May 8, 2026

Each of us can recall significant moments in our lives. These moments might include becoming a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, graduating, getting married, or the birth of a child or grandchild. Memorable moments may also be more traumatic: experiencing a severe illness, the death of a loved one, or a terrible accident.

In their book The Power of Moments, Chip Heath and Dan Heath explain that a defining moment is a short experience that is both meaningful and memorable. They describe the essential elements that make up these life‑defining moments. They include:

Elevation: Defining moments rise above the everyday and transcend the normal course of events; they are extraordinary.

Insight: Defining moments rewire our understanding of the world.

Pride: Defining moments capture us at our best—moments of achievement and moments of courage.

Connection: Defining moments are social. Weddings, graduations, vacations, work triumphs, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, speeches, and sporting events are strengthened because we share them with others.

Being a sports fan often comes with memorable moments. Whether your favorite team wins a championship or experiences a magical moment in the middle of a mundane season, certain occasions stand out. For fans who are unable to be in the ballpark to witness these moments, the way an announcer describes them often becomes part of the memory itself.

Earlier this week, John Sterling, the longtime voice of the New York Yankees, died at the age of 87. He began broadcasting Yankees games on the radio in 1989 and retired in 2024. At one point, he called 5,058 consecutive games, including the postseason. He broadcast eight World Series and described a Yankees championship‑winning out in five of them with his famous call: “Ball game over! World Series over! Yankees win, thuuuuh Yankees win!” (I know it is a bit sacrilegious to write about the Yankees in Ohio, but I am going to do it anyway.) Sterling called two perfect games—“He’s gonna get it…27 up, 27 down, baseball immortality…”—and who can forget his iconic home‑run calls: “It is high! It is far! It is… gone!” followed by a unique phrase for each player. “Bernie goes boom!” “A thrilla from Godzilla!” “Georgie juiced one.” “The Bam‑Tino.” “All rise! Here comes the Judge!”

As sports fans, we ride the waves of our teams, experiencing moments of thrilling excitement alongside moments of deep heartache. Often, it is the broadcaster who shapes the moment and tells the story in a way that deepens its impact. For me, as a longtime Yankees fan who listened to John Sterling’s deep baritone voice day after day, year after year, those memories stand out vividly. What stands out even more, however, are the memories shared by the people who knew him best. Suzyn Waldman, his longtime broadcast partner, shared that he did everything he ever wanted to do in life and that he was the kindest person you could ever meet. That is how one hopes to be remembered.

Sterling was Jewish, though he worked on the High Holy Days and rarely spoke publicly about religion. He was a devoted fan of Broadway and famously sang Fiddler on the Roof. He also played on a softball team called The Four Corners, referencing the tzitzit on the corners of a tallit.

As I read and reminisced this week about Sterling and the way he accompanied defining moments, I began thinking about the blessing of being a rabbi. This coming week marks the completion of my nineteenth year in the rabbinate. I have had the honor of being present for many of the most meaningful moments in people’s lives. I have stood with families as a loved one took their final breath. I have stood beneath the chuppah as couples began their lives together. I have sung siman tov as people took their first steps as Jews after conversion, and I have walked alongside people as they wandered the shadowed path of grief.

Among my favorite rabbinic moments are the personalized messages I share with young people at B’nai Mitzvah services. I do not know whether people remember every sermon or story, or whether our youth remember those messages, but my hope is that they help elevate the moment with insight, pride, and connection. Over the years, you have invited me, Rabbi Martin, Rabbi Huber, and other rabbis into your lives. We thank you for allowing us to walk through these moments with you.

As Chip Heath and Dan Heath remind us, “Moments matter!” Within the collective canvas of the standout moments of our lives, rabbis have opportunities to provide meaning, comfort, and wisdom. May we have the spiritual fortitude, soulful awareness, and profound wisdom to do so well.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 1, 2026

Each year, I look forward to Beth Tikvah’s Shavuot celebration. For years, we have called it Torahthon because, much like a telethon that goes on for hours on TV, the night of Shavuot is traditionally observed with hours of study lasting into the wee hours of the morning. Our study does not go that long, but we do take time to immerse ourselves in Jewish learning. The traditional name for this evening of study is Tikkun Leil Shavuot. The word tikkun, as we know, indicates healing or repair. Why would a night of learning bring us a sense of healing or repair? Or perhaps, why is a night of learning itself an act of healing or repair?

