March 13, 2026

Shabbat Sermon by Rabbi Rick Kellner – Vayakhel-Pekudei 5786

Our hearts collectively froze yesterday. The worst fears we imagine were realized in scenes that aired across the world. As observers from afar, we felt every parent’s pain and held our collective breath as they awaited word about the safety of their children. Fear accompanies Jewish existence in this moment. The tidal waves of antisemitism crash down on us. The swastikas drawn on bathroom walls in middle schools become cars driven into a synagogue laden with explosives and a man with an automatic weapon who wants to kill Jews. Instagram memes become the man who chased down Sarah Milgrom and Yaron Lischinsky outside the Jewish Museum in Washington, DC, or the man who firebombed a walk for the hostages in Boulder, CO, yelling “Free Palestine.” Our world is drowning in this storm of synagogues around the world being attacked. In the last two weeks alone, at least three synagogues were shot at, and several synagogues across Europe were attacked.

We feel this collective pain not only because we are afraid, but because our community is small. This is deeply personal. We have friends who are members of that synagogue, or we know someone who knows someone. My daughter’s best friend’s family calls that synagogue home and became Bat Mitzvah there two years ago. Barry Finestone, CEO of the Jim Joseph Foundation, wrote after the synagogue fire in Jackson, MI, “For most peoples, violence against their group is episodic. For Jews, it is cumulative. Pogroms, expulsions, forced conversions, massacres, and the Holocaust are not separate chapters. They are read as a long, unfinished sentence. This does not mean Jews live frozen in trauma. It just means that the past is not safely archived. It is present tense. Jewish memory is not nostalgia. It is vigilance.” What happened yesterday is part of a long, multi-millennial arc of Jewish history in which we draw upon moments when we were attacked, thrown to the fire, and emerged to fight another day.

Yes, we are vigilant. We have no other choice but to install bollards to block cars from ramming our buildings and to hire security for the moments when we gather to learn and pray. When I teach about antisemitism to teens, I show them an image of the front of our building. They notice the planters, and I ask them if they see them in front of their churches. Of course, the answer is no. When I tell them about the threats of violence we have received over the years, there is shock on their faces. When I tell them how much we spend on security just so we can be here to celebrate Jewish joy, what was once clouded and obscured because of their youth and inexperience suddenly becomes visible to them. They awaken to an awareness—and ideally an understanding—of a reality that was previously foreign to them.

I have been thinking a lot about yesterday. It is weighing on me. There were 140 children in the building attending preschool in the largest synagogue in America. Every one of those parents got to hug their children last night before bed, kiss them on the keppie, and tell them they loved them. Not one of them had to prepare for a funeral. Thank God! Why? Because we are a vigilant people; because of the brave security team at Temple Israel; because their staff, like ours, goes through annual security training. Temple Israel had just done it a month ago. How amazing are those teachers who, in their own fear, kept the kids calm? Rabbi Arianna Gordon, Temple Israel’s Director of Education—whom I have known for 23 years since we shared a student pulpit together in California—told the news that the children did not even realize what was happening because the staff sang songs with them, hugged them, and loved them as they do every day. Those teachers are heroes too. And what about the security guard who put his own life on the line to protect those children and that community? He was doing his job, but more than that, he is part of that community. I believe the officers who come here to protect us are part of our community as well. They greet us outside our doors, and they feel our gratitude because we thank them for being here. They do not have to be here; it is their choice. They do not have to sign up for these shifts, but they do. And in America today, in the 21st century, we truly believe we cannot be in our synagogue without them.

This morning, when I woke up, my friend and classmate Rabbi Asher Knight, Senior Rabbi at Temple Beth El in Charlotte, wrote the following: “It’s 4 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I think I’m writing because I feel relief. Yesterday, there were children inside Temple Israel in West Bloomfield when a man drove a truck into the building and opened fire. And those children went home. Thank God for the security, the training, and the people who knew what to do when it mattered most. And thank God those children went home. It’s 4 a.m. I can’t sleep. And as a parent, I feel enormous relief. But relief is not the same thing as okay. What happened does not feel like an aberration. It feels like an exposure of normal life—or at least normal life as many Jews in North America have come to know it.”

He referenced Tucker Carlson, who in a recent podcast blamed Chabad for the war in Iran. Tucker Carlson, you have been spewing conspiracy theories against Jews for months. What is your endgame? Do you want to see these attacks on Jews? Or do you simply want to make millions of dollars? You may not intend to harm us directly, but you have no control over the millions who listen to you. Tucker Carlson, you are an enabler of hate, and you cannot raise your hands and say, “Not my fault.”

