Religious Liberty Scorched: Beth Israel Burns, Leaders Demand Justice

Paul Riverbank, 1/12/2026Historic synagogue gutted by fire; community rallies amid sorrow, resilience, and ongoing hate crime investigation.

As firefighters worked through the shell of what was once the library—now a heap of scorched paper and cracked shelves—federal agencies swiftly arrived: the FBI, ATF, and local police wasted no time framing the event as both a criminal probe and a wider emergency for a city coming to terms with another act of violence against a place of worship. By sunset, their search brought them to the suspect: officials confirmed an arrest at a nearby hospital. No names have been released yet, and the motive is still a matter for careful investigation. The man in custody had burns, nothing fatal, but clear evidence that he’d been close to the flames.

“It’s an act against all of us,” Jackson’s Mayor, John Horhn, declared at an impromptu press conference, his words taut with emotion. “Whoever is responsible, whoever thinks hate can thrive here, is mistaken. The city stands with Beth Israel and our Jewish neighbors.” His voice rang with conviction, but also the weary recognition that this was not, sadly, Jackson’s first encounter with such sorrow.

The fire started in the library, authorities say. That room, once lined with books and soft light from high windows, will now be remembered for something else: the loss of two Torah scrolls reduced to ash, along with heavy smoke damage to several more. A single Torah, rescued from the Nazis decades earlier and lovingly displayed, somehow came through untouched. It sat behind glass, dusted with soot but otherwise unscathed—a strange, almost uncanny survivor’s tale in the midst of devastation.

One member, Jeffrey Planchard, who lives just north in Madison, shook his head as he stood across from the building: “Growing up here, I always thought this kind of thing happened somewhere else—New York, maybe, or Europe. But here it is. That sense of safety’s gone.” His words echoed a deeper resilience, too, one that long predates Saturday’s fires.

There’s precedent here that’s hard to forget. In 1967, members of the Ku Klux Klan bombed Beth Israel after then-rabbi Perry Nussbaum stood up publicly for civil rights. The scars linger; some of the very rooms gutted by this fire had already borne the shrapnel from that earlier attack. Back then, the congregation rebuilt. Now, past and present are intertwined in uneasy kinship.

Outside, as smoke hung in the air, a stream of phone calls and knocks at the door offered hope. Several local churches and faith groups immediately stepped up—St. Andrew’s Episcopal first among them—opening their sanctuaries so Beth Israel congregants could gather and pray. “People reached out before we even asked,” said Zach Shemper, the congregation’s president. “You find out pretty quickly who your real neighbors are.”

Meanwhile, fire investigators refused to speculate about cause or intent, insisting only that the matter is being treated as a possible hate crime. It’s an open question, but the broader context looms large: the Anti-Defamation League tracked over 9,300 antisemitic incidents nationwide this year—the worst since records began in the late 1970s. Charles Felton, who heads fire investigations in Jackson, described a mood among congregants that was both “furious and determined to move forward.”

Beth Israel’s timeline stretches back to 1860. Those who worship there have known both sanctuary and sorrow: after an 1874 fire, parishioners took shelter in a Methodist church while repairs were made. In 1967, after bombs, they leaned on each other. And now, once again, faith and fellowship will shoulder the heavy work of rebuilding.

Shemper says services will resume as soon as possible—even if it means doing so in borrowed pews with the scent of smoke still clinging to hymn books. The FBI has promised a thorough investigation, city leaders a public show of support. But for survivors, memory is the first step toward recovery—and this time, as before, they refuse to stand down in the face of violence.

Old wounds have been reopened, but so have lines of solidarity. The damage is severe, yet the resolve among Beth Israel’s members is just as indelible—a community intent on defying the logic of hate, setting about the slow, necessary work of healing together.

Before dawn broke on Saturday, fire crews converged on a stretch of Old Canton Road where Beth Israel Congregation has stood for generations. The air still carried a bitter tang hours after the flames chewed their way through the building’s core, leaving hallways still and blackened. For a structure that has weathered war, upheaval, and long decades of change, it now faced its most recent trial—silence and ruin after a fire that took little time to inflict lasting harm.As firefighters worked through the shell of what was once the library—now a heap of scorched paper and cracked shelves—federal agencies swiftly arrived: the FBI, ATF, and local police wasted no time framing the event as both a criminal probe and a wider emergency for a city coming to terms with another act of violence against a place of worship. By sunset, their search brought them to the suspect: officials confirmed an arrest at a nearby hospital. No names have been released yet, and the motive is still a matter for careful investigation. The man in custody had burns, nothing fatal, but clear evidence that he’d been close to the flames.“It’s an act against all of us,” Jackson’s Mayor, John Horhn, declared at an impromptu press conference, his words taut with emotion. “Whoever is responsible, whoever thinks hate can thrive here, is mistaken. The city stands with Beth Israel and our Jewish neighbors.” His voice rang with conviction, but also the weary recognition that this was not, sadly, Jackson’s first encounter with such sorrow.The fire started in the library, authorities say. That room, once lined with books and soft light from high windows, will now be remembered for something else: the loss of two Torah scrolls reduced to ash, along with heavy smoke damage to several more. A single Torah, rescued from the Nazis decades earlier and lovingly displayed, somehow came through untouched. It sat behind glass, dusted with soot but otherwise unscathed—a strange, almost uncanny survivor’s tale in the midst of devastation.One member, Jeffrey Planchard, who lives just north in Madison, shook his head as he stood across from the building: “Growing up here, I always thought this kind of thing happened somewhere else—New York, maybe, or Europe. But here it is. That sense of safety’s gone.” His words echoed a deeper resilience, too, one that long predates Saturday’s fires.There’s precedent here that’s hard to forget. In 1967, members of the Ku Klux Klan bombed Beth Israel after then-rabbi Perry Nussbaum stood up publicly for civil rights. The scars linger; some of the very rooms gutted by this fire had already borne the shrapnel from that earlier attack. Back then, the congregation rebuilt. Now, past and present are intertwined in uneasy kinship.Outside, as smoke hung in the air, a stream of phone calls and knocks at the door offered hope. Several local churches and faith groups immediately stepped up—St. Andrew’s Episcopal first among them—opening their sanctuaries so Beth Israel congregants could gather and pray. “People reached out before we even asked,” said Zach Shemper, the congregation’s president. “You find out pretty quickly who your real neighbors are.”Meanwhile, fire investigators refused to speculate about cause or intent, insisting only that the matter is being treated as a possible hate crime. It’s an open question, but the broader context looms large: the Anti-Defamation League tracked over 9,300 antisemitic incidents nationwide this year—the worst since records began in the late 1970s. Charles Felton, who heads fire investigations in Jackson, described a mood among congregants that was both “furious and determined to move forward.”Beth Israel’s timeline stretches back to 1860. Those who worship there have known both sanctuary and sorrow: after an 1874 fire, parishioners took shelter in a Methodist church while repairs were made. In 1967, after bombs, they leaned on each other. And now, once again, faith and fellowship will shoulder the heavy work of rebuilding.Shemper says services will resume as soon as possible—even if it means doing so in borrowed pews with the scent of smoke still clinging to hymn books. The FBI has promised a thorough investigation, city leaders a public show of support. But for survivors, memory is the first step toward recovery—and this time, as before, they refuse to stand down in the face of violence.Old wounds have been reopened, but so have lines of solidarity. The damage is severe, yet the resolve among Beth Israel’s members is just as indelible—a community intent on defying the logic of hate, setting about the slow, necessary work of healing together.