July 25, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We cannot look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

July 18, 2025

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

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

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

In the song Guthrie writes:

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

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

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita

Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria

I don’t have a name

when I ride the big airplane

They just call me one more deportee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

July 18, 2025

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

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

1. B’tzelem Elohim

2. Love your neighbor as yourself

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

4. Jewish Peoplehood

5. Zionism

6. Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we do this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.   Telling our story

2.   Living our Values

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

4.   Create Partnerships

a.   Israelis and Americans together

b.   Americans and Americans together

c.   Israelis and Israelis together

5.   Strengthen Institutions

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rick Kellner