May 30, 2025

We enter a wilderness; every step on the journey takes a winding path. We are led deeper towards a future filled with hope, but also filled with individual moments of uncertainty. The winding path takes us to places like Rephidim, Zin, Kadesh, and Mt. Hor. Our history also winds its way through places like Babylonia, Rome, Kishinev, Toledo (Spain), Warsaw, Kyev, and New York. In every generation, the journey has been filled with challenges – from the attacks of Amalek to the Inquisition, to pogroms. Carrying history in the rucksacks of our memories, we come to a time where the wilderness feels deep, and the journey home is long.

This week, in Toronto, Beth Tikvah members, along with our broader Jewish community in Columbus, entered a wilderness of memory that began with dancing and ended with shouts of tzeva adom, red alert, and running in fear. 414 souls didn’t come home alive. We had the honor of visiting the Nova exhibit, with gratitude to JewishColumbus and the Wexner family.

We were transported to the morning of October 7, 2023, in Re’im in the Western Negev. What began in dancing and joy ended in terror. At 6:29 A.M., the attacks began. On the sandy floor of the exhibit, video screens show Hamas terrorists aiming their guns indiscriminately. One chilling audio recording plays a terrorist telling his father, “I killed a Jew, I killed ten Jews, with my bare hands. Go on WhatsApp and look.” They were murdered because they were Jews. Nothing more.

The exhibit then leads through a campground scattered with teddy bears, water bottles, and signs pleading for peace. We stood next to the bar and bullet-ridden port-a-potties, on Road 232 surrounded by burnt cars, and in roadside shelters where partygoers tried to hide—now turned into memorials. In those shelters, we imagined the stories of Aner Shapira, Hersh Goldberg Polin, and Yuval Raphael. Nova is now etched into our people’s collective memory.

Upon arriving at the exhibit, we heard from Ofer and Sara Leor whose son, Matan, was murdered at Nova. He supported cancer research and then became a sound engineer. He tried to save others that morning. He lost his voice telling people over the loudspeaker to leave and run. His parents continue to keep his story alive.

We are still in the wilderness. With 58 hostages still captive in Gaza, our hearts are with them. When we were at the Nova exhibit, we marked the 600th day. 600 days…how?! Could you have imagined it would be this long? The numerical value of the word tzitzit is 600. The tzitizit are the fringes on the corner of the tallit that serve as a visual reminder to do mitzvot. Some of us choose to wear a yellow ribbon, others wear dog tags, and others wear tape to count the days. In Israel, signs of the hostages are everywhere. They are on the minds of Israelis every day. The war is grinding on and we just want our hostages to come home. Overwhelming numbers of Israelis, nearly 70%, want an end to the fighting and for the hostages to come home. Their voices matter. And there lies the difference between discourse in Israel and discourse in America. We are living a different battle. You might read media reports each day filled with analysis and a brutalization of Israel as the most immoral pariah-state in the world. And yet, stepping into the Nova exhibit reminds us of Hamas’ brutality. To help us find a voice from within Israel, I encourage you to listen to the For Heaven’s Sake Podcast from the last two weeks (Israel at War – Moral Red Lines and Israel at War – A Nation that Dwells Alone). I also encourage you to consider the Identity Crisis Podcast from yesterday entitled, “Is the War Still Worth It?”

The deaths of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinstky will forever remind us that, they too, were killed for being Jews. Whether it is on the streets of Washington D.C., or the communities of Road 232 that is just kilometers from the Gaza border, or Re’im where they came to dance, we can be killed for being Jews. Out of the darkness and the dust grows a kalanit flower, a poppy, whose red pedals remind us of our resilience throughout the ages. The ongoing war brings a soulful pain as we long for peace and a return of the hostages – both alive and dead.

The wilderness is a long and winding road that Torah filled with counting; counting of faces and marking of places. It is filled with threats to our existence and challenges to the values that shape us. As we navigate this wilderness, we hope and pray that the memories of those killed on October 7 and the soldiers lost in the war stay in our hearts. May we carry their stories on our souls, and may we soon find days where we will once again know peace and our hostages will return home. May we journey this wilderness together, withholding judgment of our neighbor, knowing that we are all struggling to navigate this rocky, winding road.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 23, 2025

When I see the Israeli flag, I feel a sense of pride. For me, it reflects the light of hope that emerged from the darkness of the Holocaust. When I encounter Jews around the world, whether they are Israeli or another nationality, I feel as if I am seeing my family. I want them to know I am part of the tribe too. Sadly, too many people in the world do not share these sentiments. For the last 19 months we have heard phrases like “Free Palestine,” “From the River to the Sea Palestine will be Free,” “Globalize the Intifada,” and “There is no resolution but Intifada Revolution.” These phrases often leave us feeling afraid.

The repetition of such phrases has consequences, and those consequences played out Wednesday night in Washington D.C. when Sarah Milgrom and Yaron Lischinsky were murdered because they were Jews. As staff of the Israeli embassy, they attended an American Jewish Committee event at the Washington Jewish Museum. Upon leaving, they were assassinated in cold blood by Elias Rodriques, who was seen pacing outside the museum before the shooting. When he was arrested, he yelled, “Free, free Palestine.” The murder of young Israelis will not bring a resolution to this war; it will not result in whatever vision this perpetrator has to resolve the conflict.

