Last week, a synagogue in Mississippi was set on fire. The building was damaged. Sacred books were destroyed. A community was shaken. Thankfully, no lives were lost.
The synagogue — Beth Israel Congregation, the only one in Jackson — has stood for generations. It survived segregation, intimidation and earlier threats tied to its support for civil rights. Now it faces another test, one increasingly familiar to religious communities across America: What does faith require when a sacred place is attacked?
Rebuilding matters. But rebuilding does not undo what was lost. It cannot restore the familiarity of a room shaped by years of prayer, the confidence that sacred spaces will simply be left alone or the sense of permanence that grows quietly when a building stands untouched long enough to feel dependable.
The immediate response, understandably, is fear. Another house of worship vandalized. Another reminder that religious hatred, whether aimed at Jews, Christians, Catholics or others, has not vanished from American life.
Fear in moments like this is not irrational. It is earned. But if fear becomes the organizing principle of religious life, institutions slowly hollow out from within. That is why, within Judaism, the deeper question is not fear. It is what comes next.
Judaism has a long and sober relationship with destruction. Its calendar marks the loss of the Temple in Jerusalem not once but twice. Jewish history is punctuated by burned buildings, shattered communities and forced displacement. Yet Judaism’s defining move has never been retreat. It has been rebuilding; often quietly, deliberately and in place.
A synagogue, in Jewish thought, is not holy because it is invulnerable. It is holy because it gathers people: to pray, to learn, to care for one another and to mark life’s passages. The building matters, but it matters because of the life it shelters. When that shelter is damaged, the obligation is not to withdraw from the world, but to restore communal life as an act of faith.
That instinct runs deep in Rabbinic tradition. After the destruction of Jerusalem in the first century, Jewish leaders preserved Jewish life by shifting its center from sacrifice to study, prayer and community — rebuilding Judaism institutionally rather than abandoning it. Destruction did not end the story; it reshaped it.
The late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured this ethic with clarity: “Let us be known as the people that doesn’t destroy. We are the people that build.” In Jewish life, building is not merely architectural. It is moral. It is communal. It is a commitment to continuity in the face of rupture.
For many congregants, the loss is not abstract. It is the siddur used every week. The Torah ark children approached nervously for the first time. The familiar room that held grief as much as joy. These are small things, perhaps, but they are how institutions are lived.
This Jewish story is so powerful now because moments like this test something larger than tolerance. They test pluralism; whether a diverse society still possesses the institutional habits and moral will to protect spaces it does not personally inhabit.
Over the past several decades, houses of worship across America have been attacked. Black churches were burned in coordinated arson campaigns in the 1990s. Since 2020, Catholic dioceses have documented hundreds of incidents involving vandalism, arson and desecration. Synagogues have faced shootings, bomb threats and fires. Mosques and temples have been defaced. Latter-day Saint meetinghouses, too, have been vandalized and damaged by arson in recent years. These acts differ in motive and moment, but they share a common logic: Sacred spaces have become symbolic targets in a culture struggling with authority, restraint and belonging.
This is so salient for our communities and civil sphere not because religious buildings are uniquely fragile but because they are uniquely formative.
We speak easily about roads, bridges and power grids. We are less comfortable talking about moral infrastructure: the institutions that teach restraint, responsibility, service and belonging long before those virtues are debated in public. Houses of worship are among the most important parts of that infrastructure.
They are places where children learn, week after week, that they belong to something larger than themselves and where adults quietly decide whether that inheritance will be preserved or slowly surrendered. Service is practiced there without fanfare. Moral habits are formed before they are contested. When one is attacked, it is not only a crime against a particular group. It is an assault on the institutions that quietly sustain pluralism itself.
Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints understand this intuitively. Latter-day Saint meetinghouses and temples are not merely functional spaces; they are centers of covenant, service and community formation. The LDS emphasis on careful building — patiently, for generations — reflects a belief shared with Jewish tradition: institutions matter because they shape people over time.
That perspective helps explain why we must all talk about the response to the synagogue destruction in Mississippi.
Local officials condemned the attack. Federal authorities moved quickly. Nearby churches offered space so the congregation could continue worship. The message was clear: This community will not be erased, and it will not stand alone. This kind of interfaith solidarity is not sentimental. It is civic. It reflects an understanding shared across religious traditions that protecting one another’s sacred spaces is part of preserving religious freedom for all.
In Jewish tradition, rebuilding after loss is not triumphalist. It is restrained, even humble. The goal is not spectacle. It is stability: restoring rhythms of prayer, education, charity and care. In a culture that increasingly rewards outrage and attention, rebuilding is a countercultural act. It affirms that continuity matters more than applause.
America needs that ethic now.
In 2026, religious institutions of all kinds face pressure. Attendance patterns have shifted. Trust in institutions has frayed. Security concerns are real. Yet moments like this remind us why these institutions endure. They are not relics. They are formation grounds; places where moral responsibility is learned long before it is debated.
When a synagogue burns, or a church is vandalized, or a meetinghouse is threatened, the question is not whether faith still belongs in public life. The question is whether we understand how much public life depends on faith communities willing to rebuild rather than retreat.
For Jews, rebuilding a synagogue is a declaration: Jewish life will continue here — openly, lawfully and rooted in shared civic norms. For Latter-day Saints, Catholics, Protestants and others, standing with that effort reflects a familiar truth: Religious freedom is not a zero-sum inheritance. It is a shared trust, sustained by mutual responsibility.
The work of rebuilding is slow, unglamorous and costly. It requires patience, sacrifice, volunteer labor and emotional repair. In the meantime, worship continues in borrowed spaces. Children still prepare for milestones. Service continues.
Across faiths, this has long been how communities speak to the next generation— quietly, without slogans: We were shaken, not erased.