Fellowship of Peace

As one who no longer attends the local synagogue, observes no Jewish traditions, does not subscribe to any religious doctrine, and considers himself an atheist, I was naturally reluctant to accept an invitation from a Westminster-Canterbury History Club to speak about Lynchburg's Jewish community. I could easily have deferred to two other gentlemen who are not only more devout and better credentialed than I but who are also bona fide academics, one in the field of philosophy, the other in English Literature and the author of two books on the settlement of Holocaust refugees in a nearby county.

On the other hand, my great-grandfather was a founder of the synagogue, I've lived in Lynchburg for all of my seventy-five years (except for a four-year detour to Washington and Lee University), I was Bar Mitzvah at Agudath Sholom as were my three children, and I'm an avid reader of history. 

But the main reason I acquiesced was that sitting on the bookcase in my office are two comprehensive resources: the 1957 Book of Dedication published at the completion of the Langhorne Road building and the 1997 Agudath Sholom Story produced for the synagogue's Centennial Celebration. I also consulted the Encyclopedia of Southern Jewish Communities, which has a very useful online article on the subject.

As today is Presidents' Day, I endeavored to unearth some nuggets of history which would shed some light on how either or both of the two national icons whose birthdays we celebrate this month might have regarded the Jewish people.

In August 1790, President George Washington visited Newport, Rhode Island, in recognition of its finally ratifying the U.S. Constitution. The state had been reluctant to join the other twelve because the Constitution (before the subsequent appending of the Bill of Rights) had not explicitly protected religious freedom, a core principle of Rhode Island's charter. Washington assuaged these concerns -- and articulated a fundamental tenet of American democracy -- in a letter he sent to the Touro Synagogue of Newport, which survives today as the oldest in the country.

The letter reassured those who had fled religious tyranny that the government would not interfere with individuals in matters of conscience or belief. Quoting the Old Testament, Washington wrote: "'Every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid' . . . For happily the Government of the United States gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that those who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it under all occasions their effectual support."

On December 17, 1862, General Ulysses S. Grant issued General Order No. 11 expelling Jews from the Department of Tennessee, which included parts of not only that state but also of Kentucky and Mississippi. Supposedly, Jewish merchants were the perpetrators of a massive smuggling operation that illegally was sending southern cotton north in exchange for munition and supplies. While undoubtedly some Jews were involved in commerce and speculation, practically they could account for only a minuscule portion of the black market. Nevertheless, Grant called them "a class violating every regulation of trade established by the Treasury Department," and ordered all of them -- regardless of occupation -- to leave within twenty-four hours.

Several Jewish residents of Paducah, Kentucky, asserting that they were "good and loyal citizens of the United States," sent a telegram to President Lincoln expressing their outrage at this "inhuman order" and "gross violation of the Constitution" and imploring him to intercede. A delegation headed by Cesar Kaskel journeyed to Washington seeking a personal audience. 

In a recounting that may be apocryphal, after hearing their plight, Lincoln asked, "And so the Children of Israel were driven from the happy land of Canaan?" "Yes," said Kaskel, "and that is why we have come unto Father Abraham's bosom, seeking protection." To which Lincoln responded, "And this protection they shall have at once." He immediately instructed Army Chief General Henry Halleck to countermand Grant's order

Afterward, in a conversation with Jewish leaders, Lincoln stated that he knew "of no distinction between Jew and Gentile . . . To condemn a class is, to say the least, to wrong the good with the bad. I do not like to hear a class or nationality condemned on account of a few sinners."

Jews have a reputation for not getting along with each other. Dr. Macey Rosenthal once told me that the only thing two Jews could ever agree on was how much a third one should give. My friend Robert Hiller says Jewish family businesses are great as long as there's only one in the family.

As that will be a recurring theme in this narrative, I would like to share the story of the Jewish fellow who's into the second week of a single-man trans-Pacific sailboat race when he encounters a terrible storm. He manages to maneuver to a deserted island, where, using materials from his boat wreck and what he can gather from his surroundings, he builds a shelter, a kitchen, a storage shed, and a synagogue.

A year later he's rescued by the U.S. Navy. As the sailors are helping him gather up his possessions, one of them points across the island, and says, "What's that building over there?" The man replies, "Well, this building we're standing beside is my synagogue. And that building over there is the synagogue I would never set foot in!"

If you've read the book or seen the movie The Boys in the Boat, you'll appreciate the travails of the yeshiva (that's a Jewish school where the students study religious texts) that tries to start a crew team. But no matter how much the young men practice, they lose every single race. They decide to send one of their rowers to a nearby prep school to spy on its winning team and find out its secret. After a day of reconnaissance, he comes back very excited. "Listen," he tells his teammates, "I found out how they do it. They have eight guys rowing and only one guy screaming!"

Replicating the pattern prevalent throughout the Republic during its earliest years, the first Jews to arrive in Central Virginia were predominantly of Germanic nationality. A Jewish presence in the town was documented in 1790 when Samuel Saul paid local taxes. In 1808 Thomas Cohen set up shop as a silversmith and watchmaker at Eighth and Main Streets. Having immigrated with sufficient capital to avoid the peddling route, Nathaniel Guggenheimer and Isadore Untermeyer inaugurated the era of Jewish retailing in 1840 with the unveiling of a general merchandise store at Sixth and Main. Ten years later Michael Hart, who had been identified as a taxpayer in 1834, partnered with William Moses to establish Hart & Moses, Clothiers.

Local Jewry remained loyal to the South when war erupted in 1861. The roster of the Eleventh Virginia Volunteer Regiment included names like Abrahams, Guggenheimer, Lipman, Mayer, and Marx. Nathaniel Guggenheimer supplied undressed uniforms to the Confederate army, and helped care for sick and wounded soldiers in his home. Joseph Cohn enlisted in Davidson's Battery in April 1862, fought at Antietam, and was promoted to lieutenant before being wounded at Petersburg. Two brothers, M. and S. Bachrach, whose parents operated a jewelry store in Lynchburg, were killed in the war and buried in Richmond's Hebrew Confederate Cemetery, the only Jewish cemetery in the world until the turn of the century.

After the Civil War, veteran Joseph Cohn would lay claim to the title of the city's leading clothier. In the 1880's, it was said that "to have paid a visit to Lynchburg and not called in at Cohn's would be like visiting Washington and not going to see the Capitol." Charles M. Guggenheimer, son of Nathaniel, launched his own retailing career in 1885 with a store in the Norvell House at Ninth and Main; it was followed by others, each progressively larger until consummated by the magnificent Guggenheimer's, a landmark at Seventh and Main from 1928 to 1961. His "Big Store" located at Eleventh and Main from 1895 to 1928 at one point produced more sales per capita than any comparable enterprise in the south.

Several Jewish businessmen of the era identified opportunities in wholesaling and manufacturing. Natives L. Lazarus and M. Goodman deployed the expertise they had acquired in Philadelphia and Pocahontas, Virginia to become successful liquor wholesalers upon returning home.

Max Guggenheimer Jr., a cousin of Charles, invested in Lynchburg's first shoe and boot distribution house, Witt & Watkins in 1870. In 1888 he partnered with John and A. P. Craddock and T. M. Terry to open the Craddock-Terry Company, a "shoes, boots, and rubbers" wholesaler, which twelve years later became the Craddock-Terry Shoe Company and built the south's first shoe factory. Guggenheimer was President of the Lynchburg Cotton Mill, a director of the Lynchburg National Bank, and president of the local opera company. Deemed "Lynchburg's First Citizen," he was elected to City Council in 1879 and reputedly initiated the funding of public schools and the paving of roads.

Although Lynchburg's Jews had conducted High Holy Day (Rosh Hoshanah and Yom Kippur) services as early as 1853, it wasn't until after the Civil War, around 1874, that at the home of Solomon Goodman they met as a formal congregation (which required the presence of ten men or a minyan) and named themselves the Hebrew Benevolent Society (later Gates of Prayer). The city directory indicates the Odd Fellows' Hall and a Church Street building as "places of worship" until 1887, after which the group became defunct.

Considering their Germanic origins, most likely the men were practicing the form of Judaism known as Reform, which minimized ritual observance as the core of the religion and instead emphasized morality, ethics, modern rationalism, and personal autonomy in interpreting and expressing one's faith.

Having risen to modest levels of prosperity and prominence by 1880, the small but thriving German-Jewish populations of Lynchburg and the United States (250,000) were on the verge of convulsion. During the next forty years, two million Eastern European Jews would flee the despotic regime of the Russian Czar, whose oppressive measures included state-sponsored anti-Semitic attacks or pogroms, prohibition of land ownership, and the compulsory military service of all males in a household except only sons for twenty years. 

Most of them settled in New York City's Lower East Side, but some made their way west and south to small towns like Lynchburg. They brought with them not only a strong work ethic but also a religious orthodoxy steeped in traditional dress and ceremony and grounded in a strict adherence to Jewish law, both written and oral. They were often viewed as stubborn and anachronistic by their Reform counterparts, who were more adaptive to the majority culture and more desirous of assimilating.

Thus, it was only natural that Lynchburg's Eastern European Jews would want their own synagogue. Their first recorded meeting, attended by twenty-three men, was held on November 28, 1897 at 217 Twelfth Street on the second floor of M. Rosenthal's furniture store. Their stated purposes, as recorded in their charter, were "to educate and train the children of the members thereof, and of such others as it may elect; and to aid and assist indigent persons; to have a place of social meeting; and to engage in literary and benevolent pursuits." They adopted Agudath Achim (Fellowship of Brothers) as their Hebrew name.

By January 16, 1898 the group had rented space at 109 Ninth Street above J. W. Lichtenstein's store for four dollars a month. Members were paying minimum dues of fifty cents a month.They purchased a Torah roll for $67.50 and forty-six chairs with stand and frame for $22.20. Other supplies were donated: a swinging lamp, three candlesticks, a silver cup, six spittoons, a water cooler, a water bucket, a dozen bibles, and two dozen prayer books. Two weeks earlier $11.51 had been collected at the congregation's first Bar Mitzvah, that of young Mr. Jacobs, and set aside "for a synagogue it could call its own."

The Fellowship was short-lived. Apparently a religious dispute -- possibly regarding Orthodox vs. Reform practices -- prompted eleven of the twenty-three founders to resign on January 23, seize the congregation's most cherished possession, the Torah roll (it was later returned), and organize themselves separately as Ahavath Sholom (Love of Peace). Whether that choice was ironic or prophetic, the factions were able to resolve their differences by February of the following year, reunite, amend their charter, and sanctify their reconciliation in the combined name Agudath Sholom (Fellowship of Peace), which has lasted to this day.

Among those twenty-three pioneers was my great-grandfather, Elias Schewel, a native of Lithuania. His given name was "Heend" but, to avoid conscription, he was sent by his parents to a childless widow named "Schievel" (later Schewel) for adoption. In 1889, at the age of twenty-nine, already married and the father of four children, he immigrated to Baltimore, Maryland, where he was approached by a visitor who, having learned of Elias's reputation as a Talmudic scholar, urged him to move to Lynchburg to teach and minister to the fledgling congregation.

To enhance his meager salary, Elias began peddling door-to-door, first on foot and later from a horse and buggy, thus broadening his wares from pots and pans to split-bottom chairs. After twelve months he was able to book passage for his family to the U.S. by transoceanic vessel. By 1897 -- the same year as the formation of Agudath Achim -- he had accumulated enough capital to open a storefront at 206 Twelfth Street, the current location of the City Market. As the business grew to encompass the entire intersection along Main Street, he enlisted his growing progeny -- a total of nine, of whom eight survived to adulthood -- as helpers, workers, and eventually owners. Remarkably, after one-hundred-twenty-five years of expansion, transition, and consolidation, the company remains in the capable hands of his fifth generation descendants and operates fifty-one stores in three states.

Elias relinquished his spiritual duties in 1903, when the congregation engaged its first full-time rabbi, S. B. Schein of Reading, Pennsylvania. Schein held the position only two years, then embarked on a career in law which culminated in his appointment to the Superior Court of Dane County, Wisconsin. Also in 1903, after meeting in rented rooms for six years, the congregational fathers realized their dream of having a permanent place of worship and fellowship. On July 1 they took a mortgage on the former First Christian Church on Church Street near Fifth (which today houses the Virginia Legal Aid Society), undoubtedly the same building their German antecedents had occupied some years earlier.

Although the chronology is unclear, Amherst County records indicate the existence of a Beth Joseph Congregation in 1909 and its purchase of a cemetery on Old Wright Shop Road in Madison Heights, followed the next year by Agudath Sholom's acquiring an adjacent site. In 1913, after a period of tension and discord, once again a dissident group severed its ties with Agudath Sholom, snatched the Torah, and affiliated with Beth Joseph. 

The two sides could not entirely extinguish their common interests. Within a year they had formed a committee "to find some means by which the two congregations could unite as one." They agreed to hire a rabbi (sharing the expense) and abide by his judgment in a "court of mediation." It's not known if that was the determining factor in the resolution of the conflict, but on September 9, 1917, after four years of division, Beth Joseph's offer to merge was accepted, and all its property was ceded to Agudath Sholom, including the cemetery, which retains to this day the combined names of both congregations.

Agudath Sholom rapidly outgrew its Church Street acquisition, which was primarily a large sanctuary suitable for religious services and classes. In April 1923 a building committee authorized the construction of a two-story addition, and embarked on a fundraising campaign. While the congregation consisted of only fifty-two members, "their faith was large," wrote President Abe Schewel in a personal appeal to his "generous Christian friends," one hundred twelve of whom responded with donations, enabling the goal to be met and the new Jewish Community Center to be completed by October 1924.

Besides an auditorium, two kitchens, four classrooms, a meeting room, and a study -- enough space for Orthodox and Reform Jews to worship separately -- the enlarged facility contained an object which sparked a new controversy: a white ceramic tile mikvah, the traditional bath in which a Jewish maiden prepared herself for marriage. Many Reform members were opposed to the mikvah, including department store magnate C. M. Guggenheimer, who resigned as chairman of the finance committee. Fortunately, the issue was not contentious enough to fracture the congregation.

Abe Schewel would hold the congregational presidency for a total of twenty-two years, from 1922-1936 and from 1938-1944. Keynoting a ninetieth anniversary celebration in 1987, my father Bert attributed the synagogue's longevity to his uncle's unwavering dedication and limitless energy. Abe would also serve on Lynchburg's City Council from 1934 to 1942. An outspoken opponent of the city's segregation laws, he challenged the use of public funds for utility repairs in neighborhoods that excluded blacks or Jews, and recused himself from any vote pertaining to such expenditures.

The Great Depression struck Agudath Sholom with a vengeance. Between 1930 and 1936, as personal incomes dropped precipitously, membership shrunk by two-thirds. Not only was the congregation unable to afford a rabbi, it was forced to suspend principal and interest payments on its mortgage, which stood at $12,000 and carried the personal endorsements of several members. With the bank threatening foreclosure, a special committee headed by wealthy scrap iron dealer Abe Cohen was able to negotiate new terms that removed the cosigners, lowered the interest rate, and mitigated the repayment schedule. When the congregation revived in the 1940's, it raised enough money, $6,000, to accelerate the retirement of the mortgage, and ceremoniously burnt it on February 13, 1944.

Around the same time, Cohen was approached by another concern which was having financial difficulties: Boonsboro Country Club. He balked at the request, understandably so, since, in his words, "Why should I give to a club to which I can not belong?" The Club's Board of Directors then voted to lift its restriction on Jewish membership, allowing Cohen to join, presumably with check in hand. Cohen would later be elected to City Council and hold the office of vice-mayor.

Not long afterwards another barrier was breached when Dr. Simon Rosenthal was proposed for membership in the Lynchburg Rotary Club. When an objection was raised that "Rosenthal was a Jew," the threat by several Club leaders to resign should he be blackballed convinced the others to admit him.

With the advent of World War II, the seventy families of the Lynchburg Jewish community would send fifty-two men and women into the armed forces. Among them was Dr. Rosenthal, who, when summoned into the Navy as a Lt. Commander, achieved the unusual distinction of serving in two different branches of the military, having previously been commissioned as an Army doctor at Fort Lee, Virginia, during World War I. On May 15, 1942, Rabbi Isadore Franzblau took a leave of absence from his pulpit at Agudath Sholom to volunteer as a civilian chaplain with the Jewish Welfare Board. 

The Jews who remained in Lynchburg contributed in other ways to the war effort. They opened their homes and synagogue to visiting Jewish servicemen. Their women's organization, the Sisterhood, prepared Seder dinners for soldiers stationed at Fort Pickett. They tore down the iron fence surrounding the Church Street building, and donated it to the scrap iron drive. They loaned one of their most sacred Sefer Torahs to Camp Pickett for religious cervices. Afterwards, they sent it as a gift to the Sociedad Israelita, a nascent congregation in Cuenca, Ecuador.

Fifty years later, while researching Agudath Sholom's archives for material for its Centennial History, Ben Silver came across a letter of thanks from the Sociedad Israelita. Hardly noteworthy under ordinary circumstances, the letter struck a chord for Ben, who had just returned from attending a Bar Mitzvah in Cuenca for the son of a woman, now Mrs. Alberto Dorfzuan, whom he and his wife had befriended in the 1970's when she was a student at Sweet Briar College. Her husband knew the Torah well, Ben learned through subsequent correspondence, as he and his brothers had read from it at their own Bar Mitzvahs. As late as 1997, the Torah remained in the possession of Alberto's father, Kurt Dorfzuan, whom Ben had met during his visit.

With the end of World War II came the realization that two-thirds of European Jewry had been wiped from the face of the earth. Three Holocaust survivors found their way to Lynchburg. After fleeing from Austria to Belgium, the family of Ted Brenig was arrested in France and interned. Ted's parents were sent to Auschwitz, but Ted, a fifteen-year-old minor, was rescued by the French Society for Assistance to Children, which then orchestrated his escape to Switzerland. One of the few Jews in the country allowed to attend college, he studied engineering, which landed him at General Electric. 

Abraham Kreusler was overseeing a junior college in Warsaw and advising the Polish Board of Education when the Nazi invasion drove him east all the way to the Russian-Kyrgystan border. He managed to immigrate to the U.S., arriving in Lynchburg in 1948 where he taught Russian language and literature at Randolph-Macon Woman's College until retiring in 1966. Along with his wife Sophie, German native Walter Storozum followed their son Sid to the area in the late 1950's, and built a reputation as an eloquent witness recounting his harrowing experience as a concentration camp prisoner to audiences at churches, schools, and civic clubs.

The post-war economic boom invigorated Lynchburg's Jewish community. During the 1940's, over forty Jewish-owned retailers lined the streets of downtown offering broad assortments of clothing, furniture, and jewelry, among them The Vogue, The Famous, Army Navy, Kulman's, Phillip's Brothers, Snyder and Berman, Alper's, Lichenstein's, Oppleman's, and Schewels. According to Mike Grosman, a commercial roofer, when they all closed for the High Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), "one could toss a stone down Main Street and not hit a single person." Today only one of those stores remains: L. Oppleman's Pawn Shop.

Low labor costs enticed a number of Jewish garment manufacturers to abandon their northern bastions and transplant themselves to the Hill City; at one point they employed over two thousand pattern makers and seamstresses churning out overalls, night wear, dresses, and uniforms under names like Joan & Jay, C. B. Cones, Blue Buckle, Wilco, and Garlin.

Second and third generation descendants of early settlers -- and some newcomers -- returned from the war armed with college degrees and professional skills. Lewis Somers, a general practitioner, was elected President of the Lynchburg Academy of Medicine, and held the prestigious position of house physician at the Lynchburg Nursing Home. Kenneth Cooper was the first white doctor in the city to accept black patients. Jacques Botton, a Turkish immigrant, opened the city's first neurology practice in 1961. Junius Abramson, a Lynchburg College graduate, attained notoriety as the principal of three different elementary schools. 

Others pursued careers in dentistry, law, pharmaceuticals, and engineering, the last of which was in high demand after GE and B&W planted roots in the region.

This younger contingent soon outnumbered their elders, and sought to impose more progressive religious policies. Seamlessly intermingling with a Gentile community that accepted them as equals, they grew less inclined to observe their Saturday Sabbath, to engage in regular Torah and Talmud study, and to pass on these and other traditions to their own children. As early as 1936, Rabbi Franzblau had stipulated that, when his Reform and Orthodox congregants were meeting simultaneously, his duty was to preside where the majority was in attendance, which even then was at the Reform service. Three years later a further step toward modernization was taken when, after a donation of several from the Hebrew Congregation of Baltimore, the Reform Prayer Book was adopted for general use.

The die was cast in 1947 when, for the first time, the Reform group was able to occupy the main sanctuary for the the High Holy Days and relegate their Orthodox counterparts to the upstairs social hall. In 1949 women, who under Orthodox law were required to sit apart from men, were accepted as full voting members of the congregation. Finally, in 1950, Agudath Sholom amended its constitution to allow any form of Jewish worship, whereas formerly it had prescribed that only the "Orthodox Minhag" was acceptable.

Women were to play another historic role when their Sisterhood initiated a Building Fund with a five hundred dollar contribution on April 15, 1952. With membership totaling an active ninety families and Religious School enrollment standing at eighty-two, the Church Street facility was bursting at the seams. On May 5, 1953, the Congregation purchased an eleven-acre tract of land on Langhorne Road, the site of Fort McCausland, where Confederate troops had repulsed a Union assault in 1864. Six months later one-hundred-fifty men and women packed the ballroom of the Virginian Hotel, and at a banquet at which my father Bertram Schewel presided pledged one hundred thousand dollars (the equivalent of $1.1 million today) for their new synagogue. 

Wrote Jerome Kaye in the 1957 Book of Dedication: "This was a spontaneous demonstration of the mass enthusiasm of Lynchburg Jewry, and was attained without the benefit of professional fundraising techniques. Those who were present will never forget the thrill of that evening as the combined efforts of the community brought dream to reality."

Much work remained to be done. Dr. Macey Rosenthal joined Bertram Schewel as co-chairs of the Building Committee. Joseph Feinman and Mike Grosman headed the Architectural and Design Committee. But perhaps the person who assumed the most arduous task was Simon Hiller, who took precious time from his wholesale glass business to oversee the contractor and act as volunteer project manager.

The only living charter member of the congregation, Moses Cooper, turned over the first shovel of dirt on July 26, 1955. Just over two years later, on Sunday, November 10, 1957, the new synagogue was dedicated at a ceremony highlighted by remarks by renowned author and publisher Harry Golden and an open house for the general public. 

Accepting the key to the building, President Benjamin D. Schewel spoke these words: "Finally, after sixty years, the Agudath Sholom Congregation has its own home that it built itself. It stands as a monument to the hard work and determination of all our members -- something that our children and grandchildren will have for future generations. Our true and lasting pride, however, will come when we see in this sanctuary . . . a renewed dedication to the faith of our fathers and the service of our fellowman. Let us learn here how to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God."

While the mikvah may have been omitted, there was plenty to admire both outside and inside: a concave facade chiseled with a seven-branched Menorah and the inscription "Love thy neighbor as thyself"; a sanctuary seating 180 persons who face an oaken Ark cabinet inlaid with walnut motifs and two pulpits reversing this design; an adjoining social hall with a stage and the capacity to accommodate an audience of 250; seven classrooms; a large, well-equipped kitchen; and a library beautified by stained glass memorial windows.

In later years two decorative compositions would greatly enhance the lobby and hallway. In 1961 a stunning biblical wall mosaic, "Creation," was painstakingly crafted piece-by-piece mainly by students of the Religious School under the supervision of Art Professor Elliot Twery, whose inspiration it was. In 1987 Betty Schewel conceived, compiled, and mounted as wallpaper a narrative and visual history of Lynchburg Jewry.

Agudath Sholom flourished over the next four decades. Membership would peak at 109 families in 1982, but long before that a Religious School census of 125 would necessitate a finishing of the basement for additional classroom space. Spiritual leadership during the period was stable and consistently at a high level, inaugurated with the tenure of Lloyd Tennenbaum, who brought youth, energy, and open-mindedness to the rabbinate.

