scattered melodies at the gates of exile,
while children chatter joyfully at sunset.
Yet the poem does not end in collapse. Neither the Omer nor Pentecost ultimately celebrates destruction. Both point toward transformation through waiting, ripening, and shared breath.
Perhaps this is why the final imagery returns not to ideology but to attachment:
voices of bridegroom and bride, harvest, fragrance, dancing movement,
and ascent through concrete abysses toward something still unfinished.
דער קציר רוּפֿט װױל צו נחות,
צו תּשוקתדיקער גילה און דיצה,
די זשאַרע ציעט און ציעט אױף און צוזאַמען ־
בײַדע קול חתן און קול כּלה
און זײ בינדן זיך, פֿאַרהאַפֿטן זיך
אין אַ דור־געטרײַעם דבקות.
זײַ שטײַגן ביחד אין דער עלייה אַריבער חיטים און קריאות
שװינדלטרעפּן גראַבעלן זיך, פֿוּסבענקלען זיך
מעליות זינגען שטיל אױף אין בעטאָן־תּהומות ־
די עלייה כאַפּט גאָרניטאָ ־ אַ פּאַרע שײַגט ארױף
דוּפֿטיקע עולות ־ לײַכטיקער עול, פֿריש און פֿוּל־טאַנצנדיק.
The harvest calls gently toward repose,
toward desirous ecstasy and rejoicing.
The heat pulls and pulls upward and together —
both the voice of bridegroom and the voice of bride —
and they bind themselves,
attach themselves,
in a covenant-faithful d’vekes/devekut.
Together they ascend in the aliyah
across wheat and cries.
Escalators crawl upward,
foot-benches climb.
Elevators sing softly upward
inside concrete abysses —
the ascent grasps nothing —
a vapor rises upward,
fragrant burnt-offerings —
a light yoke,
fresh and dancing-full.
Perhaps Jerusalem itself lives permanently in such suspended ascent:
between revelation and exhaustion,
between elevators and pilgrimages,
between technological power and ancient vulnerability,
between destruction and blessing,
between silence and descending breath.
For now, the prayer still waits to be spoken again:
“Heavenly King, Comforter…”
And the city continues counting upward.
