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.

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

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

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

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

July 18, 2025

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

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

1. B’tzelem Elohim

2. Love your neighbor as yourself

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

4. Jewish Peoplehood

5. Zionism

6. Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we do this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.   Telling our story

2.   Living our Values

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

4.   Create Partnerships

a.   Israelis and Americans together

b.   Americans and Americans together

c.   Israelis and Israelis together

5.   Strengthen Institutions

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 11, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 1, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 4, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a wonderful 4^th of July weekend!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

June 27, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My son returned from battle, his duffel bursting

With things that I had not packed for him.

Socks donated by the Jews in Argentina.

A quilted blanket smelling like someone else’s home

A blue towel from a family from the Moshav,

Tzitzit from Jerusalem.

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

A scarf knitted by an elderly lady,

Undershirts purchased by online shoppers,

A sheet that was given to him by a friend,

Gloves bought by teenage girls,

A jacket from the closet of someone who

Came and requested to give.

I spread out all those garments

And weave together a new coat of many colors.

See, Yosef, your brothers were there for you.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

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

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

June 20, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

June 13, 2025

Rabbi Rick Kellner’s Sermon starts at 9:58