This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on December 5, 2025.
There are few Torah scenes as emotionally charged, or as painfully relatable, as the reunion between Jacob and Esau in Parashat Vayishlach. It’s the kind of moment that makes you want to reach for popcorn and tissues.
Remember: the last time these brothers saw each other, Jacob was running for his life after stealing Esau’s blessing. Not exactly an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher. Decades pass. Jacob builds a family. Esau builds an army—at least, that’s how it looks when he approaches with 400 men.
The night before they meet, Jacob is left alone and wrestles with a mysterious figure until daybreak. He emerges with a limp and a blessing, but also with a new name: Yisrael. The one who wrestles. It’s as if Torah is telling us: “Before you face the person you hurt or who hurt you, you must first wrestle with yourself.”
Then dawn comes. Jacob limps forward. Esau runs toward him. And instead of revenge, Esau throws his arms around Jacob’s neck and weeps.
Here’s the part I find so moving: Esau does not give a polished apology. There’s no “I’ve been doing a lot of reflection, and I want to own my part in this conflict.” There’s no mutual processing with a box of tissues and a feelings wheel. There’s just an embrace. A gesture that says, “I missed you,” even if he never says the words “I’m sorry.”
And Jacob, who has every reason to be cautious, receives it. He allows that imperfect gesture to open the door to reconciliation, even if their paths ultimately diverge again.
So often we wait for the perfect apology, the one that hits all the right notes, includes footnotes and a bibliography, and arrives with a gift basket. But most human apologies are like Jacob’s limp: awkward, incomplete, evidence of a wound that’s still healing.
Vayishlach reminds us that apologizing requires courage, but so does accepting an apology that isn’t everything we hoped for. We mend relationships not because they’re perfect, but because we choose to step toward each other anyway.
May we learn to offer apologies that are brave, to receive apologies with generosity, and to trust that even imperfect steps can lead us toward wholeness.
This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on November 22, 2025.
We all wear masks. Some are subtle: a practiced smile, a calm tone when we’re anything but calm, the “I’m fine” we offer even when we’re overwhelmed. Others are more deliberate: the persona we step into at work, the identity we hold in certain circles, the version of ourselves we hope others will find easier to love. These masks aren’t always dishonest; often, they’re protective. But they can also keep us from being fully seen.
Parshat Toldot is a masterclass in masks and mistaken identities.
Jacob, urged on by Rebekah, disguises himself to receive the blessing meant for Esau. He puts on Esau’s clothes, covers his arms in goatskin, changes his voice enough—or maybe Isaac wants to believe enough—that the blessing is given. It’s a scene filled with tension, heartbreak, and a kind of spiritual claustrophobia. No one is being fully honest; no one is being fully themselves.
But the most striking line in the whole episode is Isaac’s vulnerable question: “Ha’atah zeh b’ni Esav? — Are you really my son Esau?” (Gen. 27:24).
It’s a question that echoes far beyond the story. It’s the question we ask, consciously or not, every time we wonder who someone truly is beneath the layers they show the world. And it’s the question others ask of us—even when they don’t say it out loud.
Isaac is physically blind, but everyone else in the story is emotionally or spiritually blinded: by fear of the future, by favoritism, by the pressure to fulfill a promise. Masks become easier than vulnerability.
But here’s the twist: the blessing Jacob receives, intended for Esau, delivered under disguise, ultimately shapes Jacob into who he becomes. The Torah seems to say that even when we hide, even when we show only fragments of ourselves, God still sees us wholly. And eventually, we must learn to see one another fully, too.
The invitation of Toldot is to cultivate communities where people don’t need to hide, where we make the brave choice to see and be seen. Because when someone truly sees us, not the mask but the person beneath, something inside softens. The blessings become real. The relationships deepen. The story can move forward. This week, may we practice lifting the masks—our own and others’. May we ask with compassion, “Who are you, really?” And may we create spaces where the answer is safe, welcomed, and held with love.
This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on November 8, 2025.
There’s a moment many of us know well: that split second when we notice something isn’t right, when our gut says, “Say something…do something,” and yet our fear whispers back, “Maybe stay quiet.” We replay this moment in schools, workplaces, at family tables, and in our communities. And Parshat Vayera meets us right at that crossroads between comfort and courage.
Vayera is filled with holy disruption. Moments when our ancestors must choose whether to speak up, act decisively, or stay silent. When God tells Abraham that Sodom and Gomorrah will be destroyed, Abraham could nod silently in agreement. Instead, he steps forward with one of the Torah’s boldest challenges: “Ha’af tispheh tzaddik im rasha?” “Will You sweep away the innocent along with the guilty?” (Gen. 18:23). Abraham argues with God. He advocates for people he doesn’t know. His bravery is not in physical action, but in raising his voice for justice.
