October 24, 2025

I was recently discussing the concept of Jewish prayer as it relates to theology with our Confirmation class. One aspect of prayer that we discussed was offering a blessing of gratitude for moments we encounter in our lives. Of course, the students were familiar with blessings such as the Motzi (thanking God for bringing forth bread from the earth) or Kiddush (blessing over the wine). They were unfamiliar, however, with the blessing over the rainbow. In fact, they were quite surprised to hear that there was a specific blessing for seeing a rainbow.

Every time a rainbow appears in the sky, it is met with much excitement. People run to see it. Perhaps the best word to describe what people are feeling is awe. In his book “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life,” Dacher Keltner defines awe as, “the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your current understanding of the world.” He adds that awe is about our relation to the mysteries of life. In moments where we behold the rainbow, we don’t typically think about how the sunlight is refracted through the raindrops. We do not try to make sense of what we experienced; we stand in awe of its beauty trying to soak it all in.

When we behold the rainbow, does our mind take us to the story of Noah? Are we aware that there is a special Jewish blessing that can make such a moment both Jewish and holy? Our rabbis teach us that the blessing for the rainbow is:

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יהוה, אֱלוֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, זוֹכֵר הַבְּרִית וְנֶאֱמָן בִּבְרִיתוֹ וְקַיָּם בְּמַאֲמָרוֹ 

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam zocheir habrit v’neeman bivrito, v’kayam b’ma-amaro.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, sovereign of the universe, who remembers and is faithful to the covenant and keeps the promise [made to humanity].

The Jewish connection to the rainbow comes from this week’s Torah portion. We learn that this connection is a sign of the covenant established between Noah and God. God promised not to destroy the world again and humanity promised to care for the earth and one another. The Talmud imagines that in a time of perfectly righteous people, there are no rainbows. so then, is it our hope that we should no longer see a rainbow? Rabbi Shlomo Riskin suggests in modern terms that since the rainbow is a half-circle, it means that human beings have a certain responsibility to become partners with God to care for the earth. 

Taking a moment to recite the blessing upon seeing a rainbow (or the blessing for eating certain foods or encountering other aspects of wonder) has numerous purposes:

1. It elevates the moment.
2. It ties us into aspects of Jewish history or our textual tradition that have been studied for thousands of years.
3. The blessing reminds us of the lessons we learn from the stories they are tied to.
4. Taking a moment to say a blessing is a Jewish act that forges a connection between Jewish joy and pride.

If you are interested in learning about more blessings in the Jewish tradition, you may want to consider downloading the “Daily Blessings (CCAR)” app in your app store.

In the months ahead we will be offering a “How-to” email each month which can help bring some guidance and insight into certain Jewish practices ranging from holidays to Jewish ritual life. We hope these emails will serve as a reference for you and may even open doors that spark your curiosity. Having a deeper knowledge of our tradition empowers us and enriches the ways in which we practice Judaism and live Jewishly.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 17, 2025

This past week has been an emotional roller coaster. It began with great joy as the 20 living hostages returned home to their families. That joy was met with the heights of dancing and with Torah scrolls as we celebrated Simchat Torah. With the ebb and flow of emotions, those feelings of joy were matched by pain as we began to learn about the ways in which the hostages were tortured during their time in captivity. From not bathing, to minimal food, to being chained for months, we cannot imagine their pain. Our hearts are also broken for the families of the 19 deceased hostages whose remains have not yet been returned. It is our hope and prayer that they will be returned home as soon as possible. These families cannot truly begin the grieving process until they are home.

During the period of captivity, there is a song that has become an anthem for Israelis. In Hebrew, it is called “HaBaytah, coming home.” The song, written by Ehud Manor and made famous by Yardena Arazi, was inspired by the pain of the 1982 Lebanon War. After performing for the soldiers, Arazi told Manor of her experiences, and he wrote the song, calling for a return home. As Lior Zaltzman wrote this week for Kveller, it also calls for a return to a place of ideals and democratic values.

The lyrics express deep hopes and longing for the return of everyone in despair. This is the translation of the lyrics:

Another year has passed, another year of madness, the weeds have grown in the path and the garden. The wind sighed opening the shutter and banging the old wall, as if calling: Back home, back home, it’s time to return from the mountains from foreign fields. The day is fading and there is no sign. Back home, back home, before the light is dimmed. Cold nights, bitter nights, closing in now. Until the dawn I pray for you, bound in the grip of fear I hear steps. Back home, back home, because it hasn’t yet been given as was promised a long time ago.

HaBayta was performed in a concert in December of 2023 with 1,000 Israel musicians and the sentiments continue to linger on our souls.

To mark this time of despair, we have added the ritual of praying for the return of the hostages to our Shabbat services by singing of the Acheinu. Adding this prayer has helped remind us that we are connected to the larger Jewish people; it has kept our focus on the hostages. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks teaches us that “ritual turns us from lonely individuals into members of the people of the covenant.” His words remind us that we have a collective obligation to one another as a people and to the lofty partnership we share with God.

It feels like there has been a shift, and perhaps that shift demands the creation of a new ritual. We are in the process of discussing what that could look like and over the next several weeks, we may try several different rituals to see what fits. In this moment, it is important for us to take the lead of the Hostages and Missing Families Forum. They are reminding us that their world is incomplete.

Some have chosen to take off their yellow ribbons and Bring Them Home Now dog tag chains. I am continuing to wear mine because the hostages are not all home. And the question remains: what shall we do? This week, our Shabbat table that has been set for the hostages will hold 19 yellow flowers as a reminder that this color symbolizes the hostages. We will offer a prayer for the brokenness that the families of the unreturned hostages are feeling, but we will not sing Acheinu. (There is debate as to whether this should be said only for living hostages. As we study more, we may decide to add it back). Next week, we will offer a different ritual to replace the flowers and our sign.

We have also been singing Hatikvah each week since the war began. As we consider changes, we will be looking at adding different options of prayers for the State of Israel which would be traditionally said in the synagogue. These past two years have carried so much pain and have taught us many lessons. Among the most important lessons is our connection to the Jewish people and the critical need for the existence of the State of Israel.

In these moments of continued pain, we pray for the return of the remains of the hostages still in Gaza so that their families and the Jewish people can grieve and begin the path toward healing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 10, 2025

I cannot help but feel a joyful hope as Shabbat begins and we dwell in our sukkah this week. On Tuesday morning, I walked 1.07 miles at 6:29 a.m. with the OSU Hillel Community to mark the two-year anniversary of October 7. That somber mourning, coupled with intense rain that hung over the day, left me feeling sad and detached. But a mere thirty-six hours later, we learned that the long-anticipated hostage deal and ceasefire had been reached and all sides would come together to sign the agreement. In that moment, I felt a sense of relief and optimism, as if the weight of the world was starting to lift off Israel and the Jewish people. Of course, we think of the hostages and their families who have been crying out for this greatly anticipated moment, and the families of the soldiers and reservists who have spent countless days serving Israel. And we must always hold in our hearts the 466 soldiers who died fighting for Israel’s right to exist and bring the hostages home, and all those who died on October 7. May we always remember their names.

