September 12, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon – Ki Tavo 5785

It took years after the Broadway show Hamilton debuted for me to finally get to say, “I was in the place where it happens.” Lin-Manuel Miranda, the show’s creator, left us with a profound question at the end of the show: “Who will tell your story?” Aaron Burr notes earlier, “History obliterates in every picture it paints.” He is teaching us that after we die, we have no control over who tells our story, but we realize that the story of our lives is all that is left. Hamilton is Miranda’s attempt to uncover Hamilton’s life, which for nearly two centuries was often hidden in obscurity when compared with the other founding fathers of our country.

The lyrics of this final song begin with Washington reflecting that when he was young, he wished he knew he had no control of “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” Jefferson chimes in and says Hamilton’s financial system was a work of genius. Madison adds that he took the country from bankruptcy to prosperity and that he doesn’t get enough credit. Angelica bemoans the fact that every other founder’s story is told. It is Hamilton’s wife Eliza who works to tell his story. She shares in this song that she interviewed every soldier who he fought with, and she tried to make sense of a thousand pages of his writing. Angelica and Eliza sing together, “We tell your story.” Eliza talks about the orphanage she set up in New York City and how in every one of the children’s eyes, she sees Hamilton. “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”

As Jews, we are a storytelling people. It may be one of the things we do best. And this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, grounds us in our obligation to tell our story. The parshah begins by telling us, “When we enter the land, we are to bring the first fruits as an offering.” The ritual is detailed. You bring the first fruits to the priest and say to him, “I acknowledge this day before your God Adonai, that I have entered the land that Adonai swore to our ancestors.” The priest then takes the basket, and the person is commanded to say the following:

“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and dwelled there but became a very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried out to God, the God of our ancestors, and God heard our plea, saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents, bringing us to this place and giving us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. And now I bring the first fruits of the soil which You, Adonai, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26:5–9)

I am so moved by the power of this ritual. Moses’ instruction to us is that once we have settled the land and we have first fruits that have grown from the soil, we have to bring them to the priest. And it is not just the first time—it is every year. If any of us have ever done home gardening, we will remember when that first fruit grows on the plant. We want to eat it because of our excitement. But the Torah comes along and says, “Not so fast. Bring that first fruit as a donation to God.” It is an instruction in gratitude—that it is not you who did it, but there are natural forces at play. And when we bring the first fruit, we don’t just offer it as a donation—we tell a story. It is the story of our people. We tell the story, reminding ourselves of the challenge of being a wanderer and then living in a place that is not our home. Then, we share the pain and suffering we experienced while living in Egypt, reminding ourselves that God brought us up out of the land of Egypt.

There is something profound about living in the land, going about your business, doing the work you need to do, and being required to bring in an offering of gratitude before you even get to enjoy the literal fruits of your labor. And then to have to offer a specific blessing—which is the literal telling of our story—reminds us of the importance of not forgetting our past. It would be far too easy to forget our past after settling in a place and encountering the joys of abundant blessings. This ritual establishes for us the necessity of telling our story. But why?

Perhaps one answer lies in the debate about the nebulous nature of the opening line of the blessing: “Arami oved avi, my father was a wandering Aramean.” The text immediately invites us to think about who it is referring to as our father. Ibn Ezra understands the Arami to be Jacob. If we know our story, that interpretation makes sense. Jacob journeyed to Egypt with his family, and we grew and became populous there. Ibn Ezra adds that when Jacob was there, he was poor—he was oved, perishing.

Rashbam, Rashi’s grandson, disagrees with Ibn Ezra. He suggests that the avi was Abraham because it fit him better, as the prayer should begin with the beginning of Jewish history and continue with the first fruits.

Perhaps their answers do not really matter as far as who the subject of this text is, but rather the overall content and purpose. Benno Jacob explains that Arami is not the name of a resident of any particular country but more so that of an occupation. He adds, just as the merchant was called a Canaanite and the caravan of traders who brought Joseph to Egypt were called Ishmaelites, the shepherd or the wanderer was called an Aramean. And the Mussar text Sefer HaHinukh brings it all together by explaining that we say these words as the blessing because the utterance of our lips deeply impresses our mind and imagination. If we tell the story as part of our blessing, it will shape us both ethically and with a rootedness in our history.

The question we ask ourselves just ten days before Rosh Hashanah is: Who tells our story?

This is a time and a moment when we do the deepest work of discovering and rediscovering our own story. We see ourselves mirrored in our tradition, and in every generation, the sacred story that rises from the text of Torah and the annals of Jewish history emerges and re-emerges again, helping us reflect on our lives and give them new meaning and purpose. Telling our story helps us go another layer deeper, because as we vocalize this sacred story, we remind ourselves that we are not alone. We came forth out of Egypt hand in hand with a family, sharing the journey together. And yet, we still wonder: Who tells our story?

It is that sharing that is critical to storytelling. Psychologist Ira Hyman looked closely at the lyrics of the final song in Hamilton and notes that throughout the entire show, it is Aaron Burr who is the narrator. But in the final song, it is Hamilton’s wife Eliza. Hyman explains that the change in narrator determines who tells our story and who shapes the perspective and how we remember. He writes, “A narrator determines the story, choosing events and perspectives to include—and just as importantly, choosing what to leave out. History is supposedly written by the winners. But history is really written by those who write. They decide how to tell the story. The narrator is important for our personal memories as well. Who tells the stories in your family, or in your circle of friends? That narrator plays a critical role in how we reconstruct our memories and our shared past.”

When we sit down to tell the Jewish story, we find a story that has been curated over the centuries by rabbis and leaders who have captured the complexity of the past, reminding us of what is sacred. Those stories are often combined with commandments that are discussed and debated on the pages of books. It is the study of those debates that brings the stories to life. We tell the story in every generation because we are the newest narrators of the story.

Hyman adds an interesting insight—he reminds us that “Remembering is a collaborative process in groups. [Families or friends work to tell a story together.] Once a group collaboratively remembers something, that recollection will influence each person’s own memories.” As Jews, we do not sit alone to tell our story—we share it in groups. We are narrators of a collective past that we are actively living.

When I tell the story of my life, I see it as a journey that was rooted in my own family’s journey. When my grandfather died months before I was born, my mother wanted to mourn. As a Jewish adult who could not read Hebrew, she knew the way she could mourn was through the recitation of Kaddish. She endeavored to learn Hebrew, and it became an important part of her life. Along with my father, they committed to making Judaism central to our lives throughout our upbringing. They took us to Israel as teens and impressed a deep connection to Jews and the Jewish people upon our hearts.

Rabbi Donniel Hartman likes to teach that the Jewish people are the sum of the stories we tell about ourselves. While every Jewish person cannot hear the story of every other Jewish person in the world—or every other person who has ever lived—I like to imagine that God is the collector of every Jewish story. As we share our story and the prayers in our hearts, God is collecting it all. And perhaps through coincidence, brings us to moments where we encounter someone with a similar story.

