To Be a Jew in Lynchburg

Tis the season of the Jewish High Holidays – the Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashana) and the day of atonement (Yom Kippur). Jews around the world and right here on campus are taking stock of their actions over the last year and attending services at the synagogue to mark this sacred time. At the service for Rosh Hashana the Rabbi posed this question: “What does it mean to be a Jew in Lynchburg, Virginia?” Initially the answer seemed easy.

To be a Jew in Lynchburg means that I am a part of a special tribe chosen by G-d. To be a Jew in Lynchburg means that I am part of something that includes less than 1% of the world’s population. Of course, those are only surface answers, and when I actually took the time to really contemplate the question on a more personal level, I discovered that being Jewish in Lynchburg means that when I hear someone say “Oh, I jewed them down,” it hurts. It means that I get compared to Barbara Streisand a lot even though I can’t sing, don’t have a New York accent, and don’t look a thing like her. It means that as a high school student I had a boy named Ed follow me home from school every day for several weeks threatening to kill me because I was Jewish. It means I had pennies thrown at me in the hall of my high school. It means that I had Christians say to me, at my mother’s funeral, that they were sorry my mother wasn’t going to heaven. But it also means that I come from a very VERY long line of survivors and as a result, I, despite any of my hardships, possess the strength and the wisdom of all who came before me.

Not everyone is so lucky. A day or two after the Rosh Hashana service I happened upon a TV show about two teenage boys who recently committed suicide as a result of being bullied and was heartbroken by their stories. Just when I was feeling melancholy about all that I had endured over my lifetime, I am introduced to two young people who will never be able to reach that time in their life where they can look back at their pain and truly know that it gets better. I thought about the phrase Tikkun Olam (Hebrew – repairing the world) and realized that this is what the Rabbi was asking us to consider. Not the “all about me” perspective or even the global Jewish perspective but the human perspective: What does it mean to be a Jew in Lynchburg really translates into “How am I called as a Jew in Lynchburg to repair the world?” Which for me turns into “In what way can I help save the next little bullied boy or girl from thinking that their plight will never end and death is the only way out?” As part of that commitment for me it means working toward true community for all people.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I have worked so hard on next Tuesday’s Coming Out Day Service and why I am such a huge fan of the Allies Institute. Giving a voice to those who otherwise don’t have one is what it means for me to be a Jew in Lynchburg.

Shalom,

Andrea