November 6, 2026

Earthquakes happen when tectonic plates move together, causing pressure that makes the Earth feel like it’s moving. Metaphorical earthquakes happen when a single human being has such an impact on the world that it literally shifts beneath your feet. This week, Professor Sara Lee passed away. There are not enough words that begin to describe the impact that she had on the world of Jewish education. Sara was the longtime Director of the Rhea Hirsch School of Jewish Education (RHSOE) at HUC’s Los Angeles campus. It was a position she held for over 30 years, during which she trained countless educators and professionalized the field of Jewish education. In 2005, she earned the Pras HaNasi, the Israeli President’s Prize for influence in the field of Jewish Education in the Diaspora. That honor fractionally describes the influence she had on the field of Jewish education. Sara Lee caused an earthquake in the world of Jewish education, shifting it in indescribable ways.

Both Debra and I are alumni of the RHSOE and call Sara our mentor. After her retirement, she returned to Boston, where she spent the remaining years of her life near her children and near her birth home. When we moved Zoe into school in August, I asked Debra if we should reach out to Sara to try to visit with her; unfortunately, time did not allow for that.

I remember the first time I met Sara. It was 1999. I was visiting HUC’s Los Angeles campus as a prospective student. My mentor, Rabbi Matt Cutler, said that I had to meet Sara, and if I was going to go to HUC, I should really consider adding an extra year to earn a master’s degree in Jewish education. I sat on Sara’s infamous yellow couch, which would trap you if you sat all the way back. As someone who was earning an undergraduate degree in education, Sara informed me that if I were to come to HUC, I would also enroll in the School of Jewish Education. For Sara, it wasn’t a choice. She was as prophetic as she was wise.

After spending the first three years as a rabbinic student, the time came for me to enroll in the School of Jewish Education. Sara taught us organizational development, reminding us about the four frames in which nonprofit organizations functioned. Her goal was to make us better educators, but she really inspired an entire generation of students to become educational leaders who would not just think about the classroom but also about how the entire organization could grow and improve. As Sara raised more disciples, she transformed the field, professionalizing it and helping her graduates impact countless students, teachers, and Jewish institutions. If you were one of Sara’s students, you could call on her for life. She helped us navigate career searches long after graduation, and we could call on her whenever we needed her. As I think about my time since HUC, the RHSOE faculty were the teachers I called on more than others.

Perhaps it is fitting that she took her last breath during the week in which we read from Parashat Chayei Sarah—the life of Sarah. In the opening verses, we learn that Sarah died at the age of 127. Midrash (Gen. Rabbah 58:2) teaches us that when the sun rises, the sun also sets, referencing Ecclesiastes 1:5. Rabbi Aba bar Kahana asks the obvious question, saying, “Don’t we know this?” But the midrash then comes to explain that before the Holy One, Blessed be God, causes the sun of a righteous person to set, God causes the sun of that person’s righteous counterpart to rise. While we cannot know who the righteous person is who has arisen prior to Sara Lee’s death, perhaps there might never arise a person who will reach her stature in the field of Jewish education. If that is indeed the case, we might think about all her students, who collectively have brought her influence to countless Jewish organizations around the world. Sara Lee was a teacher who helped me to become the rabbi and educator I am today. She helped Debra become the educator she is today. May her memory be for a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 30, 2026

A vote is an expression of the world we hope to create. Election results are a snapshot of the world in which we are living at a given moment. How might we think about building such a world? For the Diaspora Jewish community, we have an interest and concern in the outcome of that election, but most of us cannot vote. Here in the U.S., our voice is our vote, and yet our vote cannot be all that we do to build the world we want to create.

If elections are a snapshot of a society at a given moment, what can we learn about Israeli society? There are real concerns about key issues: accountability for October 7th, conscription of Haredi Jews to serve in the IDF, judicial reform, the lack of a conclusion to the multi-front war, and Jewish violence in Judea and Samaria/the West Bank. For Arab citizens of Israel, there was an entirely different set of concerns, which included rising crime in their neighborhoods and profound frustration with the ultra-nationalist policies of Itamar Ben-Gvir in Judea and Samaria/the West Bank that impact their family members.

What we have learned is that Israeli society is an incredibly diverse place. Arab citizens of Israel voted in numbers that have never been seen before and, according to early election results, have won as many as 19 seats in the Knesset. We have learned that there is a strong group that wants change and a different way forward. We have also learned that there are many in Israel who are still concerned about their security and believe that the war against Hamas was not a total failure.

When Israelis entered the voting booth and put the slip of paper representing the political party of their choice into the ballot box, they voted with a vision of what they hoped to create. The only way forward in forming a government is for some parties to go back on campaign promises (i.e., forming a coalition with Netanyahu) and form a unity government representing the center. If they fail to do that, we will see another round of elections in the spring. (To learn more, see The Times of Israel, The Jerusalem Post, Haaretz, or podcasts from Ark Media or Ask Haviv Anything with Haviv Rettig Gur.)

Looking here, our concerns are diverse: rising gas prices and other related costs, immigration policy, the wealth gap, the economy, and the ongoing war with Iran. In the Jewish community, we are also concerned about Jewish safety and the rising wave of antisemitism, whether that is based in classic antisemitic tropes or the new wave of anti-Israel sentiment. What is the snapshot of our country we will see on Tuesday evening as our votes are counted?

If our vote is our expression of the vision of the world we want to create, then the work is not only about voting. It is about how we live our lives in the days between elections. While we cannot control things like fuel prices or current policy decisions, we can be on the ground doing the sacred work to care for people in our own communities. On Wednesday morning, people will still wake up in our community facing hunger; we will still ensure that there is a security presence keeping us safe in our community; we will still do the work we do to support vulnerable neighbors; and we will continue to ensure that we feel a profound sense of Jewish pride and that we know our Jewish story.

As I was listening to analysis of the Israeli elections earlier this week, I was struck by Yossi Klein Halevi’s response and insight. Yossi is a scholar at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem and co-hosts a podcast with Rabbi Donniel Hartman. Yossi is among the camp that wanted to bring about profound change in Israel. He is a voice of the center in Israel. When he faced his disappointment with the elections, he said, “People who voted differently than I did love this country as much as I do.” That is profound wisdom. If we can sit back and reflect on people who cast their votes differently than we do, and we can remember that they love Israel or the U.S. as much as we do, what might that say about how we can do the sacred work to build the vision of the country we hope to create?

Perhaps we can be guided by our tradition, in which we learn from the Talmud in tractate Sanhedrin (17b) that a Torah scholar is not permitted to live in a community unless it has ten things: a court, a charity fund, a synagogue, a bathhouse, a public bathroom, a doctor, a scribe, an artisan, a cook, and a teacher of young children. These categories reflect a community that wishes to have a sense of order that abides by law, that takes care of its most vulnerable, that is concerned about health, and that cares about learning, beauty, and recording our collective stories. As we enter Shabbat, may we do the sacred work that builds a community with those same shared concerns held by our ancestors.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 23, 2026

I was not among the early watchers of “Nobody Wants This” on Netflix, though I did love the first season of the show. In my opinion, the second season left something to be desired. For those unfamiliar, the hit Netflix show features Rabbi Noah Roklov, a single rabbi living in Los Angeles, who meets and falls in love with Joanne Williams, a podcaster who focuses on edgy topics dealing with relationships. Joanne is not Jewish, and we see how Rabbi Roklov navigates this relationship on both a personal and professional situation. The show also stars Jackie Tohn, a wonderful Jewish comedian whom I first met in preschool and went to high school with. Season 3 was released on Netflix earlier this week, and I don’t know that I can bring myself to watch.

Adam Brody, the actor who plays Rabbi Roklov, was recently asked by GQ about the conflict between Israel and Hamas. He said, “Put me down as thinking it’s a genocide.” I am wrestling with watching because when I turn to entertainment, I want to be able to escape and enjoy it. Watching every episode, knowing he has shared these words publicly, would bring the tensions I live with every day right in front of my face.

In all the time since October 7, I am not sure I have written about these fabricated charges against Israel. Genocide is a legal term that only came into existence following the Holocaust. It was created by Polish-Jewish lawyer Raphael Lemkin to describe the Nazi policies that sought to exterminate the Jewish people from the face of the earth. The term itself is now a legal term that requires the intent to destroy an entire people. Charges of genocide against Israel fit classical forms of antisemitism such as the blood libel or charging Jews with the worst evils a society can commit. In the 13 century, a Christian baby was found dead around Passover. Jews were blamed for his death and charged with using his blood to make matzah. Such charges continued throughout the centuries and led to pogroms and other violence against Jews. There was never any evidence to prove these false charges in what has come to be known as blood libel. The charges of genocide have led to violence against Jews today. We have seen this in attacks on synagogues as well as against individuals.

So many of us hear these claims and we might not have information at our disposal to respond. As I have shared numerous times, the loss of innocent life is deeply tragic, and we continue to be saddened by any innocent lives lost throughout the history of this ongoing conflict. To call this a genocide, however, is to put Israel in the same light as the Nazis, the Turks who perpetrated the Armenian genocide, and the Hutu extremists who perpetrated the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsis in which 800,000 Tutsis were killed in three months. It also takes away our status as victims of a genocide and denies us our own story, calling us perpetrators of such evil as well. The facts just don’t add up. As we look at the facts, no genocidal group would give polio vaccines to a group it was trying to annihilate; over a million were administered by Israel during the war. No genocidal group would drop fliers or make phone calls trying to protect innocent civilians from military operations; Israel did that repeatedly. No genocidal group would bring in over two million tons of aid.

Prior to October 2023, there were no Israeli military forces in the Gaza Strip. Israel did, and still does, maintain a military presence in the West Bank, but there have been no attempts to commit mass murder there. Earlier this week, Micha Danzig offered a close analysis in The Jerusalem Post of the number of deaths in Gaza. When you read this data, a genocide just doesn’t add up.

Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib, a Palestinian, former Gaza resident, and author of the book Hamas and Its Two Million Hostages, recently told Haaretz, “Genocide doesn’t happen because everyone says it was a genocide. Who even cares what Amnesty or Human Rights Watch say? They’re not genocide researchers. True, there are genocide historians like Omer Bartov who argue that there was a genocide, but they’re also not legal experts, and it’s the job of legal experts to decide whether it’s genocide or not. There are those who openly want to expand the definition of genocide so that what happened in Gaza fits this definition. The international courts in The Hague have not yet found conclusive proof or ruled that there was genocide.” The claims of genocide began before the IDF entered Gaza and there were even claims of genocide before Hamas attacked Israel on October 7.

So many people have come to believe this fabricated claim to be true because of what psychologists refer to as the Illusory Truth Effect. Dara Horn writes about this in her newest book. This effect was first established in 1977 after a series of psychological studies. It reflects the notion that an idea becomes a truth, whether it is plausible or not, whether it is true or not, after it is repeated frequently. According to Psychology Today, cognitive linguist George Lakoff suggests that the way to counter the Illusory Truth Effect is through what is known as a truth sandwich. You begin by mentioning the truth, briefly mentioning the falsehood, and then describe the correct information.

We have an incredible uphill battle to undo this falsehood. It has been repeated countless times, including in what many deem to be trustworthy sources.

Whether I can move past my own concerns about actors who feel they have to weigh in on issues they do not fully understand or have expertise in remains to be seen. I should add, I am not a legal scholar in this area either, but the historical claims of blood libel mirror what we are seeing today too closely. It is my hope that those who have wondered how they might counter these false claims now have a few pieces of information to do so.

As we think about Israel this week, we know Israelis will go to the polls this Tuesday. As they envision the future of the Jewish homeland, may they work towards a vision that helps build Israel as a Jewish and democratic state while upholding its founding vision as a beacon of peace and a light unto the nations.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 16, 2026

Last week, as I anticipated my second presentation of the semester to the Worthington high schools’ Poli-Rad classes, I could not help but wonder if the work I was doing was worth it. Since 2022, I have visited this course once each semester at both Worthington high schools to teach about the history of antisemitism and how it impacts the Jewish community today. Since October 7, the work and presentation have become more difficult. It was far easier to talk about Kanye West’s tweets than it has been to help give context to the increasing anti-Israel sentiments they see on social media and perhaps even post themselves. I sit and I wonder if there is anything I can say that might give them a sense of reality and help them realize they are victims of a propaganda storm that has swept them away. 

Several years ago, it occurred to me that most of the students had met very few Jewish people and most likely knew next to nothing about Judaism or the Jewish people. I added a component of my presentation to teach about who Jews are and what we believe—that we are created in the divine image, that repentance matters, that we are called to care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger, that we pray for peace at every service, and that we are connected to Israel. With insight from Dara Horn’s newest book, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question, I began to share that the “Jewish people are a joinable tribe with a shared culture, history, and homeland.” In reading her book, I think she would be highly critical of the work I am doing, but that’s okay. There is something to be said for standing before high school students, presenting something completely alien to them, especially when they are exposed to so much propaganda on social media that maligns Jews, the Jewish people, and Israel.

Several days after I visited the Thomas Worthington students, I received the reflections in the mail from the Worthington Kilbourne High School students whose class I visited in early September. As I opened the envelope, a bit of trepidation set in: What would the responses say? Would they refute everything I shared with material they gleaned from biased sources online; sources which they take as truth and are unable to recognize biases. I was pleasantly surprised to read that students recognize that Jews are a minority, and many people will never meet a Jewish person. They thought that implementing education about Judaism and the Jewish people would lead to fewer stereotypes. Another student empathized with the hate we have experienced as a Jewish community and hoped more people would come into classrooms and share personal stories and experiences because doing so could prevent future harm. They even said it was important to talk about antisemitic incidents in class when they happen in the world.

This recent presentation came on the heels of visiting the Dublin Coffman theater program, which is presenting “Come From Away” this week. Our very own Quinn Bailey will play the rabbi. They asked me to present on the Jewish themes in the show – welcoming the stranger and caring for those in need. While I thought I would present for about 15 minutes, I spent closer to 40 minutes with them. Their questions were profound, and the theater director thanked me for being one of the only religious leaders to be willing to come in and present to them.

As I reflect on this, I think about something I learned many years ago from my grandmother. She was a receptionist for five OB/GYNs and she worked into her 80s. Even in the heart of Long Island, her co-workers and patients would come to her with questions about Judaism. She would often answer, then come to me to ask if she was right or for the answer if she didn’t know. She helped me realize that we are all ambassadors for Judaism, whether we want to be or not. It is a tremendous responsibility that asks us to know a bit about our story. Being an ambassador for Judaism and the Jewish people helps those we encounter understand that we are real and not some mythical group of people that lives only on the pages of history books. It leaves us with the question: What would it take for us to feel confident in being an ambassador for the Jewish people? And how can we help you get there?

The students gave me hope, and it really is a blessing to do this sacred work.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 7, 2026

The page has turned to the calendar date that says October 7th, and yet I wonder: how is it possible that my heart’s calendar carries two permanent pages on it, October 7th and October 8th?

On the October 7th page are layers upon layers of stories and images of the kibbutzim, Sderot, Nova, an entire region attacked in the early hours of the morning at 6:29 a.m. For two years, we carried with us the hope of returned hostages. They all came home, some alive, others murdered before their time.

I think of the families whose lives were changed forever. The communities that were destroyed and have yet to be rebuilt. I think of the young female soldiers who stood guard along the border and did their job, only to not be believed. I think of the families who hid in their shelters and the young women who were victimized by unspeakable actions. All 1,200 who lost their lives and 251 who were taken into captivity. Our world will never be the same.

On October 8th, we woke up to a new world. A world of pain and resolve to bring every hostage home. Who would have believed it would have taken two years? On October 8th, every one of us knew the world had changed. We drew closer to one another; we drew closer to the Jewish people. We knew we needed each other, and the world responded with rallies for the release of the hostages.

For a day, the world stood by us, but that shifted too. A calculated and intentional delegitimization campaign began, with antisemitism and anti-Zionism sprouting in every crevice. Our young people struggle with their identities; they wonder how to respond when their peers post lies and falsehoods on social media. They want to be accepted, and then the world turns on them when they realize they are Jewish.

We have carried ethical questions, wishing the answers were simple. We hear and read perspectives that shape our minds and what we think, and we wonder what to believe. Who can we trust? We mourn the countless innocent lives lost, and we hope and pray that those who seek to do us harm will have their weapons turned into plowshares and their thoughts turned from hate to curiosity to love.

Today, like Yom Hashoah and Tisha B’av, is a day of mourning on the Jewish calendar. The families of the victims carry the grief with them each and every day. Much of the Jewish world does too, but we feel it differently. Today, the Jewish people feel the pain all over again. May the memories of the righteous be forever a blessing, and may the families of the victims be carried on eagle’s wings to a place of comfort.

L’shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 2, 2026

As the news unfolded on Wednesday about the attempted hijacking of the FlyDubai airliner headed to Israel, I immediately thought back to the countless stories I have heard and read about from the late 1960s through the 1970s when Palestinian terrorists attempted to hijack several airliners heading to or from Israel. Operation Entebbe and the rescue of passengers aboard Air France Flight 139 were a remarkable moment in Israeli history when Israeli forces rescued the hostages after a week of being held in Uganda. The heroics on the FlyDubai flight also reminded me of the heroics on Flight 93 from 9/11; thankfully, the outcome on Wednesday was different. As of this writing, the motive of the co-pilot who stabbed Capt. Smit Machchhar is still unclear, and by the time this is published, more details will be learned. Watching the news of what took place on Wednesday and seeing video footage on social media reinforced my belief in miracles.

When the Captain was stabbed, the plane dove more than 17,000 feet in under a minute. The experience on board was terrifying. Yet as the plane dove, Yaniv Hayoun looked at his family and said, “I have to do something.” The captain, while critically wounded, had managed to unlock the cockpit door, and with the help of another crew member, Hayoun put the co-pilot into a chokehold, dragged him out of the cockpit, and called for other Israelis to help restrain him. He then returned to the cockpit and pulled back on the yoke. He knew what to do because he watched Air Crash Investigation on TV. There happened to be two other FlyDubai pilots on board the plane because the airline was anticipating a possible crew timeout, and they wanted to be sure the pilots would be there to make the next leg of the trip. While all this was happening, a dentist and other passengers provided aid to the captain, saving his life. If you were ever a skeptic of miracles, maybe after this story, we should all start believing. As the plane landed in Saudi Arabia, Israelis could be heard singing Baruch Chait’s Gesher Tzar M’od, a musical rendition of Reb Nachman of Breslov’s wisdom, which reminds us, “The whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the essential thing is to not be afraid.” Upon landing in Israel hours later, they sang Am Yisrael Chai.

The incident is an incredible reminder of the resilience, fortitude, and inner strength Israelis hold in their hearts. Sukkot is a time of vacationing for Israelis, and Dubai has become a popular destination with many flights a day between the UAE and Israel. With many Israelis on this plane, most of whom have military experience, they seemingly knew what to do, and they were ready to jump in when needed. Israelis view one another as part of a large family. They feel each other’s pain and rejoice in their successes. There is a real sense of communal responsibility and a recognition that Israelis care for each other.

What is remarkable to me is also that Israeli passengers who were wounded were given medical attention by the Saudis, who were ultimately supportive in ensuring that every passenger was safe. Could we have imagined that happening years ago?

While we celebrate the miracle, many Jews around the world will offer the Gomeil prayer in gratitude for the safe arrival. One cannot help but be frustrated by the media coverage of this harrowing incident. The NY Times online update said, “FlyDubai Flight to Israel Is Diverted After Clash Between Pilots.” NBC4’s headline read “Fighting pilots force Israel flight to make emergency landing, officials say.” CNN reported, “A violent altercation between two pilots caused a FlyDubai aircraft traveling from Dubai to Tel Aviv to divert to Saudi Arabia.” Compare that to Times of Israel, “Copilot subdued after stabbing pilot in alleged attempt to crash plane full of Israelis,” and what we see is further evidence of coverage that minimizes Jewish suffering and pain. There was no clash; there was no altercation. There was an attempted hijacking and takedown of a plane with Israeli citizens on board. I cannot help but wonder what the media coverage would have looked like if the people on the flight were citizens of another Western nation.

Additionally, what has transpired on the internet, social media, and even in more traditional media spaces is the spread of conspiracy theories that Israel was behind this attempted hijacking. The Times of Israel reported that the Combat Antisemitism Movement’s Antisemitism Research Center identified nearly 3,000 posts on X attributing the incident to Israel, Mossad, Prime Minister Netanyahu, Zionists, or Jews during 12 hours. The first one occurred just 67 minutes after the aircraft made its first distress signal. Oliver Marks, a research associate with the Antisemitism Research Center, said that it’s not just the volume, but the speed with which these false conspiracy theories spread. Marks added, “This isn’t a narrative that forms in response to an incident, but rather it is part of a script that already exists and is ready for use when the opportunity arises.”

While we cannot solve these false flag and conspiracy theories today, and we cannot change the way media covers Israel and Jews around the world, we can continue to demand better. For today, during this season of rejoicing, we can be grateful that 174 people are alive today because of the heroism of the Israelis on board the FlyDubai plane, the pilots who landed the plane safely, the dentist who saved the captain, and all those who are working to learn more about the motive and who will implement further safety measures to ensure something like this never happens again.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 26, 2026

Most of our Beth Tikvah family does not enter the building when no one else is there. Occasionally, when the building is closed, I have to come by to pick something up. The lights are dark; the building is quiet. But there’s one light that’s always on: the Ner Tamid. When the sanctuary lights are off, the Ner Tamid still shines, casting a glow on the wall. The Torah commands us to light the lights perpetually, and in the Book of Numbers, we are reminded once again about the command to light the fire that would burn perpetually on the altar in the ancient Temple. Rashi tells us that it had to be tended until it burned on its own.

Our connection to Jewish tradition, Jewish life, and the Jewish people is like that fire. It needs to burn perpetually, and we need to tend to it to ensure that it does. How we do that can come in different ways. We have just concluded the Yamim Noraim, and the High Holy Days are the times when the spark ignites within us and lights the flames of our connection to Jewish life. What are the avenues that allow us to nurture the flame of that Jewish light that lives within our souls?

We can learn. At Congregation Beth Tikvah, we offer numerous opportunities for learning. Each week on Shabbat morning, you can join us on Zoom for Torah study at 9 a.m. There is a wonderful group of people who gather each week to learn Torah. I am always concerned that people don’t attend because they feel they don’t know enough. If that’s you, I want to invite you to let it go. We come and learn together. Some people listen, and some people talk regularly. This month, there will be several other learning opportunities pertaining to the Israel elections, Jewish views of demons and ghosts, as well as a dive into the origin of politics and power as we study the Book of Samuel.

We can connect through Jewish culture. Whether you attend the Joe Buchanan concert or join us in November for the night we sponsor the JCC Film Festival, the stories we tell about our Jewish lives and how we encounter them through music and song invite us to think more deeply about how we connect to our Jewish lives.

We can pray. There is an old story told about Mr. Schwartz, who attends services to pray. His friend Mr. Goldberg would attend services so he could talk to Mr. Schwartz. Shabbat is a time when the community gathers. We gather to pray, learn, and be with one another. Ahad Ha’am famously taught, “More than Israel has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept Israel.” I have always taken these words to mean that Shabbat has provided the opportunity for us to come together. It’s a weekly gathering that helps us tend to the flame.

While I have mentioned several opportunities for us to come together as a community, you can also tend to the flame individually. There are countless Jewish podcasts you can listen to and, of course, scores of Jewish books. If you are looking for a place to start, here are two suggestions of newer books that might give you meaning. If you have not yet read Angela Buchdahl’s Heart of a Stranger, start there. If you have, then go to Nicholas Lemann’s Returning: A Search for Home Across Three Centuries.

In these months following the High Holy Days, the choice is up to each of us how we will keep the flame burning perpetually. The Ner Tamid that burns within each of us has the potential to shine brightly; we just need to tend to it!

L’Shalom

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 25, 2026

On Yom Kippur afternoon, I learned a new lesson about Jewish life and what it means to be Jewish. After spending time this past year trying to learn and study more about Jewish life under Communism, I decided that it was important to be sure those stories get told. Who better to tell those stories than members of our Beth Tikvah family who lived these experiences firsthand? I invited those members to be part of a panel on Yom Kippur afternoon which, we called Lights from Behind the Iron Curtain. Isabella Tabarovsky’s scholarship as well as her new book Be a Refusenik, along with a collection of post-Holocaust short stories from the former Soviet Union originally published in Yiddish entitled, In the Shadow of the Holocaust, inspired me to realize that this is a Jewish story which is often undertold.

For many of us living in America, it is hard to imagine what Jewish life is like anywhere else. Our connections to Judaism are largely defined by membership in a synagogue. In other instances, it is defined by membership at a JCC, attendance at Jewish summer camp, or perhaps even a connection to some form of Israel advocacy. As I sat listening to our congregants share their stories, I could not help but wonder if Jewish life in America today was largely shaped by the prevalence of houses of worship. In early America, these were largely Christian houses of worship. Synagogues then became the center of Jewish community. Jewish life in America has largely become defined by religion. When Pew studies reference “Jews of no religion,” they often do so from a pejorative viewpoint, indicating that such individuals are outside the traditional framework of Jewish life. Perhaps they are not. So many of us struggle with religion, a belief in God, or traditional Jewish practice. It does not mean that such a person is outside of the Jewish space.

One of the things I learned from our panel was that “Jew” was placed on their identity card as an ethnicity. The Soviet Union did not allow for religion, but they also tried to recognize that it was a place that every ethnicity could be recognized. While antisemitism was not state-ordained, there was rampant antisemitism in the Soviet Union. (Soviet anti-Zionism needs to be the subject of another reflection.) Every one of our panelists discussed their own experiences with antisemitism but maintained their own Jewish pride nonetheless. Our panelists had little connection to Judaism as a religion and were not familiar with many of our religious customs, but they knew they were Jewish. Their parents passed down Jewish culture through foods and stories. They might have gotten kosher food on occasion, and sometimes matzah was flown in from Israel, or they baked their own. They could get Israeli radio, the Voice of Israel. As a Refusenik, Valia Bergelson taught Hebrew without any materials.

After advocating for Soviet Jews to be freed, American Jews opened doors to welcome them in but perhaps we expected them to conform to the institutions we had previously established. Did we consider that they had little experience with religion? They joined Jewish communal institutions because that is where the community was, but did we really ever ask them about their Jewish identity or their experiences? I am concerned that many of these stories have never been told. My conversation on Monday afternoon with Valia and Vitaly Bergelson, Yulia and Mark Bar, Inna and Polina Litvak, and Adam Major really needs to be a first step in sharing such stories. There is so much more we can learn.

As I was reflecting on their stories and their lessons, I had Dara Horn’s definition of who Jews are floating in the back of my head. She explains that “Jews are a joinable tribe with a shared history, homeland, and culture. In a word, we are an am, a people.” The stories they shared are part of who we are as a people. We cannot limit ourselves to a narrow understanding of Judaism as a religion, though our religion is part of what we share.

This places a profound challenge on all of us to really think about what Jewish life will look like going forward. We must continue observing our holidays and Jewish rituals, but how is it that we can reclaim the seeds of our history, homeland, and culture that define who we are? We need to remember we are citizens of the Jewish people who have something to inherit and something to pass on.

At the conclusion of the session, I asked our panel to share one lesson or message they would want us to take away from their stories and experiences. They shared with us the following:

“Don’t be afraid to be a proud Jew.”

“If we want our children to know who they are, we have to do something about it.”

Let these messages dwell in our hearts. During the holiday of Sukkot, it is our tradition to invite ushpizin, guests, into our sukkah. Let these members of our community be your ushpizin by watching the conversation. Our congregants share an important part of who they are. May we be strengthened by their stories.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Watch our Lights from Behind the Iron Curtain program.

Sermon – Kol Nidre 5787

And…God…said, “No.”

From the depths of our souls, we pour out our deepest hopes and dreams. It takes courage to come before God expressing our innermost desires. As we enter the sanctuary, we bring our prayers and perhaps some of us are not sure if God is listening. We’re here because the time of year whispers to us, “Go.” When we arrive, we vocalize the words inscribed on the pages of our machzor; we express the supplications of our hearts. Sharing these words comes from a place of vulnerability. We cannot possibly know what the future will hold.

I recall the years of pain my mother felt when she was sick. Though the cancer was ravaging her body, and the pain she felt was profound, each time she went to the doctor she hoped for a good result. The doctor had no control of what the scans might say, but she prayed for good news or another treatment if the one she was on had stopped working. She wanted to reduce the pain; her doctors could manage that. She had one prayer, that she asked for repeatedly. She wanted more time. More time to be with her family, more time to watch her young granddaughters grow up. She wanted more hugs, more laughs, more joy. But God said, “No.”

Many of us have faced situations in which we have beseeched God for something we desire most, only for it to not come to fruition the way we want it to. Moses reminds us in the book of Deuteronomy that his deepest desire was to step foot in the Promised Land. He led the people through the wilderness and reminded the Israelites during the journey, “I pleaded with Adonai saying…let me, please cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” One might think that such a request would touch God’s heart, and God could not say no. But such anthropomorphic attributes don’t always work the way we mere mortals think they should. God responded to Moses, “rav lach-Enough! Never speak to me of this matter again.” Moses had proven himself; he led the Israelites through profound challenges. He had legs to stand on, but he never mentioned it to God. The book of Deuteronomy is a retelling of the journey. We might wonder why Moses shares this with the people. He is reminding them that there are times we will be disappointed, that the answer to our prayers might be no. A Midrash[1] tells us that Moses saw that God would not budge, Moses then drew a circle, stood in it and he would not move until God annulled the decree. He dressed in sackcloth and ashes and asked God 515 times[2] to enter the land.  The repeated requests would not change God’s mind. God reminded him that when the Israelites had sinned and built the Golden Calf, Moses wanted to save the people. While Moses eased God’s wrath, God reminded him that God made two oaths, one that Moses should not enter the land, and the other to not destroy the people, Israel. They cannot both be repealed, if you want to see the land, the people of Israel will be destroyed. Moses turned to God and said, “Let Moses and thousands like him be destroyed, but do not let one person in Israel be destroyed.”[3] Through all this God heard that seeing the land was important to him, so God let Moses climb Mt. Nebo and behold a full panoramic picture of the land.

What might Moses have been feeling in that moment? He might have shed a tear knowing he still could not step foot in the Promised Land. He had to change course; he had to think differently when God said no. Seeing the land would have to suffice. Was Moses soul still broken? Perhaps, but true healing comes when we embrace the brokenness, the disappointment, and accept our reality.

In her acclaimed book, When We See You Again, Rachel Goldberg-Polin pours out her soul and reminds us of her 330-day fight to keep her son Hersh alive. She writes, “In general, we human beings, we love our people completely, and we will do anything for them. Anything. Thankfully, ‘anything’ isn’t usually necessary. Unfortunately, even ‘everything’ doesn’t always work…all those prayers we said and say are heard, I believe that, just not always where and when and how we ask for them to be.” But the key aspect of her message is in what she writes next, “Sometimes the answer is no. It is an answer. We might not like it. I didn’t like the answer to the prayers I poured out for Hersh to come back to me alive.”[4]

It is there, in that space of pain or disappointment, that we have a choice to make. What do we do when God says no, when we don’t like the answer? Wallowing in our disappointment can lead to tremendous pain or depression. It can break our souls beyond repair. No one would blame us if that was our choice. Countless individuals cannot escape the darkness of the harsh decrees that befall them. Can we choose a different path? If the answer to that question is yes, then we should try to put one foot in front of the other and walk in a lonely place where it seems no one has ever walked before. We carry the wounds with us on our souls as we forge forward.

If there is one thing we hope for, it is that we never have any pain; we never suffer. While our heart hopes that to be true, our heads know that suffering will come. The natural rhythms of life remind us we will encounter periods of suffering in our lives. We often wonder why a person falls ill. Why do we have to miss an important moment of our lives because of illness or injury? Why didn’t we get the job we longed for? What happens in the moments following suffering defines who we are.

The Talmud, in tractate Brachot[5], invites us to think about this same question. Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba became ill and his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan came to visit him and said, “Is your suffering dear to you? Rabbi Hiyya responded neither the suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Yochanan said to him, give me your hand. Rabbi Hiyya gave Rabbi Yochanan his hand and was healed. The scene repeats itself with Rabbi Yochanan falling ill and Rabbi Hanina visiting him. Rabbi Hanina asks the same question, is your suffering dear to you? And Rabbi Yochanan shares the same answer, neither the suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Hanina then offered his hand and brought healing to Rabbi Yochanan.

As I share with you this story, you might be struck by the question each rabbi asks his friend, “Is your suffering dear to you?” What kind of question is that? I could not imagine walking into the hospital room and asking any of you such a question. Of course, the suffering would not be dear to us. Rabbi Yochanan understands Jewish tradition which teaches just a little earlier in the Talmud a reflection on Isaiah 53:10 which says, “The one in whom God delights, God oppresses with illness.” The Talmud teaches us that this verse means we must knowingly accept our suffering with love and if so, what is the reward? The answer is in the second part of the verse which says, “That the individual might see their children, and their days would be lengthened.” If you’re as uncomfortable in your seat as I am sharing this, you’re not alone. Suffering to lengthen my days, no thank you. Suffering as a sign of God’s love, I don’t think so.[6] If we limit our understanding of lengthening our days to the promise of time, then perhaps the limits of our mind would lead us to anger. If, however, we can think about lengthening as finding purpose in our learning from our suffering, then perhaps our anger at our tradition will be quelled and we can begin to reflect on what we might do now that we have suffered. If instead, because we know what it is like to feel such profound pain, can we be more loving, can we become more patient, can we have insights about the world we didn’t have before? If the answer to those questions is yes, then our lives will walk a different path, a more meaningful and compassionate path.

Writer Arthur Brooks reflects on this course of suffering in an opinion piece for The Free Press,[7] he references Bruce Feiler who observed that every 12 to 18 months we experience a major change in our lives. Big changes, life quakes, as Feiler calls them, happen three to five times in a person’s life. Feiler talks about the real suffering a person experiences during these changes and quakes. The negative feelings tend to overshadow our emotions in those moments. But Feiler found that 90% of the time, people looked back on the challenge and suffering and saw the transition as a success. Brooks points out the paradox, “We hate negative change and resist it, but we need it to find the meaning in life we crave.” Brooks suggests one tool to alleviate our suffering. Many people, he explains have a gratitude journal, or a list of joyful events and past blessings. He says he would not do this because it only serves to contrast between the joyful times then and the crummy moment now. Instead, he keeps a journal of failure and disappointment. When something is bothering him, he opens an encrypted file on his phone or laptop and writes about it in a few words. Under what he has written, he leaves two blank lines, and a note to come back to it one month later, and write on the first line, and on the second line, the month after that. Brooks has learned that when you come back to the frustrating moments, they have often been resolved, or even some blessing may have come from it. Then he says, after several months of entries, you can look back and see the pain and the learning. What comes from these reflections are moments of growth, resilience, and perhaps a newly found sense of purpose.

While Brooks offers one approach, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov teaches us that we should get in the habit of singing; it will give us new life and fill us with joy.[8] Did Sagui Dekel-Chen know this teaching when he was in the depths of the tunnels in Gaza?[9] Sagui Dekel-Chen lived on Kibbutz Nir Oz with his family. On October 7, when terrorists invaded his kibbutz, he fought back in defense. He was shot, wounded, and then taken hostage. He spent 498 days in captivity. On that morning, his pregnant wife Avital, and young daughters, Bar and Gili were in the safe room of their home. As part of the Kibbutz emergency team, Sagui armed himself to fight the terrorists. At one point during the battle, he headed home and was taken captive. How did Sagui make it through his painful captivity? He sang music in his head. There were 44 songs he knew well, Israeli ones from Shlomo Artzi, classic rock from Bruce Springsteen, and pop from Adele. He imagined romantic dates with Avital and singing his daughters to sleep every night. He didn’t know his family was still alive until days before his release and he wondered what his daughter’s name was. While in captivity he did something more than singing songs in his head; he wrote his own songs.

Upon his release, he began to look up Israeli singers who could help him bring those songs to life. Last month, more than 3,000 people gathered at Kibbutz Nir Oz for a concert of his music, he called the night “Captivity in Lyrics”. He told everyone he was not a singer, not all the songs were sad, and that they should expect to laugh and dance. With a band of eight musicians and three backup singers including several famous names in the Israeli music scene, Sagui Dekel-Chen brought his songs to life. The lyrics were displayed on a giant screen behind the stage along with photos of his family from before and after October 7^th. While in the tunnels, he started to imagine his wife in labor and hear the cries of a newborn. He wrote a song entitled “Lo yodea et sh’meich”[10], I don’t know your name. It sounds like a lullaby. The song begins with the chimes of a mobile and with a sweet voice Sagui sings, “I have not yet sung you a lullaby. I have not yet hugged you tight. I have not taken you for walk in the flowery fields. I haven’t given you a kiss at night when you were sleeping. I still don’t know your name.” His song expresses the pain and the longing, but also the promise and the hope. At the concert, Sagui shared that he thought of his new baby as a kind of deposit waiting to be redeemed upon his release. He asked audience members if they had held Shahar Mazal before he did and thanked them for being there when he couldn’t.

There is an album to accompany Sagui’s performance and the final song on the album, one of the final songs he sang that night, is called Hashir bishvili, A song for me. In that song he considered the possibility of not returning home or returning home to an empty house. While he convinced himself in the tunnels that his family was ok and waiting for him, he began to think shortly before his release about where he might bury his loved ones and what songs might be sung at the funeral. This moment gave everyone the opportunity to think about Yarden Bibas who lived that reality as he buried his wife Shiri and young sons, Ariel and Kfir who were murdered by Hamas in captivity.

For 498 days Sagui Dekel-Chen was in the depths of the tunnels. He felt the pain and the sorrow. He survived through song, and he turned his suffering into a collection of teachings that might help others navigate our own way through crisis, pain, and sorrow. When we are in the depths of our suffering, and we call out to God in prayer, and God answers no, perhaps in those moments, we might recall any story from our tradition about how we can turn our pain and suffering into something. Sagui taught us to hope. My mother, when she was looking for more time and couldn’t get it, she vowed to make the time she had meaningful and create the most amazing memories for her family. She lengthened her days by deepening the meaning.

How did Rachel Goldberg-Polin do it? She says, “We ran and chased and begged and pleaded and dealt and paid in every way you can conjure and imagine and prayed and worked and cried and suffered, we suffered in the most sickening ways…we proved that the engine of love can entirely fuel and propel us…to keep going…we forced ourselves to have hope.”[11] She teaches us that the recipe for hope is internal, it is mustered from within. It isn’t an option, it is a mitzvah, God commands us to hope. Goldberg-Polin writes, “Now, my prayer, my pursuit and quest, more than any other is still Hope.”[12] She does this by carrying Hersh’s mission and purpose in life forward. Hersh’s purpose is now her purpose.

Suffering changes us. When God says, no, we say to God, I am still going to hope. I am still going to be here God. I am going to find a different prayer, a different response. Say no God, ok, I am going to emerge stronger and better. I am going to find meaning and purpose. I am going to grow.

Eloheinu veilohei avoteinu v’imoteinu, God and God of our ancestors, when the answer to our prayer is no, empower us to take ownership of our lives.

Even though our suffering and its reward are unwelcomed, teach us to make meaning out of our suffering. Guide us in growth and reflection, may the hope that lives within be the flower that blooms from the dark soil. Kein yehi ratzon.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

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[1] Otzar Midrashim, Drash on Petirat Moshe #5 https://www.sefaria.org/Otzar_Midrashim%2C_Midrashim_on_Moses_Our_Master%2C_Drash_on_Petirat_Moshe.1?lang=bi&lookup=%D7%A2%D7%95%D7%92%D7%94&with=Lexicon&lang2=en

[2] The number 515 is equivalent to the gematria of the Hebrew word ואתחנן

[3] Midrash Tanchuma Vaetchanan 6, https://www.sefaria.org/Midrash_Tanchuma%2C_Vaetchanan.6.1?lang=bi

[4] When We See You Again, by Rachel Godlberg-Polin, p. 215, 218

[5] Talmud Brachot 5b

[6] Talmud Brachot 5a

[7] Don’t Waste Your Suffering, by Arthur Brooks, The Free Press, April 6, 2026, https://www.thefp.com/p/arthur-brooks-dont-waste-your-suffering?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

[8] The Empty Chair, by Reb Nachman of Breslov p. 104

[9] This story is told in the article this article from Times of Israel on August 11, 2026 https://www.timesofisrael.com/former-hostage-sagui-dekel-chen-returns-home-to-perform-songs-he-composed-in-hamas-captivity/

[10] Theissong was played at the conclusion of the sermon, https://open.spotify.com/track/5hEKP232hddtAlV18sfqjX?si=f5f3db3994074ad8

[11] Goldberg-Polin, p. 215-216

[12] Goldberg-Polin, p. 217

Sermon – Rosh Hashanah 5787

When we behold the night sky, we become captivated by the heavens. Awe mesmerizes our souls as we look at the blanket of stars sheltering us like a chuppah. We recall God’s promise that we will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. By now, we have realized the promise is not about our numbers, but perhaps has Rabbi Chayim of Volozhin explains, it is about the largeness of our souls. The promise reflects our ability to behold wonder, reflect on our past, and our obligation to teach the next generation. Gazing towards the night sky, the mysterious power of the moon captivates us. As it cycles from darkness, to light, and back to darkness, controls the ebb and flow of the tides, the moon’s cycle invites us to reflect on our people’s complex existence throughout history. We have also experienced cycles of darkness and light, exclusion and acceptance, fear and hope, pain and comfort.

Looking back through the annals of history, we listen to stories distilled through memory. The Jewish experience in recent years counters the bucolic memories of the last half century painted on the canvas of our minds.  For most of us, the latter part of the 20th century felt like a golden period for Jews in America. However, Pamela Nadell, professor of American Jewish history, writes that “Golden ages appear in retrospect when turmoil in the current moment propels longing for an imagined idyllic past.”[1]

In writing the story of this season in history, Nadell shares the abject challenges Jews faced. The history books remind us of synagogue bombings in the deep south and renowned historian, Deborah Lipstadt, defending the Jewish story against a Holocaust denier.  The 20^th century saw the Soviet campaign tainting world opinion against Jews and Israel by labeling Zionism as racism at the United Nations, an antisemitic claim which stained history. Nadell tells the story of a young woman who grew up in the early 1970s in a New Jersey suburb with a large Jewish population who came to Ohio State and moved into campus housing with fifteen women from rural Ohio. On her first night on campus, her roommates lined up to watch her undress; they were looking for her tail. Nadell tells us she laughed at their ignorance, but she was churning inside.[2] Such experiences were different than immigration and university quotas and the barring of Jews from certain professions in the early part of the 20^th century.

Looking at our experiences in recent years, the violence and danger against us causes great concern. In the last year alone, we witnessed a massacre of Jews on Bondi Beach on the first night of Hanukkah, an arson attack on Beth Israel Congregation in Jackson, MS. That same synagogue was one of those southern synagogues bombed in the 60s. We were horrified when Temple Israel in West Bloomfield was attacked in March, nearly harming 140 preschoolers and their teachers. In New York City, over 57% of the hate crimes target Jews. When Shira went to Dollywood during intersession at camp, the girls she was with all discussed taking off their Jewish stars while they walked around the amusement park. Taking this precaution in the south might not surprise us, but the need to put a baseball cap over one’s kippah or hiding a Jewish star necklace in New York City in 2026 certainly does. In an era dominated by algorithms on social media shaping the viewpoints of those who encounter the lies of AI controlled bots, the spaces that were once safe and the people who were once allies are fading into a sea of hate.

The rest of us must navigate these uncharted waters, perhaps guided by the stars that tell the stories of those who came before us. Such stories appear on the pages of our history books, but when we draw them into our hearts, their lessons are the lights that can guide us. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, once wrote, “Judaism… it’s an identity. And you can’t sell an identity. But you can lose it. And many Jews are now losing theirs. Our ancestors have given us the gift of a past… [W]e should not relinquish it simply because we don’t know how valuable it is… If we truly wish to hand on our legacy to our children, we must teach them to love it… What we love, we inherit. What we fail to love, we lose.”[3] We are obligated to know our past because it is the essence of who we are. But perhaps even more than our identity, the lessons offered by the people who navigated their own challenges shine a light on our pathways forward. It is our very nature as Jews to look at our past for inspiration to help us navigate the present. As a people of the book, the stories shared by one generation inspire the next.

When we enter the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, we read the story of Hannah and the birth of her son Samuel. The book of Samuel begins by telling us that a man named Elkanah had two wives, one named Hannah and the other Peninah. Hannah was childless, while Peninah had children. Peninah made Hannah miserable through repeated taunting because God had closed her womb causing Hannah to weep and not eat. With all her pain, Hannah turned to God and prayed, “Adonai Tzvaot, if you will look upon my suffering, remember me, and if you grant me a male child, I will dedicate him to the Eternal all the days of his life.” As Hannah prayed, Eli the priest was watching her. Hannah was praying with her heart full of devotion but only her lips were moving. Eli accused her of being drunk and making a spectacle of herself. In response, Hannah opened her soul and shared her brokenness with him, informing him of her heartfelt prayer. Struck by her candor, Eli responded to her, “L’chi l’shalom, go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant what you have requested.” Hannah became pregnant and when her son arrived, she named him Shmuel, Samuel, indicating that she asked God for a child and God heard her prayers.

As witnesses to Hannah’s story, we empathize with her pain, and anguish. Those who rise up to harm us, drive us deeper into the abyss of our own distress. Hannah offers us a powerful example of how we might respond when facing our own darkness. Nechama Aschkenasy, Professor Emerita of Comparative Literary and Cultural Studies at the University of Connecticut teaches us, “At the story’s heart lies Hannah’s iron-willed ambition to go beyond the temporal, to make an impact on history, for herself and for her son…Hannah is the sole architect of her own redemption.”[4] Jewish tradition understands redemption in the context of the Exodus as we went from slavery to being a free people. Hannah’s redemption comes when, after the birth of Samuel, she has broken free from the pain flooding her life.

Hannah had a choice; she could have given up, instead, she took matters into her own hands. Hannah was not one to let something go. Her choice to act guided by her faith, conviction to God, and her people was profound. Hannah’s actions inspire us to do the same when we are faced with despair, bitterness, and pain. The instinct to stay connected, rather than retreat, is especially critical in Jewish life today.

A recent study by the Jim Joseph Foundation showed that nearly 4 in 10 Jewish young adults say events affecting American Jews in recent years have led them to pull back from Jewish spaces or be more selective about where they participate. Though 75% of young people regularly do something Jewish, most find these connections outside of the synagogue and traditional Jewish institutions.[5] What happens when we turn away from Jewish spaces? Is that the equivalent of turning away from Jewish community or departure from Jewish life? Such an erosion of faith occurs for myriad reasons, but what if they acted like Hannah and brought their pain and distress into a Jewish space?

The Biblical Hannah is not our people’s only model for inspiration in response to challenges. Another Hannah, a 20^th century Hannah, is a shining star guiding us in the darkness. We know Hannah Senesh when we sing, “Eli Eli, shelo yigameir l’olam, Oh God My God, I prayer that these things never end…” Her famous poem inspired by her walk along the shores of Caesarea keep her memory alive, but it is her story that should inspire us as well. Some of us might only be familiar with her song, others might know she was a paratrooper killed in Hungary in 1944 at the age of 23 after being captured during her mission. Douglas Century’s biography of Hannah Senesh entitled Crash of the Heavens and Matti Friedman’s Out of the Sky, an account of the experience of the Israeli paratroopers who enlisted in the British military during World War II, are two books published in the past year giving us insight into why Hannah Senesh became a hero to the Jewish people.

Born Anna Szenes in Budapest in 1921, her parents were Bela Szenes, the famous writer, and Katalina Szenes. They raised Anna in a middle class, assimilated, cultured Jewish family. Though her father died when she was six, Anna had a happy childhood and she documented it all in her diary, which she began at 13. She wrote about Hitler’s rise to power and expressed her anxiety as Nazi troops marched through Austria nearing the Hungarian border. Antisemitism was exploding in Europe and Anna only began to think of herself as Jewish when her brother Gyori could no longer pursue his plans to attend university in Vienna. Hitler’s rise to power gave this young teenager new perspective on her identity, faith, and place in the world. In 1937, Anna Szenes was elected to be an officer in her school’s Literary Society, but they called for new elections and two other girls who had not previously been candidates were nominated. Anna wrote, “This clearly indicated that they did not want a Jew to become an officer.” She was deeply hurt by what took place and ceased involvement in the society. Anna realized at the young age of 16 she would not be accepted as an officer or by Hungarian society. She decided that there was no future for her in Hungary and in September of 1939 she boarded a ship making Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael.

In October 1938 she wrote in her diary, “I don’t know whether I’ve already mentioned that I’ve become a Zionist. This word stands for a tremendous number of things. To me it means, in short, that I now consciously and strongly feel I am a Jew – and am proud of it. My primary aim is to go to Palestine, to work for it.”[6] Upon arriving in Israel, she began using her Hebrew name Hannah and Hebraicized her last name becoming Hannah Senesh. Her pride in Judaism was a deep connection to her people. Months before she departed for Eretz Yisrael she read aloud an essay she wrote entitled, “The Fundamentals of Zionism,” in which she wrote, “’What is the purpose of Zionism, its basic aim?’ If we had to define Zionism briefly, perhaps we could best do so in the words of Nahum Sokolow: “Zionism is the movement of the Jewish people for its revival!”[7]

Like her biblical namesake, Hannah Senesh was a person who dedicated herself to bringing about the world she wanted to create. She, too, brought redemption into her own hands. As Hungarian life darkened and war in Europe raged on, Hannah realized in 1943 she needed to return home, to organize the youth and get her mother out.[8] A young man showed up on Kibbutz Sdot Yam, where Hannah was living, and told her he was organizing a top-secret military mission to rescue the Jews of Hungary and Central Europe. Hannah Senesh was ready to become a soldier.

After parachuting into Europe in early summer of 1944, more than a year after she decided to pursue this journey, Hannah crossed the border into Hungary. Soon after, she was captured and imprisoned for months. She was eventually executed. Hannah refused to be blindfolded before the firing squad. After her death, the captain in the prison told her mother, “Mrs. Szenes, I must tell you, I was impressed by your daughter’s courage and strength of character. She showed great composure until the very last moment. Imagine! She was truly proud of being a Jew.” [9] Just before crossing the border, twenty-two-year-old Hannah found herself in the woods about to cross the border into Hungary. She extended her hand to her comrade with a small piece of paper. On that paper were the words:

Ashrei Hagfrur -Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.

Happy is the flame that burned the secret in the deepest hearts.

Happy is the heart that knew when in honor to stop.

Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.[10]

Matti Friedman explains that Hannah’s final message, Ashrei Hagfrur, is the essence of the mission. She was going to light a match that would ignite others but she herself would be consumed. The paratroopers’ mission was to write a Zionist story about the war – a story that would lead others to action, not despair. In this story, Jews will not be victims, but heroes. What took place wouldn’t change the war, but it would change how people remember the war and therefore change the future. When faced with tragedy, those who know the parachutists’ story won’t pull the covers over their heads, or bemoan the cruelty of fate, or wait for someone else to do something. They will look out into the night, and jump. Hannah knew the mission was not military, it was literary, it was about the story. And Hannah was the best writer.[11]

            While we are not standing before a firing squad, sometimes it feels like every time we step out in public and share our Jewishness, there is a target on our back. When Beth Tikvah sets up a booth on Worthington Square for Pride Day or the Festival of Nations and people come up to us sharing their support, those are moments that remind us we can continue to show who we are publicly as Jews. The antisemitic violence might cause us to retreat in our shells but like the two Hannah’s we can be proud of who we are and bring about the redemption with our own hands and actions. When you’re young and trying to make it on a college campus do you engage in a deliberate act of closeting your Jewish identity? Do you share with your professor that your Jewish? Do you share with your peers the story about your Bat Mitzvah or trip to Israel? Or do you show up at Hillel with pride? Do you wear your Jewish star outwardly? Translate these questions for any demographic and they are asking the same thing: are we proud of who we are or would hiding be better in the long run? In a time when the legitimacy of the Jewish story is under attack, the two Hannah’s remind us that we are the authors of our Jewish story and architects of the Jewish future. Every Jewish home is a Mikdash M’at, a small Temple to nurture the Jewish future.

            We have come too far and endured too much to run away from our Jewishness. The stories of the two Hannah’s are not only for the historical moments in which they lived. Their enduring lessons still guide us. When the moon in the sky is dark, the lights that peak out from behind the curtain shine through our pride, our commitment, and our dedication to the Jewish people and the Jewish journey. As Jews, we have agency to write our story and to live according to our purpose. It is a story that reminds us we are not victims, but heroes. We are not powerless; we have agency. We are not conformists, we are creators. We stand up to tyrants; we support the Jewish people across the globe. We bring our unique vision to a world that needs our light. As Jews we create worlds out of darkness. It would be easy to be consumed by the flame, but we are not, we light the flames that guide us into the future. May we have the wisdom to write our story and take action. May we have the faith to draw closer to our people; and may we have the power to be the architects of our own redemption.

L’shana Tova.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

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[1] Antisemitism, An American Tradition, by Pamela Nadell, p. 179

[2] Nadell, p. 206

[3] Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks from In Judaism’s Life-Changing Ideas: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible, as quoted by Rabbi Avit Perten in an article entitled “I’m not Jumping for Jewish Joy https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/im-not-jumping-for-jewish-joy-heres-why/

[4] Hannah: More than Just the Mother of Samuel by Prof. Nehama Aschkenasy https://www.thetorah.com/article/hannah-more-than-just-the-mother-of-samuel

[5] https://www.timesofisrael.com/some-young-us-jews-pulling-back-from-jewish-life-due-to-israel-discourse-study/

[6] Crash of the Heavens by Doug Century, p. 8

[7] Century, p. 9

[8] Century, p. 29

[9] Century p. 318

[10] Matti Friedman, Out of the Sky, p. 154-155

[11] Paraphrased and adapted from Friedman, p. 157

September 17, 2026

On Sunday morning, the “Voice of God” moved from this world to the next. Those who have ever attended a URJ Biennial or a NFTY Convention will certainly recall Paul J. Reichenbach’s voice introducing the next speaker or musician on the plenary stage. (One of the reasons I was looking forward to going to Biennial in December was to hear Paul’s voice, though I learned it was taken from him after suffering from ALS.) During his funeral, speaker after speaker referenced Paul’s renowned voice in this manner. While I could not see who was in attendance in person, as I joined via Barnert Temple’s livestream and scrolled through the names of the people attending online, what I found was a community of people whom I have come to know from across the Reform Movement. There were colleagues—rabbis, cantors, educators—there were former campers of mine from Eisner Camp, and countless others who gathered from the corners of the earth to remember Paul Reichenbach.

If you went to a URJ Camp, a NFTY event, URJ Kutz Camp, NFTY in Israel, or attended EIE/Heller High in Israel in the last fifty years, your life was touched by Paul Reichenbach. He spent 44 years working for the Reform Movement as Co-Director of Kutz Camp, the director of the Movement’s teen Israel programs, and then 17 years as the director of camping.

I first got to know Paul more personally in the summer of 1999, when, on the first day of Eisner Camp, he walked into the cabin where I was the counselor and helped his son set up his bed. Paul’s son would be my camper. Put it another way: the son of my boss’ boss was my camper. Pressure on! At the end of the summer, as the campers were departing, Paul thanked me for everything I had done for his son that summer. Years later, whenever I would see him, Paul greeted me with the warmest smile; he asked how I was doing and how my family was doing.

Paul was known by everyone as a detail guy. He knew where every NFTY in Israel bus was, and he did everything he could to ensure that every teen participant on those trips had a meaningful experience. When I traveled to Israel with NFTY in 1997, there was a bombing on Ben Yehuda St. When we returned to Jerusalem at the end of the summer, they did not allow us to visit Ben Yehuda St. But they brought the shops and shopkeepers to our hostel. It was probably Paul Reichenbach who made it happen. When a Katyusha rocket was fired at the north from Lebanon, it was probably Paul Reichenbach who moved us from the kibbutz where we were working a little further south, out of range of the rockets.

My brother Greg’s connection to Paul runs much deeper. Paul Reichenbach won a campership award from the Sisterhood at Temple Israel in Boston to attend Kutz Camp as a teenager. It changed his life. My brother won a campership award from Temple Avodah in Oceanside, NY, to attend the then-UAHC Eisner Camp in Great Barrington, MA. It changed his life.

Greg spent many summers at Eisner Camp, beginning as a rising 6th grader, becoming a counselor, head song leader, and Assistant Director. By September of 2013, Greg had just finished another summer as the Senior Assistant Director of URJ Crane Lake Camp in Stockbridge, MA, when he got a call on a Sunday afternoon from Paul. The “Voice of God” said, “Meet me tomorrow at 6:00pm at this location in Manhattan. Don’t tell your co-workers.” Immediately Greg called his boss, who said, it’s an opportunity of a lifetime.

Greg spent the rest of the day stressing and wondering what that opportunity could be. Not only was Greg working full time at camp, but he was also studying for a master’s degree at Baruch College. When Greg got to Paul’s meeting spot, he was offered the job of Camp Director at the new 6 Points Sci-Tech Academy. Sci-Tech was then a nonexistent camp that the URJ had won an incubator grant from the Foundation for Jewish Camping to create. It would be the URJ’s second incubator camp after 6 Points Sports. Greg brought the Sci-Tech vision to life, growing it in ways that the original visionaries might never have imagined. As a boss, Paul had high expectations, but as anyone who worked for him would tell you, he was an incredible mentor.

As a NFTY alum, NFTY in Israel alum, URJ Kutz Camp alum, and URJ Camp staff person and faculty member, Paul impacted my life in more ways than I can imagine. The vision he had for teen Israel experiences and Jewish summer camp experiences shaped the rabbi I have become. Our sympathies go out to the entire Reichenbach family, along with all those in the Movement who have lost a mentor and a friend. May Paul J. Reichenbach’s memory be for a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Learn more about Paul J. Reichenbach through Rabbi Rick Jacob’s words from eJewishPhilanthropy.

September 11, 2026

Tonight, the sun will set and the night sky will be a little darker with Tishrei’s new moon. It is the seventh month of the year, and the Torah tells us the first day of the seventh month shall be a day of complete rest marked by the sounding of the shofar. As we welcome 5787 and leave behind the prior year, we are filled with many hopes. A year ago, I reflected on Rav Abraham Isaac Kook’s fourfold song of Jewish life, Jewish peoplehood, and all of humanity. Rav Kook was the first chief rabbi of Israel and is considered to be the founder of Religious Zionism (though a very different brand of Religious Zionism than we see today). He wrote, “There is one who sings the song of the self, finding everything within himself. There is one who leaves the circle of herself and sings the song of her people. There is one who sings the song of all humanity, and there is one who rises even higher, uniting with all creatures to fill the universe with song. (These words are an adaptation of Kook’s original text.)”

I often return to these words because they inspire me to reflect on important questions. I cycle back to them at each turn of the year, wondering how I might see them.

Singing the song of the self invites me to think about essential questions: Who am I? What have I done over the past year? How have I lived by the values I deem most important? How have Torah and Jewish wisdom guided my life? How have I supported my family and the people closest to me? Where have I fallen short, and what do I need to do to close the gap between what I have done and what I ought to do?

As we sing the song of our people, we think about the past year. There is a song of rejoicing over the return of all the living hostages. There is a song of concern as the world continues to marginalize Jews and as the Jewish story is under attack. There is a song of commitment to Jewish security, Jewish pride, and making meaning out of what we experience. As I think about this song, I wonder what I can do to strengthen my own ties to the Jewish people. I wonder how I can best support the people and State of Israel. I wonder what I can do to bring about security for the Jewish community. What can I do to share the Jewish story?

To sing the song of humanity is to recognize that we do not live in a shtetl separate from others. While there is a particular message in the Torah, there is a universal one as well. We stand up to tyrants and counter the turmoil swirling around us. What can we do to ensure we see the humanity in others? How can we best treat others with the dignity they deserve? What are the commitments we can make to care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger?

To rise even higher is to join with all humanity to fill the universe with song. We ask ourselves in this season: Who will be our partners? With whom can we join together to create a chorus of beautiful music? How can we reach across the great divide to strengthen the mission we want to achieve?

As we come together this Rosh Hashanah and during the season of the Yamim Noraim, the High Holy Days, let us sing the song we hope to sing, but let us also listen to the voices of those around us as well as the song of Torah. With these diverse voices, we can strengthen one another as well as the world in which we live.

Shanah tovah and Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner