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Rabbi's Blog
MLK Reflection: Will We Be Ready for the Call?
January 19, 2026
On a frigid December day, a call went out to the Community Response Hub listserv asking for people to stand outside several mosques frequented by Somali refugees. ICE was out, and their pursuit of certain people added to the chill in the air. I still feel guilty that I could not join those who stood in the cold, hoping to protect a human being from being detained. During the darkest nights of the year, countless individuals could not leave their homes as they feared being taken from their children, or that their children would be taken from them. Days later, another call went out seeking volunteers to do grocery pickups for those who needed to stay locked in their homes. It was the holiday season, and so many of us were traveling. I put out the call to those in our community who had previously expressed interest in supporting immigrants or doing social justice work. It was all I could do, was it enough?
Months earlier, with crisp morning air and leaves beginning to fall, I began thinking to myself: ICE will show up here; what are we going to do? We can see what is happening in other cities; leaders need to come together and create a playbook so that when they arrive, we call out play A, B, or C. Maybe such a meeting took place; I wasn’t in the know. The calendar turned, and ICE crept north to Minneapolis, the largest Somali population in the United States (Columbus is the second). More than 3,000 ICE agents, four times the number of Minneapolis police officers, began roaming the city. Reports followed of kicked-in doors, individuals harassed in their homes, and the shooting of Renee Good and another civilian. I know that so many of us are angered and saddened by what we are witnessing around the country, and we feel powerless to respond.
Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Part of me wonders what he might say if he were preaching today. As he bore witness to the pain of his brothers, he worked to bend the moral arc of the world toward justice. In the hot summer of 1964, he put out a call to the Central Conference of American Rabbis to come to St. Augustine, FL, to stand in “creative witness to the joint convictions of equality and racial justice.” 16 rabbis, along with Al Vorspan—who would later direct the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism—went to Florida. Fifteen were arrested outside of Monson’s Restaurant as they joined in integrated prayer. Two others were arrested because they dined with three Black individuals at the Chimes Restaurant. In the sweltering heat of the jail, lit by a single light outside the cell, these 17 Jewish leaders penned a famous letter called “Why We Went”. The letter was written on the back of pages of a mimeographed accounting of the bloody KKK attacks.
I had the privilege of knowing three of those 17 men personally. One was my teacher. I remember him telling us the story of Dr. King calling to them. My teacher, Rabbi Richard Levy z”l, who held a balance of righteousness and spirituality in his soul, taught us that we say, “Hineini, here I am,” when we are called to bear witness and break the bonds of injustice. His righteous indignation still echoes within my memory and serves as a reminder of one of our significant responsibilities as Jews: to stand up to Pharaoh.
These rabbis wrote, “We came to St. Augustine mainly because we could not stay away… We could not pass by the opportunity to achieve a moral goal by moral means—a rare modern privilege—which has been the glory of the non-violent struggle for civil rights… We came because we could not stand quietly by our brother’s blood. We had done that too many times before… We came as Jews who remember the millions of faceless people who stood quietly, watching the smoke rise from Hitler’s crematoria. We came because we know that, second only to silence, the greatest danger to man is loss of faith in man’s capacity to act… What disturbs us more deeply is the large number of decent citizens who have stood aside, unable to bring themselves to act, yet knowing in their hearts that this cause is right and that it must inevitably triumph.”
They carried with them the memory of those who were bystanders in the face of the greatest evil humanity has ever known. Not even two decades after the end of the war, they could not forget. These great leaders saw a moral cause and knew they had to act. Sitting with Black men at a meal and praying in an integrated service did more than serve as an act of protest; it was a response to those whose cries pierced through the screen blinding people from seeing their humanity. In a rare moment, those who were dehumanized because of the color of their skin were seen as human in the eyes of the rabbis.
As they were greeted with exuberant joy in the church and marched hand in hand, they reflected, “We came to stand with our brothers and, in the process, have learned more about ourselves and our God. In obeying Him, we become ourselves; in following His will we fulfill ourselves. He has guided, sustained, and strengthened us in a way we could not manage on our own.” God’s holiness is felt when human beings join hand in hand and the break the bonds of injustice.
As I sit with the words of this letter engraved on my heart, I reflect on the words of Torah we read this past Shabbat from Parashat Vaera: “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant” (Exodus 6:5). Why is God now only able to hear their cries? Has something changed in the people? Has something changed in God? Or HaChaim, an early 18th-century commentary written by Chaim ibn Attar, a kabbalist and Talmudist, teaches us that the words in this verse—and also gam ani—refer to God’s attribute of mercy. He explains that this attribute extends beyond the cries and prayers of the Israelites. God’s mercy touches the lives of all who suffer. This painful witnessing helps God remember the covenant.
In this moment in time, we too must have our attribute of mercy awakened by the cries of those who cannot leave their homes because they fear being taken from their families. We share a covenant with all human beings. To behold the face of another is to remember we are responsible for them. If they were harmed, their blood would cry out to us from the ground. Upholding our end of the covenant with humanity begins with ensuring that we see every soul as a human being.
Last Wednesday, we hosted our first community meal. Neighbors in our community who need a free meal come to houses of worship for various reasons. The churches in Worthington had been doing this for years. Though we prepared for 40 people, only two came. Neither woman spoke English. I sat with them and spoke Spanish. I learned they were from Venezuela and Ecuador. The woman from Venezuela shared that she walked for seven months to get here, sometimes going seven to ten days without food or water. She shared her desire to take English classes and that so few people spoke Spanish. By sitting with these two women and speaking their native tongue, perhaps I was able to overcome a small part of the barrier they face with most people. They were seen in their humanity.
We have a long road ahead. As ICE agents sprawl through our cities, we might begin to ask ourselves what we can do to ensure that we see our neighbors as human beings. In some instances, the people they are going after are the people who clean our homes or care for our lawns. They do all they can to put food on the table and provide for their families. We know they will descend on our city again. We must ask ourselves: will we be ready for the call?
Rabbi Rick Kellner
We Are All Beth Israel
January 16, 2026
When a synagogue burns, part of my soul goes up in flames too. That is the price of being a Jew and part of the Jewish people. Wherever a Jew suffers, we all suffer. Last Shabbat, we opened the book of Exodus and we read of Moses turning aside to see a bush burning but not consumed. In the dark hours of the night, a synagogue was set ablaze, and by the time the first rays of light brightened the morning sky, a library that once witnessed laughter and learning had been consumed by the flames of hate. Beth Israel of Jackson, Mississippi is the largest synagogue in the state and is also home to the Institute for Southern Jewish Life, an institution that has preserved Jewish life in the South for generations. Jackson is also home to nearby URJ Camp Jacobs, the Reform Movement’s summer that serves much of the Jewish South.
During Shabbat, my social media feed was filled with stories and memories of how this small but mighty congregation had touched the lives of so many people I know. The synagogue was served by many student rabbis who studied at HUC in Cincinnati. All of these connections deepened the closeness I felt to this tragedy.
Why does this hurt so much? There is something that we, the Jewish community, feel so deeply that many outside of it struggle to understand. The pain of such a tragic moment pierces our souls because we know people directly hurt by this antisemitic attack. And if we do not, it is the intergenerational trauma we have inherited from centuries of hatred our ancestors endured. We also imagine ourselves sitting in our own temple libraries—studying sacred texts, recounting our Jewish story, or engaging in prayer. When our sacred spaces are vandalized, it is an attack on our identity, our sense of security, and the place we call home.
On Sunday afternoon, I slowly walked through the dark halls of the United States Holocaust Memorial and Museum with our Confirmation (10th grade) students. We saw video and still images of the fires of Kristallnacht, as well as a desecrated Torah scroll from the Holocaust. Nearly 90 years later, the images haven’t changed.
When I learned of the Beth Israel fire, my initial reaction was anger, which quickly turned to pain and sadness, as if I had stepped into a storm cloud. It pains me that the embers of hate still burn so deeply within the souls of people who may be our neighbors. Even after all the work we have done, propaganda videos online are more than just words—they feed embers and turn them into flames that spark fires destroying our sacred spaces. The loss of Torah scrolls—carrying the words of our people, read aloud for generations, inspiring us to love our neighbors, care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger, reminding us that we are all made in God’s image, and commanding us to be holy—is beyond tragic. One of the scrolls that survived was one that survived the Holocaust. Thank God! The former rabbi of the synagogue shared photos sent to him just weeks ago of children learning in that library. He posted those photos alongside images of the library charred by fire. The contrast is striking.