His successor, Ephraim Fischoff, was a scholar of history and literature as well as Judaism. He lectured at local colleges, and taught a Great Books Course which was open to the community at large. After years of procrastination, he persuaded the Board of Administration to disregard the congregation's perceived theological dichotomy and affiliate with the Reform Union of American Hebrew Congregations, lest it be lost or isolated. He made a lasting impression on me when preaching on Yom Kippur he postulated that, even if one was a non-believer, he should fast for a secular reason: to remind himself of all those in the world who go hungry every day.

Equally influential was Morris Shapiro, who occupied the pulpit from 1976-1990 in a manner that was both authoritarian and compassionate. He delivered many memorable sermons and actively fostered a spirit of collegiality with his fellow clergy. A frequent speaker on college campuses, upon his retirement he was named Adjunct Professor of Old Testament and Semitic Languages at the Virginia Seminary.

After a two-year interlude, Agudath Sholom took a chance, and hired newly-ordained Tom Gutherz. Soft-spoken, empathetic, and idealistic, he immediately endeared himself to congregants of all ages. An accomplished musician and guitarist, Rabbi Tom supervised the choir and accompanied the singing of hymns during his services, at which attendance was surprisingly robust. He was a true innovator, offering adult classes in Basic Judaism, Beginning and Advanced Hebrew, and Talmud and Midrash Studies and organizing weekend retreats to celebrate the Sabbath and engage in topical discussions. Even a prestigious appointment to teach Jewish Studies at the former Lynchburg College wasn't lucrative enough to prevent his eventually being lured to the rabbinate in Charlottesville.

I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge the congregation's immediate former rabbi, John Nimon, with whom I had several conversations about my path to atheism. Within days after one of these, in which I expressed my opinion that public prayer had no place in non-religious settings, having been asked to deliver the invocation at a non-profit luncheon with a hundred persons in attendance, John simply called for a moment of silence. When I asked him to officiate at a memorial service at the synagogue for my sister -- whose beliefs mirrored my own -- and avoid any mention of a deity, he accommodated me with grace and sensitivity. Sadly, John succumbed after a brief illness to a virulent form of cancer a couple of years ago.

On December 6, 1987, one day before a scheduled summit between Mikhail Gorbachov and Ronald Reagan, waving placards demanding "Let My People Go," 250,000 marchers filled the streets of Washington, DC to protest the Soviet Union's oppressive treatment of its two million Jews. Within months, its officials would finally relent to public pressure and open their gates to massive emigration. From 1987 to 2000, 1.350 million exited the country, with 300,000 finding refuge in the U.S. and most of the remainder in Israel. 

Agudath Sholom was proud to welcome two families, the Oleynikovs and the Kofmans, to Lynchburg. Under the inspired leadership of Richard and Dorothy Nan Samuels, funds were raised, housing secured, and furnishings obtained so the new arrivals would have places to live. With little knowledge of English or American customs, various members assisted them in adjusting to society, enrolling their two children in school, and finding employment. Both families later relocated to larger cities where more of their fellow emigres had settled, but the foundation of their successful assimilation was laid in our own small community.

Outreach has long been a tradition with Agudath Sholom, facilitated for the most part by a number of volunteer organizations.

Founded in 1905 as the Ladies Auxiliary Society, in its early days this women's group raised money so the congregation's lean treasury could meet its expenses. In 1934 it affiliated with the National Federation of Temple Sisterhoods, and renamed itself the "Sisterhood." Over the years it has prepared Passover Seders, gifted prayer books to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, decorated the sanctuary for the High Holy Days, made contacts with Jewish college students, and provided refreshments for post-service receptions. In the 1950's, it conducted two Interfaith Institutes, one for local church women, the other for public school teachers.

Sisterhood's signature event was an annual bazaar at which the social hall was transformed into a restaurant offering Jewish specialties for lunch and dinner to a Gentile crowd. In the 1970's and '80's, the Sisterhood lost both participants and purpose, as more Jewish women entered the workforce while others, now full-fledged members of the congregation, took on religious and administration responsibilities.

In 1945, Agudath Sholom instituted its own chapter of Hadassah, the Women's Zionist Organization which raises money principally for health education and research hospitals in Israel and advocates in the U.S. for gender and racial equality and for religious tolerance. With donations in some years reaching $3000, locally Hadassah sponsored study groups, media presentations about Israel, and exhibits by Israeli artists, and partially funded an electrocardiograph machine for the Jerusalem Medical Center to honor devoted member Bluma Marks.

Birthed in 1905 as the Hill City Lodge of B'nai B'rith (Sons of the Covenant) International, this Jewish men's service organization, having become dormant, was reactivated in 1935 as Lodge 1211 (later the Abe Schewel Lodge) by Elmer Nathan to combat Nazi anti-Semitic propaganda. Its scope of civic work broadened to include Red Cross blood drives, Flag Day observances, and National Conference of Christian and Jews programs. The Lodge was instrumental in the formation of the Hillel Foundation to assist Jewish students at the University of Virginia. 

In recent years, B'nai B'rith (or simply the Brotherhood, after its disaffiliation with its parent) won plaudits for two community projects: its Christmas Volunteer Day, on which Jewish men and women substituted for hospital workers and Meals on Wheels drivers so they could be with their families during the holiday; and its Jewish Food Fair, an annual luncheon featuring such delicacies as kosher hot dogs, New York style corned beef and pastrami sandwiches, knishes, falafels, matzah ball soup, and home-baked pastries prepared by synagogue members for all comers to enjoy by dine-in or carry-out.

In the mid-1940's in the wake of the Holocaust a group of concerned Americans established the United Jewish Appeal (UJA) for the purpose of helping refugees and survivors escape war-torn Europe, find safe passage to displaced persons camps in the American Zone of Occupation, and ultimately immigrate to the U.S. or the newly-constituted State of Israel. In those early years, the UJA supplied food and medical supplies to camp internees, underwrote their transfer to safe havens, and rescued entire endangered populations from places like Iraq and Yemen.

Once again a familiar name, Abe Schewel, spearheaded Agudath Sholom's participation in this burgeoning enterprise. Ongoing financial support of world Jewry was formalized in the creation of the quasi-independent Lynchburg Jewish Community Council (LJCC), which conducted annual fund drives among congregation members. Chairmanship of this effort passed from Abe to his nephew Bert (my father) in the mid-'60's, and then to me upon the latter's death in 1989, with intermittent surrogates assuming the post whenever one could be recruited.

For the past three decades, the LJCC has raised as much as $125,000 per year, disbursing eighty-five percent for social services in Israel and wherever else Jews are in need, and allocating the remainder to related Jewish charities and a few local non-profits. In 2023, however, after a sharp decrease in both the number of donors and the revenues generated, the Board of Trustees voted to terminate the LJCC effective December 31st. Going forward, those wishing to contribute to the Jewish Federations of North America (successor to the UJA) will be encouraged to do so directly.

Succeeding generations have striven to honor the legacy of those for whom community involvement was a duty. While not as politically inclined as his brother Abe, my grandfather Ben Schewel practiced a quiet philanthropy that induced him to sponsor Christmas parties for the residents of the Lynchburg Training School and Hospital and donate the flagpole at the newly-erected E. C. Glass High School. Besides his many years of service to Agudath Sholom as President and Chairman of the Board of Administration, my father Bert relished fundraising, particularly for the Salvation Army and the Fine Arts Center, where the former theater bore his name.

Abe's son Elliot followed him onto City Council for a brief period before being elected to the Virginia State Senate for five terms, from 1976 to 1996, as a popular moderate Democrat whom, according to one local official, "even the Republicans hated to vote against." 

After her three children were grown, his wife Rosel earned a graduate degree in education at the University of Lynchburg, joined the faculty, and served on its Board of Trustees for thirty-six years. An active champion for women's rights and social justice, she helped found the League of Women Voters and the Women's Resource Center, and in 1980 became Agudath Sholom's first female president. The University of Lynchburg, where Schewel Hall memorializes her and her husband, was only one beneficiary of the couple's far-reaching generosity.

Four Jewish citizens made their mark in the theater; Robert and Leah Belle Gardner, Richard Samuels, and Bert Eisler either wrote scripts for, directed, or performed in amateur productions at the Fine Arts Center. Among other notables were Issie Oppleman, a star football player at the University of Virginia, who earned the sobriquet "Mr. Sports" for his efforts to promote sporting events and improve the city stadium, and Michael Gillette, a medical ethicist, who as Chair of the Historic Academy Theater facilitated its merger with the Fine Arts Center and vaulted into politics and the mayor's seat.

Agudath Sholom reached its high water mark in 1997 when it celebrated its one hundredth anniversary with a series of events in early December. Four local exhibits illustrated the Jewish journey over that period: "The Jewish Presence in Lynchburg" at the City Museum; "Jewish Literature and Authors" at the Public Library; "Jewish Art and Art Objects" at the Fine Arts Center; and "Commonwealth and Community: The Jewish Experience in Virginia" at the Dillard Gallery, Lynchburg College.

The weekend kicked off with the B'nai B'rith Food Fair on Wednesday, December 3rd, followed the next evening by a Symposium at Lynchburg College on the history of Jews in the South. Guest Rabbi Harry Danziger of Memphis, TN delivered sermons at Sabbath services on Friday evening and Saturday morning and at the latter dedicated a plaque honoring the founders and recognized their descendants. That night two hundred members and guests enjoyed a formal dinner-dance at Boonsboro Country emceed by Max Feinman and featuring the Shir Delight Orchestra's repertoire of Klezmer and contemporary tunes. The festivities concluded on Sunday with a pancake breakfast at the synagogue and the burial of a time capsule.

In my view, anti-Semitism has been a non-issue during the two-hundred-plus years that Jews have maintained a presence on the Lynchburg scene. Long gone are the days when they might have been excluded from social clubs or housing developments because of their ethnicity. In my seventy-five years, I can recall only two incidents of verbal disparagement: when my son told me that another kid called him a "kike" on a school bus and when a customer I was waiting on in my store said he was only "trying to Jew me down" by asking for a better price. I suspect that in both cases those who spoke were hardly aware that their words might be offensive.

In March 1989, a crude swastika was found scrawled on the face of the synagogue. Apparently the work of vandals, the culprits were never apprehended. Non-Jews rallied around their Jewish friends, evincing shock and outrage, which was reiterated in a strong condemnation published in the News and Advance. Just last month, anti-Semitic flyers denouncing Jews as slave traders and calling for a boycott of Israel were stuffed anonymously in mailboxes, prompting exclamations of disgust and anger.

That these isolated occurrences elicited such solidarity, sympathy, and universal disapproval just confirms that Lynchburg's citizens have no stomach for anti-Jewish sentiments, rhetoric, or violence.

I would submit that a similar unqualified acceptance of Jews in society is and has been the norm in most, if not all, small cities throughout the south. I would attribute that to two factors. First, where the Jewish population is so small relative to the whole, it poses no threat to the majority class in the possible accumulation of economic or political power. Second, whenever any group harbored a desire or compulsion to exert its presumptive superiority over another, a much more populous, and thus more dangerous, minority was conveniently at hand: the blacks.

Assimilation, however, is a double-edged sword.

For example, back in 1965, when I was a freshman at Washington and Lee University, there were about sixty Jewish young men enrolled (out of a total of about fifteen hundred), ninety-five percent of whom were members of the fraternity ZBT, which itself was ninety-five percent Jewish. Over the next twenty years, as all the Greek houses opened their doors to Jews and other minorities and Jews lost their identity as a segment of the student body, the number of Jewish secondary school graduates (both male and female, as the college had adopted coeducation during this period) applying and matriculating underwent a steep decline.

The administration became so concerned about this demographic shift that it launched a campaign to build a Jewish Student Center, or Hillel House, on campus, hoping to reverse the trend. I can't say whether it was successful, although I understand that the House has become a popular gathering place for students of all backgrounds due to the ethnic menu it offers.

Despite growing up in the faith, all three of my children married Catholics. Aside from an occasional Hanukkah candle-lighting ceremony or Passover Seder, two of them do not practice any form of religion. My younger son and his wife, who was raised in a devout environment in the Dominican Republic, have joined a local Episcopal Church, attend regularly, and send their children to Sunday School.

All through my years in Lynchburg elementary and high schools, there were at least twenty-five other Jewish kids altogether either in my class or in the two classes above and below me -- all of whom except for myself and two others left town after graduation and never returned. Today I doubt there are that many in total enrolled in the Agudath Sholom Religious School. Of the plethora of Jewish families who have passed through the synagogue portals, only four remain who can trace their roots back three generations: Feinman, Hiller, Schewel, and Somers, and only the Feinmans are active members. 

Whether due to intermarriage, a lack of interest, or, as in my case, a philosophical sea change, the number of membership units in Agudath Sholom has dwindled to fewer than fifty. A beautiful building sits on Langhorne Road underutilized and consuming limited resources.

Fortunately, about fifteen years ago, when the congregation possessed some wealth, a handful of wise and foresighted men and women decided that it might be prudent to establish an endowment. They raised over $300,000, invested it judiciously, prescribed that only a minimal amount could be expended each year and only then to supplement the operating budget, and thus guaranteed for at least a limited time that a Jewish House of Worship would be available in the area for any who might want or need it. Indeed, without the income from its endowment, Agudath Sholom would be unable to afford a full-time rabbi or maintain its property.

There is another development compounding the mathematical problem facing Agudath Sholom, one which is eerily reminiscent of its origins. About a decade ago, ten or so households withdrew from the congregation and formed a Chavurah, which is defined as a small group of like-minded Jews who assemble, usually in private homes, to conduct prayer services, engage in study, and share communal experiences, such as Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. I suspect their motivation may have been disenchantment with the rabbi at the time -- a former Mormon female convert -- and with a bylaw change which created a nonvoting membership category for non-Jewish spouses. Or maybe they just felt that their spiritual needs could be better met in an egalitarian rather than clergy-directed setting.

Whatever the cause, unlike its one-hundred-year-old predecessor, this rupture, in spite of overtures having been made by the synagogue, appears to be irreparable.

On a personal note, I continue to pay dues to Agudath Sholom, perhaps in tribute to my forbears who gave so much to create and sustain it, perhaps because it embodies a Jewish presence which needs to be preserved, perhaps to support the core of dedicated members who toil daily to keep it alive. However, I am not sanguine about its future. To expect a sudden influx of observant Jews to this small southern city or a resurrection of Jewish piety is to believe in miracles. 

On the other hand, it's somewhat of a miracle that this grand synagogue which was once a dream in the eyes of a few struggling immigrants ever came to fruition. So, who knows? Maybe this remarkable tale will have a happy ending after all.