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6 spectacular synagogues from a new book on Manhattan’s houses of worship
(New York Jewish Week) – In the mid 1990s, New York-based photographer Michael Horowitz wandered into the Eldridge Street Synagogue, a historic synagogue that is now dedicated to preserving the history of the Jewish Lower East Side.
At the time, the synagogue was undergoing a massive, $20 million, 20-year restoration. Horowitz, who is Jewish but said he is “not religious,” was moved by the resilience and perseverance of the congregation. Even more so, he was attracted to the building’s architecture and the dedication the community poured into preserving it.
Horowitz returned to Eldridge Street over the years to document each stage of the building’s renovations. It was in 2013, while looking for a new photography project, that Horowitz realized his impulse to document Eldridge Street could be translated to houses of worship throughout the city. He spent the next decade photographing Manhattan’s churches and synagogues — 95 of which are spotlighted in his new book “Divine New York: Inside the Historic Churches and Synagogues of Manhattan.”
Together, these buildings tell a fascinating New York story of immigration, architecture, faith and progress. “I wanted to open the doors to the public,” Horowitz, 71, told the New York Jewish Week. “I wanted to show everyone what was going on inside these buildings and show them how beautiful they are.”
He worked his way from Lower Manhattan through Harlem to some of the most notable houses of worship in the borough — from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Midtown to the First Roumanian American Congregation, a now demolished Orthodox synagogue on the Lower East Side once known as “The Cantor’s Carnegie Hall.” Since beginning the project, a dozen of the buildings Horowitz photographed have been demolished, he said.
“Everyone should take the time and view them — even if you’re not religious,” added Horowitz, who has been interested in ecclesiastical architecture since he was a student at Queens College. “Then people will get an idea of what makes that specific group of people interesting and beautiful regardless of the dogma.”
According to writer Liz Hartman, who wrote the text to accompany Horowitz’s photos, these buildings tell the story of New York itself: When immigrant groups first came to the city with few resources, the structures were small and unassuming. Synagogues were built to serve one particular community — the Lower East Side’s Bialystoker Synagogue, for example, whose congregants were new immigrants from Bialystok, Poland. As the Jewish community began to prosper — and as immigrants began to arrive from all over Europe — synagogues became grander, more confident and diverse in membership.
“New York is the story of immigration, and the churches and synagogues are the story of immigration as well,” Hartman said. “Immigrants — New Yorkers — projected themselves through their houses of worship, and in a way that’s what made the city work. I hope that we can look at this project and see a story of immigrants — and see that we can support this with different groups going forward.”
Eleven of the houses of worship featured in “Divine New York” are synagogues. The New York Jewish Week tasked Horowitz and Hartman with selecting the most historically or architecturally significant synagogues of the bunch —no easy task because every house of worship in the book is a historic and notable one. Keep reading to see their selections and to learn more about these important Jewish sites.
Eldridge Street Synagogue (12 Eldridge St.)
A prominent stained glass window at Eldridge Street was destroyed in a 1938 hurricane — it wasn’t replaced until 2010, with a design from artist Kiki Smith (right). (Michael Horowitz)
This historic Lower East Side synagogue, dedicated in 1887, was the first synagogue building in New York erected specifically as a Jewish house of worship. “Right from the start, it distinguished itself from other synagogues by welcoming Jews from all over Eastern Europe while other congregations were defined by the towns or cities from which they came,” Hartman writes in the book. “It was also economically diverse; migrants right off the boat, peddlers, sweatshop workers, bankers, and entertainers were among its members.” The synagogue was also Orthodox at a time when New York’s grandest synagogues were being built by Reform congregations.
Eldridge Street Synagogue as seen from the balcony. (Michael Horowitz)
For decades, the synagogue thrived as Jewish immigrants filled the Lower East Side. However, by 1940, facing a dwindling membership, the congregation could no longer maintain the main sanctuary and closed it down. By 1970, the building was in danger of collapse and demolition. Students, journalists and historians teamed up to save the synagogue; the restoration began in 1986 and continued to 2007. Today, the building is known as the Eldridge Street Synagogue and Museum, which features exhibits, history and lectures on immigrant life in New York.
The Bialystoker Synagogue (7-11 Bialystoker Pl.)
The Bialystoker Synagogue is found in a Lower East Side building with an unassuming exterior, a holdover from the Methodist Church that was once there. (Michael Horowitz)
Founded on the Lower East Side in 1865, the Bialystoker Synagogue made its home in 1826 church building, purchased from a Methodist congregation, made with schist from Manhattan bedrock. The congregation maintained the austere exterior — though the interior was updated dramatically and boasts a grand ark and floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. Curiously, an image of a lobster is featured on the elaborately painted ceiling murals — with little explanation for how the non-kosher crustacean might fit into the synagogue’s mission or Jewish identity. One hint is that the panel marks the Hebrew month of Tammuz, which corresponds with the astrological sign of Cancer, the crab. “It was bought from the Methodist Mariner’s Church, and there were a lot of fishermen that belonged to that church,” Horowitz told the New York Jewish Week. Or perhaps a kosher-keeping muralist didn’t know the difference between a lobster and a crab.
An image of a lobster is on the ceiling of the synagogue, in a mural marking the Hebrew month of Tammuz. (Michael Horowitz)
The synagogue, built in a traditional Orthodox style, has a balcony for women worshippers. In one corner of the balcony, a hidden door leads to an attic, which Hartman writes was allegedly a stop on the Underground Railroad.
The synagogue underwent a renovation in 1988 and is still an active traditional Orthodox congregation.
Central Synagogue (652 Lexington Ave.)
Central Synagogue moved into its Lexington Avenue location in 1872. While most congregations face east, towards Jerusalem, Central faces west. Hartman explains that the real estate was “too good to pass up,” and the congregation decided to have an entrance on Lexington. (Michael Horowitz)
Completed in 1872, the building that houses the renowned Reform congregation in Midtown East seats nearly 1,500 people — a fraction of the congregation’s approximately 2,600 members. That’s a long way from the original 18 members from Bohemia, a region of the present-day Czech Republic, who started the congregation in 1846 in a remodeled church in the East Village.
Central Synagogue was built around the same time and in the same neighborhood as the Episcopal St. Thomas Cathedral and the Catholic St. Patrick’s Cathedral — some of New York’s grandest churches, which are also featured in the book. “Each of the groups were saying, ‘We’re here and we’re proud and we have prosperity.’ They were showing off, but in a really beautiful way,” Hartman said. “For Central, it was very much a message of assimilation. They were as interested in liberty, inclusion and reform as they were in Jewish ritual.”
Congregation Shearith Israel (8 West 70th St.)
Congregation Shearith Israel, also known as the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue, was the only synagogue in New York for nearly a century and a half. The congregation moved several times before finding a permanent home on the Upper West Side. (Michael Horowitz)
Congregation Shearith Israel, also known as the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue, was the first Jewish congregation in the United States, made up of Sephardic Jews who had arrived in New York in 1654 via Recife, Brazil. The congregation was the only Jewish one in New York for a century and a half before a faction of Ashkenazi members grew big enough to split off and form B’nai Jeshurun in 1825. While the congregation was housed in several different buildings throughout its history, it has been in its current home on the Upper West Side since 1896.
Temple Emanu-El (1 East 65th St.)
Temple Emanu-El was named one of eight “religious” wonders in the United States by CNN, writes Hartman. (Michael Horowitz)
Founded by a small group of German Jews in 1845, Temple Emanu-El has become one of the grandest and more well-known synagogues in New York, boasting prominent members like ex-mayors Ed Koch and Mike Bloomberg, as well as hundreds of other influential Manhattanites.
Considered one of the leading synagogues in the Reform movement, Emanu-El made waves throughout the 19th century for translating all-Hebrew services into German, then English, as well as for installing an organ and for abandoning the mechitzah, the traditional divider between men and women during prayer. After several spots downtown, the congregation moved into its current building on 5th Avenue — the former site of John Jacob Astor’s mansion — in 1927. It can hold 2,500 people, making it one of the largest synagogues in the world.