Out of the fire of the Burning Bush emerged the voice of God. This community is no stranger to terror, having been bombed fifty years ago. As Jews, we rebuild. Just as being targets of hate is part of DNA, so too is our resilience. We are an ever-living people, and we have survived for millennia, even as countless forces sought to destroy us. We will continue to survive, and we will rebuild again. Perhaps the most inspiring part of this tragic story is the many churches that reached out to their Jewish neighbors in Jackson and offered space to worship and learn. In fact, on Sunday morning, the children of Beth Israel gathered to learn once more. The destructive flames cannot extinguish the eternal flame that burns in the heart of the Jewish soul.
So many of us were touched by this awful tragedy because we feel it so personally. We are all Beth Israel. If you would like to join me in donating to Beth Israel’s rebuilding efforts, please go to their website www.bethisraelms.org to find a donation link.
As we enter Shabbat this evening and sing the words of V’shamru, we will be reminded of the eternal covenant God established with the Jewish people. The threads of the covenant bind us tightly to one another. We pray that the sacred connection of the Jewish people brings Beth Israel of Jackson strength and love as they rebuild. May we all know that we care and support one another through these difficult moments.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Rick Kellner
The Carob Tree Project
Featuring Dawn Heyman
In the Talmud, the carob tree is planted for a future the planter may never see. Congregation Beth Tikvah’s Carob Tree Project is about honoring those who have done just that. Dawn Heyman’s story is one of seeds planted patiently in classrooms, in community, and in faith — and of fruit still being gathered today and into the future.
Some of her earliest memories are rooted in the tenderness of her family. “Aunt Betty was my favorite aunt. She used to make jello especially for me because I just loved the color of jello. Not only is it pretty, it tastes pretty! She lived in New Jersey, and we used to go out to the seashore. I’d go swimming in the ocean, which was fun and scary. One minute your feet are on the ground, the next minute you’re ten feet up in the air. I’d stay in the water until I was blue.”
For Dawn, school began unevenly but would eventually become her calling. She loved learning, but her first classroom experience shook her sense of safety. It taught her something lasting about children, how vulnerable they are and how easily a single adult can shape their confidence. What steadied her was another teacher later on. “Mrs. Thorpe is the reason I became a teacher. She was tough,” says Dawn. “She was my role model, and actually my friend as a grownup.” Mrs. Thorpe showed her that rigor and care can coexist, and that simply believing in students can alter the course of their lives.
That belief would guide Dawn through decades in the classroom.
As a Jewish child, Dawn often felt isolated. Being the only Jewish student meant living inside someone else’s calendar and customs. “I was sometimes the only Jewish kid in the classroom. You feel very lonely. It’s always Christmas or Easter, and who you are doesn’t seem to matter.”
Holidays passed without recognition. Identity went unseen. The loneliness was real, but so was her resolve. Over time, she learned to speak clearly and calmly about who she was. She did not aim to persuade, but to stand her ground. Judaism, for Dawn, was never a question; she felt it early and unmistakably. “My soul just knew it was Jewish,” she says.
That sense of belonging eventually led her to her second home: Beth Tikvah. “Beth Tikvah was in a little house on the corner, and I just decided one Friday to go in and see what it was like.” The community, the shared responsibility, the openness…all of it resonated. She didn’t just participate; she led. She taught. She stood at the bimah. She felt at home.
Teaching became the central thread of her life. As a teacher, Dawn loved the process of helping children learn and understand, especially those who struggled. She watched for the moment when comprehension arrived, and frustration softened into clarity. She made room for humor, creativity, and for current events turned into mock broadcasts and commercials. She believed learning should be engaging. It should feel alive.
Dawn was especially drawn to children others found difficult. The ones who tested boundaries; the ones who carried something heavier. Dawn noticed them. She remembered what it felt like to be different, and she made sure those students were seen.
he values that have shaped her came from home. “My mother always said to be kind. Always be kind.” Her father brought humor and creativity into the house, filling it with music. He played the cello, loved classical pieces, and passed on an appreciation for beauty that has stayed with her long after her father’s sound faded.
