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

March 3, 2026

Growing up, every young Jewish athlete found pride in telling Sandy Koufax’s story. Arguably one of the greatest pitchers to ever play baseball, Koufax famously sat out the first game of the 1965 World Series because it was Yom Kippur. (When the Dodgers’ manager walked to the mound after Don Drysdale struggled in that game, Drysdale reportedly said, “I guess you wish I was Jewish too.”) We hold onto that story because Jews are not typically associated with sports.

When I tell people I spend two weeks on faculty at a Jewish sports summer camp, I am often met with laughter that plays into that stereotype. But every so often, Jewish athletes nurture our pride. Perhaps you remember swimmer Jason Lezak, who swam the greatest relay split in history to anchor the 4 x 100 freestyle relay at the 2008 Summer Olympics, mounting a comeback to give Team

USA the gold medal and secure Michael Phelps’ eighth gold of those games. Or maybe you know about Max Fried, who led the Atlanta Braves to the 2021 World Series after a dominant performance in Game 6. Perhaps you recall Julian Edelman’s MVP performance at Super Bowl LIII for the New England Patriots. Or Kerri Strug’s famous vault on an injured ankle to win gold for the 1996 U.S. Olympic gymnastics team. And then there was Aly Raisman, who soared to gold at the 2012 London Games, performing her floor routine to “Hava Nagila.”

As we spent two weeks last month with our eyes focused on Milan, other Jewish athletes took center stage—or perhaps center ice. Did you that know Aerin Frankel, the U.S. Women’s Hockey goalie, is Jewish? Frankel’s performance in the gold medal–winning game was one for the ages, as she helped secure gold for the United States. Early one Sunday morning, Jack Hughes, who had lost a few teeth to a high stick earlier in the hockey game, scored the golden goal with a wrist shot, giving Team USA its first men’s hockey gold medal since the famous “Miracle on Ice” in 1980. When young Jews look around for heroes in the spotlight, we feel an extra measure of pride knowing these standout athletes are members of our tribe.

We may see these stars as heroes—and perhaps they are. But heroism in Judaism is defined a bit differently. In Pirkei Avot, a first-century Jewish ethical treatise, Ben Zoma famously asks, “Who is a hero (literally, who is mighty)? The one who controls their urges.” Ben Zoma reminds us that it takes inner strength to overcome what the rabbis call the yetzer hara—the inclination that pushes us toward harmful behavior. When we celebrate Purim, we honor other heroes. Mordecai refuses to bow down to the evil Haman because he is a Jew. We celebrate Esther, who risks her life by going before the king to save her people. Mordecai and Esther are not portrayed as particularly observant Jews; if anything, they are assimilated into Persian culture, yet they still feel pride in their Jewish identity.

Jewish pride is rooted in many places. It can come from identifying with others who share our heritage. It can be rooted in the biblical stories that inspire us. And it can grow from connecting with Jews around the world. When we recognize that someone like Jack Hughes or Aerin Frankel is also Jewish, we are reminded of the pride that lives within our hearts. There is much to be proud of!

March 2, 2026

As the sky turns from light to darkness tonight, we will mark the beginning of the holiday of Purim, celebrating our freedom from the evil Haman and his attempt to annihilate the Jews of Shushan and the entire Persian Empire. Haman is a descendent of Amalek, who attacked the Israelites from behind during our journey in the wilderness.

This past Shabbat, the United States and Israel began joint military efforts targeting Iran’s missile and nuclear capabilities. As part of those efforts, the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamanei and top military and intelligence leaders were eliminated. For nearly forty years, Khamenei led with the mantra “Death to Israel, Death to America.” He has also been responsible for killing his own people as well as taking many other innocent lives within the region. He has funded a global terrorism network including Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Houthis. His death brings relief to many Israelis and others in the region who hope a regime change will bring about a better life for the Iranian people.

It is not my role to offer political or military analysis of this moment. However, we extend our thoughts and prayers to all those in the region who are in harm’s way. We pray for the safety of the Israeli people, the IDF, the American soldiers, Iranian civilians, and all those facing the threat of Iranian retaliation. We mourn the loss of the Israelis killed in Beit Shemesh and Tel Aviv, the American soldiers who have died in these battles, the Iranian civilians who have been killed, and those in the countries affected by retaliation. We also pray for the safe return of those in our Beth Tikvah family who are seeking safety in bomb shelters.

