Author: Eve Posen

If You Could See You Like I See You – Parshat Shlach Lecha 5781

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I struggle with body dysmorphia. It isn’t something I talk about often, and this is probably the first time I’ve shared it so very publicly. I’m not exactly sure how I got to this point, but when I look at my physical self, I see my flaws instead of my strengths. What’s even more frustrating than this disconnect is the fact that I’m aware of it. I know the way my eyes view my body is a distortion of the reality of what others see. It’s like I’m at war with myself. My body birthed two incredible babies, and my legs carry me an average of 130 miles a week; yet, there are days when I look in the mirror and can’t see past my own perceived flaws instead of the strengths that I know are there. 

If you know someone who struggles with body dysmorphic disorder, you know there’s no “cure” or any way to talk them out of it. It’s an uphill battle no matter how much you praise their strength or beauty or how much you gently try to remind them that the issue is mental and not physical. When I get stuck in these moments, the thing that helps most is going back to a list I’ve made for myself of things I love about me. It’s not just physical things, but things that make up my entire being. This is usually the most reliable way to help me become “unstuck” from that destructive thinking mode.

While not all of us might have to deal with body dysmorphia, we all go through moments of doubt. Each of us is likely to experience times when we let negative feelings creep in. Our Torah portion this week reminds us that while being in a self-doubt rut isn’t helpful, there’s power in reframing our reality.

This week we read Parshat Shlach Lecha and the story of the spies. The parshah begins with Moshe sending 12 spies, one from each tribe, into the land of Cana’an to bring back an accounting of the land. The spies return with their report, and it’s pretty discouraging. Two spies report back with a positive message, but the negativity of the other ten reports instills so much fear into the nation that they decide they do not want to make the journey into the promised land after all. This infuriates God, who then decrees that anyone who went out from Egypt at age 20 or older will not be allowed to enter the land of Cana’an. This generation will purposefully die out so that a new generation, unfettered by the destructive mindset of their predecessors, can start anew.

At the end of chapter 13, the spies come back and share their story. They use a lot of negative language when they compare themselves to the Canaanites. They use phrases like “we cannot rise up” and “it is stronger than we” and “we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves.” Each statement is another way of saying “We’re not good enough, we are unable, unworthy, weak.” It’s not based in reality, as we find out, but in their perceptions. The Israelites lose sight of the fact that not only is God with them, but they have already overcome so many battles and struggles.

Somehow, the Israelites cannot imagine that others would see them as strong, brave, worthy or powerful. Instead of taking stock of how awesome and incredible they are, they’re comparing how they measure up to others. This toxic outlook spread beyond the spies to the entire nation, and it would have been the single viewpoint, were it not for Joshua and Caleb and their perspective. It wasn’t merely a different accounting of the land. Joshua and Caleb reminded the Israelites of God’s power and of their own strength, and they fought to push the other, more negative narrative aside. 

Like Joshua and Caleb reminding the Israelites how strong and courageous they are, Parshat Shlach Lecha is a reminder to us all that our perspectives of ourselves are sometimes so skewed that they leave reality in the dust. As we start to reopen our communities and see each other more often face to face, let’s remember that the version of someone you’re seeing might not be the version of themselves they saw for the last 15 months. Instead, let’s promise to recognize and reconnect with each other’s inner beauty and strength. That is truly how we’ll lift one another up.

Out of Love – Parshat Beha’alotcha 5781

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It’s human nature to interact differently with different people. Chances are we’re going to be more tolerant of certain behaviors in some people and less in others. For example, if you cut me off on the highway, and then slow down in front of me, I might react somewhere between perturbed and enraged because I won’t have the context to understand you or your actions. On the other hand, if we know each other, and I know you’ve had a bad day, I’m likely to be more forgiving if you seem rude or checked out. This works in other ways too. While I might not think twice about reprimanding my children for a certain behavior we’ve talked about over and over again, I probably wouldn’t have the same reaction toward someone else’s child. So if the action is the same or similar, why is my reaction different?

The answer, simply, is love. In relationships with friends and loved ones, there’s a history and familiarity that comes with the territory. I’ll describe what this is like for me with my kids, but even for those of you who aren’t parents, you can probably relate in the way you treat your partner, parent, loved ones, or even pets. 

Neither of my children slept through the night until well after they turned two years old. As frustrating as that was, and despite all our sleepless nights, I still love them. And like many children, mine are mostly great listeners at school and pay attention when others talk, but for me, their ears tune me out and can’t hear a simple direction. Often aggravating, but yes, I still love them. We tolerate and accept things in different ways because we love each other; that’s what a family does. 

From this week’s Torah portion (and elsewhere in the Torah) we understand this to be part of our relationship with God too. Our parshah this week, Beha’alotcha, lands us with Aaron and Moses as they get into the daily requirements of their jobs. This section of text begins with instructions for the purification of the Levites as they do their holy work in the Tabernacle. We read about the first Passover sacrifice in the wilderness and how to celebrate Passover if we miss it the first time around. Then the text turns toward the Tabernacle, the Mishkan, and teaches us that God’s presence hovers over it in a cloud. Finally, Moses’s family – his father-in-law, wife, and children – return to join him and the rest of the Israelite nation on their journey through the wilderness.

As the Israelites are leaving Egypt and on this long journey, they complain. A lot. Moses gets to the end of his rope and finally goes to God and lets it all out. “Why did you do this to me?” he screams at God in chapter 11, verse 11 of Numbers. He goes on to complain that God made him take them out, and now God expects him to “carry them in my bosom like a nurse carries an infant.”

It’s an odd expression, but Ha-Emek Davar, a 19th century Russian commentator on Torah, suggests “even if the infant hits the nurse or soils her clothing, she does not reject the child.” Moses is essentially asking God, “They’re screaming at me, and hurting me, and breaking me, and I still have to love them?” God’s answer is an emphatic “Yes!” Yes, we have to love our family (in this case our people), and when those we love struggle, it is our job to support them. Yes, you need to show them unending love and encouragement, even when you feel beat down.

I began by admitting that we naturally alter our reactions and behavior depending on who we’re engaging with, but Parshat Beha’alotcha teaches us that our work as citizens of the world is to extend generosity, love, and compassion everywhere, especially when there is struggle or strife. You would want the same extended to you. 

Bless You – Parshat Naso 5781

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I have certain voicemail messages saved on my phones – ones that hold particularly special meaning to me. Two of them are from my father. He left them a week apart (on consecutive Fridays) about two months before he died. I was working as an intern in Chicago, and he called to ask how I was doing and what I was learning, and because it was Friday, he’d end with a word about Shabbat. Part of his Shabbat message was asking how I was celebrating Shabbat with my roommate and friends, and he ended each of the voicemails with the priestly blessing. 

Part of what makes these messages memorable is that growing up, my parents did not bless us each week at the Shabbat table. We had Shabbat dinner, complete with Kiddush and Hamotzi. We had friends over and celebrated Shabbat regularly, but for some reason that one small ritual wasn’t a part of our celebration. My mom later told me that my dad always regretted that decision, and so when I moved to Los Angeles for rabbinical school, he decided to send me an email blessing each week. I still treasure those emails, but the voicemails are prized possessions. I can still hear my father in his own voice and words give me a blessing anytime I need it.

I’ll admit it was especially hard to listen to those voicemails when I was in early grief. To hear my father say “May God grant you peace” while I was angry at God for my father’s death seemed incongruous. To hear him say “May God turn His face towards you and see you” when I felt so unseen seemed empty. But the blessings were still his to me.

As we read Parshat Naso this week, we read about the Israelite society trying to move forward after leaving Egypt and about the establishment of a successful community. The narrative picks up with a second counting of the people; laws about how we are to treat one another and the property that we own; the blessing of the priests to the people; and the laws of the Nazir, detailing how we might dedicate ourselves directly to God. Among these laws is the notion of connection to a community, to God, and to the greater “people.”

The most well-known piece of this text is the Priestly Blessing in chapter 6, verses 24-26. The blessing of the priest unto the people ends with the words “May God turn God’s face in your direction and put upon you peace.” The K’tav Sofer, a 19th century German commentator, remarks that peace begins in the home, then extends to the community, and finally to all the world. In other words, this moment of blessing one another is the locus of spreading peace, and it requires that we turn our heads toward each other first in order to start a movement of peace that radiates through our surroundings and into our community. 

Pay close attention to the words that describe the action in this blessing: “turn God’s face in your direction.” More important than the blessing itself is simply the idea that there is no peace unless all of us are seen. Just as God cannot grant us peace without first facing us as we are, we too cannot create peace among ourselves until we are all seen, until we are all heard. Just like those few minutes my father carved out for me in the beautiful messages I still have, granting someone that love and attention is perhaps the greatest blessing you can offer.

Collector’s Item – Parshat Bamidbar 5781

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When I was a little girl I was a collector of Madame Alexander dolls. I had an entire shelf dedicated to these beautiful dolls that I was not allowed to play with. There they sat, their boxes neatly packed away, clothes unruffled. Every once in a while I would take one down and admire it, then carefully place it back on the shelf. Did you have a collection like this? Maybe yours was comic books or baseball cards. With these precious collections the story tends to be the same. You search out and finally acquire a new special item. The first day that it’s part of your collection, you admire it, and then carefully, gently place it into the protective covering for safe keeping. Occasionally you might take out this item or others in the collection to have a look, and then neatly pack it away once more. 

While it sounds like this type of hobby wouldn’t hold a child’s interest, there’s something special and powerful about having something you take such good care of. This act of protecting, guarding, and checking in takes both dedication and self control. 

This week we begin the fourth book of the Torah, Sefer Bamidbar. The Israelites are now in the desert, and the groundwork for the structure of their future has been laid. Army leaders are appointed to lead alongside Moses and Aaron, a census is taken of the people, and we learn that the camps are situated in a specific order, each with a flag in the center that tells us which tribe is there. The time spent in Egypt is a distant memory at this point.

As the Israelites are in their wilderness experience, God instructs Moses to count the whole Israelite community. The language used by God for this process is “lift the head.” In other words, each person is to lift up their head and direct their eyes and heart toward the heavens so that they can be counted. Lifting of a head also connotes a certain pride in who they are, and who their ancestors were. This act in this moment asks the Israelites to actively see themselves as connected to God.

But this also raises the question why is God counting the people? Doesn’t God know who they are and how many to expect? What is the purpose of this inspection? As an answer, a midrash imagines God as a collector of precious jewels. From time to time this collector might take out their collection and inspect each one, relishing in their beauty and uniqueness, tallying them up to make sure every jewel is accounted for, even if the collector is well aware of how many there are. 

When we collect things we often keep them in treasure jars or a protective wrapping. Sometimes we take them out to admire them or even just to make sure they’re still there. The census in Parshat Bamidbar suggests that regardless how you view God, each of us is a unique “collector’s item” in the world’s collection of humans. It’s also a reminder that we should recognize the uniqueness in each other. How different the world might be if we all saw and admired the precious, one-of-a-kind jewel within every one of us.

Snowball’s Chance – Parshat Behar-Bechukotai 5781

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I despise snow in Portland. As I’ve shared with many of you, I was never really a big fan of snow when it happened in Michigan when I was growing up either. Primarily it’s because I don’t like to be cold, and I don’t like to be wet. Snow manages to combine both of those elements into one, and being cold and wet at the same time has never been my thing. In particular, I don’t like snow in Portland because it means the city will be shut down for who knows how long. It starts out beautifully idyllic, but then as things melt and freeze again, and the microclimates laugh at us for wanting any sort of consistency, we could be looking at two to four days without reliable transportation. The worst year had us trapped in our house for eight days, and that was with a 3-year-old and a 5-year-old. If you ask me, snow in Portland snowballs out of control. (HA!)

It’s actually the snowball effect, not the snow itself, that I’m reminded of in this week’s Torah portion. I’m talking about a situation that continues to build on itself until it’s out of control. Whether it’s a global pandemic or a cycle of systemic oppression, when enough “snow” builds up and starts rolling away from us, it can quickly get out of hand. 

Our double Torah portion this week, Behar-Bechukotai, warns us of the implications of the snowball effect in our own lives. Behar-Bechukotai focuses primarily on the laws of agriculture and land. What makes this section of text unique is that it takes the notion of land ownership and farming and uses that to create a society in which no one group holds complete control forever. We read about the 50-year land ownership cycle, in which we are required to allow the land to rest every seventh year. In the 50th year of the cycle, all land returns to its original owner. Imagine a farmer who falls on hard times because of a drought or poor crop. In order to sustain his family, he might sell off parts of his farm acre by acre. After 10 years he might have nothing left, and he might be forced off the land or have to find another way to make a living. According to our Torah laws, in the 50th year this farmer would receive back all his land and become his own landlord again.

In the midst of these laws, we read chapter 25, verse 35: “If your kinsman, being in straits, comes under your authority, and you hold him as though he is a resident alien, let him live by your side.” The Sifra, a midrashic commentary on the book of Leviticus, reads this verse literally as “If your kinsman stumbles.” In other words, it’s easier to support a person when they first begin to stumble than it is to pick them up after they’ve fallen. Like a snowball, problems are easier to control when they’re manageable in size before they’ve snowballed out of control.

In all the words of these parshiyot we are made aware that working to solve a problem before it becomes a catastrophe is of the utmost importance in maintaining a thriving, supportive community. As for the literal snow, well, there’s not much we can do about that.