Park East Synagogue (163 East 67th St.)
The architects Schneider and Herter “took a no-holds-barred approach to the elaborate Byzantine-Moorish design of the synagogue,” writes Hartman of the arches, colors, stained glass and ark at Park East. (Michael Horowitz)
Built in 1890 by brothers Jonas and Samuel Ephraim in honor of their late father, Zichron Ephraim, this Orthodox synagogue has elaborate and eclectic arches, cupolas and stained glass throughout its design, reflecting its prominence in the New York Jewish community. “The design of the synagogue is anything but subtle and so, too, is its spiritual leader for more than 50 years, Rabbi Arthur Schneier, who is outspoken in his advocacy of religious freedom, human rights, and mutual respect,” writes Hartman.
It was Schneier who invited Pope Benedict XVI to Park East in 2008, marking the first ever papal visit to a synagogue in the United States. Schneier, who is currently searching for a successor, was conferred a papal knighthood for interfaith effort for religious freedom. For many decades, Park East was a haven for Jews who immigrated from the Soviet Union.
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At Eurovision, Israel’s near triumph shows the limits of tolerance
VIENNA — A keffiyeh was blocking my view, and it bothered me less than I would have expected.
It was around 9:45 pm, and I was standing outside Vienna’s city hall, where the city had erected a “Eurovision village.” The pan-European singing competition was taking place in the former Habsburg capital, grand architecture framing massive public viewing screens.
Security was tight. Visitors weren’t allowed to bring bags inside the area, and we were patted down by two separate guards before we were allowed to enter. In August 2024, a foiled terror attack led to the cancellation of three Taylor Swift concerts, an international embarrassment authorities were keen not to repeat.
And then there were the protests over Israel’s participation.
The day before, an anti-Israel solidarity concert had featured a video call with Unorthodox author Deborah Feldman, who said she was protesting the “whitewashing” of a genocide. A separate “song protest” reportedly escalated from chants of “One love” to “Death, death IDF.” Earlier that day, demonstrators had marched along Vienna’s main shopping boulevard. By the time evening rolled around, a group of clowns had gathered outside the parliament, practicing creepy, Joker-like laughs and holding signs that said “United by Genocide,” a play on the Eurovision Song Contest’s slogan. “United by Music.”
For a contest that insists on being apolitical, Eurovision had become unmistakably political.
I didn’t care much for the music, but world events were unfolding here in Vienna, and I wanted to see them up close.
Israeli singer Noam Bettan was the third to perform. As he got on stage and started singing “Michelle,” a couple of people in the crowd I was standing in started shouting “Free Palestine” at the screen. The chants weren’t loud enough to drown out the performance
Then, someone in front of me raised a keffiyeh, stretching it between both hands and waving it in the air. It blocked my view. I considered asking him to lower it. But did I really want to risk a confrontation? Instead, I stepped sideways – slightly annoyed, but telling myself this was the price of tolerance.
Only later that night did I begin to wonder whether tolerance was, in fact, a shared value.
Back home, I watched the voting. Just before 1 a.m. the audience vote catapulted the Israeli act into the lead. In the previous two years, Israeli entries had also performed strongly with viewers, placing first and second in the public vote without winning overall. The reasons have been debated: diaspora support, savvy promotion, or simply songs that fit the Eurovision formula — catchy, theatrical, sung with a powerful voice. (Israel has won the competition four times, most recently in 2018.)
Israel’s promotional efforts have drawn criticism, but no evidence of manipulation has emerged, and the public broadcaster KAN has responded quickly to European Broadcasting Union reprimands.
It didn’t matter. Social media filled with accusations that Israel had cheated. In the arena, just before Bulgaria’s points were announced, the booing aimed at Israel’s entry grew so loud it was clearly audible on the broadcast.
Bulgaria won, Israel came in second, and I felt something close to relief. At a time when several countries had already stayed away and others were wavering, it seemed less like a celebration than a breaking point. I wouldn’t want to witness what would happen if Eurovision were to be held in Israel next year.
It had been easy to move when the keffiyeh blocked my view. One step to the side, and the problem was gone. However, there was no stepping aside from what came later. Freedom of speech is about making space, but it can also be used to close it.
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Israel’s Noam Bettan takes 2nd at Eurovision, buoyed by scrutinized public vote
(JTA) — The Israeli contestant in the Eurovision Song Contest won second place for the second year in a row, drawing a strong public vote despite protests over Israel’s inclusion in the contest.
Noam Bettan and his song “Michelle” ranked third in the public vote and eighth in the jury vote, which combined to give him second place behind the entry from Bulgaria, which won the contest for the first time.
Bettan thanked his fans in a post on Instagram after leaving the stage.
“I’m still processing everything and trying to find the words for this incredible journey. You guys are amazing and this is all because of you. I love every single one of you!” he wrote. “This is just the beginning, there are so many amazing things in the way! 🤍Am Israel Chai!!!”
Five countries boycotted the contest this year over Israel’s inclusion, citing Israel’s military operations in Gaza. After the competition, a spokesperson for VRT, Belgium’s national broadcaster, said the country was unlikely to participate next year unless the European Broadcasting Union, which runs the contest, makes “a clear statement against war and violence and for respect for human rights.” Belgium came in 21st of 25 competitors in the final.
Bettan faced a smattering of boos both during the semifinal on Tuesday and during the final on Saturday in Vienna, as well as when Israel briefly led the leaderboard during the announcement of the audience votes. He told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency ahead of the final that he believed he had more fans than detractors and that he would focus on them.
Israel scored 220 points in the public vote after drawing a formal warning from the EBU for its campaign urging supporters to send all 10 of their votes to Bettan. Israel’s broadcaster called off the campaign after being told it was “not in line with our rules nor the spirit of the competition.”
Israel also drew 123 points from national juries, more than twice what it earned last year when 22 countries awarded Israel no points at all in a result seen as driven in part by political tensions.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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It looks like a kaffiyeh, but this pro-Israel influencer wants you to wear a sudra
In a recent viral Jubilee video viewed more than 1.5 million times, pro-Israel activist Rudy Rochman sits across from a group of 20 pro-Palestinian activists, debating the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Draped around his neck is a black-and-gray checkered scarf that looks almost identical to a kaffiyeh.
Look closer, and the pattern resolves into something else: tiny Stars of David clustered together, alongside Hebrew lettering spelling out Am Yisrael Chai — “the people of Israel live,” which has became a mantra after Oct. 7 and the hostage crisis. It’s not a kaffiyeh, Rochman says, but a modern twist on the sudra, a cloth head covering once worn by Jews across the Middle East — and he wants to bring it back.
Since the Gaza War, the kaffiyeh has become an increasingly visible symbol of pro-Palestinian activism. Now, Rochman is part of a small but growing effort to revive the sudra as a marker of Jewish identity rooted in the Middle East. He runs the company My Sudra, promoting and selling the garment online. It has been embraced by a niche but visible group of young pro-Israel influencers.
Rochman, a 32-year-old Jew of Moroccan and Algerian descent, said he and his family wore sudras during celebrations like bar mitzvahs and weddings. In old family albums, Rochman says most photos of his grandfather and great-grandfather show them donning the garment in Morocco.
As a child, Rochman understood the head covering as Middle Eastern rather than distinctly Jewish. Once he learned about its connection to Judaism, he set out to revive it, beginning to create sudras in 2016 while a student at Columbia University.
The term sudra appears in rabbinic literature, including the Mishnah and Talmud, as a general term for a cloth typically worn as the religiously prescribed head covering, though some sources describe Jews wearing it around their necks. Experts say Jews across the Middle East wore sudras, likely before the Middle Ages, with styles varying by region and period.
From the Middle Ages into the modern era, Jews in the Middle East, classified as dhimmis, sometimes faced legal restrictions on dress. One notable prohibition during certain periods was the wearing of a headscarf or turban by Jews, including the sudra.
“This form of headgear by Jewish men was not tolerated in many communities,” said Gillian Vogelsang-Eastwood, a textile historian specializing in Middle Eastern dress. “Men could wear the kippah, but nothing significant in public on the head.”
Over time, she said, those constraints contributed to the fading of the custom.
“For me, it’s about reviving an aspect of our culture that was beaten out of us by force,” said Rochman. “It’s not like we consciously made a decision. ‘Hey, we want to stop wearing sudras.’ We were forced to stop wearing it.”
Historically, sudras did not usually feature identifiably Jewish symbols. The Kurdish sudra is an exception, incorporating circles and dots with religious meaning. Even in Rochman’s own family photos, his ancestors typically wore plain white sudras.
Rochman, however, has deliberately added Jewish symbols to make the garment legibly Jewish to contemporary eyes.
Rochman sells sudras in various colors, including a black and white version that looks exceptionally similar to the Palestinian version of the kaffiyeh. Instead of the pattern of zig-zag stripes and criss-crossed squares that can be found on that kaffiyeh, Rochman’s sudra has stars of David juxtaposed to create a similar checkered pattern, as well as Jewish symbols like the menorah, along with the phrase Am Yisrael Chai.
The resemblance to the kaffiyeh is not accidental.
The kaffiyeh is widely seen today as a symbol of Palestinian identity and resistance, but it did not always carry that meaning.
According to Vogelsang, “The kaffiyeh is basically regarded as a 19th-century development worn by farmers in Syria,” she said. “The Jordanian army later adopted it as part of their uniforms.”
Vogelsang says its political symbolism developed in the 20th century, particularly through its association with Palestinian nationalism and figures such as PLO leader Yasser Arafat, who popularized the black-and-white kaffiyeh widely worn today.
Some say the patterns on the Palestinian black-and-white kaffiyeh represent different aspects of Palestinian culture. The criss-cross lines represent the Palestinian ties to the Mediterranean Sea because of their resemblance to fishnets; the black stripes symbolize trade routes through Palestine; and the curved lines are said to symbolize olive trees.
But Vogelsang and other experts say that this symbolism is a modern interpretation of older patterns. “They didn’t have these meanings. The Palestinian community has given them these meanings,” she said.
Patterns like checks and stripes were often used for garments in the Middle East, not because of any particular symbolism, but because “they are just an easy, convenient design to make,” said Vogelsang. Both Jews and Muslims used whichever fabrics were locally available, often checkered and striped patterns commonly associated with the modern-day kaffiyeh.
In a similar way, Rochman’s sudra takes on explicit political meaning through the inclusion of the phrase Am Yisrael Chai, popularized in the 1960s as a rallying cry for Soviet Jewry and now widely used at pro-Israel demonstrations. In that sense, his garment does not just revive a historical practice, but imbues it with ideological significance.
“Being a Zionist outwardly was kind of seen as excessive before Oct. 7, but after Oct. 7 it became something that was cool again,” Rochman said, adding that interest in — and sales of — his sudras increased following the attacks and the war in Gaza that followed.
I asked Rochman if he’s ever worried about being mistaken for wearing a kaffiyeh or accused of cultural appropriation. Dozens of Reddit threads are dedicated to the topic online. In the Jubilee video, one Palestinian activist tells him, “Are you going to pretend that the kaffiyeh you’re wearing is not a culturally appropriated kaffiyeh? And you just added the Hebrew and all of that to it.”
But he is not particularly bothered by either accusation.
“I look at it as just an opportunity to tell that person, whether a Jew or not a Jew, that doesn’t know anything about a part of Jewish culture, who we are and what we are.”
And while Rochman’s main goal is to help younger generations of Jews understand a part of their history that has faded, he hopes that more Jews wearing the sudra will also foster a greater understanding of Jewish history in the Middle East.
“We need to know where we’re from,” Rochman said. “And if it helps us connect with other Middle Eastern peoples, that’s amazing too.”
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