Historical Synagogue

My twelve semi-annual projects often include a quota of day trips or other visits to places I've not been before.  One opportunity came my way unexpectedly.  The American Jewish Committee, among my favorite advocacy groups, invited me to a special luncheon in Philadelphia.  The local chapter has a memorial endowment to honor an esteemed historian of American Judaism.  Lunch would be kosher, priced at $36 for the entire event.  They announced the two guest speakers.  The Mayor would offer her remarks on the role of Jews in our city.  Another esteemed historian, this one a retired Reform Rabbi of local prominence and protege of the endowed professor, would follow with a presentation on the role of Philadelphia's small contingent of Jews in the American Revolution, as national preparations proceed to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence this summer.  I reserved a place.

With attacks on places where Jews gather becoming distressingly common, many of our agencies have avoided announcing the location of events until the day before, and then only broadcast by email to those registered to attend.  It would have to take place at a site the Mayor could easily access, either near City Hall or the Historical Area.  My email directed me to Mikveh Israel Synagogue, the city's oldest.  I'd never visited, though I knew of its historical prominence in the development of American Judaism.

The day arrived.  As a senior, I have an unlimited pass that gives me free access to SEPTA regional rail system, provided I do not cross any of Pennsylvania's borders.  The transportation will only cost $2 for parking at the train station a few miles from my home.  I checked the schedule two days before.  Take the 9:36AM commuter train, which will bring me about seven blocks from the synagogue.  From there, I could either take a bus or the subway to within a block of the event, or just walk the distance.  The train pulled into Marcus Hook station a few minutes late but arrived at Philadelphia's Jefferson Station uneventfully.  This terminal has its own attractions.  The City Hall complex can be seen to the west.  Tunnels take visitors to what they designate as the Fashion District and the famous Reading Terminal Market, which serves an array of ethnic cuisines.  The Convention Center sits just beyond that, and Philadelphia's small but active Chinatown another block in the direction of the Historical Area.  I opted to walk, it being a pleasant mid-morning.  

Market Street.  Once the city's main thoroughfare.  Addresses read North or South depending on their direction from Market Street.  The surroundings near the train station have long since lost their elegance.  Iconic department stores, many of Jewish origin, have closed.  Their repurposed buildings now anchor retail chains that die in parallel at regional malls.  I strolled onto the Historical Area.  The green next to the Independence Hall Visitors Center sponsored a national Prayer Day.  A young lady did a dance on the lawn waving a flag with each arm.  I captured a video.  In one direction I could see Independence Mall with a group of Amish teens in traditional dress heading to their timed tour.  A class trip of grade schoolers followed.  To the north, I could see the Constitution Center and the Mint, each requiring a telephoto of my phone camera.  Franklin sites sat across the street, largely without tourists at mid-morning.  As I reached 4th Street, I turned left.  Address given to me 44 North 4th.  Mikveh Israel should be in the next block.  I didn't see it.  Finally, I reached the Windham Hotel, unsure if I had passed my destination or had yet to reach it.  I entered the lobby, inquiring of the Concierge.  I had passed it.  Rather than sitting beside the sidewalk, the synagogue occupied a nook with a tiny path creating its front entrance.  In this era of synagogue attacks, not being noticeable from the street has a security advantage, one enjoyed by my own congregation.  

I entered a modern brick building, its name in block signage over glass doors that ran most of the synagogue's width.  Two men in suits stood at the entrance, not the uniformed officers whom visitors to American synagogues now encounter first.  I proceeded to a registration table, the first one there.  I showed the AJC official my driver's license.  She then handed me my name tag, placed alphabetically right below the Mayor's.  I peeled the adhesive, then attached it to my shirt.

History had a full display, as did current worship practices.  Glass cases displayed notes from Presidents, Washington first, Trump front and center, Lincoln's in his own handwriting with his personalized Humble and Obedient Servant closing, FDR's typed and signed.  Displays of artifacts from the colonial era and beyond.  Judaica used at various times in the synagogue's history.  As the main game in town from its 1740 founding until mass immigration 150 years later, many of their Baalebatim occupied prominent places in Philadelphia's history, as they do today.  Portraits of these men, all men, lined the walls above the display cases.

One room had a more temporary exhibit.  A member secured a collection of portraits and other photos of diplomats from around the world assigned to 1930s Europe.  They came from South America, the Far East, different parts of Europe.  As Naziism took hold in Germany, then moved to France and eastward, the need for Jews to relocate became apparent.  These diplomats offered exit visas.  One bishop, later known to the world as Pope John XXIII, offered phony baptismal certificates to many.  The exhibit had a display case of books about that era in Europe.  The display's curator, who must have spent considerable time assembling this, personally guided me through the various items.  In modern contentious times, good will still lurks, its abundance uncertain.  Courage may be more scarce.

Too many historical synagogues, from Europe to the Caribbean to the Lower East Side, now function more as museums than as places where Shabbos services take place.  Mikveh Israel remains an active synagogue with a black sign with movable white letters at the entrance announcing prayer times and the name of its Rabbi.  I entered the sanctuary.  It is modeled in the Portuguese style of its origins.  A central table stands in the middle, the Holy Ark on what I think is the east wall.  Behind the central table is a seating area, marble and cushioned, with an ornate patterned rug.   I assume the Rabbi and president sit there.  Worshipers occupy pews running the length of the sanctuary, each facing the center.  The room has four entrances, two to the north, two to the south of the center.  This synagogue follows a tradition of separate seating for men and women.  The latter occupy the back two rows on each side and enter from separate doors.  Unlike most American orthodox synagogues, they do not have a physical barrier to obscure women's view of the proceedings and the genders' view of each other.  The women's two rows of pews sit slightly elevated from the men's.  

Books for worship sit in holders in front of the seats.  Their Siddur has a prominent Sephardic Rabbi as editor.  Their Chumash remains the iconic Hertz, that staple of American synagogues for fifty years, until largely displaced by the emergence of Artscroll.  One person must have been a VIP.  Immediately in front of the central table, at floor level, sat a wooden chair with Kohen Hands decorating its back.  Its protection by plexiglass suggests its antique and fragile origin, as well as its historical significance to Mikveh Israel.  Nearly all synagogues I have visited, including my own, have a wooden box near the entrance where those without their own kippot can borrow one, or if a Bar Mitzvah that day, take one home as a souvenir.  This congregation instead had a box of fedoras that men could wear during worship, along with a supply of prayer shawls draped over a rack.

I did not see their kitchen facilities, but AJC assigned me to Table 8 in the middle of their dining room.  The space could accommodate a significant crowd.  I do not have a sense of how many people attend services, how many Bar Mitzvah celebrations they host, or whether that space enables rental income to offset membership dues.  Along the far wall were washing stations, a series of taps and common sink with two-handled lavers set on a stone ledge.  It is customary for people eating a meal to wash their hands with a blessing before blessing a loaf of bread.  This luncheon did not include bread, probably for the convenience of the observant people in attendance.  Tables were set with white tablecloths and dark cloth napkins.  Literature from the AJC sat over each plate and seat.  The caterer arranged a buffet, two lines of identical dishes.  Salmon poached or grilled as the entree, three salads, two sides.  Beverages and dessert display stood waist-high along another wall.  As a nobody, my table would offer me similarly obscure eating companions, with the partners in the Center City law firms seated at tables closer to the lectern from which Her Honor the Mayor would address the group.  I met a few new people, including an Irish woman from the NYC Embassy and a high school friend of my wife. 

The Mayor has a lot of official duties.  She came to us to speak, not to eat, but she waved at my table of Nobodies as she headed to the front.  More of a Jewish-Black partnership pep rally presentation, though with one compelling story of friends reacquainting decades after fleeing the Holocaust.  The educational session did not disappoint.  No bread for the meal meant no Grace After Meal, so I headed home as soon as the moderator opened the floor for questions to the guest Rabbinical scholar.

Center City Philadelphia in mid-afternoon seemed less populated than I expected.  The Day of Prayer in the open space next to the Visitors Center had moved along in its agenda.  Pastors now occupied the stage, one speaking, though not audible to me, while other late-career men in suits sat on the stage waiting their turn.  The discreet signage of the morning had become more explicit.  Along Market Street a revisit to the same storefronts of places I had no desire to enter.  Seven blocks west of Mikveh Israel, I entered Jefferson Station for the SEPTA train home.  A very pleasant day, well worth the $36 luncheon, probably worth deferring other things I could have engaged in at home.

Did my minor adventure yield what I sought?  Mostly it did.  Often, getting there surpasses the destination.  This time historical Mikveh Israel remained the centerpiece.  In an era where synagogues come under attack, where places like my home congregation with a lesser but still significant legacy struggle with attendance, I found it gratifying that a place could live through much of the history of America, contribute to it, and revel in a display of artifacts and portraits of people.  It had an area for worship, a Beit Tefillah, and a library, or Beit Midrash, each smaller than I'd expect.  But it served more as a Beit Knesset, a place where people of prominence from the Founders of the Colonial era to today's Mayor can assemble.  The synagogue reflected stability, if not growth.  And as a meeting place, people of all social strata could admire the displays, eat a luncheon catered with care, and wash hands at a station next to a person who you do not know but who left a civic imprint.  It seemed a place where Social Capital, bonding and bridging, has remained in continuous progress for more than two hundred years.  Absolutely worth devoting a portion of my time to share it with the synagogue and with the event's AJC sponsor.