March 2, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

Chag Purim Sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 27, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 20, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 13, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

February 6, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Recommendations for Mussar Practice:

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

2. Every Day, Holy Day by Alan Morinis

3. Everyday Holiness by Alan Morinis

February 3, 2026

Moses saw the face of God just once and then

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

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

In the fury of his longing he struck the rock,

climbed Mount Sinai and came down again, broke

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

fire and smoke, but he could remember only

the strong hand of God and His outstretched arm,

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

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

He composed a police sketch of God’s face

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

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

He sent that picture to all the tribes of Israel,

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

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

On Mount Nebo, did Moses see and die, kissing

the face of God.

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 30, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 28, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

What have we done?

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

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

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

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

L’shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 27, 2026

For the past few weeks, I have awakened each morning and looked at my phone for updates coming out of Iran. Protests erupted several weeks ago and were met with a brutal response by Iranian Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. Inflation is out of control, and people took to the streets because they could no longer afford basic necessities. Today, 1,000,000 rials are equivalent to approximately $1 USD. This severe inflation has resulted from international sanctions imposed over Iran’s refusal to curb its nuclear program. The Ayatollah has not put the people of Iran first, instead advancing an ideology rooted in “down with Israel, down with the U.S.”

To suppress the protests, internet access was cut off, primarily to limit communication between protest leaders. Over the course of several days, reports began to emerge that the IRGC had killed nearly 20,000 protesters (exact numbers could not be independently verified). Iran has posed a threat to Israel and Jews around the world for decades. The Iranian regime has supported global terror, funneling financial resources—despite being an oil-rich nation—to proxy groups including Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Houthis. In 1994, Iranian-backed Hezbollah bombed the Argentine Israelite Mutual Association (AMIA) in Buenos Aires. Years of repeated threats against Israel have culminated in several rounds of ballistic missile attacks over the past two years, causing death and widespread destruction across Israeli cities.

In recent weeks I have spent time trying to better understand the implications of these uprisings. For those looking to learn more, I recommend the following podcasts:

Dan Senor’s Call Me Back

January 5: After Venezuela, is Iran Next? With guest Karim Sadjapour

January 12: If Iran Falls, What then? With guest Karim Sadjapour

Ask Haviv Anything

Breaking Iran’s Machinery of Oppression

For Heaven’s Sake

January 13: Iran: When the Story Changes

These podcasts offer a deep-dive into revolutions and societal changes.

Perhaps the most important question is why we should be concerned here in America. Since the Iranian Revolution of 1979, the Islamist regime has ruled with an iron fist. It has brutally suppressed its own people while advancing a deep hostility toward the West. As Jews, we know this regime has repeatedly threatened Israel, funding proxy networks with the explicit goal of Israel’s destruction.

Last week, the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR) expressed support for the Iranian people, many of whom have lost their lives opposing the regime. As the largest sponsor of state terrorism, Iran’s continued support of terror organizations threatens the stability of the Middle East and the safety of populations around the world. The CCAR wrote:

“Centuries before democracy was common, our rabbinic sages decreed that a ruler may only lead a people with their consent (Talmud Brachot 55a). The Iranian regime has forfeited its moral authority to rule the nation and has now lost the popular support required to remain in power. Their reach goes well beyond its own boundaries to impose its terror in the Middle East and the western hemisphere. For the sake of a greater peace that begins in Iran, it is time for the people of Iran to be sovereign.”

Our hearts go out to the suffering Iranian people. While we may feel powerless to effect change, we can acknowledge their extraordinary bravery and hope for a future in which they experience the freedom they yearn for. As Jews, we have always stood with the oppressed. In this moment, we pray for the Iranian people in their suffering and hope they will one day celebrate their liberation.

Listening to experts, it remains unclear whether a regime change will happen in the near future. According to Karim Sadjapour, there are five key factors for a regime to fall:

1.    Fiscal Crisis

2.    Divided Elites

3.    Opposition that starts to cohere

4.    Shared narrative of resistance

5.    A favorable international environment

Sadjapour argues that the elites are not divided. The IRGC remains loyal to the Ayatollah, and significant segments of the population still support the regime. This loyalty may be the key factor preventing regime change at this time.

