We recite a blessing every evening for 49 nights during the Omer count. But why do we need to count each and every day?
The Point of the Gift
One of the classic explanations for the mitzvah of counting the Omer—the 49-day stretch between Passover and Shavuot—is rooted in a powerful moment in Jewish history.
When the Jewish people were freed from slavery in Egypt, they immediately asked Moses: “When will we receive the Torah?” Moses told them: In fifty days.
This anticipation is hinted at in a verse early in the book of Exodus, where G-d tells Moses: “When you bring the people out of Egypt, you’ll serve G-d on this mountain”—referring to Mount Sinai.
There’s an interesting detail here in the Hebrew. The word for “you’ll serve” is ta’avdun, with a seemingly extra letter at the end: the Hebrew letter nun. That letter has the numerical value of 50—hinting to the fifty-day countdown between the Exodus and the giving of the Torah.
So what did the people do with this information? They started counting. One day closer. Then another. And another.
But here’s the question: Why didn’t G-d give them the Torah immediately after they left Egypt? Why make them wait seven weeks altogether?
Our sages explain that while the people had physically left Egypt, they hadn’t yet left Egypt internally. Spiritually, they were still stuck in the mindset of slavery. In fact, Kabbalah teaches that they were sunk in what’s called “the 49 gates of impurity”—basically, a state of spiritual rock bottom. If G-d had waited even one moment longer to take them out, they might have lost themselves entirely.
So the journey wasn’t just one of geography. Those 49 days weren’t filler—they were a necessary process of spiritual growth.
In fact, the Hebrew word for “ill,” choleh, has the same numerical value as 49. It’s as if the Jewish people were spiritually sick when they left Egypt, and each day of the Omer was a step toward recovery.
There’s one more fascinating detail here. Usually, when we’re waiting for something exciting—say, a vacation—we count down: 10 days left, 9, 8…
But during the Omer, we count up: “Today is one day of the Omer, today is two days of the Omer…” Why?
Because this isn’t about killing time until an event arrives. It’s about building up. Each day is an accomplishment, a step forward. We’re not just waiting for the Torah—we’re becoming the kind of people who are ready to receive it.
It’s the same in our personal lives. We should be counting the days and years we’ve lived—not the ones we have left. And it’s not just because no one knows how much time they have. It’s because what truly matters is what we’ve done with the time we’ve already had.
There’s a phrase in the Torah that describes someone as having “come with his days”—ba bayamim (Bereishis 24:1). The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 59:1) explains this to mean that his days were full—each one lived with intention, each one carrying spiritual weight. The Zohar (Vol. I, 126a) adds that a person’s days rise up to testify before G-d: whether they were full of meaning—or empty.
That’s how we should be counting—like we count the Omer. Not just watching the days go by, but using them. Making each one matter. Asking ourselves not “How many days until…?” but “What did I do with today?”
That’s the essence of the Omer: 49 days of growth—each day an opportunity to prepare ourselves for something greater.
Counting the Days
What exactly is the “content” we’re meant to fill these days of the Omer with? What kind of preparation does it take to truly get ready for the Giving of the Torah?
The Arizal—Rabbi Yitzchak Luria (1534–1572), one of the great teachers of Kabbalah—provides a framework. According to his teachings, the seven weeks of Sefiras HaOmer correspond to the refinement of seven core human attributes—seven traits that make up the emotional and moral character of a person.
In Kabbalistic thought, each of these seven traits is linked with a specific Biblical figure—individuals who embody those qualities. You might recognize them as the ushpizin, the spiritual guests we symbolically invite into our sukkahs during the holiday of Sukkos.
To visualize this, imagine a simple chart with two columns and seven rows. The left column is labeled “Attribute,” and the right column, “Biblical Figure.”
Avraham – Chesed
Let’s begin with the first row of our chart: Chesed on the left, and Avraham—Abraham—on the right.
Chesed means “lovingkindness.” And Abraham, our first patriarch, is the model of that quality.
His approach to spreading faith in G-d wasn’t through arguments or debates—it was through generosity and kindness. As the Talmud tells it (Sotah 10b), Abraham either planted an orchard or built an inn, stocked with all kinds of food and drink. When travelers came by, he welcomed them in and gave them a meal. And when they thanked him, he would gently correct them: “Was it my food you ate? No—it was G-d’s food! Thank the One who spoke and the world came into being.”