Towards the conclusion of the Book of Esther, after Haman’s evil decree was annulled and the Jews were saved, we read “layehudim haita orah v’simcha v’sason vicar”—“The Jews enjoyed light, happiness, gladness, and honor.” In these moments of war and conflict, we know there will be darkness and uncertainty in the days ahead. We hope and pray that light, joy, and safety will come for the Jewish people, the Iranian people, and the entire world.

Please join us tonight at 7:00 PM for our Purim Spiel. We will offer prayers of peace before we begin telling our Purim story.

Chag Purim Sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 27, 2026

When I was in rabbinical school at the Hebrew Union College Los Angeles campus, I took a year to pursue a master’s degree in Jewish education. One of the required courses for this degree was entitled Leadership and Management. In this course, we not only learned about the skills required for leadership but also the character traits we, as leaders, need to nurture. It was during this course that I first learned about Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. This book taught me key concepts like the circle of control compared to the circle of concern, seeking first to understand and then to be understood, and thinking win-win. Years later, Covey wrote other books focused on trust. Covey explains that trust is built on the confidence you have in someone else, but it starts with building confidence in ourselves. We cannot begin to trust others until we trust ourselves.

According to the mussar tradition, trust defines how we are in relationships with others. Alan Morinis asks, “Can we truly trust others, knowing that people test us in our lives? Can we trust God?” Perhaps there is no better example of trust in God than that displayed by Abraham in the infamous story of the akeidah, when Abraham is told by God to bring his beloved son as an offering. Guided by the early morning light, father and son walk quietly together until Isaac sees the wood for the burnt offering but wonders where the animal is. Abraham’s trust in God is portrayed in his response when he tells his beloved son that God will provide the offering. Was this just an answer to calm his son? Was he saying this to calm himself? Or did he truly believe that God would provide the ram that he would ultimately find in the thicket?

The Hebrew word for trust is bitachon. In modern Hebrew, this is the word we use for security. Alan Morinis, in his book Everyday Holiness, invites us to think about the story of our lives. When we are in the midst of a crisis, it is nearly impossible to see how it will work out. Morinis explains that when we react to a situation with trust, this reaction stands in opposition to our reactivity. He teaches that we do not write the script of our lives, so we have nothing to worry about. I might offer a different perspective. When we turn to trust, we turn to the idea that our experiences have given us the traits we need. By acting with trust, we pause to think carefully and intentionally about how we might respond. Trust is not giving up control, but rather taking the time to act thoughtfully and with purpose. While situations may be unknown, having trust allows us to stand firmly in the knowledge that something we may have tried once before could work in a new situation.

Morinis tells a story about the wife of Mussar teacher Rabbi Meir Chodesh, who was making Aliyah from Poland to Israel in the early twentieth century. The Jewish Agency in Warsaw asked her to fill out a questionnaire. One of the questions asked, “What are you taking with you and how do you plan to earn a living in Israel?” Rebbitzin Hunter responded in large letters with the word bitachon—trust. Perhaps she knew that her soul contained everything she needed. In that moment, she did not have all the answers, but she knew that with the tools she had, she could figure it out.

Trust is not having the answers; it is knowing that if you take one day at a time, the opportunities will present themselves, and we can use our skills and virtues to stand firmly and confidently as we move forward. Pausing, breathing, and thinking help us recognize that we may not have all the answers. It is not giving up but waiting patiently for the right moment to come along.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 20, 2026

Over the last two weeks, we have practiced the middot of patience and compassion. As we continue through our month focusing on mussar, this week we turn to courage, in Hebrew ometz lev, which directly translates to strength of heart.

These words were first made famous in the Torah when Moses transfers his leadership to Joshua and blesses him with the words, “Hazak v’ematz – be strong and of good courage.” I often think about so many of our youth who struggle to be themselves and be strong in who they are. There is so much pressure to be accepted that even someone who knows something is wrong may go along with it, simply to gain the approval of their peers.