One of the names for Rosh Hashanah is Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance. The second set of calls of the shofar is called Zikhronot—reminding us that God remembers the covenant with us. Yosef Yerushalmi, who wrote a book entitled Zakhor – Remember, explains that the nature of Jewish memory has never been dispassionate recollection but rather evocation, identification, and re-actualization. In explaining what this means, Ellen Umansky teaches: we read the stories of our past because in them we see confusion, fear, and a sense of hope, and taste the bitterness of slavery and the sweetness of freedom—in short, we experience all that our ancestors experienced as if we were there. We also recognize that we live these experiences as well, and the stories of our past can help us navigate our own unique pathways forward as we tell our stories.

“My ancestor was a wandering Aramean…” How do I see myself in that story?

That is the question we need to ask ourselves. When we sit down to study Torah, when we sit down and open up our prayer book, when we sit down at the Passover Seder—we open the pages of our collective past and we have to ask ourselves: How do we see ourselves in it?

Rabbi Donniel Hartman shares a story about a time he was on faculty at the Brandeis-Bardin Institute, which was offering a program for college students. A student came up to him and asked if he was one of the teachers. He said he was, and the student asked, “Why should I be Jewish?” Hartman thought about his response and realized that if he said, “You should be Jewish because Judaism teaches you to be a moral human being or connects you to God,” the student might respond, “What, only Jews are ethical? Only Jews have a relationship with God?”

Instead, Hartman gave one of the most profound answers he could have given. He said, “There is no reason why you have to be Jewish. You can live a perfectly meaningful, ethical, and valued life as a secular American, or a Christian, or a Muslim for that matter. Why then be Jewish? The only reason to be Jewish and to belong to the Jewish people is if doing so adds meaning and value to your life. I will be sharing what I love about Judaism and how it has added meaning to mine. Whether it does so for you is for you to determine.”

Hartman’s words are an invitation to each of us to open a book, engage with, and live our story. “Who lives, who dies, who will tell your story?” For us, right now, we tell our own stories. This season of the High Holy Days gives us the opportunity to write them as well. By seeing ourselves mirrored through our people’s story, we gain wisdom and insight from the challenges and journeys told in our sacred texts that help us shape our stories. As we remind ourselves of our wandering past, we share our own journey that is also filled with challenges and blessings.

In these days and weeks ahead, let us find the opportunity to sit down and tell our story to a friend or neighbor. May we have the wisdom to look deep into our past, and may we have the courage to use the memories to shape our lives and Jewish identities in the future.

Kein yehi ratzon.

September 12, 2025

Last week, I was welcomed into Worthington Kilbourne High School to present to the American Thought and Political Radicalism Course. It is a semester course elective for seniors and has been taught in Worthington Schools since the 1970s. The course is an important opportunity for students to learn and understand how political thought and radical ideas have developed in this country. Students are exposed to speakers who present ideas that are extremely radical. Such ideas have included flat earthers, neo-Nazis, members of the KKK, among others. To be included as one of the speakers feels interesting because I don’t consider myself a “radical.” It is an honor that the instructor feels confident in me to present to his students. (I will also present to the Thomas Worthington students in October.)

I am invited each semester to teach about the development of antisemitism. When I began presenting on this subject three years ago, it was in the aftermath of the infamous Kanye West X post in which he claimed he was going to go “death con 3” on the Jews because of our “agenda”. It was a classic form of antisemitism, depicting both a threat to Jewish well-being and also reflecting an age-old notion of a Jewish agenda that would threaten existing power structures. When I present, I teach about classic antisemitic tropes and myths. I discuss the Tree of Life shooting and the factors that motivated Robert Bowers that dark Shabbat morning in October 2018. I also discuss our security needs.

Now, in recent years, I have added an in-depth look at antisemitism on the left as it pertains to Israel. I have modified my presentation to reflect the symbolism that indicates antisemitism. Yossi Klein HaLevi offers the idea that the Jew is the symbol of everything evil in society. In pre-Holocaust Europe, the Jew was a Christ killer. In Nazi Germany, the Jew was the ultimate race polluter. In the former Soviet Union, the Jew was the capitalist. Now, in the age of universal human rights, the Jew is a White Settler Colonialist and racist. Antisemitism is the ultimate chameleon, changing its color and form to depict anything that is evil in a given moment.

As I enter these classrooms, I know that most of our young people get their news on Instagram and TikTok; often taking form as a series of short memes or videos. I am fearful that their minds are already pre-disposed to radical ideas that have grown on social media. I was comforted to know that many of these young people had never heard of the phrase “Globalize the Intifada” – because they had not seen it on social media – and I had the opportunity to share with them what it means and why it was problematic. As I have collaborated with many of our congregants to do the sacred work of partnering with our schools, I have found that this kind of learning is missing from most curricula; there just isn’t time. I wish I had the time and capacity to present in every high school; I also wish I was given an invitation. Most young people living near us do not know many Jews. It is just the nature of living in the community that we do. Last year, I modified my presentation to also give a brief overview of who Jews are and explain our core beliefs. I feel that this is important to help show that we are not evil people that we are sometimes made out to be. Having the opportunity to teach about antisemitism gives me hope that these young people will take these ideas and help shape a better future.

The Talmud offers a principle called mipnei darchei shalom – for the sake of peace. I enter these classrooms with the hope that through knowledge, education, and truth, we will build a pathway to peace and a better future for us all.

With that in mind, I want to express my sadness over the continued political violence that is festering in this country. We could list countless acts of violence that have targeted elected leaders, political activists, business leaders and others. The assassination of Charlie Kirk is another example – in a long list of political violence – of the radicalization of our actions. David Graham wrote in the Atlantic in the aftermath of yesterday’s assassination: Scholars have noted that assassinations occur most frequently in countries with “strong polarization and fragmentation” that “lack consensual political ethos and homogeneous populations (in terms of the national and ethnic landscape).”

That’s an accurate description of this moment. American politics today are dangerous not merely because they are polarized, but also because they are so widely divided. No party or side is able to win an enduring political advantage, which produces a constant back-and-forth—what the scholars John Sides, Chris Tausanovitch, and Lynn Vavreck have called “calcification.” Partisans on both sides believe that the stakes of each election are existential—for their way of life and perhaps even for their actual life. Conspiracy theories, including claims of election fraud, are common.

People who have concluded that they are powerless to stop politicians and policies they oppose are killing, trying to kill, or threatening to kill CEOs, Supreme Court justices, judges, members of Congress, Jewish people. Although political violence and support for it have been a larger problem on the right for the past few decades, in recent years, there have been a number of prominent acts of left-wing violence.

As a society, we must find other ways to respond to disagreement. We need to seek a path that promotes the virtues of listening, education, and problem solving rather than vilification and the pursuit of power. It is my hope that opportunities like the course taught in Worthington Schools will help promote opportunities for discussion rather than violence.

As Shabbat arrives in the world this evening, may the vision and taste of The World to Come help us nurture the values in ourselves that can build this sacred vision.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 5, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon – Ki Teitzei 5785

When I enter the season of Elul, I am often humbled by the incredible work that needs to be done. Prepare sermons. Create the order of the High Holy Day service. Make sure everyone has the honors sent to them. Write the iyyunim I want to share during the service to help frame prayerful moments. Pick the story I want to tell at the kids’ service. One year, I was so well prepared for the holidays, I actually made a checklist so I could refer to it year after year. Maybe I should check it, so I know what I have to do in the next two weeks.

During the month, I also try to find ways to help our congregation prepare. This can happen through sermons, teachings, or my Friday Shabbat message. But the challenge for me is that I wonder where I find time to do the spiritual work I need to do—the same work that I am encouraging all of us to do. I do try to convince myself that the sacred work I am encouraging our community to do applies to me as well. Maybe I am actually doing the work while helping us all prepare.

One of the ways I prepare is by turning to a text from the Talmud in Tractate Shabbat 31a. In the text, Rava, one of the great Talmudic sages, teaches the following:
When you arrive in the world to come for judgment, you will be asked several questions: Were you honest in business? Did you set times for Torah study? Did you leave a legacy? Did you have hope in your heart? Did you get your priorities straight?
The framing of these questions is a more modern adaptation by Ron Wolfson, found in his book The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven. It is a book I turn to each year at this time. And you might be wondering, wait, Rabbi, that’s only five. Wolfson adds two questions from two different Hasidic thinkers which ask, “Did you enjoy this world? And, were you the best you could be?”

As Wolfson dives deeply into each of the questions, he expresses some surprise over the first question: Were you honest in business? He cannot believe that the first question is not about believing in God, following the commandments, or giving tzedakah, but that it is about being honest. He adds, it is not just about business but about being honest in all matters. He wonders: If you are not honest in your business dealings, can you be trusted to be honest in other relationships? If you are not honest with others, can you be honest with yourself? If you are not honest with others, can your faith in God be trusted?

As he reflects on these questions, he shares a story about a time in his life when he was newly married. He and his wife Susan were in college in St. Louis. He was just shy of his 21st birthday. He and his wife had decided to have a kosher home, and they were looking for a kosher butcher shop. They entered the store and one of the owners asked, “What can I get for you?” Wolfson asked, “How much is a pound of ground beef?” As Wolfson recalls, instead of answering directly, one owner turned to the other and said in Yiddish, “Who are they?” “I don’t know,” said the second. “What shall we charge them?” “$3.95,” said the second. Susan then turned to Ron and said, “Ronnie, let’s get out of here.” Ron had no idea what had happened, and when they got to the car, Susan explained the whole thing to him. Susan knew the going price for kosher ground beef was about $2 a pound, and they were overcharging them. The owners did not know that Susan grew up in a home where Yiddish was spoken and that it was her first language.

Now, I will admit, if I were in Susan’s shoes, I would have replied in Yiddish with something like, “That seems awfully high for ground beef,” and I would have really enjoyed the look on their faces as they realized what they had done.

Our Torah portion this week teaches us about the importance of honest weights and measures. We learn in Deuteronomy 25, “You shall not have alternate weights and measures in your pouch; you shall not have alternate weights and measures in your house. You must have completely honest weights and completely honest measures if you are to long endure.”

Ron Wolfson is echoing the concerns laid out for us by Moses in ancient times. It would seem that one of the core pillars of society must be honesty and integrity. In order for that to endure, the community must commit to that. It is why we often see a seal at the gas station or the grocery store that says the scales or pumps have passed inspection by someone in the county. Such an act is also a foundation for trust. The moment we cannot trust each other, the fabric of society begins to tear apart, and the pillars begin to crumble.

In Pirkei Avot, we find a teaching from Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, who explains: Al shlosha devarim ha-olam kayam—On three things the world endures: al hadin, al ha-emet, v’al hashalom—on judgment, on truth, and on peace. When commenting on this particular Mishnah, Rabbi Yehuda Loew ben Bezalel, better known as the Maharal of Prague, explains that each of these three virtues aligns with three parts of the self. One’s physical possessions align with justice; one’s spiritual possessions match truth, which is concerned with intellectual integrity; and finally, one’s actual self aligns with peace. He explains that these three virtues sustain the world because they sustain human existence.

The lesson here is simple: we rely on truth as a foundational value of society. Not lying is something we teach our children when they are young, and we reinforce it throughout their youth. And yet, it seems like some people just never learn.

I recall a story from high school where a young person cheated on a test, and they were the president of the National Honor Society at school. It is a group that requires not only academic success and commitment to service, but also a dedication to academic integrity. The student was removed from the Honor Society. Major League Baseball players who were suspected of steroid or performance-enhancing drug use have been left out of the Baseball Hall of Fame. I am sure we can think of other situations or moments in time when a failure in honesty and integrity cost someone something important.

One of the interesting words in this text is the word for “endure.” In Hebrew, it is kayam, which indicates a sense of groundedness and being established firmly. Modern Orthodox Rabbi and scholar Yitz Greenberg, quoting Robert Cover, a Yale Law professor, interprets the word endures or sustained as continuing to exist, and that the world is upheld by the three principles of justice, truth, and peace. He explains that these three principles are central to the preservation of the post-Destruction Jewish community. He adds that the values paramount to building a new world are different from those required for ensuring the continuity of an ongoing communal life.

We are living in a time where we are searching for truths. As Jews, we once again feel alone in the world as information out of Gaza spreads from once reliable and trusted sources. As truth-seekers, we hope to build educated opinions based on facts and truth.

Several weeks ago, we recall several photos spreading around the world of children in Gaza who were emaciated. Those images evoked global outrage about the hunger situation in Gaza. Within 24 hours, information started to spread that these images and the news stories were incomplete. You may recall that one image shared by The New York Times was a cropped photo. What was cut out from the picture was the image of the child’s older, healthy-looking brother. Omitted from the story was information that this young child also suffered from a preexisting condition like cerebral palsy.

The editors of The Free Press subsequently did a deeper investigation to uncover additional facts about 12 images that were spread by media sources throughout the world. The response from those they critiqued varied. They were clear to share that their reporting was not intended to question the dire humanitarian situation. They acknowledged there is real hunger, but they were extremely concerned about the current state of journalism and the ease with which a journalist can write and share a bias that ultimately shapes people’s opinions into believing a narrative that is not necessarily truthful.

The Free Press wrote an editorial entitled “Journalists Against Journalism”, where they wrote:

You’ll notice one important aspect about the uproar: No one is disputing the facts in our piece. Instead, they take issue with the facts we have exposed. They take issue with curiosity that points in the wrong political direction.
This story—like all of our reporting—does not deny that there is hunger in Gaza. Their situations—and those of the people in these 12 images—are tragic enough, as is the horror of the war itself.
But the panic over our investigation is not sincere—it is strategic. They think if they can make an example out of our reporters, no one will dare ask uncomfortable questions. Questions like: If there is a deliberate campaign of starvation, why did our reporters find that many of these children are receiving medical care, and some of them have already been airlifted out of Gaza to seek treatment with Israel’s help? If these images are representative of the average Gazan, then why were our reporters able to find complicated backstories behind the first dozen images they investigated? And if these critics are such accuracy hawks, why do they take issue with adding basic context to news stories?

