Author: Eve Posen

With Feeling

Eve Posen1 Comment

As I like to joke, Cantor Rabbi Bitton’s job is certainly safe with me around. But while I’m not known for my vocal skills, I’m comfortable in the music and melodies of our liturgy. If I had to pick one prayer that always feels easy and natural, it would be the Kiddush, the tunes for both Shabbat and for holidays. I hear my father’s voice in my head, and that always makes it a sacred moment for me. 

Beyond my personal memories, there’s something about the sound of Kiddush that evokes home. Whether it’s sung around a Shabbat table with a full spread or whispered beside a hospital bed with a mini challah and grape juice cup, the words of Kiddush root us. They declare that even when the week spins with demands, there is a sacred pause—an invitation to remember who we are and where we belong.

Parshat Vaetchanan is similarly packed with memory and meaning. After recounting his own plea to enter the Promised Land, Moses pivots to legacy. He repeats the Ten Commandments and delivers the Shema—foundational texts that anchor Jewish identity. It’s a parshah of retelling and reaffirming, of choosing covenant again and again. Amid all this, the holiness of Shabbat is once more commanded: “Guard the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God has commanded you” (Deuteronomy 5:12).

This verse differs subtly from its twin in Exodus, where we are told to “Remember (zachor) the Sabbath day.” Here in Deuteronomy, we are told to “guard” (shamor) it. Our tradition famously teaches that both words were spoken by God in a single utterance: zachor v’shamor b’dibbur echad. Kiddush, the sanctification of Shabbat, blends these themes. When we lift the wine and recite Kiddush, we remember the acts of creation and guard the sanctity of time through ritual and restraint.

Kiddush is more than a pre-dinner ritual. It’s a declaration of values. It reminds us that our worth isn’t measured by productivity, that time can be holy, and that rest is resistance in a world that demands constant motion. This Shabbat, I invite you to listen closely to Kiddush. Let it be more than a recitation; let it be a reset. A recommitment to living with intention, to protecting what is sacred, and to remembering that holiness doesn’t just happen—it’s something we choose to create, together.

Co-Creating a Sacred Community

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Are you the person everyone tends to come to with their questions, their struggles, or their to-do lists? Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, a volunteer—or a rabbi—at some point you’ve probably wondered, “How am I supposed to do all of this?” It’s not just overwhelming; it’s the deep human realization that we were never meant to do any of this alone.

This week, we begin the book of Devarim, Moses’s parting words to the Israelites. Standing on the edge of the Promised Land, he doesn’t give a victory speech. Instead, he tells a story. Their story. He recounts the journey, the stumbles, the triumphs—and the time when he, their leader, couldn’t do it alone. “How can I bear your troubles, your burdens, and your disputes all by myself?” he asks. The answer? He appointed others. He shared leadership. He invited partnership.

This verse, and the blessing it evokes, offers a powerful blueprint for sacred community. Pirkei Avot teaches: “Do not separate yourself from the community.” This isn’t just a moral reminder—it’s a blessing. A wish that we might find our place not above or apart from one another, but within and alongside.

As I begin my journey as your senior rabbi, I hold this verse close. Leadership, for me, is not about bearing burdens alone. It’s about being in relationship with each other, with our sacred traditions, and with the still-unfolding story of who we are and who we’re becoming. My vision is to co-create this kehilla together: to listen deeply, dream boldly, and build collaboratively. Just as Moses realized, the future is not carried by one, but cultivated by many.

So this week, let Moses’s words remind us that holy work is shared work. Whether by showing up, offering your voice, or extending a hand, you are part of shaping this community. Let us be co-authors of our collective story. Let us not separate ourselves from the community, but draw closer, with intention, compassion, and courage. Together, may we bear not burdens, but blessings.

Refuge and Sanctuary Now and Always

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In a world filled with loud opinions and polarizing headlines, it’s easy to feel unmoored. The feeling of safety isn’t just about physical protection, but emotional and spiritual refuge. Whether it’s from rising antisemitism, social instability, or injustice in our systems, the need for compassionate leadership and safe spaces—a safe world—is more urgent than ever.

Parshat Matot-Masei, the final double portion in the Book of Numbers, bridges endings and beginnings. In Matot, we encounter laws about vows and tribal responsibilities. Masei recounts the Israelites’ wilderness journey with a list of 42 encampments—each a waypoint on the road to becoming a people ready for the Promised Land. Among the legal and logistical details, we find a remarkable institution: the Arei Miklat—Cities of Refuge. These were designated places where someone who had accidentally caused harm could flee for safety and await fair judgment.

The concept of Arei Miklat embodies the tension between accountability and mercy. It acknowledges that harm can occur unintentionally, and that a just society must differentiate between guilt and accident, between vengeance and justice. Embedded in the system is not only legal wisdom, but deep empathy.

This idea echoes through the Amidah: “Restore our judges as in former times … and reign over us in lovingkindness and mercy.” We pray not just for law, but for leadership tempered with compassion. The verse invites us to imagine a world where fairness and care coexist—a community where refuge is real.

We may not have cities of refuge today, but we can create sanctuaries of spirit and justice in our homes, synagogues, and institutions. This week, may we recommit to being a community of thoughtful leadership, where truth is spoken with kindness and justice is pursued with humility. Let us be known not only for what we build, but for whom we shelter.

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.