Author: Eve Posen

Na’aseh V’nishma

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This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Kol Nidre, 2025.

There’s a story told about a rabbi who once traveled from village to village, sharing words of Torah. In one small town, he asked the people why they came to synagogue.

“To pray,” they answered.
“To listen to the cantor,” said another.
“To learn Torah,” said a third.

The rabbi shook his head. “No. You come to synagogue to learn how to listen. To listen to the sound of your own soul. To listen to the pain of your neighbor. To listen for the still small voice of God.”

The people protested: “But surely action matters more than listening?”

The rabbi replied, “True. But if you do not first learn to listen, how will you know what action is required?”

This folktale gets to the heart of why we’re here. Kol Nidre begins our most solemn day not with action, but with listening. Listening to haunting melodies. Listening to words that dissolve the weight of rash vows. Listening for God’s presence. But there’s a second part; the liturgy also insists that we do something with what we hear. Kol Nidre reminds us: teshuvah is both hearing and doing, reflection and action, silence and resolve.

This year our congregational theme is taken from Exodus 24. After Moses recounts God’s words, the people respond with one voice: Kol asher diber Adonai na’aseh — “All that God has spoken we will do.”

Moses writes the words, builds an altar, and offers sacrifices. Then he reads from the Book of the Covenant, and the people answer again: Kol asher diber Adonai na’aseh v’nishma — “All that God has spoken we will do and we will listen.”

That phrase — na’aseh v’nishma — has puzzled commentators for centuries. “We will do and listen.” Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Don’t you listen first, and then do?

But our ancestors flipped the order. They placed action before understanding, but they knew both were critical. They trusted that doing would lead them toward hearing more deeply. At Sinai, Israel pledged not only obedience but relationship: to step into covenant first and allow insight to follow.

The medieval text Sefer HaChinuch explains why this matters: “A person is influenced by their actions, and the heart and thoughts follow the acts, whether good or bad… Even if one begins by acting without pure intent, the actions themselves will draw the heart toward the good. For after the actions, the heart is pulled.”

It’s a radical claim, in a way. We often assume that the heart guides the deed — that belief shapes behavior. But Sefer HaChinuch insists the opposite: behavior shapes belief.

We might not feel ready for mitzvot. We might not feel like forgiving or apologizing or showing up for someone else. But if we act, or at the very least try to act, our hearts will follow. Did you think “fake it till you make it” was a modern cliché? It’s Torah! And it’s psychology. It’s the way human beings are wired.

And believe it or not, Yom Kippur is about “fake it till you make it.” We don’t wait until we feel holy in order to live as though we are holy. We practice holiness through action. We fast, we pray, we confess, we bow, we abstain, and in the doing, the listening opens. The heart softens.

Kol Nidre itself expresses this dynamic. It’s listening through doing. We recall the vows we spoke, the promises we failed to keep, the words that still bind us.

But how do we actually experience Kol Nidre, this legal declaration of annulment? With the physical. We hear the music. We feel the tears. We stand together and sit together and knock on our hearts together. You likely knew the tunes we hear tonight before you knew the words.

The heart is challenged and changed first by what we do, then by what we allow ourselves to hear. Kol Nidre is a covenant of listening through doing and sometimes vice versa.  Throughout Yom Kippur, our prayers swing between these poles of action and listening, and they go both directions.

  • In Al Chet, we strike our chests. Action. Yet we also listen to the litany of sins — some personal, some communal. Listening.
  • In the Avodah service, we recall the high priest performing elaborate rituals in the Temple. Action. Today, we replace those deeds with words — we listen to the story, and we imagine ourselves entering the Holy of Holies.
  • In Unetaneh Tokef, we listen to terrifying imagery: “Who shall live, and who shall die.” But we are not left paralyzed. We are called to act: u’teshuvah, u’tefillah, u’tzedakah ma’avirin et roa hagezeirah — “repentance, prayer, and righteous giving temper the severity of the decree.” In this case, listening compels doing.