On my desk is a stack of reflections from students in the 12th-grade Political Radicalism class at Worthington Kilbourne High School. They were asked to reflect on the following question: Rabbi Rick Kellner spoke to our class about stereotypes and misconceptions about Judaism, some of the root causes of antisemitism, and efforts to combat it. Why do you think antisemitic incidents are on the rise despite being condemned and despite efforts to educate people? How do you think it can be addressed? One student wrote: “For a very long time, and still now, Jewish people have been subjected to so many myths and stereotypes that they’ve become the easiest target to make up new things about… Of course, I don’t mean they make themselves an easy target, just that people perceive them as one because of how much discourse and hateful myths surround Judaism. I also think the reason there’s so much antisemitism is because people don’t think of antisemitism as being as severe as something like racism or misogyny. Antisemitic jokes are incredibly common these days and they have been for enough time that people become largely desensitized to it. It seems like some think that just because Jewish people aren’t experiencing as extreme persecution as they did during the Holocaust, it’s okay to make antisemitic jokes, which eventually turn into real hate.” We should not assume for a single second that the non-Jewish students in those classrooms fully understood the impact of antisemitism before I spoke to them. My only hope is that my 45 minutes with them opened their hearts to the reality we face each day.

Antisemitism is not our fight alone. My sadness from yesterday has turned to anger today. I am angry that this keeps happening. We need the world to understand our pain. We need every person who has the power to speak to a community to stand up and say Dayenu—enough. They may not know the Hebrew, but they must say “enough is enough” to those who have been angered by the wars between Israel and Hamas, or now with Iran, and who choose to attack Jews in America. Tell me how attacking Jews in a synagogue in Detroit, MI, will avenge the loss of your family in Lebanon. Stop using the transitive property to direct your hate and anger at us. It will not change global policy.

Every day we wake up and stand at a crossroads. We take one more step on the journey of our lives. Our ancestors walked through the wilderness with fear of the unknown. Our Torah portion this week tells us about the construction of the Mishkan. Our ancestors stood at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting and beheld a cloud above it. The closing verses of the Book of Exodus remind us, “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of Adonai filled the Tabernacle.” The Torah teaches that the cloud and the fire were visible to all Israel throughout their journeys.

Why a cloud? We can answer this question by exploring how clouds appear in other moments of sacred text. When Noah sees the rainbow in the clouds after the flood, it symbolizes the covenant between God and all humanity. Those clouds anchor the covenant, reminding us of protection, safety, and love. In moments like this, we might feel shattered and focus only on the hate. That is the easy place to look. But the cloud reminds us also to focus on the security officer and the teachers whose love helped those children survive a frightening moment.

Midrash also reminds us of the story of Abraham and Isaac. In Vayikra Rabbah (20:2), we read that after three days Abraham saw a cloud fixed on the mountaintop. Abraham asked Isaac, “My son, do you see what I see?” When Isaac answered yes but Eliezer did not, Abraham realized he had found the place God wanted to show him. Here we are reminded that the cloud offers spiritual direction, helping us draw closer to God’s presence. Another Midrash (Genesis Rabbah 60:16) teaches that a cloud covered Sarah’s tent. When she died, the cloud departed, but when Rebekah came into Isaac’s life, the cloud returned. The cloud then becomes a symbol of comfort.

The cloud symbolizes protection, God’s presence, and comfort. At the conclusion of the Book of Exodus, it stands as an eternal presence guiding us through a vast and unknown wilderness. That is the journey we are taking now. The wilderness brings fear and uncertainty. We need to remember God’s comforting presence with every step we take.

I ask myself: Where do I see the clouds in this moment that bring comfort? I see them in the law enforcement officers who stand here every day. I see them in the faces of the children whose eyes light up with joy the moment they learn something new about Judaism. I see the clouds of glory when I stand beside a B’nai Mitzvah student leading the community in prayer, reading Torah, and declaring their Jewish pride. I see them in Torah study when we delve more deeply into our sacred texts, and when we open our hearts and give tzedakah to build sanctuaries for those in need. None of these clouds will prevent an Amalek from attacking us from behind, but we do everything we can to create the safest place possible to live our Jewish lives with pride.

As I conclude, I invite you to close your eyes for a moment. I will share with you a poem by Alden Solovy entitled A Cloud of Glory, in which he paints a picture of comfort, protection, and God’s loving presence.

Imagine seeing
A cloud
Like this…
Alive
Luminous
Radiant
Contained
In a pillar
That doesn’t
Shift or change
Or drift away.

A cloud of glory
Hiding God within,
A compass leading
To a Promised Land.

Imagine a cloud
Of the Divine Presence—
Shechinah—
Dwelling above your tent,
Blessing your bread,
Keeping your lantern lit.

Imagine a cloud
Of glory
Holding you close and dear,
Keeping you safe,
Surrounding you
As you wander,
So safe you can hear
The Divine Word
In awe and wonder.

March 13, 2026 Sermon by Rabbi Rick Kellner

March 13, 2026

When we offer a word of Torah to begin our board meetings, we conclude with a blessing:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzvivanu la-asok b’tzurchei tzibur – Blessed are you Adonai our God sovereign of the universe who commands to engage with the needs of the community.

We have been saying these words since I arrived at Beth Tikvah as a reminder of the purpose of our work: to serve the needs of our community. One of the blessings of doing this sacred work is the sense of purpose it brings—to draw people closer to the synagogue, enrich their lives with Judaism, and instill a sense of Jewish joy and pride.

