One hundred years ago, things didn’t look too good for Orthodox Jews on these shores. When my great-grandfather disembarked in Charleston the community was already challenged by assimilation and ignorance. Thankfully there were enough stubborn and learned people to keep the flames of Torah burning. My Elter-Zaidy tried to become an American citizen but the local officials told him that he would have to become a Mason first. And so, my Great Grandfather became a US Citizen and a Member of the Masonic Fraternity. He also remained a religious Jew.

Some time later, when Zaidy had earned enough money to bring the rest of my family over, he returned to Charleston to greet his family. Upon arrival, he was told that the ship was quarantined at Sullivan’s Island. Zaidy quickly found some Kosher food and made arrangements to have them delivered to his wife and children on board the ship. Unfortunately, the stone-faced officials were adamant in their refusal to allow strange parcels on board. They didn’t care about Kosher food. Zaidy was about to give up when he noticed an official wearing a Masonic ring. Zaidy greeted the man with a secret handshake and everything changed. The food was delivered, my Grandmother ate her first good meal in weeks, and the rest is history.

I visited Charleston this past Shabbos. As I shared the story with the congregation I could not mask the trace of pride in voice. My Great-Grandfather fought to get his family Kosher food in Charleston, and there I was, one century later, still keeping Torah and Mitzvos in a way that would make him proud.

The Charleston community has a lot to be proud of too. They are the oldest uninterrupted Ashkenazi kehilla in North America. They have faithfully survived breakaways and mergers and a couple of military attacks. In fact, they are proud to have provided an uninterrupted supply of Kosher meat and Matza to Confederate soldiers during the Civil war.

It is refreshing to remember that there were some oases of kashrus in the treife medina. Where others thought that the Torah couldn’t apply, they applied it, and lived to pray another day.

In preparation for my trip to Charleston I made it my business to learn the secret Masonic handshake. It was unnecessary. The Charleston community was very warm and hospitable and the grits were great.

As I walked out of shul Shabbos morning a middle-aged gentleman with a conspiratorial voice and a triangular ring approached me with an offer:

“Rabbi”, he said, “I am a third generation Mason. If you ever want to return to the fold, I can get you in”.