This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Yom Kippur day, 2025.

Let’s talk about Sukkot. As a rabbi, I like to stay a little ahead of the game, so let’s address the elephant in the sukkah. By the way, that’s the real title of a PJ Library book, no kidding.

Sukkot is not my favorite holiday. Of all the Jewish rituals—wonderfully weird, occasionally random, but always deeply meaningful—the ones related to the holiday of Sukkot are the most cringeworthy to me.

Why, you might ask? What’s wrong with a sukkah? And the answer is, nothing actually. I love building the sukkah and decorating it with paper chains and the fake fruit that once hung in my Nana and Papa’s sukkah. I love the open tent symbolism. I love inviting in our ancestors. It’s the lulav and etrog that make me want to just skip over this holiday and go straight to Simchat Torah.

I know not everyone feels this way, but to me, this particular tradition feels pagan and out of place in a religion that forbids the worship of objects. I didn’t always feel this way. It started when I was in rabbinical school in Los Angeles and the minyan moved outside to the sukkah. When you take the lulav and etrog and then add in a drum circle with students dancing and drumming and chanting a rhythmic beat, shaking said lulav and etrog, suddenly it felt different. This was not my Zayde’s Judaism, and I’ve never been able to shake that feeling, pun totally intended.

Again, this is in no way me telling you to share in my discomfort. I’m willing to bet that each of you has a moment in your life—specifically in your Jewish life—when you’ve felt out of place or off-kilter. Have any of you ever witnessed kaparot, the swinging of a chicken overhead before Yom Kippur to transfer your sins? A bris is a meaningful ceremony, but maybe not the most comfortable for everyone in the room. Well, particularly one person in the room. Or maybe there’s merely a ritual you didn’t grow up with, so it’s not second nature.

Each of us has our own individual comfort level in Jewish living. And each of us has places of discomfort. But here is my Yom Kippur message: discomfort, especially in Judaism, isn’t something to be avoided—it’s something to be explored. And today, on the day that confronts us with mortality, vulnerability, and deep spiritual reflection, it’s the perfect time to talk about it. So let’s get uncomfortable.

There’s a teaching in Pirkei Avot—the Ethics of Our Ancestors—where Rabbi Eliezer says, “Repent one day before your death.” His students respond, “But Rabbi, how can we know what day that will be?” And he replies, “Exactly. Therefore, repent today.”

Yom Kippur, in a way, is that day. Not literally, but it’s the day we symbolically prepare for our death, wearing white like burial shrouds, fasting, removing ourselves from physical pleasure. It’s not meant to be morbid, it’s purposeful. Yom Kippur invites us to be uncomfortable so that we might grow.

The psychiatrist Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski was not only a prolific author, his online videos also generated views in the hundreds of millions. In one of his more well-known videos, he muses that we can learn a lot from lobsters. I know, Jews learning from shellfish, it’s weird. But the lobster, whose hard shell protects its soft tissue, cannot grow without the discomfort of pushing against a shell that has become too small. You don’t have to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but if you don’t, you risk missing out on opportunities for personal growth.

Discomfort, in Judaism, has often been the catalyst for transformation. Think of our biblical ancestors. Abraham left everything he knew. Jacob wrestled with an angel. Moses stood up to Pharaoh with shaking hands. None of that was comfortable. But it was holy.

Leaning into discomfort gives us the opportunity to examine our lives without pretense. It forces us to consider how we spend our time, how we treat others, and whether we’re living in alignment with our values. Let’s be real; that kind of honest introspection doesn’t happen on a Tempur-Pedic mattress with a Pendleton Merino throw. It happens in the quiet of fasting, in the ache of regret, and in the uncertainty of change.

With Yom Kippur as our symbolic acknowledgement of mortality, there’s a particular kind of discomfort that’s especially relevant for reflection today, the discomfort of attending shiva.

If you’ve ever walked into a house of mourning, you know the feeling. You fumble for the right words. You wonder if you should attempt to say something profound or say nothing at all. Maybe you didn’t know the deceased. Maybe grief makes you anxious. Shiva offers a variety pack of ways to feel uncomfortable.

However, the mitzvah of nichum aveilim—comforting mourners—is not about saying the right thing. It’s not even about having a close relationship with the person who died. It’s about showing up.

The discomfort we feel walking into a shiva house is a sacred discomfort. It reminds us that presence matters. Our tradition teaches that when we visit a mourner, we remove a fraction of their sorrow. Not all of it, just a little. But that little bit can make all the difference.

Shiva is not designed to be comfortable for the participants. It’s designed to hold grief so that we can process it without distraction, without escape from the sadness. And in that honesty, that rawness, there is deep holiness. Sitting with someone in their grief, even in silence, is one of the most powerful things we can do as Jews and as human beings.

And in many ways, Yom Kippur functions like a communal shiva. A shiva for the soul. A sacred time set aside to grieve our missteps, our losses, and our mortality. We sit together, stripped of distractions, focused on what truly matters.

Just as we would never say to a mourner, “You should be over it by now,” Judaism doesn’t ask us to rush past the discomfort of Yom Kippur. We’re not meant to skip ahead to the break-fast. We’re meant to sit in the stillness. To cry if we need to. To say the hard things, to ourselves and to each other.

You’d think an uncomfortable ritual like this is meant to break us somehow. Not at all. It’s meant to open us. The discomfort of Yom Kippur is not about shame or punishment. It’s about potential. It’s about asking, “What kind of life do I want to live? To whom do I need to apologize? What type of person do I want to be when I exit the synagogue doors?”

We’re not promised comfort in this life. But we are promised meaning. And meaning comes from doing the hard things. From leaning in and showing up when it’s uncomfortable.

That’s why we attend shiva. That’s why we fast on Yom Kippur. That’s why we reflect on death—not to dwell in fear, but to live more fully. We show up for each other in our darkest moments because we know that’s what community is for. And we show up for ourselves on Yom Kippur because we believe that every soul can shine again.

It takes courage to lean into discomfort. To walk into a house of mourning or to walk into a synagogue on Yom Kippur and say, “I’ve messed up. I want to do better.” It takes courage to face the parts of life or the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore.

But the reason we do it is because we believe it can change us. We believe in teshuvah—in return, in repair, in rebirth. So today, I invite you not to rush past the discomfort. Don’t numb it. Don’t flee it. Sit with it. Learn from it.

Ask yourself: What parts of my life need tending? Who have I avoided showing up for because it felt awkward or hard? Where have I played it safe when I was called to step forward?

And maybe today, as the hunger pangs persist or the confessional prayers grow repetitive, you’ll remember that these moments, too, are holy. They are tools for transformation. They are our people’s way of saying: Life is short. Make it count.

May we each find the strength to be uncomfortable. And in doing so, may we write ourselves into the Book of Life—not only for another year, but for an entire life of meaning, compassion, and connection.

G’mar chatimah tovah.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, October 12, 2024.

Our theme this year as a kehilla, as a community, is “Amen: Be a Blessing.” I wonder if you’ve taken a good, long look at the logo. Have you noticed that “Amen” is on top, and below it, there are ellipses on both sides of “Be a Blessing”? We’ve been saying, “Amen: Be a Blessing,” but you could just as easily say, “Be a Blessing: Amen.” We’re used to hearing “amen” after a blessing anyway. 

Whichever order you put these terms in, there’s no wrong way to express the idea of embodying blessing. In the same way that blessings don’t all fall into one neat category of situations. Yom Kippur is the perfect example of this. How do you greet people on Yom Kippur? Typically you don’t hear “Happy Yom Kippur.” You don’t usually hear “Chag sameach,” although there’s nothing wrong with saying that. After all, it’s not a sad holiday. But the greetings are on the solemn side. You hear “G’mar chatimah tovah” or “G’mar tov” or “Tzom kal.” People blessing each other to be sealed in the Book of Life or to have an easy fast. It’s our way of saying, “I know you’re going through something challenging, and I’m with you.” 

This is the beauty of blessing in Judaism. In the Mishna, in Brachot 9, we encounter a truly nuanced understanding of this. It teaches us that we are obligated to recite a blessing for the bad just as we do for the good. Upon hearing good news or receiving rain, we recite the blessing, “Blessed are You, God, who is good and does good.” 

But there’s also a blessing for bad news. What blessing do we offer after hearing of a death?  

Right, for bad news, the blessing is “Blessed is the True Judge.” 

It’s kind of a radical concept. How can we bless the bad as we do the good? Does this mean that we should celebrate misfortune? Not at all. The Mishna is inviting us to recognize that challenges, pain, suffering – these are also a part of life. When we say “Blessed is the True Judge” in moments of hardship, we’re not blessing the suffering itself; we’re affirming our faith in God’s wisdom and justice, even when we cannot understand it. 

To me, this gives us a much broader understanding of blessing. It teaches us that blessing is not just about joy and prosperity; it’s about finding meaning in every experience, both the light and the dark. Blessing is about acceptance, about trust in God’s judgment, and about finding the strength to move forward despite our pain. 

There’s a ton of ambiguity in Jewish blessing. Think about something as simple as “Baruch HaShem” which is a pet peeve of mine as a response. “How are you?” “Baruch HaShem.” “How’s work? How’re the kids?” “Baruch HaShem.” It’s the Jewish version of “It is what it is.” Is it bad? Is it good? Who knows. 