Even now, art remains a large part of Dawn’s life. She writes poetry inspired by nature and animals. She draws. She notices. She talks to God honestly, and sometimes argumentatively, because for her, faith is about building an authentic relationship.
“I have a need to talk to God and I do. Judaism doesn’t try to make God be anything. You have freedom to love God in your own way.”
Looking back, Dawn measures her life by the moments when kindness mattered. By noticing who was overlooked. By staying curious, creative, and willing to stand in her truth. She speaks plainly about who she is and how she lives. “I’m alive and well. I still drive people crazy! You have to be a little naughty; have a little fun. That’s important.”
In the story of the carob tree, one plants knowing they may never sit in its shade. Dawn has lived that story. Through teaching, through leadership, through faith practiced honestly, she has planted seeds she may never fully see. They live on in the students who felt understood, in the communities that felt like home, in the quiet confidence of being Jewish without apology, and in the simple, enduring command to always be kind.
Her story is a carob tree: planted long ago, still bearing fruit.
Written by Hannah Karr
Director of Marketing & Community Engagement
Congregation Beth Tikvah
Pause for Poetry
Reflections by Rabbi Karen Martin
“When Life Seems a To-Do List” by Marjorie Saiser in How to Love the World, edited by James Crews
When the squares of the week fill
with musts and shoulds,
when I swim in the heaviness of it,
the headlines, the fear and hate,
then with luck,
something like a slice of moon
will arrive clean as a bone
and beside it on that dark slate
a star will lodge near the cusp
and with luck I will have you
to see it with, the two of us,
fools stepping out the backdoor
in our pajamas.
Is that Venus?–I think so–Let’s
call it Venus, cuddling up to the moon
and there are stars further away
sending out rays that will not
reach us in our lifetimes
but we are choosing,
before the chaos
starts up again,
to stand in this particular light.
Much like a flower, I am solar-powered and not made to withstand the cold. In nicer weather, I can stay outside for hours, but in this season, being outdoors is something to be endured, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind.
January is a hard month. The joy of Hanukkah has passed, and although we have moved beyond the darkest nights of the year, we must still slog through long stretches of dreary gray cold before we get to feel the heat of the sun. With the holidays behind us, we scramble to catch up on missed work, plan for what’s to come, and tend to all that must be done week in and week out.
In the winter, it’s easy to give in to the temptation to curl into ourselves, protecting our warmth from the cutting cold. It is easier to stay indoors, weighed down by the pressure of what must get done, or what we should be doing. For me, that includes laundry and dishes, teaching and learning, the minutiae of parenting, and doing what I can to stand up for what I believe in. These things are necessary and urgent, demanding attention, but they are not everything.
This poem, “When Life Seems a To-Do List,” feels like a gentle reminder of the other things—the small moments that fill me up and carry me through this season and every other. In the poem, the speaker looks up at the early morning sky, perhaps on a morning like this one as Rosh Hodesh Tevet approaches, the moon only a sliver on the horizon, with Venus resting at the cusp of the moon’s crescent. There is something both stark and warm in the language, in the image of the moon as a slice of white bone—as though it cuts through the noise and leaves the speaker picked clean. Yet it is not a painful cleansing; it is more like a mikvah, where one emerges pure from living water and takes the first breath after immersion, or like the way the world is blanketed and pristine after a heavy snowfall.
The warmth comes with these words, “and with luck I will have you / to see it with.” The speaker hopes to share this simple, poignant moment. There’s a gentle, self-deprecating humor in the imagined interaction, both in their pajamas as they guess at the star or planet, no cell phones intruding to give them the answer. It’s a moment of imagined connection; a pause made better because it is shared.
I am struck by the image the speaker paints of choosing. They choose to look up, to see the sky in the early hours, to bask not in the light of the sun, but in the quiet glow of the moon and stars. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to choose that particular light, to breathe into an intimate darkness and find companionship there before the chaos that comes with daylight.
The poem calls me to look up and around when I want to huddle into myself. It’s a reminder of the simple wonder found in connection and stillness, and that they are not mutually exclusive, but rather they are richer for being shared. As we enter the cold slog of January, may we be blessed with wonder, rejuvenating pauses, and connection.
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