Abraham was the original Chabad shliach—feeding people, welcoming them in, and using that moment to share something deeper.
The Talmud (Bava Basra 16b) says that a precious stone hung from Abraham’s neck, and anyone who looked at it was healed. Whether that’s literal or symbolic, the message is clear—being in Abraham’s presence brought healing. As the Sefer HaBahir, one of the earliest Kabbalistic texts, puts it: The attribute of kindness complained to G-d, “As long as Abraham was in the world, I didn’t have a job—he was doing it for me!”
Even when G-d wanted to destroy Sodom, it was Abraham who pleaded for mercy. The Midrash says that the verse, “As a father has compassion on his children,” (Tehillim 103:13) refers to Abraham.
And Abraham’s own connection to G-d was rooted in love. The prophet Isaiah calls him “Avraham ohavi”—“Abraham, My beloved” (Yeshayahu 41:8). In the High Holiday prayers, we read: “Remember the one drawn after You like water”—a reference to Abraham, whose love for G-d was simple and flowing, like water pulled to a source.
That’s what we focus on during the first week of Sefiras HaOmer—developing chesed, the trait of love and kindness.
It begins with loving each other: Am I willing to step out of my comfort zone to do something kind for someone else? Am I ready to give, even when it’s not convenient?
But it also means cultivating love for G-d. And that doesn’t require deep philosophy. It can be as simple as thinking: G-d gives me life. Breath. A body that works. A roof over my head. And just like a child naturally loves a parent who provides for them, I, too, can feel love for the One who gives me everything.
That’s the first step in the Omer journey: learning to love—and learning to let that love move us to act.
Yitzchak – Gevurah
Now, the second row: gevurah on the left, and Yitzchak on the right.
While Avraham served G-d out of love, Yitzchak served G-d out of awe.
Yitzchak was deeply awed by G-d’s greatness, which led him to a state of total surrender.
Yitzchak’s way of serving G-d was marked by self-discipline. His awe of G-d wasn’t based on fear of punishment. After all, that’s not true awe—that’s just fear.
Imagine someone whose father gave him a large sum of money to open a business. If he loses it all, he’s not necessarily afraid his father will punish him—but he’s ashamed to face him. He feels he’s let him down.
Similarly, a person should reflect on how G-d gives them life, health, family, abundance—everything they need to fulfill their mission in this world—and yet they waste their time and resources. That thought alone should awaken a sense of shame. Shame at having let down the One who gave them everything.
This awe is what is meant by gevurah. Since Yitzchak served G-d out of awe, out of gevurah, Yitzchak symbolizes gevurah.
That is the kind of awe we refer to with gevurah. And because Yitzchak served G-d in this way, he represents the quality of gevurah.
There’s something interesting about Yitzchak’s story. When we read about the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac, most people picture Yitzchak as a small child being offered on the altar. But when we examine the actual account, we find that Yitzchak was in fact 37 years old. So why is the Akeidah considered a test for Avraham? Yitzchak was the one being sacrificed!
Even more striking—G-d didn’t appear to Yitzchak. He didn’t speak to him or command him directly. Yet Yitzchak went along, knowingly and willingly, like a sheep to the slaughter.
Despite all this, the test is considered one for Avraham, not Yitzchak.
Let’s be honest: if any one of us were told by our 137-year-old father, “G-d told me to offer you as a sacrifice,” we wouldn’t exactly go along with it quietly. At best, we might say, “If G-d really wants that, let Him tell me, too. Why should I take your word for it?”
So the question is, why indeed didn’t G-d reveal Himself to Yitzchak and tell him directly?
The answer is because Yitzchak symbolizes gevurah.
Since his entire spiritual path was based on awe of G-d, the Akeidah wasn’t a major test for him. He simply did what G-d wanted.
There’s a story of three kings boasting about the discipline of their soldiers. The King of Germany calls in a soldier and orders him to jump out the window. The soldier pleads for his life. The same thing happens with the King of Hungary. But when the Czar of Russia gives the order, his soldier simply asks, “Which window, Your Majesty?”
That’s the kind of awe we’re talking about. That was Yitzchak’s way. If he heard that this was what G-d wanted, he followed without question. Like a soldier, he stood at attention and obeyed.
So for Yitzchak, the Akeidah wasn’t a major test.