If we cannot rely on our journalists for truth, and they are not asking the critical questions, where does that leave us? I recall reading reports from CNN and other news agencies in the past using language that says, “This person is reporting X, but we cannot verify that X happened.” Journalism relies on verification from trusted and reliable sources.

The world has now been trapped by the Hamas propaganda machine that is shaping our minds. When we read information about Israel, how can we respond? What is the information we might come to trust? When I read news, my first reaction is to wait and not judge. One of my colleagues recently suggested that we give Israel the benefit of the doubt when something happens. That can be hard to do because we have such high expectations of Israel.

There is a deeper question I want to ask today: How can we respond when we read or see something? We might want to respond internally that it is in fact true. I recall from the very first seminar that we offered to public school teachers in Holocaust education, one of the workshops focused on identifying and understanding propaganda. We looked at photos and were taught to think about several questions: Who are the people in the photo? What are they doing? Who is taking the photo? What is their purpose in taking the photo?

News stories and photographs are literally snapshots of a moment in time that often do not capture the full essence of what they depict because words and images are finite. Sermons are too. There is often a story behind the image and an intent by the image-taker. As readers of news and students of history, can we be taught to question and understand when to question? By questioning, we open our hearts to alternate possibilities.

The Rabbis offered a teaching that may resonate. In the Tosefta, a Jewish legal text similar to the Mishnah, it suggests: “Make for yourself a heart of many rooms, and enter into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare a matter impure and those who declare it pure.” A heart of many rooms is a powerful image that invites us to hold many opinions in one vessel, inviting us to discern one matter from the next. If we are asked to hold both the teachings of Hillel and Shammai together, what can we do? The invitation is to think about their responses and discern the truth—that can be an incredibly challenging journey to take.

The Book of Deuteronomy and the Rabbis that followed in the Talmud and the Mishnah help us recognize the value of being honest. If we cannot rely on others to be honest, then we have to do our best to discern the truth. May we have the courage to ask questions and look for multiple sources that allow us to discern judgment, capture a fuller story, and seek the truth.

Kein yehi ratzon.

September 5, 2025

Earlier this week, schools opened in Israel. Why is that something to be interested in here in America, you might ask? For the first time ever, there are more Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) students enrolled in schools in Jerusalem than non-Haredi students. Jerusalem was always a religious city, very different from the more-secular Tel Aviv. However, since 2010 during my visits to Israel, I have seen the city shift into a much more religious one. You could feel the presence of Haredi Jews more and more as the years went by.

This is something that we might want to be aware of for the future as the face of Israel changes. Haredi Jews are the fastest growing population in Israel simply because their birthrate is that much higher than non-Haredi citizens of Israel, including Jews and non-Jews. Many Haredi men do not work outside the home, spending their days studying Talmud in Yeshivot. This leaves their wives to engage in the work needed to earn a living and support a family. Many of their financial resources come as handouts from the government. The overwhelming majority of Haredi men also do not serve in the military and there has been significant political conflict in recent years because the Ultra-Orthodox parties in Israel have wanted a new law passed that would exempt Haredi Jews from serving in the IDF.

With the rise of Haredi students, one might begin to wonder what this means for the future of Israel. Currently, the Haredi population in Israel is about 14% which is about 1.4 million people – growing at around 4% a year. As we think about the long-term implications for the state of Israel, it is not far-fetched to think that at some point in the next century, Haredi Jews will make up more than half the population of Israel. If this is the case, we as Reform Jews, who believe in egalitarian Judaism and hold pluralistic values, will begin to wonder what place there is for us in the State of Israel. For many years, Reform Judaism has been vilified by the Haredi community because they believe we are potential threats to the Jewish future. We know, however, that there is much we are doing to ensure a vibrant Jewish future and the growth of Reform Jewish life in Israel.

With most Haredi schools focusing their educational goals on Torah and Talmud study, there is a struggle within Israel to ensure that these young people receive the education they need in math and civics. Orly Erez-Likhovski, head of the Israel Religious Action Center (IRAC, the Reform Movement’s advocacy arm that fights for equality in Israel) shared this week that IRAC is leading efforts to “ensure that Haredi schools provide instruction in the legally mandated core general studies curriculum is that it includes civics, a subject that is crucial for informed engagement and participation in any democratic society.”

Likhovsky reflected that education is one of the most important tools in promoting pluralism. If such education is absent from Haredi schools, students will lack the basic knowledge of governance on a national and local level. In Israel, national elections tend to lean more towards the center or the right as people are more hawkish with defense policies. On a local level, citizens tend to elect more liberal leaning leaders who ensure a sense of equality. They hope to prevent a full religious takeover of local government.

In America, we have spent so much time thinking about and discussing the war, that it is easy to forget that there continues to be internal issues that need resolution. They will have long term impacts on Israeli society.

At its core, Israel was established to be a homeland for all Jews. One need not be religiously observant to be a citizen of Israel. Most Israelis consider themselves Chiloni, (secular). It is critical that we continue to be aware of the work that organizations like the Israel Religious Action Center are doing to ensure that pluralism remains a value and a practice on both national and local levels. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 1, 2025

Some people hold the perception that an immense amount of air is required to sound the shofar. When I sound the shofar, I form the embouchure with my mouth, close my eyes and allow a small but measured amount of air to flow through the ram’s horn. Each shofar is unique, and I have found some to be more difficult to sound than others. With a little trial and error, I am usually able to make it work! When I think about how little breath is required to make the shofar sound, I begin to wonder about the power held by such a little breath; how such a loud blast awakens the soul.

In Hebrew, the words for breath and soul are connected. N’shamah is one of the words for soul, and n’shimah, is the word for breath. Early in the book of Genesis, we read that God breathed the breath of life into Adam. Our morning blessings begin with prayers of gratitude, thanking God for the gift of body and soul. Elohai N’shamah shenatata bi, My God, the soul you have shaped within me. The Hebrew connection between the two words opens the possibility for much interpretation. Our breath is the source of our life; it is a divine gift. Breathing and heart beats are among the normal, naturally occurring actions of our body. We can hold our breath, but only for so long, until our body requires us to breathe again. Our soul is the part of our being we cannot begin to describe with words. As Mussar master, Alan Morinis teaches, the soul is the seat of our moral virtues, it is the spirit that animates us, and it is intimately connected to the divine. When we say we are created in the divine image, perhaps it is the soul that we are referring to.

Arriving in this moment in the new year requires a little bit of n’shimah work and n’shamah work. The High Holy Days provide an invitation for all of us to breathe deeply, take a break from our chaotic lives, and focus on the important soul-work we each need to do. The High Holy Days are also called the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe. Awe is one of those traits that is found rooted in the soul. Alan Morinis also writes that, “Awe is a natural human response to an overwhelming profound experience.”

We stand in awe when the shofar sounds. We lean in with awe as we spend time harnessing the internal instruments that empower us to reflect, examine, discern, and turn. Perhaps, each day, during the remaining weeks of Elul, you will make your way to Psalm 27 and imagine yourself dwelling in God’s holy mountain and frequenting God’s Temple.

