As Advisor to Goldman, Irvine Rabbi Helps Himself

Even here, at dusk, in a sea of sadness, Rabbi Bernie King couldn’t turn away from the man’s haunted face.

The rabbi spotted the stranger in an audience of about 150, after his invocation at a Brea cemetery for the Parents of Murdered Children. Maybe he had seen the sobbing father at another candlelight vigil, King thought. And then, boom, he remembered where he had seen the gray-haired man before--on TV.

That cold evening, in May 1995, King had no idea he was to become a spiritual advisor to that man, Fred Goldman, father of Ronald Lyle Goldman, a victim in the most publicized trial in U.S. history.

Friday, at the rabbi’s request, Goldman will speak to King’s congregation in Irvine on “Pursuing Justice” following O.J. Simpson’s acquittal on double murder charges. (Information on the 8 p.m. speech: [714] 857-2226.)

Through the trial, King, a rabbi for 27 years, made a spiritual journey of his own. He tried to counsel someone in need and, in the process, learned something of himself. At first, King, 57, had no idea that his relationship with the grieving family--who have their own temple in Agoura Hills--would leave an indelible mark on his own soul.

Fred Goldman

“I had something to learn from him,” said King, rabbi at Congregation Shir Ha-Ma’alot, which serves 300 families. “There’s something that each of our souls needs from each other’s. . . . Even though I may think I’m the helper, at times, I may be the helpee.”

In a brief interview, Goldman said the rabbi talked him through some of his darkest days.

“He’s a very warm, compassionate individual who speaks from the heart and soul,” said Fred Goldman, 54.

Last June, King led a memorial service on the one-year anniversary of the stabbing deaths of Ron Goldman, 25, and Nicole Brown Simpson, 35. Ron Goldman, a waiter at Mezzaluna restaurant, was returning a pair of mislaid glasses to Simpson’s ex-wife when the two were slain outside her Brentwood condominium.

During the trial, Goldman and the rabbi talked by phone a couple nights a week, sometimes as late as 11 p.m.

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After one particularly tough court day, Goldman’s wife, Patti, turned to him during the long drive home and joked: “I betcha Bernie King gives you a call.” And, sure enough, he did.

King was hooked on the Simpson case from the start. Ron Goldman was about the same age as his three sons, who are in their 20s, and seemed like someone he knew.

After Simpson’s arrest, King, his wife, Barbara, and daughter Adeena, 11, were driving to Portland to visit family. They stopped at motels in cities with minor league baseball teams--the rabbi’s passion--and sat glued to the TV.

On the news, the rabbi saw the anguish in Fred Goldman’s face. King pondered his last name and wondered if the family was Jewish.

“Geez,” he thought woefully. “The poor rabbi who has to deal with this.”

It was hard enough for King to return to the Parents of Murdered Children’s annual candlelight vigil. He vowed every year would be his last. The parents’ grief was so palpable; their pain hammered at his own heart. But he ended up going so he could try to offer a bit of comfort.

Last May’s vigil began when someone lit a candle, and touched the next person’s candle, who touched the next and so on.

Look at the candle, King told the hushed crowd, their faces aglow in the darkness. The glow is the eternal part of your child that will never die inside you.

Now, close your eyes and picture your child in a moment of happiness.

When you’re ready--with that memory seared within your heart--blow the candle out. Then hug the person next to you.

Afterward, Goldman and his daughter, Kim, hugged the rabbi. Goldman asked King for a text of his remarks, but the rabbi had none.

“But if there’s anything I can do . . . “ King said, handing Goldman his card.

A couple weeks later, Goldman called. He asked if King would lead a candlelight vigil for his son. Of course, King said immediately.

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King didn’t know if the Goldmans had a church or synagogue until he arrived at the vigil in the Ventura County community of Oak Park. There, the Goldmans introduced him to members of their havurah, a circle of close families within their synagogue, Temple Beth Haverim, in Agoura Hills.

More than 1,000 people stood on rolling hills in the rural park. King saw the flicker of candles and the glare of TV lights, like stars around the sun. He prayed silently:

“God, please use me as a channel to bring comfort. Please don’t let my ego get in the way.”

In the next month’s Vanity Fair, writer Dominick Dunne noted that the vigil was led by Rabbi Bernie King. (Later, King laughed that he wasn’t further identified, as if everyone knew his name.) Also in attendance, Dunne wrote, was Gil Garcetti, district attorney of Los Angeles County.

Events like the vigil unfolded so quickly that King had little time to give his relationship with Goldman much thought. On a recent afternoon, he reflected on their ties.

At first, he watched the stricken Goldman on TV and, like others, felt helpless. Through the trial, at bar mitzvahs and weddings, strangers who had heard about King’s connection to the Goldmans would approach him. Thank you for helping the Goldmans, they would say.

“I was fortunate in the sense that I could pick up the phone and call him, and at least be able to say, ‘God, that was painful,’ or whatever,” King said.

“It wasn’t just Bernie King [calling]. It was all the people out there who don’t have [his] phone number or who wouldn’t get through.”

Goldman declined to talk about how King fit into his spiritual picture or his relationship with his rabbi in Agoura Hills.

King can’t say why he and Goldman hit it off. (He cannot reveal their conversations.) But he thinks their relationship was no accident.

“God sends messengers,” he said, “and we’re all [receivers] in each other’s lives for our own soul’s healing and growth.

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“With Fred, I think it’s a whole gestalt. I learned that people who we see in the media, that they’re real people. Intellectually, we all know this. Now it’s a deeper knowing.

“I learned from his grace and dignity and courage in an awful situation. I think I learned a little of myself, how I should conduct myself . . . and as always, just appreciate the time you have with the people you love.”

King is a gentle, reflective man who pretends to ignore the family’s dog, cat, tortoise and pet rat at home in Irvine.

He grew up in San Francisco, the son of parents who ran an Indian trading post store. After two years as a petty officer on a Navy submarine, he decided to become a rabbi so he could help people.

In 1965, King joined hundreds of people on a civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery, Ala., struck by the bigotry of white officials who denied blacks the right to vote. Afterward, he shook hands with the Rev. Martin Luther King, who thanked him for showing up.

He never forgot that unexpected boon.

“We have to be awake,” he said, “as to what we can contribute to others, and what they can contribute to us . . . the salvation of our community depends on it.”