Author: Eve Posen

Mind Over Matter – Parshat Chayei Sarah 5780

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You know the famous witticism: “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” I was probably a teenager when I first heard it, and suffice it to say, it didn’t resonate with me at the time. However, as I’ve aged and as those I love have aged, it has started to take on real meaning. Some days I feel young and spry, on top of my game. Other days my back hurts, my legs creak, and I walk into a room of 7th graders and feel instantly ancient. Most days, though, it doesn’t matter. I’m somewhere in between, simply being me – learning, growing, working, and living life.

The old quip of mind over matter is even more relevant now, since the average life expectancy is much longer than it used to be, and we’re much more adept at living well into later and later years. In the Torah, interestingly, age really is just a number. It doesn’t seem to mean much, other than suggesting you had a very long life.

This week we read Parshat Chayei Sarah, in which we learn about Abraham and Sarah and their continued journey to raise their son Isaac to the huppah and a life of good deeds. Our reading begins with the death of Sarah and Abraham looking for a proper place to bury his wife. Immediately after Sarah’s burial, Abraham sets out to find a life partner for his son, hoping to ensure that he has comfort and support as he mourns his mother. The text continues with Isaac and Rebekah meeting, marrying, and falling in love, and it ends with the death of Abraham.

Chapter 24 begins with the observation that Abraham was now old, advanced in years. The word that the Torah uses is zaken, which is the modern word for a beard. This observation was not meant merely to note his chronological age, but to note that he has the wisdom and maturity that accompany the years he’s had on the earth. Zaken is also further interpreted in the midrash to stand for Zeh KaNah hochma, which means “this one has acquired wisdom.” 

The Torah never minces words or adds words without reason. The notation of Abraham’s age in this way is meant to remind the reader that Abraham was both older and wiser. In Abraham’s case, his age didn’t mean his mind was any less sharp; it meant he had experienced the world and learned from it. 

Many of our notions about age truly are mind over matter, as long as we appreciate and learn from the experiences we’ve had. Imagine if the lens we used to view those around us was not one of judgment based on the number of years on the planet, but one that allowed us to see and value experience and learning. You’re never too old for that.

Open Eyes – Parshat Vayera 5780

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“And God opened her eyes.” Each day in our morning blessings, we recite “Pokeach Ivrim.” Thank you God for opening the eyes of the blind. I often reflect on this verse with our young daveners in Kiddush Club. “What does it mean to open your eyes?” I’ll ask. The answers usually include thoughtful responses like “so we can see beauty” or “so we can see who needs help.” One particular week, Sammy, an inquisitive first-grader asked, “What about Helen Keller? Would she say this prayer?” And we all paused.

This week we read from Parshat Vayera. This sacred section of text denotes the birth of our Israelite nation as Abraham and Sarah are finally able to procreate. Their journey through infertility was undoubtedly arduous and painful, including Sarah resorting to having a child through her maidservant simply so her husband Abraham could fulfill the mitzvah. 

So much of this Torah portion gets the spotlight (the birth of Isaac, Sodom and Gomorrah, the binding of Isaac) that we seldom talk about the fate of Sarah’s handmaid Hagar and her (and Abraham’s) son Ishmael. At Sarah’s request (and God’s assurance), Abraham casts Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness. There Hagar and Ishmael are, crying out in the middle of the desert for help and for water, and when God hears them and attends to their needs, it is by “opening her eyes.” Our commentary asks, does the well appear miraculously, in answer to the prayer of a deeply distressed mother, or had it been there all along and somehow in her distress, Hagar failed to see it? 

How often in life are we paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of what might need to be done? How often do we perceive ourselves as stuck somewhere, even if the answer is in front of us? Sometimes when a situation seems hopeless or beyond our control, hiding or closing our eyes is the first response. But what if we could train ourselves to let God open our eyes in those moments?

My conversation with first-grader Sammy on that Saturday morning turned to how Helen Keller was able to rise up, overcome the challenges she faced, and persevere. She opened her eyes, even if figuratively, and became an incredible inspiration and example of the strength of the human spirit. May we go into Shabbat, and soon into this new secular year, with open eyes and renewed spirit.

Let It Go – Parshat Lech Lecha 5780

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There are different kinds of apologies. Some we make as a way to acknowledge that we’ve done something seriously wrong and to take ownership of our actions with intention to change our ways. Other apologies are much less formal and serious, like an apology for being late or for stepping on someone’s toes. Then there are the shallow apologies that don’t really mean anything, like a three-year-old who knows the only way to get dessert is to apologize for something, even if they don’t even know what they’re apologizing for. 

But what’s powerful about the ability to apologize is that it also puts the recipient of the apology in the position to forgive. This week we read Parshat Lech Lecha. Parshat Lech Lecha brings us finally into the narrative of Abraham and Sarah and the rest of our history as the Jewish people. The text begins with (then) Avram and Sarai leaving their land, the land that they knew and felt comfortable in, to go to Egypt and follow God’s command. The text continues with their ongoing problems in Egypt and ends with their name changes from Avram to Avraham (Abraham in English) and Sarai to Sarah.

One piece of this story has always intrigued me. God comes to Abraham and gives him the message that he should go and leave this land he’s known for the place that God will show him. Once on this journey, he finds himself under the rule of a foreign king, and the first thing Abraham does is ask Sarah to lie for him. He creates this lie out of fear that the foreign king will kill Sarah if he knows she is Abraham’s wife, but nonetheless, Abraham’s first act in the Torah is asking someone to lie for him.

How do we reconcile this with the image of Abraham our forefather, the one who we refer to first when listing Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? Does this act befit the father of this great nation of people and the one whose children number more than the stars in the sky? Why do we forgive Abraham?

Perhaps it’s not because Abraham learns his lesson (although he does work toward living an honest, better life after that). Instead, maybe the lesson is for us. Abraham isn’t a perfect role model, and he certainly made mistakes along the way, but perhaps that’s to teach us forgiveness and humanity. Human beings make mistakes. We mess up, sometimes we try to cover it up, eventually we get found out (look to the example of Adam and Eve), then hopefully we make amends, accept the consequences, and move on. 

We live in a world in which the expectation of perfection is extremely high. We hold our leaders, teachers, and preachers to a standard of perfection that just isn’t attainable. Human beings make mistakes. Yes, some are unforgivable and irreparable. But some simply need an apology and the ability to move on and learn from the mistake.

In the end, forgiveness is what moves us forward – forgiveness of ourselves and others. Parshat Lech Lecha reminds us that if we never allowed Abraham to be flawed, the great nation he started might never have had a chance to exist at all. 

 

Too Quiet – Parshat Noach 5780

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If you’ve ever been responsible for a group of children or, let’s be honest, even just a single child, you know that eerie, nervous feeling that comes when their playspace is too quiet. At first, there’s that moment when you think, “Wow, it’s so quiet! How nice that the children are playing so well and aren’t screaming at me or each other.” Then, seconds later, the panic sets in when you suspect that the quiet was the sound of mischief and the kids trying to hide the fact that they were doing things you might not approve of. On the one hand, it’s great that they appear to be working together on something. On the other hand, what if what they’re working on is something they shouldn’t be doing?

This dilemma is what I imagine God feels this week in Parshat Noach. Parshat Noach details the misbehavior of the people who inhabit the earth in this pre-Judaism time. We read about Noah as a beacon of hope among the despicable people of his town. God instructs Noah to build the ark, put the animals on it, and escape destruction under God’s protection during the flood. Noah’s story is capped off with a covenant between God and humankind to never again destroy the world. Unfortunately, the beauty of the rainbow is quickly tainted as we learn of the misdeeds committed by a new civilization in trying to reach up closer to God. 

God has no sooner hit the reset button on humanity than the people get “quiet,” working together to build a tower upwards. On the positive side, this tower, the Tower of Bavel, was the result of the people uniting for a common purpose. However, that purpose was also filled with the wrong intention. Instead of building something that would move them forward as a society, they built upward out of a self-centered need to touch the heavens. 

Consequently, God scrambles the languages of the people so they can’t understand one another, and thus chaos ensues and they can’t really figure out how to work together on the tower or any other project. 

The ability to communicate is critical for productivity, for us as individuals to move forward together. What we learn from Parshat Noach is that it’s not enough simply to work together. The work has to be a common cause for good. When we build together, work to understand each other and communicate clearly we can change the world for good. When we approach these group efforts with the right intentions, we can literally change the world.

I’m ME! – Parshat Bereshit 5780

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When Matan was two, he went through this beautiful phase of high self-centeredness and low self-awareness, as is appropriate for a two-year-old. With his long hair and love of dress-up, he was unphased by gender norms or stereotypes. If you asked him who loved him the most in the world, he would answer loud and proud, “Matan, me!” If you asked him whether he was a boy or a girl, he’d yell “I’m Matan!” Children have this wonderful ability to love themselves and others without much judgment. These moments made me smile because my little love wasn’t looking for differences between people, he was looking to be the best version of himself that he could. 

The Torah begins without delineating between gender as well. This week we read Parshat Bereshit, the first portion of the Torah. We are wowed with the story of creation, the time and care God put into creating each day, each being exactly as God wanted. We learn about the first people and their experience in the Garden of Eden: how they learned to build, grow, and be together. The Torah continues with the story of Cain and Abel, the first sibling rivalry gone terribly awry, and the very real consequences put into place after each of these events. At the very beginning of the Torah, we’re introduced to God as the parent, creating life and making sure everything has its own place.

In creation, God does not make any distinction in gender while creating animals. There is no list of boy cows and girl cows. There are simply cows. It isn’t until God moves on to the creation of human beings that gender is first introduced. The Eitz Chayim commentary offers that the reason for this is because it’s one way of differentiating ourselves from other creatures.

What’s interesting to note is we’re taught that the main distinction between other animals and us is that we’re created in God’s image, which is without gender. In other words, human beings were created to be different and unique, and yet simultaneously equal to each other and in our likeness to the “image” of God. The Talmud sees the difference between divine creation and basic replication through the example of minting. A king might cast coins from the same die, and they would all come out exactly the same. On the other hand, God creates human beings from the same basic mold, but each one, while still carrying the same spark of the divine, is wholly different. 

Parshat Bereshit reminds us to look for the unique, divine characteristics in each person we meet. Perhaps we should even return to the simple, sweet two-year-old definition of identity: we love ourselves first and celebrate the unique characteristics that make us exactly who we need to be.