December 19, 2025

Happy Hanukkah! With each candle we light this year, there has been an added measure of fortitude as the electric menorah shines brightly in our window. We have been blessed to share the holiday with non-Jewish friends and neighbors, taking time to teach about the meaning of the ritual and the story of the holiday.

This week, images have circulated of now-deceased hostages lighting a paper cup menorah, alongside images of the menorah being lit in the Westerbork concentration camp. The six hostages—Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Carmel Gat, Eden Yerushalmi, Almog Sarusi, Ori Danino, and Alex Lubanov—lit a menorah in the tunnels of Gaza. Both scenes represent acts of defiance and a willingness to quite literally keep the flame alive.

As these images become part of the fabric of our Jewish tapestry, they remind us of the warmth and resilience that have sustained us for centuries. In every generation, someone has risen to harm us. Hanukkah is part of that story, as the Seleucid Greeks sought to strip us of our faith and identity. But Hanukkah also reminds us of survival across the annals of history. After thousands of years, we are still lighting the hanukkiah and telling the story.

Hanukkah began with the senseless murder of 15 Jews on Bondi Beach in Australia. As I have learned throughout the week, the Australian Jewish community—numbering approximately 117,000 people, roughly the same size as the Jewish community of Ohio—is strong and mighty. The Australian Jewish community has more Jewish day school students per capita than any other diaspora country in the world. Many are descendants of Holocaust survivors, as Australia is home to the largest population of Holocaust survivors outside of Israel. Many who fled Europe came to Australia because it was as far away from Europe as they could get.

The Australian Jewish community is proudly Zionist, with Zionism deeply infused into Jewish life there. Sunday’s attack was not only the worst antisemitic attack against Jews in Australia, but also the worst terrorist attack in the country’s history. Unlike the United States, Australia is not known for gun violence and has some of the strictest gun possession laws in the world. In recent years, the Australian Jewish community has been the target of numerous antisemitic attacks. These attacks have included graffiti in synagogues, arson attacks on a kosher deli, and a rampage in a Jewish community in which 10 cars were vandalized, including one that was set on fire. Worshippers have been threatened, among other incidents. You can see a timeline of attacks in Time Magazine. Many in the community feared that something like this could happen.

The attack on Bondi Beach happened as more than a thousand Jews gathered to light the first candle. This is yet another attack on a Jewish holiday, robbing us of our joy. It is becoming clearer to me that many people around the world just cannot fully understand how such an attack affects Jewish communities on the other side of the world. We feel it deeply.

As I think about rising antisemitism and the fears so many of us are experiencing, I think about the need for multifaceted responses. On Tuesday, I was asked what I do for a living. I shared that I am a rabbi, wondering what response might follow. “Oh, I am sorry, for what happened in Australia, it must be so hard. I’m not religious, but everyone should be free to celebrate their religion.” Fear might have suggested a different response, but this interaction was a reminder that there are good and kind people who understand what it means to be human.

Antisemitism is not a problem for Jews to fight alone. “If not me, then who?” Who? The answer must be our allies. Our well-being should matter to our friends and neighbors. Yehuda Kurtzer, President of the Hartman Institute, writes about antisemitism as an American problem. He notes that the American Jewish community is currently spending $800 million annually on security. Consider what could happen if we took all those resources and invested them into Jewish summer camp, travel to Israel, or Jewish identity building.

Kurtzer reflects on the current state of the American political apparatus, which is experiencing a “deterioration of political norms, a collapse of bipartisan commitment to Jewish interests, and growing hostility from both the right and the left toward pluralism and other key elements of the framework of liberal democracy that helped American Jews thrive…” With these factors at play, it is more important than ever to take up the cause of allyship, so that our interfaith partners can help protect Jewish communities and reckon with the history of creating environments that are hostile to Jews.

I continue to feel the blessing of our Worthington interfaith partners who, time and again, reach out with care and concern. Their support has included donations to help offset security expenses, as well as shared learning experiences. Fighting antisemitism should not be a core part of Jewish identity. That identity should be built on Jewish pride, Jewish joy, Jewish values, a commitment to Jewish peoplehood, a love for Israel, Torah, and a connection to God. Combating antisemitism must be part of a larger interfaith effort—one in which people stand up and say, “We will not allow our Jewish neighbors to cower in fear. We will stand with them, and we will do our part to turn the tides of history.” I stand ready to work with anyone and everyone who wishes to examine the roots of antisemitism, why it grows, and how it impacts the flourishing of our precious democracy.

