Author: Eve Posen

Keeping the Fire Alive

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In Parshat Tzav, we read about the sacred responsibility of the kohanim to keep the altar’s fire burning continually:

“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not be extinguished.” (Leviticus 6:6)

This verse highlights fire as a divine tool—a force of transformation, dedication, and holiness. The altar’s fire was not just practical; it symbolized a constant connection between the people and God, an eternal flame of faith and service.

We recognize fire’s power beyond the Beit Ha’mikdash. Each week at Havdalah, as Shabbat departs, we recite the blessing:

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei me’orei ha’esh.”
(Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who creates the lights of fire.)

This blessing acknowledges fire’s dual nature—it provides warmth and light but can also destroy. Fire is both a gift and a responsibility.

We know this all too well. The recent wildfires in California reminded us of the devastating consequences of neglecting our duty as stewards of the earth. At the same time, fire is also a force for illumination—scientific advancements, protests for justice, and passionate voices standing up for what is right all represent the “fire” that refuses to go out.

There are the “fires” of hatred and division, but also the fires that can ignite hope—a candle in a dark place, a flame passed from one generation to the next, a community rallying to rebuild.

Parshat Tzav reminds us that fire should not be left untended. Whether it’s the fire of faith, justice, or compassion, we must actively sustain it. If we neglect it, it can burn out or become destructive. It’s up to us to ask: How am I tending my fire? Are we using our passion to bring light, or are we allowing destructive flames to spread? Are we keeping the fire of Torah and tradition alive, ensuring that it burns brightly for future generations?

As we recite Borei me’orei ha’eish at Havdalah, let it be a reminder that we are responsible for how we use fire—both the fire of our world and the fire within us. May we be inspired to nurture flames of peace, learning, and justice, ensuring that our fire, like the one on the altar, never goes out.

Sacrifices and Sustenance

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In late February, I was honored to attend a “partners in faith” brunch with Neighborhood House as they kicked off their SW Hope campaign. At this brunch, we discussed the growing food insecurity in our community as well as the lack of resources to meet that need. In particular, I was struck by the lack of accessibility and the restrictions on resources. 

Parshat Vayikra opens the book of Leviticus with a detailed description of the korbanot, the offerings brought to the Mishkan. Among them is the Mincha offering, a simple yet meaningful sacrifice made of fine flour, oil, and frankincense. Unlike the animal sacrifices, the Mincha offering was often brought by those who couldn’t afford livestock. It represented a humble, heartfelt gift—an offering of basic sustenance given with devotion.

This theme of gratitude for food and sustenance is also the basis of Hamotzi:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.

“Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

The Mincha offering reminds us that even the most ordinary aspects of life—our daily bread, for example—can be acts of holiness. This lesson feels especially relevant today with global concerns around food security and rising costs of basic necessities.

In response to the alarming news about inflation affecting food prices, supply chain disruptions, and an increasing number of families struggling to afford groceries, communities worldwide have stepped up to support food banks, mutual aid programs, and meal initiatives. This includes the in-house food pantry we’ve set up here in our own congregation. These efforts reflect the spirit of the Mincha offering—transforming something as simple as flour and oil into an expression of care, dignity, and devotion.

Judaism teaches that gratitude must lead to action. When we say Hamotzi, we don’t just acknowledge the bread before us; we recognize that food is not guaranteed, and that we have a role in ensuring that others are nourished too. Just as the Mincha offering was shared in the Mishkan, we are called to share our sustenance with those in need.

This is the lesson of Vayikra and so much of the Torah: holiness is not reserved for grand gestures. It’s found in the simple, everyday acts of giving—whether it’s sharing a meal, supporting a local food pantry, or simply being mindful of the blessing of food.

This Shabbat, as we recite Hamotzi, let’s take a moment to reflect:

  • How can we express gratitude not just in words, but in action?
  • What can we do to support those facing food insecurity?
  • How can we bring the spirit of the Mincha offering into our daily lives?

Building and Rebuilding

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Parshat Pekudei marks the completion of the Mishkan, the sacred space where B’nei Yisrael would connect with the divine. After weeks of meticulous construction, the Torah describes how Moshe saw all the work that had been done and blessed the people for their efforts. The Mishkan was not just a structure; it was a home for holiness, a place where God’s presence could dwell among the people.

This moment is echoed in a powerful blessing that we recite upon seeing a restored synagogue or place of worship: Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, matziv gvul almana. “Blessed are you, our God, sovereign of the universe, who sets a boundary for the widow.” At first glance, this blessing seems unusual. Why compare a rebuilt synagogue to a widow? The answer lies in understanding the deep loss that comes when a sacred space is destroyed. A widow is someone who has lost her partner, her foundation of stability. A community that loses its synagogue or beit midrash experiences a similar grief—a sense of displacement, a rupture in its spiritual life. The rebuilding of that space is a restoration of hope, a reconnection to what was lost.

This idea feels particularly relevant today. Across the world, we see communities striving to rebuild after destruction—synagogues targeted by antisemitic attacks, towns recovering from war, or regions devastated by natural disasters. Just as the Israelites found their spiritual anchor in the Mishkan, modern communities seek to restore their sacred spaces as symbols of resilience and faith.

The joy of reopening the doors, of placing a Torah back in the aron kodesh, is akin to the moment when the Shechinah filled the Mishkan in Pekudei. The blessing of matziv gvul almana reminds us that while destruction can be devastating, restoration is always possible. The widow, once left vulnerable, finds strength again. The community, once displaced, returns home.

May we all work toward a world where sacred spaces are not only protected but also cherished, where every place of worship stands strong as a beacon of divine presence. And may we never lose hope that what is broken can one day be rebuilt.

A Generous Heart

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One of the most striking aspects of Parshat Vayakhel is the Israelites’ willingness to give. When Moses calls for materials to build the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the people respond with overwhelming generosity. The Torah tells us that “every person whose heart was uplifted and whose spirit was willing” brought gifts (Exodus 35:21). In fact, they gave so much that Moses had to tell them to stop! This outpouring of generosity was not out of obligation but a deep desire to contribute to something greater than themselves. It is this lev nadiv, this generous heart, that transforms individual offerings into sacred purpose.

But generosity alone is not enough; it must be directed toward meaningful action. Vayakhel teaches that each person had a unique role in building the Mishkan—some spun yarn, others crafted wood, and still others wove intricate designs. The Mishkan was not built by one leader or a small group but by the combined efforts of the entire community. Our own lives reflect this lesson: holiness is not only found in prayer but in the work we do with our hands, in the ways we uplift others, and in our everyday contributions to the world.

The very name of this parsha, Vayakhel, means “he gathered.” Before any work could begin, Moses brought the people together. This reminds us that no holy endeavor is accomplished in isolation. The Israelites, who had once been a nation of enslaved individuals, became a unified people working toward a shared mission. Today, we are reminded that when we come together as a community—with open hearts and willing hands—we can create holiness in our world.

Parshat Vayakhel opens with Moses gathering the entire community of Israel and instructing them about Shabbat and the construction of the Mishkan. The parsha emphasizes the themes of communal unity, generosity, and sacred work—values beautifully captured in the blessing:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁנָּתַן לָנוּ לֵב נָדִיב לַעֲשׂוֹת מְלֶאכֶת הַקֹּדֶשׁ וּלְהִתְקַהֵל בְּאַחְדוּת

“Blessed are you, Adonai, our God, sovereign of the universe, who has given us a generous heart to do holy work and to gather in unity.”

The blessing we recite affirms that God has given us the ability to be generous, engage in sacred work, and unite with others. As we reflect on Vayakhel, may we cultivate a generous heart, use our talents for holy work, and find strength in community. In doing so, we build not just a physical space, but a world infused with holiness and purpose.

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.