For me, Judaism offers freedom with purpose

Pesach (Chag HaMatzot — “Festival of Unleavened Bread”) is our annual jailbreak story. God smashes Pharaoh’s chains, and we stride into the desert with pockets full of matzah and heads full of possibility. Yet the Torah speaks of two kinds of liberty. Chofesh is release from oppression; cherut is the power to live by chosen ideals. Exodus gives us chofesh; the trek to Sinai is where cherut begins to bloom. 

Seven weeks, 49 days, one simple ritual: each evening we stood, blessed, and announced a number — “Today is day … of the Omer.” The Torah (Lev 23 :15–16) insists we count upward, not downward, teaching that genuine freedom grows in increments. Each night I paused and asked: How did I use today’s freedom? Did I move closer to purpose or drift back toward habit? 

For a season I kept a pocket notebook. Before bed I’d scrawl, “What did I choose intentionally today?” Five seconds of honesty can sting — especially when the answer is, “Scrolled my phone for an hour I can’t remember”. 

The Seder nurtures that habit of curiosity. While many cultures expect children to sit silently, Judaism hands them the microphone: Mah Nishtanah? — “Why is this night different?” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks called ours “the rarest of phenomena: a faith built on asking questions, even the kind that shake faith itself”. 

Why such reverence for questioning? Rashi, on “God created humanity in His image” (Gen 1 :26), says the image is our capacity to understand and discern. Switch that gift off and freedom evaporates; keep it alive and every mitzvah becomes a dialogue instead of a drill. 

Shavuot (Zman Matan Torateinu — “the time of giving our Torah”) crowned the count. A Midrash hears the word harut (“engraved” on the tablets) as cherut (“freedom”): only those who bind themselves to Torah are truly free. 

Modern culture often equates liberty with limitless choice — swipe left, scroll down, pick anything. Yet the paradox of choice is real: walk into an infinite ice cream shop and suddenly vanilla feels impossible to pick. Torah counters that freedom is a purposeful obligation — a sturdy framework through which the soul can thrive and society can function. We agree not to steal so everyone’s property is safe; we honour Shabbat so that time itself gains dignity. Obligation does not crush choice; it channels it. 

This year during the Omer I noticed how often my phone buzzed while I was learning during the week. Each ping felt like Pharaoh tapping my shoulder: “Back to work, slave!” I tried an experiment — airplane mode for the half hour after each night’s count.

It was clumsy at first (I kept checking a silent screen), yet the newly minted quiet soon felt spacious. In that hush I studied a page of Torah, jotted a gratitude line, or simply listened to evening birdsong. Tiny obligations, freely chosen, expanded life instead of shrinking it. 

Though the Omer count has ended and Shavuot has passed, its lessons remain: freedom isn’t just an event — it’s a process. It begins with escape, but must be followed by purpose. So tonight, even without the count, try the practice again. Mute your notifications for ten minutes. Ask one honest question about your day. Then act on one mitzvah — study a verse, set aside a coin for tzedakah, message a friend who might be lonely. 

Even beyond the festivals, freedom flourishes when curiosity stays sharp and purpose stays sacred. The journey from chofesh to cherut never really ends — and that's what makes it holy.