Author: Eve Posen

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.

The Line Between Critique and Erasure: Why We Must Speak Up

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I’ve tiptoed around what I say and how I say it over the last two years amid rising antisemitism, anti-Zionism, and political unrest because I believe in dialogue, not bima (pulpit) politics. However, I cannot be silent as a friend, colleague, and reporter representing the Jewish community in Portland was summarily dismissed from an important event.

There is a growing temptation in public discourse to separate anti-Zionism from antisemitism — to suggest that one can delegitimize the Jewish people’s right to a homeland without also delegitimizing the Jewish people themselves. But history, lived experience, and the rhetoric unfolding around us make clear that the two are deeply, and often dangerously, intertwined.

For most Jews, Zionism is not a political slogan. It is the belief that the Jewish people, like all other peoples, have the right to safety, self-determination, and belonging in their ancestral homeland. It is the story of returning home after centuries of displacement, persecution, and expulsion. For generations, the world told us, “Go back to where you came from.” Zionism answers: “We have.”

When public voices call for the dismantling of Israel — not for change in policy, not for critique of leadership, but for erasure of the Jewish state altogether — they are not critiquing geopolitics; they are calling for a world where Jews do not get to be secure anywhere. A world where every other group may claim a homeland, except us. That is antisemitism.

We are seeing this play out not only in demonstrations or online rhetoric, but in the chilling silence and silencing of Jews in civic spaces. Just last month, The Jewish Review here in Portland reported that journalist Rockne Roll was prevented from covering a city councilor’s discussion about ties to Israel — not because of bias, not because of content, but simply because the conversation itself touched on Israel, and the presence of a reporter who writes for the only Jewish publication in Portland was likely deemed “conflict of interest.” Imagine: a journalist representing the Jewish community barred from reporting on a public conversation because he represents the Jewish community. That is not neutrality. That is exclusion.

This is why speaking up matters.

When leaders use dehumanizing or delegitimizing language about Israel, it does not remain theoretical. It shapes the climate in which Jews live. It normalizes suspicion of Jews in the public square. It casts Jewish identity as inherently suspect. And when Jews are pushed out of conversation, the First Amendment becomes a privilege held by some, not a right held by all.

Silence is not an option — not for us, and not for our allies. We do this work not because we crave conflict, but because we understand what happens when antisemitism is allowed to masquerade as “political critique.” History has shown us, again and again, that societies rarely begin by attacking Jews physically; they begin by excluding Jews civically.

Our task in this moment is to insist — calmly, firmly, persistently — that Jewish identity is not a disqualifier. That Jewish connection to Israel is not a conflict of interest; it is a core piece of peoplehood. That it is not for the non-Jewish world to define what it means to be Jewish, for doing so strips Jews of the agency to define ourselves and perpetuates the very prejudices it claims to oppose. And that protecting free speech must include ensuring Jews are not pushed out of public discourse for daring to show up as Jews.

We speak because silence leaves the narrative to those who would erase us. We speak because our dignity requires it. And we speak because safeguarding Jewish belonging is not just a Jewish responsibility — it is a democratic one.

The Responsibility of Power

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on October 18, 2025.

The opening chapters of Bereshit tell us that humanity is created b’tzelem Elohim—in the image of God. It’s a breathtaking statement of dignity and potential. Yet, almost immediately, we watch that potential unravel. From the first bite of the fruit to Cain’s jealousy of Abel, power is misused. The gift of being made in God’s image turns dangerous when we forget that to be like God does not mean to become God.

That tension—between creation and control, between dominion and humility—is as ancient as the Torah itself and as current as the world outside our synagogue doors.

In Bereshit, God creates a world of balance: light and dark, land and sea, rest and work. Humanity is placed in the Garden not to rule ruthlessly, but l’ovdah ul’shomrah—to serve and to protect. Yet, when Adam and Eve reach for the fruit, it is not curiosity that drives them, but the temptation of power: “You will be like God, knowing good and evil.” When Cain strikes Abel, it is again a grasping for control. From these earliest stories, Torah warns us what happens when we let power go unchecked.

Midrash Rabbah teaches: “If you corrupt the world, there is no one after you to repair it.” Power without responsibility destroys creation itself. The Torah’s first command to humanity is to name—to speak. Speech, not dominance, is our true creative act. God creates with words; we, too, are meant to build worlds through words of truth and compassion, not through control or fear.

Today, as people around the world lift their voices in the No Kings protests, that message echoes loudly. Without taking sides, we can recognize the sacred impulse behind it: a call to remember that no one—no ruler, no leader, no human—should hold unchecked power over another. The Torah’s vision of creation depends on equality, partnership, and shared responsibility.

To live b’tzelem Elohim means to wield our influence with humility—to speak truth, to protect the vulnerable, to guard creation itself. The first Shabbat in the Torah arrives when God stops creating and simply rests. Power, Torah teaches, is holy only when tempered by restraint.

May this Bereshit inspire us to build a world rooted not in control but in covenant—a world where every voice matters, and every act of creation is guided by compassion and care.

Two Years Since October 7

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This is the drash I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on the first day of Sukkot, 2025.

Each year when we step into the sukkah, there’s that first moment when the air hits differently. The roof of branches lets in sunlight by day and stars by night. We feel exposed and vulnerable, yet held. It’s an intentional fragility, a reminder that the sturdy walls we build around ourselves are never what truly keep us safe. This year, as we mark two years since the October 7, 2023 Hamas massacre, that feeling of fragility carries deeper weight. The world changed that day. The illusion of safety was shattered, not only in Israel, but for Jews everywhere who felt the tremor of that brutality echo through our souls.

On the first day of Sukkot, we read from Leviticus 22–23, where God commands us to dwell in sukkot so that future generations will remember that the Israelites lived in temporary shelters when God brought them out of Egypt. The Torah insists that we celebrate in a festival of joy, z’man simchateinu, even while sitting in a structure so impermanent that a strong wind could knock it down. We are called to hold joy and fragility together. The sukkah teaches us with its flimsy walls that safety is never guaranteed, and at the same time, the command to rejoice reminds us that resilience and gratitude are also sacred obligations.

On October 7, 2023, the fragility of our people’s sukkah was made unbearably real. Over 1,200 lives were taken in an act of pure terror, and even as we condemn the monstrous brutality that would deliberately target civilians and hold hostages to this day, stories of courage and compassion emerged. Stories of neighbors protecting neighbors, of Israelis and Jews worldwide rushing to support one another, of hope refusing to die. Amid the devastation, the sukkah stands for hope. It is fragile, yes, but it’s also full of the light of the stars shining down from slivers in the roof. Each branch or bamboo pole laid across the top is an act of faith that the world can still be repaired, that humanity can still choose compassion over cruelty.

As we sit beneath the stars this Sukkot, may we let the sukkah’s openness remind us of our shared responsibility: to protect life, to reject violence, to hold fast to hope even when it flickers. May the memories of those murdered sanctify our commitment to peace. And may the fragile walls around us become a testament not to what was lost, but to the enduring strength of a people who still choose to dwell in joy, faith, and love.

Leaning Into Discomfort

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This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Yom Kippur day, 2025.

Let’s talk about Sukkot. As a rabbi, I like to stay a little ahead of the game, so let’s address the elephant in the sukkah. By the way, that’s the real title of a PJ Library book, no kidding.

Sukkot is not my favorite holiday. Of all the Jewish rituals—wonderfully weird, occasionally random, but always deeply meaningful—the ones related to the holiday of Sukkot are the most cringeworthy to me.

Why, you might ask? What’s wrong with a sukkah? And the answer is, nothing actually. I love building the sukkah and decorating it with paper chains and the fake fruit that once hung in my Nana and Papa’s sukkah. I love the open tent symbolism. I love inviting in our ancestors. It’s the lulav and etrog that make me want to just skip over this holiday and go straight to Simchat Torah.

I know not everyone feels this way, but to me, this particular tradition feels pagan and out of place in a religion that forbids the worship of objects. I didn’t always feel this way. It started when I was in rabbinical school in Los Angeles and the minyan moved outside to the sukkah. When you take the lulav and etrog and then add in a drum circle with students dancing and drumming and chanting a rhythmic beat, shaking said lulav and etrog, suddenly it felt different. This was not my Zayde’s Judaism, and I’ve never been able to shake that feeling, pun totally intended.

Again, this is in no way me telling you to share in my discomfort. I’m willing to bet that each of you has a moment in your life—specifically in your Jewish life—when you’ve felt out of place or off-kilter. Have any of you ever witnessed kaparot, the swinging of a chicken overhead before Yom Kippur to transfer your sins? A bris is a meaningful ceremony, but maybe not the most comfortable for everyone in the room. Well, particularly one person in the room. Or maybe there’s merely a ritual you didn’t grow up with, so it’s not second nature.

Each of us has our own individual comfort level in Jewish living. And each of us has places of discomfort. But here is my Yom Kippur message: discomfort, especially in Judaism, isn’t something to be avoided—it’s something to be explored. And today, on the day that confronts us with mortality, vulnerability, and deep spiritual reflection, it’s the perfect time to talk about it. So let’s get uncomfortable.

There’s a teaching in Pirkei Avot—the Ethics of Our Ancestors—where Rabbi Eliezer says, “Repent one day before your death.” His students respond, “But Rabbi, how can we know what day that will be?” And he replies, “Exactly. Therefore, repent today.”

Yom Kippur, in a way, is that day. Not literally, but it’s the day we symbolically prepare for our death, wearing white like burial shrouds, fasting, removing ourselves from physical pleasure. It’s not meant to be morbid, it’s purposeful. Yom Kippur invites us to be uncomfortable so that we might grow.

The psychiatrist Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski was not only a prolific author, his online videos also generated views in the hundreds of millions. In one of his more well-known videos, he muses that we can learn a lot from lobsters. I know, Jews learning from shellfish, it’s weird. But the lobster, whose hard shell protects its soft tissue, cannot grow without the discomfort of pushing against a shell that has become too small. You don’t have to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but if you don’t, you risk missing out on opportunities for personal growth.

Discomfort, in Judaism, has often been the catalyst for transformation. Think of our biblical ancestors. Abraham left everything he knew. Jacob wrestled with an angel. Moses stood up to Pharaoh with shaking hands. None of that was comfortable. But it was holy.

Leaning into discomfort gives us the opportunity to examine our lives without pretense. It forces us to consider how we spend our time, how we treat others, and whether we’re living in alignment with our values. Let’s be real; that kind of honest introspection doesn’t happen on a Tempur-Pedic mattress with a Pendleton Merino throw. It happens in the quiet of fasting, in the ache of regret, and in the uncertainty of change.

With Yom Kippur as our symbolic acknowledgement of mortality, there’s a particular kind of discomfort that’s especially relevant for reflection today, the discomfort of attending shiva.

If you’ve ever walked into a house of mourning, you know the feeling. You fumble for the right words. You wonder if you should attempt to say something profound or say nothing at all. Maybe you didn’t know the deceased. Maybe grief makes you anxious. Shiva offers a variety pack of ways to feel uncomfortable.

However, the mitzvah of nichum aveilim—comforting mourners—is not about saying the right thing. It’s not even about having a close relationship with the person who died. It’s about showing up.

The discomfort we feel walking into a shiva house is a sacred discomfort. It reminds us that presence matters. Our tradition teaches that when we visit a mourner, we remove a fraction of their sorrow. Not all of it, just a little. But that little bit can make all the difference.

Shiva is not designed to be comfortable for the participants. It’s designed to hold grief so that we can process it without distraction, without escape from the sadness. And in that honesty, that rawness, there is deep holiness. Sitting with someone in their grief, even in silence, is one of the most powerful things we can do as Jews and as human beings.

And in many ways, Yom Kippur functions like a communal shiva. A shiva for the soul. A sacred time set aside to grieve our missteps, our losses, and our mortality. We sit together, stripped of distractions, focused on what truly matters.

Just as we would never say to a mourner, “You should be over it by now,” Judaism doesn’t ask us to rush past the discomfort of Yom Kippur. We’re not meant to skip ahead to the break-fast. We’re meant to sit in the stillness. To cry if we need to. To say the hard things, to ourselves and to each other.

You’d think an uncomfortable ritual like this is meant to break us somehow. Not at all. It’s meant to open us. The discomfort of Yom Kippur is not about shame or punishment. It’s about potential. It’s about asking, “What kind of life do I want to live? To whom do I need to apologize? What type of person do I want to be when I exit the synagogue doors?”

We’re not promised comfort in this life. But we are promised meaning. And meaning comes from doing the hard things. From leaning in and showing up when it’s uncomfortable.

That’s why we attend shiva. That’s why we fast on Yom Kippur. That’s why we reflect on death—not to dwell in fear, but to live more fully. We show up for each other in our darkest moments because we know that’s what community is for. And we show up for ourselves on Yom Kippur because we believe that every soul can shine again.

It takes courage to lean into discomfort. To walk into a house of mourning or to walk into a synagogue on Yom Kippur and say, “I’ve messed up. I want to do better.” It takes courage to face the parts of life or the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore.

But the reason we do it is because we believe it can change us. We believe in teshuvah—in return, in repair, in rebirth. So today, I invite you not to rush past the discomfort. Don’t numb it. Don’t flee it. Sit with it. Learn from it.

Ask yourself: What parts of my life need tending? Who have I avoided showing up for because it felt awkward or hard? Where have I played it safe when I was called to step forward?

And maybe today, as the hunger pangs persist or the confessional prayers grow repetitive, you’ll remember that these moments, too, are holy. They are tools for transformation. They are our people’s way of saying: Life is short. Make it count.

May we each find the strength to be uncomfortable. And in doing so, may we write ourselves into the Book of Life—not only for another year, but for an entire life of meaning, compassion, and connection.

G’mar chatimah tovah.