My language of choice as a college student was Hebrew. I was a ministerial student so that was reasonable. It was my first dive into the history and culture of the Jewish people, and it set in motion a lifelong appreciation for the Jews.
In that classroom with me was a student named Benjy Bluestein. He was a football player from Georgia, so I had little contact with him outside class. That he was Jewish never registered with me, and I don’t remember that fact being a thing, as we say now, in class discussions. He graduated with me, returned to his home turf in coastal Georgia, in Glenn County, to be exact, to Brunswick and St Simon’s Island, to be even more precise. So it was there, 25 years later, that our paths crossed again, as Jan and I started visiting the Island as vacationers. We stopped in the bicycle shop Benjy owned and operated to chat about times old and new.
Another 20 years went by before Jan and I retired, sold our home in Lexington and moved south and east to, would you believe, St Simon’s Island. We bought a home and settled in. Four years later, Ahmaud Arbery was gunned down on a street in our county. The ministerial alliance got involved, in support of the Arbery family and to pressure legal authorities to arrest and prosecute the killers. That is how I first visited the Jewish synagogue in Brunswick: Temple Beth Tefilah.
The rabbi was a woman, Rachael Bregman, and she was the leader of the ministerial cohort, organizing in response to the crime. She was and is an impressive woman, leader, and minister, and I admired her greatly. Because of her, I visited the temple more than once; and because of that, I saw the bronze plaque in the vestibule honoring the dedication and generosity of the multigenerational Bluestein family. It made me proud to have an ever so slight connection to these good people of Glynn County, Georgia.
Then this happened. My middle school grandson spent an extended time with us one summer, he with the good Jewish name, Samuel. Friday came around, and he and I headed off to the temple for shabbat services. There was a large crowd but still less than a hundred people. Following the service, as is their custom, we exited the sanctuary for the social hall and gathered around tables full of food: finger food, mostly. We paused, as is their custom, for the prayer of blessing, the hamotzi, which begins “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech haolam, hamotzi lechem min haaretz”; which translates as, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth”.
Even with two years of classical Hebrew and a full year living in Jerusalem, I was not prepared to pray or even understand the prayer. What I was even less prepared for was the strong voice pronouncing every Hebrew word coming from the teenage boy standing next to me, none other than my own grandson. I was shocked and remained so even after Sam reminded me that his other grandfather was a Jew of French ancestory who had taken him regularly to the Friday night shabbat service at their synagogue in Charlotte.
I was proud, to say the least; but more than that, I was (and am) glad down to the deepest bone in my body that Sam had this duel heritage, enough (I prayed) to inoculate him against the cruel and deadly tribal hatred that so often turns its ugly head against the Jews themselves. As happened this week in Australia, and seven years ago in Pittsburgh, and four generations ago in Germany, and every day in places near and far around the world.
The gospel of justice, mercy, and humility before God comes to the Jew first and then to the rest of us.
To the glory of God and the Common Good.
Dwight A. Moody
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To the Jew First
In that classroom with me was a student named Benjy Bluestein. He was a football player from Georgia, so I had little contact with him outside class. That he was Jewish never registered with me, and I don’t remember that fact being a thing, as we say now, in class discussions. He graduated with me, returned to his home turf in coastal Georgia, in Glenn County, to be exact, to Brunswick and St Simon’s Island, to be even more precise. So it was there, 25 years later, that our paths crossed again, as Jan and I started visiting the Island as vacationers. We stopped in the bicycle shop Benjy owned and operated to chat about times old and new.
Another 20 years went by before Jan and I retired, sold our home in Lexington and moved south and east to, would you believe, St Simon’s Island. We bought a home and settled in.
Four years later, Ahmaud Arbery was gunned down on a street in our county. The ministerial alliance got involved, in support of the Arbery family and to pressure legal authorities to arrest and prosecute the killers. That is how I first visited the Jewish synagogue in Brunswick: Temple Beth Tefilah.
The rabbi was a woman, Rachael Bregman, and she was the leader of the ministerial cohort, organizing in response to the crime. She was and is an impressive woman, leader, and minister, and I admired her greatly. Because of her, I visited the temple more than once; and because of that, I saw the bronze plaque in the vestibule honoring the dedication and generosity of the multigenerational Bluestein family. It made me proud to have an ever so slight connection to these good people of Glynn County, Georgia.
Then this happened. My middle school grandson spent an extended time with us one summer, he with the good Jewish name, Samuel. Friday came around, and he and I headed off to the temple for shabbat services. There was a large crowd but still less than a hundred people. Following the service, as is their custom, we exited the sanctuary for the social hall and gathered around tables full of food: finger food, mostly. We paused, as is their custom, for the prayer of blessing, the hamotzi, which begins “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech haolam, hamotzi lechem min haaretz”; which translates as, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth”.
Even with two years of classical Hebrew and a full year living in Jerusalem, I was not prepared to pray or even understand the prayer. What I was even less prepared for was the strong voice pronouncing every Hebrew word coming from the teenage boy standing next to me, none other than my own grandson. I was shocked and remained so even after Sam reminded me that his other grandfather was a Jew of French ancestory who had taken him regularly to the Friday night shabbat service at their synagogue in Charlotte.
The gospel of justice, mercy, and humility before God comes to the Jew first and then to the rest of us.
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