July 1, 2025

Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Speech at the Community HIAS Vigil in Support of Immigrants & Refugees

One morning in the fall, I had an epiphany. I had spent much of the last year focused on telling the story of our people, our history—how we were strangers in lands far from our own. Our story spirals through the generations; it echoes the stories of ancestors that live in the recesses of our mind, like a tel, a layered archaeological site. We traveled from place to place, searching for freedom. I knew we needed to continue to tell our story. But what does it mean to be a Jew? We know we have been lost and lonely, and it was not until we arrived here—or returned to our homeland in Eretz Yisrael—that we ever felt at home. I knew that our story was also filled with an obligation to serve the other, to help shape the world into the one that it ought to be. It is a world envisaged by the prophets, one which cares for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.

As a 13-year-old on a Bar Mitzvah trip to Israel, I stood looking at a picture of the St. Louis, and the grandmother of one of the Bat Mitzvah girls on the trip looked at it too and said, “I was on that ship.” I wish I had asked her more. We now know many of the stories, but I didn’t know her story. Those passengers sailed filled with hope for safety and freedom.

The story of the American Dream lives in our hearts and minds—that we come for a better future, that the streets are lined with gold, that the fire lives within our bellies telling us we can work and make our lives what we want. But that’s a fantasy passed on from one generation to the next. While a truth may emerge from that dream, the challenges and the hardships immigrants face are only fragments of the story and, in reality, are like mountainous speedbumps impeding the days of those dreamers.

In early March I received an email from my rabbinic colleague who works at HIAS. “There is a single man coming to Columbus in a couple of weeks on an Afghan Special Immigrant Visa. Would Congregation Beth Tikvah be willing to sponsor him and help him get settled?” I wanted to get to yes—how could I say no? Someone needed our help, but I needed to know what our responsibilities would be: find an apartment, furnish it, arrange health appointments, set up government assistance, and find him a job. A financial commitment and a team of volunteers to help support rides and other daily basic needs. Great, we got this!

Obaidullah was scheduled to arrive in two weeks, but two days later we learned he would arrive that evening before a potential travel ban set in. In reality, that travel ban would come several weeks later. He arrived in the middle of Ramadan, and we learned his story. He held two master’s degrees in Business Administration and Agriculture. He was a translator. We learned his brother lived here and that he had not seen his wife in five years—she was still in Kabul. He believed she would join him here this year, but that dream is now made more difficult because of the travel ban now in place by executive order.

Since mid-March, our Beth Tikvah team of volunteers has not only supported this young man, but we have become an extended community for him. We could not have supported him without the incredible guidance of the refugee resettlement team at Jewish Family Services. We connected him to doctors. We got him the benefits he would need. He took initiative and, within weeks, got himself a learner’s permit and then his driver’s license.

We thought finding him a job would be easy. He worked with JFS; he worked with one of our volunteers who spent her career coaching people on résumé writing and interview skills. Hundreds of job applications went unanswered, and many interviews came and went without a second one. We explored fields in translation, agriculture, and more. Sometimes serendipity helps—and after several inquiries within the congregation, we found a connection and, last week, after 3+ months of searching, Obaidullah had his first day of work. Yet his journey doesn’t come without further challenges. We are now supporting his brother in his efforts to find a job—we are trying to stabilize the house. Can you imagine being away from your beloved for five years? And her life is still in danger. We still need to find him a car, and we are looking to see if someone has one in good working order to gift to him so he can get to and from work without relying on others.

This journey continues, but our friend Obaidullah is now part of our family. So many have stepped up to help.

We hold so many concerns in our hearts about immigration policy, ICE raids, and executive orders, and we often do not know how to help. While we may not be able to change public policy with the stroke of a pen, there is work we can do to save lives. Jewish tradition teaches us, “If you save a life, you save an entire world.” God willing, in thirty years, we will look back and our friend Obaidullah will be sharing the stories of how he came to America and found his way—much like we share now about how our ancestors came here a century or more ago.

We all may be asking what our role is in this crisis. There are many ways we can take action to support the rights and needs of immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers right here in our community.

You’ll see here [on the screen behind me] a QR code plus several links to social media pages for what is called the Community Response Hub. The Community Response Hub supports efforts to defend communities at risk of deportation and detention in Central Ohio. The hub does this through advocacy and mobilizing ally organizations and community members. In the spirit of working in coalition, the hub facilitates communication among diverse groups, working across different communities and issues, and uses diverse tactics. Their mission includes holding decision-makers accountable, including government and enforcement agencies.

Please use your smartphone right now to take a picture of the QR code or of this screen, or look for representatives of the CRH after our program is over for some take-home materials. Thank you in advance for taking action at this critical time for our country.

Let us remember, “If you save a life, you save an entire world.” We, too, can save people’s lives.

July 4, 2025

Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July! Several weeks ago, I wrote to you during the 12-day war with Iran. At the time, three of our young women—Gabi Sanderow, Sylvia Shafran, and Alaina Towne—were in Israel participating in Birthright and Onward Israel. They spent several nights hiding in bomb shelters before relocating to the Negev, a quieter region for the rest of their trip. Thankfully, they returned home about 12 days ago and are resettling. I know their families deeply appreciated the outreach they received from our community.

Jewish community is the essence of Jewish life. One can be a Jew, but it is hard to live Jewishly when you are alone. Several years ago, I worked with a young woman nearing college graduation who was interested in conversion. She had accepted a job assignment in China and hoped to be placed in a city with a Jewish community. However, her placement landed her 90 minutes from the nearest one. We spoke about the challenges of living Jewishly as the only Jew in your environment. Unfortunately, we lost touch, and I’m not sure how her journey unfolded.

When God created Adam, God said, “It is not good for a person to be alone.” God knew we are meant to be with others. As a people, we walked hand in hand through the parted waters of the Sea of Reeds. That experience was not only about freedom—it was about shared freedom. At Sinai, we responded to God’s teaching with one voice. God made a covenant not just with the individuals present but with every generation to come. The rabbis teach in Pirke Avot that when two people study Torah together, God’s presence dwells among them. When we pray, we form a minyan—a gathering of souls creating shared spiritual space.

More than community alone, we need to become a kehillah kedoshah—a sacred community. Sacred communities unite in joy and in sorrow. After the building of the Golden Calf, Moses called the people together. This gathering helped them heal. They used the same materials from the idol to build the Mishkan, and that act of collective building brought wholeness. We need community to say Mourner’s Kaddish, to become B. Mitzvah, and to marry. We need one another to celebrate and to grieve.

When we pray together, something powerful happens. The shaliach tzibur (service leader) invites us: “Barechu et Adonai ham’vorach,” and we respond: “Baruch Adonai ham’vorach l’olam vaed.” This call and response becomes a symphony of voices—speaking to God and to each other. Ahad Ha’am once said, “More than Israel has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept Israel.” I believe this teaches not only about Jewish law but about the sustaining value of community. On Shabbat, we come together to eat, pray, celebrate, and study. Through these sacred acts, we invite God’s presence into our lives.

On Wednesday, Rabbi Karen Martin officially joined Beth Tikvah as our Assistant Rabbi. This is truly a shehechiyanu moment! We are excited to get to know her more in the weeks and months ahead. Her presence will enrich our community in many ways. Join us tonight for our recorded Shabbat prayers. Next Friday, Rabbi Martin will lead services, and on July 18, we’ll hold her official welcome celebration.

Have a wonderful 4^th of July weekend!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

June 27, 2025

As I sat in the Charlotte airport Wednesday evening, patiently awaiting a flight home that was significantly delayed, I turned to my right and there were two ultra-Orthodox men sitting there. I debated whether to turn to them and say, “Hey, I am an MOT (Member of the Tribe).” The only thing that might have given it away was my Bring Them Home necklace. We never said anything to one another. As the delay increased, two women sat next down next to me, and I was convinced I heard Hebrew. But then it wasn’t Hebrew. Maybe it was Russian; and then there was English, then Hebrew again. One of the women wondered why there was no plane. I turned to her and said there was a plane. I had my opening… “Aten meYisrael? Are you from Israel I asked?” I am sure the last thing they expected out of my mouth was Hebrew. Surprised, one of the women answered, “I was born there but I now live in Canada.” I told her I was a rabbi, and she then said, “It’s nice to be with some of our people.” The moment reminded me of a song I would sing growing up in religious school written by my friend and colleague, Rabbi Larry Milder, “Wherever you go there’s always someone Jewish, you’re never alone when you say you’re a Jew.”

We’ve been living in a time where it has been so challenging to be Jewish. These moments echo the prophet Balaam’s words that we are a people who dwells alone. The silence of friends in some of the most challenging moments has only further emphasized these emotions. However, the time when I least feel alone is when I am at Beth Tikvah or in other Jewish settings. I can be my authentic self without worrying about judgment from others. Of course, there are moments when I might find myself in disagreement with others about Jewish law or the best future for the State of Israel; but at the end of the day, I know that we stand together in times of grief, pain, and sorrow.

Therein lies the essence of Jewish peoplehood. We are a family and a people that share an eternal covenant. Our origins come from being a family in the book of Genesis, and quite the dysfunctional one at that. Even though the individuals are deeply flawed, they are all part of the family, and regardless of what they do, they cannot be cut off. In the book of Exodus, Pharaoh first calls us a people, and he is afraid of us. We share pain in bondage, joy in our freedom, awe as Torah is revealed, and responsibility as we share in the covenant.

As I think about these last 20+ months, I think about how I have once again found my people. Together we have felt pain, we have celebrated moments of joy, we have joined for learning, song, and prayer. While I wish it would not take turmoil to bring us together, perhaps it is in the moments of turmoil that the ties which bind us together become stronger.

When I graduated High School, I went on my NFTY in Israel trip, but first we stopped in the Czech Republic to explore our history and visit Terezin, the model Concentration Camp that was used to show off to the Red Cross. While there, we sang the song The Last Butterfly, based on a poem by Pavel Friedman. At the end of the song we sing, “But I have found my people here…” It is a powerful reminder that there are so many moments that bring us together.

Rabbi Donniel Hartman teaches us that we are the sum of the stories we tell about ourselves. As a Jewish people, we must know our stories and we must share them. Ask your family members about their stories. Where did they come from? What is important to them? Why did they bring the sacred objects they brought? Whether we come from Buenos Aires, Brussels, Brooklyn, Be’er Sheva, or Be’eri, or Central Ohio, we are part of the people. We stand together in times of great need. It is why we felt such deep pain and concern when ballistic missiles fell on our cities in Israel in these last several weeks. And it is why we are called together to bring healing and hope to a future that desperately needs us. As we move forward, we will learn our stories, we will learn our tradition so that we can fulfill what is perhaps our most important obligation l’dor vador, passing on our tradition from generation to generation.

In the last twenty months, one of the best symbols describing  Jewish Peoplehood was a poem written by Israel poet Racheli Moshkovits entitled a Coat of Many Colors.

My son returned from battle, his duffel bursting

With things that I had not packed for him.

Socks donated by the Jews in Argentina.

A quilted blanket smelling like someone else’s home

A blue towel from a family from the Moshav,

Tzitzit from Jerusalem.

A fleece jacket, gifted by a high-tech company,

A scarf knitted by an elderly lady,

Undershirts purchased by online shoppers,

A sheet that was given to him by a friend,

Gloves bought by teenage girls,

A jacket from the closet of someone who

Came and requested to give.

I spread out all those garments

And weave together a new coat of many colors.

See, Yosef, your brothers were there for you.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

This is the fourth installment of my reflections on Jewish values that will shape the future. 

For my previous reflections, please visit my Rabbi’s Blog