I am also struggling with another reality. Over the past several years, voices denouncing Israel have flooded social media and filled the streets in protest. Yet many of those voices have remained silent as the Iranian regime has murders its own citizens, with the singular focus on remaining in power. The silence of their defenders is deafening, and the double standard is deeply troubling.

As hours go by, I join countless others in prayer, hoping for strength and safety for the Iranian people. May they one day be free to chart their own path toward prosperity and live in the light of freedom.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 27, 2026

On International Holocaust Remembrance Day, we rejoice in the news that Ran Gvili’s body has been returned home. On Sunday evening, we received word that an operation was underway to recover his body from a cemetery in northern Gaza City. For the first time in 12 years, there are no Israeli hostages being held by Hamas. On October 7, 24-year-old Ran Gvili, a police officer who had been injured and was awaiting surgery, chose to jump into the fight. He fought Hamas terrorists at Kibbutz Alumim, where he was killed and taken into captivity. For 843 days, we have prayed for the return of the hostages, and now they are all home. Since October 7, we have said, “Bring Them Home,” and yesterday the IDF brought Ran home.

With thanks to social media, I saw soldiers singing “Ani Maamin, I believe with perfect faith…”—a text first written more than a thousand years ago by Maimonides—affirming our belief with perfect faith that there will be someone to come and rescue us from the depths of despair. As the brave soldiers of the IDF carried Ran’s body, wrapped in the blue and white colors of the Israeli flag, they spoke the words of Psalm 121, “Hinei lo yanum v’lo yishan, shomer Yisrael—behold, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.” For 843 days, we called out to God in prayer with the words of the prayer for the return of the living hostages, and then for the return of the remains of those who died in captivity or were killed and then captured. Our prayers have been answered; they are all home.

I often wonder about the complexity of the coincidences that occur in certain moments. This week, we read in the Torah as the Israelites were preparing to leave Egypt: “And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, ‘God will be sure to take notice of you; then you shall carry up my bones from here with you.’” (Exodus 13:19) Before his death, Joseph did not want to be left behind. He wanted to be with his people. These words echo within the heart and soul of every Israeli, of every Jew. We have seen that our people will do all we can to bring home those held in exile.

I learned of the news early yesterday morning as I got off the Peloton. As I prepared for my day, I looked down at my dog tag and yellow pin and, with a tearful smile, said to myself, “I don’t have to put this on anymore.” I have worn that dog tag since I returned from Israel in May 2024, and it has been a daily reminder that the hostages and their families remain ever so close to my heart. On our bimah, we have had a visual symbol since October 7, 2023. During services this Shabbat, we will take out the last kalanit (poppy flower) from the vase and return it to the garden outside our sanctuary. We will take down the sign that reads, “Until the Last Hostage,” and remove the table. Even though the visual signs are gone, our connection to the Jewish people will remain in our hearts. The holes left from the pins will be an eternal reminder of our pain and suffering, but also of our resilience and hope. While the pages are turning on this chapter in our people’s history, we know that there is still much healing that needs to happen. Our prayers are with the Gvili family, all those who still grieve loved ones lost in these last two years, and those who bear the burdens of the pain they carry from their time in captivity. The healing work can now finally begin.

As we move forward, there are deep questions that the Israeli people can now begin to ask as they build toward the future. May Ran’s memory always be for a blessing.

With blessing,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 19, 2026

On a frigid December day, a call went out to the Community Response Hub listserv asking for people to stand outside several mosques frequented by Somali refugees. ICE was out, and their pursuit of certain people added to the chill in the air. I still feel guilty that I could not join those who stood in the cold, hoping to protect a human being from being detained. During the darkest nights of the year, countless individuals could not leave their homes as they feared being taken from their children, or that their children would be taken from them. Days later, another call went out seeking volunteers to do grocery pickups for those who needed to stay locked in their homes. It was the holiday season, and so many of us were traveling. I put out the call to those in our community who had previously expressed interest in supporting immigrants or doing social justice work. It was all I could do, was it enough?

Months earlier, with crisp morning air and leaves beginning to fall, I began thinking to myself: ICE will show up here; what are we going to do? We can see what is happening in other cities; leaders need to come together and create a playbook so that when they arrive, we call out play A, B, or C. Maybe such a meeting took place; I wasn’t in the know. The calendar turned, and ICE crept north to Minneapolis, the largest Somali population in the United States (Columbus is the second). More than 3,000 ICE agents, four times the number of Minneapolis police officers, began roaming the city. Reports followed of kicked-in doors, individuals harassed in their homes, and the shooting of Renee Good and another civilian. I know that so many of us are angered and saddened by what we are witnessing around the country, and we feel powerless to respond.

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Part of me wonders what he might say if he were preaching today. As he bore witness to the pain of his brothers, he worked to bend the moral arc of the world toward justice. In the hot summer of 1964, he put out a call to the Central Conference of American Rabbis to come to St. Augustine, FL, to stand in “creative witness to the joint convictions of equality and racial justice.” 16 rabbis, along with Al Vorspan—who would later direct the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism—went to Florida. Fifteen were arrested outside of Monson’s Restaurant as they joined in integrated prayer. Two others were arrested because they dined with three Black individuals at the Chimes Restaurant. In the sweltering heat of the jail, lit by a single light outside the cell, these 17 Jewish leaders penned a famous letter called “Why We Went”. The letter was written on the back of pages of a mimeographed accounting of the bloody KKK attacks.

I had the privilege of knowing three of those 17 men personally. One was my teacher. I remember him telling us the story of Dr. King calling to them. My teacher, Rabbi Richard Levy z”l, who held a balance of righteousness and spirituality in his soul, taught us that we say, “Hineini, here I am,” when we are called to bear witness and break the bonds of injustice. His righteous indignation still echoes within my memory and serves as a reminder of one of our significant responsibilities as Jews: to stand up to Pharaoh. 

These rabbis wrote, “We came to St. Augustine mainly because we could not stay away… We could not pass by the opportunity to achieve a moral goal by moral means—a rare modern privilege—which has been the glory of the non-violent struggle for civil rights… We came because we could not stand quietly by our brother’s blood. We had done that too many times before… We came as Jews who remember the millions of faceless people who stood quietly, watching the smoke rise from Hitler’s crematoria. We came because we know that, second only to silence, the greatest danger to man is loss of faith in man’s capacity to act… What disturbs us more deeply is the large number of decent citizens who have stood aside, unable to bring themselves to act, yet knowing in their hearts that this cause is right and that it must inevitably triumph.”

They carried with them the memory of those who were bystanders in the face of the greatest evil humanity has ever known. Not even two decades after the end of the war, they could not forget. These great leaders saw a moral cause and knew they had to act. Sitting with Black men at a meal and praying in an integrated service did more than serve as an act of protest; it was a response to those whose cries pierced through the screen blinding people from seeing their humanity. In a rare moment, those who were dehumanized because of the color of their skin were seen as human in the eyes of the rabbis.

As they were greeted with exuberant joy in the church and marched hand in hand, they reflected, “We came to stand with our brothers and, in the process, have learned more about ourselves and our God. In obeying Him, we become ourselves; in following His will we fulfill ourselves. He has guided, sustained, and strengthened us in a way we could not manage on our own.” God’s holiness is felt when human beings join hand in hand and the break the bonds of injustice. 

As I sit with the words of this letter engraved on my heart, I reflect on the words of Torah we read this past Shabbat from Parashat Vaera: “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant” (Exodus 6:5). Why is God now only able to hear their cries? Has something changed in the people? Has something changed in God? Or HaChaim, an early 18th-century commentary written by Chaim ibn Attar, a kabbalist and Talmudist, teaches us that the words in this verse—and also gam ani—refer to God’s attribute of mercy. He explains that this attribute extends beyond the cries and prayers of the Israelites. God’s mercy touches the lives of all who suffer. This painful witnessing helps God remember the covenant.

In this moment in time, we too must have our attribute of mercy awakened by the cries of those who cannot leave their homes because they fear being taken from their families. We share a covenant with all human beings. To behold the face of another is to remember we are responsible for them. If they were harmed, their blood would cry out to us from the ground. Upholding our end of the covenant with humanity begins with ensuring that we see every soul as a human being.

Last Wednesday, we hosted our first community meal. Neighbors in our community who need a free meal come to houses of worship for various reasons. The churches in Worthington had been doing this for years. Though we prepared for 40 people, only two came. Neither woman spoke English. I sat with them and spoke Spanish. I learned they were from Venezuela and Ecuador. The woman from Venezuela shared that she walked for seven months to get here, sometimes going seven to ten days without food or water. She shared her desire to take English classes and that so few people spoke Spanish. By sitting with these two women and speaking their native tongue, perhaps I was able to overcome a small part of the barrier they face with most people. They were seen in their humanity.

We have a long road ahead. As ICE agents sprawl through our cities, we might begin to ask ourselves what we can do to ensure that we see our neighbors as human beings. In some instances, the people they are going after are the people who clean our homes or care for our lawns. They do all they can to put food on the table and provide for their families. We know they will descend on our city again. We must ask ourselves: will we be ready for the call?

Rabbi Rick Kellner

January 16, 2026

When a synagogue burns, part of my soul goes up in flames too. That is the price of being a Jew and part of the Jewish people. Wherever a Jew suffers, we all suffer. Last Shabbat, we opened the book of Exodus and we read of Moses turning aside to see a bush burning but not consumed. In the dark hours of the night, a synagogue was set ablaze, and by the time the first rays of light brightened the morning sky, a library that once witnessed laughter and learning had been consumed by the flames of hate. Beth Israel of Jackson, Mississippi is the largest synagogue in the state and is also home to the Institute for Southern Jewish Life, an institution that has preserved Jewish life in the South for generations. Jackson is also home to nearby URJ Camp Jacobs, the Reform Movement’s summer that serves much of the Jewish South.

During Shabbat, my social media feed was filled with stories and memories of how this small but mighty congregation had touched the lives of so many people I know. The synagogue was served by many student rabbis who studied at HUC in Cincinnati. All of these connections deepened the closeness I felt to this tragedy.

Why does this hurt so much? There is something that we, the Jewish community, feel so deeply that many outside of it struggle to understand. The pain of such a tragic moment pierces our souls because we know people directly hurt by this antisemitic attack. And if we do not, it is the intergenerational trauma we have inherited from centuries of hatred our ancestors endured. We also imagine ourselves sitting in our own temple libraries—studying sacred texts, recounting our Jewish story, or engaging in prayer. When our sacred spaces are vandalized, it is an attack on our identity, our sense of security, and the place we call home.

On Sunday afternoon, I slowly walked through the dark halls of the United States Holocaust Memorial and Museum with our Confirmation (10th grade) students. We saw video and still images of the fires of Kristallnacht, as well as a desecrated Torah scroll from the Holocaust. Nearly 90 years later, the images haven’t changed.

When I learned of the Beth Israel fire, my initial reaction was anger, which quickly turned to pain and sadness, as if I had stepped into a storm cloud. It pains me that the embers of hate still burn so deeply within the souls of people who may be our neighbors. Even after all the work we have done, propaganda videos online are more than just words—they feed embers and turn them into flames that spark fires destroying our sacred spaces. The loss of Torah scrolls—carrying the words of our people, read aloud for generations, inspiring us to love our neighbors, care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger, reminding us that we are all made in God’s image, and commanding us to be holy—is beyond tragic. One of the scrolls that survived was one that survived the Holocaust. Thank God! The former rabbi of the synagogue shared photos sent to him just weeks ago of children learning in that library. He posted those photos alongside images of the library charred by fire. The contrast is striking.

Out of the fire of the Burning Bush emerged the voice of God. This community is no stranger to terror, having been bombed fifty years ago. As Jews, we rebuild. Just as being targets of hate is part of DNA, so too is our resilience. We are an ever-living people, and we have survived for millennia, even as countless forces sought to destroy us. We will continue to survive, and we will rebuild again. Perhaps the most inspiring part of this tragic story is the many churches that reached out to their Jewish neighbors in Jackson and offered space to worship and learn. In fact, on Sunday morning, the children of Beth Israel gathered to learn once more. The destructive flames cannot extinguish the eternal flame that burns in the heart of the Jewish soul.

So many of us were touched by this awful tragedy because we feel it so personally. We are all Beth Israel. If you would like to join me in donating to Beth Israel’s rebuilding efforts, please go to their website www.bethisraelms.org to find a donation link.

As we enter Shabbat this evening and sing the words of V’shamru, we will be reminded of the eternal covenant God established with the Jewish people. The threads of the covenant bind us tightly to one another. We pray that the sacred connection of the Jewish people brings Beth Israel of Jackson strength and love as they rebuild. May we all know that we care and support one another through these difficult moments.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner