The Surprising Safety Of Southern Judaism

On October 8, there was a knock at my parents’ door on St. Simon‘s island, Georgia, a barrier island about halfway between Savannah and Jacksonville. A neighbor they had not yet met before presented something freshly baked and offered her sympathies, concern, and support in the wake of the events of the previous day. “We love you.” she said. 

As the rabbi in this same southern Georgia, Bible-belt community, my instinct after the harrowing attack by Hamas on the peoples (Jews, Druze, Bedouin, foreign-born and of the land alike) of Israel on October 7 was to gather. I wanted the Jewish community to feel surrounded by love. I wanted the larger community to have an outlet for their grief, fear, and pain. I reached out to my closest clergy friends. Given that our synagogue is the only one for almost 100 miles in any direction, all these friends are from other faiths. On the same day as the cake delivery, I sent a message inviting them and their congregations to join us for Shabbat services the following Friday. “Please come if you can,” I wrote. “We need you.” 

The response was unequivocal support. 

But I was worried; Worried they’d find themselves in an impossible bind of having to choose. Worried they would slip away. “Historically the world has about three days in these situations before Israel/Jews start getting blamed. I can’t tell the future of course. It’s possible that by Friday, standing with us will be more difficult.” 

Their replies: “difficult or not-support will be there,” “Here for it all,” “Praying for peace.” “Father we need Thee” “Joining the Palestinian and Israeli people in prayer today.” 

On Friday October 13, 2023 over 300 people filled the Episcopal Church one block away from the synagogue for Shabbat services. There was standing room only as the church was filled beyond capacity. 

Writing about this now, what feels like several eternities later, I am moved that this support for Jews and Judaism in Brunswick has not wavered since this time.  

I grew up in the Northeast and have lived in the South for the last 14 years; three years in Atlanta and 11 years in Glynn County, GA a few blocks from the tidal marsh surrounded by sweetgrass, palm trees, jasmine blooms, and the magnificent live oaks. What strikes me as unique is we are free from local protests or on the ground rhetoric. I believe this makes more room to be nuanced here. A restauranteur friend here hosted a fundraiser for World Central Kitchen on November 2, long before their workers perished in Gaza. She asked me to offer a blessing at the beginning of the meal. I prayed for peace. I did not have to choose a side or a perspective. I did not have to question Israel’s right to exist, nor did I have to apologize for the deaths of innocents. Just peace. And all heads in the room nodded regardless of who they felt was “right.” Because no one here is pushing for everyone to stake out a particular position.  

Here, we’re surrounded by non-Jews who believe Jewish chosenness of all things makes us worthy of protecting. Forever, Jewish chosenness has, to me, to many, felt somewhere between uncomfortable to burdensome. A relic of a bygone era that we struggle to make sense of today. At a gathering for my congregants on May 11, 2024 to express, listen, hold the enormity and complexity of this moment, a non-Jewish spouse shared that growing up in real rural southern country, she was told The Jews are God’s chosen people. If you ever meet a Jew, you will protect them, you will lay down your life for them. Many gasped hearing this. It was quiet as chosenness became an unexpected bridge, a bond. Truthfully, I’m still trying to make sense of it.  

Here, we are majority politically conservative. While Atlanta may be purple, the coast is like a hot sunburn; very, very red. Coming from the northeast, Jews were, generally speaking, politically left. Here, it runs the gamut. As the Democratic party views the war in Israel as wealthy White European colonizers against the minority, impoverished, indigenous Brown people, many Jews are feeling alienated or even threatened. Here, there is overwhelming Republican support for the existence of the Jewish state. Within Christian circles, especially Evangelical ones, which dominate the religious landscape here, there is a belief that the Second Coming of the Messiah requires the existence of a Jewish Israel with its capital in Jerusalem. In this worldview, Israel must exist as a Jewish homeland.  

In December, the Georgia legislature overwhelmingly, although not without controversy, passed Resolution HR4EX condemning the October 7th Hamas attack and supporting Israel. My local state rep, who is not Jewish and comes to synagogue events with some regularity, sent me a text message with a selfie. The background was Governor Brian Kemp signing and formalizing the resolution. In January, after years of trying, an anti AntiSemitism bill was passed. In March, I gave the invocation at a small, big-ticket, Republican fundraiser. One of our national representatives was wearing a pin with both the Israeli and the US flag. I thanked him for his support of Israel. He said, Rabbi, I support a cease-fire….when all the bad guys are dead. While I do not share his sentiment, the extreme and unequivocal support was surreal juxtaposed to what is happening elsewhere in the nation. 

Here, we live separated AND close. The South is no stranger to segregation. In my community, some neighborhoods affinity groups may segregate by block, sometimes even just half a block. This street may be populated by people who are Black and poor, this block by people who are White and poor, and so on. As a native New Englander, I used to feel a sense of judgment over the South because of segregation. I’ve come to realize that there is deep segregation in the North as well, but the groups are so separate, so large, so far apart that it can be challenging for people from one group to even interact with each other.

Here, whatever group you’re in, you’re going to regularly come face to face with someone who is not your tribe. There, you must cross the tracks or the river or the valley or major highway. Here you just walk down the street. People from different cultures, socio-economic backgrounds, religions, races all overlap at grocery stores, community events, beaches, and just being out and about. When Ahmaud Arbery was lynched in the streets here, a thousand people were called for jury duty because everyone here knows everyone here. It was incredibly difficult to find jurors who knew neither the victim, nor the accused, or both. 

When everyone personally knows someone else who is “other,” the world is different. Here we learn to live together. We’re not perfect at it by any measure. And, this is our Southern Way. 

I have an infinity of more stories like the plenitude of offers from friends and strangers to hide me and my family “if the time comes.” Or the many who volunteer to patrol the synagogue during services so no one will mess with us. But I will close with this one.  

I have a friend here, Deena, who grew up in Gaza. She hosted a fundraiser for Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund, a yoga class with proceeds going to the organization, and I went. The newspaper did a story of people standing together for peace. I ran into her at the gym the other day. She looked down so I asked how she was doing. “I can’t look at one more dead baby in my social media feed.” Her heartbreak and agony were palpable. I had no need to defend, no need to take sides because I live somewhere where I feel valued and heard. I just needed to show up and have empathy for another human being in pain. I said to her, “Don’t. Don’t look at another dead baby.”  I then quoted Pirkei Avot which teaches “you do not have to finish the task nor are you free to walk away from it.” And I suggested that if looking at one more dead baby would make a difference it would be worth it, but that it won’t. And please don’t harm yourself because the world needs you whole and strong.  

Deena and I will be speaking together at St. Athanasius, a Black Episcopal church, later this month where we won’t agree on everything, but we will live together in a world where we can hold so much variety, diversity, and love all at the same time.