And for those who are familiar with our sacred texts, many began to recall the verse in Nehemiah 8:17 which reads, “The whole community that returned from the captivity made booths and dwelt in the booths—the Israelites had not done so from the days of Joshua son of Nun to that day—and there was very great rejoicing.” The captivity referred to here was the Babylonian exile, which took place after the destruction of the First Temple. Upon their return to Israel, they heard the Torah read aloud for the first time, and they took it upon themselves to fulfill the mitzvah of joy with the celebration of Sukkot, what our rabbis came to call zman simchateinu, the time of our rejoicing. The Israelites having not done so since the days of Joshua served as a reminder of the cyclical nature of our collective Jewish story. The Sukkot in the time of Joshua marked a liminal moment between our redemption and our returning home. And now a new generation returned home from captivity and built booths as a reminder of our past. In this moment, we rejoice on Sukkot because we are commanded to, but we rejoice because our people have been broken for far too long, with some of our family held in captivity for 735 days.

Yesterday morning, I decided to Google Hostage Square. I wanted to see if there was anything that would capture the feeling of the moment. I recall on our congregation’s trip in May 2024, I left the airport, and the taxi dropped me at Hostage Square to meet our group, which arrived only hours before. It was a somber place set with a Shabbat table that carried the dust of the tunnels. The clock counting the time from the start of the war was a central marker of this sad place, and the tents representing the communities that had been attacked along the Gaza border represented the potential for human connection and the stories that would now be etched on the hearts of our people for eternity. We sat in the tent and listened to their stories. Every Saturday evening since October 2023, that place has been home to rallies calling on the government to bring the hostages home. It has been a place of prayer, sadness, tears, and hope.

When I Googled Hostage Square, videos played of singing and dancing, and tears of hope. They sang Hava Nagila, Shalom Aleichem, Od Yavo Shalom, and Bashanah Haba’ah. They also sang Shir L’shalom, a song of peace. It was the song that Yitzhak Rabin sang in 1995 before his assassination, whose bloodied words were recovered from his pocket. Rachel Shani Stopper, from our sister city of Kfar Saba, said to the Times of Israel, “This is the most exciting day we have, that we could have expected…It is impossible to imagine what it will be like when we bring [the hostages] to the country, walking on the soil of the land of Israel.” Stopper came for the weekly rallies, but she said she never sang like she did this week. She says it was a reflex, not an active choice. “For two years,” she said, “we’ve held the sadness, pain, and frustration, and now it’s just coming out. You can’t control it.”

Hostage Square is located outside the Beit Ariela Library and the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. It sits opposite the IDF Headquarters. Prior to October 7th, it was known as Golda Meir Square. This location was chosen because it sits opposite the IDF headquarters, and it was the hope that the hostages would always remain the focus of the war. Amit Slonim wrote for the Jerusalem Post that former hostage Emily Damari had arrived. We remember her because of her now permanently wounded hand, missing two fingers. She was singing Od Avinu Chai. She hugged fellow hostages who returned from Gaza and says it is a fellowship no one asked for. Former hostage Omer Shem Tov was smiling, but Slonim writes that this smile is different than prior ones. He says, “It is an exhale shaped like joy with the optimism of hope.” Ziv Abud just wants to pull the plug on that remote counting the days.

Danny Moran’s son Omri was kidnapped from Kibbutz Nahal Oz and told SkyNews, “I feel a heavenly sense of joy and overwhelmed with emotion. There is no greater joy than this. It has been like waiting 9 months for a baby, but instead I have been waiting for two years. I feel ecstatic.”

These expressions of anticipated joy and relief, coupled with singing and dancing, brought me to a verse from Psalm 30 which reads hafachta misp’di l’machol. It is traditionally translated, “You turned my mourning into dancing.” Rabbi Richard Levy, in his commentary on the Book of Psalms entitled Songs Ascending, writes that “All of us experienced times in our lives such as illness or depression when we felt like we were living on the edge of an abyss of despair, abandonment or hopelessness.” Rabbi Levy, in his wisdom, suggests that rather than feeling as though God and all other beings have abandoned us, the psalmist encourages us to see this dark condition as an experience of God’s anger or facelessness, rather than God’s absence. Then finally, when our situation changes, our lament turns to joy, our grief to dance. Rabbi Levy says such a response comes because we long for it, we hope for it, we pray for it. It will not come unless we ask for it. The preceding verse reads, “Listen Adonai, show graciousness to me, Adonai, be my help.” We have been praying for the return of the hostages for two years. When they return, it will be a time for rejoicing.

And yet, the joy does not solely reflect the complexity of emotions of this moment. While they are coming home, the physical condition of the hostages will bring us tears of sadness. And for the families of the 28 hostages who are no longer alive, they will cry tears of grief. Rotem Cooper, son of Amiram Cooper, whose father lived for four months in captivity and died there, says in this moment he feels he will be lucky to get his remains and bury them. For Cooper, this is the best outcome. For others like Cooper, they will hopefully be able to hold funerals and observe shiva.

It will be a period of national joy and grief. It seems odd to hold those emotions all together at one time. But the traditional reading for Sukkot, the Book of Ecclesiastes, reminds us, “A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven: there is a time for weeping, and a time for laughing, a time for wailing, and a time for dancing.” While the Midrash teaches us that the weeping and wailing are tied to a period of mourning, the laughing and the dancing to the time afterwards. But what if it all happens on the same day and in the same season? Perhaps these words are meant to remind us that life is filled with complex emotions. Biblical scholar Michael V. Fox explains that the answer to our question may be found in the word zman, meaning time. This word is repeated throughout this poem and does not refer to specific moments in time but an occasion that is right for something. He reminds us that certain occasions demand a certain type of response. This moment demands a multifaceted response because we have held a collective grief and sorrow for two years. God willing, we will celebrate the return of 20 living hostages, but we will mourn and grieve with those whose lives will forever remain wounded because of the barbaric attacks of October 7th.

And what if there are bodies that don’t come home or cannot be returned? How shall we respond? The Shulchan Arukh (Yoreh Deah 375), a Jewish legal text, says that if a body cannot be recovered, one observes shiva and says kaddish but does not hold a funeral. It is an incomplete mourning. We cannot truly build back what we had on October 6th, 2023. There will always be scars and wounds. Just as we carry the pain of the destruction of the Temples and mourn those moments, maybe there is something we can capture from the lessons the rabbis taught about its destruction. In the Tosefta (Sotah 15:10–15), a rabbinic legal code that parallels the Mishnah, we learn about a great discussion of how we should mourn the loss of the Temple. Rabbi Ishmael explains that since the destruction, it would be appropriate that we do not eat meat or drink wine since these were used in the Temple service. Rabbi Yehoshua responds that if we are going to do this, then we should not even drink water, for it was used as well. The followers of Rabbi Ishmael were shocked. To which Rabbi Yehoshua said to them, we cannot mourn excessively, and it is impossible to not mourn at all. He reminds them that a person may plaster their house with lime, but they leave a small amount unplastered as a remembrance of Jerusalem. Perhaps, leaving a place on the wall unplastered or unpainted, combined with the partial mourning rituals, we will encounter reminders of the eternal brokenness. Maybe it can help bring some measure of comfort. It will never be complete.

