This column is republished with permission from J – The Jewish News of Northern California. It was published on Jan. 15, 2026. Read the original article.
In the early morning hours of Shabbat on May 21, 1754, the Jewish community of Prague experienced one of its worst nightmares: A fire broke out in the Jewish Quarter. The blaze was immense, and with only bucket brigades available to combat the flames, the destruction was catastrophic. By the time the fire was finally extinguished, 190 homes and six synagogues had been reduced to ash.
The Jewish community was particularly devastated by the destruction of sacred ritual objects. A poem composed in the aftermath, preserved in a communal memorial volume, laments the loss of parochet (decorative, often highly embellished, curtains that hang in front of the ark), me’ilim (Torah scroll covers) and menorahs, comparing the destruction in Prague to the fall of the Jerusalem Temple itself.
The grief is palpable—these sacred spaces, which had stood as silent witnesses to a community’s greatest challenges, tragedies, and joys for generations, sat in ruins.
More than two centuries later, another Jewish community—this time in Jackson, Mississippi—awoke to a similarly gut-wrenching scene on Jan. 10. Beth Israel Congregation, a historic community and the city’s only synagogue, was left in ruins, apparently at the hands of an arsonist motivated by antisemitic hate.
While I have never been to Jackson, the attack left me deeply upset. Perhaps that’s because I was quickly reminded of just how small the Jewish world really is. Though Beth Israel is a relatively small congregation, my father’s first cousin sits on its board, and a congregant’s daughter-in-law grew up in the community.
These connections made the pain feel personal. But they also point to something deeper: They are among the cornerstones of Jewish resilience.
“Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazehm—All of Israel is responsible for one another,” the Talmud teaches. That responsibility is not abstract; it is forged through the many deep and often surprising ties that link Jews to one another across geography and generations. We share in each other’s joys, and when a Jewish community suffers, we feel that pain as our own.
This lesson stands at the center of this week’s Torah portion, Vaera. The portion opens with God’s declaration to Moses, a moment of revelation and responsibility: “I appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make myself known to them by my name YHWH.” In this exchange, God reveals to Moses his true nature and identity.
Classical commentators have long struggled with this verse. Throughout the book of Genesis, YHWH is one of the many names used for God. What, then, could it mean that this name was unknown to the patriarchs?
One mystical tradition suggests that God’s different names correspond to different divine attributes. YHWH represents God as sovereign of the nation of Israel. While the patriarchs knew God, their relationship was personal and immediate—shaped by individual encounters and promises. But now, in the nation-forming moment of Exodus, God reveals a previously unknown dimension: the aspect of divinity that guides and redeems an entire people.
The lesson to Moses was clear: His concerns, too, had to shift. His life as a shepherd had been lived for himself, evading justice for the taskmaster he had killed and avoiding responsibility for his kinfolk in bondage. Now, however, God calls on Moses to step into a different role, one grounded in shared responsibility for his people. It is only through embracing that collective obligation that redemption becomes possible.
While the Israelites were not always quick to take on the lessons God taught through Moses, this one has endured. Our concern extends beyond our particular and intimate worlds, not only to other Jews, but to all who find themselves in need. This sense of shared responsibility is one of the keys to Jewish resilience. It is one of the reasons Jews have been able not only to endure great tragedies, but to learn from them and to recover in ways that are often remarkable.
This was certainly the case in Prague. The fire of 1754 motivated the community to launch substantial fundraising efforts. Not only did they rebuild, but they also recruited the famed Rabbi Yeḥezkel Landau to serve as chief rabbi. Under his guidance, the community grew significantly in the decades that followed. They recorded their shared loss in a communal memorial volume, ensuring that the memory of the fire and the lessons learned from it would not be forgotten.
I know that we join in the shared prayer that Jackson will not only recover from this outrageous attack but experience renewal as the community rebuilds. What those who hate us fail to understand is that these attacks often inspire Jewish communities to draw on our shared strength, bringing together a global network of care and concern. In the face of devastation, we respond with connection, resilience and hope. In moments like these, we are reminded that we do not stand alone. We carry one another—in grief, in memory and, most of all, in the work of beginning again.
The Goldring/Woldenberg Institute of Southern Jewish Life has encouraged those wishing to help to donate to Beth Israel’s rebuilding fund.