At times, however, this work can feel isolating, as though we are the only synagogue in the world facing certain challenges and questions. In those moments, we are reminded of the importance of belonging to a larger network of synagogues and Jewish communities that share in this sacred work. Occasionally, a member of one congregation emerges to serve the broader Jewish community.

This Shabbat, the Women of Reform Judaism’s Heartland District will gather in Indianapolis, where our very own Marci Delson will be installed as co-President of the region. Additionally, Marci will receive the Lev Tov award for her service to her local chapter, our own Women of Beth Tikvah. Marci and her husband, Larry, joined Beth Tikvah in the summer of 2019 and immediately immersed themselves in our community. They began attending services, and Marci became involved with our Sisterhood and Social Justice initiatives. A few years later, she began serving on our Board of Trustees as Social Action Chair. At the same time, her involvement with the Heartland District of Women of Reform Judaism continued to grow.

When Marci joined Beth Tikvah, our Sisterhood was beginning to grow somewhat dormant. Marci and other members of Beth Tikvah would not accept that. Her dedication to rebuilding the Women of Beth Tikvah included strategic planning, fundraising, member engagement, event planning, and more. Marci brings a joyful and friendly spirit to everything she does. She has a boundless positivity and is easily approachable. She cares deeply about Judaism and Jewish life, and she pursues excellence, putting her heart and soul into serving Women of Beth Tikvah and our greater congregation.

When one of our members goes on to serve as a co-President of one of our movement’s regional organizations, it is cause for celebration! Let us all join together in wishing a heartfelt mazel tov to Marci for her service to our community and for her leadership in the WRJ Heartland District.

As you are installed as co-President, we share with you the words Moses offered Joshua upon the transfer of leadership: Chizki v’imtzi—may you be strong and of good courage.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

March 6, 2026

How do we live when out-of-the-ordinary behaviors become normalized? I spent much of this week sending WhatsApp messages to friends and family in Israel. I shared with one of them how strange it felt to laugh and celebrate Purim while so many in Israel could not, because they had to stay close to their bomb shelters and safe rooms. He appreciated my concern and support and shared with me that he was holding up fine. He was delivering mishloach manot between air raid sirens, because that’s what one does.

I don’t think his language reflected a sarcasm; they reflected the reality of the moment. The trauma of these missile attacks has resurfaced memories of months spent waking in the middle of the night wondering what to wear and what to sleep in. How far away from the bed are the shoes? Which pajama pants could be worn in the public bomb shelter? These are questions we do not have to ask ourselves, yet they have become normal for our Israeli family far too many times.

I was struck by my friend’s effort to deliver mishloach manot, whose sole purpose is spreading joy on Purim and acknowledge the importance of community in celebrating the holiday. We spread joy and connect with our friends despite the challenges and hardships we face. Beneath the surface of the missiles and the pain is a profound connectedness that pervades through the Jewish community. We are reminded that we need one another to carry us through challenges and hardships. Sometimes, simply making it to the next day requires the presence of community.

While we are not living under the threat of missile attack, the connections in our hearts bind us, once again, to those living in harm’s way. The world is small, and by the mere fact that our friends and family live in Israel, we feel their pain and share our concern. At the same time, we know that Iran has attacked other countries—Arab countries—and we can feel the pain of the people living there as well. Do they have the bomb shelters that Israel has? Probably not. In Israel, it is now a requirement for every building to include a shelter.

I learned this week from Yossi Klein Halevi, in his podcast with Rabbi Donniel Hartman, For Heaven’s Sake, that the type of bomb shelter a person has reflects their socioeconomic status in Israel. Some people rely on shared public shelters, while others have fortified rooms in their apartments. These shelters were not designed to withstand a direct hit—which tragically occurred last week in Beit Shemesh—but they do offer protection. 

Amid the pain, trauma, and terror, is there anything we can do? Anna Kislanski, CEO of the Israeli Movement for Progressive Judaism (IMPJ) has asked for support. She acknowledges the pain and the disruption to daily life, currency instability, mental health issues, and rising PTSD. In this moment, the Israeli Reform movement needs our support. She shares:

1. Rabbis and community professionals carry an added burden as they support those triggered by additional time in the saferoom. The IMPJ is working to expand training, support circles, and emergency response capacity.
2. The IMPJ is establishing emergency assistance grants for those directly harmed and expanding trauma-informed support for new immigrants and vulnerable members.
3. The Reform Movement in Israel operates homes for young adults with disabilities, which run around the clock. Now, they are doing so with extra counselors and activities to maintain stability and safety.
4. The Mechina Telem campus does not have adequate protected space. If attacks continue, the students will need to be relocated. The director of the program lost her home and is currently displaced.
5. The Noar Telem youth are volunteering in their communities while coping with ongoing sirens and stress. They need emotional support and financial stability.

The Israeli Reform Movement is seeking to raise $300,000 to support this work. Anna writes that this is not just about emergency fundraising but ensuring that a pluralistic, compassionate, and democratic Judaism in Israel remains strong. If you feel moved to do so, I invite you to join me in making a donation to the Israeli Movement for Progressive Judaism to support these projects.

We continue to pray for an enduring peace in which Israelis and all those in the region will know safety and security.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner