Debbie Blumenthal. In 1980, she was the only Jewish kid in Carrollton High School. She had sapphire blue eyes and a super-curly head of hair, a magnificent brain and an ironic sense of humor. Remember the Izod craze that swept America at that time, leaving the breast of almost every citizen emblazoned with the iconic Izod alligator? To protest that conformity, Debbie taped to her shirt a flat, dried out lizard that she’d found in her driveway. From that moment on, she was my hero.
That didn’t help me being envious of her because she got to take both Jewish and Christian holidays off from school. But what I didn’t envy was her isolation. Other than her little sister, who was two grades younger, she was completely alone in our school. She did ok though. As in “Current Director of Neuro-Oncology at Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center” ok.
When her family went to synagogue, they had to drive all the way to Atlanta. I had never been to a synagogue, myself. In fact, I had lived 55 years on this earth and never been inside one. But last week, on a rainy Monday night, I found myself on a pilgrimage to Rodeph Sholom (built in 1875)in Rome, Georgia. The congregation is a small one- about 30 families in a town of 36,000. They certainly know how it feels to be isolated.
I had been invited to sing there at a Service of Solidarity to honor the people who had been killed earlier in the week in the mass shooting in Pittsburg. Inside the Tree of Life Synagogue, as innocents bowed their heads in worship, a 46-year old truck driver armed with an assault rifle and three handguns burst into the synagogue’s regular Saturday 9:45 a.m. service. He shouted anti-Semitic slurs and began firing. When he was finished, eleven people were dead and six wounded in what was to be called the largest anti-Semitic killing in American history.
When I was 13 years old, I went with the Georgia Youth Chorale on a tour to sing in major European cathedrals. On our single off day (it was a tightly packed two weeks) the kids all wanted to go to Munich to see the Olympic Village. Our director (Hampton Kicklighter) had different ideas and instead took us to the museum at Dachau Concentration camp. At the time, his decision elicited lots of eye-rolling as we proclaimed Mr. K. a “huge buzz-kill,” but as we walked through the buildings and viewed the ovens used to cremate the 32,000 documented people who were killed at the camp (thousands remain undocumented) we realized the importance of seeing that terrible place. I remember reading that the people who lived near the camp (close enough to smell the smoke from the ovens) did nothing to help the human beings who were starved, brutalized and killed there.
I thought about all this while I walked up the rain-slick sidewalk toward the Rodeph Sholom (it means “pursuers of peace”) synagogue. It was situated at the top of a hill, its handsome brick edifice and Ionic columns shining against the darkness of night. We all climbed a long flight of stairs and filed in past an armed police officer, posted there just in case of trouble. Inside, we found an elegant meeting place. Chandeliers hung from a high ceiling and sky blue walls made the room feel ethereal.
It was already crowded inside. Every pew was filled to capacity. The side walls were crammed with people standing; the steps and dais at the front were covered with people sitting. In the back, along the wall, people stood two and three deep, waiting for the service to begin. Leaders of 17 different congregations around the county, from Baptist and Methodist to Presbyterian and Catholic and chaplains from Berry College and Floyd Medical Center also stood in support.In total, almost 300 people had come to uplift their Jewish neighbors, to let them know that they were not alone.
Candles were lit in honor of the eleven who had perished at the hands of Hate. Finally it was time for me to sing. As I squeezed my way up to the front, people put their hands on my back and shoulders, urging me forward. I stood before that assembly of people and as I witnessed their solidarity, it made my eyes fill with tears. The pianist started to play the song and I realized I wasn’t going to be able to sing it. I reached out and asked all those present to join me. Together, our voices became strong, rising like sacred smoke towards the heavens.
“Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.
With God as our Father
Brothers all are we
Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony
Let peace begin with me
Let this be the moment now
With every step I take
Let this be my solemn vow
To take each moment
And live each moment
With peace eternally
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me”