Jewish liturgy refuses to let us stay in one mode. It demands a certain rhythm: doing and hearing, embodying and reflecting, enacting and listening.

What is so special about that balance this year? Our world is dangerously tilted.

We live in a culture drowning in words. Tweets, posts, headlines, slogans. Promises made and broken before the ink dries. Kol Nidre resonates because it reminds us that hollow words are not enough.

At the same time, we live in a culture addicted to action — instant responses, immediate judgments, performative outrage. Do something, anything, now. And often without listening first. Kol Nidre resonates because it reminds us that empty actions are not enough.

Yom Kippur interrupts these cycles. It tells us words matter, actions matter, and the covenant requires both: na’aseh v’nishma. Act and listen. Do and understand.

Think again of Exodus 24. The people did not simply say na’aseh v’nishma once. They first said na’aseh — “we will do.” Moses wrote the words, built an altar, offered sacrifices. Only then, after hearing the Book of the Covenant read aloud, did they add nishma — “we will listen.”

The order is important. They acted first. They listened second. And in doing so, they discovered the secret of Jewish life: that deeds lead to understanding, that covenant is not about waiting until we feel ready but about stepping forward together, trusting that meaning will follow.

Sefer HaChinuch puts it simply: acharei hape’ulot nimshachim halevavot — after the actions, the hearts are drawn.

The rabbi in the folktale told his people: “You come to synagogue to learn how to listen.” On Kol Nidre, that becomes our truth.

We listen to the pain we have caused and the pain we carry.
We listen to the weight of broken promises and the yearning for repair.
We listen for God’s forgiving presence, whispered between the notes.

So tonight, as we enter these sacred hours together, I offer this charge:

Practice na’aseh v’nishma v’na’aseh. This covenant is more than a “first this, then this.” It’s a cycle in which we embrace action in order to learn through listening, and then practice what we’ve learned.

When you rise for the Amidah, yes, do the reciting of it, but also listen for the one phrase that catches your soul, and then act on it.

When you beat your chest during Al Chet, yes do the motions of it, but also listen for the sin that is yours, then commit to one step of change.

When you sit in silence tomorrow afternoon, don’t rush to fill it; listen for what arises within you, then carry it into the year ahead.

We don’t have to feel ready for teshuvah in order to begin it. We just have to act. And if we act, our hearts will follow.

May this Yom Kippur be for us a day of deeds that draw our hearts closer.
A day of listening that moves us into covenant.
A day when we stand together, with one voice, and say again:
Na’aseh v’nishma.
We will do, and we will listen.

And in doing and listening, may we be sealed for a year of forgiveness, of courage, of compassion, and of return.

The Source of Wisdom

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The study of Torah is such a fundamental part of Judaism that there’s not just a blessing for the act of Torah study, there’s a blessing for encountering someone whose life is shaped and guided by Torah study. Whether it’s a scholarly figure with critical insight or a community elder whose wisdom is drawn from years of learning and living the law, our tradition teaches us to pause and offer a blessing. In doing so, we acknowledge that the wisdom before us is not theirs alone, but a spark of the divine shared with us through them.

Parshat Ha’azinu offers us a similar encounter. This parshah is often called the “Song of Moses.” Nearing the end of his life, Moses does not simply offer final instructions or laws. Instead, he sings. His words cascade as poetry: heaven and earth are summoned as witnesses, history is remembered, and God’s faithfulness is proclaimed. The tone is at once stern and tender, filled with warning and with hope.

What makes this song extraordinary is that it distills the essence of Torah into music and memory. Moses, the greatest of teachers, transforms his final teaching into a form that will live on beyond him. It is as though he becomes the embodiment of the blessing we say upon seeing someone distinguished in Torah study: he channels God’s wisdom, not for himself, but for the people who will carry it forward.

When we hear Ha’azinu, we are invited to see Moses not only as a leader or lawgiver but as a vessel of divine wisdom. And we, in turn, are called to recognize that Torah wisdom is not locked away in the past. It can appear in a teacher who explains a verse in a new light, in a friend whose insight guides us through a hard choice, or in a child who asks a question that reframes everything we thought we knew. Each of these moments is worthy of blessing, for each reveals God’s wisdom refracted through human lives.

The charge for us is clear: to cultivate the eyes and the humility to see divine wisdom when it appears in scholars, in neighbors, and even in ourselves. And when we do, may we always respond with gratitude, blessing both the opportunity to learn and the source of our learning. 

Rosh Hashanah and the Three Awakenings

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This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Rosh Hashanah day, 2025. For more on Dr. Lisa Miller’s book The Awakened Brain, visit: https://www.lisamillerphd.com

I want to pose a question you may have never been asked. When was the last time you let awe interrupt you? These are the Days of Awe after all, so what is this “awe” we’re talking about? The kind I mean doesn’t have to be earth-shattering; it just has to wake you up from wherever your mind is.

Here’s an example to get you thinking. This summer I found myself on a walk. That’s not the awe-inspiring part. None of you should be surprised that I relish my walks. It was my typical mode: headphones in, multitasking between an audiobook and thoughts of work – in this case it was this very sermon that needed writing. Before it had even really registered with me, I was passing a toddler in a stroller who was pointing to the sky and shouting, “Moon! Moon!” Her eyes sparkled with awe, not only at the idea that the moon could be visible during the day, but in the childlike wonderment that our planet has a moon at all.

I looked up. There it was—a full, glowing moon still visible in the early morning sky. And I realized: I hadn’t noticed it at all. I was too busy being productive. That little girl saw something bigger, something sacred. She was awake to wonder, and I was just trying to get through my day.

That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that being awake—truly awake—is more than just getting up in the morning. It’s about how we show up to our lives. That’s what the sound of the shofar does, and that’s what Rosh Hashanah itself is about: awakening to our truest selves, our relationships, and the sacred pulse that beats behind it all.

What prompted this connection for me and led to this sermon was Dr. Lisa Miller’s powerful book The Awakened Brain, in which she explores how awakening isn’t just a spiritual metaphor—it’s a biological and psychological necessity. She identifies three types of awakening that help us live richer, more meaningful lives: Personal Awakening, Relational Awakening, and Transcendent Awakening. And on this Rosh Hashanah, as we begin 5786, these three awakenings offer a roadmap for how we might renew our lives.

Dr. Miller’s first kind of awakening is Personal Awakening, the internal shift that comes when we confront challenge, loss, or profound insight and begin to see ourselves differently.

We all have these moments. They often come when life throws something unexpected our way—a diagnosis, a breakup, a loss, a new career. In a flash, the world feels unfamiliar. But it’s in those cold-water-on-your-face instances that we’re invited to truly wake up.

The shofar we hear today is the ancient sound of that personal awakening. Maimonides wrote that the shofar calls to us: “Awaken, you sleepers, from your sleep, and you slumberers from your slumber! Examine your deeds and return in repentance.” We don’t call it the “gentle nudge” of the shofar. We call it the “blast” of the shofar! It’s a divine alarm clock.

Dr. Miller calls these moments of personal awakening “the doorways to transformation.” Her neuroscience research shows that people who embrace these turning points with open eyes and hearts, rather than retreating into fear or denial, actually rewire their brains for greater resilience and emotional health.

And wouldn’t you know, Judaism teaches the same thing: that teshuvah—return—is not about guilt. It’s about growth. When we reflect deeply on our lives, we can return to who we were always meant to be.

So I ask: What is your shofar blast this year? What is asking you to wake up?

Maybe it’s a health scare, although I hope it isn’t. Or a job transition. Or the dream you’ve delayed. Maybe it’s a loneliness you’ve managed to push down and cover up that suddenly finds itself staring you in the face. Listen closely. The sound is there. This year, don’t hit snooze. Let yourself be jolted awake.

The second kind of awakening Dr. Miller explores is Relational Awakening, the understanding that we individuals are hardwired to connect. That our healing, our hope, and our humanity depend on each other.