Just last week, Yaron had purchased an engagement ring for Sarah. He was planning to propose next week in Jerusalem. The two of them believed in peace, and they worked to bring about mutual understanding. The event they attended was focused on bringing the interfaith community together and increasing humanitarian aid.

Reflecting on this heinous act of terror, I feel a mix of sadness and anger—and many of us also feel afraid. Some have expressed surprise in the aftermath, but I cannot. The ADL’s Pyramid of Hate reminds us that bias fuels insensitive remarks, which can ultimately escalate to violence.

But the question remains as to how we move forward. In our sadness, we remember this loving couple as agents of peace. With our fear, we remember that we work closely with our law enforcement partners to ensure our safety. And with our anger, we need to call on every person to recognize that such acts of violence only bring about further pain and will never bring peace.

In this moment, we need something else. We need resolve. Resolve is a firm determination to do something, to plan a course of action, or to find a solution to a problem. We know that antisemitism is at the highest levels ever recorded. There is antisemitism in our community stemming from the right and the left. To combat hate, we strive to humanize one another – which means we work on telling our story. To that end, we have planned to screen the film October 8 at Congregation Beth Tikvah on June 11 at 7 PM. It chronicles the rising antisemitism in the United States since the Hamas attacks. We will be doing this in partnership with several Worthington area churches. The program will be followed by a guided conversation.

Next, our resolve must include a commitment to understanding who we are as a Jewish people. We immerse in our rituals and holidays. We find meaning in the moments we come together to celebrate, and we enrich our journeys when we immerse in Torah in the broadest sense. This Torah includes reflecting on our story and our history from biblical times through modern times, from darkness to light. When we know who we are, our identity becomes stronger. Shabbat arrives tonight with profound sadness as we remember Sarah Milgrom and Yaron Lischinsky. May their memories be a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 15, 2025

Basel, Switzerland is an important place in Jewish history. In 1897, Theodore Herzl gathered leaders from the European Jewish Community there for the world’s first World Zionist Congress. (Yes, it is the original iteration of the World Zionist Congress you just voted in!) The situation for the Jewish community in Europe was dire. Herzl, a journalist, had just covered the infamous Dreyfus affair in France, where French military leader, Alfred Dreyfus was wrongly accused and convicted of treason. The claims were false and solely based on antisemitism. He was later exonerated. Herzl, though not necessarily religious, was a proud Jew and he knew at the time, that something had to change. When he welcomed Jewish leaders to Basel, he said the following:

“We shall hear news of the situation of the Jews in different countries. All of you know, if only vaguely, that this situation, except for a few exceptional cases, is not a cause for joy. It is doubtful if we would be assembled here if the situation was otherwise. The uniformity of our destiny was interrupted by a long hiatus, though the scattered parts of the Jewish nation were condemned to share similar suffering in different places. Only in our times do we have the possibility, thanks to the modern miracle of transportation, to exchange information and create contact between the separated [communities]. And in this period, which is generally so uplifting, we see and sense ourselves everywhere surrounded by the ancient enmity. Anti-Semitism is the modern name, known to you so well, of this movement….

“Information about us in the world has always been defective due to distortion and obscuration. The feeling of [Jewish] belonging and cooperation, with which were accused so often and so stormily, was in the process of complete disintegration when we were assaulted by anti-Semitism, which awakened and amplified it once again. It can be said that we have returned home. Zionism is the return to Judaism even before the return to the land of the Jews.”

Herzl saw the moment, held a vision in his heart, and laid the foundation for the establishment of the modern State of Israel which would be born 51 years later. If you will it, it is no dream!

Fast forward 128 years and the eyes of Israelis and Jews are directed towards Basel, this time the host city for Eurovision. Each year there is a song contest in which each nation in Europe is able to submit one song. Last year, Eden Golan’s Hurricane spoke to the hearts of the Jewish people. Golan finished fifth thanks to an online vote but was probably penalized by the in-person judges because she was Israeli.

This year, Yuval Raphael’s entry speaks so powerfully to the soul of the Jewish people. I mentioned this song last week, but her story needs to be told. Raphael survived the Nova festival massacre by hiding in a shelter with 50 other people. While in the shelter, she recalled holding the hand of another girl and then a Hamas terrorist came in and started shooting. That girl had died. She was on the phone with her father who told her to, “hang up the phone and play dead.” Wounded with shrapnel, she survived by hiding under dead bodies for eight hours. Raphael was one of 11 in that shelter to survive. In November of 2024, she auditioned for HaKokhav HaBa, Israel’s version of Rising Star and was selected to represent Israel in Eurovision 2025. Her song for Eurovision is entitled New Day Will Rise and was written by Keren Peles.

Its lyrics are a blend of English, French, and Hebrew and reflect the true essence of Jewish history. We long for a time of comfort but our history has been filled with discomfort and uncertainty. The song speaks of the pain experienced on October 7^th but also reminds us that a new day will rise and even if we are crying, we should not cry alone. “But we will stay, even if you say goodbye.” It is a reminder that survivors live on and that they must build a tomorrow, even with the sadness of grief. 

Yuval Raphael enters this contest amid rising antisemitism. Some countries called upon the organizers to ban Israel; nothing new for Israel in this competition. She practiced being booed and even walked out in the introductions earlier this week to a man who made as throat slitting motion towards her. Semi-finals were held Tuesday and Thursday and Yuval Raphael performed yesterday. Tune in on Saturday for the finale! Click here to find out how you can watch the Eurovision Song Contest!