I also think about courage when we encounter moments where it would be easier to run the other way and avoid the challenge at hand. One moment that has always stood out to me was my experience on a high ropes course. Several weeks ago, I shared this in a sermon. I recall a time when I ascended a high ropes course only to come down immediately. It took me about 15 years to try again. While it would not have mattered to anyone if I had never tried, or if I had gone up and come down again, I wanted to prove something to myself. I pushed forward and overcame my fears.

Alan Morinis explains in Every Day, Holy Day that courage—ometz lev, or a strong heart—boldly pursues what is right and what is called for, without succumbing to anxiety or fear about its own safety or benefit. Does this mean we are called to act justly—even when doing so may place us at personal risk for the sake of what is right? The Torah teaches us in the book of Leviticus that we “should not stand idly by the blood of our neighbor.” When commenting on this verse, the Talmud points out that we should dive into a river to save someone from drowning. However, if we do not know how to swim, we do not have to risk our lives to save that person.

Rabbi Amy Eilberg, in the Mussar Torah Commentary, teaches, when writing about Parshat Sh’mot, that Shifra and Puah’s actions to save Moses were prime examples of courage. The midwives, according to the Torah, held the fear of God in their hearts, and they did not listen to what Pharaoh had told them to do—kill every male child born. In truth, these women were courageous because they risked their lives to save the Israelite children. It is not clear from the text if these midwives were Israelite or Egyptian. Scholars believe they may have been Egyptian women. If that is the case, then their actions would certainly have warranted death. In our times, we might have to do something that goes against our friends, and by doing what is right, we may lose those close to us. Acts of courage may require us to take calculated risks that come with some form of consequence.

How might we know what to do when we are tested? Psalm 27 concludes, “Hope in the Eternal; be strong and of good courage.” Traditionally, these words are read daily for the month leading up to the High Holy Days. They remind us that we need courage to do the difficult work that the accounting of the soul demands of us. The courage we need is not physical strength but spiritual strength. We look inward for the answers, we build networks of support, and we take the calculated risks we know we need to take because, deep down, our action reflects moral courage.

Rabbi Eilberg suggests a practice for the middah of courage when she invites us to think about Shifra and Puah when we are feeling doubtful about the world. If we consider what we might do at a given moment, we might wonder what they would do. What does moral courage look like? In times when we are afraid, we might ask ourselves what we can do to take just one step forward.

In the week ahead, let us reflect on moving forward in a world that has a rocky path.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 13, 2026

As we continue our journey to nurture our soul, I hope that you have taken time this past week to work on strengthening your patience. As a reminder, Mussar practice helps us grow and nurture the middot—virtues or measures that live within our soul.

This week, I would like to focus on the middah of compassion. As a Semitic language based on a root system, Hebrew allows us to learn much about words through their affiliation with other words. Just as we saw last week with the Hebrew word for patience being tied to burden, the Hebrew word for compassion, rachamim, also offers a meaningful connection. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that this word is closely tied to the word rechem, which means womb. He explains, “Compassion is a feeling of empathy which the pain of one being of itself awakens in another; and the higher and more human the beings are, the more keenly attuned are they to re-echo the note of suffering which, like a voice from heaven, penetrates the heart.” We learn from Hirsch the powerful insight of connection resulting from the pain one feels and how it is impressed upon another. For Hirsch, compassion is a feeling. However, compassion needs to be more than that.

Compassion is expressed as an action. When we encounter another person and empathize with their suffering, that empathy is certainly important; however, taking that empathy to the next step means doing something to lift up another person and bringing a measure of healing to their soul. The rabbis teach us that visiting the sick takes away one-sixtieth of their pain. The act of visiting stems from rachamim, compassion. If we are quick to dismiss that person, or we act harshly toward them, then we have to ask ourselves if we are truly acting with compassion. And yet there are times when a loved one might need tough love. Contemporary Mussar master Alan Morinis teaches in Everyday Holiness that, “There is ‘compassion in the form of compassion,’ when our feeling along with the other leads us to act kindly, softly, and gently. The second type of compassion comes as ‘compassion in the form of judgment.’ In this case, our shared feelings with the other call for action that is firm, hard, or possibly even harsh.” More often than not, our loved ones need that gentleness. However, if we see our loved one heading down the wrong path in life, tough love may be what is needed to help that person navigate back to the right path.

Alan Morinis teaches us that we can use the following phrase to guide our practice: “Care for the other—we are one.” It is a reminder that compassion is rooted in the connectedness between two individuals.

For a practice, Morinis suggests in his book Every Day, Holy Day that we might try the following:

1. Identify a person or people with whom there is a heaviness in your relationship, then act toward them in a way that reaches beyond what is required in order to relieve them of their burden.
2. See the part of you that lives within the other and take care.

As we move about our week, let us nurture the compassion that lives within our soul.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 6, 2026

Throughout the month of February, while I am away on my monthlong sabbatical, I have prewritten each of these messages and will be spending this month focusing on Mussar. Long before there were self-help sections in bookstores and libraries, Jewish sages created a movement called Mussar. It began in the 12th century with Bahya ibn Pakuda’s treatise entitled Hovot Halevavot. Over the centuries, several texts were written that expanded the Mussar library. In the 19th century, Rabbi Israel Salanter modernized the movement, and in the 20th century, Alan Morinis helped spread it to the masses through several books.

The idea behind Mussar is that we are all born with characteristics in our soul, and throughout our lives we grow by bringing them into balance. Mussar is a practice, much like yoga is a practice. To truly immerse in Mussar, one must put in effort on a character trait for at least a week at a time. In Hebrew, the word for character trait is midah, which means measure. We can think of a character trait as being on a scale. For example, with the trait of humility, too much humility and we could be construed as weak or passive. Too little humility means we have too much pride and might behave in a haughty manner. The purpose of Mussar, then, is to find balance.

I would like to begin by looking at the midah of patience—in Hebrew, savlanut. One of the biggest challenges some of us face is a test of our patience. It is often too easy to become frustrated when we try and fail at something. If we fail repeatedly, frustration mounts. It is as if we have a fuse, and the match lights it, leading to anger.

The Talmud (Eruvin 54b) offers a story about Rabbi Preida, who had a student he would teach the same lesson 400 times before the student learned it. One day, the student was distracted and did not learn. Rabbi Preida said to him, “Pay attention, and I will teach you.” Rabbi Preida taught the lesson another 400 times, and the student learned it. Rabbi Preida is a model of patience because after three or four repetitions, he might have become frustrated, yet he demonstrated patience.

Alan Morinis teaches that the word savlanut shares a Hebrew root with words meaning suffering or burden. It also shares a root with the Hebrew word for porter. The burdens we carry test our capacity for patience. If we are able to hold what tests us on our shoulders, then we expand our potential for patience. In her memoir, Heart of a Stranger, Rabbi Angela Buchdahl explains that the Torah’s word for patience is erech apayim—literally, a long nose. Or perhaps, put another way, patience requires us to take a deep breath. I know that when my patience is tested, I need to take a deep breath. I need to pause so that I can carry the burden. If I fail to breathe, I am lost and have gone down the road of losing my patience.

One way to practice Mussar is to repeat a phrase and engage in a spiritual practice. Alan Morinis, in his book Every Day, Holy Day, advises us to say, “Every person has their hour; everything its place.” For a practice, we might try the following:

1. Identify the most likely situation to try your patience and commit to “bearing the burden of your emotions” for at least five minutes in that situation.
2. Whenever you are forced to wait, fill the space with a positive activity, such as resting, singing, or reviewing something you learned.

As we focus on these words and practices for the next week, we will begin to see how we grow in our patience.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Recommendations for Mussar Practice:

1. The Mussar Torah Commentary edited by Rabbi Barry Block, CCAR Press

2. Every Day, Holy Day by Alan Morinis

3. Everyday Holiness by Alan Morinis

February 3, 2026

Moses saw the face of God just once and then

forgot. He didn’t want to see the desert,

not even the Promised Land, only the face of God.

In the fury of his longing he struck the rock,

climbed Mount Sinai and came down again, broke

the Tablets of Law, made a golden calf, searched through

fire and smoke, but he could remember only

the strong hand of God and His outstretched arm,

not His face. Moses was like a man who tries to recall

the face of someone he loved, but tries in vain.

He composed a police sketch of God’s face

And the face of the burning bush and the face of Pharaoh’s daughter

Leaning over him, a baby in the ark of bulrushes.

He sent that picture to all the tribes of Israel,

Up and down the desert, but no one had seen,

No one knew. Only at the end of his life,

On Mount Nebo, did Moses see and die, kissing

the face of God.

Seeing God’s face is an eternal yearning expressed throughout our sacred texts. The Psalmist cries out, “Don’t hide your face from me,” on numerous occasions. We might begin to ask ourselves, what does it actually mean to see God’s face? We read in Exodus 33:11, “Adonai would speak to Moses face to face as one person speaks to another.” Several verses later, Moses asks God to behold God’s presence, but God responds, “You cannot see my face, for a human being may not see me and live.” At the end of the Torah, in Deuteronomy, we learn there would never be another prophet who would know God face to face like Moses did. In the book of Numbers, the words the Priests use to bless people hope that God would lift God’s face as part of the blessing. These words are quite paradoxical. They reflect God’s mystery but behold the desire we each have to feel accepted by God and to ultimately feel God’s blessing.

In Amichai’s poem, I am drawn to the metaphor of the police sketch. In this contemporary metaphor, Moses is trying to reach out to others to see if anyone had the experience he had. Would anyone recognize the blessing he felt? He draws in some of the most sacred moments in his life. He felt the blessing of love by Pharaoh’s daughter as a baby floating in the Nile. He beheld the flames of the burning bush, a moment when he felt the intimacy of God’s call to him. After sending the sketches to every tribe, we might feel Moses is disheartened when no one recognizes God’s face. Why would that be? Is it because no one had actually seen God’s face before? Is it because no one had a relationship with God? Perhaps it is because every person might see the face of God differently. When God introduces Godself to Moses and asks God’s name, God responds, Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh. While we do not typically translate these words, it can be loosely translated as, “I will be what I will be.”

So many of us struggle with a belief in God or with creating a relationship with God. We wonder what God looks like, and if we cannot see God, then we might question God’s existence. We do know that love exists, and the wind exists. Perhaps, then, the relationship we create with God is unique to each of us and changes based on how we feel or what we need on a given day or in a given moment. If we need God to teach us, God teaches. If we need God to guide us, God guides. If we need God to comfort us, God comforts.

Each of us is a sketch artist. Sometimes we sketch with paper and pencil; other times, we paint pictures with our words. What is the face of God you would sketch? Perhaps it is staring back at you in the mirror.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 30, 2026

Earlier this week, on January 27, the world marked International Holocaust Remembrance Day. This day was selected by the United Nations because it marks the liberation of Auschwitz in 1945 by Soviet troops. 2005 is the first year it was commemorated. On the 27th of Nisan in the Jewish calendar (about two weeks after the end of Passover), we observe Yom HaShoah v’haGevurah, Holocaust Day of Remembrance and Heroism. This day was established by the Knesset in 1951, and it marks the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising in 1943. Lastly, each year on November 9 we observe Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, when Germans destroyed Jewish shops and burned synagogues and books. It was a pogrom on a mass scale. 

Earlier this week, Rabbi Jeff Salkin posed the question in his blog Martini Judaism: why do we have three dates to the remember the Holocaust? He suggests that we need all three because they serve different purposes.

Kristallnacht reminds us of the normalization of cruelty. Yom HaShoah v’haGevurah is necessary because the Warsaw Ghetto uprising teaches us about the importance of resilience and the willingness to stand up and fight even if we may lose our battles.

Rabbi Salkin writes, “they fought to assert that even in a world collapsing into barbarism, Jews still possessed agency and dignity. They would not go like sheep to the slaughter.” International Holocaust Remembrance Day – the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz – was the day the world bore witness to the atrocities occurring.

In Germany, where U.S. soldiers liberated camps, General Eisenhower said, “I made the visit deliberately, in order to be in position to give first-hand evidence of these things if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations merely to ‘propaganda.'” He commanded his soldiers to capture what they saw so the world would know the capacity of human beings to perpetrate evil towards one another. International Holocaust Remembrance Day is for the world to remember. Rabbi Salkin explains this day forces us to ask how the world could stand by and do nothing?

When I go into public schools to teach about antisemitism, I share the famous words of Elie Wiesel: “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant.” Wiesel’s words serve as a reminder to every generation that when evil goes unchecked, it can lead to mass murder. It is also a prophetic call on us to act. 

Once again, we are encountering the widespread normalization of antisemitism and hate. It seems that hardly a week goes by before we see another vicious antisemitic attack. Springing to action can feel overwhelming and it can’t be the responsibility of Jews alone to remember and hold the world accountable. Our allies are critical to the sacred task of planting seeds that will bear the fruit of love and compassion. 

I recently visited the U.S. Holocaust Museum and Memorial. Each time I enter, something unique stands out to me. This time, I captured the prayer that Rabbi Leo Baeck offered in Germany on Yom Kippur in 1938: “Our history is the history of the grandeur of the human soul and the dignity of human life. In this day of sorrow and pain, surrounded by infamy and shame, we will turn our eyes to the days of old. From generation to generation, God redeemed our fathers, and He will redeem us and our children in the days to come. We stand before our God… we bow to Him, and we stand upright… before man.”

Rabbi Baeck’s words remind us of the powerful connection between God and humanity. To stand upright before God and to stand upright before a fellow human being is to behold the beauty of one’s face and to see their soul in all their humanity. Recognizing the dignity of human life is core to who we are as Jews. To see each soul as created in the image of God is to recognize our holiness. 

Why do we need three days to remember the Holocaust? Because the Holocaust is not one story. It is millions upon millions of stories. It is acts of heroism, the memory of the victims, and every story that is filled with sorrow and miraculousness.

May the memory of the righteous always be for a blessing and may we always be grateful for those who resisted and those who risked their lives and stood up in the face of evil to protect their neighbors and strangers.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 28, 2026

As we awaited the arrival of a historic snowstorm on Saturday evening, news was spreading of the death of Alex Pretti, who was killed filming federal immigration officials. In the moments before he was killed, Pretti ran to protect a woman who was also protesting. Alex Pretti was a nurse who cared for veterans at the VA hospital.

While watching the video of the shooting with horror, I could not help but think of the moment in the Torah when we read about Cain killing Abel. In Genesis 4:10, we read that God speaks to Cain and says, “What have you done? Hark, your brothers blood cries out to Me from the ground!”

“What have you done?” Torah commentator Malbim explains that this question indicates that God informed Cain that he had free will and that his deeds were attributable to him. It feels as if the Torah is asking this question of all of us now.

What have we done… that we have come to these moments in which Alex Pretti and Renee Good were killed because they tried to protect fellow human beings.

What have we done…that such profound darkness has settled over us so that we can no longer behold the dignity of other human beings.

What have we done…that people are no longer questioning the morality of their orders.

What have we done?

All I could think about in these last few days is that Alex Pretti’s blood is calling out to us. The word for blood in the Torah appears in the plural. The rabbis note that this is not typical and wonder about its meaning. Nearly every commentator explains that the words appearing in the plural indicates that all the generations that came after Abel were also crying out. Another commentary indicates that there were so many blows given to Abel, that it was unclear when his soul departed. In this moment, not only do we have Alex Pretti’s lost descendants crying out, but we have countless people across our country and our world crying out that things are completely askew here. The videos of Alex’s death show at least ten shots fired; do we know when his soul departed?

Thousands march in the frigid temperatures in Minneapolis because they are concerned for their neighbors. These raids are not just about people in the U.S. who are undocumented. U.S. citizens are being held as well. We cannot continue down the road we are on.

Tonight, we have planned an interfaith gathering as part of Faith250, a series of interfaith discussion opportunities designed to explore important texts in our nation’s history. Our first session will focus on Emma Lazarus’s poem “The New Colossus,” which will lead us to conversations about immigrants and the treatment of immigrants in our country. If you have not already planned to join us, I hope you will consider doing so.

We continue to grieve as a nation over the loss of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. May their memories always be for a blessing.

L’shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner