As I write this, traditional Jews are counting the Omer – the forty-nine day period between the exodus and the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai. And every year, I wonder, what it would have been like to be there? What would it have been like to be present at the moment when the Torah came into the world?

The Torah teaches that Mt. Sinai was filled with smoke. There was thunder and lightning, and the sound of the Shofar filled the camp. And then suddenly, the voice rang out, “I am the Lord your God.” It was a voice so powerful, the Torah tells us, that the people could see the voice.

But there are other versions as well. After the lightning and the thunder, the Midrash tells us, there was a profound silence – a moment when each of us could silence our inner worries and see the holiness in others.

And Sefat Emet taught that the experience of being together – of seeing each other in a deep, profound way – was more important than the words. “At the moment that the words came forth,” he taught, “the people saw the root of life. They looked in each other’s eyes and saw God’s presence in each other’s souls. They did not have to believe the words; they only had to see the voice of God in each other.”

Perhaps, after the thunder and the lightning, after the fire and the earthquakes, God only taught us one thing: take care of each other. Don’t be deaf to a baby’s cry. Don’t be deaf to the people around you, to the poor and the sick and the lonely. If one of My children is hurting, help them. If one of My children is lonely, sit with them. If one of My children needs to share their joy, dance with them.

There’s a moment, midway through the Torah, when God tells the people to bring a half-shekel tax. The rich shall not give more and the poor shall not give less, the Torah tells us, an external offering for all time. For generations, the rabbis wondered: why such an odd amount? Was a shekel too much?

“Every Jew was required to look at his half-shekel,” taught one Chassidic master, “and to realize that his donation was incomplete.  The other half-shekel would have to come from someone else.  As long as we have community, the other half-shekel will be there.”

And another Chassidic master asked, “Why a half shekel?” To teach us that none of us are complete. All of us rely on someone else to give the other half shekel. We need a community filled with love and connection.”

This, perhaps, is the central teaching of the Torah. All of us are broken. All of us are only a half-shekel. But if we listen to the cry of the other, if we care for them and do our best to make their lives better, then the world will become whole.

May we listen to each other – to the laughter, the joy, the cries. And in each other’s words, may we find the Oneness of God.