Judaism Enters the Chat 

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 13, 2026.

On some issues, science and Torah are in agreement. Reproductive rights are one such issue. But let’s take a broader look at the portion for a second. Parshat Mishpatim moves us from the awe of Sinai into the details of daily living. It’s a collection of civil and ethical laws about damages, responsibility, workers, neighbors, and vulnerable people. And right in the middle appears a striking case: 

“When people fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined… But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life.” (Exodus 21:22–23) 

If you’re looking for the Jewish perspective on abortion, this is it; at least, this is it according to the oldest law we have. The Torah distinguishes between harm to the pregnant person and the loss of the pregnancy, setting up a legal and ethical conversation that our tradition has continued for centuries. 

The Mishnah builds directly on this distinction. In Mishnah Ohalot 7:6, we read that if a pregnancy endangers the mother’s life, intervention is required because her life takes precedence. Only once the baby has emerged do we treat both lives equally. 

It’s expressed clearly here: Judaism is deeply protective of potential life, but it does not grant a fetus the same legal status as the pregnant person. Jewish law consistently centers the health, safety, and dignity, physical and emotional, of the person carrying the pregnancy. 

That is why many Jewish voices understand supporting reproductive choice not as a rejection of tradition, but as an expression of it. Choice, in Jewish terms, often means moral agency guided by Torah values, medical wisdom, and personal conscience. 

But as clear as the Torah and Mishnah might seem, the choice of how to approach a topic like this is ours, particularly on this Shabbat, designated Repro Shabbat by the National Council of Jewish Women. So here is my invitation for all of us to do the following: lead with compassion. Make space for complexity. Resist the urge to reduce deeply personal realities into slogans. Advocate for access to care, for informed decision-making, and for communities where people facing these decisions are met with care rather than stigma. 

One thing we don’t need the Torah to tell us is that life is complicated. We know that. And sometimes what people need most is not quick judgment but thoughtful support. This Shabbat, as many Jewish communities observe Reproductive Rights Shabbat, we have a chance to approach this sensitive topic the way Judaism often does, with nuance, compassion, and a deep respect for human dignity. 

Mishpatim reminds us that Torah lives in the real world, the complicated, human world. Our task is to carry forward its core commitments, and trusting that sacred responsibility often includes the ability to choose with wisdom, support, and faith. 

Hearing the Ten Commandments Together

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 6, 2026.

If you were to treat the Torah like a road trip and whine that common road trip refrain of “Are we there yet?”, which parshah do you think would be “there”? Certainly, you could make an argument for somewhere much later in our narrative, but I think there’s a good case for Yitro. Mount Sinai, the Ten Commandments; it feels like a pretty big “there.”  

But there’s another reason this parshah reminds me of a noisy car ride. Fellow parents, especially, we have our fair share of noisy car rides when everyone is talking at once. Someone’s asking for a snack. Someone else is changing the music. Someone is saying, “They touched me!” And I’m just talking about the seven minutes from our house to school. 

In our family, we sometimes have to say, “Pause. Everyone, take a breath. Now let’s listen again.” 

Parshat Yitro is kind of like that moment, when the whole world pauses, quiets down, and listens. 

In this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites stand at Mount Sinai. There’s thunder, lightning, smoke, and a shofar blast so loud, it’s impossible not to listen. And then God gives the Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments. 

But before any commandments are given, something important happens. The Torah says:“Vayichan sham Yisrael neged hahar.” “And Israel camped there, opposite the mountain.” 

The rabbis noticed something interesting. It doesn’t say they camped, plural. It says Israel camped, singular. Like one heart. Like one big family. 

Before God speaks, the people learn how to stand together. 

That matters because listening is hard. Listening means not interrupting. Listening means paying attention even when it’s not your turn to talk. Listening means realizing that someone else’s voice matters too. 

Kids, the Ten Commandments aren’t just rules. They’re about how we treat each other: 

  • Respect your parents. 
  • Don’t hurt people. 
  • Don’t take what isn’t yours. 
  • Tell the truth. 

And parents, the commandments weren’t given only to adults. The entire people stood there. Every age. Every stage. Judaism has always believed that children belong at the center of the sacred moment. 

So here’s our Sinai challenge for the week: 

Kids: 
Before you speak, try listening just a little longer. You might learn something new. 

Parents: 
Pause long enough to really hear your children, not just their words, but what they’re trying to say underneath. 

And all of us: 
Let’s practice being a community that listens, at the dinner table, in the car, at school, and right here in synagogue. 

Because Torah doesn’t just come from the mountain. It happens when we quiet ourselves enough to hear one another. 

Who Packed the Tambourines?

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on January 30, 2026.

There are weeks when the Torah feels like a metaphor, and there are weeks when it feels like a live news feed. This is a live news feed week. Shabbat Shirah arrives just as we mark the return of the final hostage, and suddenly the word “unprecedented” feels laughably insufficient. Crossing the sea didn’t come with a user manual, and neither did living through this moment. Being Jewish right now. At the same time, honestly, it’s a very Jewish moment – the kind where you want to sing, cry, and ask God a few pointed questions, probably in that order. 

Parshat Beshalach gives us the dramatic climax of the Exodus story. The Israelites stand trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the sea. Panic sets in. Complaints fly. Moses prays. God responds, somewhat tersely, “Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the people to move forward.” The sea splits, the people cross, and only after they are safe do they break into song: Shirat HaYam, the Song at the Sea. This is not a calm or tidy redemption. It is loud, emotional, and deeply human. 

Shabbat Shirah teaches us something essential about Jewish song: it does not come before the danger, but after survival. The Israelites don’t sing as a plea while the Egyptians are still chasing them. They sing once they reach the other side, shaken, stunned, and alive. And even then, the song is complicated. It holds awe and fear together, relief and disbelief in the same breath. 

Miriam leads with timbrels because, apparently, she packed musical instruments while fleeing slavery. Faith, it turns out, sometimes looks like irrational optimism and emotional overpacking. The midrash suggests she believed there would be something worth singing about, even if she couldn’t yet imagine how. 

This week, as the final hostage is returned, we are standing in that same in-between space. Not healed. Not finished. But on the far shore of something that felt endless. Like the Israelites, we didn’t know how this would end. And like them, we discover that survival doesn’t erase fear; it teaches us how to carry it differently. 

So on this Shabbat Shirah, we sing. 

Not because everything is resolved. 
Not because the world feels safe. 
But because we reached this moment together. 

We sing because silence would be dishonest. 
We sing because gratitude and grief can coexist. 
We sing because Jewish history reminds us that even after miracles, there is still wilderness ahead, and we don’t walk it alone. 

May we keep finding our voices. 
May we keep walking forward, even when the path is unclear. 
And may we always have our instruments with us, forever hopeful that eventually we will sing our song: imperfect, emotional, and real. 

Finding Our Way Through the Fog

Eve Posen2 Comments

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living in uncertain times. Not the “I stayed up too late binge-watching something questionable” kind of tired, but the deeper fatigue of waking up each morning to headlines that feel heavier than the day before. The world feels loud. Everything feels urgent. And somehow, we’re expected to hold strong opinions, stay informed, care deeply, and remember where we left our keys. 

Parshat Bo meets us right there, in the thick of it. 

This parshah doesn’t begin with calm or clarity. It begins in chaos. Plagues still raging. Pharaoh still stubborn. The Israelites still stuck. And yet, it is precisely here that God introduces the ritual that will define the Jewish people forever: Pesach. This is before freedom, before the sea splits, and before anything is actually resolved. That timing matters. 

God doesn’t wait for things to settle down before teaching the Israelites how to mark time, how to gather, or how to tell their story. The first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a people is the sanctification of the new moon: “this month shall be for you the first of months.” In the middle of disruption, God says to pay attention to what truly matters. Mark it. Name it. Share it. 

And then comes the very Jewish instruction to eat together. Not alone, not in silence, but together. Whether it’s families, neighbors, or community, and with questions, with storytelling, or with ritual, liberation, the Torah seems to insist, is not a solo act. 

There’s a line that always gets me in this parshah: “And the people bowed their heads and worshiped.” Nothing is fixed yet. Pharaoh hasn’t let them go. The future is uncertain. And still, the people pause. They ground themselves. They show up for one another. That feels like a roadmap for us. 

We don’t get to control the chaos of the world, but we do get to choose where we focus our energy, how we build community, and who we refuse to abandon along the way. We get to keep telling our story, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. 

Parshat Bo reminds us that strength isn’t found in pretending everything is fine. It’s found in gathering anyway. It’s found in marking what matters. It’s found in trusting that community, because that imperfect, caring, stubbornly hopeful community is how we make it through the darkness and toward whatever light comes next. 

And maybe that’s enough for now. 

Trust as Sacred Work

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on January 16, 2026.

Most of us know the feeling of trying to do the right thing and watching it backfire. You speak up, show up, follow through, and instead of things getting better, they get harder. The conversation goes sideways. The plan creates more stress. The trust you thought you had starts to crack. 

That is exactly where Parashat Va’era begins. 

Moses has done what God asked. He confronted Pharaoh. He told the truth. And the result? The Israelites’ suffering intensifies, and their disappointment turns toward Moses himself. “Why did you make things worse?” they ask. Trust, fragile to begin with, begins to unravel. 

God’s response is striking. Instead of changing course or dismissing the people’s pain, God repeats a steady refrain: I am Adonai. I am still here. I have not forgotten you. Even when trust feels thin, the relationship endures. 

Va’era teaches us that liberation is not only about breaking chains. It is about rebuilding trust. A people shaped by injustice cannot move toward freedom until something internal begins to heal, belief in leadership, in one another, and in the possibility that tomorrow can be different from today. 

The plagues come one by one, not all at once. Redemption unfolds gradually, asking the people to stay engaged, to listen again after disappointment, to risk hope when it would be easier to retreat. Torah insists that moral courage is not dramatic or instantaneous. It is relational. It is sustained. It is built over time. 

That message matters deeply in our fractured world. When injustice feels overwhelming, the temptation is to disengage, to decide that what is broken is too big, too entrenched, too exhausting to confront. But Torah will not let us off the hook so easily. As Martin Luther King Jr. taught, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Va’era pushes us to understand that injustice, left unchallenged, corrodes the entire moral fabric of a community. 

Trust does not mean ignoring harm or rushing past pain. The Israelites’ anger is understandable. Their suffering is real. Trust begins when leaders listen, when communities hold space for truth, and when accountability replaces defensiveness. 

Building trust is sacred work. It is how Torah becomes a living moral compass, guiding us toward justice with courage, humility, and relationship at the center. Redemption does not arrive all at once. It begins when we choose, again and again, to stand together and refuse to accept a broken world as inevitable.