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 9, 2025

Before I begin my Shabbat email message, I want to let you know that I have been notified several times this week that our members have received emails using my name, connected to a strange email address, asking for help with special projects. If someone responded to those initial emails, the follow-up was a request for gift cards in very high amounts. Please know that I would never ask for something like that via email. If the email seems weird, it probably is!

As first-year students at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem, Debra and I worked together with our beloved teacher, Paul Liptz, to plan a trip to Poland for our classmates. While I do not quite recall how the idea came up, we convinced Paul to lead us on this journey through Jewish history during Passover. We walked the streets of the Warsaw Ghetto, visited the platform where the Kindertransport left the city, and learned about Janusz Korczak (pronounced Ya-nis Kor-jack) and Mordecai Anielewicz. We met the modern-day Reform Jewish community called Beit Warszawa. We also visited the Treblinka Death Camp, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the city of Krakow.

Thinking back to that trip in April of 2002, two moments stand out. First, we visited a town called Jedwabne, whose story is told in the book Neighbors. The town was divided relatively evenly between its Jewish and non-Jewish population. They lived together; the children prayed together. Prior to 1941, it was a beautiful place to coexist. However, in July of 1941, the non-Jewish neighbors turned on their friends. They gathered them in a barn and burned it. There were 1,600 Jews and 1,600 non-Jews living in the town. Only seven of the Jews survived. I will never forget the spot where the barn stood, which now bears a plaque. As you read the story, you learn that the descendants of the non-Jews live in denial of their ancestors’ actions. The story teaches us that it was not the Nazis who perpetrated this evil, but people who were friends and neighbors. It is a painfully dark story in Holocaust history that helps us understand how ordinary people were caught up in evil.

I also remember walking through Birkenau, beholding the barracks, entering the gas chamber, and then reaching the crematorium at the back of the camp. It is impossible to describe what it is like to walk through a gas chamber where more than a million of our Jewish family members were murdered. I recall feeling a hollowness whose depth reached the center of the earth. It was as if my soul became disjoined from my body. I felt so empty, unable to connect to anything. I remember sitting by the crematoria, and our teacher, Paul Liptz, picked up a small piece of human bone to show us. I asked to hold it; to this day, I cannot explain why. Perhaps I was hoping I’d cry. With the bone in my hand, I still felt empty. But I wondered who that person was, and how I would never know their story. For years I thought something was wrong with me—why wasn’t I in tears? Why couldn’t I feel anything? Years later I realized nothing was wrong with me. Sadness is not the only emotion one can feel in a place of unimaginable death. One can feel numb, hollow, empty.

Fast forward to May of 2024—I arrived in post-October 7th Israel with our group from Beth Tikvah. We had traveled to the Nova site—another place of death and evil. It is a park, a field, that was set up for a music festival. I felt hollow inside, but I recognized the feeling. I had only felt it once before. It was the same one I had felt 22 years earlier inside the gates of Auschwitz.

History echoes within our minds, stirring emotions that echo within our souls.

As a people, we return to the places of death and destruction because we are storytellers. We stand in those fields, and in the barracks, to bear witness and to emphatically say: we are still here.

Tonight, at Shabbat services, you will hear from Michelle Lee and Ben Reinicke, who recently returned from the March of the Living. Together with Jews from around the world, Holocaust survivors, and October 7th survivors, they marched on Yom HaShoah from Auschwitz. They visited many of the same places I did. Michelle and Ben will graduate high school in only a few short weeks, and they will carry this experience with them as they go off to college. Join us this evening to hear their insights.

In many ways, the March of the Living captures the essence of Jewish tradition. In each generation, we tell the story of our people. Whether we journey to Spain to learn about pre-expulsion Jewish life, or we visit Eastern Europe and immerse ourselves in a history that emerges through the ashes—wherever our people have traveled, the stories of sadness and reemergence follow us.

Another story is emerging this week. The Eurovision Song Contest is once again upon us. If you have not yet listened to Israel’s submission by Yuval Raphael, called New Day Will Rise, it is a must. Yuval Raphael is a Nova survivor. It is a powerful song that blends English, French, and Hebrew and is built on the story of the aftermath of October 7th, which echoes the story of our people.

Whether we listen to Michelle and Ben’s reflections tonight or Raphael’s beautiful song, we will rise, we will dance again, we will continue to tell the stories—because that is what we do as Jewish people!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 4, 2025

How does one begin to reflect on eighteen years as a rabbi? For years, I was asked why I chose to become a rabbi? I became quite proficient at sharing the story about my rabbi, Phil Berger, of blessed memory invited me to meet with him before my junior year of high school. I had spent time that summer in Israel and several weeks at Kutz Camp, the NFTY Teen Leadership Academy. It wasn’t until 10 months later at the service honoring our synagogue’s seniors when he talked about the importance of being Jewish leaders, when I decided I wanted to be a rabbi. Fast forward 30 years from that summer and I look back on this first part of my rabbinic journey filled with abundant joy and blessings.

It has been the greatest honor to serve in two wonderful congregations, of course here at Beth Tikvah and at Temple Isaiah in Los Angeles. A day does not pass when I do not count my blessings for how lucky I have been over these years. I am filled with such gratitude for our staff, temple presidents, lay leaders, and congregants who make this community great. Each of you fill the work I do and my days with such holiness.

