(RNS) — It was almost too ironic.
Last week was Tisha B’Av, the fast day that commemorates the destruction of the ancient Temples in Jerusalem and a host of other Jewish catastrophes.
On Tisha B’Av, I learned of the loss of another temple — not, God forbid, a violent destruction. But a loss nevertheless — of a historic synagogue in downtown Miami.
Temple Israel of Greater Miami, one of the oldest synagogues in South Florida, was founded in 1922. Next summer, the congregation is planning to “sunset” its facility and hopefully find a new home. It was simply too expensive to maintain its physical plant.
Why does this matter to me?
Because that was where I started my rabbinical career — in 1981, when I served as its assistant rabbi.
When I arrived at Temple Israel, I found a congregation still reeling from the sudden, tragic death of its longtime senior rabbi, Joseph Narot, one of the greatest orators in the American rabbinate. It had a branch in Kendall, a suburb about 45 minutes to the south. Temple Israel was a vibrant, multigenerational community.
But let’s get back to Miami in 1981.
A year earlier, Fidel Castro had discharged prisoners and mental patients. This culminated in the Mariel boatlift that brought those refugees to Miami, which added unforeseen stresses to the local community. There was already a sizable, well-established Cuban community in Dade County, including “Jewbans.”
The Cubans were not the only refugees. Haitians were also escaping to South Florida. In October 1981, 33 Haitians drowned when their boat capsized near Hillsboro Beach, Florida — in full site of the condos on the shore. I was one of two white clergy to speak at their mass funeral, in a Haitian church in Miami. I can still hear the shrieks of grief.
This was the era of “Miami Vice.” It was the era of drug runners, cocaine cowboys and wild partying.
In 1981, Jewish Miami was also different — still my parents’ and grandparents’ generation and not yet what it was about to become.
Let’s start with one of the most celebrated cities in the diaspora, Miami Beach. I loved going across the causeways to visit — usually, on a hospital or shiva call. When I drove across the causeway, I felt that I was traveling back in time. It was still the heyday of the Eden Roc, the Fontainebleau and other iconic hotels. The Yiddish author Isaac Bashevis Singer lived in Surfside. There were still enough Yiddish speakers to engage him in conversation in the coffeehouses and restaurants.
Miami Beach contained the largest concentration of Holocaust survivors in North America. Some were members of Temple Israel, and I would listen to their stories at the oneg shabbat after services. Some of them told me, with still thick German accents, that they had been passengers on the doomed St. Louis. They had jumped ashore when the boat passed close to Miami.
This was the era of legendary Miami eateries. The names alone will make your mouth water: Wolfie’s, Rascal House and Pumperniks. All of them, now in the Deli World to Come.
As for South Beach — it was not yet “South Beach.” On Ocean Drive, in those old art deco hotels, Bubbe and Zeyde sat on rocking chairs on the porches. Those old hotels would become gazillion-dollar dwellings, attracting an international array of superstars.
That was my Miami, circa 1981.
In 2015, I returned to South Florida — this time, to Hollywood, and then to West Palm Beach. I took every opportunity to enjoy Miami 2.0 — the cooler Miami of Wynwood, the Design District, Coconut Grove, Miami Beach and South Beach. Just several weeks ago, I reversed the flow of modern Jewish history by being the only Jewish man in his 60s to actually move back to New Jersey, to be closer to my family.
Which is to say: My career in the congregational rabbinate began in South Florida. It likewise ended in South Florida. As Joni Mitchell put it: It’s the circle game.
The loss of Temple Israel’s physical structure is part of a larger trend. All over the United States, congregations are closing, merging, sunsetting. In each case, it means the loss of a history and identity. It means the loss of memories, stories — and for professional staff, loss of jobs.
Why? To quote “Casablanca”: “Round up the usual suspects.” It could be any number of factors, or a combination of factors.
Yes, many American Jewish communities are struggling with changing demographics. This is particularly true in many second-generation suburbs (such as on Long Island and in New Jersey and other places) that have not regenerated themselves. Those that have regenerated themselves, with a critical mass of Jews who want to build community, have done famously well.
When it comes to demography and geography, let me teach you a Hebrew phrase. Kaka zeh. Or, as Bruce Hornsby would have said, “That’s just the way it is.” There are far fewer Jews in eastern Nassau County and the South Shore than there used to be (or, they are not affiliating). Kaka zeh. In the 1960s, Great Neck, New York, was one of the holy cities of liberal Jews and liberal Judaism. Today, drive around Great Neck and count the Iranian synagogues and Orthodox Jews. Kaka zeh. Once upon a time, the Bronx was a Jewish place; today, not so much (though perhaps, like Brooklyn, it will experience a Jewish renaissance.)
But beyond demography, there is something deeper going on — and that is the changing nature of synagogue affiliation, which is itself a subset of religious affiliation in general.
According to the Pew 2020 study of American Jews, only about a third of American Jews were affiliated with a synagogue; more than half reported that they seldom or never go to synagogue, and another 27% said they go only a few times a year.
These two factors — changing demography, with the accompanying human and financial stresses, and sociological factors — a loss of affiliation, which comes from a loss of communal obligation — will continue to create challenges for American synagogues.
A Jewish version of the Nobel Prize awaits the savant who can figure out the solutions.
I keep returning to one of my favorite stories from the Talmud (Talmud, Gittin 56b, paraphrased). It brings us back to Tisha B’Av.
In 70 C.E., the Romans destroyed Jerusalem. The Jews smuggled their leader, Yochanan ben Zakkai, out of Jerusalem in a coffin. He emerged from the coffin and hailed the Roman general Vespasian as the new emperor of Rome.
What seemed like monumental chutzpah turned out to be prophetic. Moments later, a messenger arrived on horseback. He told the general that the emperor had died and the general was to take his place.
Grateful to Yochanan, Vespasian asked him, “What can I give you as a reward?”
To which Yochanan famously replied, “Give me Yavneh and its sages.”
In the wake of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, the sages of Jerusalem knew that they faced the mother of all existential problems. They no longer had a Temple. No more sacrifices. What would they do?
They re-created (some would say that they actually created) Judaism — as a religion of prayer, study and mitzvot. They would relocate Judaism to the home and the synagogue.
To this day, those are still the two locations of Jewish life — the private domain and the public domain.
The members of Temple Israel of Greater Miami know that their synagogue is more than a gorgeous building. They know that they carry Torah within them.
Wherever they wind up, my prayers are with them, as my prayers are with every synagogue that is undergoing such challenges.
One last thing: Ever since Oct. 7, American Jewish identity has been experiencing what Professor Jonathan Sarna has rightly called a “surge.”
Here is what remains to be seen.
Will that “surge” also create a surge in American Jewish synagogue and communal affiliation?
Let us only hope that when it comes to their religious institutions, American Jews will “choose life.”