Hanukkah is the celebration of religious freedom and the kindling of Jewish pride. It also reminds us of those who risk their lives to save others. On this Shabbat, we are deeply grateful to Ahmed al Ahmed who single-handedly neutralized one of the shooters. Amid all this sadness, his brave act offers hope. As the candles are lit tonight, another 15 candles are kindled in memory of: Matilda, age 10; Rabbi Eli Schlanger; Dan Elkayam; Alexander Kleytman; Boris and Sofia Gurman; Peter Meagher; Reuven Morrison; Rabbi Yaakov Levitan; Tibor Weitzen; Marika Pogany; Edith Brutman; Boris Tetleroyd; and Adam Smyth. They were hunted because they were Jews. You can learn their stories here. May their memories be for a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Hanukkah,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

December 12, 2025

I want to invite you to imagine the rabbis of the Talmud sitting around their Beit Midrash (house of study) and discussing all of the matters pertaining to Jewish life. These conversations would have taken place sometime between the 1^st century of the common era and the 5^th or 6^th century of the common era. As they are conversing, one of the rabbis interjects and says, “Mai Hanukkah?” meaning, “What is Hanukkah?” It is a profound question to ask. They answer by explaining the ritual of kindling lights and the miracle of the oil. When you want to understand the story of Hanukkah from a historical perspective, you generally look to two sources, the Talmud and the books of the Maccabees. The books of the Maccabees are considered part of the apocrypha, which means they were written around the time as the Bible, but are not part of the Tanakh, the Jewish Bible.

In the book of Maccabees, we learn the background of the story of the Seleucid Greeks. They ruled Jerusalem during the time of the origins of Hanukkah (2^nd century BCE) and took over the Temple and placed idols within it. They forbade the Jews from offering sacrifices, made their own sacrifices to Greek gods, prevented the Jews from studying Torah, and prevented circumcision. This is called Hellenization – the process by which the communities that the Greeks conquered would abandon their own cultures and take on Greek cultures. Essentially the Greeks were saying, “We are happy to keep you alive, but you must become Greek.” Of course, if someone were to disobey these rules, they did so at the penalty of death.

Earlier this week, I listened to Rachel Goldberg-Polin as a guest on Dan Senor’s Call Me Back podcast. She frames the situation of the Jews in ancient Israel during the time of the Maccabees in the following way: There were Jews who fully assimilated and took on Greek culture; there were Jews who rebelled, fled to the hills, and maintained their Jewish identity; and there were Jews who had their feet in both buckets—the Jewish bucket and the Hellenized/assimilated bucket. The world in ancient times is much like the world we have faced in recent years. In many instances, we are given a choice: if you want to be accepted by the dominant culture, you have to abandon your Judaism. Some people choose to do that. Others dive deep into Judaism, Jewish practice, and Jewish identity. For the ancient Seleucid Greeks, they were happy to have us around—just in the way they wanted us to be around.

When we think about Hanukkah and we ask the same question the rabbis asked, mai Hanukkah? What is Hanukkah? — we are challenged to think about the importance of our own Jewish identity. Following Goldberg-Polin’s teaching, we wonder about the times when we wish for acceptance by the rest of the world, and we also think about how we immerse ourselves in our own Jewish identity. Over the last two years, many people have experienced receiving a message saying something like, “We are fine that you’re around, but in order for you to be accepted by ‘us,’ you have to abandon your values, your Zionism, your connection to Israel. We can keep you in our circle, but only on our terms.” That is exactly what the Seleucid Greeks did to the Jews in the time of the Maccabees.

Rachel Goldberg-Polin reminds us that history is repeating itself. She explains that Hanukkah is a choice. For those of us living here in America, we have a choice to make every day. We know we live in a world where there are times we do things that we would consider to be part of the assimilated world (i.e., going to the movies, concerts, sporting events, etc.) and there are times when we live in the Jewish world (i.e., going to Torah study, Shabbat services, family holiday dinners, and more). Hanukkah, then, is an invitation for us to think about where and when we want to draw the line regarding how assimilated we want to be. We know we live in both buckets: a Jewish bucket and an assimilated bucket. As we celebrate the days of Hanukkah and light the hanukkiah, let us think about the same questions our ancestors did: What is the line we want to draw for the boundary of our Jewish identity? When can we immerse ourselves Jewishly? When do we dive into the world around us? And perhaps we also need to ask ourselves how we bring our Jewish selves and values to the assimilated world we encounter.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Hanukkah,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

December 5, 2025

“If you build it, they will come.” Many of you will remember these famous words from the 1989 movie Field of Dreams when Ray Kinsella, an Iowa farmer, ploughs his corn fields to build a baseball diamond. The film, arguably my favorite baseball film, reveals that Ray is on the verge of defaulting on his property. Without his crop, he is unable to earn enough money to make the payment. His brother-in-law ridicules him for destroying the one thing that could provide income. It is not often that one ploughs a corn field; fast forward nearly 30 years and in real life, three brothers are planning to plough their own corn field.

Sterling, IL is home to Nik, Alex, and Ricky Jakobs. It was also once home to Temple Sholom, a synagogue that housed Jewish life for several generations. However, due to the closure of the Northwestern Steel and Wire Plant, many who called the area home were forced to move away, leading to the demise of Temple Sholom. Those who remained could not maintain the building. The synagogue was sold, and like many other small town midwestern synagogues it became a development of condos and businesses.

