When the Whole Town Showed Up at the Synagogue Door

Picture a Torah scroll carried through a town’s main street—accompanied not by Jews alone, but by city officials, Christian clergy, and neighbors of every faith. Imagine an interfaith choir’s harmonies echoing off synagogue walls as new doors opened to old prayers. This part of America’s nineteenth and early twentieth century Jewish history is not well remembered. In many towns, the first local synagogue was dedicated with choirs composed primarily of Christian neighbors, welcomed with speeches by local Christian clergy, and filled to overflowing with townspeople of every faith.

This is our history.

In 1867, the mayor of Richmond, Virginia, joined a Torah procession to dedicate a new synagogue for the Beth Israel congregation. City judges and members of the council walked alongside him. Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, the father of American Reform Judaism, led the service. That same year in Savannah, the mayor and city aldermen took part in the cornerstone-laying for B’nai Brith Jacob, the city’s second synagogue.

A few years later, in 1869, a synagogue was dedicated in Nashville. Rabbi Judah Wechsler welcomed the public to a packed hall of 600 seats and offered a timeless message: “Our synagogues are open… not only to those who belong to our faith, but all others who wish to be enlightened.”

In 1876, it was reported that “members of every congregation in the city” attended the dedication of a new synagogue in Dallas. In 1898, Christian clergy spoke at the dedication of the synagogue in Jackson, Tennessee. In Knoxville in 1901, Mayor S. G. Heiskell received the key to the city’s new synagogue.

Houston’s 1908 synagogue dedication was perhaps the most moving of all. Five rabbis and five Christian ministers joined in leading the service. The choirs of Temple Beth Israel and Christ Church sang together. The organist from Christ Church played throughout. Mayor Horace Rice, namesake of Rice University, had earlier opened his home to Beth Israel’s Sunday school while the synagogue was under construction.

The same year, in Beaufort, South Carolina, a 30-member Jewish congregation dedicated a synagogue at a service largely attended by non-Jews.

These weren’t just acts of politeness. They were acts of belonging. Of shared sacred ground—where difference did not divide. These moments remind us that the roots of early Jewish communal life in America were often nourished by interfaith generosity and support. 

The tradition continued into the 20th century. In 1915, after nine years of fundraising, the B’nai Zion synagogue in Shreveport, Louisiana opened its doors to an estimated 700 attendees—Jews and non-Jews alike. In 1922, Macon, Georgia’s mayor Luther Williams addressed the crowd at the dedication of Sherah Israel.

These stories, once celebrated in newspapers and Jewish periodicals, have largely faded from view. Their fading reflects more than just forgetfulness—it suggests one way in which our communal memory has been shaped by the traumas of the twentieth century.

Increased antisemitism in America during the 1920s and 1930s, the Holocaust, and the tribulations of the early State of Israel— helped to dim memories in America of interfaith generosity shown in the earlier days of the American Jewish community.

As a convert to Judaism, and someone who has often stood between worlds, I find hope in these moments. They are not just historical footnotes—they are invitations to live more openly, more generously, today.

This history is not just Southern. Nor is it gone.

In Lima, Ohio, local Christians helped fund a synagogue in 1915. The new congregation quoted Isaiah on the exterior facade: “Mine House Shall Be a House of Prayer for All People.” In Portsmouth, so many non-Jews attended the 1858 dedication of Beneh Abraham that many were turned away at the door. This congregation continues to exist today and is among Ohio’s oldest continuously organized Jewish communities. And in Traverse City, Michigan, the land for the state’s oldest synagogue was a gift from a non-Jewish businessman, Perry Hannah.

Today, Jewish institutions face new uncertainties. But we are not alone. For American, Canadian, Welsh, and other Jewish communities when we dig into our modern community histories, we find many examples of hands outstretched, pews shared, doors opened.

Let’s remember what was shared, and choose to share again.