Author: Eve Posen

Remember the Alamo

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Saturday, August 22, 2026

I was in San Antonio last Shabbat with my nieces and in-laws. And there was something there that I was supposed to remember, but for the life of me, I don’t know what I was supposed to remember.

I’m kidding; of course I remembered the Alamo. We made a special trip to take a photo in front of the iconic mission building so we would never forget the Alamo. Do you know how the city has made sure that no one ever forgets the Alamo? There are hundreds of businesses in San Antonio named after it.  

There’s Alamo Xtreme AC & Heating, Alamo Aquatic Pets, Alamo Area Beekeepers Association, Alamo Succulents. I imagine telling Davy Crockett, “Don’t worry, we remember the Alamo. We have Alamo Urology Associates to remind us.” 

The Torah portion is in here somewhere, I promise. There are weeks when Torah gives us one big idea to wrestle with. And then there is Ki Tetzei. 

Ki Tetzei contains 74 mitzvot, more commandments than any other parshah in the Torah. It can feel almost breathless: laws about family relationships, returning lost objects, building safe homes, paying workers on time, caring for the vulnerable, honest business practices, treatment of animals, and how we conduct ourselves even in war. 

It is as though Torah is saying: there is no part of human life exempt from the demands of being a decent human being. 

And then, after all those laws, Ki Tetzei ends with something entirely different: Zachor et asher asah lecha Amalek. “Remember the Amalek!” Well, sort of. It’s “Remember what Amalek did to you.” 

The Torah tells us that Amalek attacked the Israelites from behind, targeting kol hanecheshalim acharecha, those who were weakest, exhausted, and straggling behind. “Remember the Alamo” was about avenging the loss, but our rabbis take a different approach to remembering Amalek.  

Rashi, commenting on the word karcha, that Amalek “happened upon you,” suggests that Amalek represents a cooling of moral urgency. When human beings can look at suffering and become indifferent to it, that’s when Amalek enters. 

Perhaps that is why this reminder comes after 73 mitzvot. Ki Tetzei has spent an entire parshah teaching us that there is no arena of human life in which our moral obligations disappear. Not our homes. Not our businesses. Not our relationships with strangers. Remarkably, not even war. 

Earlier in the parshah, Torah commands that the military camp itself must remain kadosh, holy. Torah knows that war is messy and frightening, that human beings make impossible choices under impossible circumstances. And still it insists: even here, there are boundaries. Even here, human dignity matters.  

That is an enormously challenging teaching; the Torah asks us not to surrender our moral voice. Not only in global conflict, but in our local communities. When someone is demeaned, excluded, intimidated, or treated unfairly, our first question cannot be, “Whose side are they on?” It must be, “What does Torah require of me here?” 

Maybe that is why Ki Tetzei ends with Amalek. 

Amalek attacked hanecheshalim acharecha, those who were vulnerable and straggling behind. Torah commands us to remember because a sacred community is measured, in part, by what happens to the people who are easiest to overlook. 

Our charge, then, is not to have the perfect political analysis. It is to refuse moral indifference. To notice. To question. To speak when necessary. And perhaps hardest of all, to remain willing to examine our own camp with the same moral seriousness with which we examine everyone else’s. 

Seventy-four mitzvot remind us that holiness lives in the details. Amalek reminds us that holiness also requires courage. We remember, and in the remembering, may we have the courage to stand firmly for our beliefs while not losing the qualities that make us all human. 

See Me: A Reflection on Parshat Re’eh

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 Over the past few weeks, I’ve had the privilege of sitting in rooms with elected officials who genuinely want to build stronger relationships with the Jewish community. It may go without saying, but I’m grateful for every invitation. Relationships matter, showing up matters, and conversation matters. 

But what isn’t as obvious about these meetings is what happens before anyone says a word. In those first few seconds of silence, there’s an unspoken tension in the room. Everyone knows that, sooner or later, the conversation may turn to Israel, to Jew hate, and to Jewish safety. 

And as I have sat in those meetings, I have realized that my heart is asking a different question altogether: Do you see me? Not as “the Jewish voice.” Not as someone expected to explain or defend every headline. Not as a stand-in for a government thousands of miles away. 

Do you see me? See a rabbi? See a mother? 

See someone who worries every day about the safety of her congregation and the security of her children—not because of anything they have done, but because they are Jews and history tells us we must take this seriously. 

See someone whose Judaism teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. 

See someone who cares deeply about humanity. 

See someone whose compassion is not limited by borders, politics, or religion. 

See me. 

Because before we can have an honest conversation about Israel, or antisemitism, or anything else, we must begin with something even more fundamental. We must recognize one another’s humanity. 

Parashat Re’eh opens with one simple command: Re’eh. See. Not agree. Not persuade. Not convince. Just see. 

Rashi notices something remarkable. Moses begins in the singular “Re’eh,” meaning “you see,” but immediately shifts to the plural: “lifneichem,” – “before all of you.” 

Why the shift? Because every community begins with an individual. Before there can be a “we,” there must first be an “I.” Before there can be covenant, every one of us bears responsibility for how we choose to see another human being. 

I hear Rashi offering an even deeper truth: Every “we” begins when we have the courage to truly see an “I.” 

There’s a difference between asking me about Israel and asking me to defend my own humanity. There’s a difference between debating the policies of a government and questioning whether Jews deserve to live in safety. There’s a difference between political disagreement and moral recognition. Those distinctions matter; when they disappear, something sacred is lost. 

My connection to Israel didn’t begin with a modern government. It began with Torah, with God’s promise to Abraham and with David’s songs of Jerusalem. With generations of Jews who turned toward Zion in prayer, who ended every Passover with “Next year in Jerusalem,” and who carried that hope across continents and centuries. 

The modern State of Israel, on the other hand, is a nation, like Iran, Mexico, China, or the United States of America, with leaders and policies that can and should be debated. That doesn’t change the fact that the Jewish connection to the Land of Israel is older than any government. It’s woven into our covenant, our liturgy, our memory, and our identity. To ask a Jew to sever Judaism from Zion is not simply to ask us to change a political opinion. It’s to ask us to rewrite Jewish memory itself. 

Let me be equally clear about something else. My love for the Jewish people does not diminish my concern for innocent Palestinians. My commitment to Jewish safety does not require me to ignore the suffering of others. I refuse that false choice. 

Torah has never demanded that we love our own by denying someone else’s humanity. It demands something much harder. It asks us to hold moral complexity without surrendering moral clarity. 

And moral clarity begins here: I should not have to prove that I deserve safety because I am a Jew. I should not have to distance myself from my people before my fear is taken seriously. I should not have to apologize for loving the place toward which my people have prayed for thousands of years. Those are not conditions we place on other communities. They should not be placed on Jews. 

Words matter, not because they solve every problem, but because they shape what we are willing to normalize. When violence against civilians is excused, when terrorism is softened into something understandable, when Jews are expected to explain why our fear deserves recognition…when those things happen, we are already losing something far more important than a political argument. We are losing our vision. 

A society that stops seeing Jews as fully human is a society already in moral danger. Not because Jews are unique, but because the moment any people must first justify their humanity before they are granted dignity, we have abandoned one of the Torah’s most fundamental truths: every human being is created in the image of God. 

Perhaps that is why Moses begins this week’s parshah with a single word. Re’eh. See. Every failure of justice begins with a failure of vision. The moment we stop seeing another person’s humanity, we become capable of asking them to defend things no one else is asked to defend. 

So before you ask me to explain Israel, before you ask me to defend my attachment to the land that has shaped my people’s story, before you ask me to prove that my fear is legitimate, see me. See a rabbi. See a mother. See a Jew. See a human being. Then we can begin the conversation. That is where blessing begins. With one word: re’eh. See. 

There’s More to Faith than Faith

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Faith is a funny thing. We often talk about it as though it means certainty: I have faith that everything will work out. I have faith that things happen for a reason. I have faith that there is a plan. 

But if we knew exactly how everything was going to work out, we wouldn’t really need faith. Faith matters precisely because we don’t know. 

Parshat Eikev finds the Israelites standing in that uncomfortable place between what they know and what they cannot yet see. Moses is preparing them to enter the Promised Land, reminding them of everything they have survived: slavery, liberation, Sinai, hunger, thirst, rebellion, wandering. They have experienced miracles, and plenty of moments when God’s presence felt much harder to find. 

Moses tells them: “Remember the long way that Adonai your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years.” (Deuteronomy 8:2) 

Notice that Moses doesn’t say: Remember only the miracles. Remember when the Sea split. Remember when everything made sense. He says to remember the whole way. 

The medieval commentator Ramban teaches that the wilderness experience was a test of whether the Israelites would follow God even when they did not know where their next meal would come from. Every day they gathered manna, and every day they had to trust that tomorrow there would be enough again. That is a very different kind of faith. 

Faith isn’t believing that nothing bad will happen. Our tradition certainly knows better than that. Faith isn’t pretending we aren’t scared, disappointed, angry, or uncertain. Faith is waking up tomorrow and gathering the manna again. It is believing that because we have made it through wilderness before, we can keep walking through the wilderness we find ourselves in now. 

And perhaps that’s why Moses commands the Israelites later in Eikev, “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Our difficult journeys are not meant simply to make us tougher. They are supposed to make us more compassionate. Faith should not close our eyes to suffering; it should give us the courage to respond to it. 

We live in a moment when there is plenty we cannot predict about our families, our communities, our country, Israel, and our world. Faith does not require us to say, “Everything will be fine.” 

It asks us to say: Whatever comes next, I will keep showing up. 

I will keep loving. 
I will keep building. 
I will keep choosing hope. 
I will keep gathering the manna. 

Because faith is not knowing where the road leads; faith is trusting that the next step is still worth taking.

You Are Comfort

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Saturday, July 25, 2026

Sometimes the hardest thing to say to someone who is hurting is also the simplest: “I’m here.”

It’s not, “Everything happens for a reason.” It’s not, “Look on the bright side.” It’s not even, “It’s going to be okay.” Just: “I’m here. You are not alone.”

That may be the deepest meaning of Shabbat Nachamu. This morning we read Parshat Va’etchanan. The name itself means, “I pleaded.” Moses tells us that he begged God to allow him to cross the Jordan and enter the Promised Land. After forty years of leadership, sacrifice, complaints about manna, complaints about water, complaints about the complaints, surely Moses has earned this. But God says no.

And what strikes me is that God does not give Moses an especially satisfying explanation. Moses doesn’t receive an answer that makes everything okay. Instead, God tells him to climb to the top of Pisgah and look.

“Lift up your eyes westward, northward, southward, and eastward, and see with your eyes.” Moses cannot enter the land. But he can see it.

And then God tells him something else: strengthen Joshua. “V’chazkeihu v’amtzeihu.” “Strengthen him and give him courage.” That may be one of Torah’s most profound responses to disappointment. When you can’t change what has happened, you can still strengthen someone else for what comes next. That’s the journey we make from Tisha B’Av into Shabbat Nachamu.

On Tisha B’Av we don’t pretend that Jewish history has been easy. We remember destruction, exile, persecution, and loss. And this year especially, those memories don’t feel safely tucked away in ancient history. We know the anxiety of watching antisemitism grow. We carry the pain of war, the vulnerability of Jewish communities, and uncertainty about what kind of world our children will inherit.

Then Isaiah speaks: Nachamu, nachamu ami—Comfort, comfort My people. Not: Forget what happened. Not: Everything will be fine. Comfort.

And perhaps comfort is less about finding the right words than about helping another person find the strength to take the next step. This is what Moses ultimately does. He can’t cross the Jordan, so he prepares Joshua to cross it. He can’t lead the next chapter, so he teaches the next generation the Shema. He can’t control the future, but he can transmit the values that will help his people meet it. There is extraordinary strength in that.

Our tradition doesn’t promise that every broken thing will be repaired in our lifetime. Tisha B’Av certainly teaches us otherwise. But Judaism does insist that despair never gets the final word. So our charge on Shabbat Nachamu is not simply to seek comfort. It is to become comfort.

Call someone who is struggling. Listen without trying to solve. Strengthen someone who is afraid. Teach our children that being Jewish carries both vulnerability and extraordinary joy. Remind one another that whatever the world brings, we face it as a community.

Moses looks across the Jordan and sees a future he will not inhabit. And then he strengthens those who will. Perhaps that is nechamah: not knowing that everything will be okay, but knowing that whatever comes next, we will give one another the strength to meet it.

Perfect Vision

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered on Saturday, July 18, at Congregation Neveh Shalom.

Before we even open the Book of Devarim this week, we hear the echo of another text. We call this Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat of Vision, because of the opening words of Isaiah: “Chazon Yeshayahu” — “The vision of Isaiah.” It’s the Shabbat before Tisha B’Av, the day on which we remember the destruction of both Temples and many other tragedies throughout Jewish history.

It’s an odd pairing: a prophetic vision and destruction, hope and grief, Torah and lament. And perhaps that is exactly the point.

The Book of Devarim begins with Moses looking backward. After forty years in the wilderness, he gathers the people and retells their story. He reminds them of their triumphs and, perhaps even more importantly, their failures. He recalls the episode of the spies, the endless complaints, the moments when fear eclipsed faith. Moses understands something profound: a people who refuse to remember honestly are destined to repeat what they refuse to learn.

But Moses also asks a question that feels remarkably contemporary. Overwhelmed by the burdens of leadership, he cries out:

“Eichah esa levadi…” “How can I bear your troubles, your burdens, and your disputes alone?” (Deuteronomy 1:12)

That single word “Eichah” is what connects this week’s Torah reading to Tisha B’Av. It’s the same word that opens the Book of Lamentations: “Eichah yashvah vadad…” “How lonely sits the city…” (Lamentations 1:1). The sages heard the echo intentionally. The road to destruction didn’t begin with burning buildings. It began when a community became consumed by conflict, division, blame, and the inability to carry one another’s burdens.

Our tradition teaches that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. Whether that phrase captures every historical complexity is almost beside the point. It names a spiritual truth. Societies rarely collapse overnight. They erode one relationship, one act of contempt, one refusal to listen at a time.

It’s hard not to see ourselves in that mirror. We live in a world that rewards outrage over understanding, certainty over curiosity, and winning over listening. Every disagreement is treated as an existential battle. Every difference becomes a reason to separate rather than to engage.

And yet Shabbat Chazon is not simply a vision of destruction. Isaiah’s vision is ultimately one of possibility. He imagines a Jerusalem restored through justice and righteousness. Tisha B’Av itself is filled with seeds of hope. Tradition teaches that the Messiah is born on Tisha B’Av, not because suffering is redemptive, but because even in our darkest moments, Judaism insists that hope is never extinguished.

As we begin Devarim and prepare for Tisha B’Av, Moses’s question becomes our own. How do we carry one another’s burdens? How do we build communities where disagreement does not become division? How do we choose compassion over contempt? If destruction begins with forgetting our shared humanity, then redemption begins by remembering it.

May this Shabbat Chazon give us the vision to see not only what is broken in our world, but what is still possible. May we become people who repair before things shatter, who listen before we judge, and who choose to build the kind of community and the kind of world that future generations will be grateful to inherit. Shabbat shalom.