Author: Eve Posen

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.

Traveling with Blessing

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As a rabbi, I have many opportunities to offer blessings. One of my favorites is just after loading a bus on its way to camp or a youth group event and reciting a blessing for the travelers before sending them on their way. No matter the trip, traveling always comes with a certain amount of uncertainty. Whether we’re embarking on a family road trip, sending a child off to camp, or even just navigating the busy demands of our daily lives, there’s always that flicker of anxiety: Will we be safe? Will we arrive well? Jewish tradition meets that uncertainty with ritual — particularly with blessing. One of the most beautiful examples of this appears in Parshat Beha’alotcha, reminding us that journeys are not only physical but also spiritual, and that we are never truly traveling alone.

Parshat Beha’alotcha is rich with movement and transition. The parshah opens with the commandment to Aaron to light the menorah and quickly moves into organizing the Levites for service in the Mishkan. But a pivotal moment comes when the Israelites set out from Mount Sinai, their first major journey since receiving the Torah. To mark this moment, we read:

Vayehi binsoa ha’aron vayomer Moshe, kumah Adonai v’yafutzu oyvecha…

“When the Ark would set out, Moses would say: ‘Arise, Adonai, and let your enemies be scattered…’” (Numbers 10:35).

This verse is so significant that it’s set off in the Torah scroll by two inverted letter nuns, framing it almost like parentheses — or perhaps like wings of protection — around the words. Moses’s words over the Ark are among our earliest Jewish travel prayers. They are echoed in Tefilat Haderech, our traditional “Traveler’s Prayer,” which we say before setting out on a journey, asking God to guide us in peace and protect us from danger. But the connection goes deeper: the Ark itself was more than just a physical object being carried — it was a symbol of divine presence, Torah, and purpose, traveling with the people.

We often think about protection as something external: a seatbelt, a map, a vaccine, an insurance policy. But Moses teaches that spiritual protection comes when we consciously invite God — and the values of Torah — into our journeys. The act of blessing transforms our travels from mere movement to meaningful passage. It reminds us that no matter where we go, we carry a sacred purpose with us.

We can cultivate the practice of offering a blessing — whether through formal words like Tefilat Haderech or simply a moment of gratitude or intention. Our lives are full of movement, but Beha’alotcha reminds us that we are never just traveling — we are journeying with blessing. May we go forward like the Ark, carrying the presence of holiness with us, and may all our paths be made safe and meaningful.