In thinking about these last eighteen years, I want to reflect on a few lessons I have learned along the way. As rabbis we spend so much of our work thinking about how we can bring meaning to people’s lives. We do this through education, prayer, meaningful programs. Over the years, I have created or co-created many different programs, and many have been great. Those programs are important as they are the steppingstones on which we walk from significant moment to significant moment. Being a rabbi is about helping to create meaning in those big moments; perhaps most importantly when people are vulnerable. The most sacred moments are those that I share with families at a B’nai Mitzvah celebration, a wedding, accompanying them through darkness of grief or when they are in need of healing. The programs are important but being present in these significant moments may be most important and sacred.

Judaism offers us a plethora of answers to a multitude of questions. Our tradition is a treasure trove of wisdom waiting for us to explore more of it. As a rabbi one of the most important things I can do is be a transmitter of our tradition. I recall first moving to Los Angeles in the days before GPS devices were a thing. We were still using Map Quest for most directions. When I arrived in LA, someone gifted me the famous Thomas Guide which was several hundred pages and contained a map of every street and neighborhood in Los Angeles County. You first looked up the street in the index of where you were going and then found it on the right page of the map. (Thank God for the GPS!) Part of being a rabbi is understanding where people are and when there is a question about Jewish life or wisdom, it is our responsibility to help connect them with answers. Years ago, I read a teaching from the Tzvat HaRivash which taught that if we have studied Torah during the day, it might bring us meaning as the lessons we learn might apply to our lives. As a rabbi, there are times when I need to be like the Thomas Guide or GPS helping to support us all on our journeys.

Lastly, the days following October 7th have taught me that Jewish Peoplehood and connecting to the core parts of our Jewish story enrich our lives and connect us to community. We are the sum of the stories we tell about ourselves. Each time we gather to celebrate Shabbat or a holiday, each time we gather to learn Torah, and each time come together as a community, we add to the stories. We are bound together by these stories which in some ways reminds us of the menorah that stood in the ancient Temple. The Torah tells us we are to light the lights regularly, tending to them until they light on their own. There is a fire that burns within each of our souls and every time we gather in community we tend to the flame of Jewish life.

I am so grateful to have served at Congregation Beth Tikvah for these past fourteen years and as a rabbi for the past eighteen. I am truly grateful to Debra, Zoe, and Shira who have shared this journey with me and been supportive every step of the way. Thank you all for being part of our extended family.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

May 2, 2025

Shabbat Shalom! As fires continue to rage around Route 1, the central highway connecting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem that cancelled the annual Yom Haaztmaut Torch ceremony along with other events, we know that there is much turmoil within the hearts and souls of Israelis. Other turmoil reminds us that there are just three days left to vote in the World Zionist Congress elections (if you count today.) I am grateful to our Beth Tikvah team, led by Hannah Karr, Rob Rosenberg, Liz Shafran, and Joanne Strasser, who have worked to get our Beth Tikvah voters. The significance of this election is only further underscored by events that took place earlier this week outside the Reform Synagogue in Ra’anana. It was Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and terror victims. At Kehilat Ra’anan people had gathered for a screening of an Israeli-Palestinian joint memorial service when a violent mob of Israeli far right extremists disrupted the event. People were forced to exit the synagogue under police protection. Rocks were thrown at attendees, and several were injured. Men yelled at women who were gathered there saying, “Because of you, soldiers, die,” and “Too bad Hamas didn’t take you”. Protesters also screamed horrible words including “whore” and “Nazi.” There are videos of the awful things said by the rioters and other videos of a group of men chasing after a woman who had left the synagogue.

Kehilat Ra’anan has been vandalized before in 2010, 2014, and 2016 with slogans that ridiculed the Reform movement. In response, Rabbi Chen Ben-Or Tsfoni, the rabbi of the synagogue shared the following words, “It is natural, after such a night, to feel anger or even hatred. But we must resist. We must not let hatred claim our hearts. If we give in to that darkness, our Judaism – built on compassion – will be defeated…we must walk forward together, toward life, toward light.”

This synagogue is personal to Morissa Freiberg, our Director of Lifelong Learning and Education. When she traveled to Israel in January of 2017 on an educator’s trip with JewishColumbus, she attended Shabbat Morning services there. Experiencing Reform Judaism in action, Morissa was offered an Aliyah during the service which she has shared was profoundly meaningful.

Morissa’s story reminds us of our personal connections to events and places, even as they occur around the world. As I reflect on these moments, I am struck by how a day that is meant to be unifying and honor the memories of those who have fallen can turn to further deepen divisions that exist within Israeli society. This tragic moment underscores the importance of the World Zionist Congress Elections as we strive to turn out the vote to support Reform Jewish causes in Israel. As I have shared over the past two months, this vote will help allocate $5 billion in resources over the next five years. It is critical that you vote!

Next Shabbat when we read from the book of Leviticus, we will read the famous words, “V’ahavta l’rei-acha kamocha…love your neighbor as yourself.” A friend recently shared with me the image of a bus in Israel in which the window reads, “V’ahavta l’rei-acha kamocha…gam im lo kamocha…love your neighbor as yourself, even if he is not like you.” 

What fitting words for a moment such as this! These words reflect the essence and the values that Reform Judaism brings to the world. One would think they would also be values inherent to all ways of practicing Judaism. Clearly the religious right has different ideas. Rabbi Tsfoni’s words can be our guiding light as we move forward. Hatred will only darken the pathway before us, whereas filling out hearts with kindness, compassion, and light, will only make us stronger. If you have not voted, the time is now. Please do not delay any longer. Go to www.zionistelection.org and VOTE REFORM today!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 25, 2025

Throughout the Pesach holiday, as I ate matzah day after day, the bread of affliction reminded me of our people’s journey through the wilderness. The obligation to tell the Passover story brings with it the idea of working towards freedom. I recently learned from Yossi Klein Halevi in the Passover episode of the For Heaven’s Sake podcast, that one of the reasons why Pesach has resonated with so many different people and cultures around the world is because it is a promise of renewal and the breaking out of “the seemingly immutable.” Halevi explains that our Pesach story is the first instance where people born into a condition of slavery suddenly emerge into freedom. As part of this powerful conversation, Rabbi Donniel Hartman added that our story has universal resonance because the power of the Jewish people lies in the fact that this story empowers us to see ways in which we relate to the “other.”

When I was at the annual convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis several weeks ago, one of the major programs focused on the importance of respectful dialogue. We were asked to think about stories or moments in our lives that shaped our morals or our political opinions. I still recall as a high school student watching a movie in one of my Spanish classes in which the young teenagers in the film are filled with excitement as they plan the quinceañera of one of the girls. The film takes place in Los Angeles, and I recall the scene where someone yelled out la migra, la migra and the immigration police come to round up the people who were undocumented. This was an older film, likely filmed in the 1980s, but the fear in the young people and their families pierced my veins. As a Spanish major in college, I shared many classes with native Spanish speakers, who brought their personal stories to our classes. Never once did anyone ever ask or assume anything about their immigration status, they were our classmates.

Reflecting on these experiences—the emotions stirred by the film, the real-life connections I formed in college, and the enduring message of the Passover story and the Torah’s call to “Love the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt”—I’ve come to recognize a deep moral obligation to care for those who are different from me.

During Passover, I studied my daily pages of Talmud. The cycle has brought us to tractate Makkot, which focuses on legal proceedings in cases of manslaughter. Jewish law teaches us that in such cases, we are to send people to what we call “Cities of Refuge”. The Torah tells us in the book of Numbers that Moses was to establish these cities so that the one accused of murder or convicted of man slaughter can go there for their own protection from revenge. Essentially these cities are a prison. In the Talmud (Makkot 10a) we learn that every necessity must be taken care of for the person imprisoned there. Their basic needs, including food, clothing, and shelter must be provided for. Makkot 10a also teaches that we must attend to their spiritual needs as well, by explaining that if a Torah scholar was exiled there, his teacher relocates so he can continue to learn. The laws mentioned here are intended to ensure the dignity of the prison and the prisoner.

I was reading these words as news was spreading about the imprisonment of wrongly deported man Abrego Garcia and the horrid conditions of the CECOT Prison in which he was originally held. News reports have shown the inhuman conditions of such prisons in El Salvador. Lights are kept on 24 hours a day; prisoners are able to leave their cells for only 30 minutes. The overcrowding is excessive and there is limited access to toilets and other hygiene. 368 deaths have been documented after torture, physical beating, denial of food, water, clothing, and health care. The conditions are incongruent with what our Jewish teachings say about how we are to treat people, even if they are imprisoned. While the men imprisoned there are gang members and perhaps did terrible things, we ask, is it morally just to treat them in inhuman ways? We also wonder what it will take for this wrongly deported man to return to his family.

As we have helped support a new immigrant over the past month, I am growing deeply concerned over the terrible fears facing the immigrant communities. There is increasing fear among the documented as well as the undocumented. Some of us may have family members or friends feeling such fear. While we may feel powerless to change what is happening, if you know someone who is an immigrant, a green card holder, or perhaps someone who is undocumented, perhaps you might want to reach out and tell them you are thinking of them. That personal outreach will go a long way to show concern and support.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 24, 2025

(Shmini 5782)

I want to begin with a story that is both shocking, unbelievable—and completely unsurprising. Let’s sit with that paradox for a moment.

On Tuesday, after some back-and-forth wondering about my sermon topic for the week, I walked into the Dublin Trader Joe’s to pick up a few items. As many of you know, when you enter Trader Joe’s and turn immediately to the right, you’ll find the refrigerated foods section, with the first refrigerator filled with all sorts of cheeses. As I turned the corner, I overheard a woman speaking with a store employee about kosher cheese. I wasn’t quite sure of the nature of their conversation, but it sounded like she had some questions.

I chimed in, “I happen to be a rabbi—let me know if I can help.”

The woman responded, “Well, I’m explaining to him that some hechshers aren’t really kosher and that Trader Joe’s shouldn’t place an additional blue kosher label on their store signage.”

I replied, “Oh, of course, that’s true. There are different kosher certifying organizations with various standards, and not all Jews follow every single one.”

She continued, “I spend time in the frum community, and we don’t follow this kosher symbol, only this one. That one is for Conservative Jews—I only follow the Chabad list.”

(For context: Frum is a Yiddish word meaning religious or pious.)

I asked where she went to synagogue, and she told me Ahavas Sholom. I then told her I was the rabbi at Beth Tikvah, to which she replied, “Oh, well that explains everything.”

Dumbstruck, I said, “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

She went on the defensive, saying she didn’t mean it that way and that she understood I had a more lenient or liberal approach to kashrut. But what I was hearing was, “You’re a Reform rabbi. You have no authority here.”

She then tried to re-explain her concern about the signage and asked, “If you’re a rabbi, where’s your kippah?”

I responded, “I completely understand the rules of kashrut—I’ve been a rabbi for 15 years.”

She said, “Well, I’ll have to ask my cousin Yaakov about that.”

The conversation shifted to the Jewish community in general. She said, “When people ask me—those who are moving to Columbus—where the Jewish community lives, I don’t tell them Dublin. I tell them Bexley, because they want to be with other frum Jews, and there is no Jewish community up here.”

I replied, “There is a wonderful Jewish community up here, and I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

As I walked away, three thoughts crossed my mind:

1. What do I do now—I need to put the non-hechshered chicken from the next refrigerator into my cart?
2. Why did I open my mouth?
3. Abraham Joshua Heschel was right: “Jews need to spend more time worrying about what comes out of their mouths rather than what goes into them.”

I finished my shopping, and the store employee ran after me as I walked to my car to tell me he thought I had handled the conversation well. He and I had a lovely discussion about the laws of kashrut, and I apologized for exposing him to the uglier side of Jewish community discourse.

Now for the coincidences—there are two.

The first: as I drove home, I thought, “Aha, I have my sermon!” How amazing that this week’s Torah portion is about the laws of kashrut. Chapter 11 of Leviticus, which we read in Parshat Shmini, is entirely dedicated to what may and may not be eaten. The chapter lists land animals, sea animals, birds, bugs, and more. There’s no reason given for any of the restrictions—just God’s declaration: “I am God.” Later laws of kashrut appear in rabbinic texts.

Commenting on this parsha, Diane M. Sharon writes in The Women’s Torah Commentary that Mary Douglas, in her essay “Self Evidence,” argues that biblical food prohibitions reflect wider historical and sociological realities. Douglas claims that the Israelites cherished boundaries, wanting to keep them strong and high. Any attempt to cross those boundaries was seen as a hostile intrusion.

And here lies the entire complexity of my Trader Joe’s encounter: it wasn’t about what is or isn’t kosher—it was about boundaries. What began as a discussion about what food one could bring into the house became a conversation about who is in and who is out of the Jewish community. It culminated in her questioning the legitimacy of my rabbinate because I wasn’t wearing a kippah.

(And in case you’re still curious—her issue with cheese was that some contain animal rennet, which is derived from the stomachs of young animals. Some rabbis allow cheeses made with microbial rennet instead, which is vegetarian. That was the source of her complaint. But I digress.)

The issue here is boundaries. In his book Boundaries of Judaism, Rabbi Donniel Hartman addresses the challenge of defining “Who are the Jews?” He notes that in times of crisis, we exhibit collective responsibility. But when it comes to religion, we fracture. Judaism, he writes, does not unite—it divides. This was on full display at Trader Joe’s.

Hartman reflects on a personal experience where he, as an Orthodox-trained rabbi, was invited to lead a retreat—on the condition that all prayer services include a mechitzah. Not kashrut, not Shabbat observance—just a gender divider. That condition alone was enough to create division and prevent community.

These boundary debates aren’t new. They go back to the Talmud and beyond. This week’s Torah portion literally lays out what is in and what is out—what makes one pure or impure. So how do we build a more accepting, united Jewish community?

Now, the second coincidence.

As many of you know, I’ve been studying a page of Talmud each day. The day before my Trader Joe’s experience, we studied tractate Yevamot, page 14a, where we learn that although the schools of Hillel and Shammai differed in their laws of marriage, they still intermarried. Even amidst deep disagreements, they stayed connected.

On the following page, Rabbi Elazar bar Tzaddok brings olives to his teacher, Rabbi Yohanan the Horani. Rabbi Yohanan says, “I don’t eat olives,” even though his real concern was about impurity. He didn’t want to offend. His choice? Peaceful coexistence.

Scholar Sharon Weiss-Greenberg writes that today’s daf teaches us how to handle difficult social moments rooted in different religious practices. You may disagree with someone—you may believe their food isn’t kosher, their Shabbat isn’t proper, their Jewish identity isn’t valid—but for the sake of community, harmony must triumph.

Here lies the lesson: We must withhold judgment of our fellow Jews. Humility and deep listening bring peace. When we make room for another soul—their beliefs, their practices—we strengthen our community. May we all strive to live mipnei darchei shalom—for the sake of peace.

Kein yehi ratzon—may it be so.

April 18, 2025

When we sing Chad Gadya, The Only Goat, at Debra’s family Seder, it is our tradition to take on the parts of the different animals and symbols of the song and do something that represents that symbol. Every year, we call Debra’s closest friend from college, who now lives in California, and we get a toilet flush for the water sound. For several years, I have taken on the role of the fire, where I shuffle my Spotify playlist called “Fire Seder Songs” which includes the word “fire” in the lyrics of each song. The playlist includes songs like Alicia Keyes, This Girl is on Fire, Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark, Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire, Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain, and more (I am happy to take recommendations to add!). As we do every year, we sang Chad Gadya and concluded our seder. Upon waking up the next morning, that moment of fun and celebration turned to sadness as I learned of the fire set by an arsonist to the Pennsylvania Governor’s mansion in the room where Gov. Josh Shapiro celebrated his family’s seder.