The story of Jewish life in Sterling began with the Jakobs’ grandfather, Norbert Jakobs, who survived the Holocaust and moved to the area in 1949. He bought land and began planting corn, soybeans, and other crops. On Rosh Hashanah, Nik pitched a tent on the field and the Jews who remained in Sterling gathered to hear the shofar and welcome in the new year with Rosh Hashanah services. Nik’s vision was to take part of the cornfield and rebuild Temple Sholom. His purpose in doing so was to create a museum that told the story of Jewish life in midwestern small towns and created a sacred space for those in and near Sterling to come and gather as a Jewish community. Nik and his family were not rebuilding solely because of his own family’s connection to the land, but also because of the many Jewish families in the area who yearned for a Jewish home.

As I reflected on this story (which you can read more fully in the Forward), I thought about what it takes to create and sustain Jewish life. It takes the fire inside of the people who are drawn closer to Jewish heritage, Jewish pride, the Jewish people, and Jewish faith. That fire is fueled by a vision that is tended to each day. In the article, mentioned above, Benyamin Cohen writes, “Hope, here, isn’t an idea. It’s a practice, the daily work of planting what you may never see bloom.” We are truly blessed at Beth Tikvah to share in the vision of creating sacred community. While we have a building and a thriving congregation, it takes the same will and desire of all of our members to plant a garden that can flourish and can continue to grow.

From our volunteers who serve our community in many different capacities, to our staff who till the soil inside our building every day, we flourish because we share a vision for what Jewish life can look like in Northwest Columbus, OH. Together, we nurture Jewish learning; we instill a sense of Jewish pride, tell our Jewish story, and add pages to the next chapter. We do the sacred work of building a better world for our neighbors and community. This work is only possible because of the people who sustain it.

I am so grateful to all those who support our sacred work through Life & Legacy contributions, gifts to Mishpacha, Annual Commitments, as well as the volunteers whose dedication gives our synagogue its unique character. I hope you will take the time to read about the building of Temple Sholom in Sterling, IL and think about how all of us can find the fire to continue to build and nurture what we have created together in Northwest Columbus.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

November 28, 2025

On October 7^th, the book I had ordered by Eli Sharabi called “Hostage,” arrived in the mail. With all the excitement of the new ceasefire and the hostages being released, I could not bring myself to read it. Upon returning from Israel earlier this month, I came home, opened the book and after three days, finished it. I could sense the discomfort within me during the weeks that it sat on my desk, unread. Did I want to read about the awful days he endured, the beatings that he took, the loneliness he felt? After returning home from Israel, where I once again encountered the resilience of our people, I knew I had to read Sharabi’s harrowing experience.

Of my many takeaways from the book, two stand out. First, during captivity, Sharabi was held for several weeks with Hersh Goldberg Polin. What could 23-year-old Hersh teach a father of two who was double his age? One’s age is not an indicator of one’s capacity to offer wisdom. Hersh had been influenced by reading the acclaimed Holocaust survivor and psychologist, Viktor Frankl’s personal account of surviving Auschwitz, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” Hersh learned from Frankl that, “A man who has a why, can endure any how.” Hersh’s wisdom changed Sharabi. Sharabi’s why was to get back to his family. Of course, entering the book, the reader knows that Sharabi’s family was murdered on October 7^th. Sharabi also has another why; he befriends fellow hostage, Alon Ohel and in many ways becomes like a father figure to him. The two care for each other during captivity and Eli is pained when he is freed, but Ohel remained.

The second lesson I learned is how gratitude can be lifesaving. In captivity, Sharabi urged his fellow captives to conclude each night with a moment of gratitude. In the depths of horror, how could they find something good to recognize? Sharabi told them, “Come on, let’s think of something good that happened today, just one thing. For example, one good thing to be grateful for is when they suddenly allowed us to drink tea. Or when the tea was sweet. Another good thing might be if a particularly cruel guard we dislike doesn’t show up that day. We find ourselves searching for the good things for which we can express gratitude in the evening.” They began to look for something good in every moment. It changed their mindset, shaped their outlook, and potentially saved their lives.

As you read the book, you learn of the minimal food they ate – sometimes only one pita a day. You learn of the beatings they took and the fear they had. Sharabi’s resilience and the resilience of all the hostages is certainly remarkable. Perhaps Sharabi’s lesson to us is that gratitude is not something we only focus on one day per year; we can turn our gratitude into a practice. What if we paused each day to recount one good thing that happened? Even in our darkest moments, we have the power to find something positive about our day. Our practiced recognition of the good might just change our lives and help us survive the most challenging and darkest moments that we encounter.

Gratitude is at the heart of who we are as Jews. We read in our Torah this week about Leah giving birth to her fourth child, who she names Yehudah (Judah), because she says, “I am grateful.” The Jewish people are yehudim, a word that is derived Yehudah’s name. Gratitude is part of our Jewish DNA.

I hope that everyone is able to spend time today and throughout the weekend recounting at least one thing for which you would like to express gratitude. Perhaps you might consider recording it in a journal, texting it to a friend or family member, even posting about it on social media or replying to this email and letting me know – I would love to hear.

Perhaps even better, what if we made acknowledging our gratitude a daily practice?

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner