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