A few verses later, we meet a very different scene, one that is far more painful. Abraham and Sarah send Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness. This time, Abraham is silent. The Torah tells us he is distressed, but he does not protest, negotiate, or advocate for their safety. Silence, too, becomes a choice, one with consequences.
And then, perhaps the most wrenching test: the binding of Isaac. We notice again that Abraham does not speak—not to Sarah, not to God, not to Isaac until the very last moment. Commentators wrestle with this silence. Was it faith? Was it fear? Was it a missed opportunity for the courageous conversation God might have wanted from him?
Vayera holds up a mirror: We all have moments of Abraham’s courage and moments of Abraham’s silence. Our task is to learn when to embody which.
Speaking up requires vulnerability. It risks relationships, comfort, and certainty. But silence carries its own cost, especially when others depend on our voice.
As Jews, we inherit Abraham’s sacred responsibility to challenge, to advocate, to question power, and to protect the vulnerable. Brave choices are not always dramatic; sometimes they sound like, “I’m uncomfortable with that language,” “I need to tell you how this impacts me,” or “This isn’t who we are.”
This week, may we cultivate the courage to use our voices with compassion and conviction. May we choose to speak, even when our voice trembles, and stand up for what is just, kind, and true.
This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on October 31, 2025.
At the beginning of every year, we don’t just restart the Torah, we re-enter it. We step back into a narrative already in motion, one that invites us to ask not only what happened then, but what are we meant to learn now?
And this year, as our country feels increasingly fragile, politically divided, democracy strained, and trust frayed, the opening chapters of Torah offer a mirror for our civic and spiritual reality, and a call to moral courage.
In Bereshit, creation begins with separation, light from darkness, water from sky, chaos from order. God models that healthy distinctions are not the same as division. Boundaries create the possibility of life. Creation is not undone by disagreement; it is undone when violence replaces relationship. When Cain refuses responsibility for Abel and asks, “Hashomer achi anochi?““Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Gen. 4:9), the Torah answers with a thunderous yes. Democracy depends on that same answer, on recognizing that we are accountable for the well-being of those beyond ourselves.
Then comes Noach. The world narrows, humanity collapses inward. Everyone becomes so self-interested that “the earth was filled with hamas, corruption, and moral violence.” The flood isn’t only a punishment, it is a consequence: when no one feels responsible for the commons, the commons collapses. A society cannot endure when empathy is eroded and truth becomes irrelevant. The rainbow that follows is not a sign of uniformity, but of shared human dignity, a covenant conditional on remembering one another’s humanity.
And in Lech Lecha, the narrative shifts from the universal to the particular, from the creation of the world to the creation of a people. God calls Avram: “Lech lecha mei’artzecha… Go forth from your land, your birthplace, the house of your father, to the land that I will show you.” (Gen. 12:1)
It is the most uncharted of instructions. God does not say, “Here is the destination.” Instead: “I will show you.” The blessing comes after the walking, not before. Faith here is not certainty; it’s the courage to begin without a map.
Avram doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is that the life he is meant to build cannot be built from the pieces he already has. So he chooses movement. Not out of impatience, but out of conviction that something sacred awaits if he’s willing to step beyond the edges of what he has known. The Torah reminds us that our lives, and our societies, are not shaped by what we believe in theory, but by what we are willing to walk toward.
Avram’s story becomes a blueprint for democracy itself. Every step, from uncertainty to hope to moral courage, is part of covenantal life. Later, when offered the spoils of war, Avram refuses, saying: “I lift my hand to the Eternal . . . I will not take so much as a thread or a sandal strap.” (Gen. 14:22–23) He teaches that righteousness is not won through victory, but through integrity. Faith is not passive belief; it is ethical courage. It is not enough to walk toward blessing; we must also refuse the shortcuts that undermine it.
The first three parshiyot, Bereshit, Noach, and Lech Lecha, together form a Torah of citizenship. They remind us that democracy is not a system that runs on autopilot; it is a covenant, sustained by relationship, accountability, and moral presence. We do not maintain it by silence or by watching from the sidelines. We sustain it by choosing, again and again, to be each other’s keepers, by naming corruption when we see it, by standing for truth even when it’s uncomfortable, by insisting that dignity belongs to all.
There is a moment in every life, and in every nation, when the question is no longer “Where am I?” but “Who will I become if I take this next step?”
Our task in this moment is not simply to hope for a better world; it is to build one together. To move, like Avram, toward justice even when we cannot see the ending. To resist the floodwaters of cynicism and cruelty by remembering that every voice matters. And to answer the Torah’s first great moral question, “Ayeka?Where are you?” by showing up for each other, for this country, and for the fragile promise of shared life.
May we, like Avraham, walk forward in faith, not because we know the way, but because we believe that our walking can still bring blessing into a world that desperately needs it.
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.
Rabbi Eve Posen 