It’s not that I’m bothered by a phrase saying “Blessed is God.” I just don’t think it’s an answer, at least not if you’re really trying to connect with someone. However, it is further proof of how we bless the good, the bad, and the in-between.          

Here’s another example from the Mishna. Mishna Middot 2:1-2 gives us a vivid image of communal support. It describes the custom on the Temple Mount, where everyone entering would walk to the right and exit on the left, except for those in mourning or those who had been excommunicated. These individuals would walk in the opposite direction, signifying their sorrow or isolation. The community would respond with words of comfort, acknowledging their pain and offering a blessing of restoration. 

“May the One who dwells in this house inspire them to draw you near again,” they would say to someone who had been excommunicated, signaling not just sympathy but a hope for reconciliation and reintegration into the community. 

Being a blessing also means being attuned to the needs of those around us. It means offering comfort to the mourners, supporting those who feel alienated, and working toward healing fractured relationships. Yom Kippur is a time for personal reflection, but also a time to recommit ourselves to communal responsibility. To be a blessing is to recognize when others are in pain and to respond with empathy and action. Blessing is the good and the bad. 

The “amen” part of our theme is just as broad. The word amen, as we say after each blessing, has its own significance. Its roots come from emunah (faith) and emet (truth). When we say amen, we are affirming not only the truth of the blessing but also expressing our faith in its power and significance. 

In the Talmud Brachot 53b, Rabbi Yosi teaches, “Greater is the one who says Amen than the one who says a blessing.” Intriguing, right? Why might the responder be greater than the one who blesses? 

Perhaps it’s because the blessing itself can be a solo act, but saying amen is an act of creating community. When we say amen to someone’s blessing, we are joining them, affirming their words, and sharing in the spiritual moment. The one who says amen acknowledges the blessing’s truth and power, making it a collective experience. On Yom Kippur, when we come together in prayer, it’s a chorus of amens. 

It’s amazing how one word transforms blessings from individual acts to communal ones. It reminds us that no one prays alone. Even in our most personal moments of reflection and atonement, we are part of a greater whole. Blessings are most powerful when shared. 

So, what does it mean to be a blessing on this Yom Kippur? It means embracing the fullness of life, both the joy and the sorrow, and seeing every moment as an opportunity to affirm our faith, to say amen to both the good and the bad. It means recognizing our role in creating blessings for others, whether through words of kindness, acts of charity, or simply by being present for someone in need. 

On Yom Kippur, we are asked to confront both the good and the bad in our lives. We confess our shortcomings, acknowledge our failures, and seek forgiveness. But we also acknowledge the moments of joy, the blessings we’ve received, and the ways in which we have been able to bring blessings into the lives of others. Both are necessary to fully live out our call to be a blessing. 

As we enter the new year, may we strive to embody the call given to Abram: “You shall be a blessing.” May we bless others with our actions, with our compassion, and with our presence. May we find the courage to say amen to the challenges we face, trusting that even in our struggles, there is an opportunity for growth and connection. 

G’mar chatimah tovah—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life, and may our year ahead be filled with the blessings of peace, compassion, and hope. 

This is the sermon I delivered for Kol Nidre on October 11, 2024.

My teacher Rabbi Ed Feinstein always taught that we as Jews are the people of the book, which means we’re the people of stories. There are stories we tell ourselves, sometimes hold us back, and stories we hear that teach us and allow us to grow. Here’s a story that has stuck with me this year. Click the video for the full sermon, which starts at 56:16.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, September 25, 2023.

I’m Rabbi Posen, for those of you who may be new. Natan Meir, Eddy Shuldman, and Mark Sherman are also part of our fantastic service-leading team. This is how we identify each other, by our names. For all of human existence, we have come to the conclusion that we are the only species that does this, that calls each other by name. Even when scientists study language in other animals, like dolphins, they’ve determined that the changes in their vocalizations aren’t names, they’re simply imitations of the other dolphins’ sounds.

At least, this is what they thought until now. Just a few weeks ago, researchers from Colorado State University released findings suggesting that elephants may in fact call each other by names. Not in the loud trumpet sounds we associate with elephants, but with low-frequency vocal rumbles they use to communicate over long distances. 

The team analyzed hundreds of these rumbles and found, using machine learning, that some were specifically directed at individual elephants, and they weren’t merely imitations of the recipient elephant. Then they played back recordings of the rumblings to groups of elephants, and the ones that heard their own names responded by moving quickly toward those sounds. 

If this study is peer-reviewed and verified, can you imagine what this means? This completely changes the way we see animals and how they interact. Michael Pardo, a behavioral ecologist from Colorado State, said that these new findings potentially “blur the line” between “what we think is unique to human language versus what is found in other animal communication systems.”

I want you to hold on to this news story in your mind, while I share a personal story.

A few weeks ago I was out for a walk in our neighborhood. That will come as no surprise to most of you. I was listening to an audiobook, just in the zone, taking in the world around me, when a neighbor came up to me. “Do you have a minute for a rabbi question?” He must have seen the split-second change of expression on my face as I decided if I was going to be present for him or keep my focus on my book, because he followed it up with: “I’ll keep walking with you so you won’t have to stop.” So we walked. 

His question: Why do some Jews do the unveiling of the headstone at 12 months and others at 30 days? Where did this come from? As with most rabbi questions, this took us down a metaphorical conversation path, not unlike the literal neighborhood path we were on. It lead to a discussion about ritual and tradition, obligations of mitzvot, and how all of this changes over time. We spent about a mile discussing our own traditions, our family histories and origins, and marveled at how we’re connected deeply to our roots by the way in which we celebrate our Judaism today. 

I’ve sermonized about death before. Judaism doesn’t shy away from this topic. As human beings, we’re already naturally fascinated by our own mortality, and Jewish tradition comes along and basically says, “I know, right??” The idea that Judaism has outlined a process for everything, including mourning, is part of what made me want to become a rabbi. The whole Jewish grief procedure is partly about providing comfort to the mourners, but also about encouraging us to remember. These time markers – seven days, 30 days, 365 days – they keep loved ones with us. They lengthen their days even after they’ve died.

Last year at the end of Yom Kippur services, a few of you came up to me to ask about my tallit. Some of you may have noticed that I have two tallitot that I wear throughout this service. This (regular) one which is my every Shabbat and holiday tallit, and this one (my dad’s) that I put on only for Yizkor. I’ve done this for the past 16 years since my father passed away. 

There are ways in which the people who came before us live on. It’s through the stories we tell about them. It’s through the college fund they set up long ago that their great-grandchildren are finally old enough to use. It’s through the dining room table in our house that used to be in Duncan’s grandparents’ dining room, where Duncan and his family had countless Shabbat dinners and Pesach seders. For me, this tallit is how my dad Steven lives on, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. Because of this tallit, because of stories, because of Shiri’s own name, because of my last name, my father’s days have been lengthened. 

Back to Colorado State University. Do you think that elephants can do what I just did? This would have been a stranger question if I had opened with it. But understanding now what we just found out weeks ago that could possibly make elephants the only known non-human animal to communicate using the abstract construct of names . . . do you think elephants tell stories about other elephants who’ve died? Is it possible that elephants publicly mourn? 

It’s fascinating, isn’t it? And not just for the scientific discovery, but also because it builds on what we already know about elephants and their incredible recall. “Elephants never forget” isn’t just a saying. In one study, scientists who researched elephant packs at an East African national park in the early 90s saw that the mortality rate of elephants during a severe drought was much higher for the packs with younger matriarchs because the older ones were able to recall a similar drought from decades earlier that forced them to go in search of alternative food sources. Memory legitimately lengthened their days.

L’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. With our memory, we lengthen our days. By recalling memories of loved ones, we lengthen their days. We use the phrase “till 120” to wish someone good health on their birthday, knowing they won’t live to be 120. But in a very real way, they will live well past 120 in our memories. Gematria, the Kabbalistic numerological system, assigns values to words through their letters. It’s why chai is 18, because the values of chet and yud add up to 18. Fun fact: Want to know what the letters pey, yud, lamed, which spells peel, the Hebrew word for elephant, add up to? 120.

How do we carry people with us? Like the Israelites carrying the Tabernacle through the wilderness, we have a history of looking for tangible ways to carry the intangible in our hearts. We carry people through their tallitot. Through their dining room table. Through stories of family vacations, weddings, retelling of old terrible jokes. And through names. It could be the Ashkenazi tradition of naming after someone who has passed or the Sephardi tradition of continuing the legacy while the loved one is still alive. 

However we carry them, we lengthen their days. By saying Yizkor, that reminder at certain times throughout the year, and lighting the Yahrtzeit candle, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. We lengthen their days for as long as their names stay on our lips. For as long as those low rumbles pass on from generation to generation.

If anyone has brought with you a beloved item, or even just a lesson or memory, from a loved one, I invite you to share about it if you’re comfortable doing so.

Before we recite Yizkor, as we think about how our loved ones live on with us, I’d like to share a reading with you. This poem is called “A Man Doesn’t Have Time In His Life,” by Yehuda Amichai.

A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.