August 29, 2025

Once again, the hearts of our grieving nation look to one another for support and comfort. Wednesday’s shooting at the Annunciation Catholic Church in Minneapolis leaves us bereft. Our hearts mourn the loss of the two children murdered while they attended school and church. At a time when so many people say they have no words, my colleague and friend, Rabbi Evan Schultz found the words. He wrote:

Words stir in our minds. They may come as expressions of anger or emphatic rhetorical questions that echo the Book of Lamentations which begins, “Eicha, how?” Mixed with grief and tears, we feel the sadness of the moment, and like every other mass shooting, we will return to our lives because we have allowed these tragic incidents to become normalized.

This shooting strikes us deeply. As a religious organization, we know all too well the fears of being attacked in a house of worship. The Jewish community in Columbus, led by the efforts of JewishColumbus, have helped us think about ways in which we can protect our worshippers and all those who enter our building. Under Debbie Vinocur’s leadership, we have earned several state and federal grants which have strengthened our security infrastructure. We do everything we can to ensure our safety. This tragic incident strikes deeply for other reasons as well. The alleged shooter amplified the likes of Robert Bowers, convicted of murdering 11 Jewish worshippers at the Tree of Life Synagogue. He wrote “Burn Israel” and “Destroy HIAS” and “6 million wasn’t enough.” Such words elevate our fears regarding the connection between classical antisemitism and present-day anti-Zionism and its threat to Jews.

Perhaps one of the most moving moments shared in the aftermath of Wednesday’s shooting was when a young boy, who left the church without a physical wound, praised his friend who sheltered him and saved his life as they hid under a church pew. His friend laid on top of him and was hit in the back. This young boy acknowledged that his friend was in the hospital and was likely to survive.

We want answers and we want change. As we have entered the month of Elul, we hope this season inspires teshuvah. What our society needs is a reckoning. The process of teshuvah, (which means repentance and also indicates turning) requires us to recognize the times we have failed and done wrong. On Yom Kippur, when we acknowledge our transgressions, we speak in the plural; “we have sinned, we have done wrong, we have harmed.” This collective response to our confession invites us to think deeply about what a societal teshuvah might look like.

Maimonides in his Laws of Repentance writes:

All of the prophets commanded concerning repentance; the Jewish people will not be redeemed save by repentance. Indeed, the Torah long since assured us that in the end, at the close of the period of exile, the Jewish people will turn to repentance and be immediately redeemed. (Mishneh Torah Laws of Teshuvah 7:5)

Rambam’s concern lies with his hope that all of Israel will be redeemed. He is referring to the exile from Israel after the destruction of the Temple. This collective turning can forge a path in a new direction. For many of us, we lie in a place of despair without hope that anyone has the courage to lead us forward.

As the angels hold these children and Annunciation Church Holds their community together, the responsibility is upon us to reach out to our Catholic friends and neighbors and let them know that we hold them in our hearts.

May the angels hold us, too. Jewish tradition says that when we pray for healing, we turn to four angels, Michael, Rafael, Gavriel, and Uriel. May Michael help us discover who might be able to guide us forward. May Rafael bring the wounded – both those in body and in soul – healing. May Gavriel give us strength and courage to have hard conversations. May Uriel light our pathway forward.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 15, 2025

Somehow, I blinked and Debra and I have two daughters in High School; Zoe is entering her senior year and looking at colleges, and Shira began High School this week. It is hard to believe that when our family moved here 14 years ago, our girls were in the Rainbow Room (3 year olds) and the Cloud Room (infant room) at the JCC North. Time has certainly flown by. Our tradition has always been curious about time and how we mark it. In the opening verses of the Torah, we read about time and how God defines a day. The Talmud begins with the question, “From what time does one recite the evening Shema?” Our tradition is filled with timebound commandments, (e.g. lighting Shabbat candles, hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah) and we distinguish the difference between sacred time (Shabbat) and ordinary time (the rest of the week). In almost each of these instances, our tradition adds a blessing to mark the moment. Such blessings add a sense of holiness to our lives and encourage us to pause and behold numinous moments.

On most days, time passes all too fleetingly and many of us are focused on making the next meeting or finishing something before a deadline. Filling our time with sacred acts, such as time in community, learning, or reaching out and making someone’s life better, gives us a sense of purpose. I recall many years ago reading an important book by Ron Wolfson, entitled, The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven. Most of the questions stem from a text in the Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a, “Rava said: When a person is brought to judgment for the life they lived, they will say to him: 1.) Were you honest in business? 2.) Did you designate time for Torah study? 3.) Did you procreate? (perhaps better said: did you leave a legacy?) 4.) Did you await salvation? (Did you have hope in your heart?) 5.) Did you engage in the dialectics of wisdom or discern one matter from the other?”

The questions themselves are not about what happens at the end of our lives, but rather, what happens during our lives. The second question is about learning; did we make time for learning? Our students in school learn because they have to. As adults, we learn because we get to. Learning enlightens our lives to new possibilities and avenues that can takes us to new places or enrich our lives with meaning.

How we spend our time is sacred. The poet Mary Oliver captures the essence of time in her poem “The Summer Day”.

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean —

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

I love her words! They invite us to find a place of wonder and awe. Learning is awe inspiring. Paying attention to details is an act of learning too. She asks, how will we spend our lives? With a plethora of answers to a remarkable question, and knowing time is limited, we must think and reflect deeply. What will you learn? Will you do something that invites awe into your midst? Will you spend time with people you care about? Time is sacred, so let us fill it with something holy!

To the teachers and students who started school this week or will start next week, have a wonderful year. May this time be blessed with new insights. May you approach each day with patience. May we all learn from the struggle. And may the new things we learn give us inspiration each day and fill our lives with blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 22, 2025

In May of 1974, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band performed a concert in Harvard Square. Jon Landau, acclaimed music critic, attended the concert that night, and after seeing Springsteen perform, Landau wrote to The Real Paper, “I saw Rock n’ Roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen.”

At the time, Springsteen was fighting for his rock n’ roll life. He was on the ropes with Columbia Records who were hesitant to front the money to produce his third record. His First two records, Greetings from Asbury Park and The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle did not sell as expected. Even Landau’s famous quote and positive review could not shift things with Columbia Records. With hard work and a single that made it to radio stations around the company, Springsteen was able to turn things around. On August 25^th, 1975, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band released their third record, Born to Run. It is arguably my favorite record, and it changed the trajectory of Bruce’s career—having sold more than 10 million copies worldwide.

If you have made it this far, you might be wondering why I am sharing this significant moment in rock n’ roll history with you. I listen to that album multiple times each week; it is my own personal running soundtrack (and it is not because it is called Born to Run). The fact that I and so many others are listening to this music fifty years after its release is remarkable. From Springsteen’s magical lyrics to Clarence Clemons’ powerful saxophone solos, the music speaks to my soul.

What is also interesting to me is that there is a lesson in the timeless appeal and influence of such music. Bruce Springsteen has left an incredible legacy. Last week, I mentioned how Rava, one of the great Rabbis of the Talmud (Shabbat 31a) imagined that when we reach heaven, we will be called to account, and God will ask us several questions. According to Rava, one of the questions God asks us is if we procreated. In writing about these questions in his book, The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven, Ron Wolfson explains that this question is really asking us if we have left a legacy. Music that has endured for half a century is a legacy. The fact that the band who performed it 50 years ago is still together (even though Danny Federici and Clarence Clemons have passed, the rest of the band is still together) is a testament to their own commitment to each other. Perhaps what is most remarkable is that they are still performing three-hour sets in their 70s!

The lesson in this question is about how we leave a legacy. Perhaps we might be talented enough to produce a record or write a book, and our words will last long past our time on earth. Maybe we are talented enough to create art that people will look at for centuries. What is more likely is what our tradition teaches us; “Monuments shall not be erected for the righteous, their deeds will be their memorials.” Our legacies live on through our actions and the way we carry ourselves. Perhaps someone will remember the kindness we offered in a moment of stress or anxiety.

Monday begins the month of Elul which reminds us that the High Holy Days are just four weeks away. This is a sacred time in which we reflect on our journey over the past year and begin to think about our transgressions and how we can improve ourselves and do better. It is also a time when think about our legacies. If our lives are headed in a trajectory of which we are not proud, Elul gives us the time to pivot and make changes so we can move in a better direction. Each year, the holidays stare us in the face, reminding us that our lives are fragile and we don’t know how much time we have. Bruce Springsteen writes in Thunder Road, “We got one last chance to make it real, to trade in these wings on some wheels, climb in back, heaven’s waiting down on the tracks.”

Our time is limited; we have to do what we can to make the best out of the time that we have. If we are not happy with our legacy, now is the time to rewrite the script, record some new lyrics. Each day is a new page and a new opportunity. Elul comes knocking on the door every year to remind us that time is ticking. It’s precious. Let’s take the time now to do the sacred work we need to do.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 8, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon

We all have powerful images etched into our minds that we carry with us. They might be from a particular place or moment in our travels. They might be something we saw on television or from a significant moment in our lives. These images are permanent, much like the way we record sound bites on a vinyl record or, a century earlier, when Thomas Edison created the first phonograph. That permanence is the same with the images etched in our souls—images that carry us from place to place and give us insight into our history and story.

