While he views today’s massive crowds as a sign of blessing, he misses the unity that marked the Meron of his childhood— when there was one fire for everyone
It was Erev Lag B’omer, 1945. The Jews of Tzfas had made their yearly journey up the isolated Mount Meron, and were now convened on the roof of the tziyun of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai.
Rav Avraham Leib Zilberman, rav of Tzfas, stood with the torch in his hand, ready to carry out the task entrusted to his family by the Ruzhiner dynasty — to light the fire in honor of Rashbi. But the sky was still shrouded in darkness, with no moon in sight. According to tradition, the fire was only lit when the moon grew visible.
The people of Tzfas and their rav stood and waited. The hour grew later; nine o’clock came and went. Still no moon. A low murmur overtook the crowd: “Let the rav light already, there is no use waiting.” But one of the assembled, a mekubal from Tzfas, silenced the grumbling.
“The rav should not be pressured,” he said. “Wait until the moon appears. Perhaps it is a hint from Above.”
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