June 13, 2025

Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Sermon starts at 9:58

June 13, 2025

Last evening, we learned that the Israeli Air Force, launched a preemptive defensive military strike on Iranian nuclear sites along with Mossad efforts to disable Iran’s ballistic missiles. Israelis spent the night in their bomb shelters preparing for a response from Iran. Iran has called for the destruction of the State of Israel numerous times. We pray that this will limit their nuclear capabilities so that will never happen. With the words of Psalm 122 on our hearts, “we pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” Our thoughts and prayers are with all those in Israel, especially our Beth Tikvah members, family, and friends, who have spent the night with fear on their souls. We pray for the brave IDF soldiers who are defending Israel and our people. We send them our love and strength.

L’shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

The message below was the original message for this week.

How can we be commanded to love? This question is one we ask if we believe that the Torah is commanding us to hold an emotion. Love, however, is a verb, it calls us to act. There are moments when we gather to pray and sing, olam chesed yibaneh, the world was built from love. If the building blocks of the world come from love, we need to take those building blocks to build a sukkah of shalom to embrace the vulnerable and send hope to those in pain.

Jewish tradition commands us to love our neighbor – Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Hillel, both teach us that this commandment is the most important commandment in the entire Torah. In order to understand its lesson, we need to look at the Hebrew – ואהבת לרעך כמוך – v’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha. Hebrew grammar would come to teach us that the word that would typically follow the command to love would be את – et, indicating the object of the verb. However, here, the preposition “ל-l’” indicates moving towards something, towards a vision for the future. That vision is one that includes loving our neighbors. We do this through actions, including tzedakah or other acts of loving kindness. Jewish tradition defines neighbor in a multitude of ways. We might begin thinking about those most like us, our family, the greater Jewish community, or Jews living around the world. However, the Talmud offers an alternate opinion. It teaches us that we can help those living close to us whether they are Jewish or not. The notion to love a neighbor ties directly to the notion that we are created b’tzelem Elohim – in God’s image. To behold another’s face places a demand on us that calls upon us to recognize that person as sacred.

Our love does not only extend to our neighbor, but a core command of the Torah is to love the stranger. The rabbis of the Talmud remind us that the command to care for the stranger appears 36 times in the entire Torah including in Deuteronomy 10:18-19 where God is extolled for being might and awesome, upholding the cause of the orphan and the widow, loving the stranger by providing food and clothing, and concluding with the command to love the stranger. It is not limited to Deuteronomy, but the purpose is to sensitize us to the plight of the foreigner and refugee who lives among us. We were strangers in Egypt and our ancestors were once strangers seeking refuge from antisemitism and turmoil in their homeland. In every generation, we live and relive the Exodus. We see ourselves as if we came forth out of Egypt. Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz reminds us, “To be faithful is to orient our lives around the needs of the most vulnerable. The stranger, widow, and orphan can be understood conceptually. The mitzvot that are articulated with reference to widows, orphans, and strangers apply to all those who are marginalized, alienated, oppressed, and suffering.”

As I sit this week and see those who are strangers and immigrants suffering, I am heartbroken by their pain. In my communications with a Los Angeles colleague this week, he reminded me that there are Latino members of the Jewish community who are impacted by this. Why did he feel the need to do that? Sometimes we tend to think such moments affect other people, but they affect Jews as well. We should not need that reminder, however. Shouldn’t the fear of being separated from one’s family and being swept off the street be enough to tug on our heart strings and make us want to support those in need? Such a moment transcends policy; it causes us to think about how policy impacts human beings. When human beings need our help, Torah is revealed to us calling on us to act. Click here to see the CCAR’s most recent statement.

While we have a core responsibility as Jews to tell our stories and immerse in Jewish ritual and Jewish learning, the ideals of Torah remind us, repeatedly, to reflect on our core Jewish responsibility to think about how we might act to make the world around us better. We begin as individuals within our own community and extend outwards. The Torah reminds us again and again that human dignity matters. As Jews, we are called on to be a light to the nations. Thinking about our vision moving forward: upholding human dignity, loving our neighbor, and caring for those who are marginalized are key components of building our world from love.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Read Rabbi Rick Kellner’s previous post on being created in God’s Image.

Watch Rabbi Rick’s Annual Meeting Update: A Vision for the Future.

June 6, 2025

J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of turning its back on Jews, the Jewish people, and the Jewish community.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of succumbing to the algorithmic mind-shaping of the media.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of molding modern-day Israel into the fold of historical perceptions of the evil Jew, as happened in much of historical Europe.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of accusing every Jewish person of being responsible for the actions of a corrupt Prime Minister, with whom nearly 70% of Israelis disagree.

J’accuse is, of course, a reference to the famous open letter written by Emile Zola, a French writer, published on January 13, 1898, on the cover of a French newspaper. In the letter, Zola argued that the conviction of French army officer Alfred Dreyfus, who was also Jewish, was based on false accusations of espionage. He highlighted the poorly conducted investigation and showed that if the investigation had been done properly, the evidence would have shown the guilt was from another officer, not Dreyfus. The Dreyfus affair was a watershed moment for the Jews in Europe. For Theodor Herzl, an Austro-Hungarian Jewish journalist and the founder of modern-day Zionism, that was the moment he realized that, for Jews to be safe, they needed a state of their own. Jews were never safe in Europe, and 40 years later, Herzl’s fears came to life with the genocide and mass murder of our six million.

Jewish life in America was always different. The United States of America, in addition to breaking off from the King of England, also sought to deviate from the Anglican Church of England. This was so important to our Founding Fathers that the First Amendment to our Constitution guarantees that our “government shall not make any laws respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibit the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” Freedom of religion was a primary pillar of the establishment of our country. While these amendments were ratified in December of 1791, President Washington, in his famous letter to the Temple of Newport, Rhode Island, wrote a year earlier in 1790, “May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”

And none shall make them afraid… but 230 years later, we are afraid. On the first night of Passover, in the name of Gaza, a terrorist burned Gov. Josh Shapiro’s Governor’s Mansion hours after their seder. Two weeks ago, two young Jews, Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischintzky, were murdered outside of an American Jewish Committee event for young diplomats to encourage interfaith efforts to bring aid to Gaza. The perpetrator, Elias Rodriguez, when arrested, yelled “Free Palestine” and railed against the war online. He not only waited outside the event to shoot these young people—he pursued Sarah, who tried to crawl away, and shot her countless times. Just 10 days later, at a walk for the hostages in Boulder, CO, an Egyptian man, in the name of “Free Palestine,” firebombed a crowd of mostly seniors. Yelling “Free Palestine” and hurting American Jews will not free Palestine. It will not bring about an end to the war, and it is most certainly not an American way of behaving.

One of the victims in Boulder was Barbara Steinmetz, an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor from Hungary, who said in an interview this week, “We’re Americans, we are better than this. That’s what I want them to know. That they be kind and decent human beings.” She added, “The attack has nothing to do with the Holocaust, it has to do with a human being that wants to burn other people. It’s about what the hell is going on in our country, what the hell is going on?” Her father fought for Jewish assimilation in Hungary, but Jewish wisdom and ritual were a huge part of her life. Her mother was a chemist but had to sit in the back of the class because she was Jewish. Her father spent many years running a hotel in Croatia. When he saw what was coming, he reached out to many former hotel guests for help, but no one would help. The family finally escaped to France, Spain, and then Portugal, where he worked to find asylum in many countries. Finally, they journeyed to the Dominican Republic.

Moments such as this activate the inherited trauma we experienced, our families experienced, or that which we read about and know happened to our people. Antisemitism in America is at an all-time high—up nearly 900% from a decade ago. And the vision of America is that “none shall make them afraid.” Washington’s vision can only hold true if Americans collectively join to denounce such hateful actions.

For months, leadership in the Jewish community raised concerns about slogans appearing at rallies which included “Globalize the Intifada” or “There is no solution except intifada revolution.” When these phrases are put into action, they look like murder, firebombing of Jews, and attacks on Jewish institutions. The massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue changed Jewish life in America. For Jews, we saw it as a different form of antisemitism that never occurred here before. For many Americans, who saw this as another attack on a house of worship and denounced it then, they also aligned it with the treacherous wave of gun violence and mass shootings that has marred 21st-century American life. Those who see this as another mass shooting risk never seeing it for what it is—a man who was solely motivated to kill Jews and was informed by antisemitic conspiracy theories.

I am struck by the deep sadness, anger, and fear that has consumed my soul this week and the alignment with Parashat Naso where we read the Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing: “May God bless you and protect you. May God’s light shine upon you and be kind to you. May God lift up God’s face to you and grant you peace.” May God protect you. Protection is a word we come to associate with security. Our community is all too familiar with asking for protection from our wonderful police officers who stand with us in our hour of need. Bekhor Shor, a 12th-century French commentator, likens these words to the 121st Psalm in which we read God will guard us from all evil. In response to such horrific acts of violence, we might wonder where God’s presence is. God’s presence relies on Barbara Steinmetz’s vision of America—and really the world—in which there is hope for goodness to prevail over wickedness. God’s blessing requires all humanity to do their part. Perhaps this hope is underscored by Nachmanides, a 12th-century Spanish commentator who compared God granting us kindness to a midrash in Genesis Rabbah that says, “O My World, O My World! Would that the quality of grace be before Me at every moment.” It seems that the rabbis recognized God’s secret hope and prayer: that God’s hand in creation would bring compassion, love, and peace to the world.

American Jewish life has traveled a path that has wound its way from being a minority on the outskirts to being accepted into the most important aspects of society. We have been elected to high offices, served as leaders of major corporations, and been appointed to the Supreme Court, and yet once again, we recognize our fragility because we realize we are a minority. Our commitment to learning and work ethic brought our immigrant ancestors into the fold of American life very quickly. Yesterday, as I stood at Plum Street Temple in Cincinnati, a synagogue built by Isaac Mayer Wise in 1866, I learned from Rabbi Neil Hirsch, the senior rabbi, that there are only three Stars of David in the entire synagogue—one atop the ark and two that frame the Ten Commandments high above the ark. The other stars in the building are five-pointed stars mimicking the American flag because Wise was deeply committed to Jewish life in America. He wanted the synagogue to be American. As we do this dance between acceptance and outcast, perhaps what we need is something new. We often speak about Tikkun Olam—repairing the world—but maybe we need something different. Maybe we need a Tikkun N’fashot—an effort to repair souls. The great modern Mussar teacher explains that the nefesh, one of the words for soul, is the aspect of the soul most visible to us. It is where all of our character traits like anger, love, trust, worry, and kindness reside. Morinis explains the nefesh part of our soul registers all the good and bad we do in our lives. What would it mean to repair it? It would require a profound effort for every individual to examine themselves and ask profound questions.

I began tonight referencing Zola’s J’accuse. Israel and the Jewish people have been accused of horrible things. And when we claim that being called colonialists and committers of genocide is antisemitic, those who claim it say they love Jews and deny it. Maybe the accusers need to study more history and recognize their claims align with the blood libel of the past. And maybe they will realize that, like every generation before now, the Jew has become what is considered most evil in society. And this has happened again!

We hate being the victim. We hate what the trauma does to us. When the world looks to us and says, “We accuse you of destruction and starvation,” will the world believe us when we say Hamas stole the aid, Egypt closed its borders, Hamas put its operatives in schools and hospitals and ensured their families would be right next to them? Would the world remember that part of Hamas’ strategy is harming its own civilians? All this is a forgotten part of the story. Perhaps it is intentionally ignored. Every death is a tragedy. When a child dies, it brings me great sadness. I want nothing more than for our hostages to come home, this war to end, and for Hamas to never pose a threat to Israel again. But harming Jews in America will not bring that about. Our Tikkun Hanefesh will come when we wonder if we did all we could to bring home the hostages. It has come when we recognized the mistakes that were made during this war. And it will continue to come when we strive to build Zechariah’s vision: when the old shall be in the squares and the young shall be able to play in those squares.

In 2024, Rabbi Oded Mazor, a Reform rabbi in Jerusalem, shared a vision of the future. He sends his children to the Yad b’Yad school, a multilingual school where Jews, Arabs, and Palestinians come together—they are students and teachers. He was told an incredible story by one of his kid’s teachers. “In another class, the Jewish teacher was teaching, and the Muslim teacher was there with her. One of the grown children of the Jewish teacher walked in the room in uniform, having come back home from the army. He asked his mother to go out with him for a coffee. His mother told him, ‘I can’t go. I’m teaching now.’ And the Palestinian teacher said, ‘Of course you should go with him! He’s your son! He came home!’” She understood that as a mother, even though that son came into the class in uniform—and one can only imagine what that meant for the Palestinian teacher—that mother had to go with the son who came from the battlefield. What they didn’t know was that the reason he came to get her to go out for coffee was that, at the coffee shop, the other son, who came home from miluim (reserve duty), was waiting. He concluded by saying that after Purim ended, he would have an Iftar dinner in his synagogue courtyard for the children in his daughter’s class.” That is the day he waits for.

The day I am waiting for is the day we do not have to have a police officer in our lobby because the world realizes that Jewish lives matter too. The day I am waiting for is knowing that I don’t have to think about where I might go if I had to pack my bags. The day I am waiting for is not having to wonder who will hide me if the world turns its back on me again. The day I am waiting for is for all to recognize that we are part of the fabric of America, where we can all sit beneath our vine and fig tree and none shall make us afraid.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Rick Kellner