August 1, 2025

This is a challenging moment for Israel and the Jewish people. Since the beginning of the war, I’ve chosen not to comment on Israel’s military strategy. I am not a military expert, and much about the war remains unknown to me. Yet, we now face a growing humanitarian crisis in Gaza. While many reports have warned of famine since October 2023—some even earlier—those specific claims have not proven accurate. Still, real hunger persists. Food prices continue to rise rapidly.

At the war’s start, aid shipments temporarily stopped. They resumed but halted again for 80 days after the winter ceasefire. In April 2024, I gave a sermon opposing the suspension of humanitarian aid as a war tactic. I repeated that concern in March 2025 when Israeli leaders believed that restricting aid might pressure Hamas to surrender or release hostages. They were wrong. Hamas exploited that suffering to strengthen its narrative and delegitimize Israel.

Hamas remains responsible for much of the suffering in Gaza. They initiated this war on October 7 and still hold hostages. Hamas has stolen aid, charged exorbitant prices, and interfered with fair distribution. Many trucks remain undelivered. The UN has refused to collaborate with the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), the only group offering free meals. During failed negotiations, Hamas demanded the removal of the GHF because it undercut their control over aid as a revenue source.

Last week, I wrote about how Jews are held to a high moral standard. As a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” we must recognize suffering and respond with compassion. The Torah in Deuteronomy urges us: “There shall be no needy among you… and if there is, you shall not harden your heart” (Deut. 15:4, 7). Our Haggadah invites, “All who are hungry, come and eat.” Proverbs adds, “If your enemy is hungry, give him bread to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink” (Prov. 25:21).

These sacred teachings call us to act. We can no longer ignore the pain in Gaza. Thankfully, this week brought reports of increased aid—coordinated by Israel and through foreign airdrops. Every effort to ease suffering is critical.

During last year’s High Holy Days, I discussed our evolving relationship with Israel. Rabbi Donniel Hartman describes a category called “troubled-committed.” Many of us belong here—we are troubled by Israel’s policies, but we remain committed to the State and its people. This moment should not shift us into the “troubled-uncommitted” category. Discomfort with the government must not make us question our core identity.

The policies of this current Israeli government are deeply concerning. Yet, recent actions offer hope. Israel must continue improving. Using humanitarian aid as leverage is never acceptable. As Jews, we must demand more—from ourselves and our leaders. Right now, the world does not view Israel or the Jewish people favorably. We must meet that moment with moral clarity and compassion.

Last week, The New York Times published a photo meant to capture the Gaza crisis. It showed a mother holding an emaciated child. Later, it emerged that the child had cerebral palsy and long-standing nutritional issues. The photo cropped out his healthy brother. Within 24 hours, the Times admitted the mistake and offered context—but the harm had already spread.

Another image showed a sick child, later revealed to be in Italy receiving treatment—thanks to Israeli efforts. These misleading stories, even if unintentional, deepen bias and put Jews at risk. Media agencies must do better. Honest reporting matters, especially in a world where perception shapes reality.

This week, I turned again to the For Heaven’s Sake podcast with Rabbi Hartman and Yossi Klein HaLevi. Their insights have guided me throughout the war. They reminded listeners that empathy is not finite. We can care for Palestinians and still love Israel. We can feel for our neighbors and remain loyal to our people.

As we reflect on this painful moment, we give thanks that aid has increased. We continue to pray—for the return of the hostages, for the war to end, and for suffering to cease.

• For Heaven’s Sake Podcast with Rabbi Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein Halevi
• The Price of Flour Shows the Hunger Crisis in Gaza by Amit Segal
• Is Gaza Starving? Searching for the Truth in an Information War. By Matti Friedman
• Once again, Israel tried to restrict Gaza aid. Once again, its policy failed miserably by Lazar Berman

We continue to pray that the hostages will return home, the war will end soon, and the suffering in Gaza will cease. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 25, 2025

As Jews, we are wrestlers. From the moment Jacob wrestled a mysterious being in the night and became Yisrael—“one who wrestles with God”—we have been a people unafraid to grapple with difficult questions. Our tradition embraces debate. The Talmud, with its 2,000+ pages of discussion, is a testament to our willingness to struggle with complexity in religious law and Jewish ethics. Across centuries, we’ve tried to reconcile the tensions found in sacred texts and mitzvot.

For the past 21 months, many of us have struggled with the ongoing war in Gaza. We pray for peace. We hope for the return of hostages. And we long for the violence to end. Yet, we also recognize that the “we” here isn’t always unified. The Jewish community is diverse, and so are its voices.

The sheer volume of news from Israel can overwhelm. Headlines about the Israel-Hamas war dominate global media. Articles and opinion pieces flood our feeds and force us to think, question, and wrestle with our values.

In recent weeks, I’ve read several reports that made my heart sink. As global focus remained on Gaza earlier this year, violence from Israeli settlers in the West Bank surged. The Israeli human rights group Yesh Din documented 404 incidents of settler violence in just the first part of the year. This represents a troubling increase compared to previous years.

What does “settler violence” mean? These are attacks by Israeli citizens living in the West Bank—settlers—against Palestinians. These attacks include burning agricultural fields, destroying olive groves, setting homes on fire, and injuring or even killing people.

Jewish texts call us to a higher ethical standard. In Exodus 19:6, we read, “And you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Genesis 18:19 says, “For I have singled [Abraham] out that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Eternal by doing what is just and right.”

These verses reflect values we cherish—justice, holiness, and moral clarity. Violence toward neighbors, destruction of property, and attacks on civilians contradict our core ethical teachings.

The Talmud reinforces this obligation. Tractate Shabbat 54b teaches:
“Anyone who can protest the sinful conduct of the members of his household and does not, he himself is apprehended for the sins… If he is in a position to protest the conduct of his town and fails to do so, he is held responsible.”

We cannot look away.

Earlier this week, the Reform Movement issued a statement on settler violence calling on the Israeli government to take stronger action. The statement urged officials to investigate, prosecute, and penalize those responsible for settler violence. Part of the challenge lies in current leadership. Bezalel Smotrich oversees the West Bank’s civil administration, and Itamar Ben-Gvir controls the Israeli police force. Both are far-right ministers who openly support settlement expansion. Their positions of power raise serious concerns about accountability.

Most recently, Saifullah Musallet, an American citizen who was visiting family in the West Bank was killed. Ambassador Mike Huckabee demanded a full investigation into his death. Additionally, many American Christians travel to Israel and visit Christian holy sites located in the West Bank. There is growing concern that such violence will make it unsafe for these travelers. It is critical that all is done to curb such violence.

In Yiddish, we call this kind of behavior a shanda—a disgrace. The Talmud (Baba Metzia 8a) tells a story about Rabbi Shimon ben Shetach, who returned a valuable gem found in a donkey he purchased. His students rejoiced, thinking he’d never have to work again. But he replied that he preferred hearing “Blessed is the God of the Jews” over possessing all the world’s riches.