We learned this the hard way during the pandemic, when distance became our new normal. We longed for hugs, for shared meals, for singing side-by-side. And even now, years later, many of us are still finding our way back into community.

There’s plenty in our Jewish tradition that can be done solo or as a family unit in the privacy of your home. But Rosh Hashanah is a communal holiday for a reason. We pray Avinu Malkeinu—Our Parent, Our Sovereign. We gather as a people, not just as individuals. Even the most personal of prayers are recited in the plural, because our tradition knows something Dr. Miller confirms: we are not meant to go it alone.

Her research shows that people with strong relational networks—family, chosen family, spiritual community—are more resilient in the face of life’s challenges. They’re more grounded, and yet also more hopeful. Why? Because being seen and known and loved heals us.

This is the heartbeat of synagogue life. I hope you’re not tired of hearing this, because I’m never going to stop preaching that we are more than a building to house services. We are the Meal Train you sign up for after someone has surgery. We are the embrace when you see someone who has just started saying Kaddish after they’ve lost someone close to them. We are the joyful chaos of kids running through the halls. We are every time you say “Shabbat shalom” because it doesn’t just mean “Shabbat shalom,” it means, “I see you. You matter.”

But this kind of awakening takes a little more effort than the first kind. It means showing up for each other. Not perfectly, just honestly. It means reaching out when you’d rather stay in. Forgiving when you’d rather forget. Saying yes when it feels easier to say no.

This year, I challenge you: reawaken your relationships. It’s easy for the rabbi to stand up here and invite you to attend services more often. I’m here anyway. No, what I’m really asking of all of us is to say hello to someone you don’t yet know. Invite someone new to your table. Open your sukkah. Rebuild the sacred web that holds us together, because if you’ve been anywhere near the news or social media recently, you know we need it.

The final awakening Dr. Miller describes is Transcendent Awakening—when we realize we are part of something greater than ourselves. This is the dimension of the spiritual, the sacred, the holy.

I know that not everyone here in the room uses the word “God” comfortably. Some of us picture a divine being. Others connect through nature, music, or quiet moments of reflection. But I’d guess all of us, at some point, have felt awe, whether it’s watching a newborn open their eyes, hearing the final blast of the shofar, or just gazing at the moon during the daytime.

That’s transcendence. That’s what awakens your spirit.

Rosh Hashanah means that kind of awakening. We call it Hayom Harat Olam—today the world is born. We remember that we are part of something vast and mysterious. We relinquish the illusion that we control everything and lean into trust and humility.

The Unetaneh Tokef prayer stirs us: “Who shall live and who shall die?” These words are hard. They’re real. They ask us to take stock of what we can and cannot control. But they don’t leave us in despair, they do the opposite. They offer us a roadmap: teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah—returning, praying, and acting with justice—can transform our destiny.

Guess what Dr. Miller’s research shows about people who cultivate a sense of the sacred through prayer, gratitude, and awe. It’s not that they need to cut down on sodium. It’s that they live with more meaning and less fear. They have what she calls “an awakened brain”—a mind attuned to love, beauty, and hope.

This year, how might you cultivate transcendence? Light candles. Say Modeh Ani in the morning. Say thank you. Start small, and let awe interrupt you. Let holiness sneak in.

Now that we’ve talked about what my hope for your Rosh Hashanah awakening is, I feel I should also mention what it isn’t. It isn’t about striving for perfection. And it isn’t about some universal awakening that applies to everyone. It’s yours.

This is your invitation:

  • First, wake up to your own life. Listen for the shofar calling you back to your truest self.
  • Second, wake up to each other. Reach out, reconnect, rebuild what has been broken.
  • Third, wake up to the sacred. Let yourself be awed. Let yourself be moved.

Dr. Miller says it plainly: “Spiritual awareness is not an add-on. It is foundational to our well-being.”

And Judaism says: You were made for this kind of awakening. You were created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. You are worthy. You are needed. You are part of something beautiful and enduring.

This year, may we not sleepwalk through our days. May we wake up—in body, mind, heart, and soul. Shanah tovah u’metukah. May it be a sweet, sacred, and awakened new year for us all.

Returning To Our Strengths

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This Shabbat is unique. Nestled between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Shabbat Shuvah, literally the “Shabbat of Return,” invites us into the sacred pause between beginnings and atonement. It is a moment for reflection, for choosing what direction we will turn our lives toward in the year ahead.

Parshat Vayelech seems almost tailor-made for this week. Moses, standing at the end of his life, prepares the people for their next chapter. He reassures them: “Chizku v’imtzu.” “Be strong and resolute, for it is God who goes with you; God will not fail you nor forsake you.” (Deut. 31:6) Moses then hands the mantle of leadership to Joshua, reminding Israel that even in moments of transition, blessing is found not in certainty, but in the abiding presence of God.

The Torah portion also introduces the mitzvah of hakhel, the great gathering every seven years, when all Israel, from elders to infants, assemble to hear Torah. This ritual highlights that blessing is not abstract; it is communal. The Torah becomes a blessing only when it is shared, heard, and lived together.

On Shabbat Shuvah, as we stand in the middle of the Ten Days of Awe, we too are asked to gather—not on a mountaintop or in a courtyard, but here in our community. We gather to remember that our return to God is not accomplished alone. The blessings of renewal, forgiveness, and life come alive in relationship with one another and with the Divine.

The message of Vayelech resonates deeply with the themes of teshuvah: turning and returning, blessing and being blessed. Blessing in Judaism is never only about what we receive; it is about what we generate. To bless is to name holiness, to bring awareness to God’s nearness, to transform ordinary acts into sacred opportunities.

As we walk through these holy days, may we feel the strength of Moses’s charge: “Be strong and resolute.” May we gather like our ancestors, seeking blessing not only for ourselves, but for our entire community. And may our turning toward God and toward each other in this season of teshuvah become the greatest blessing of all.

Torah, Step by Step

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Have you ever had a task that seemed overwhelming until you actually started doing it, only to discover it wasn’t as hard as you feared? Maybe it was assembling a piece of furniture, running your first 5K, or trying a new recipe. The thought of the work can feel daunting, but when you take it one step at a time, the path forward often becomes less treacherous than expected.

Our tradition tells us that Torah can sometimes feel that way. At first glance, it can seem too vast, too complex, or too distant for us to grasp fully. However, Parshat Nitzavim reminds us otherwise: Torah is not unreachable; it is close, accessible, and waiting for us to live it.

In Nitzavim, Moses gathers all of Israel—leaders, elders, children, strangers, laborers—to stand together and renew the covenant with God. The portion stresses collective responsibility, not only of those present, but also of future generations bound to this covenant. It speaks of return (teshuvah) and ends with the stirring message that life and death, blessing and curse are before you. We are to choose life so that we and our descendants may live.

In the heart of this portion, we find a passage of great reassurance: “Lo bashamayim hi . . .”

“It is not in heaven . . . it is not beyond the sea . . . but very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to do it.” (Deut. 30:11–14)

This teaching is the foundation for the blessing La’asok B’divrei Torah. “Blessed are you . . . who commands us to engage in words of Torah.” We do not bless God for completing Torah, or for mastering Torah, but for engaging in it. The blessing affirms that the work is not about perfection, but about participation. Torah is ours to wrestle with, to question, to study, and to live.

This resonates deeply with the declaration of our ancestors at Sinai: “Na’aseh v’nishma.” We will do, and we will understand. The Israelites promised to engage in Torah through action first, trusting that deeper understanding would follow. Just as Nitzavim says Torah is already in our mouths and hearts, na’aseh v’nishma reminds us that through living Torah, we bring it closer. It becomes accessible not just intellectually, but spiritually and communally.

Parshat Nitzavim comes to us each year right before Rosh Hashanah, as we stand on the threshold of a new year. It challenges us to see Torah not as an intimidating mountain or a distant ocean, but as something already within our grasp. It is already in our hearts and mouths, waiting for us to do it.