Author: Eve Posen

Boundary-Crossing and Holy Preparation

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Time management at work isn’t usually a challenge for me, but when it comes to home life—in particular getting ready for a multiday Jewish holiday—I find there’s never enough time. I’m easily on time to services (thank goodness) and welcoming the holiday with ritual in the synagogue, but getting my kitchen ready often ends up a last-minute affair. Sometimes holiness comes not from a dramatic act, but from quiet preparation. Eiruv Tavshilin, a ritual many might overlook, is one of those moments: a small act that invites us to be mindful of our boundaries and our intentions. This week’s parshah, Pinchas, offers a powerful reflection on those very themes—boundaries, legacy, and readiness—and what it means to sanctify time and space with purpose.

Parshat Pinchas begins with God rewarding Pinchas (Aaron’s grandson) for his zealous act in the previous parshah, granting him a brit shalom, a “covenant of peace.” The parshah then moves to a census of the Israelites, preparing them for the next phase of their journey. We read of the daughters of Tzelophechad, who boldly challenge inheritance norms and secure their place in the future of the community. Moses, upon realizing he will not lead the people into the Promised Land, asks God to appoint a successor, and Joshua is chosen. The parshah concludes with a detailed description of the sacrificial offerings for daily use, Shabbat, and festivals.

Eiruv Tavshilin is a rabbinic institution that allows for the preparation of food on a yom tov for Shabbat. By beginning our Shabbat preparations before the holiday begins, we symbolically link the two days, maintaining Shabbat’s primacy and avoiding the confusion of boundaries.

However, Pinchas reminds us that not all boundaries are fixed. The daughters of Tzelophechad respectfully fight the limits of inheritance law, and their plea is affirmed. Moses doesn’t cling to power, but prepares for transition by securing a future leader. And in instituting the festival offerings, God is drawing lines in time, making each day holy by what we do in advance to prepare for it.

Like Eiruv Tavshilin, these stories are about the holiness that comes from crossing boundaries with intention. It’s not about transgressing limits—it’s about preparing for what comes next, with respect and purpose.

We live in a world that rushes from moment to moment, holiday to deadline, without pause. The practice of an Eiruv Tavshilin calls us to stop, prepare, and mark the space between what was and what’s coming. Parshat Pinchas teaches us that transitions—between leaders, generations, even days—require forethought, grace, and ritual. May we step into each threshold—whether of time, responsibility, or community—with the wisdom of Pinchas, the courage of the daughters of Tzelophechad, and the quiet mindfulness of Eiruv Tavshilin.

Rooster’s Wisdom

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Every morning, Jews begin the day with a series of blessings called Birkot HaShachar—blessings for waking up, for breath, and for clarity. Among them is a rather curious line: “Blessed are you … who gives the rooster understanding to distinguish between day and night.”

On the surface, it’s about a bird crowing at dawn. But the deeper meaning is about discernment—the ability to tell the difference between what should be said and what should be left unsaid. In a world overflowing with voices and opinions, Parshat Balak reminds us that speech, especially when wielded by leaders, prophets, or influencers, holds immense power.

In Parshat Balak, the Moabite king Balak is terrified of the Israelites and hires the prophet Balaam to curse them. Balaam, though initially reluctant, agrees to go—but only speaks what God puts in his mouth. Each time he tries to curse the Israelites, blessings emerge instead. Ultimately, Balaam utters one of the Torah’s most poetic verses: “Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov…” “How good are your tents, O Jacob.” The people are blessed, despite Balak’s intent, and Balaam’s tongue becomes an instrument of holiness.

The daily blessing over the rooster’s discernment is a metaphor for human speech. The Talmud connects this blessing to the idea of binah—understanding when to speak and what to say. Balaam, though not an Israelite prophet, is held to a high standard: he must speak only what is true and just. His transformation from curse-bringer to blessing-giver mirrors our daily aspiration to use speech for good. In a world where lashon hara (harmful speech) is easily shared, Parshat Balak elevates the opposite: words that uplift, protect, and sanctify.

This week, consider how you use your voice. Are you contributing to light or deepening the darkness? The morning blessing about the rooster challenges us to begin each day with discernment—choosing speech that blesses rather than curses, that clarifies rather than confuses, and that reveals the light in others rather than their flaws. Like Balaam, may we find ourselves surprised by the holiness that emerges when we let blessing lead.

Blessing Through Discomfort: Baruch Dayan Ha’Emet

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Judaism doesn’t shy away from discomfort. In fact, it ritualizes it. Whether sitting shiva, tearing kriyah, or offering blessings that acknowledge pain, Jewish tradition invites us not to bypass grief, but to dwell in it, to name it, and ultimately to sanctify it. This week’s parshah, Chukat, does just that—it brings us face to face with loss and the messiness of mourning, and offers us an ancient blueprint for how to respond.