Whether we consider this act an act of terror, political violence, antisemitism, or all three, I cannot help but be drawn to the image below in which there are several words from the burned family Haggadah that managed to survive. On the right-hand page, is the transliteration of Hatikvah, our people’s national anthem. The specific words that jump out are Od lo avda tikvateinu which translates to “our hope is not yet lost.” If there is any sentiment or value that truly embodies the Jewish people, it is hope, in Hebrew Tikvah; a word we know all too well in our congregation. Yehuda Amichai once wrote that we are a people infected with hope and thank God for that. Hope is what keeps us alive in challenging times. Having lived through countless instances of turmoil and hate, hope has enabled us to survive. It has been the source of our vision for the future as we have imagined and reimagined our Jewish faith. It has been a kav, that we have tied to the future and forged a plan to take us forward. It has been a mikveh, a pool that has sustained us and given us life when we feel everything is lost. Our hope is not yet lost and as long as a Jewish person walks on earth, hope will sustain us.

The other line emerges from the left-hand side of the page, where it says the Little Goat. A reference to Chad Gadya. As I mentioned earlier, it is a fun song, and some say it was included in the Seder as a way to keep young people engaged. However, according to Rabbi Dr. Raphel Zarum, Dean of the London School of Jewish Studies, who wrote in a 2019 article for The Jewish Chronicle, this melody and every animal or object in it symbolizes something larger. The goat represents the Jewish people facing oppression. The cat, an ancient symbol of Egypt; the dog, the Assyrian and Babylonian empires that employed dogs to hunt; the stick is the Persian empire, and so on. Every symbol reflects some entity that tried to overtake us. At the end of the song, God appears and saves us. The song is a metaphorical version of the poem V’hi sheamda in every generation they rise up to kill us but, in every generation, God saves us from their hand.

The question we ask is how does God save us? It is through the telling of stories. God commands us to tell the story of Passover, and with that telling comes the command to remember. We remember our journey out of Egypt; we remember the journey after the destruction of the temple, after the expulsion from Spain; we remember the pogroms; the Holocaust. In every generation we remember the moments of blessing that emerged from the darkness. Those moments are part of the story. Gov. Shapiro said, “Northing the assailant could do would deter me from my job as governor, nothing he could do would deter me from proudly and openly practicing my faith.” It is that resolve that lives within us. Through all the turmoil, we have strengthened our souls. I am always reminded in these moments of the words of Israeli graffiti artist the Yiddish Feminist who said, “Our wounds are centuries old, but so are our strength and resilience.” May these words ring in our hearts and souls and give us the resolve to move forward in times of darkness.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 11, 2025

Upon their release from captivity, Liri Albag and Agam Berger shared the stories of how they kept their faith through captivity. Berger shared that it was particularly challenging to keep Passover because there was no access to Matzah. Berger insisted that they bring her cornmeal and dates. Berger and Albag, who were held for the majority of the time by Gazan civilians, drew a Haggadah. Liri made decorations for the table. Berger reflected that she took on Psalm 119:30 as her motto, “I have chosen the way of faithfulness; I set your rules before me.” For Berger, the prayerbooks and texts she convinced her captors to bring to her, along with her study of Torah, and refusal to light fire on shabbat were a way of defiance. Like so many times before in our history, Berger’s faith kept her alive. To have the ability to choose faith is a way of expressing power in a time of powerlessness. Berger was surprised that they respected her desire to keep her faith.

For eighteen months, there have been hostages held by Hamas in Gaza. We know that about two dozen are still living, and we are longing for them to come home. As the seder concludes this year, as it does every year, we will sing “L’shana haba-ah biYerushalayim. Next year in Jerusalem.”  The hostages who were held captive know what it is like to long to return home. On the seder night when we break the bread of affliction, we know that our people are deeply broken. Without these 59 hostages, it is as if we have lost a limb. We long for them to return home and we say to the tyrants holding them hostage the same words Moses said to Pharaoh, Let my people go! It is incumbent upon all those who have power to do what they can to bring our people home.

It is hard to believe that I was in Jerusalem just over 10 months ago with fellow Beth Tikvah members. The need to feel connected to our people is strong. We are drawn closer to the pain and the trauma they live each day. Jeffrey Goldberg in The New American Haggadah, writes that the phrase Next Year in Jerusalem, is actually a repudiation of the Wicked Son who separated himself from his people. The idea that we long for Jerusalem is to say, we will not abandon our people. He notes that in Israel, they long for Next year in a rebuilt Jerusalem. They understand that in every generation there is profound brokenness, and with this expression, we hope to heal the wounds. For us, Next Year in Jerusalem certainly means that the hostages will be home, and we will once again have days of peace.

There is more, however. Next Year in Jerusalem will mean that I will hold Israel in my heart as I go to www.zionistelection.org and cast my vote for the Reform Slate. With that vote, I work to heal the brokenness by voting to ensure that the Israeli government allocates enough resources for Reform Judaism, egalitarian efforts, and LGBTQ+ people in Israel. If you have not yet voted, please vote today!

Next year in Jerusalem could also be literal. If you have yet to sign up for the Columbus Jewish Community mission for this October, there is still space available. Next year, in the Jewish calendar, you could physically be in Jerusalem with the Columbus Jewish community. If you are interested in traveling to Israel, this will be an incredible opportunity to bear witness to the atrocities of October 7th, volunteer, experience Shabbat in Jerusalem, and more. Please feel free to reach out to me, or I can put you in touch with Andy and Liz Shafran who are serving on the host committee. The information about the trip is below.

Wishing you all a Shabbat Shalom and a Chag kasher v’sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

April 4, 2025

I have always been struck by Michael Walzer’s words in our prayerbook, Mishkan Tefilah, which I often read before we sing the Mi Chamocha.

               Standing on the parted shores of history

               we still believe what we were taught

               before ever we stood on Sinai’s foot;

               that wherever we go, it is eternally Egypt

               that there is a better place, a promised land;

               that the winding way to that promise

               passes through the wilderness.

               That there is no way to get from here to there

               except by joining hands, marching

               together.

Walzer is a leading American political thinker who has written about political theory and moral philosophy. This text is excerpted from his book entitled Exodus and Revolution in which he reflects on the real power of the Exodus story.

These words can be challenging as we read the idea that “wherever we go, it is eternally Egypt.” The notion of being stuck in a narrow place, suffering hardships, and an eternal metaphorical darkness might lead us to moments of despair. The next line reminds us that there is a better place, a promised land, and the road to get there may be winding. As we read these words, we reflect on our journey. Out on the horizon lies a vision of a better tomorrow. Jewish tradition teaches us about creating a world as it ought to be. Our initial reaction when we think about such a notion is that this describes the work of tikkun olam. That is, of course, true. However, might it also be possible that such words invite us to think about our personal day-to-day journeys? Surely, we all face challenging times, whether we encounter illness, obstacles along the way, or people who have harmed us. These words echo the ebb and flow of life, reminding us that we travel an unknown path from darkness to light, back to darkness, and—God willing—to light once more.

Walzer teaches us that there is only one path to get from the darkness we are in, to the light we hope to find. He notes that it is not the path; but the people with whom we travel that path. Whether the person with whom we travel is a trusted friend, a family member, a teacher, therapist, coach, or rabbi, we need people to share the journey with us.

I am reminded of a story in which a person is lost wandering in a forest. She doesn’t know the way out. Finally, she encounters someone else, and says, “I am looking for the way out of the forest, I have walked in all these directions and have not yet found the way out. Do you know how to get out?” Her new travel partner replied, “Well, I have walked in all these directions, and they were not the way. Let’s walk together and we will find the way out with each other.”

The story teaches us that, to find the way out, we have to travel with a trusted friend. This is the story of Passover. It is the message of our People, that we marched out of Egypt together, side-by-side. As I reflect on our world today, I am still reminded of the power of the Jewish people to come together to support one another in these continued times of crisis. Passover is the story of our people; it unites us in hope knowing that we build a better world and strengthen our people by journeying together.

As we do the final preparations for our seder gatherings this week, let us remember the sacred power of partnership and peoplehood.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

March 28, 2025

Shabbat Shalom! This week I was blessed to attend the annual convention for the Central Conference of American Rabbis. On Monday morning, I was installed as President Elect of the Conference. The mission of the CCAR is to “support and strengthen Reform rabbis so that our members, their communities, and Reform Jewish values thrive.” I have been an active volunteer in the CCAR for more than a decade. I began as a volunteer on the advisory committee of the Mishkan T’fillah Journal edition– which we give our religious school students–and continued co-chairing a trip to Israel and serving on our annual convention committee for five years (including as chair of the 2019 convention). I have served as chair of Continuing Rabbinic Education, and then for the last four years as a board member–including two years as Vice President of Program and Member Support. Over the years, I feel that my rabbinate has been strengthened because of the wisdom and insight shared by presenters and colleagues.

Serving as a rabbi isn’t always easy but, through my work, I encounter lots of joy and blessing. Early in the convention, we were asked to share the aspects of our work that bring us meaning and my response was being able to sit with people in their most vulnerable moments, whether in the hospital, at the end of life, or in the earliest stages of grief. Sometimes, just being present for someone, not needing to share words, or wisdom, but just the presence of their rabbi brings blessing and meaning.

The role of the rabbi can be challenging because people have expectations that we may not be able to live up to, letting people down along the way. As rabbis we must recognize when we need to stand up, speak out, and step back to let others lead. Through it all, there is an obligation to ground all we do in Torah and live by the highest ethical standards embodied in our ethics code.

As I think about the many lessons that I am taking away from this year’s convention, there are several that stand out. First and foremost, we had the opportunity to acknowledge and reflect on the 35^th anniversary of the “Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate”. At the 1990 convention, the report was accepted amid great tension. Colleagues shared harrowing and painful stories about their experiences of being rejected for jobs because of their sexuality. A few colleagues also shared that despite all of the hardships, they were able to find many blessings. This program brought me tears of sadness and pain, along with those of joy and blessing. Additionally, Rabbi Michael Marmur, who visited Beth Tikvah as our Resler Scholar-in-Residence in May of 2023, taught us about anxiety and hope as the engines of Jewish life. His beautiful teaching inspired us to see hope (Tikvah) as a thread (kav) attached to something that pulls us toward a better tomorrow, and also as a mikveh, a pool that gives us sustenance.

These last few days have certainly been a pool of sustenance for me. As I return home, I am excited to attach that thread to something that will carry us forward into the future.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner