He points out a simple truth: When we wash our clothes on a rainy day, we have to work so hard to dry them. But while we're sleeping soundly, the Holy One, blessed be He, sends a little wind and dries the whole land! It’s a beautiful reminder that even the most ordinary things are gifts.

And it's a point that Vayikra Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Leviticus, really hammers home.

Rabbi Avin wants us to consider the effort the Israelites put into the omer offering. The omer was a grain offering, specifically barley, brought to the Temple in Jerusalem during the spring harvest. It's described in Leviticus 23:9-14. Now, listen to this: They harvested the barley, placed it in baskets, and brought it to the Temple courtyard. Then, they'd singe it in the fire. Why? To fulfill the mitzvah, the commandment, of offering parched grain. That’s according to Rabbi Meir, at least.

Other rabbis had slightly different traditions. They say the harvesters would beat the barley with reeds and cabbage stalks. This wasn't just some casual whack-a-mole, mind you. It was a carefully calibrated process to separate the kernels without crushing them, so it wasn't considered standard threshing. They'd then place the grain in a perforated vessel so the fire could reach every part of it. Finally, they'd spread it in the Temple courtyard, letting the wind blow through it. After all that, it went to a mill to be ground into grits.

And after all that, what did they get? Just one-tenth of an ephah of barley flour, sifted through thirteen sieves! That’s meticulous! (Mishnah Menachot 10:4).

Rabbi Levi puts it this way: You plow, sow, hoe, trim, reap, sheaf, thresh, and pile the grain. But if the Holy One, blessed be He, didn't send a little wind to winnow it – to separate the grain from the chaff – where would your sustenance come from? You're basically just paying for the wind! He then quotes Ecclesiastes 5:15, interpreting it as "What advantage is there for he who toils for the wind?" The toil of the omer offering, he suggests, is rewarded by the wind God provides.

These rabbis are driving at something profound: We might do all the work, but there’s always a divine element, a moment of grace, that makes it all possible.

Now, this next story is a bit of a detour, but it offers a different kind of insight. It's about Rabbi Shimon ben Rabbi (that's Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi's son) getting married. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, a major figure in Jewish history known for compiling the Mishnah, invited all the rabbis to the wedding... except for Bar Kappara.

Ouch.

So, what does Bar Kappara do? He writes a message on Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi's gate: "After your rejoicing you die. What profit is there for your rejoicing?"

Talk about a party pooper!

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi saw it and asked who was behind it. They told him it was Bar Kappara, whom he hadn't invited. So, he decided to throw another feast just for Bar Kappara.

But Bar Kappara wasn't done yet.

When the food came out, he told three hundred parables about the fox. Seriously! The food got cold, and nobody ate anything. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi asked what was going on, and his attendants explained that this "elder" was spinning endless fox tales.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi confronted Bar Kappara, asking why he was preventing the guests from eating. Bar Kappara’s response? He didn't want people to think he only came for the food. The real reason he was upset wasn't that he missed the first feast, but that he was excluded from his colleagues. He felt slighted, not as an individual, but as part of a community. (Kohelet Rabbah 1:3 adds that Bar Kappara concluded his statement with the verse: “What profit is there for man in all his toil that he toils under the sun?” (Ecclesiastes 1:3), the same verse that fueled his gate message).

Eventually, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and Bar Kappara reconciled. But this story is a fascinating reminder that sometimes, our actions, even our celebrations, can have unintended consequences. And that community, belonging, and recognition are deeply important.

So, what do these two seemingly different stories have in common? Perhaps it's this: They both remind us to look beyond the surface, to acknowledge the hidden hands that shape our lives, and to appreciate the gifts, both large and small, that we often take for granted. And maybe, just maybe, to be a little more mindful of who we include – and exclude – from our celebrations.