The images of dancing in Hostage Square will stay with me as much as the tears and pain of that place. We are a people that builds and rebuilds on top of the sorrow. Where have we done that? In the holy city of Jerusalem. In the Book of Ezra, we begin to learn about the rebuilding of the Second Temple upon that return from exile and captivity. We read, “When the builders had laid the foundation of the Temple of the Eternal, they sang songs extolling and praising God, ‘For God is good, God’s steadfast love for Israel is eternal.’ All the people raised a great shout extolling the Eternal because the foundation of the House of the Eternal had been laid.” When they rebuilt the Temple, they shouted together. However, in the next verse we read, “The elders who had seen the first Temple, wept loudly at the sight of the founding of this house. Many others shouted at the top of their voices.” Here we see the complex emotions of the community. Those who witnessed the destruction and had experienced the loss must have recalled the memories of the destruction. How painful those memories must have been. The younger generation shouts with joy because they did not know the personal pain. But then the next verse comes to teach, “The people could not distinguish the shouts of joy from the people’s weeping, for the people raised a great shout, the sound of which could be heard from afar.” The weeping and the joy become indistinguishable. God willing, in the days ahead, when the hostages return, we can begin to heal from our collective grief and trauma. The weeping and the shouts of joy will unite because as a people, we will hold that pain and resilience together. And tonight, we hope for the last time, we will pray for the return of the hostages with this new blessing written for this moment.

May It Be

May it be, our brothers and sisters, that just as you showed strength and courage in the terrible inferno, so may you find the strength to heal upon your return and as you walk the path of recovery. May you be embraced by the tens of thousands of loving hearts that never stopped worrying, hoping, acting, and working for your sake.

May it be that we know how to serve as a support and a source of strength—material, emotional, and spiritual—for you and your families. May we together weave the thread of the hope for salvation, so that your return will proclaim peace and herald good.

May it be that we preserve this shared home. May we honor the light revealed in the actions of all those who never stopped striving and crying out for your return.

May it be that the memory of those we could not bring back safely, and those who fell in battle, remain with us forever—an eternal flame of pain and hope, of sorrow and consolation.

May the verse be fulfilled through us: “To bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives” (Isaiah 61:1). Let us all say: Amen.

Sources:

[1] https://jewishrituals.org.il/tkasim/may-it-be/?mc_cid=b0143fd0a9&mc_eid=c9c03ba22d

[1] Songs Ascending, Rabbi Richard Levy, CCAR Press

[1] https://www.timesofisrael.com/liveblog_entry/group-dances-sings-songs-of-hope-and-peace-at-hostages-square-in-tel-aviv/

[1] https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-869878 [1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUhNhYSfVBE

October 10, 2025

On Tuesday morning October 7th, I joined the OSU Hillel community at 6:29 AM to walk 1.07 miles to remember the barbaric attacks that took place two years earlier. The somberness of the day and the heaviness of the rain weighed on us as we prayed for the return of the hostages and sang Hatikvah at Mirror Lake. I was invited to be the community rabbinic representative.

Thirty-six hours later, on October 8th, the world received the news that a deal had been finalized to return the hostages and end the war. Such news brings joy and relief as the two years of war, anguish, and suffering can come to an end. The effects of the war will scar our souls for years to come as the pain of the hostages and their families was a focus for Jews all over the world. Every innocent life that was lost in this war will remain in our hearts as well.

For the last two years we have prayed for the return of the hostages as part of our weekly Shabbat prayers. It is my hope that, as we welcome Shabbat this evening, this will be the last time we have to pray these words. These words begin with a word of family, acheinu (our siblings) and then continue to remind us that the whole house of Israel has been brought to pain. When they return, the entire family of Israel rejoices. May it be so.

At the conclusion of the Amidah, we always offer a prayer for peace. In Mishkan Tefilah, our siddur, there is a footnote with teachings from a text called Perek HaShalom. They are a collection of statements about peace from the minor tractate of the Talmud called Derekh Eretz Zuta. One of the teachings reminds us, “Great is peace, for peace is to the world as leaven is to dough.” Peace is an essential component of the world. It is the leaven that causes dough to rise. So too, peace causes humanity to rise in its spirituality, in its ethical demands, in its efforts to help us exist.

In the years ahead there will be many books written about how this deal came to be. Pressures from President Trump and his negotiating team of Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner; pressures from Qatar, Egypt, and Turkey brought both sides to the table. Peace is fragile, it is something we pray about and something we must work towards.

The entire nation of Israel can breathe again. It is our hope that we are emerging from this narrow place, this mitzrayim, and we are welcomed into a wide expanse. The Psalmist so beautifully captures this sentiment when expressing the words in Psalm 118:6 “Minhameitzar karati yah, anani bamerchav yah…From the narrow places I called to God, from a wide expanse God called to me.” The claustrophobic narrow spaces make it hard to breathe, but entering the vast expanse makes breathe easier.

As we enter this Shabbat on Chol HaMoed Sukkot, we pray that the Sukkah of Shalom, the fragile shelter of peace will bring us comfort and that this agreement will endure.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

October 3, 2025

With last evening’s final blast of the Shofar still echoing in souls, I want to hearken back to one prayer we shared during yesterday’s long day of prayer. When I need to feel grounded during the year, these are words I might turn to which would remind me of our core purpose. When we long for God’s presence, these are the places we go to find the touch of the Holy.

As we, once again, read these words with Shabbat about to emerge, may our hearts be filled with compassion to hold all the brokenness, and may our hands be strong so that we can collectively heal the wounds of the brokenhearted.

Yesterday, Rabbi Martin addressed the painful divisiveness in our society and the importance of openness to diverse viewpoints. She encouraged us to join together in a listening campaign in which we will share our concerns about the complexities we are facing together.

On Wednesday evening, I spoke about the importance of maintaining a connection to and a love for Israel, even if some of us might feel troubled by actions taken by the Israeli government. Our commitment to Israel needs to be grounded in our connection to our people and a vision for a better tomorrow. I hope you will consider joining me in a learning series I will be offering entitled “Two Peoples, One Land” in which we will be strengthen our understanding of our own narrative as it is tied to the State and land of Israel. We will also explore the Palestinian narrative so we can gain a better understanding of the complexity of the history. If you would like to read my sermon, A New Dream of Zion, please click here.

Though Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are behind us, we still have exciting plans to celebrate Sukkot and Simchat Torah. I want to take a moment to thank Rabbi Martin for her leadership. It has been a blessing to have a clergy partner this year. Thank you to Julie Sapper, our Director of Musical Programming for her coordination, leadership, and direction of our Shironim, Neilah Singers, Teen Singers, and Instrumentalists. Thank you to John Stefano and Debbie Costa, for their beautiful voices and partnership in leadership. Thank you to Morissa Freiberg, Hannah Movshin, Bentley Adkins, and Cade Crane for their coordination and leadership of our youth programming and services. I would also like to thank Debbie Vinocur, Hannah Karr, Everett Smith, Rhonda Simon, Alisa Swissa, Enos Wisnewski and our custodial team for their attention to detail and the planning of all the logistics for our High Holy Day Services. We know that you do so much behind the scenes and the High Holy Days would not happen without you. Thank you to the many volunteers, including all our singers, ushers, greeters, the Brotherhood and Women of Beth Tikvah for all you did to make these High Holy Days possible.

As we move into the year ahead, may we each find opportunities to connect with one another through the many offerings we share.

Shanah Tovah and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 26, 2025

We are a story telling people. When we sit down at our seder tables, we tell the stories of our past and we think about how our lives are reflected in those stories. We are commanded to tell these stories to our children. What are the stories we tell about ourselves?

When I was younger, my mother would share the stories of her family with me. She shared memories of visiting her grandmother and playing with her dolls. Her family tradition on Passover was that the kids always hid the afikomen and the parents had to bargain it back from the children. She remembered how she would hide under the table and the afikomen would be hidden in her crinoline.

As a child, my mom shared that she chose guitar lessons over religious school and becoming a Bat Mitzvah. When my grandfather died months before I was born, she didn’t have the tools to say the Mourner’s Kaddish. My mother decided to enroll in the Adult B’nai Mitzvah class at our synagogue, which had already started. She took private lessons so she could catch up to the rest of the class. Before she knew it, not only was she reading Hebrew, but she was serving on the board and designing the monthly bulletin. (That was long before we had computers, and she would literally cut apart the text of articles and lay them out on our dining room table.)

Her story mirrors the story of our people; it reflects the ebb and flow of exile and returning home. We all have our own unique stories to tell and as we share them, we see how the stories of others are mirrored through our own. We also see our personal journeys intertwine with the larger Jewish story.

Earlier this year, as we walked through the NOVA Festival Exhibit and Memorial, I was overcome with emotion about how important it was for us to be able to tell our own stories. I was also struck by the fact that so many of us are not fully aware of our own history. I recall enrolling in a Medieval Jewish History course in college and my eyes were opened to so many layers of our history that I had only learned about in passing. We can certainly do more to open our eyes to Jewish history. Learning our story can help instill a sense of pride as we recall the resilience of our past. When we think about our story, how can we help but marvel at the fact that so many of the nations we encountered in the Torah (eg. the Jebusites, the Moabites) are no longer here, but we are? We have endured every exile, every pogrom, every attempt to destroy us. We have had the chutzpah to survive.

As a story-telling people, we need to continue to tell our stories and notice the way they are mirrored and interwoven with the stories that have been shared about our people for generations. On Yom Kippur afternoon, we will have the opportunity to immerse ourselves in storytelling. First, during Stories from the Bomb Shelter at 1:30 pm, we will engage in dialogue with Sylvia Shafran and Alaina Towne who were caught in Israel during the 12 Day war with Iran. At 3:00 pm, our Yom Kippur afternoon service will weave the stories of our people’s past as they are mirrored through individual stories of our congregants. Our Beth Tikvah members will reflect on themes that emerge from the Torah. At 4:30 pm, our Yizkor service will invite us to the shadow of memory when we think about our loved ones and how they shape and guide us.

We are a storytelling people. Every opportunity to share a story enriches our own sense of memory and, in many instances, reshapes it. As we learn more about our past, we dive deeper into the pool of our history and dig through the layers of the past to uncover our people’s treasures. Our memories shape our present and invite us to chart our own paths forward. Yom Kippur afternoon will be a powerful opportunity for us to continue the journey of sacred reflection that occurs during this season.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 19, 2025

Many years ago, on a trip to Chicago, our family took the elevator to the viewing level of Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower). The 360-degree windows give breathtaking views of Chicago and Lake Michigan. One can even stand on an extended window protruding outside the structure with clear glass, making it seem as though you are standing on air. These views give us opportunities for moments of awe as we behold the city from such a height. Awe takes many forms; we find awe in the beauty of the world. We find awe in our emotions through sacred actions of others, through art, and music. During these High Holy Days, the music certainly gives me a sense of awe. Every so often, I find a hidden gem in the prayerbook inviting me to stop and think.

As an introduction to the Shofar service, Mishkan HaNefesh, our High Holy Day prayerbook reminds us that the sound of the shofar tekia, is one whole note, shevariam, is three broken notes, and teruah is nine broken notes. The prayerbook then invites us to see our own lives through the window of these shofar sounds. We are reminded that once we were whole and, through the wear and tear of living, we become broken and shattered. There is a nehemta, a comfort, that through the powerful process of teshuvah, self-reflection and repentance, we become whole again.

This season is an invitation for us to peer through the window of our souls and recognize that the journey of our lives is a winding path (not so dissimilar from Sheryl Crow’s song). We have moments when we feel whole – maybe it’s the joy of a family simcha, a promotion at work, going to a concert with friends, finishing a good book, learning something meaningful and more. However, we know that life’s journey can break us. We might receive challenging news about our health, lose a job, or face what seems like an insurmountable obstacle. Returning to wholeness can be incredibly challenging. Sometimes we need to take a view from the perspective of the windows atop the Willis Tower. That vantage point expands our view so we can see beyond what is directly in front of us.

I find it interesting that one Jewish tradition, according to the Talmud, says that a sanctuary should have windows. I often think the reason for this is that we recognize that there is no boundary between a space of prayer, Torah learning and the rest of the world. When we immerse ourselves in prayer and study, we remind ourselves that our tradition is meant to be carried out to the world around us. I love looking through the windows of our sanctuary, especially at this time of year. The leaves have begun to change and are even starting to fall from the trees. As I look through our clerestory windows, I feel as though I am one with the world. This is part of the experience that brings me to wholeness as I do the difficult work of teshuvah.

As you look through the windows on these High Holy Days, you may notice two broken windows on the north side of our sanctuary. We have been aware of these windows for several weeks. They were caused by errant shots from a BB gun from neighborhood kids who were taking target practice at a bag in their backyard.

Perhaps the shattered nature of the window reminds us of the sacred work we strive to do to find wholeness. Whether it is through prayer, learning, or action, the work of repair is much more difficult than what it takes to shatter us. Shattering comes in an instant; repair takes time and emerges from the delicate work of the hand and soul.

May this season be a season of tikkun – of healing and repair – as we think about our lives and the journey we need to take towards wholeness. On behalf of the entire Beth Tikvah staff, I want to wish everyone a shanah tovah, may the new year be filled with joy and sweetness for all of us. I do hope you will join us on Tuesday afternoon at our Open House so that we can greet the new year together with a sweet treat. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 12, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon – Ki Tavo 5785

It took years after the Broadway show Hamilton debuted for me to finally get to say, “I was in the place where it happens.” Lin-Manuel Miranda, the show’s creator, left us with a profound question at the end of the show: “Who will tell your story?” Aaron Burr notes earlier, “History obliterates in every picture it paints.” He is teaching us that after we die, we have no control over who tells our story, but we realize that the story of our lives is all that is left. Hamilton is Miranda’s attempt to uncover Hamilton’s life, which for nearly two centuries was often hidden in obscurity when compared with the other founding fathers of our country.

The lyrics of this final song begin with Washington reflecting that when he was young, he wished he knew he had no control of “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” Jefferson chimes in and says Hamilton’s financial system was a work of genius. Madison adds that he took the country from bankruptcy to prosperity and that he doesn’t get enough credit. Angelica bemoans the fact that every other founder’s story is told. It is Hamilton’s wife Eliza who works to tell his story. She shares in this song that she interviewed every soldier who he fought with, and she tried to make sense of a thousand pages of his writing. Angelica and Eliza sing together, “We tell your story.” Eliza talks about the orphanage she set up in New York City and how in every one of the children’s eyes, she sees Hamilton. “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”

As Jews, we are a storytelling people. It may be one of the things we do best. And this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, grounds us in our obligation to tell our story. The parshah begins by telling us, “When we enter the land, we are to bring the first fruits as an offering.” The ritual is detailed. You bring the first fruits to the priest and say to him, “I acknowledge this day before your God Adonai, that I have entered the land that Adonai swore to our ancestors.” The priest then takes the basket, and the person is commanded to say the following:

“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and dwelled there but became a very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried out to God, the God of our ancestors, and God heard our plea, saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents, bringing us to this place and giving us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. And now I bring the first fruits of the soil which You, Adonai, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26:5–9)

I am so moved by the power of this ritual. Moses’ instruction to us is that once we have settled the land and we have first fruits that have grown from the soil, we have to bring them to the priest. And it is not just the first time—it is every year. If any of us have ever done home gardening, we will remember when that first fruit grows on the plant. We want to eat it because of our excitement. But the Torah comes along and says, “Not so fast. Bring that first fruit as a donation to God.” It is an instruction in gratitude—that it is not you who did it, but there are natural forces at play. And when we bring the first fruit, we don’t just offer it as a donation—we tell a story. It is the story of our people. We tell the story, reminding ourselves of the challenge of being a wanderer and then living in a place that is not our home. Then, we share the pain and suffering we experienced while living in Egypt, reminding ourselves that God brought us up out of the land of Egypt.

There is something profound about living in the land, going about your business, doing the work you need to do, and being required to bring in an offering of gratitude before you even get to enjoy the literal fruits of your labor. And then to have to offer a specific blessing—which is the literal telling of our story—reminds us of the importance of not forgetting our past. It would be far too easy to forget our past after settling in a place and encountering the joys of abundant blessings. This ritual establishes for us the necessity of telling our story. But why?

Perhaps one answer lies in the debate about the nebulous nature of the opening line of the blessing: “Arami oved avi, my father was a wandering Aramean.” The text immediately invites us to think about who it is referring to as our father. Ibn Ezra understands the Arami to be Jacob. If we know our story, that interpretation makes sense. Jacob journeyed to Egypt with his family, and we grew and became populous there. Ibn Ezra adds that when Jacob was there, he was poor—he was oved, perishing.

Rashbam, Rashi’s grandson, disagrees with Ibn Ezra. He suggests that the avi was Abraham because it fit him better, as the prayer should begin with the beginning of Jewish history and continue with the first fruits.

Perhaps their answers do not really matter as far as who the subject of this text is, but rather the overall content and purpose. Benno Jacob explains that Arami is not the name of a resident of any particular country but more so that of an occupation. He adds, just as the merchant was called a Canaanite and the caravan of traders who brought Joseph to Egypt were called Ishmaelites, the shepherd or the wanderer was called an Aramean. And the Mussar text Sefer HaHinukh brings it all together by explaining that we say these words as the blessing because the utterance of our lips deeply impresses our mind and imagination. If we tell the story as part of our blessing, it will shape us both ethically and with a rootedness in our history.

The question we ask ourselves just ten days before Rosh Hashanah is: Who tells our story?

This is a time and a moment when we do the deepest work of discovering and rediscovering our own story. We see ourselves mirrored in our tradition, and in every generation, the sacred story that rises from the text of Torah and the annals of Jewish history emerges and re-emerges again, helping us reflect on our lives and give them new meaning and purpose. Telling our story helps us go another layer deeper, because as we vocalize this sacred story, we remind ourselves that we are not alone. We came forth out of Egypt hand in hand with a family, sharing the journey together. And yet, we still wonder: Who tells our story?

It is that sharing that is critical to storytelling. Psychologist Ira Hyman looked closely at the lyrics of the final song in Hamilton and notes that throughout the entire show, it is Aaron Burr who is the narrator. But in the final song, it is Hamilton’s wife Eliza. Hyman explains that the change in narrator determines who tells our story and who shapes the perspective and how we remember. He writes, “A narrator determines the story, choosing events and perspectives to include—and just as importantly, choosing what to leave out. History is supposedly written by the winners. But history is really written by those who write. They decide how to tell the story. The narrator is important for our personal memories as well. Who tells the stories in your family, or in your circle of friends? That narrator plays a critical role in how we reconstruct our memories and our shared past.”

When we sit down to tell the Jewish story, we find a story that has been curated over the centuries by rabbis and leaders who have captured the complexity of the past, reminding us of what is sacred. Those stories are often combined with commandments that are discussed and debated on the pages of books. It is the study of those debates that brings the stories to life. We tell the story in every generation because we are the newest narrators of the story.

Hyman adds an interesting insight—he reminds us that “Remembering is a collaborative process in groups. [Families or friends work to tell a story together.] Once a group collaboratively remembers something, that recollection will influence each person’s own memories.” As Jews, we do not sit alone to tell our story—we share it in groups. We are narrators of a collective past that we are actively living.

When I tell the story of my life, I see it as a journey that was rooted in my own family’s journey. When my grandfather died months before I was born, my mother wanted to mourn. As a Jewish adult who could not read Hebrew, she knew the way she could mourn was through the recitation of Kaddish. She endeavored to learn Hebrew, and it became an important part of her life. Along with my father, they committed to making Judaism central to our lives throughout our upbringing. They took us to Israel as teens and impressed a deep connection to Jews and the Jewish people upon our hearts.

Rabbi Donniel Hartman likes to teach that the Jewish people are the sum of the stories we tell about ourselves. While every Jewish person cannot hear the story of every other Jewish person in the world—or every other person who has ever lived—I like to imagine that God is the collector of every Jewish story. As we share our story and the prayers in our hearts, God is collecting it all. And perhaps through coincidence, brings us to moments where we encounter someone with a similar story.

One of the names for Rosh Hashanah is Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance. The second set of calls of the shofar is called Zikhronot—reminding us that God remembers the covenant with us. Yosef Yerushalmi, who wrote a book entitled Zakhor – Remember, explains that the nature of Jewish memory has never been dispassionate recollection but rather evocation, identification, and re-actualization. In explaining what this means, Ellen Umansky teaches: we read the stories of our past because in them we see confusion, fear, and a sense of hope, and taste the bitterness of slavery and the sweetness of freedom—in short, we experience all that our ancestors experienced as if we were there. We also recognize that we live these experiences as well, and the stories of our past can help us navigate our own unique pathways forward as we tell our stories.

“My ancestor was a wandering Aramean…” How do I see myself in that story?

That is the question we need to ask ourselves. When we sit down to study Torah, when we sit down and open up our prayer book, when we sit down at the Passover Seder—we open the pages of our collective past and we have to ask ourselves: How do we see ourselves in it?

Rabbi Donniel Hartman shares a story about a time he was on faculty at the Brandeis-Bardin Institute, which was offering a program for college students. A student came up to him and asked if he was one of the teachers. He said he was, and the student asked, “Why should I be Jewish?” Hartman thought about his response and realized that if he said, “You should be Jewish because Judaism teaches you to be a moral human being or connects you to God,” the student might respond, “What, only Jews are ethical? Only Jews have a relationship with God?”

Instead, Hartman gave one of the most profound answers he could have given. He said, “There is no reason why you have to be Jewish. You can live a perfectly meaningful, ethical, and valued life as a secular American, or a Christian, or a Muslim for that matter. Why then be Jewish? The only reason to be Jewish and to belong to the Jewish people is if doing so adds meaning and value to your life. I will be sharing what I love about Judaism and how it has added meaning to mine. Whether it does so for you is for you to determine.”

Hartman’s words are an invitation to each of us to open a book, engage with, and live our story. “Who lives, who dies, who will tell your story?” For us, right now, we tell our own stories. This season of the High Holy Days gives us the opportunity to write them as well. By seeing ourselves mirrored through our people’s story, we gain wisdom and insight from the challenges and journeys told in our sacred texts that help us shape our stories. As we remind ourselves of our wandering past, we share our own journey that is also filled with challenges and blessings.

In these days and weeks ahead, let us find the opportunity to sit down and tell our story to a friend or neighbor. May we have the wisdom to look deep into our past, and may we have the courage to use the memories to shape our lives and Jewish identities in the future.

Kein yehi ratzon.

September 12, 2025

Last week, I was welcomed into Worthington Kilbourne High School to present to the American Thought and Political Radicalism Course. It is a semester course elective for seniors and has been taught in Worthington Schools since the 1970s. The course is an important opportunity for students to learn and understand how political thought and radical ideas have developed in this country. Students are exposed to speakers who present ideas that are extremely radical. Such ideas have included flat earthers, neo-Nazis, members of the KKK, among others. To be included as one of the speakers feels interesting because I don’t consider myself a “radical.” It is an honor that the instructor feels confident in me to present to his students. (I will also present to the Thomas Worthington students in October.)

I am invited each semester to teach about the development of antisemitism. When I began presenting on this subject three years ago, it was in the aftermath of the infamous Kanye West X post in which he claimed he was going to go “death con 3” on the Jews because of our “agenda”. It was a classic form of antisemitism, depicting both a threat to Jewish well-being and also reflecting an age-old notion of a Jewish agenda that would threaten existing power structures. When I present, I teach about classic antisemitic tropes and myths. I discuss the Tree of Life shooting and the factors that motivated Robert Bowers that dark Shabbat morning in October 2018. I also discuss our security needs.

Now, in recent years, I have added an in-depth look at antisemitism on the left as it pertains to Israel. I have modified my presentation to reflect the symbolism that indicates antisemitism. Yossi Klein HaLevi offers the idea that the Jew is the symbol of everything evil in society. In pre-Holocaust Europe, the Jew was a Christ killer. In Nazi Germany, the Jew was the ultimate race polluter. In the former Soviet Union, the Jew was the capitalist. Now, in the age of universal human rights, the Jew is a White Settler Colonialist and racist. Antisemitism is the ultimate chameleon, changing its color and form to depict anything that is evil in a given moment.

As I enter these classrooms, I know that most of our young people get their news on Instagram and TikTok; often taking form as a series of short memes or videos. I am fearful that their minds are already pre-disposed to radical ideas that have grown on social media. I was comforted to know that many of these young people had never heard of the phrase “Globalize the Intifada” – because they had not seen it on social media – and I had the opportunity to share with them what it means and why it was problematic. As I have collaborated with many of our congregants to do the sacred work of partnering with our schools, I have found that this kind of learning is missing from most curricula; there just isn’t time. I wish I had the time and capacity to present in every high school; I also wish I was given an invitation. Most young people living near us do not know many Jews. It is just the nature of living in the community that we do. Last year, I modified my presentation to also give a brief overview of who Jews are and explain our core beliefs. I feel that this is important to help show that we are not evil people that we are sometimes made out to be. Having the opportunity to teach about antisemitism gives me hope that these young people will take these ideas and help shape a better future.

The Talmud offers a principle called mipnei darchei shalom – for the sake of peace. I enter these classrooms with the hope that through knowledge, education, and truth, we will build a pathway to peace and a better future for us all.

With that in mind, I want to express my sadness over the continued political violence that is festering in this country. We could list countless acts of violence that have targeted elected leaders, political activists, business leaders and others. The assassination of Charlie Kirk is another example – in a long list of political violence – of the radicalization of our actions. David Graham wrote in the Atlantic in the aftermath of yesterday’s assassination: Scholars have noted that assassinations occur most frequently in countries with “strong polarization and fragmentation” that “lack consensual political ethos and homogeneous populations (in terms of the national and ethnic landscape).”

That’s an accurate description of this moment. American politics today are dangerous not merely because they are polarized, but also because they are so widely divided. No party or side is able to win an enduring political advantage, which produces a constant back-and-forth—what the scholars John Sides, Chris Tausanovitch, and Lynn Vavreck have called “calcification.” Partisans on both sides believe that the stakes of each election are existential—for their way of life and perhaps even for their actual life. Conspiracy theories, including claims of election fraud, are common.

People who have concluded that they are powerless to stop politicians and policies they oppose are killing, trying to kill, or threatening to kill CEOs, Supreme Court justices, judges, members of Congress, Jewish people. Although political violence and support for it have been a larger problem on the right for the past few decades, in recent years, there have been a number of prominent acts of left-wing violence.

As a society, we must find other ways to respond to disagreement. We need to seek a path that promotes the virtues of listening, education, and problem solving rather than vilification and the pursuit of power. It is my hope that opportunities like the course taught in Worthington Schools will help promote opportunities for discussion rather than violence.

As Shabbat arrives in the world this evening, may the vision and taste of The World to Come help us nurture the values in ourselves that can build this sacred vision.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 5, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon – Ki Teitzei 5785

When I enter the season of Elul, I am often humbled by the incredible work that needs to be done. Prepare sermons. Create the order of the High Holy Day service. Make sure everyone has the honors sent to them. Write the iyyunim I want to share during the service to help frame prayerful moments. Pick the story I want to tell at the kids’ service. One year, I was so well prepared for the holidays, I actually made a checklist so I could refer to it year after year. Maybe I should check it, so I know what I have to do in the next two weeks.

During the month, I also try to find ways to help our congregation prepare. This can happen through sermons, teachings, or my Friday Shabbat message. But the challenge for me is that I wonder where I find time to do the spiritual work I need to do—the same work that I am encouraging all of us to do. I do try to convince myself that the sacred work I am encouraging our community to do applies to me as well. Maybe I am actually doing the work while helping us all prepare.

One of the ways I prepare is by turning to a text from the Talmud in Tractate Shabbat 31a. In the text, Rava, one of the great Talmudic sages, teaches the following:
When you arrive in the world to come for judgment, you will be asked several questions: Were you honest in business? Did you set times for Torah study? Did you leave a legacy? Did you have hope in your heart? Did you get your priorities straight?
The framing of these questions is a more modern adaptation by Ron Wolfson, found in his book The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven. It is a book I turn to each year at this time. And you might be wondering, wait, Rabbi, that’s only five. Wolfson adds two questions from two different Hasidic thinkers which ask, “Did you enjoy this world? And, were you the best you could be?”

As Wolfson dives deeply into each of the questions, he expresses some surprise over the first question: Were you honest in business? He cannot believe that the first question is not about believing in God, following the commandments, or giving tzedakah, but that it is about being honest. He adds, it is not just about business but about being honest in all matters. He wonders: If you are not honest in your business dealings, can you be trusted to be honest in other relationships? If you are not honest with others, can you be honest with yourself? If you are not honest with others, can your faith in God be trusted?

As he reflects on these questions, he shares a story about a time in his life when he was newly married. He and his wife Susan were in college in St. Louis. He was just shy of his 21st birthday. He and his wife had decided to have a kosher home, and they were looking for a kosher butcher shop. They entered the store and one of the owners asked, “What can I get for you?” Wolfson asked, “How much is a pound of ground beef?” As Wolfson recalls, instead of answering directly, one owner turned to the other and said in Yiddish, “Who are they?” “I don’t know,” said the second. “What shall we charge them?” “$3.95,” said the second. Susan then turned to Ron and said, “Ronnie, let’s get out of here.” Ron had no idea what had happened, and when they got to the car, Susan explained the whole thing to him. Susan knew the going price for kosher ground beef was about $2 a pound, and they were overcharging them. The owners did not know that Susan grew up in a home where Yiddish was spoken and that it was her first language.

Now, I will admit, if I were in Susan’s shoes, I would have replied in Yiddish with something like, “That seems awfully high for ground beef,” and I would have really enjoyed the look on their faces as they realized what they had done.

Our Torah portion this week teaches us about the importance of honest weights and measures. We learn in Deuteronomy 25, “You shall not have alternate weights and measures in your pouch; you shall not have alternate weights and measures in your house. You must have completely honest weights and completely honest measures if you are to long endure.”

Ron Wolfson is echoing the concerns laid out for us by Moses in ancient times. It would seem that one of the core pillars of society must be honesty and integrity. In order for that to endure, the community must commit to that. It is why we often see a seal at the gas station or the grocery store that says the scales or pumps have passed inspection by someone in the county. Such an act is also a foundation for trust. The moment we cannot trust each other, the fabric of society begins to tear apart, and the pillars begin to crumble.

In Pirkei Avot, we find a teaching from Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, who explains: Al shlosha devarim ha-olam kayam—On three things the world endures: al hadin, al ha-emet, v’al hashalom—on judgment, on truth, and on peace. When commenting on this particular Mishnah, Rabbi Yehuda Loew ben Bezalel, better known as the Maharal of Prague, explains that each of these three virtues aligns with three parts of the self. One’s physical possessions align with justice; one’s spiritual possessions match truth, which is concerned with intellectual integrity; and finally, one’s actual self aligns with peace. He explains that these three virtues sustain the world because they sustain human existence.

The lesson here is simple: we rely on truth as a foundational value of society. Not lying is something we teach our children when they are young, and we reinforce it throughout their youth. And yet, it seems like some people just never learn.

I recall a story from high school where a young person cheated on a test, and they were the president of the National Honor Society at school. It is a group that requires not only academic success and commitment to service, but also a dedication to academic integrity. The student was removed from the Honor Society. Major League Baseball players who were suspected of steroid or performance-enhancing drug use have been left out of the Baseball Hall of Fame. I am sure we can think of other situations or moments in time when a failure in honesty and integrity cost someone something important.

One of the interesting words in this text is the word for “endure.” In Hebrew, it is kayam, which indicates a sense of groundedness and being established firmly. Modern Orthodox Rabbi and scholar Yitz Greenberg, quoting Robert Cover, a Yale Law professor, interprets the word endures or sustained as continuing to exist, and that the world is upheld by the three principles of justice, truth, and peace. He explains that these three principles are central to the preservation of the post-Destruction Jewish community. He adds that the values paramount to building a new world are different from those required for ensuring the continuity of an ongoing communal life.

We are living in a time where we are searching for truths. As Jews, we once again feel alone in the world as information out of Gaza spreads from once reliable and trusted sources. As truth-seekers, we hope to build educated opinions based on facts and truth.

Several weeks ago, we recall several photos spreading around the world of children in Gaza who were emaciated. Those images evoked global outrage about the hunger situation in Gaza. Within 24 hours, information started to spread that these images and the news stories were incomplete. You may recall that one image shared by The New York Times was a cropped photo. What was cut out from the picture was the image of the child’s older, healthy-looking brother. Omitted from the story was information that this young child also suffered from a preexisting condition like cerebral palsy.

The editors of The Free Press subsequently did a deeper investigation to uncover additional facts about 12 images that were spread by media sources throughout the world. The response from those they critiqued varied. They were clear to share that their reporting was not intended to question the dire humanitarian situation. They acknowledged there is real hunger, but they were extremely concerned about the current state of journalism and the ease with which a journalist can write and share a bias that ultimately shapes people’s opinions into believing a narrative that is not necessarily truthful.

The Free Press wrote an editorial entitled “Journalists Against Journalism”, where they wrote:

You’ll notice one important aspect about the uproar: No one is disputing the facts in our piece. Instead, they take issue with the facts we have exposed. They take issue with curiosity that points in the wrong political direction.
This story—like all of our reporting—does not deny that there is hunger in Gaza. Their situations—and those of the people in these 12 images—are tragic enough, as is the horror of the war itself.
But the panic over our investigation is not sincere—it is strategic. They think if they can make an example out of our reporters, no one will dare ask uncomfortable questions. Questions like: If there is a deliberate campaign of starvation, why did our reporters find that many of these children are receiving medical care, and some of them have already been airlifted out of Gaza to seek treatment with Israel’s help? If these images are representative of the average Gazan, then why were our reporters able to find complicated backstories behind the first dozen images they investigated? And if these critics are such accuracy hawks, why do they take issue with adding basic context to news stories?

If we cannot rely on our journalists for truth, and they are not asking the critical questions, where does that leave us? I recall reading reports from CNN and other news agencies in the past using language that says, “This person is reporting X, but we cannot verify that X happened.” Journalism relies on verification from trusted and reliable sources.

The world has now been trapped by the Hamas propaganda machine that is shaping our minds. When we read information about Israel, how can we respond? What is the information we might come to trust? When I read news, my first reaction is to wait and not judge. One of my colleagues recently suggested that we give Israel the benefit of the doubt when something happens. That can be hard to do because we have such high expectations of Israel.

There is a deeper question I want to ask today: How can we respond when we read or see something? We might want to respond internally that it is in fact true. I recall from the very first seminar that we offered to public school teachers in Holocaust education, one of the workshops focused on identifying and understanding propaganda. We looked at photos and were taught to think about several questions: Who are the people in the photo? What are they doing? Who is taking the photo? What is their purpose in taking the photo?

News stories and photographs are literally snapshots of a moment in time that often do not capture the full essence of what they depict because words and images are finite. Sermons are too. There is often a story behind the image and an intent by the image-taker. As readers of news and students of history, can we be taught to question and understand when to question? By questioning, we open our hearts to alternate possibilities.

The Rabbis offered a teaching that may resonate. In the Tosefta, a Jewish legal text similar to the Mishnah, it suggests: “Make for yourself a heart of many rooms, and enter into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare a matter impure and those who declare it pure.” A heart of many rooms is a powerful image that invites us to hold many opinions in one vessel, inviting us to discern one matter from the next. If we are asked to hold both the teachings of Hillel and Shammai together, what can we do? The invitation is to think about their responses and discern the truth—that can be an incredibly challenging journey to take.

The Book of Deuteronomy and the Rabbis that followed in the Talmud and the Mishnah help us recognize the value of being honest. If we cannot rely on others to be honest, then we have to do our best to discern the truth. May we have the courage to ask questions and look for multiple sources that allow us to discern judgment, capture a fuller story, and seek the truth.

Kein yehi ratzon.

September 5, 2025

Earlier this week, schools opened in Israel. Why is that something to be interested in here in America, you might ask? For the first time ever, there are more Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) students enrolled in schools in Jerusalem than non-Haredi students. Jerusalem was always a religious city, very different from the more-secular Tel Aviv. However, since 2010 during my visits to Israel, I have seen the city shift into a much more religious one. You could feel the presence of Haredi Jews more and more as the years went by.

This is something that we might want to be aware of for the future as the face of Israel changes. Haredi Jews are the fastest growing population in Israel simply because their birthrate is that much higher than non-Haredi citizens of Israel, including Jews and non-Jews. Many Haredi men do not work outside the home, spending their days studying Talmud in Yeshivot. This leaves their wives to engage in the work needed to earn a living and support a family. Many of their financial resources come as handouts from the government. The overwhelming majority of Haredi men also do not serve in the military and there has been significant political conflict in recent years because the Ultra-Orthodox parties in Israel have wanted a new law passed that would exempt Haredi Jews from serving in the IDF.

With the rise of Haredi students, one might begin to wonder what this means for the future of Israel. Currently, the Haredi population in Israel is about 14% which is about 1.4 million people – growing at around 4% a year. As we think about the long-term implications for the state of Israel, it is not far-fetched to think that at some point in the next century, Haredi Jews will make up more than half the population of Israel. If this is the case, we as Reform Jews, who believe in egalitarian Judaism and hold pluralistic values, will begin to wonder what place there is for us in the State of Israel. For many years, Reform Judaism has been vilified by the Haredi community because they believe we are potential threats to the Jewish future. We know, however, that there is much we are doing to ensure a vibrant Jewish future and the growth of Reform Jewish life in Israel.

With most Haredi schools focusing their educational goals on Torah and Talmud study, there is a struggle within Israel to ensure that these young people receive the education they need in math and civics. Orly Erez-Likhovski, head of the Israel Religious Action Center (IRAC, the Reform Movement’s advocacy arm that fights for equality in Israel) shared this week that IRAC is leading efforts to “ensure that Haredi schools provide instruction in the legally mandated core general studies curriculum is that it includes civics, a subject that is crucial for informed engagement and participation in any democratic society.”

Likhovsky reflected that education is one of the most important tools in promoting pluralism. If such education is absent from Haredi schools, students will lack the basic knowledge of governance on a national and local level. In Israel, national elections tend to lean more towards the center or the right as people are more hawkish with defense policies. On a local level, citizens tend to elect more liberal leaning leaders who ensure a sense of equality. They hope to prevent a full religious takeover of local government.

In America, we have spent so much time thinking about and discussing the war, that it is easy to forget that there continues to be internal issues that need resolution. They will have long term impacts on Israeli society.

At its core, Israel was established to be a homeland for all Jews. One need not be religiously observant to be a citizen of Israel. Most Israelis consider themselves Chiloni, (secular). It is critical that we continue to be aware of the work that organizations like the Israel Religious Action Center are doing to ensure that pluralism remains a value and a practice on both national and local levels. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

September 1, 2025

Some people hold the perception that an immense amount of air is required to sound the shofar. When I sound the shofar, I form the embouchure with my mouth, close my eyes and allow a small but measured amount of air to flow through the ram’s horn. Each shofar is unique, and I have found some to be more difficult to sound than others. With a little trial and error, I am usually able to make it work! When I think about how little breath is required to make the shofar sound, I begin to wonder about the power held by such a little breath; how such a loud blast awakens the soul.

In Hebrew, the words for breath and soul are connected. N’shamah is one of the words for soul, and n’shimah, is the word for breath. Early in the book of Genesis, we read that God breathed the breath of life into Adam. Our morning blessings begin with prayers of gratitude, thanking God for the gift of body and soul. Elohai N’shamah shenatata bi, My God, the soul you have shaped within me. The Hebrew connection between the two words opens the possibility for much interpretation. Our breath is the source of our life; it is a divine gift. Breathing and heart beats are among the normal, naturally occurring actions of our body. We can hold our breath, but only for so long, until our body requires us to breathe again. Our soul is the part of our being we cannot begin to describe with words. As Mussar master, Alan Morinis teaches, the soul is the seat of our moral virtues, it is the spirit that animates us, and it is intimately connected to the divine. When we say we are created in the divine image, perhaps it is the soul that we are referring to.

Arriving in this moment in the new year requires a little bit of n’shimah work and n’shamah work. The High Holy Days provide an invitation for all of us to breathe deeply, take a break from our chaotic lives, and focus on the important soul-work we each need to do. The High Holy Days are also called the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe. Awe is one of those traits that is found rooted in the soul. Alan Morinis also writes that, “Awe is a natural human response to an overwhelming profound experience.”

We stand in awe when the shofar sounds. We lean in with awe as we spend time harnessing the internal instruments that empower us to reflect, examine, discern, and turn. Perhaps, each day, during the remaining weeks of Elul, you will make your way to Psalm 27 and imagine yourself dwelling in God’s holy mountain and frequenting God’s Temple.

As we engage in this challenging work, we know we will feel sheltered from above. As we read Psalm 27, we might even consider focusing on the words tekia, shevarim, teruah, and tekia again. The notes of the shofar go from whole to broken and back to whole. These metaphors provide the sacred road map for us to recognize that our lives begin whole, and as we encounter brokenness, we have challenging but sacred work to do to make them whole again.

As 5785 winds down, and we enter 5786, we know that our people continue to feel broken. We are reminded of that brokenness each day as we pray for the return of the hostages and an end to the war. May 5786 bring us moments of sweetness and joy amid challenges and pain. Debra, Zoe, Shira, and I all wish you a Shanah Tovah! We hope to see you at our annual Open House on Rosh Hashanah afternoon.