That story reminds us: We carry God’s name through our actions. Our behavior reflects our values and our tradition. When members of our community commit violence, and our government does little to stop it, it becomes a shanda. We must call it out.

Wrestling is central to our identity. But wrestling requires action. To wrestle with ethics is not to remain neutral—it’s to speak, to protest, and to hold our people and leaders accountable.

As we continue to pray for peace, we must also demand justice.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 18, 2025

Watch Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Sermon (starting at 52.25): Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Personal Meeting Room – Zoom

In late January of 1948 Woody Guthrie awoke one morning and opened the NY Times. He discovered a story about a small plane crash in an agricultural section of the San Joaquin Valley in California called Los Gatos Canyon. There were 32 passengers on the plane, including 28 Mexican farm workers who were returning home to Mexico. Some of the Mexican workers had finished their contracts with the Bracero Program, the WWII initiative which brought Mexican citizens to the US for temporary employment. Others on the plane were undocumented workers and were being deported.

News reports following the crash reported all the Mexican passengers as deportees, and the four Americans on board were mentioned by name. The migrants on the flight were buried anonymously in the largest mass grave in California’s history. The remains of the American passengers were returned to their families. The families later identified and named all 28 laborers who were killed. Guthrie was so moved by what he read, that within days of the crash he wrote a poem, entitled Deportee, which is also known as the Plane Wreck at Los Gatos. He has one single recording of the piece which he performed as a song and was recorded on collection entitled Woody at Home which is being released next month. Other artists subsequently performed the song and modified the lyrics.

In the song Guthrie writes:

Some days I’m not legal, some days I’m not wanted,
Our work contract’s out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles you chase me to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.

I died in your hills, I died in your deserts,
I died in your valleys and died on your plains.
He killed me in trees, and he killed me in bushes,
Both sides of the river, I died just the same.

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita

Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria

I don’t have a name

when I ride the big airplane

They just call me one more deportee.

(Listen to Woody Guthrie’s version; listen to Highwaymen’s version)

Looking closely at these lyrics we note Guthrie’s first-person telling of this story as he tried to give voice to the nameless and take on their identities. He notes the otherness with which the American public has treated these individuals, and he tries to bear witness to this pain.

In explaining the impact of this song, Guthrie’s granddaughter, Anna Canoni said, “After reading the article, which only named the four Americans that perished, Woody wrote this song in—I don’t want to say anger or frustration, but perhaps in observation of the 28 Mexican nationals who were not named in the article, and moreover, an observation of how the U.S. treats foreigners.” Historian, Tim Hernandez added, “Woody understood that to be nameless in death was an injustice of the highest order…to hear these words in Woody’s own haunting voice is to hear a prophetic voice from the grave, warning us about where we’ve been, who we’ve become, and where we are headed.” [1]

I am struck by Guthrie’s observation and power of what it means to be nameless in death and therefore nameless to the world. Without a name, we lack an identity, we have no story. In the case of that plane crash there were 28 who were killed, and no one shared their names.

These reflections leave us wondering about America’s journey when it comes to immigrants and how we treat foreigners. With ICE raids, arrests and deportations increasing, it leaves many of us feeling a sense of shock as we wonder how we can treat people the way we do. And yet, I wonder if such actions towards immigrants is a reflection of the sentiments that has been passed down in this country from one generation to the next.

Today we see immigrants living in fear because they might be picked up in the next raid. They are afraid that if their children go off to school, they would become orphans because they would have been picked up and sent off to a detention center, never to be seen again. They are living in the shadows because if they step into the light, they might be scooped up.

Our Torah portion parshat Pinchas, recalls the famous story when the daughters of Tzelophehad were concerned about inheriting their father’s land. He had died in the wilderness, and they wanted to be sure they would have access to the land he might pass on to them. The law, however, only allowed for land holdings to be passed from father to son. These five daughters approached Moses saying, “Why should our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son?” After consulting with God, Moses informs these five daughters that their claim is just, and the law is changed.

I want to examine closely the names of the people we learn about in this story. First Tzelophehad, in looking closely at this name, Sha’ar HaPesukim, a Kabbalistic commentary on the Torah notes that the name is made up of five letters tzadee, lamed, pey, chet, yod. The commentary further explains that they spell the words tzel pachad, which means the Shadow of Fear. Perhaps these five daughters are living in the shadow of fear since their father’s death. They were afraid of becoming nameless because tradition would have only left land and an identity to the sons through such an inheritance. To be nameless is to be completely lost and invisible. When we think about the current situation and how we are treating immigrants, we speak about the large numbers of people being deported. We never learn their names; we never learn their stories. To be a number is to lack an identity. To be a number is to be dehumanized.

You will notice that I did not name the daughters when I just spoke about them. In chapter 27:1 of the book of Numbers, we meet them as the daughters of Tzelophehad, they are nameless. By the end of the verse, we learn their names – Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. In a modern Midrash collection written by Israeli women entitled Dirshuni, Rivkah Lubitch asks, “Why were they referred to, first, as the “the daughters of Tzelophechad” and only after by their names? Lubitch explains that this is because of the tzel and the pachad. At first, they lived in their father’s shadow and were afraid to raise their heads. In the book of Numbers, raising your head is to be counted and seen. Lubitch continues by saying, once they drew near to one another, they were empowered and became known by their names. In explaining her teaching, Lubitch adds, “the patriarchal society in which they lived dictated their role as subservient to men. In the wake of the problem created by the division of land, they gathered to consult with one another and found strength in numbers and they were able to consolidate their identities as individuals.”[2]

Society often will dictate through established norms what a person’s role and identity can be. In our society, immigrants have often lived as other because of fear. Citizens have expressed such fear as a result of different customs, a lack of understanding in communication, or they were afraid of losing jobs to outsiders.

On the other hand, when we tell the story of America, we share that we are a nation of immigrants. The fantasy story is one of being welcomed in through a golden door to a place where the streets are paved with gold.  Many of our ancestors, if they could still tell us their stories, would share their excitement at seeing Lady Liberty welcome them in with her torch filled hand reaching heavenward and with Emma Lazarus’ words etched into her pedestal, saying “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.” Several years ago, Ken Burns released a three-part documentary on PBS entitled the US and the Holocaust in order to shed light on the role of the US during the war. Out of the shadows of history, Burns shined a light on America’s history as it related to immigrants. He explained that prior to the Civil War, aside from the forced immigration of Africans, immigration was open and free. Most immigrants came from Northern European countries and people only had to fill out a landing card. In 1882, the United States passed the Chinese Exclusion Act in which, for the first time, the US restricted immigration. From 1870 through 1914, 25 million people came to the United States. But these immigrants were largely from Southern and Eastern Europe bringing with them strange customs, new languages, and different ways of worshipping God.  Quotas were established and thousands of Jews seeking refuge and safety from the Nazis and the nightmares of the Holocaust were denied entry. Daniel Greene, a professor of history at Northwestern writes, “We tell ourselves stories as a nation. One of those stories is that we are a land of immigrants. But, in moments of crisis, we often find it difficult to live up to the promises made in those stories. Indeed, as historian Peter Hayes says in The U.S. and the Holocaust, keeping immigrants out of the country has been “as American as apple pie.”[3]

Much like the Guthrie’s understanding of history, when nameless individuals were buried in an unmarked grave, we too must give a name and a story to the people being rounded up and put into places like Alligator Alcatraz and other detention centers. While the Supreme Court may suggest it is legal to send individuals to countries different from their origins or to places where they might be harmed, we have to ask ourselves, is this humane?

Bishop Mark Seitz is a Catholic priest who has served the border community in El Paso for many years. He has witnessed first-hand the challenges immigrants face. He reflects that most Americans, because of the way we teach history in school and portray it in the media see the border in a binary way, it is here and there. He explains it is much more fluid and writes, “We are bound to our community on the other side of the border by ties of history, culture, language, and family. People cross every day to be with family, to work, to trade, and to worship. Some of my Catholic schools might have to close if students from Ciudad Juárez, our sister city in Mexico, weren’t able to cross. Students from El Paso also go to Juárez for the technical school there.” He adds that people are far more valuable than things. Human beings are God’s creation of greatest beauty and worth. Anything of great value also has the potential to do harm if misused, but human beings present far more potential for good.[4] Bishop Seitz’s words echo some of the core teachings we share in our own tradition. Sometimes it feels a bit cliché to remind ourselves that we are commanded to love the stranger because we were strangers in the land of Egypt and that every human being was created in God’s image. However, we need to be reminded of these lessons because policy and the carrying out of such policies may lack a humanity that speaks from the compassion that lives within our soul.

Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, were concerned they would not inherit anything from their father, Tzelophehad. The Talmud, in tractate Baba Batra (119b), describes them as wise and virtuous and they spoke up at the right moment. We are living in a moment now when we are witnessing the tension between the story we inherited in our minds and the crisis we face on the ground. While we have inherited a story, we have also inherited a reality of American life that is harsh to immigrants. Like Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah spoke up in the wilderness, there is a time to speak up and seek change. Many of us have contributed to supporting and settling Obaidullah Houtek, the Afghani refugee who arrived in March. I am so grateful to our core team of volunteers who are doing the sacred work to help him feel comfortable in his new home. While this work is sacred, and we are saving a single life, we know that there is more work to be done. Over the next several months, we will be exploring opportunities and ways to support immigrants and live out our value of caring for and loving the stranger. If you would like to hear Woody Guthrie’s song, there is a half sheet with the lyrics and QR code to scan right outside the sanctuary and on the tables in the social hall to grab during oneg. Like Guthrie, who was moved by the nameless of this plane crash in 1948, may we be moved by this moment of history to give a name to the nameless and to allow the compassion to emerge from our hearts and into our hands. As we explore this work, may we respond to the call to help immigrants in our community navigate these difficult times. Kein Yehi Ratzon.

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[1] The story about Woody Guthrie’s Deportee was adapted from the following: https://americansongwriter.com/listen-to-the-only-recording-of-woody-guthrie-singing-deportee/

[2] Dirshuni, ed. Tamar Biala p. 77

[3] https://www.pbs.org/kenburns/us-and-the-holocaust/what-does-it-mean-to-be-a-land-of-immigrants

[4] https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/living-vein-compassion

July 18, 2025

Throughout the summer I have written to you with thoughts about our congregation, Jewish life, and how we as a community can navigate our way through this bumpy and complex moment in time.

I outlined six core Jewish values that are the engines of Jewish life:

1. B’tzelem Elohim

2. Love your neighbor as yourself

3. Love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt

4. Jewish Peoplehood

5. Zionism

6. Community

You can also watch the video of my presentation about our future from our Annual Meeting.

With these values in mind, we might be asking ourselves how we can live our values. I have always been moved by Rabbi Hillel’s famous teaching in the Pirke Avot, a first century compilation of ethical texts. He said, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, then when?”

Hillel’s first two questions invite us to think about how we might act in a given moment. First, there is an invitation to remember that if we do not take care of our own interests, there is not necessarily an obligation upon others to look after our unique interests. The second question echoes the foundational text in our Torah to care for those among us who are marginalized.

For years, I have felt pulled towards helping those who are marginalized. Since October 7, my heart has been drawn to teaching about Israel, Jewish identity, and Jewish Peoplehood. We have had to grapple with rising antisemitism. As a result, some of the commitments we held towards justice work have been pushed to the back burner.

Hillel’s third question, however, reflects the tension I have been feeling. “If not now, then when?” has often been interpreted as a call to act now. Perhaps though, the experiences we have faced in these last 21 months open up the possibility for us to look at the third question as a response or modifier to each of the first two. Perhaps Hillel is saying, “Okay, if you are going to focus on advancing Jewish interests, then when will you work to take care of others, if not now, when?” And perhaps, “If you are going to focus on working to support others, okay fine, when will you work to advance Jewish interests? If not now, when?

This moment calls us to do the sacred work of advancing our own interests while also caring for those who are marginalized. The essence for Jewish life moving forward will be creating a balance between the universal and the particular. We cannot solely lean into one while ignoring the other. Perhaps for too long, we have leaned into the universal, and that work needs to continue, but we need to find a balance and move forward in taking care of the particular as well.

How can we do this?

In order to answer this question, we might begin with an analysis of our vision statement:

We empower people to live and learn Jewishly and make the world a better place. 

The vision statement contains four verbs and several direct object pronouns and adverbs. Though this is not a grammar lesson, each of these parts of the sentence can help us understand what we might do. 

To empower someone is to give someone the tools to act on their own. 

To live is to carry out your life in a particular way. In this instance that way is Jewishly. 

To learn is to acquire the knowledge to make decisions and discover our history and story. 

To make the world a better place, is to shape the world around us and to help live out the Jewish values that will help to bring about the vision God sets forth in creating. It is to recognize that we are partners with God in perfecting creation.

At the conclusion of the adult learning course I taught from October 2024 through January 2025 entitled “Together & Apart,” a learning series created by the Hartman Institute’s iEngage program (the course focused on strengthening Jewish Peoplehood), I thought about five key areas for us to focus on that could strengthen the Jewish community moving forward:

1.   Telling our story

2.   Living our Values

3.   Making Judaism and Jewish life come alive (ie. live Jewishly with joy!)

4.   Create Partnerships

a.   Israelis and Americans together

b.   Americans and Americans together

c.   Israelis and Israelis together

5.   Strengthen Institutions

As we move forward, we will immerse ourselves in these focus areas finding new ways to engage and connect to one another.

It is remarkable to think that I am beginning my 15^th year serving Congregation Beth Tikvah. We have always worked to grow and become the best community we possibly can be. As we move forward and navigate complexities, realize that we are in a strong position. Today, we are even stronger than we were just a few weeks ago. Tonight, we will have a welcome oneg for Rabbi Karen Martin, our new Assistant Rabbi! As we work together to serve our sacred community in partnership with our wonderful staff, we look forward to seeing how we can build on these values and implement new ideas so that we can strengthen our community even more. I hope you will join us tonight as we welcome Rabbi Martin and her family to our community!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 11, 2025

Summer camp has shaped my life; I do not think I would be the person I am today without summer camp. The truth is that one perk of being a rabbi is you still get to go to summer camp well into adulthood.

I realized this summer that I have spent 21 summers at a URJ Summer Camp either as a camper, Counselor, Unit Head, Education Director, or Rabbi. That does not include the two summers I was a camper at another sleepaway camp, or the many years I spent at day camp. I have spent well over 30 summers at camp. My daughters each spent several summers at URJ Camps. Shira just finished her third summer at the URJ 6 Points Sports Academy. One of the phrases I heard growing up was “ten for two”, meaning we live ten months of the year for the two during the summer. Summer camp is transformative as we gain independence, learn important skills, and push our horizons. As a camp leader, we view the kids as our own. Parents entrust their kids in our care, and we realize the immense responsibility we have to care for a child other than our own. I will be honest, when I have hugged my kids goodbye, my only hope is for them to have a wonderful summer and experience the community and friendships that camp is meant to nurture.

I know firsthand, however, that being at camp can come with risks or tragedy. When I was ten years old, it was a beautiful summer afternoon, and my cabin group was at the pool down the hill, only 100-200 yards from our cabin. Suddenly, I heard someone yell out, “John’s bed is on fire.” John was one of the staff members who lived in my cabin. Our cabin was a U-shaped structure that included three separate cabins, physically joined together. All three cabins burned down that day. A couple of boys were in one of the cabins and everyone escaped without any physical harm. The fire started because a counselor was smoking in the cabin and an ash got caught in one of the clip-on fans. Thankfully, no one was hurt and all that had to be replaced were clothes and items.

When I awoke to the news about the flooding last week and the incredible loss of life, I was heartbroken. Every death is a tragedy, but I cannot stop thinking about the young children of Camp Mystic and their counselors who arrived at Camp with dreams of friendship and fun. The Bubble Inn was the cabin that housed their youngest campers, just 7 years old, and it was closest to the Guadalupe River. Dick Eastman, the longtime owner and director of the camp, was killed trying to rescue his campers. Paige Sumner, a former Camp Mystic camper said in the San Antonio Express-News, “Eastland’s last act of kindness and sacrifice was working to save the lives of campers.” She also said he put campers first in every situation. Whenever a camper sustained a minor injury, he would bolt from the office in a golf cart and race to the scene. Program Director, Elizabeth Sweet shared in the Houston Chronicle that Camp Mystic is the most magical place filled with laughter and love. She awoke at 3:11 AM to help rescue campers and by 4:00 AM, she stood on the roof with water rising up to her level. “Yesterday, I left a camp that was demolished and destroyed, but that is not the place I will remember for years to come,” Sweet wrote. “I will remember the place where we laughed on our way to our activities, sang as loud as we could in the dining hall, and cheered our hearts out for our respective tribes.”

Silvana Garza Valdez and María Paula Zárate, 19-year-old camp counselors from Mexico did what they were trained to do. As they were kept awake by the rain, they decided to act quickly and wrote the names of every child on their arms so that in case they were lost, they could be identified. When the waters began to flood in, the girls all began to panic. They were able to keep them together and they saved their campers.

The truth is that it takes an entire community to make camp the magical place that it becomes for campers. Eastland, Valdez, Zárate and the rest of the staff are all heroes. May Eastland’s memory be for a blessing.

As I reflect on this moment, I am drawn to a text of the Talmud (Sanhedrin 73a) where it says if you see a person drowning in a river, you should jump in and save them. The Talmud asks, how we should know that this is the correct action, and cites Leviticus 19:16 where we learn, “You should not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.” The Torah and Talmud are clear, when we see our neighbor suffering, we are obligated to act and help them in their time of need. While it is a safe guess that Dick Eastland was not familiar with the Talmud, he lived its words up to his last breath and risked his own life to save young girls that parents had entrusted in his care. We might ask ourselves; would we have the courage to act in the same way?

Summer camps are places filled with magic. Many of us send our kids to camp each summer and they come back experiencing growth, creating new friendships, finding new community, and learning from their counselor role models. Camp does amazing things for children. Shira and I are already counting down the days until we return to “The 6” (that’s what we call 6 Points), and I know many of our Beth Tikvah kids are counting down until they return to their summer homes.

May the memories of all those lost in the catastrophic flooding of the Guadalupe River be a blessing and may our leaders learn from this tragedy so that we can be sure the proper systems are in place to minimize further loss of life in the future.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 1, 2025

Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Speech at the Community HIAS Vigil in Support of Immigrants & Refugees

One morning in the fall, I had an epiphany. I had spent much of the last year focused on telling the story of our people, our history—how we were strangers in lands far from our own. Our story spirals through the generations; it echoes the stories of ancestors that live in the recesses of our mind, like a tel, a layered archaeological site. We traveled from place to place, searching for freedom. I knew we needed to continue to tell our story. But what does it mean to be a Jew? We know we have been lost and lonely, and it was not until we arrived here—or returned to our homeland in Eretz Yisrael—that we ever felt at home. I knew that our story was also filled with an obligation to serve the other, to help shape the world into the one that it ought to be. It is a world envisaged by the prophets, one which cares for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.

As a 13-year-old on a Bar Mitzvah trip to Israel, I stood looking at a picture of the St. Louis, and the grandmother of one of the Bat Mitzvah girls on the trip looked at it too and said, “I was on that ship.” I wish I had asked her more. We now know many of the stories, but I didn’t know her story. Those passengers sailed filled with hope for safety and freedom.

The story of the American Dream lives in our hearts and minds—that we come for a better future, that the streets are lined with gold, that the fire lives within our bellies telling us we can work and make our lives what we want. But that’s a fantasy passed on from one generation to the next. While a truth may emerge from that dream, the challenges and the hardships immigrants face are only fragments of the story and, in reality, are like mountainous speedbumps impeding the days of those dreamers.

In early March I received an email from my rabbinic colleague who works at HIAS. “There is a single man coming to Columbus in a couple of weeks on an Afghan Special Immigrant Visa. Would Congregation Beth Tikvah be willing to sponsor him and help him get settled?” I wanted to get to yes—how could I say no? Someone needed our help, but I needed to know what our responsibilities would be: find an apartment, furnish it, arrange health appointments, set up government assistance, and find him a job. A financial commitment and a team of volunteers to help support rides and other daily basic needs. Great, we got this!

Obaidullah was scheduled to arrive in two weeks, but two days later we learned he would arrive that evening before a potential travel ban set in. In reality, that travel ban would come several weeks later. He arrived in the middle of Ramadan, and we learned his story. He held two master’s degrees in Business Administration and Agriculture. He was a translator. We learned his brother lived here and that he had not seen his wife in five years—she was still in Kabul. He believed she would join him here this year, but that dream is now made more difficult because of the travel ban now in place by executive order.

Since mid-March, our Beth Tikvah team of volunteers has not only supported this young man, but we have become an extended community for him. We could not have supported him without the incredible guidance of the refugee resettlement team at Jewish Family Services. We connected him to doctors. We got him the benefits he would need. He took initiative and, within weeks, got himself a learner’s permit and then his driver’s license.

We thought finding him a job would be easy. He worked with JFS; he worked with one of our volunteers who spent her career coaching people on résumé writing and interview skills. Hundreds of job applications went unanswered, and many interviews came and went without a second one. We explored fields in translation, agriculture, and more. Sometimes serendipity helps—and after several inquiries within the congregation, we found a connection and, last week, after 3+ months of searching, Obaidullah had his first day of work. Yet his journey doesn’t come without further challenges. We are now supporting his brother in his efforts to find a job—we are trying to stabilize the house. Can you imagine being away from your beloved for five years? And her life is still in danger. We still need to find him a car, and we are looking to see if someone has one in good working order to gift to him so he can get to and from work without relying on others.

This journey continues, but our friend Obaidullah is now part of our family. So many have stepped up to help.

We hold so many concerns in our hearts about immigration policy, ICE raids, and executive orders, and we often do not know how to help. While we may not be able to change public policy with the stroke of a pen, there is work we can do to save lives. Jewish tradition teaches us, “If you save a life, you save an entire world.” God willing, in thirty years, we will look back and our friend Obaidullah will be sharing the stories of how he came to America and found his way—much like we share now about how our ancestors came here a century or more ago.

We all may be asking what our role is in this crisis. There are many ways we can take action to support the rights and needs of immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers right here in our community.

You’ll see here [on the screen behind me] a QR code plus several links to social media pages for what is called the Community Response Hub. The Community Response Hub supports efforts to defend communities at risk of deportation and detention in Central Ohio. The hub does this through advocacy and mobilizing ally organizations and community members. In the spirit of working in coalition, the hub facilitates communication among diverse groups, working across different communities and issues, and uses diverse tactics. Their mission includes holding decision-makers accountable, including government and enforcement agencies.

Please use your smartphone right now to take a picture of the QR code or of this screen, or look for representatives of the CRH after our program is over for some take-home materials. Thank you in advance for taking action at this critical time for our country.

Let us remember, “If you save a life, you save an entire world.” We, too, can save people’s lives.

July 4, 2025

Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July! Several weeks ago, I wrote to you during the 12-day war with Iran. At the time, three of our young women—Gabi Sanderow, Sylvia Shafran, and Alaina Towne—were in Israel participating in Birthright and Onward Israel. They spent several nights hiding in bomb shelters before relocating to the Negev, a quieter region for the rest of their trip. Thankfully, they returned home about 12 days ago and are resettling. I know their families deeply appreciated the outreach they received from our community.

Jewish community is the essence of Jewish life. One can be a Jew, but it is hard to live Jewishly when you are alone. Several years ago, I worked with a young woman nearing college graduation who was interested in conversion. She had accepted a job assignment in China and hoped to be placed in a city with a Jewish community. However, her placement landed her 90 minutes from the nearest one. We spoke about the challenges of living Jewishly as the only Jew in your environment. Unfortunately, we lost touch, and I’m not sure how her journey unfolded.

When God created Adam, God said, “It is not good for a person to be alone.” God knew we are meant to be with others. As a people, we walked hand in hand through the parted waters of the Sea of Reeds. That experience was not only about freedom—it was about shared freedom. At Sinai, we responded to God’s teaching with one voice. God made a covenant not just with the individuals present but with every generation to come. The rabbis teach in Pirke Avot that when two people study Torah together, God’s presence dwells among them. When we pray, we form a minyan—a gathering of souls creating shared spiritual space.

More than community alone, we need to become a kehillah kedoshah—a sacred community. Sacred communities unite in joy and in sorrow. After the building of the Golden Calf, Moses called the people together. This gathering helped them heal. They used the same materials from the idol to build the Mishkan, and that act of collective building brought wholeness. We need community to say Mourner’s Kaddish, to become B. Mitzvah, and to marry. We need one another to celebrate and to grieve.

When we pray together, something powerful happens. The shaliach tzibur (service leader) invites us: “Barechu et Adonai ham’vorach,” and we respond: “Baruch Adonai ham’vorach l’olam vaed.” This call and response becomes a symphony of voices—speaking to God and to each other. Ahad Ha’am once said, “More than Israel has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept Israel.” I believe this teaches not only about Jewish law but about the sustaining value of community. On Shabbat, we come together to eat, pray, celebrate, and study. Through these sacred acts, we invite God’s presence into our lives.

On Wednesday, Rabbi Karen Martin officially joined Beth Tikvah as our Assistant Rabbi. This is truly a shehechiyanu moment! We are excited to get to know her more in the weeks and months ahead. Her presence will enrich our community in many ways. Join us tonight for our recorded Shabbat prayers. Next Friday, Rabbi Martin will lead services, and on July 18, we’ll hold her official welcome celebration.

Have a wonderful 4^th of July weekend!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

June 27, 2025

As I sat in the Charlotte airport Wednesday evening, patiently awaiting a flight home that was significantly delayed, I turned to my right and there were two ultra-Orthodox men sitting there. I debated whether to turn to them and say, “Hey, I am an MOT (Member of the Tribe).” The only thing that might have given it away was my Bring Them Home necklace. We never said anything to one another. As the delay increased, two women sat next down next to me, and I was convinced I heard Hebrew. But then it wasn’t Hebrew. Maybe it was Russian; and then there was English, then Hebrew again. One of the women wondered why there was no plane. I turned to her and said there was a plane. I had my opening… “Aten meYisrael? Are you from Israel I asked?” I am sure the last thing they expected out of my mouth was Hebrew. Surprised, one of the women answered, “I was born there but I now live in Canada.” I told her I was a rabbi, and she then said, “It’s nice to be with some of our people.” The moment reminded me of a song I would sing growing up in religious school written by my friend and colleague, Rabbi Larry Milder, “Wherever you go there’s always someone Jewish, you’re never alone when you say you’re a Jew.”

We’ve been living in a time where it has been so challenging to be Jewish. These moments echo the prophet Balaam’s words that we are a people who dwells alone. The silence of friends in some of the most challenging moments has only further emphasized these emotions. However, the time when I least feel alone is when I am at Beth Tikvah or in other Jewish settings. I can be my authentic self without worrying about judgment from others. Of course, there are moments when I might find myself in disagreement with others about Jewish law or the best future for the State of Israel; but at the end of the day, I know that we stand together in times of grief, pain, and sorrow.

Therein lies the essence of Jewish peoplehood. We are a family and a people that share an eternal covenant. Our origins come from being a family in the book of Genesis, and quite the dysfunctional one at that. Even though the individuals are deeply flawed, they are all part of the family, and regardless of what they do, they cannot be cut off. In the book of Exodus, Pharaoh first calls us a people, and he is afraid of us. We share pain in bondage, joy in our freedom, awe as Torah is revealed, and responsibility as we share in the covenant.

As I think about these last 20+ months, I think about how I have once again found my people. Together we have felt pain, we have celebrated moments of joy, we have joined for learning, song, and prayer. While I wish it would not take turmoil to bring us together, perhaps it is in the moments of turmoil that the ties which bind us together become stronger.

When I graduated High School, I went on my NFTY in Israel trip, but first we stopped in the Czech Republic to explore our history and visit Terezin, the model Concentration Camp that was used to show off to the Red Cross. While there, we sang the song The Last Butterfly, based on a poem by Pavel Friedman. At the end of the song we sing, “But I have found my people here…” It is a powerful reminder that there are so many moments that bring us together.

Rabbi Donniel Hartman teaches us that we are the sum of the stories we tell about ourselves. As a Jewish people, we must know our stories and we must share them. Ask your family members about their stories. Where did they come from? What is important to them? Why did they bring the sacred objects they brought? Whether we come from Buenos Aires, Brussels, Brooklyn, Be’er Sheva, or Be’eri, or Central Ohio, we are part of the people. We stand together in times of great need. It is why we felt such deep pain and concern when ballistic missiles fell on our cities in Israel in these last several weeks. And it is why we are called together to bring healing and hope to a future that desperately needs us. As we move forward, we will learn our stories, we will learn our tradition so that we can fulfill what is perhaps our most important obligation l’dor vador, passing on our tradition from generation to generation.

In the last twenty months, one of the best symbols describing  Jewish Peoplehood was a poem written by Israel poet Racheli Moshkovits entitled a Coat of Many Colors.

My son returned from battle, his duffel bursting

With things that I had not packed for him.

Socks donated by the Jews in Argentina.

A quilted blanket smelling like someone else’s home

A blue towel from a family from the Moshav,

Tzitzit from Jerusalem.

A fleece jacket, gifted by a high-tech company,

A scarf knitted by an elderly lady,

Undershirts purchased by online shoppers,

A sheet that was given to him by a friend,

Gloves bought by teenage girls,

A jacket from the closet of someone who

Came and requested to give.

I spread out all those garments

And weave together a new coat of many colors.

See, Yosef, your brothers were there for you.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

This is the fourth installment of my reflections on Jewish values that will shape the future. 

For my previous reflections, please visit my Rabbi’s Blog

June 20, 2025

It continues to be a challenging moment for the Jewish people. In addition to being on faculty at camp, tending to work emails and commitments from afar, I have been called to continually check in on family and friends in Israel. To quote the 12^th century poet Yehuda HaLevi: “My heart is in the East, and I am at the edge of the West.” I am not sure if there has ever been a time in my life when I have thought as much about Israel as I have during these last twenty months—except for when I was living in Jerusalem, walking the streets and alleyways, surrounded by buildings of Jerusalem stone that shine in the hot sun.

When I arrived at Beth Tikvah, I started a discussion group about Israel. Over several years, we met monthly at Panera; I sent out articles and we discussed our opinions. Rarely did we speak about Zionism or its origins. Though I had traveled to Israel before entering high school and felt an immediate connection to the land and the people, I am not sure I truly understood the concept of Zionism. I had an incredible 10^th grade social studies teacher who, for extra credit, encouraged us to watch historical films and write reflections on them. I remember watching “The Life of Emile Zola”, a film about the infamous Dreyfus Affair when French military officer Alfred Dreyfus was wrongfully convicted of treason. A young journalist, Theodor Herzl, covered this case and because of the antisemitism he witnessed, he knew that Jews needed to have a Jewish State of their own.

When I teach young people about Zionism, I tell them that “Zionism is the national movement of the Jewish people to establish a Jewish home and to have sovereignty in the land of Israel – the ancestral home of the Jewish people from the time of Abraham.” The concept of Zionism emerged because Herzl knew in the late 1800s that Jews would never be fully accepted living in another land. We needed a home of our own. I also now must teach people that any definition of Zionism outside of this definition has been created by others to delegitimize the Jewish community and the Jewish state. Much of what our young people learn today on TikTok reflects such a distortion.

This week, I learned of a quote from Walter Russell Mead, an American academic, who said, “Zionism was not the triumphant battle cry of a victorious ethnic group, but a weird, desperate stab at survival.” Teaching about this quote, Noam Weissman (Jewish educator and CEO of Unpacked for Educators, an incredible resource for Jewish learning) reflected that now, more than 77 years after the founding of the State of Israel, the fact that we still have to make these desperate stabs is both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring. In the immediate aftermath of the attack on Iran, Rabbi Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein HaLevi reflected that these attacks are the ultimate expression of Zionism. Why? Because when facing an existential threat—as derived from Iran’s many decades of rhetoric against Israel and the Jewish community, Israel acted to preserve the existence of the Jewish people.

Perhaps these scholars have uncovered the true essence of Zionism. It is not about power; it is not a means to denigrate or be superior over another group of people. Zionism is an attempt at Jewish survival. And for 77 years after we established a state of our own, we have been fighting for our survival. For decades, we have faced external threats from foreign militaries, terrorist organizations, and dangerous ideologies. That continues to be the story of the Jewish people. Even with our own homeland, we must continue to fight for our survival.

This is the third installment of my reflection on our values. Please visit my Rabbi’s Blog to read about the values of B’tzelem Elohim, loving the neighbor, and loving the stranger. In some ways, Zionism is also an expression of love—love of our own community and the Jewish people. In these fragile moments, we pray for the safety of our people, the courage of our IDF soldiers, the return of the hostages, and a hope that peace will come speedily in our day to all the inhabitants of Israel.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

June 13, 2025

Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Sermon starts at 9:58

June 13, 2025

Last evening, we learned that the Israeli Air Force, launched a preemptive defensive military strike on Iranian nuclear sites along with Mossad efforts to disable Iran’s ballistic missiles. Israelis spent the night in their bomb shelters preparing for a response from Iran. Iran has called for the destruction of the State of Israel numerous times. We pray that this will limit their nuclear capabilities so that will never happen. With the words of Psalm 122 on our hearts, “we pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” Our thoughts and prayers are with all those in Israel, especially our Beth Tikvah members, family, and friends, who have spent the night with fear on their souls. We pray for the brave IDF soldiers who are defending Israel and our people. We send them our love and strength.

L’shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

The message below was the original message for this week.

How can we be commanded to love? This question is one we ask if we believe that the Torah is commanding us to hold an emotion. Love, however, is a verb, it calls us to act. There are moments when we gather to pray and sing, olam chesed yibaneh, the world was built from love. If the building blocks of the world come from love, we need to take those building blocks to build a sukkah of shalom to embrace the vulnerable and send hope to those in pain.

Jewish tradition commands us to love our neighbor – Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Hillel, both teach us that this commandment is the most important commandment in the entire Torah. In order to understand its lesson, we need to look at the Hebrew – ואהבת לרעך כמוך – v’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha. Hebrew grammar would come to teach us that the word that would typically follow the command to love would be את – et, indicating the object of the verb. However, here, the preposition “ל-l’” indicates moving towards something, towards a vision for the future. That vision is one that includes loving our neighbors. We do this through actions, including tzedakah or other acts of loving kindness. Jewish tradition defines neighbor in a multitude of ways. We might begin thinking about those most like us, our family, the greater Jewish community, or Jews living around the world. However, the Talmud offers an alternate opinion. It teaches us that we can help those living close to us whether they are Jewish or not. The notion to love a neighbor ties directly to the notion that we are created b’tzelem Elohim – in God’s image. To behold another’s face places a demand on us that calls upon us to recognize that person as sacred.

Our love does not only extend to our neighbor, but a core command of the Torah is to love the stranger. The rabbis of the Talmud remind us that the command to care for the stranger appears 36 times in the entire Torah including in Deuteronomy 10:18-19 where God is extolled for being might and awesome, upholding the cause of the orphan and the widow, loving the stranger by providing food and clothing, and concluding with the command to love the stranger. It is not limited to Deuteronomy, but the purpose is to sensitize us to the plight of the foreigner and refugee who lives among us. We were strangers in Egypt and our ancestors were once strangers seeking refuge from antisemitism and turmoil in their homeland. In every generation, we live and relive the Exodus. We see ourselves as if we came forth out of Egypt. Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz reminds us, “To be faithful is to orient our lives around the needs of the most vulnerable. The stranger, widow, and orphan can be understood conceptually. The mitzvot that are articulated with reference to widows, orphans, and strangers apply to all those who are marginalized, alienated, oppressed, and suffering.”

As I sit this week and see those who are strangers and immigrants suffering, I am heartbroken by their pain. In my communications with a Los Angeles colleague this week, he reminded me that there are Latino members of the Jewish community who are impacted by this. Why did he feel the need to do that? Sometimes we tend to think such moments affect other people, but they affect Jews as well. We should not need that reminder, however. Shouldn’t the fear of being separated from one’s family and being swept off the street be enough to tug on our heart strings and make us want to support those in need? Such a moment transcends policy; it causes us to think about how policy impacts human beings. When human beings need our help, Torah is revealed to us calling on us to act. Click here to see the CCAR’s most recent statement.

While we have a core responsibility as Jews to tell our stories and immerse in Jewish ritual and Jewish learning, the ideals of Torah remind us, repeatedly, to reflect on our core Jewish responsibility to think about how we might act to make the world around us better. We begin as individuals within our own community and extend outwards. The Torah reminds us again and again that human dignity matters. As Jews, we are called on to be a light to the nations. Thinking about our vision moving forward: upholding human dignity, loving our neighbor, and caring for those who are marginalized are key components of building our world from love.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Read Rabbi Rick Kellner’s previous post on being created in God’s Image.

Watch Rabbi Rick’s Annual Meeting Update: A Vision for the Future.

June 6, 2025

J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of turning its back on Jews, the Jewish people, and the Jewish community.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of succumbing to the algorithmic mind-shaping of the media.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of molding modern-day Israel into the fold of historical perceptions of the evil Jew, as happened in much of historical Europe.
J’accuse – I accuse much of the world of accusing every Jewish person of being responsible for the actions of a corrupt Prime Minister, with whom nearly 70% of Israelis disagree.

J’accuse is, of course, a reference to the famous open letter written by Emile Zola, a French writer, published on January 13, 1898, on the cover of a French newspaper. In the letter, Zola argued that the conviction of French army officer Alfred Dreyfus, who was also Jewish, was based on false accusations of espionage. He highlighted the poorly conducted investigation and showed that if the investigation had been done properly, the evidence would have shown the guilt was from another officer, not Dreyfus. The Dreyfus affair was a watershed moment for the Jews in Europe. For Theodor Herzl, an Austro-Hungarian Jewish journalist and the founder of modern-day Zionism, that was the moment he realized that, for Jews to be safe, they needed a state of their own. Jews were never safe in Europe, and 40 years later, Herzl’s fears came to life with the genocide and mass murder of our six million.

Jewish life in America was always different. The United States of America, in addition to breaking off from the King of England, also sought to deviate from the Anglican Church of England. This was so important to our Founding Fathers that the First Amendment to our Constitution guarantees that our “government shall not make any laws respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibit the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” Freedom of religion was a primary pillar of the establishment of our country. While these amendments were ratified in December of 1791, President Washington, in his famous letter to the Temple of Newport, Rhode Island, wrote a year earlier in 1790, “May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”

And none shall make them afraid… but 230 years later, we are afraid. On the first night of Passover, in the name of Gaza, a terrorist burned Gov. Josh Shapiro’s Governor’s Mansion hours after their seder. Two weeks ago, two young Jews, Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischintzky, were murdered outside of an American Jewish Committee event for young diplomats to encourage interfaith efforts to bring aid to Gaza. The perpetrator, Elias Rodriguez, when arrested, yelled “Free Palestine” and railed against the war online. He not only waited outside the event to shoot these young people—he pursued Sarah, who tried to crawl away, and shot her countless times. Just 10 days later, at a walk for the hostages in Boulder, CO, an Egyptian man, in the name of “Free Palestine,” firebombed a crowd of mostly seniors. Yelling “Free Palestine” and hurting American Jews will not free Palestine. It will not bring about an end to the war, and it is most certainly not an American way of behaving.

One of the victims in Boulder was Barbara Steinmetz, an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor from Hungary, who said in an interview this week, “We’re Americans, we are better than this. That’s what I want them to know. That they be kind and decent human beings.” She added, “The attack has nothing to do with the Holocaust, it has to do with a human being that wants to burn other people. It’s about what the hell is going on in our country, what the hell is going on?” Her father fought for Jewish assimilation in Hungary, but Jewish wisdom and ritual were a huge part of her life. Her mother was a chemist but had to sit in the back of the class because she was Jewish. Her father spent many years running a hotel in Croatia. When he saw what was coming, he reached out to many former hotel guests for help, but no one would help. The family finally escaped to France, Spain, and then Portugal, where he worked to find asylum in many countries. Finally, they journeyed to the Dominican Republic.

Moments such as this activate the inherited trauma we experienced, our families experienced, or that which we read about and know happened to our people. Antisemitism in America is at an all-time high—up nearly 900% from a decade ago. And the vision of America is that “none shall make them afraid.” Washington’s vision can only hold true if Americans collectively join to denounce such hateful actions.

For months, leadership in the Jewish community raised concerns about slogans appearing at rallies which included “Globalize the Intifada” or “There is no solution except intifada revolution.” When these phrases are put into action, they look like murder, firebombing of Jews, and attacks on Jewish institutions. The massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue changed Jewish life in America. For Jews, we saw it as a different form of antisemitism that never occurred here before. For many Americans, who saw this as another attack on a house of worship and denounced it then, they also aligned it with the treacherous wave of gun violence and mass shootings that has marred 21st-century American life. Those who see this as another mass shooting risk never seeing it for what it is—a man who was solely motivated to kill Jews and was informed by antisemitic conspiracy theories.

I am struck by the deep sadness, anger, and fear that has consumed my soul this week and the alignment with Parashat Naso where we read the Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing: “May God bless you and protect you. May God’s light shine upon you and be kind to you. May God lift up God’s face to you and grant you peace.” May God protect you. Protection is a word we come to associate with security. Our community is all too familiar with asking for protection from our wonderful police officers who stand with us in our hour of need. Bekhor Shor, a 12th-century French commentator, likens these words to the 121st Psalm in which we read God will guard us from all evil. In response to such horrific acts of violence, we might wonder where God’s presence is. God’s presence relies on Barbara Steinmetz’s vision of America—and really the world—in which there is hope for goodness to prevail over wickedness. God’s blessing requires all humanity to do their part. Perhaps this hope is underscored by Nachmanides, a 12th-century Spanish commentator who compared God granting us kindness to a midrash in Genesis Rabbah that says, “O My World, O My World! Would that the quality of grace be before Me at every moment.” It seems that the rabbis recognized God’s secret hope and prayer: that God’s hand in creation would bring compassion, love, and peace to the world.

American Jewish life has traveled a path that has wound its way from being a minority on the outskirts to being accepted into the most important aspects of society. We have been elected to high offices, served as leaders of major corporations, and been appointed to the Supreme Court, and yet once again, we recognize our fragility because we realize we are a minority. Our commitment to learning and work ethic brought our immigrant ancestors into the fold of American life very quickly. Yesterday, as I stood at Plum Street Temple in Cincinnati, a synagogue built by Isaac Mayer Wise in 1866, I learned from Rabbi Neil Hirsch, the senior rabbi, that there are only three Stars of David in the entire synagogue—one atop the ark and two that frame the Ten Commandments high above the ark. The other stars in the building are five-pointed stars mimicking the American flag because Wise was deeply committed to Jewish life in America. He wanted the synagogue to be American. As we do this dance between acceptance and outcast, perhaps what we need is something new. We often speak about Tikkun Olam—repairing the world—but maybe we need something different. Maybe we need a Tikkun N’fashot—an effort to repair souls. The great modern Mussar teacher explains that the nefesh, one of the words for soul, is the aspect of the soul most visible to us. It is where all of our character traits like anger, love, trust, worry, and kindness reside. Morinis explains the nefesh part of our soul registers all the good and bad we do in our lives. What would it mean to repair it? It would require a profound effort for every individual to examine themselves and ask profound questions.

I began tonight referencing Zola’s J’accuse. Israel and the Jewish people have been accused of horrible things. And when we claim that being called colonialists and committers of genocide is antisemitic, those who claim it say they love Jews and deny it. Maybe the accusers need to study more history and recognize their claims align with the blood libel of the past. And maybe they will realize that, like every generation before now, the Jew has become what is considered most evil in society. And this has happened again!

We hate being the victim. We hate what the trauma does to us. When the world looks to us and says, “We accuse you of destruction and starvation,” will the world believe us when we say Hamas stole the aid, Egypt closed its borders, Hamas put its operatives in schools and hospitals and ensured their families would be right next to them? Would the world remember that part of Hamas’ strategy is harming its own civilians? All this is a forgotten part of the story. Perhaps it is intentionally ignored. Every death is a tragedy. When a child dies, it brings me great sadness. I want nothing more than for our hostages to come home, this war to end, and for Hamas to never pose a threat to Israel again. But harming Jews in America will not bring that about. Our Tikkun Hanefesh will come when we wonder if we did all we could to bring home the hostages. It has come when we recognized the mistakes that were made during this war. And it will continue to come when we strive to build Zechariah’s vision: when the old shall be in the squares and the young shall be able to play in those squares.

In 2024, Rabbi Oded Mazor, a Reform rabbi in Jerusalem, shared a vision of the future. He sends his children to the Yad b’Yad school, a multilingual school where Jews, Arabs, and Palestinians come together—they are students and teachers. He was told an incredible story by one of his kid’s teachers. “In another class, the Jewish teacher was teaching, and the Muslim teacher was there with her. One of the grown children of the Jewish teacher walked in the room in uniform, having come back home from the army. He asked his mother to go out with him for a coffee. His mother told him, ‘I can’t go. I’m teaching now.’ And the Palestinian teacher said, ‘Of course you should go with him! He’s your son! He came home!’” She understood that as a mother, even though that son came into the class in uniform—and one can only imagine what that meant for the Palestinian teacher—that mother had to go with the son who came from the battlefield. What they didn’t know was that the reason he came to get her to go out for coffee was that, at the coffee shop, the other son, who came home from miluim (reserve duty), was waiting. He concluded by saying that after Purim ended, he would have an Iftar dinner in his synagogue courtyard for the children in his daughter’s class.” That is the day he waits for.

The day I am waiting for is the day we do not have to have a police officer in our lobby because the world realizes that Jewish lives matter too. The day I am waiting for is knowing that I don’t have to think about where I might go if I had to pack my bags. The day I am waiting for is not having to wonder who will hide me if the world turns its back on me again. The day I am waiting for is for all to recognize that we are part of the fabric of America, where we can all sit beneath our vine and fig tree and none shall make us afraid.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Rick Kellner