To answer those questions, we turn to the collective voices of our tradition. Bracha Seri, a Yemenite-Israeli poet, writes:

“With great awe I listen to my ancestors, reading, suckling from healthy roots, soaking in, tinkling through my soul—till the words ferment within—emerging, seeping through my heart, my life source.”

As links in the generations-long chain of Jewish tradition, we stand like trees with firm trunks and leaves stretching wide, providing shade. Flowers turn to fruit, to be picked by those who crave nourishment for a hungry soul. All of this is nourished from below by roots stretching deeper and deeper into the ground, drawing in water from pools lying far beyond our sight, and from above by the sun’s warmth as it converts light into energy.

Why is Torah likened to water, the rabbis once asked?

A midrash teaches that we read Torah on Mondays, Thursdays, and Shabbat because, just as a human being cannot go more than three days without life-sustaining water, so too a human being cannot go more than three days without life-sustaining Torah. While three days without Torah may not be detrimental to our physical health as three days without water would be, it is certainly detrimental to our spiritual health. The study of Torah is an invitation to immerse ourselves in the life-sustaining and guiding values Jewish tradition has to offer. However, it is not solely the words of Torah that guide us, but also the voices of our ancestors who taught and interpreted Torah as a guide for their own lives. Torah provides healing because its words nurture every aspect of our being.

Why is Torah likened to light, the rabbis once asked? The Book of Proverbs, the Jewish Bible’s collection of ancient wisdom, teaches us: “The mitzvah is a lamp, and Torah is light” (Proverbs 6:23). Just as the sun provides light to help a tree grow, so too the Torah provides light, sustaining our own Jewish growth. The rabbis of the midrash (Genesis Rabbah 3:6) teach that God took the light from the first day of creation and hid it away for future generations of the righteous to uncover. It is left to us, in every generation, to immerse ourselves in Torah study so that we may discover that light. Yet we know that we do not take that light in solely for ourselves. We use it to create fruit—mitzvot, our actions—which become a light to all those touched by what helps us grow.

Why is Torah study an act of tikkun? Because it raises up wisdom from generations past, brings us light that guides us on our path, and helps us reflect that light into the darkest places we encounter.

Written by Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 1, 2026

One of the meditations I often read before the Mourner’s Kaddish was written by Hannah Senesh. With her poetic pen, she wrote the following words (translated from Hebrew):

Yesh Kochavim – There Are Stars

There are stars up above, so far away we only see their light long, long after the star itself is gone. And so it is with people we have loved—their memories keep shining ever brightly, though their time with us is done. But the stars that light up the darkest night, these are the lights that guide us. As we live our lives, these are the ways we remember.

In the past week, the Jewish world lost two incredible individuals who made an impact far beyond the Jewish community. Last Friday, Matan Koch breathed his last breath after a recent diagnosis of advanced stomach cancer. He was 44. I had known Matan since the late 1990s, when we worked at Eisner Camp together. Matan was one of five children. His sister, Rabbi Shira Koch Epstein, was a classmate of mine in rabbinical school.

Matan was truly an incredible human being. He was born with cerebral palsy and, as a paraplegic, spent his life in a wheelchair. He was brilliant, attending Yale at 16 and then going on to Harvard Law School. When I first knew Matan, he tutored Hebrew for kids at his beloved Eisner Camp who were preparing to become b’nai mitzvah. He did so with a kind heart and a joyful sense of humor. Years later, he became a fierce advocate for disability rights and a spokesperson for inclusion. He spoke at Congregation Beth Tikvah in April of 2017, where he gave a brilliant sermon on these themes.

After the weekend, he asked me for a quote. I said, “Through personal reflections, wisdom from our tradition, and a vision of wholeness, Matan reflects on the potential of what a community can accomplish when inclusion is a priority. Matan speaks with passion and facilitates meaningful conversation, which can help a community implement its vision.” Matan Koch brought an incredible light to the world, and all of us who were touched by his life will miss him greatly. If you would like to read more about his legacy, I encourage you to read the obituary published about him earlier this week by JTA. May Matan’s memory be an enduring blessing, and may we continue to work toward radical inclusion to ensure that no one is forgotten.

On Monday, Dr. Edith Eger, a Holocaust survivor from Hungary who survived Auschwitz, immigrated to the United States, was mentored by Viktor Frankl, and became a psychologist in her fifties, was taken from us. She was 98. In her memoir The Choice, Eger shares her harrowing story of survival. Perhaps just as miraculous, she shares her story of resilience. Intending to move to Israel after the war, she and her husband placed all their belongings on a boat, only to change plans at the last minute. She came to the United States, settling in Baltimore. I read her memoir earlier this year. The wisdom she shares with the world was molded by her ability to grapple with the struggles of her past. Guided by the lessons she learned from Frankl, she recalled her mother’s words to her on the train to Auschwitz: “Just remember, no one can take away from you what you put in your mind. We can’t choose to vanish the dark, but we can choose to kindle the light.”

This wisdom molded Eger’s approach to her psychology practice. She created her own unique approach to therapy, calling it CHOICE Therapy: Compassion, Humor, Optimism, Intuition, Curiosity, and Self-Expression. She explains her therapy by teaching that if we are stuck in the past, where we might say, “If only I did this” or “if only I did that,” then we live in a prison we create for ourselves. She explains that we all have freedom of choice, and we can exercise it in the present.

Eger was captivated by the experience of the Passover seder that tells the story of the liberation of the ancient Israelites from Egypt. In her life’s work, she developed her own version of the Four Questions:

1. What do you want? Eger explains that this question, while simple, gives us permission to listen to ourselves and our true desires and not give in to what someone else wants from us.
2. Who wants it? This question empowers us to listen to ourselves rather than live up to another’s expectations of us. Eger writes that we might need to give up our need to please others or our need for others’ approval.
3. What are you going to do about it? While positive thinking is important, change comes about through positive action. Eger explains that when we practice something, we become better at it. This includes fear and anger. If we want to change, we must notice what isn’t working and act intentionally to make change. We must empower ourselves to do it.
4. When? To quote the great Rabbi Hillel, “If not now, when?” There is no better time than the present to make change. Eger writes that we need to start now.

May Dr. Edith Eger’s memory be for a blessing.

While the loss of these two individuals is profound, their memories continue to shine ever brightly because of the wisdom they taught the world. As we internalize some of these lessons, we keep their memories alive.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 24, 2026

Our involvement in and engagement with organizations have the potential to shape us, and when we become leaders in those organizations, we have the potential to shape them. For young people, organizational participation is sometimes part of the college résumé-building process, but more importantly, such involvement provides community and profound meaning. For young Reform Jewish high school students, their involvement in Jewish teen organizations is certainly meaningful, with the potential to form their identities.

Last week, we learned that our very own Cade Crane was named President of NFTY, the North American Federation of Temple Youth. Our kids know Cade as our song leader and K–2 music teacher in religious school. Our families know Cade because he has joined us to lead songs for our family Shabbat service celebrations. We are so proud of his involvement this past year as NFTY Ohio Valley regional president and look forward to his leadership on a national level.

While I cannot speak to how NFTY has shaped Cade’s life—that is for Cade to share—I can say that he has traveled across the country attending NFTY events. In a leadership capacity, he helps guide and lead programming for many Reform Jewish teens. Personally, I am not sure I would be sitting here as your rabbi without NFTY shaping my life. From my days in what was then called LIFTY (Long Island Federation of Temple Youth), I remember engaging in thoughtful conversations about Jewish values and Tikkun Olam. NFTY prayer services introduced me to creative worship, as we combined traditional liturgy with contemporary melodies, poetry, and readings. The moments I experienced during kallot and NFTY conventions remain vivid memories in my mind. Leadership opportunities during my youth gave me the confidence to know that I had a voice. NFTY certainly shaped me.

I am so proud that Cade will now have the opportunity to shape it. While NFTY looks different than it did in the mid-90s, it still provides an important outlet for Reform Jewish teens to create community. As NFTY President, Cade will have the opportunity to be a voice representing North America’s Reform Jewish youth. I know that, as a teen, I thought the national board members were really cool and was in awe of their leadership. Jewish life continues to be in a pivotal moment. We know the challenges facing the Jewish community writ large, and in many ways, those challenges affect teens even more acutely. Our teens have questions about what it means to be Jewish in a world where so many have turned their backs on Jews and Israel. Teens strive to navigate a world where Jewish values can sometimes conflict, and they wonder which direction to choose. In the coming year, when the Reform Jewish world needs a voice representing Jewish youth, they will turn to Cade to be that voice.

Cade became Bar Mitzvah in December 2020, a time when we were celebrating these significant life cycle moments on Zoom. He has been involved in GUCI, our Reform movement’s regional summer camp, as a camper, counselor, and song leader. Cade has been through our confirmation program, has taught in our religious school, and has been a leader locally in Student to Student, a Jewish organization that goes to public schools to teach about Jewish life. He is also highly involved in his local community in Marysville. Cade now has the opportunity to bring all that he has learned to his new national leadership role as he helps shape the future of this organization. There are significant questions facing Jewish youth at this moment, and we are proud that Cade will be at the forefront of these conversations.

Congregation Beth Tikvah is a thriving congregation in the Midwest. As we sit down to celebrate Shabbat this evening, let us take a moment to think about Cade Crane, NFTY’s next President; Marci Delson, whom we just honored as WRJ Heartland District Co-President; Andy Shafran, who serves on the Executive Board of the Union for Reform Judaism; and, I humbly include myself, as I serve as President-Elect of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. All of our lives have been shaped by these organizations, and we now have the blessing of shaping them.

Cade, I share with you the words Moses shared with Joshua when he passed on his leadership: “חזק ואמץ, hazak v’ematz—be strong and of good courage!”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Rabbi Rick Jacobs, URJ President, and Cade Crane at the October 2024 NFTY Collab.

April 17, 2026

We are in the midst of a ten-day period of modern Jewish holidays that began Monday evening with Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Rabbi Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein Halevi labeled these days, in this week’s For Heaven’s Sake podcast, as Israel’s “10 Days of Awe.” The days continue from Yom HaShoah to Yom HaZikaron, the day to remember Israel’s fallen soldiers, and conclude on Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. We associate the 10 Days of Awe with the traditional liturgical time on the Jewish calendar between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Tying these modern holidays to the traditional 10 Days of Awe elevates their meaning, as these days invite us to dive into our past and recognize the thread that connects the Jewish people across the present moment and throughout history.

In the podcast, Rabbi Hartman refers to the holidays as a “speed bump to stop you from your regular flow of life. A holiday descends on you and demands something of you. It demands that you think about something. It demands that you remember. It demands that you concentrate on a certain value or idea. That’s the way all holidays work.” It’s a remarkable metaphor because speed bumps are meant to slow us down. In my neighborhood, they were installed because people drove too fast, putting young children in danger. To call the holidays speed bumps shows us that we need to slow down and pause. In Israel, on Yom HaShoah, sirens blare and everything stops for two minutes. On Yom Ha’atzmaut, the nation stops—and the celebration begins. The debates pause for a day, and we simply celebrate Israel’s existence.

Yossi Klein Halevi adds another layer to the conversation when he explains that Yom HaShoah is the consequence of Jewish powerlessness. Yom HaZikaron is the consequence of Jewish power, as we mourn the lives of those who fought to create and preserve independence. Finally, Yom Ha’atzmaut is the day we “suspend our grief, agony, and debate” and simply celebrate that we exist.

I appreciate the need to pause the debate so we can celebrate our existence. God knows (literally) that we, as a Jewish people, spend much of our time debating and discussing who we are and where we are going. We spend days doing that. For one day, we need to celebrate. If these are days that call on us to remember and concentrate on a certain value or idea, then let us do just that. Can we remember where we came from? Can we remember the stories of those who helped build the State of Israel?

When I read The Genius of Israel by Dan Senor and Saul Singer last year, I was drawn to a story about a man named Tzvika Fayirizen (pp. 108–111), who retired in 2020 after 35 years of service in the IDF. His final position was commanding the IDF Education Corps. Fayirizen wondered why the IDF had an education corps when no other Western country did. He asked what motivates a young person to respond to their enlistment letter by saying, “I want to be a combat soldier,” and to take an oath to die for a cause greater than themselves.

He offers three answers. First, the willingness to die for one’s brothers and sisters in arms. He acknowledges, however, that a young person has not yet gone through training, so there must be something more. His second answer is what he calls the heritage of battle—stories shared by previous generations of soldiers, passed down as a sense of responsibility.

For me, though, the third answer is the most compelling. Fayirizen shares that when he turned 18, his grandfather took him on a walk and told him a story no one in the family had ever heard before. His grandfather had served in the Polish army, was captured by the Germans, and lined up in front of a pit to be executed. Instead, he threw himself into the pit, waited until everyone had died, and then escaped into the forest. He went on to serve with the partisans during the Holocaust.

Then Fayirizen’s grandfather said, “During those six years, I had many dreams. I dreamed of food. I dreamed of my wife and son” (no one had known he had a wife and son before coming to Israel). “I had many dreams, but I could not dream of one thing. A person can only dream of something they can imagine, and I never imagined that I would walk unbowed as a Jew in the State of Israel—and that this country would be mine.”

Then he shared words that struck me deeply: “Do me a favor. Make sure that it does not fall apart.” As we celebrate Israel’s 78th birthday, we think about all the people who have done the sacred work of keeping Israel alive. It is a place that allows Judaism and Jewish culture to thrive. It is a place at the heart of the Jewish people, even if we do not all live there. As Fayirizen says, it is a home we are meant to nurture and protect.

If that is a story to remember, then perhaps the idea we should reflect on is found in the closing words of Theodor Herzl’s The Jewish State, published in 1896. He writes, “The Jews who wish for a State will have it… We shall live at last as free men on our own soil and die peacefully in our own homes.” Herzl envisioned a state that would benefit both the Jewish people and humanity. Yom Ha’atzmaut is a time to celebrate what Israel has contributed—not only to the Jewish people, but to the world—through advances in science, literature, technology, community, and more.

The debates and the grief can be suspended for the day. These are days to remember—and to celebrate.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 10, 2026

Several weeks ago, I was invited to teach at Otterbein University in a course focused on the history of the Holocaust. My presentation centered on memory and identity within the Jewish community as they relate to the Holocaust. As I considered what I might share, I returned to several Jewish population surveys and found that a high percentage of respondents say that remembering the Holocaust is deeply tied to their Jewish identity. In the most recent survey, 73% of American Jews indicated that remembering the Holocaust is critical to their identity. It is one of the strongest markers of Jewish identity in the survey—and it invites us to ask: why?

To answer that question, we might turn to insights into how Jews and Judaism understand memory. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks writes, “There is a profound difference between history and memory. History is his story—an event that happened sometime else to someone else. Memory is my story—something that happened to me and is part of who I am. History is information. Memory, by contrast, is part of identity.” In remembering the Holocaust, we remember what happened to us. Some of us are direct descendants of Holocaust survivors. Others, like me, have families who were in the United States long before the war; all of my grandparents were born here. And yet, through story and study, remembering the Holocaust has become part of our collective Jewish identity.

The act of memory has the power to shape us because we inherit these stories. Just as we include in our seder the famous line from the Mishnah: “In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally came out of Egypt.” None of us walked through the parted waters of the Red Sea, and yet we were there; slavery and liberation happened to us. So too with Holocaust memory. We have told and retold the stories of those who came before us. We feel the pain, perhaps because in another time or place—or even today—we, too, have experienced antisemitism. That internalization shapes our identity, our behavior, and the way we move through the world.

My brother, Greg, recently sent me an email in which he recalled a memory from our childhood. When we gathered at the seder table, we reached a point after the meal when the humor subsided and a sense of seriousness set in. From the time we were young, my mother added a “Fifth Child” to the seder. It was a supplement from Hadassah that became part of our family tradition. She would begin to read:

“On this night, we remember a fifth child. This is a child of the Holocaust who did not survive to ask. Therefore, we ask for that child, why? We are like the simple child. We have no answer. We answer that child’s question with Silence. In Silence, we remember that dark time. In Silence, we remember that Jews preserved their image of God in the struggle for life. In Silence, we remember the seder nights spent in the forests, ghettos, and camps; we remember that seder night when the Warsaw ghetto rose in revolt.”

Then, in silence, we passed Elijah’s cup, each adding a bit of our own wine, remembering our people’s return to the land of Israel—the beginning of the redemption Elijah is meant to herald.

On Monday evening, the Columbus Jewish community will gather to remember the Holocaust. It is Yom HaShoah v’Hag’vurah—the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism. It takes place each year on the Hebrew date of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, reminding us that the stories and memories of the Holocaust are complex. We must remember the victims. We must remember those who resisted. We must remember the Righteous Among the Nations. We must remember stories of survival. We must remember.

Every act of memory, every story told, is sacred. I hope you will join us Monday evening at 6:30 PM for our annual Yom Hashoah v’Hag’vurah commemoration. Please RSVP in advance and the location will be shared upon registration.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 4, 2026

Each year, I feel incredibly blessed to have time away from the office and the flow of daily rabbinic life to create space for learning and for thinking deeply about Jewish life and the future of our synagogue. Each month-long sabbatical offers me the opportunity to do something different and unique. Last year, I reflected on the major challenges facing Jewish life and crafted a vision for how I believe those issues play out in our own community. This year, I had the opportunity to read ten books—a personal record for a single month. Most were excellent; only one is not worth mentioning again. A few are books we will share with our Holocaust Seminar participants, one helped prepare me to teach a course in the fall, and another inspired a High Holy Day sermon.

Here are the top five books from my February sabbatical:

Written by Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 3, 2026

The power of the Jewish people lies in our ability to tell stories. The stories shared throughout the generations have brought us insight and wisdom. They have told of our hardships and our resilience. In the times of Torah, we learned of the flawed nature of the individuals we read about each week. The Talmud and the Midrash added stories of practical wisdom to our canon. Later, the Hasidic masters brought a deeper sense of spirituality as they sat on Shabbat afternoons and shared their soulfulness with all who gathered around their rebbes’ tables.

For the last two nights, we have gathered around our tables to tell the quintessential Jewish story. Our Exodus from Egypt reminds us of the tremendous hardships we faced, the signs God sent to reveal divine power, the experience of being seen as other, the joy we felt in our freedom, and the responsibility we accepted when God revealed Torah to us. In many ways, this story spirals throughout history, as its themes reemerge again and again, offering us lessons through the echoes of time. As a Jewish people, we are reminded of how we stand up to Pharaoh in every generation. The story reminds us of the moment we became a people and realized our responsibility toward one another, as our journey through the wilderness required us to care for every tribe and every member of the community. Through all of this, we learned who we are—a people who recognize that kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh, all Israel is responsible for one another, and that the cry “Let my people go” is both a particular and universal call to freedom.

I have been thinking about these themes recently as I consider how our Beth Tikvah story fits within the larger framework of our people’s story. Just a few weeks ago, our membership inched past the 500-household mark. It is a number we have not surpassed since the late aughts, and it is something to celebrate. Since I arrived at Beth Tikvah, I have striven to serve our members to the best of my ability, trusting that the rest would fall into place. I have learned along the way not to focus on membership totals, as they are not something I can control. As a clergy and staff team, in partnership with the Board of Trustees, we work hard to create meaningful experiences for our members—experiences where you can find Jewish joy, be touched by Torah, and use its lessons to impact the world around us.

Our Beth Tikvah story is one that embraces Jewish life in all that it offers. Throughout our nearly 65 years, Jewish life in Northwest Columbus has been centered at Beth Tikvah. Living on this side of the city offers incredible opportunities to create meaningful moments of blessing—through learning, connecting to the Jewish people, engaging with Israel, and working to heal the brokenness that exists around us. We are a people-centered organization that strives to bring Torah into the world around us. We have faced hardships and challenges along the way, but Torah has always helped us bring light into the darkest spaces we encounter.

All of us share this sacred journey together. We are a caring community that celebrates the gifts of every soul. As we concluded the reading of the Book of Exodus a couple of weeks ago, we once again read how the Israelites were incredibly generous with the gifts they brought to build the Tabernacle. I am grateful to each one of you, our members. You bring the unique gifts of your souls, and through those gifts, you help make Congregation Beth Tikvah the sacred community we aspire to be. As we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us, may we continue to write this sacred story together.

Shabbat Shalom and Mo’adim L’simcha,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 1, 2026

Going out of Egypt by Hagit Dardik Ackerman as it appears in Mishkan HaSeder, edited by Rabbi Hara Person, CCAR Press

Storytelling paints a picture of the past as we remember it on the canvas of our memories. To sit around our seder tables and tell the story is, in and of itself, a reflection that we are a free people with the ability to tell the story of our past. Our Haggadahs are filled with wine stains and matzah crumbs from seders past. The story contained on its pages reminds us of the eternal journey of our people and how we called out from the narrow place of Egypt and how God answered us from a wide expanse with a large embrace.

Perhaps we remember how we marched out of Egypt with pride and the steps we took with awe as we followed Moses who was guided by a pillar of fire. Perhaps we imagine God carrying us with a strong hand or an outstretched arm. Hagit Dardik Ackerman offers us another way to look at the experience of the Exodus. Maybe our steps were small and hesitant. Maybe we were afraid of what the future would hold as we left the only place we had ever known. She tells us that we carried marks, “like wrinkles of passing time.” Are those the wounds from the taskmaster’s whip or the impact of the sun on our labored bodies? Each mark carries the memory of slavery, pain, and longing for a better tomorrow.

When we tell the stories of our past, we sometimes look at them in retrospect with joy as we celebrate the survival of the moment. And yet, we forget the complexity of the emotions we may have felt as we were living it. Do the scars on our bodies serve as reminders for the emotions that are hidden beneath the dust of generations layered on top of them? As we dig through the past and sift through the memories, what remains in the sifter? We hold the joy and the pain, the light and the darkness, the awe and the trepidation. That is the complexity of our story. As we sit down at our seder tables to tell the story of our people, what is it that we as individuals are carrying with us?

Debra, Zoe, Shira, and I wish you a Zissen Pesach. May the holiday be filled with joy, sweetness, and profound moments of reflection on what the story holds for each of us.

Written by Rabbi Rick Kellner

March 27, 2026

With Women’s History Month drawing to a close, I wanted to take a moment to share one of the most inspiring stories I recently learned about a young Jewish woman who lived in Brooklyn in the early 1900s. I learned this story from historian Pam Nadell, PhD, who was our Scholar-in-Residence a year ago and will return to Columbus on April 28 to teach at the JCC’s Gaynor Lecture about her new book, Antisemitism, An American Tradition. This book won the 2025 Jewish Book Council Award in the American Jewish History category.

Nadell’s book is not merely a history of antisemitic events that have occurred in America since Peter Stuyvesant was the governor of New Amsterdam, but it recounts the impact of antisemitism on countless Jewish Americans and how they responded to anti-Jewish discrimination.

One such individual was Gussie Herbert, who lived in Brownsville, a neighborhood in Brooklyn with a population that was mostly Jewish or immigrant. She was a student at P.S. 144. On December 19, 1905, Frank Harding, the principal of the school, held a holiday assembly. At the assembly, he read Bible verses and then said, “Now, boys and girls… Christ blesses all but the hypocrites, and the hypocrites are the people who do not believe in him. He forgives all but those. So, boys and girls, be like Christ.” Nadell describes Gussie Herbert as a “plucky thirteen-year-old daughter of Jewish immigrants” who was stunned by what her principal had just said. She arose from her seat, walked to the front of the auditorium, and said, “Mr. Harding, don’t you think that preaching on Christ belongs in Sunday school or church and not in a public school?”

Prior to reading Nadell’s book, I would venture to say that few of us had heard of Gussie Herbert, and as I understand it, no one is quite sure what happened to her. However, investigations ensued following Harding’s remarks, the Jewish community became infuriated, and in 1906 there was a large boycott by the Jewish community of the upcoming Christmas pageants. After the boycott, the Board of Education banned singing hymns, reading religious books (except for the Bible), and assigning essays on religious topics. As Nadell writes, “A brave adolescent had stood up against anti-Judaism and won.”

I love Herbert’s story because it shows that the voice of a thirteen-year-old girl can make a difference. So many of our young people face antisemitism in school. I hear these stories annually from countless teenagers. How they respond varies. Some go to their parents; some come to me; some choose to stay silent out of fear of further isolation; very few speak up to their principal. Every one of our young people should know Gussie Herbert’s story and ask themselves what they can learn from her.

History offers us insight into a plethora of lessons—including how people respond in times of adversity. What I learned from reading Pam Nadell’s excellent book is that antisemitism is not new; it is not a 20th-century phenomenon. It has existed in some form or another since the first Jews arrived in America in the 1650s. There were times in the 1920s and 1930s when antisemitism seeped into immigration laws and university quotas, and there are moments like today when antisemitism is becoming normalized. Its virulent discourse appears on both the left and the right, forming a horseshoe with a common theme—hatred expressed toward Jews.

While we may not be able to eliminate antisemitism, what would it look like if we had Gussie Herbert’s courage to stand up to hate when it stares us in the face?

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

March 20, 2026

The shadows of the horrific attack at Temple Israel in West Bloomfield have been cast over the collective soul of the Jewish community since last Thursday. How we (this is a collective “we” for the Jewish community) protect our members and secure our institutions is always on our minds. We are committed to our safety and security, and our partners at JewishColumbus continue to support security every Jewish communal institution. We are incredibly grateful to them for all they do!

There was a moment earlier this week when Temple Israel shared that there were many circuit breakers that had to be turned off due to the extensive damage caused by the ramming and the fire that ensued. The electrician randomly picked one circuit to turn on first. When he flipped the switch, the ner tamid (the Eternal light above the ark) and the backlighting for the ark came on. God works in mysterious ways. Symbolically this is a reminder that the light of the Jewish people endures—and we must keep turning it on. The light of the ner tamid is something we must keep burning perpetually.

We keep the light on be working to create a world and a society that reflect the values that are core to who we are as Reform Jews. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts Reform Judaism brought to Jewish life has been its approach to egalitarianism—especially within Jewish spaces. Immediately prior to the current war with Iran, one of the Knesset Members proposed a bill that would limit egalitarian prayer at the Western Wall. The penalty for praying at the Western Wall in a way that is contrary to Orthodox standards could be up to seven years in prison. In the days before the war, there was an immediate outcry. The onset of the war put that on pause. However, the bill has now been assigned to a committee and is expected to be heard next week. We can no longer withhold our voices, as the adoption of such a bill would severely impact diaspora Jewish life. Please consider expressing your concerns to Prime Minister Netanyahu.

Send him a letter expressing your concerns and sharing our collective Reform Jewish voice. 

We need to express our concern even while so many people we care about are running to shelters for safety. With this issue back on the table, it is essential that we raise our voices.  We care about the history and the traditions of the Jewish people, and we have a space in it.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

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