Knowing Where We Come From

Eve PosenLeave a comment

There is a deceptively simple question underneath Parshat Vayeshev: Who belongs, and who gets to decide?

Vayeshev opens with a quiet but powerful line: “Vayeshev Yaakov b’eretz megurei aviv, b’eretz Canaan.” “Jacob settled in the land where his father had sojourned, in the land of Canaan.” The Torah does not rush past this. It names the land twice. Jacob is not just living somewhere; he is living where he comes from. And almost immediately, that sense of rootedness is challenged.

Joseph, Yaakov’s beloved son, dreams. He sees himself standing tall, recognized, destined. And the response from his brothers is swift and brutal. They strip him of his coat, throw him into a pit, and sell him away. Long before Joseph is physically exiled, he is symbolically erased; his belonging questioned, his place among them denied.

This pattern should feel uncomfortably familiar.

Joseph is not attacked for what he has done, but for what he represents. His dreams threaten the story the brothers want to tell about themselves. So they rewrite it. They recast Joseph not as kin, but as an outsider. Once he is no longer “one of us,” violence becomes possible and permissible. The Torah is warning us that the most dangerous act is not disagreement, but erasure.

This is the same dynamic we see today when the question “Where do Jews come from?” is distorted or avoided. The answer is not complicated. We come from the Land of Israel. Historically, spiritually, linguistically, and ritually, our story is rooted there. Zion is not an idea layered onto Jewish identity; it is its foundation.

Zionism, at its core, is simply the affirmation that the Jewish people have the right to live freely and safely in the land from which we come. And yet that affirmation is increasingly framed as immoral, colonial, or illegitimate, often through the language of human rights. But human rights language, when used to deny one people their indigeneity and their right to self-determination, stops being moral and starts being a weapon.

Like Joseph’s brothers, anti-Zionism often begins by stripping Jews of context: history, roots, and belonging. It recasts an indigenous people as interlopers, a native story as a conspiracy, a homecoming as a crime. And once belonging is denied, anything can be justified.

Let’s be clear, as our tradition demands honesty, criticizing Israeli policies is legitimate and necessary. Advocating for Palestinian dignity is essential. But denying Jewish peoplehood, history, and origin is something else entirely.

Joseph survives because the Torah refuses to erase him, even when his brothers try. His story continues. His dreams endure. And ultimately, it is Joseph’s rootedness, his unwavering sense of who he is, that saves his family.

Vayeshev challenges us to resist narratives that shrink identity and flatten history. It asks us to hold firm to truth, even when it is uncomfortable or unpopular. We know where we come from. And knowing that is not about supremacy; it is about survival. Shabbat shalom.

The Apology that Limped

Eve PosenLeave a comment

This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on December 5, 2025.

There are few Torah scenes as emotionally charged, or as painfully relatable, as the reunion between Jacob and Esau in Parashat Vayishlach. It’s the kind of moment that makes you want to reach for popcorn and tissues.

Remember: the last time these brothers saw each other, Jacob was running for his life after stealing Esau’s blessing. Not exactly an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher. Decades pass. Jacob builds a family. Esau builds an army—at least, that’s how it looks when he approaches with 400 men.

The night before they meet, Jacob is left alone and wrestles with a mysterious figure until daybreak. He emerges with a limp and a blessing, but also with a new name: Yisrael. The one who wrestles. It’s as if Torah is telling us: “Before you face the person you hurt or who hurt you, you must first wrestle with yourself.”

Then dawn comes. Jacob limps forward. Esau runs toward him. And instead of revenge, Esau throws his arms around Jacob’s neck and weeps.

Here’s the part I find so moving: Esau does not give a polished apology. There’s no “I’ve been doing a lot of reflection, and I want to own my part in this conflict.” There’s no mutual processing with a box of tissues and a feelings wheel. There’s just an embrace. A gesture that says, “I missed you,” even if he never says the words “I’m sorry.”

And Jacob, who has every reason to be cautious, receives it. He allows that imperfect gesture to open the door to reconciliation, even if their paths ultimately diverge again.

So often we wait for the perfect apology, the one that hits all the right notes, includes footnotes and a bibliography, and arrives with a gift basket. But most human apologies are like Jacob’s limp: awkward, incomplete, evidence of a wound that’s still healing.

Vayishlach reminds us that apologizing requires courage, but so does accepting an apology that isn’t everything we hoped for. We mend relationships not because they’re perfect, but because we choose to step toward each other anyway.

May we learn to offer apologies that are brave, to receive apologies with generosity, and to trust that even imperfect steps can lead us toward wholeness.

Beneath the Mask

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on November 22, 2025.

We all wear masks. Some are subtle: a practiced smile, a calm tone when we’re anything but calm, the “I’m fine” we offer even when we’re overwhelmed. Others are more deliberate: the persona we step into at work, the identity we hold in certain circles, the version of ourselves we hope others will find easier to love. These masks aren’t always dishonest; often, they’re protective. But they can also keep us from being fully seen.

Parshat Toldot is a masterclass in masks and mistaken identities.

Jacob, urged on by Rebekah, disguises himself to receive the blessing meant for Esau. He puts on Esau’s clothes, covers his arms in goatskin, changes his voice enough—or maybe Isaac wants to believe enough—that the blessing is given. It’s a scene filled with tension, heartbreak, and a kind of spiritual claustrophobia. No one is being fully honest; no one is being fully themselves.

But the most striking line in the whole episode is Isaac’s vulnerable question:
“Ha’atah zeh b’ni Esav? — Are you really my son Esau?” (Gen. 27:24).

It’s a question that echoes far beyond the story. It’s the question we ask, consciously or not, every time we wonder who someone truly is beneath the layers they show the world. And it’s the question others ask of us—even when they don’t say it out loud.

Isaac is physically blind, but everyone else in the story is emotionally or spiritually blinded: by fear of the future, by favoritism, by the pressure to fulfill a promise. Masks become easier than vulnerability.

But here’s the twist: the blessing Jacob receives, intended for Esau, delivered under disguise, ultimately shapes Jacob into who he becomes. The Torah seems to say that even when we hide, even when we show only fragments of ourselves, God still sees us wholly. And eventually, we must learn to see one another fully, too.

The invitation of Toldot is to cultivate communities where people don’t need to hide, where we make the brave choice to see and be seen. Because when someone truly sees us, not the mask but the person beneath, something inside softens. The blessings become real. The relationships deepen. The story can move forward. This week, may we practice lifting the masks—our own and others’. May we ask with compassion, “Who are you, really?” And may we create spaces where the answer is safe, welcomed, and held with love.

The Cost of Silence

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on November 8, 2025.

There’s a moment many of us know well: that split second when we notice something isn’t right, when our gut says, “Say something…do something,” and yet our fear whispers back, “Maybe stay quiet.” We replay this moment in schools, workplaces, at family tables, and in our communities. And Parshat Vayera meets us right at that crossroads between comfort and courage.

Vayera is filled with holy disruption. Moments when our ancestors must choose whether to speak up, act decisively, or stay silent. When God tells Abraham that Sodom and Gomorrah will be destroyed, Abraham could nod silently in agreement. Instead, he steps forward with one of the Torah’s boldest challenges: “Ha’af tispheh tzaddik im rasha?” “Will You sweep away the innocent along with the guilty?” (Gen. 18:23). Abraham argues with God. He advocates for people he doesn’t know. His bravery is not in physical action, but in raising his voice for justice.

A few verses later, we meet a very different scene, one that is far more painful. Abraham and Sarah send Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness. This time, Abraham is silent. The Torah tells us he is distressed, but he does not protest, negotiate, or advocate for their safety. Silence, too, becomes a choice, one with consequences.

And then, perhaps the most wrenching test: the binding of Isaac. We notice again that Abraham does not speak—not to Sarah, not to God, not to Isaac until the very last moment. Commentators wrestle with this silence. Was it faith? Was it fear? Was it a missed opportunity for the courageous conversation God might have wanted from him?

Vayera holds up a mirror: We all have moments of Abraham’s courage and moments of Abraham’s silence. Our task is to learn when to embody which.

Speaking up requires vulnerability. It risks relationships, comfort, and certainty. But silence carries its own cost, especially when others depend on our voice.

As Jews, we inherit Abraham’s sacred responsibility to challenge, to advocate, to question power, and to protect the vulnerable. Brave choices are not always dramatic; sometimes they sound like, “I’m uncomfortable with that language,” “I need to tell you how this impacts me,” or “This isn’t who we are.”

This week, may we cultivate the courage to use our voices with compassion and conviction. May we choose to speak, even when our voice trembles, and stand up for what is just, kind, and true.

Lech Lecha: Faith, Choice, and the Courage to Build Together

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on October 31, 2025.

At the beginning of every year, we don’t just restart the Torah, we re-enter it. We step back into a narrative already in motion, one that invites us to ask not only what happened then, but what are we meant to learn now?

And this year, as our country feels increasingly fragile, politically divided, democracy strained, and trust frayed, the opening chapters of Torah offer a mirror for our civic and spiritual reality, and a call to moral courage.

In Bereshit, creation begins with separation, light from darkness, water from sky, chaos from order. God models that healthy distinctions are not the same as division. Boundaries create the possibility of life. Creation is not undone by disagreement; it is undone when violence replaces relationship. When Cain refuses responsibility for Abel and asks, “Hashomer achi anochi?“ “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Gen. 4:9), the Torah answers with a thunderous yes. Democracy depends on that same answer, on recognizing that we are accountable for the well-being of those beyond ourselves.

Then comes Noach. The world narrows, humanity collapses inward. Everyone becomes so self-interested that “the earth was filled with hamas, corruption, and moral violence.” The flood isn’t only a punishment, it is a consequence: when no one feels responsible for the commons, the commons collapses. A society cannot endure when empathy is eroded and truth becomes irrelevant. The rainbow that follows is not a sign of uniformity, but of shared human dignity, a covenant conditional on remembering one another’s humanity.

And in Lech Lecha, the narrative shifts from the universal to the particular, from the creation of the world to the creation of a people. God calls Avram:
“Lech lecha mei’artzecha… Go forth from your land, your birthplace, the house of your father, to the land that I will show you.” (Gen. 12:1)

It is the most uncharted of instructions. God does not say, “Here is the destination.” Instead: “I will show you.” The blessing comes after the walking, not before. Faith here is not certainty; it’s the courage to begin without a map.

Avram doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is that the life he is meant to build cannot be built from the pieces he already has. So he chooses movement. Not out of impatience, but out of conviction that something sacred awaits if he’s willing to step beyond the edges of what he has known. The Torah reminds us that our lives, and our societies, are not shaped by what we believe in theory, but by what we are willing to walk toward.

Avram’s story becomes a blueprint for democracy itself. Every step, from uncertainty to hope to moral courage, is part of covenantal life. Later, when offered the spoils of war, Avram refuses, saying: “I lift my hand to the Eternal . . . I will not take so much as a thread or a sandal strap.” (Gen. 14:22–23)
He teaches that righteousness is not won through victory, but through integrity. Faith is not passive belief; it is ethical courage. It is not enough to walk toward blessing; we must also refuse the shortcuts that undermine it.

The first three parshiyot, Bereshit, Noach, and Lech Lecha, together form a Torah of citizenship. They remind us that democracy is not a system that runs on autopilot; it is a covenant, sustained by relationship, accountability, and moral presence. We do not maintain it by silence or by watching from the sidelines. We sustain it by choosing, again and again, to be each other’s keepers, by naming corruption when we see it, by standing for truth even when it’s uncomfortable, by insisting that dignity belongs to all.

There is a moment in every life, and in every nation, when the question is no longer “Where am I?” but “Who will I become if I take this next step?”

Our task in this moment is not simply to hope for a better world; it is to build one together. To move, like Avram, toward justice even when we cannot see the ending. To resist the floodwaters of cynicism and cruelty by remembering that every voice matters. And to answer the Torah’s first great moral question, “Ayeka? Where are you?” by showing up for each other, for this country, and for the fragile promise of shared life.

May we, like Avraham, walk forward in faith, not because we know the way, but because we believe that our walking can still bring blessing into a world that desperately needs it.