Parshat Chukat begins with the laws of the parah adumah, the red heifer—a ritual for purifying those who have come into contact with death. The paradox is striking: those performing the ritual become impure in the process of purifying others. This is followed by narrative shifts, including the death of Miriam, a confrontation over water at Mei Merivah, and the death of Aaron, high priest and elder brother to Moses. These moments mark deep and significant transitions in Israel’s journey, both spiritually and communally. Death, absence, and leadership change form the emotional core of the parshah, and are a part of our tradition even today.

Upon hearing news of a death, we recite:
בָּרוּךְ דַּיָּן הָאֱמֶת – Blessed is the true Judge.

This blessing, raw and unsweetened, does not mask the pain of loss. It acknowledges that life is often beyond our understanding—and that even grief deserves a sacred response. When Miriam and Aaron die, the Israelites stop. They mourn. And they move forward. Judaism teaches that pausing to mourn is not weakness; it is faith in action. In the blessing of Dayan Ha’Emet, we declare that grief belongs inside the walls of holiness—that death is not a detour from the spiritual path, but part of it.

We live in a culture that often rushes to “move on.” Judaism, and Parshat Chukat, challenge us to lean in. To say the blessing. To sit with someone in the silence of their sorrow. To hold space for the pain of transition, and to name it sacred. In doing so, we become like the red heifer’s caretakers—risking discomfort in order to bring purification and healing to others. May we never be afraid to speak the hard blessings. May we meet death and loss not only with tears, but with the reverence it deserves.

Baruch Dayan Ha’Emet. Blessed is the true Judge. Blessed is our capacity to mourn with meaning.

Making Peace Where There Was None

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In nearly every Jewish prayer service, we end with a plea: Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu… “May the One who makes peace in the heavens make peace upon us…” It’s a beautiful, aspirational prayer. But sometimes, it can feel impossibly out of reach. In a world where disagreement often turns to division, and difference into dehumanization, what does it really mean to pray for peace?

Parshat Korach introduces us to one of the most dramatic uprisings in the Torah. Korach, a Levite, challenges Moses and Aaron’s leadership, rallying 250 men of renown to argue: “All the community is holy—why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?”

On the surface, Korach’s claim appears rooted in a desire for equality. But as the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Korach is less interested in communal sanctity and more focused on personal power. The rebellion ends in tragedy—Korach and his followers are swallowed by the earth, and fire consumes the 250 leaders. The community is left shaken and broken, plagued by fear and mistrust.

In the wake of this upheaval, we return to our daily liturgy: Oseh shalom… We ask God, who orchestrates cosmic harmony, to bring that same peace down to our fractured world. The blessing becomes not just a conclusion to our prayers, but a call to action. In the face of Korach’s divisiveness, the blessing reminds us that true leadership—and true community—comes from seeking peace, not power. It’s not enough to win arguments or secure titles; we must strive to understand the humanity in one another, even when we disagree.

Korach teaches us how quickly a holy community can fracture when ego eclipses empathy. Our charge, then, is to be peace-seekers—to rise from prayer with the intention to build bridges where others dig trenches. This week, let the words oseh shalom be more than ritual. Let it be a lens through which we approach difficult conversations, community tensions, and personal disagreements. May we recognize the divine spark in each other, and may the peace we pray for in heaven begin with the peace we pursue here on earth.

Blessed Reminders: The Power of Tzitzit

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How do we hold onto truth when fear clouds our vision? How do we stay anchored to our values when doubt pulls us astray? In Jewish tradition, we often rely on physical rituals—objects and actions that reconnect us to purpose. One such ritual, the mitzvah of tzitzit, appears at the end of Parshat Shlach Lecha, not as a random law but as a spiritual antidote.

Parshat Shlach Lecha tells the story of the twelve spies sent by Moses to scout the Land of Israel—ten return with a report of giants and danger, insisting that the land is unconquerable. Only Caleb and Joshua advocate faith and forward movement. The people panic, cry out, and ultimately reject the journey into the land. As a result, God decrees that this generation will wander the desert for forty years.

In the aftermath of fear and forgetfulness, God commands a new mitzvah:

“Speak to the children of Israel and tell them to make for themselves fringes on the corners of their garments … so that you may look at them and remember all the commandments of the Lord and do them.” (Numbers 15:38-39)

The blessing we recite when donning tzitzit is:

Baruch atah Adonai … asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al mitzvat tzitzit.

“Blessed are you … who sanctified us with commandments and commanded us regarding the mitzvah of tzitzit.”

Tzitzit become a wearable memory—a daily visual and tactile reminder to live by God’s values and not be swayed by fear or majority opinion. Where the spies lost sight of God’s promise, tzitzit offer clarity. Where the people were overwhelmed by external appearances, tzitzit redirect inward toward faithfulness.

This week, the Torah invites us to ask: What anchors us to our truth? What helps us stay grounded when we feel uncertain or overwhelmed? The mitzvah of tzitzit—whether worn physically or remembered spiritually—calls us to remain loyal to our convictions and to God’s vision for justice, courage, and faith. Let us look upon our own “fringes”—those daily rituals, those community commitments, those sacred reminders—and allow them to pull us back from fear toward purpose.