Of the images etched into my mind, I have been drawing on one since last Saturday evening, when we observed Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem. When you walk near what is called Robinson’s Arch—named for the archaeologist who discovered the extension of the Western Wall of the Kotel, near the corner of the Southern Wall—you encounter an enormous pile of large stones. These stones are the remnants of the Roman siege in 70 CE—or possibly an earthquake. In the stories we tell, however, they are a reminder of a world that once was, a world that only lives on through the commandments of the Torah or the practices described in the Mishnah, which we can no longer follow. Each of these one-ton stones bears witness to our people’s history and the destruction of what we once knew as safety and sanctuary.

Can you imagine what it would be like to have lived in those times? Going back to the First Temple period, we may not have to imagine too much. Last week, we read from the opening chapter of the book of Isaiah as part of our Haftarah. Isaiah lived a few hundred years before the destruction of the First Temple. His world was filled with idolatry, a huge gap between the wealthy and the poor, and neglect of God’s teachings. He expressed frustration that the Israelites brought offerings, calling them futile because they were accompanied by evil. He called to them: “Cleanse yourselves, remove evil from My sight, learn to do good, seek justice, relieve the oppressed, uphold the orphan’s rights, take up the widow’s cause.” With these words, Isaiah knew what would befall his people if they did not correct their ways—they would lose their identity. The destruction of the ancient Temple was not only the destruction of a physical space, but the undoing of sanctuaries, rituals, and traditions that grounded daily life.

Centuries later, rabbis sat with that history and grappled with it. Why did it happen? They wanted to understand so they could prevent such destruction again. Rabbinic tradition tied those historic moments to our actions. The Talmud tells us in Tractate Yoma (9b) that the First Temple was destroyed because idol worship, forbidden sexual relationships, and bloodshed were rampant. During the Second Temple period, the people were performing mitzvot, so why was the Temple destroyed? The rabbis teach it was because of senseless hatred (Talmud Gittin 55b). Their reasoning reflects how human action brings about destruction.

Many of us know the story of Kamza and Bar Kamza, but it is always worth retelling. A man instructed his servant to invite his friend Kamza to a party, but the servant invited his enemy, Bar Kamza, instead. When the host saw Bar Kamza, he wanted to remove him, but Bar Kamza offered to stay and pay for what he ate. The host refused. Bar Kamza offered to pay for half the party, then the whole party, but neither was acceptable, and the host threw him out—while the rabbis present did nothing. Bar Kamza then informed the Roman emperor that the rabbis were conspiring against him. He suggested sending a red heifer as a gift for sacrifice. En route, Bar Kamza blemished the calf, ensuring the rabbis would not accept it, thus offending the emperor and prompting the siege of Jerusalem. According to the rabbis, this could have been avoided if they had intervened.

This story is about more than the destruction of a physical space—it is a creative way to teach that the world, along with our values and institutions, can crumble around us. In many instances, we cannot control these events. Stephen Covey, in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, describes living in a world of concentric circles. The outer circle is the Circle of Concern: health, family, politics, war, safety, antisemitism, and more. Some things in this circle are beyond our control, while others are not. Inside is the Circle of Influence—the place where proactive people focus their energy, working on what they can change. Reactive people focus on the Circle of Concern, blaming, accusing, and feeling victimized.

Were the rabbis of old working within their Circle of Concern or Circle of Influence? Perhaps both. The prophet Isaiah may be our model for focusing on the Circle of Influence. This Shabbat is called Shabbat Nachamu, named for the opening words of the Haftarah from Isaiah 40. This Isaiah knew of the destruction of the Temple and sought to comfort the people: “Nachamu, nachamu ami yomar Eloheichem. Comfort, comfort My people, says your God.”

Renowned author Dr. Erica Brown explains that harsh realities must be balanced by love. Tenderness, she writes, is not just about how you speak but about the relief your words bring. Consolation begins when we value what truly matters. “The first step of consolation,” she says, “is not a tangible solution. It is hope.”

And that is our question: how do we find hope in darkness? Today, sanctuaries of safety and security feel like those toppled stones in Jerusalem. The war between Israel and Hamas rages on. Hostages remain in captivity. Hunger and suffering persist—in Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine, and beyond. Here at home, people face poverty, homelessness, antisemitism, and fear.

The great Temple may be gone, but our tradition teaches about the Mikdash M’at—the “small sanctuary” of synagogues and study halls. We may not be able to control the world’s great concerns, but we can influence our immediate surroundings. We can feed the hungry, help the vulnerable, volunteer, and create sanctuaries of kindness and connection.

As we recite the Mi Shebeirach, a prayer for healing, let us remember: the most powerful healing comes when we turn prayer into action. May we be comforted by our ability to create small sanctuaries, to act as agents of change, and to bring hope into the world around us. Kein yehi ratzon.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 8, 2025

It is the greatest honor to serve this community as your rabbi. I know that you turn to me for wisdom, guidance, morality, and answers to the most profound questions. Many of you expect me to be a voice of reason and to speak out against injustice. I strive to be present for you during life’s challenges, and I find great joy in celebrating with you at simchas as well. These past twenty-two months have been some of the most challenging for the Jewish people and for rabbis. I have tried my best to lead with intention and to bring Torah to the world. I have worked to create opportunities for us to deeply explore Jewish Peoplehood, Israel, sacred texts, and more.

I know that we likely don’t always agree on everything – and that’s okay! That is what makes the Jewish community special. Disagreement creates the best space for the fruits of Torah to emerge. The Talmud recounts the story of Reish Lakish and Rabbi Yochanan who were great study partners. After Reish Lakish died, Rabbi Yochanan struggled to find a new partner who would challenge him. He grew frustrated because the new partner never disagreed with him. Disagreement sharpened Rabbi Yochanan’s Torah. Disagreement, dialogue, and discussion lie at the hearts of who we are as a people. 

With that in mind, I want to share with you something that I struggle with. Over the last twenty-two months of war, many claim to know all the answers. We rely on trusted journalists and turn to a range of media outlets—from the New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and The Atlantic to CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC, The Associated Press and more. For news coming out of Israel, I turn to the Times of Israel, Ynet News, the Jerusalem Post and Haaretz. Some turn to see what Arab news media is sharing and they turn to Al Jazeera. (One great source to see what the Arab world is sharing is www.memri.org, it is Arabic news in translation.) Many of us listen to podcasts like For Heaven’s Sake with Rabbi Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein HaLevi, or Ask Haviv Anything with Haviv Rettig Gur, or Call Me Back with Dan Senor, to name a few. We trust all these sources as truth and fact as they help us know and understand how to face complex issues.

From time to time, on the For Heaven’s Sake podcast, Hartman and Klein HaLevi asked what they know versus what they don’t know. As I reflect on these two questions, I realize I know a lot less than I don’t know.

I know that I love Israel.

I know that my heart breaks that the 50 hostages are still held captive and that the world doesn’t seem to care about them.

I know that there is profound suffering in Gaza.

I know that 70% of Israelis want the war to come to an end and the hostages to all come home; if I were Israeli, I would be part of this 70%.

I know that Hamas lies and creates propaganda for the world to see. 

I know that Hamas wants their people to suffer. 

I know that empathy has no boundaries. 

I know that antisemitism is on the rise.

But—

I don’t know what media source to fully trust. 

I don’t know what happens on the ground in Gaza each day. 

I don’t know what the real numbers are.

I don’t know what it is like to walk into a booby-trapped building. 

I don’t know what it is like to leave my family for months on end to serve in the reserves. 

I don’t know what happens in the back rooms of Israel’s war planning or governing decisions. 

I don’t know what, if any, other motives are at play in these governing coalition discussions (I know what I read, and I have my thoughts.)

Recently, I listened to the Identity Crisis Podcast, where host Yehuda Kurtzer interviewed David Horovitz, Editor-in-Chief of The Times of Israel, on “Journalism in the Fog of War.” I want to share some key points he makes, please see the transcript or listen to the podcast for exact quotes

• Israeli journalists cannot actually cover the war with any reliability because they are not on the ground. The IDF allows journalists short entries into the Gaza Strip.
• Independent and foreign journalists are barred from Gaza. There has not been a single verified independent journalist able to file freely in an ongoing manner from Gaza.
• Foreign news agencies, Reuters, the Associated Press and the Agence France-Presse have reporters in Gaza who are not part of their international staff. They are local hires; some have an interest to get everything right, and some have no interest whatsoever. All of them are influenced by the fact that Hamas does or can do terrible harm to people who do not do what they want.

I reflect on these words and on this piece by Matti Friedman in the Free Press about searching for truth in an information war. I think about how mainstream media outlets such as the NY Times use images and words to skew the narrative, or even a German news outlet publishing staged photos, fueling the Hamas propaganda machine. So what do we do? We struggle, we question, we wonder what role antisemitism plays in all of this. We do our best.

We hope and pray that there will come a time when everyone will lay down their weapons, hostages return home, and the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza will come to an end. I also hope and pray  that we begin to truly see the humanity in one another.

And, if you read one thing this week, read Rachel Goldberg Polin’s plea in the Free Press entitled The Appeal of a Mother Who Buried Her Only Son.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

August 1, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 25, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We cannot look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 18, 2025

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

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

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

In the song Guthrie writes:

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

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

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita

Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria

I don’t have a name

when I ride the big airplane

They just call me one more deportee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

July 18, 2025

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

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

1. B’tzelem Elohim

2. Love your neighbor as yourself

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

4. Jewish Peoplehood

5. Zionism

6. Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we do this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.   Telling our story

2.   Living our Values

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

4.   Create Partnerships

a.   Israelis and Americans together

b.   Americans and Americans together

c.   Israelis and Israelis together

5.   Strengthen Institutions

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 11, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 1, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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