Author: Eve Posen

Scents and Sensibility

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Which smells are the ones that evoke specific memories for you? Perhaps it’s the waft of chicken soup that brings you back to your grandmother’s kitchen, or a trace of the cologne that reminds you of an old boyfriend. It’s amazing how strong the sense of smell is connected to memory. 

Parshat Ki Tissa introduces us to the ketoret, the sacred incense offering, which played a central role in the Mishkan. This fragrant blend of certain spices was burned daily, filling the space with a holy and unique aroma. More than just a pleasing scent, the ketoret symbolized connection, transformation, and spiritual elevation.

Scent is one of the most powerful triggers of memory and emotion, and just as a familiar fragrance can instantly transport us back in time, bringing comfort, joy, or even inspiration, the burning of the ketoret reminds us that holiness is not just about ritual action but about engaging all our senses in sacred service.

This idea has a direct parallel in modern Jewish practice: the blessing that ends “borei minei besamim” (“who creates various kinds of spices”). We say this blessing during Havdalah when we transition from Shabbat into the week ahead. The spices serve as a sensory reminder of the sweetness of Shabbat, lingering with us as we re-enter the mundane world. Just as the ketoret sanctified the Mishkan, the fragrance of Havdalah spices sanctifies our memories, helping us carry holiness into our daily lives.

But why the emphasis on this tie-in to smell in the first place? Why does it play a role in both the Mishkan and our weekly ritual practice? Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:8) teaches that while other senses—sight, hearing, touch, and taste—were affected by human sin, smell remained spiritually pure. When Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, they saw, touched, and tasted the forbidden fruit, but smell was not involved. This may explain why the ketoret, and by extension the Havdalah spices, have a unique spiritual power—they remind us of a state of purity and closeness to God that transcends human imperfection.

As we read Ki Tissa and reflect on the power of the ketoret, we’re reminded that holiness isn’t just something we encounter in grand moments—it can linger with us, just like a sweet scent. May we each find ways to carry the fragrance of sanctity into the week ahead, allowing the echoes of Shabbat, Torah, and divine connection to guide us forward.

Clothing as a Sacred Act

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When I was a teenager, my parents used to tease me lovingly about my bedtime routine. They called it the “fashion show.” Each night I would try on different outfits to determine what I would wear the next day. I would come walking into their room, the location of the only full-length mirror in the house, and check out what I’d put together. Some nights I would ask (multiple times) for their opinion to figure out what the appropriate outfit was for the next day based on what activities were planned. 

Each morning, as part of Birkot HaShachar, we recite the blessing Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, malbish arumim. “Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who clothes the naked.” At first glance, this blessing seems simple: a statement of gratitude for the basic necessity of clothing. But in Parashat Tetzaveh, we see that clothing is not just a physical necessity—it is also a spiritual one.

This parshah is unique to the book of Shemot in that it does not mention Moshe by name. Instead, its focus is on his brother, Aharon, and the other kohanim, who are given detailed instructions about their sacred garments. The bigdei kehunah, the priestly vestments, are described in exquisite detail: the ephod, the breastplate, the robe with bells and pomegranates, the turban, and the tzitz (golden headpiece) inscribed with the words Kodesh L’Adonai—“Holy to God.” These garments are not just decorative; they serve a higher purpose. The Torah tells us, “And you shall make holy garments for Aharon your brother, for honor and for beauty” (Shemot 28:2).

Why does the Torah devote so much space to describing these garments? Clothing, in Jewish thought, is not just about covering our bodies—it’s a reflection of our dignity, our responsibilities, and even our relationship with God. The priests could not perform their sacred service without these garments. The clothing elevated them, transforming them from individuals into representatives of the people before God.

This idea extends beyond the bigdei kehunah. Every morning, when we say Malbish Arumim, we recognize that God not only provides us with clothing but also imbues us with dignity. It’s a reminder that just as God clothes us, we must ensure that others have their dignity preserved as well. Providing clothing to those in need isn’t just an act of charity, it’s an act of holiness.

Parshat Tetzaveh teaches us that what we wear matters—not because of status or fashion, but because clothing has the power to sanctify. The Kohen Gadol’s garments set him apart for holy service; our clothing, too, can remind us that we are all created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and that every act—even getting dressed in the morning—can be one of sanctity and gratitude.

God’s Home

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Where does God live? It’s a question I hear from time to time from our Foundation School students. We often talk about God being everywhere, which is an abstract concept to the very literal mind of a 3-year-old. If everything has a “home,” then God should too. 

In Parshat Terumah, God instructs the Israelites, “Let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8) This command begins the construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that traveled with the Israelites in the wilderness. More than just a physical structure, the Mishkan served as a sacred meeting place between God and the people. But what does it mean for God to “dwell” somewhere? Can we truly build a space for the divine?

Interestingly, the Mishkan shares a deep connection with another temporary sacred structure in Jewish tradition—the sukkah. Both the Mishkan and the sukkah are impermanent, yet they serve as places where holiness can be felt. In the blessing for dwelling in the sukkah, we say:

“Baruch atah . . . asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu leishev basukkah.”
(Blessed are you . . . who has sanctified us with commandments and commanded us to dwell in the sukkah.)

The word leishev—”to dwell” or “to sit”—is key. It implies more than just entering a space; it suggests presence, intention, and a sense of belonging. When we dwell in a sukkah, we engage with the space in a meaningful way, just as the Israelites did with the Mishkan.

The parallel between the Mishkan and the sukkah teaches us something powerful: holiness is not about permanence; it’s about intention. The Mishkan was temporary, yet it brought the people closer to God. A sukkah is fragile, yet it’s a space of divine protection. Similarly, in our own lives, we don’t need grand, lasting structures to create sacred moments—we need mindfulness, openness, and a willingness to invite God in.

Here’s the question Parshat Terumah asks us: How do we create sacred space in our own lives? It might be through setting aside time for prayer, making our homes places of kindness and learning, or building relationships infused with holiness. Just as the Mishkan and the sukkah remind us that God’s presence is not confined to a building, so too can we bring holiness into every space we inhabit.

May we approach our own sacred spaces with the same kavanah—the same intentionality—as when we say leishev basukkah, recognizing that wherever we invite God in, holiness can dwell.

Matter of Life and Health

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Some Torah portions explain historical lineage, linking generations of leaders for context. Some portions detail big, sweeping scenes of miracles and wonder. And some give us the framework for the laws and traditions that guide Jewish observance even today. Parshat Mishpatim falls into that third category.

Mishpatim is a cornerstone of Jewish law, a blueprint for justice, ethical behavior, and societal responsibility. Among its many laws, one passage stands out in contemporary discussions on reproductive rights: Exodus 21:22-25. This verse describes a situation in which a pregnant woman is injured during an altercation, resulting in the loss of the pregnancy. The Torah states that if no further harm follows, the one responsible must pay financial damages, but if harm does follow, then the principle of “an eye for an eye” applies.

This passage has been foundational in Jewish legal tradition, as it differentiates between the status of the fetus and the life of the pregnant person. While some perspectives grant fetal life an independent legal status from conception, the Torah’s distinction here implies that the well-being of the pregnant person takes precedence. This principle is echoed throughout Jewish law, which consistently prioritizes the health, safety, and autonomy of the person carrying the pregnancy. The Mishnah (Ohalot 7:6) reinforces this idea, stating that if a pregnancy endangers the mother’s life, intervention is not only permitted but required.

Jewish tradition calls upon us to uphold justice and compassion in all areas of life, and reproductive rights are no exception. The laws of Parshat Mishpatim remind us that justice is not abstract—it is about ensuring that the vulnerable are protected, that individual dignity is respected, and that ethical decisions are guided by wisdom and care. As much as we’ve advanced in almost every area of science and healthcare, somehow reproductive rights are still contested. Yet our ancient texts apply a nuanced approach, which acknowledges the complexities of pregnancy and prioritizes the life and health of the pregnant person.

In light of this, we offer a blessing, drawing upon our sacred tradition:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, shenatan lanu Torat emet v’chayei olam nata b’tocheinu.
Blessed are you, Adonai, sovereign of the universe, who has given us a Torah of truth and planted within us eternal life.

This blessing, traditionally recited after Torah study, reminds us that our learning must lead to action. The Torah’s truth is not stagnant; it calls us to uphold justice in our communities. As we reflect on Parshat Mishpatim, may we be inspired to advocate for policies that support those making difficult decisions and ensure that justice, as our tradition envisions it, is upheld for all.

Thunder on the Mountain

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Parshat Yitro includes one of the most awe-inspiring moments in the Torah, the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. The experience is described with an overwhelming sense of grandeur: “And it came to pass on the third day in the morning, that there were thunder and lightning, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of the shofar exceedingly loud; so that all the people in the camp trembled” (Exodus 19:16). The moment of revelation wasn’t just intellectual or spiritual, it was visceral, shaking the people to their core.

This thunderous moment invites us to consider a lesser-known but powerful Jewish blessing: the bracha we say upon hearing thunder—Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha’olam shekocho ugevurato malei olam. “Blessed are you, Adonai, our God, sovereign of the universe, whose strength and might fill the world.”

Even though the rain we get here in Portland isn’t often accompanied by thunder, it’s still normal to think of thunder as nothing more than a natural phenomenon, a rumbling caused by lightning superheating the air. But in Jewish tradition, it’s understood as a reminder of God’s power, an echo of the divine voice that once thundered at Sinai. The blessing reminds us that moments of awe—whether from nature or from Torah—can shake us out of complacency and reawaken our awareness of the divine.

Rashi, commenting on the scene at Sinai, notes that the people “saw the thunder” (Exodus 20:15), an odd turn of phrase since thunder is heard, not seen. Clearly the experience at Sinai was beyond the realm of normal sensory perception; it was a full-body immersion in God’s presence. When we hear thunder today, we have a choice: we can dismiss it as an ordinary weather event, or we can let it be a moment of revelation, a reminder of a power greater than ourselves.

These days, moments as overwhelming as Sinai are few and far between, but the blessing on thunder invites us to cultivate awe even in the everyday. The sound of thunder can remind us of what the Israelites might have heard (or “seen”) when they received the Torah. It’s a call to reawaken our sense of purpose, just as the Israelites did when they stood at the foot of the mountain, trembling yet ready to accept their covenant with God.