But for Avraham, whose life’s mission was rooted in love and kindness—even if it hadn’t involved his own son—it was a huge test. It went against his very nature. That’s why the Akeidah is considered a test for Avraham, not for Yitzchak.
This is the spiritual work of the second week of the Omer: to develop our own sense of awe of G-d. To build restraint. To train ourselves to overcome our urges and impulses. As our Sages teach (Pirkei Avos 4:1), “Who is mighty? One who conquers his inclination.”
Yaakov- Tiferes
We now come to the third row: Tiferes in the left column, and Yaakov—Jacob—on the right.
Our Patriarch Yaakov symbolizes the third emotional quality in the Kabbalistic framework of the seven core traits that make up the human personality. This is tiferes, which means “beauty.”
Tiferes refers to the beauty that comes from harmony—like a rainbow made up of multiple colors blending together. Emotionally, tiferes is a balanced blend of chesed (kindness) and gevurah (discipline)—a harmony of love and restraint. These qualities, when combined, produce a mature and thoughtful kind of giving.
Tiferes is also closely related to rachamim, the Hebrew word for mercy. That’s why Yaakov represents rachamim.
So what’s the difference between chesed and rachamim—between pure loving-kindness and mercy? Chesed is all love. It’s open, unlimited, and nonstop. It’s when someone gives simply because they have the urge to give, without much concern for whether the recipient needs it or not. It’s like a river that just flows and flows, regardless of what’s downstream.
Rachamim, on the other hand—tiferes—is thoughtful giving. It doesn’t come from a need to give, but from an awareness of the recipient’s needs. It’s giving that takes into account whether what you’re giving is truly helpful.
To illustrate: chesed might give an alcoholic a bottle of whiskey—“Well, he asked for it, and I don’t want to say no!” That’s unfiltered kindness. But rachamim steps back and says, “Wait—what does this person really need?” It’s love guided by wisdom. And in that sense, rachamim is greater than chesed.
We see something fascinating when we look at the stories of our Patriarchs.
Avraham had two sons: Yishmael and Yitzchak. One followed in his path, and the other went off in a different direction. Yitzchak also had two sons: Yaakov and Eisav—again, one stayed the course, one did not. But Yaakov had thirteen children—and every one of them remained loyal to the belief in one G-d.
How did Yaakov succeed where even Avraham and Yitzchak fell short? It’s not like he had ideal conditions—Avraham and Yitzchak raised their children in Be’er Sheva, in the Land of Israel, near good people. Yaakov raised his family in Charan—spiritually speaking, the Las Vegas of the ancient world—right next to Lavan the Aramean! And still, all of his children stayed on the path.
One possible explanation is this:
Avraham was pure chesed, overflowing kindness. That worked well for Yitzchak, who had a nature that responded to structure and discipline. But Yishmael, exposed to the same endless love, misused it—he took advantage of that generosity and spiraled out of control.
Yitzchak, on the other hand, was pure gevurah—strictness and restraint. That approach worked for Yaakov, who was naturally more humble and receptive. But it didn’t work for Eisav, who was already inclined toward strength and assertiveness—when met with more discipline, he pushed back and rejected everything.
Yaakov, however, embodied tiferes and rachamim. He had a unique ability to look at each of his children individually, understand their inner needs, and respond accordingly. He didn’t educate them based on his own nature as a parent, but based on what each child needed.
Yaakov could step outside of himself and be truly objective. To one child, he gave more chesed; to another, more gevurah. He didn’t treat them all the same—he gave what was best for each one. And that’s how he succeeded in raising thirteen strong, committed children—even in the difficult and spiritually dangerous environment of Charan.
During the third week of the Counting of the Omer, we focus on developing this quality of tiferes—a love that’s not just generous, but thoughtful. A giving that’s measured, compassionate, and based not on what we want to give, but on what the other person truly needs.
Moshe – Netzach
Now we’re up to the fourth row: netzach in the left column, and Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses—on the right.
So what is netzach? The word has two meanings: as an adjective, it means “eternal”—something that lasts forever; and as a noun, it means “victory,” like winning a battle or achieving a difficult goal.
Moshe Rabbeinu represents netzach because he gave us the Torah, which is eternal. Everything Moshe accomplished had lasting power. In fact, the parts of the Mishkan—the portable Temple in the desert—that Moshe himself built are said to still exist today, hidden away in a secret location.
There’s even a deeper example: One reason Moshe wasn’t allowed to enter the Land of Israel was because if he had built the Beis HaMikdash, the Holy Temple, it could never have been destroyed. Why? Because Moshe’s work doesn’t fade—it’s forever.
And that would have created a major problem. Later in history, there came a time when the Jewish people and the Temple could no longer coexist. If the Temple had been built by Moshe, it would have had to remain. The only other option—G-d forbid—would have been to remove the people instead. So G-d didn’t let Moshe build it, because his handiwork was indestructible.
So what does netzach look like in real life?
It means that when we do something good, we should do it in a way that gives it staying power—make it last. When you take on a mitzvah or a new positive habit, don’t let it fade after a week or a month. Turn it into something permanent, something that becomes part of who you are.
For example, if you start lighting Shabbat candles, do it with the mindset that this is forever. Not just at home, but even on vacation, even on a cruise. Wherever you are—make it an eternal mitzvah.
But netzach also means victory—like winning a war.
Every Jew faces a daily inner battle with what Chassidus calls the nefesh habehamis, the animal soul. In plain terms, this refers to the human drives and instincts—the part of us that just wants to eat, indulge, or take it easy. And our mission is to win that battle. To rise above our impulses and stay focused on what really matters.
But why do we face so many struggles in life? Why is the journey so full of tests?
The Rebbe explains that life’s challenges are designed to bring out your strengths—to help you become more spiritually refined. And the more challenges you face, the more you discover what you’re really capable of.
It’s like the guy who finds out he can cook when his wife goes out of town—or the person who gets fired from their job and ends up starting a successful business. The pressure reveals the potential that was hiding inside all along.
That’s what netzach is. It’s about uncovering those inner strengths you didn’t know you had—and using them for good.
Every challenge in life is a call to rise, to grow, to dig deeper and find more within yourself. Netzach is the part of us that says: “Don’t quit. Push through. You’ve got this.”
During the fourth week of Sefiras HaOmer, we focus on netzach—developing endurance, consistency, and the strength to win the daily battles of life.
Hod – Aharon
We now arrive at the fifth row: Hod in the left column, and Aharon, Aaron the High Priest, in the right.
Hod means “splendor.”
This quality is symbolized by Aharon the Kohen Gadol because he wore the magnificent Bigdei Kehunah, the priestly garments, which radiated splendor and majesty. Anyone who saw Aharon dressed in his priestly robes couldn’t help but be impressed.
But Aharon’s splendor wasn’t just in his clothing. His attitude and conduct brought honor and beauty to G-d, to the Torah, and to Judaism as a whole. Aharon was famously known as a lover of peace and a pursuer of peace—he went to great lengths to bring harmony between people and between individuals and G-d.
The Midrash tells us that if someone cursed Aharon, he would respond by blessing them. It also says that Aharon would personally go from tent to tent, teaching people how to recite the Shema and other prayers, and even helping them learn how to study Torah. Imagine that—the High Priest himself offering private Hebrew lessons door to door!
And when Aharon passed someone known to be a sinner, he always greeted them with warmth and respect. Later, when that person was about to sin again, he would stop and think: “How could I do that? How can I face Aharon tomorrow after he treated me with such kindness?” And just like that, Aharon would bring people back, without judgment or lectures—just through love and dignity.
This is why, according to our sages, the Jewish people mourned Aharon’s passing even more than Moshe’s. In fact, the Midrash says that 80,000 baby boys were named “Aharon” after his death in tribute to his impact.
Aharon dedicated his life to helping others connect with G-d. He made people feel uplifted and inspired. Just by being around him, people would say, “I want my kids to grow up like that.”
And this is the lesson of hod—to be a personal ambassador for G-d, for Judaism, and for the Jewish people. The way we speak, behave, and carry ourselves leaves an impression. When someone sees a Jew acting with dignity and kindness, it reflects on all of Torah. But when someone sees a Jew acting negatively, it reflects just the same.
Hod means dignity. It means carrying ourselves with pride and grace—not arrogance, but a quiet sense of honor. Aharon showed us how: to radiate warmth, humility, and holiness in a way that inspires others.
In the fifth week of the Counting of the Omer, we focus on this quality of hod—on finding the inner splendor in ourselves and showing it through how we live.
Yesod – Yosef
Now we’re up to the sixth week, and the sixth row: Yesod in the left column, and Yosef—Joseph—in the right.
We all know Yosef, the second-youngest of the Twelve Tribes, who was sold into slavery by his own brothers. But what sets him apart is that he is the only one among the “Seven Shepherds of Israel”—the seven spiritual figures we’ve been discussing—who is referred to as the Tzaddik, “Yosef HaTzaddik,” Joseph the Righteous.
So why, out of all the Ushpizin, is Yosef the only one given this unique title?
To understand that, we need to take a quick look at Yosef’s life.
Yosef had an incredibly difficult life. First, his own brothers turned against him and sold him into slavery. He was brought down to Egypt and faced one trial after another. One of the greatest tests of his life was later, when he had risen to power and his brothers came to Egypt seeking food. In that moment, he had every opportunity—and every reason—to take revenge. But he didn’t.
Still, Yosef’s most difficult test was his encounter with Potiphar’s wife. As the Talmud tells us, she tried to seduce him every single day for an entire year. And Yosef, a young man alone in a foreign land, with no family or community to support him, withstood the test.
Because he passed that test, Yosef earned the title “HaTzaddik”—the Righteous One. And that quality, the ability to remain committed under pressure, is what the Kabbalistic trait of yesod represents: foundation and loyalty.
It’s called “foundation” because strong moral character—especially in the realm of relationships and family—is the foundation of Jewish life, and really, of all human society.
In the time of Noah, the generation of the Great Flood was destroyed because, as the Torah says, “all flesh had corrupted its way.” Rashi explains that wherever there is widespread immorality and idol worship, chaos follows. Society can’t stand without a strong moral foundation.
That’s why yesod—which stands for commitment, loyalty, and self-control—is linked with Yosef.
During the sixth week of Sefiras HaOmer, we work on our yesod—on strengthening our sense of loyalty: to our families, to our spouses, to our friends and communities, and to the values that hold our lives together.
David – Malchus
And now, we come to the seventh and final row in our chart. In the bottom left column we place malchus, and in the right column, Dovid—the famous King David.
Malchus, understandably, means “kingship,” “dominion,” or “sovereignty.” But in terms of human emotional experience, malchus refers to the deep awareness that nothing exists or happens on its own—that everything comes from G-d. That everything is under His sovereignty.
This trait is perfectly symbolized by Dovid HaMelech, King David, whose entire life expressed this recognition.
In fact, Dovid—the great king of Israel—was considered by his own brothers to be of questionable birth. They rejected him and kept him at a distance, sending him out to the fields to tend the sheep because they were ashamed of him. Even his father Yishai seemed to go along with this treatment.
Then came the day when the prophet Shmuel was sent by G-d to anoint one of Yishai’s sons as the future king of Israel. One by one, Shmuel saw each of Yishai’s sons, but G-d did not choose any of them. Finally, Shmuel asked, “Have the lads ceased?”—in other words, “Is that all? Do you have any more sons?”
Only then did Yishai call for Dovid. And immediately, G-d spoke to Shmuel and said, “Rise and anoint him, for he is the one.” (Shmuel I, 16:12) Dovid would not become king through personal merit, status, or inheritance—but purely because G-d had chosen him.
In plain English, Dovid wasn’t full of himself.
On the contrary—he was humble and innocent, deeply connected to G-d, like a baby clings to its mother. He understood that his role as king had nothing to do with his own strength or greatness.
In the seventh and final week of Sefiras HaOmer, we work on developing this emotional trait of malchus. That means stepping out of our own ego and surrendering to something greater—to G-d, the true King.
How do we do this in daily life? By recognizing that everything we have is from G-d. All of our successes—our talents, our opportunities, the family we were born into, even the timing of our lives—are not our doing. Many people with similar skills or in the same field don’t succeed. If we do, it’s because G-d granted us success.
Living with malchus means not just believing in G-d on paper—but internalizing it so deeply that we live each day with that awareness. It means truly letting G-d in—not just into our minds, but into our hearts and actions.
When Dovid was anointed and his inner malchus was awakened, he was transformed. He went from a simple shepherd to the mighty—but still humble—King David. His life was never the same. And when we bring this sense of malchus into our own lives, we, too, can be transformed for the better.
May the personal growth we experience through Sefiras HaOmer—even if it seems small—accumulate in the bigger picture and help bring the arrival of Moshiach, speedily in our days. Amen.
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