As we engage in this challenging work, we know we will feel sheltered from above. As we read Psalm 27, we might even consider focusing on the words tekia, shevarim, teruah, and tekia again. The notes of the shofar go from whole to broken and back to whole. These metaphors provide the sacred road map for us to recognize that our lives begin whole, and as we encounter brokenness, we have challenging but sacred work to do to make them whole again.

As 5785 winds down, and we enter 5786, we know that our people continue to feel broken. We are reminded of that brokenness each day as we pray for the return of the hostages and an end to the war. May 5786 bring us moments of sweetness and joy amid challenges and pain. Debra, Zoe, Shira, and I all wish you a Shanah Tovah! We hope to see you at our annual Open House on Rosh Hashanah afternoon.

August 29, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon

Most of you know I am a die-hard fan of the New York Yankees. I live each day with hopes that they will win and roll my eyes in frustration when they play terribly. Most of us expect the teams we root for to not only win but to act with a sense of what is just and right. It is not just on the field but in their business operations as well. We also become concerned about the moral character of the players on the teams we root for. Sometimes, people brush that aside, and at other times, we really struggle to root for players who have checkered pasts.

So, you can imagine my surprise when I saw a headline ten days ago in The Athletic that read, “Yankees drafted player after he admitted he drew swastika on Jewish student’s door in college. Why?” That is a long headline, but it had to capture the breadth of what anyone who might have heard about this moment would have thought. Corey Jackson was drafted in the 5th round of the Major League Baseball Amateur Draft in July. In 2021, as a 17-year-old freshman at the University of Nebraska, Jackson drew a swastika on the door of a Jewish student. A year earlier, before the 2024 draft where he went undrafted, Jackson called teams to tell them about the incident. He admitted to being blackout drunk when he drew the swastika and had no recollection of the incident or why he did it. He admits that he made “a really stupid mistake” and that he has learned and grown since that time and is “no longer the person he was when it all happened.”

The Yankees’ Director of Amateur Scouting, Damon Oppenheimer, said the team’s decision to draft Jackson involved the most “thorough due diligence” they have ever done with a player in his 23 years in that position. The decision was cleared by owner Hal Steinbrenner and the situation was discussed with top Jewish leaders in the organization, including team president Randy Levine. And now the question is, why? How did they come to agree to do this?

When he was first meeting with teams in 2024, Jackson met with the Boston Red Sox. At the end of his interview, they asked him if there was anything else he wanted to share. He told them about the swastika incident, and everyone, including his agent Blake Corosky, found out about it at that moment. At the time of the incident, Jackson said he didn’t know the student, and he broke down in tears the next day when someone told him what he had done. Jackson said, “I felt like the worst person in the world. I don’t want there to be any excuses for my actions.” He wanted to apologize to the student, but he was told by campus police not to contact him. He was fined by the university and told to undergo basic sensitivity training. When Corosky heard about the incident, he considered ceasing his representation of the young shortstop.

However, Corosky also represents Jacob Steinmetz, who pitches in the minors for the Arizona Diamondbacks and is the first Orthodox Jewish player ever drafted. Corosky decided to call Steinmetz’s father, Elliot, who is the head basketball coach for Yeshiva University. Steinmetz was angry. After telling the coach that Jackson was extremely remorseful and that he didn’t understand exactly what he had done, Steinmetz calmed down and suggested that the agent try to educate Jackson about antisemitism. After calling Jackson, Steinmetz is quoted in The Athletic saying, “Right away you could tell he was the nicest, sweetest kid in the world, but dumb as rocks when it came to these kinds of issues.” He had no understanding of the history of the symbol, its connection to Nazi Germany, or that it is still used by neo-Nazis worldwide. He had grown up in a Christian household in Wyoming, Ontario—a rural town 30 minutes from Michigan—and had really never met any Jewish people. Steinmetz told Jackson, “If I walked into a hall and saw a swastika, I’d be angry. My grandparents would be freaked out and terrified by it.”

Corosky then told Jackson he would keep advising him if he met two requirements: he had to call every team and own up to what he did, and he had to work on some intense training to understand why what he did was hurtful and awful. Coach Steinmetz reached out to the head of Holocaust studies at Yeshiva University’s Holocaust Education program, who put him in touch with graduate student Ann Squicciarini. Squicciarini designed a five-week course for Jackson that included videos and readings, and the two met each week for an hour. Neither Steinmetz nor Squicciarini was paid for their work.

Ari Kohen, Head of Holocaust Studies at the University of Nebraska, feels it is critical for society to learn how to teach antisemitism and raise awareness of all forms of bigotry among young people today. He said, “If we drive to punish, that doesn’t allow us to take that teachable opportunity. There’s a lot that I think we miss.” After numerous meetings with top Yankee officials, Oppenheimer said, “I feel that moving forward, we’ve got a good citizen, a good person, and a good baseball player.”

While we’re not likely to see Jackson playing in Yankee Stadium for several more years, the story carries with it an important lesson in teshuvah, repentance. Jackson said he understands that people may be upset by what he did, but he would “ask for their forgiveness and let them know I am not the same person I was when that happened. I’ve grown up. I’ve learned. I’ve reconciled. I’ve done things I needed to do to learn about it.” Repentance is clearly more than saying we are sorry. Yes, Jackson recognized that he had a goal and his past stood in the way. While he realized he was wrong initially, he needed to do more. He needed personal growth to recognize the impact of his actions. His road to growth and change included owning up to his past and diving deep to understand how his actions relate to a history of hate.

Earlier this week, we entered the month of Elul—the final month of the year before the High Holy Days. We begin to hear the sound of the shofar, which serves as a wake-up call. In her book From Time to Time, Rabbi Dalia Marx explains that the Hebrew word Elul is borrowed from the Babylonian month Elulu or Ululu, while others believe it comes from Akkadian, meaning “purify.” In her chapter on this month, she shares a reflection adapted from the great Jewish theologian and philosopher Martin Buber:

In moments of great stillness
When we contemplate things which no mouth can utter—
At that hour, let us deepen the insight that we have.
Let us look inward.
Let us lift up our lives as if we were lifting a bucket from a well.
It is incumbent upon us to strive for self-understanding.
It is incumbent upon us to balance the forces working in our souls.

We can imagine Corey Jackson sitting somewhere alone in the summer of 2024, after failing to achieve his dream, wondering what he had done that led to this failure and disappointment. In his contemplation—perhaps in his tears—he realized by looking inward that he had to act and think differently. Sometimes we need the help of others to change the course of our direction. Lifting up our lives like lifting a bucket from a well is a source of sustenance. It is the drinking water that gives us life and quenches the aridness of our souls. Jackson had to gain self-understanding and balance the forces working in his soul. While we might think drawing a swastika is evil, for Jackson it came from naiveté. He needed to learn and to work diligently on his soul.

Parshat Shoftim, always read during the first or second Shabbat of Elul, begins with the establishment of a justice system. Moses instructs the Israelites to appoint magistrates and officials in all their gates and instructs them to govern with due justice. Seeking a spiritual understanding of this text, the Hasidic Torah commentary Iturey Torah teaches that this opening verse requires inner mindfulness. Rabbi Alan Lew, in his book This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, explains that the gates refer to the seven windows into the soul: two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, and the mouth. Everything that passes into our consciousness comes through one of these gates. Spiritually, these words are not just about appointing judges, but about the self-understanding needed for personal growth.

Adding to the seasonal tie-in of this Torah portion, we consider the famous verse, Tzedek, tzedek tirdof—“Justice, justice shall you pursue.” Hasidic commentator Sefat Emet explains that the repetition of the word tzedek indicates that the pursuit of justice and righteousness is endless. The Hebrew word for truth, emet, is comprised of the first, middle, and final letters of the Hebrew alphabet—alef, mem, and tav. The pursuit of truth is likened to the process of teshuvah, a return to light and Torah. This process requires us to thoroughly examine every corner of our soul and every action we’ve performed.

The month of Elul offers us a Psalm—Psalm 27. Much like Corey Jackson took a five-week course to understand the impact of his actions, Psalm 27 serves as a four-week course giving us insight into our souls. One verse stands out:

“V’atah yarum roshi al oyvai s’vivotai—Now my head rises above my enemies roundabout; v’ezb’cha v’ohalo zivchei t’ruah ashira v’azam’rah l’Adonai—and in God’s tent I will offer offerings with shouts of joy; I will sing and chant praises to the Eternal.”

To raise our heads above our enemies can be a metaphor for doing the sacred work of recognizing the forces that lead us to err. Rising above these forces and returning to God’s sacred words is represented by the offerings and songs—where God welcomes us back with love.

The work of teshuvah is difficult. It requires time and great effort. Our pursuit of this soulful tzedakah—our commitment to righteous living—must be constant and relentless. A story is told of the great 19th-century Mussar master Rabbi Israel Salanter, who once walked late at night and saw a light shining in one home. Inside, he found a tailor bent over his work by the light of a candle about to burn out. “Why are you working so late with such a small light?” he asked. The tailor replied, “As long as the flame is still burning, one can still fix what is wrong.”

This is our lesson. This is our month. This is our season to do the sacred work of growth. The light of Torah is always shining. It is drawing us down the path to turn and grow. Why did the Yankees draft a kid who drew a swastika on the door of a Jewish student? Because he did the difficult work of learning from his actions and committing to change. How do we walk the path of righteousness and a full life? By examining our actions, understanding their impact, and committing to change.

Kein yehi ratzon.

August 27, 2025

Echoes from Hebron with author Yardena Schwartz – Zoom

On Wednesday, September 27, acclaimed journalist and author Yardena Schwartz joined us at Beth Tikvah to discuss her new book, Ghosts of a Holy War.

Through century-old letters and powerful interviews, Schwartz connects the 1929 Hebron massacre to the events of October 7, 2023, revealing history’s echoes today.

Watch the recording of her conversation with Senior Rabbi Rick Kellner.

August 29, 2025

Once again, the hearts of our grieving nation look to one another for support and comfort. Wednesday’s shooting at the Annunciation Catholic Church in Minneapolis leaves us bereft. Our hearts mourn the loss of the two children murdered while they attended school and church. At a time when so many people say they have no words, my colleague and friend, Rabbi Evan Schultz found the words. He wrote:

Words stir in our minds. They may come as expressions of anger or emphatic rhetorical questions that echo the Book of Lamentations which begins, “Eicha, how?” Mixed with grief and tears, we feel the sadness of the moment, and like every other mass shooting, we will return to our lives because we have allowed these tragic incidents to become normalized.

This shooting strikes us deeply. As a religious organization, we know all too well the fears of being attacked in a house of worship. The Jewish community in Columbus, led by the efforts of JewishColumbus, have helped us think about ways in which we can protect our worshippers and all those who enter our building. Under Debbie Vinocur’s leadership, we have earned several state and federal grants which have strengthened our security infrastructure. We do everything we can to ensure our safety. This tragic incident strikes deeply for other reasons as well. The alleged shooter amplified the likes of Robert Bowers, convicted of murdering 11 Jewish worshippers at the Tree of Life Synagogue. He wrote “Burn Israel” and “Destroy HIAS” and “6 million wasn’t enough.” Such words elevate our fears regarding the connection between classical antisemitism and present-day anti-Zionism and its threat to Jews.

Perhaps one of the most moving moments shared in the aftermath of Wednesday’s shooting was when a young boy, who left the church without a physical wound, praised his friend who sheltered him and saved his life as they hid under a church pew. His friend laid on top of him and was hit in the back. This young boy acknowledged that his friend was in the hospital and was likely to survive.

We want answers and we want change. As we have entered the month of Elul, we hope this season inspires teshuvah. What our society needs is a reckoning. The process of teshuvah, (which means repentance and also indicates turning) requires us to recognize the times we have failed and done wrong. On Yom Kippur, when we acknowledge our transgressions, we speak in the plural; “we have sinned, we have done wrong, we have harmed.” This collective response to our confession invites us to think deeply about what a societal teshuvah might look like.

Maimonides in his Laws of Repentance writes:

All of the prophets commanded concerning repentance; the Jewish people will not be redeemed save by repentance. Indeed, the Torah long since assured us that in the end, at the close of the period of exile, the Jewish people will turn to repentance and be immediately redeemed. (Mishneh Torah Laws of Teshuvah 7:5)

Rambam’s concern lies with his hope that all of Israel will be redeemed. He is referring to the exile from Israel after the destruction of the Temple. This collective turning can forge a path in a new direction. For many of us, we lie in a place of despair without hope that anyone has the courage to lead us forward.

As the angels hold these children and Annunciation Church Holds their community together, the responsibility is upon us to reach out to our Catholic friends and neighbors and let them know that we hold them in our hearts.

May the angels hold us, too. Jewish tradition says that when we pray for healing, we turn to four angels, Michael, Rafael, Gavriel, and Uriel. May Michael help us discover who might be able to guide us forward. May Rafael bring the wounded – both those in body and in soul – healing. May Gavriel give us strength and courage to have hard conversations. May Uriel light our pathway forward.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 15, 2025

Somehow, I blinked and Debra and I have two daughters in High School; Zoe is entering her senior year and looking at colleges, and Shira began High School this week. It is hard to believe that when our family moved here 14 years ago, our girls were in the Rainbow Room (3 year olds) and the Cloud Room (infant room) at the JCC North. Time has certainly flown by. Our tradition has always been curious about time and how we mark it. In the opening verses of the Torah, we read about time and how God defines a day. The Talmud begins with the question, “From what time does one recite the evening Shema?” Our tradition is filled with timebound commandments, (e.g. lighting Shabbat candles, hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah) and we distinguish the difference between sacred time (Shabbat) and ordinary time (the rest of the week). In almost each of these instances, our tradition adds a blessing to mark the moment. Such blessings add a sense of holiness to our lives and encourage us to pause and behold numinous moments.

On most days, time passes all too fleetingly and many of us are focused on making the next meeting or finishing something before a deadline. Filling our time with sacred acts, such as time in community, learning, or reaching out and making someone’s life better, gives us a sense of purpose. I recall many years ago reading an important book by Ron Wolfson, entitled, The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven. Most of the questions stem from a text in the Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a, “Rava said: When a person is brought to judgment for the life they lived, they will say to him: 1.) Were you honest in business? 2.) Did you designate time for Torah study? 3.) Did you procreate? (perhaps better said: did you leave a legacy?) 4.) Did you await salvation? (Did you have hope in your heart?) 5.) Did you engage in the dialectics of wisdom or discern one matter from the other?”

The questions themselves are not about what happens at the end of our lives, but rather, what happens during our lives. The second question is about learning; did we make time for learning? Our students in school learn because they have to. As adults, we learn because we get to. Learning enlightens our lives to new possibilities and avenues that can takes us to new places or enrich our lives with meaning.

How we spend our time is sacred. The poet Mary Oliver captures the essence of time in her poem “The Summer Day”.

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean —

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

I love her words! They invite us to find a place of wonder and awe. Learning is awe inspiring. Paying attention to details is an act of learning too. She asks, how will we spend our lives? With a plethora of answers to a remarkable question, and knowing time is limited, we must think and reflect deeply. What will you learn? Will you do something that invites awe into your midst? Will you spend time with people you care about? Time is sacred, so let us fill it with something holy!

To the teachers and students who started school this week or will start next week, have a wonderful year. May this time be blessed with new insights. May you approach each day with patience. May we all learn from the struggle. And may the new things we learn give us inspiration each day and fill our lives with blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 22, 2025

In May of 1974, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band performed a concert in Harvard Square. Jon Landau, acclaimed music critic, attended the concert that night, and after seeing Springsteen perform, Landau wrote to The Real Paper, “I saw Rock n’ Roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen.”

At the time, Springsteen was fighting for his rock n’ roll life. He was on the ropes with Columbia Records who were hesitant to front the money to produce his third record. His First two records, Greetings from Asbury Park and The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle did not sell as expected. Even Landau’s famous quote and positive review could not shift things with Columbia Records. With hard work and a single that made it to radio stations around the company, Springsteen was able to turn things around. On August 25^th, 1975, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band released their third record, Born to Run. It is arguably my favorite record, and it changed the trajectory of Bruce’s career—having sold more than 10 million copies worldwide.

If you have made it this far, you might be wondering why I am sharing this significant moment in rock n’ roll history with you. I listen to that album multiple times each week; it is my own personal running soundtrack (and it is not because it is called Born to Run). The fact that I and so many others are listening to this music fifty years after its release is remarkable. From Springsteen’s magical lyrics to Clarence Clemons’ powerful saxophone solos, the music speaks to my soul.

What is also interesting to me is that there is a lesson in the timeless appeal and influence of such music. Bruce Springsteen has left an incredible legacy. Last week, I mentioned how Rava, one of the great Rabbis of the Talmud (Shabbat 31a) imagined that when we reach heaven, we will be called to account, and God will ask us several questions. According to Rava, one of the questions God asks us is if we procreated. In writing about these questions in his book, The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven, Ron Wolfson explains that this question is really asking us if we have left a legacy. Music that has endured for half a century is a legacy. The fact that the band who performed it 50 years ago is still together (even though Danny Federici and Clarence Clemons have passed, the rest of the band is still together) is a testament to their own commitment to each other. Perhaps what is most remarkable is that they are still performing three-hour sets in their 70s!

The lesson in this question is about how we leave a legacy. Perhaps we might be talented enough to produce a record or write a book, and our words will last long past our time on earth. Maybe we are talented enough to create art that people will look at for centuries. What is more likely is what our tradition teaches us; “Monuments shall not be erected for the righteous, their deeds will be their memorials.” Our legacies live on through our actions and the way we carry ourselves. Perhaps someone will remember the kindness we offered in a moment of stress or anxiety.

Monday begins the month of Elul which reminds us that the High Holy Days are just four weeks away. This is a sacred time in which we reflect on our journey over the past year and begin to think about our transgressions and how we can improve ourselves and do better. It is also a time when think about our legacies. If our lives are headed in a trajectory of which we are not proud, Elul gives us the time to pivot and make changes so we can move in a better direction. Each year, the holidays stare us in the face, reminding us that our lives are fragile and we don’t know how much time we have. Bruce Springsteen writes in Thunder Road, “We got one last chance to make it real, to trade in these wings on some wheels, climb in back, heaven’s waiting down on the tracks.”

Our time is limited; we have to do what we can to make the best out of the time that we have. If we are not happy with our legacy, now is the time to rewrite the script, record some new lyrics. Each day is a new page and a new opportunity. Elul comes knocking on the door every year to remind us that time is ticking. It’s precious. Let’s take the time now to do the sacred work we need to do.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 8, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon

We all have powerful images etched into our minds that we carry with us. They might be from a particular place or moment in our travels. They might be something we saw on television or from a significant moment in our lives. These images are permanent, much like the way we record sound bites on a vinyl record or, a century earlier, when Thomas Edison created the first phonograph. That permanence is the same with the images etched in our souls—images that carry us from place to place and give us insight into our history and story.

Of the images etched into my mind, I have been drawing on one since last Saturday evening, when we observed Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem. When you walk near what is called Robinson’s Arch—named for the archaeologist who discovered the extension of the Western Wall of the Kotel, near the corner of the Southern Wall—you encounter an enormous pile of large stones. These stones are the remnants of the Roman siege in 70 CE—or possibly an earthquake. In the stories we tell, however, they are a reminder of a world that once was, a world that only lives on through the commandments of the Torah or the practices described in the Mishnah, which we can no longer follow. Each of these one-ton stones bears witness to our people’s history and the destruction of what we once knew as safety and sanctuary.

Can you imagine what it would be like to have lived in those times? Going back to the First Temple period, we may not have to imagine too much. Last week, we read from the opening chapter of the book of Isaiah as part of our Haftarah. Isaiah lived a few hundred years before the destruction of the First Temple. His world was filled with idolatry, a huge gap between the wealthy and the poor, and neglect of God’s teachings. He expressed frustration that the Israelites brought offerings, calling them futile because they were accompanied by evil. He called to them: “Cleanse yourselves, remove evil from My sight, learn to do good, seek justice, relieve the oppressed, uphold the orphan’s rights, take up the widow’s cause.” With these words, Isaiah knew what would befall his people if they did not correct their ways—they would lose their identity. The destruction of the ancient Temple was not only the destruction of a physical space, but the undoing of sanctuaries, rituals, and traditions that grounded daily life.

Centuries later, rabbis sat with that history and grappled with it. Why did it happen? They wanted to understand so they could prevent such destruction again. Rabbinic tradition tied those historic moments to our actions. The Talmud tells us in Tractate Yoma (9b) that the First Temple was destroyed because idol worship, forbidden sexual relationships, and bloodshed were rampant. During the Second Temple period, the people were performing mitzvot, so why was the Temple destroyed? The rabbis teach it was because of senseless hatred (Talmud Gittin 55b). Their reasoning reflects how human action brings about destruction.

Many of us know the story of Kamza and Bar Kamza, but it is always worth retelling. A man instructed his servant to invite his friend Kamza to a party, but the servant invited his enemy, Bar Kamza, instead. When the host saw Bar Kamza, he wanted to remove him, but Bar Kamza offered to stay and pay for what he ate. The host refused. Bar Kamza offered to pay for half the party, then the whole party, but neither was acceptable, and the host threw him out—while the rabbis present did nothing. Bar Kamza then informed the Roman emperor that the rabbis were conspiring against him. He suggested sending a red heifer as a gift for sacrifice. En route, Bar Kamza blemished the calf, ensuring the rabbis would not accept it, thus offending the emperor and prompting the siege of Jerusalem. According to the rabbis, this could have been avoided if they had intervened.

This story is about more than the destruction of a physical space—it is a creative way to teach that the world, along with our values and institutions, can crumble around us. In many instances, we cannot control these events. Stephen Covey, in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, describes living in a world of concentric circles. The outer circle is the Circle of Concern: health, family, politics, war, safety, antisemitism, and more. Some things in this circle are beyond our control, while others are not. Inside is the Circle of Influence—the place where proactive people focus their energy, working on what they can change. Reactive people focus on the Circle of Concern, blaming, accusing, and feeling victimized.

Were the rabbis of old working within their Circle of Concern or Circle of Influence? Perhaps both. The prophet Isaiah may be our model for focusing on the Circle of Influence. This Shabbat is called Shabbat Nachamu, named for the opening words of the Haftarah from Isaiah 40. This Isaiah knew of the destruction of the Temple and sought to comfort the people: “Nachamu, nachamu ami yomar Eloheichem. Comfort, comfort My people, says your God.”

Renowned author Dr. Erica Brown explains that harsh realities must be balanced by love. Tenderness, she writes, is not just about how you speak but about the relief your words bring. Consolation begins when we value what truly matters. “The first step of consolation,” she says, “is not a tangible solution. It is hope.”

And that is our question: how do we find hope in darkness? Today, sanctuaries of safety and security feel like those toppled stones in Jerusalem. The war between Israel and Hamas rages on. Hostages remain in captivity. Hunger and suffering persist—in Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine, and beyond. Here at home, people face poverty, homelessness, antisemitism, and fear.

The great Temple may be gone, but our tradition teaches about the Mikdash M’at—the “small sanctuary” of synagogues and study halls. We may not be able to control the world’s great concerns, but we can influence our immediate surroundings. We can feed the hungry, help the vulnerable, volunteer, and create sanctuaries of kindness and connection.

As we recite the Mi Shebeirach, a prayer for healing, let us remember: the most powerful healing comes when we turn prayer into action. May we be comforted by our ability to create small sanctuaries, to act as agents of change, and to bring hope into the world around us. Kein yehi ratzon.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 8, 2025

It is the greatest honor to serve this community as your rabbi. I know that you turn to me for wisdom, guidance, morality, and answers to the most profound questions. Many of you expect me to be a voice of reason and to speak out against injustice. I strive to be present for you during life’s challenges, and I find great joy in celebrating with you at simchas as well. These past twenty-two months have been some of the most challenging for the Jewish people and for rabbis. I have tried my best to lead with intention and to bring Torah to the world. I have worked to create opportunities for us to deeply explore Jewish Peoplehood, Israel, sacred texts, and more.

I know that we likely don’t always agree on everything – and that’s okay! That is what makes the Jewish community special. Disagreement creates the best space for the fruits of Torah to emerge. The Talmud recounts the story of Reish Lakish and Rabbi Yochanan who were great study partners. After Reish Lakish died, Rabbi Yochanan struggled to find a new partner who would challenge him. He grew frustrated because the new partner never disagreed with him. Disagreement sharpened Rabbi Yochanan’s Torah. Disagreement, dialogue, and discussion lie at the hearts of who we are as a people. 

With that in mind, I want to share with you something that I struggle with. Over the last twenty-two months of war, many claim to know all the answers. We rely on trusted journalists and turn to a range of media outlets—from the New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and The Atlantic to CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC, The Associated Press and more. For news coming out of Israel, I turn to the Times of Israel, Ynet News, the Jerusalem Post and Haaretz. Some turn to see what Arab news media is sharing and they turn to Al Jazeera. (One great source to see what the Arab world is sharing is www.memri.org, it is Arabic news in translation.) Many of us listen to podcasts like For Heaven’s Sake with Rabbi Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein HaLevi, or Ask Haviv Anything with Haviv Rettig Gur, or Call Me Back with Dan Senor, to name a few. We trust all these sources as truth and fact as they help us know and understand how to face complex issues.

From time to time, on the For Heaven’s Sake podcast, Hartman and Klein HaLevi asked what they know versus what they don’t know. As I reflect on these two questions, I realize I know a lot less than I don’t know.

I know that I love Israel.

I know that my heart breaks that the 50 hostages are still held captive and that the world doesn’t seem to care about them.

I know that there is profound suffering in Gaza.

I know that 70% of Israelis want the war to come to an end and the hostages to all come home; if I were Israeli, I would be part of this 70%.

I know that Hamas lies and creates propaganda for the world to see. 

I know that Hamas wants their people to suffer. 

I know that empathy has no boundaries. 

I know that antisemitism is on the rise.

But—

I don’t know what media source to fully trust. 

I don’t know what happens on the ground in Gaza each day. 

I don’t know what the real numbers are.

I don’t know what it is like to walk into a booby-trapped building. 

I don’t know what it is like to leave my family for months on end to serve in the reserves. 

I don’t know what happens in the back rooms of Israel’s war planning or governing decisions. 

I don’t know what, if any, other motives are at play in these governing coalition discussions (I know what I read, and I have my thoughts.)

Recently, I listened to the Identity Crisis Podcast, where host Yehuda Kurtzer interviewed David Horovitz, Editor-in-Chief of The Times of Israel, on “Journalism in the Fog of War.” I want to share some key points he makes, please see the transcript or listen to the podcast for exact quotes

• Israeli journalists cannot actually cover the war with any reliability because they are not on the ground. The IDF allows journalists short entries into the Gaza Strip.
• Independent and foreign journalists are barred from Gaza. There has not been a single verified independent journalist able to file freely in an ongoing manner from Gaza.
• Foreign news agencies, Reuters, the Associated Press and the Agence France-Presse have reporters in Gaza who are not part of their international staff. They are local hires; some have an interest to get everything right, and some have no interest whatsoever. All of them are influenced by the fact that Hamas does or can do terrible harm to people who do not do what they want.

I reflect on these words and on this piece by Matti Friedman in the Free Press about searching for truth in an information war. I think about how mainstream media outlets such as the NY Times use images and words to skew the narrative, or even a German news outlet publishing staged photos, fueling the Hamas propaganda machine. So what do we do? We struggle, we question, we wonder what role antisemitism plays in all of this. We do our best.

We hope and pray that there will come a time when everyone will lay down their weapons, hostages return home, and the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza will come to an end. I also hope and pray  that we begin to truly see the humanity in one another.

And, if you read one thing this week, read Rachel Goldberg Polin’s plea in the Free Press entitled The Appeal of a Mother Who Buried Her Only Son.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner