Counting Time, Telling Stories

Rabbi Andrea Kulikovsky explores the significance of the Omer, a period of counting from Pesach to Shavuot, and how it can help us reframe our relationship with time and storytelling. She reflects on the ancient practice of counting grain and its connection to our modern lives, encouraging listeners to consider the stories they tell about their days and the moments of meaning they cultivate. By examining the Omer's spiritual significance, Rabbi Kulikovsky offers a fresh perspective on how we can use this period to deepen our sense of purpose and connection.

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What is Kolot: Voices from The Ark Synagogue?

Welcome to Kolot, the podcast of The Ark Synagogue, a bold, experiential and caring Progressive Jewish community in Northwood, London.

Through sermons, reflections and conversations from across our community, Kolot explores Jewish life, learning and values in the world we live in today. Rooted in tradition and open to new perspectives, these episodes bring together voices that inspire thought, connection and belonging.

Whether you are Jewish, exploring Judaism, or simply looking for meaningful reflection, you are warmly welcome.

To learn more about The Ark Synagogue, visit arksynagogue.org.

There is something special about the Omer. Every night, we stand and count: Day one. Day two. Day three.

But this ritual didn’t begin with numbers. It began with grain—a handful of barley, cut from the earth at the beginning of the harvest.

The Omer is one of the rare moments where Judaism remembers something ancient: we were not always a people of books. We were a people of fields. We watched the land, depended on the rain, and measured time not by calendars but by whether something would grow.

Counting the Omer was never abstract. It was a question: Will there be food? Will the earth respond? Will we be sustained?

And so we counted—not just to mark time, but to give it meaning, and to tell our stories.

We repeat in the Shema:

“Teach them to your children and speak of them.”

And the prophet Joel teaches:

“Tell it to your children, and your children to their children, and their children to another generation.”

These are not just poetic lines. They are instructions for survival.

We are not only a people of laws. We are a people of stories. From the Pesach Seder to the Talmud, from family tables to synagogue pulpits, our identity is built ledor vador, generation to generation, through what we choose to remember and how we tell it.

I learned something about counting long before I thought about the Omer. When I was younger, I used to go to my grandmother’s house every other Sunday. We weren’t especially close, but we had a ritual. After lunch, just before we left, she would call each grandchild, one by one. And she would bless us.

I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember the feeling. Standing in front of her. Waiting. Knowing that, for a moment, I was completely seen. And I remember something else: I felt something move through me—like warmth, like energy. Years later, I still carry that blessing.

And yet, there are parts of her story I don’t know. Gaps I cannot fill.

And this is where the Omer enters. Because the Omer is not just about counting. The Torah commands us to count seven complete weeks—from Pesach to Shavuot. In ancient times, this marked the journey from the barley harvest to the wheat harvest—from something simple to something more refined.

But spiritually, it became something deeper: a time of preparation, of tikkun hanefesh—the work of the soul—a journey from freedom to revelation.

And so the Omer becomes a kind of storytelling through time. Each day is a moment. Each week, a layer. Seven weeks, a journey: from Egypt to Sinai, from rupture to responsibility.

The Omer asks not only: “What day is it?” But: “What story am I telling with my days?”

In past years, I began a practice during the Omer: not only counting days, but counting blessings. Because if stories shape identity, we have to ask: which stories are we telling about our lives?

We are very good at remembering our failures. But what about the kindness we offered, the courage we showed, the love we received? If we do not tell those stories, they disappear.

So counting becomes an act of remembering differently. Day by day, I try to write a fuller story of who I am.

Since rabbinic school—and now as a rabbi—I have shared these reflections publicly. Not because I have answers, but because I believe something deeply: we are still living ledor vador, but the medium has changed.

Today, storytelling happens not only around the table, but also online. And if Jewish identity is shaped by the stories we transmit, then our responsibility is to keep telling them—in ways that are honest, accessible, and alive.

Because in the end, time is not just counted. It is lived.

In these first months as a rabbi, I have learned that what sustains us are not only ideas, but encounters. A conversation. A shared silence. A smile. A blessing. These are the places where we find God—not outside of time, but inside it.

The Omer reminds us that we are not only inheritors of stories. We are their authors. Day by day. Choice by choice. We are writing the story that will be told to our children, and their children, and the next generation.

In the ancient world, we counted grain. Today, we count days. But perhaps what we are really counting is moments of meaning, moments of connection, moments of becoming.

The harvest is no longer only in the field. It is in us.

So this year, I begin again—not just counting days, but gathering something. Like sheaves: small moments, small blessings, small stories. Holding them, one by one—

And I pray: may we tell stories that expand who we are. And may the stories we tell be worthy of being passed on.