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A Millennial rabbi built a synagogue where others have closed. Her maverick ideas are becoming a model.
SOUTH PHILADELPHIA — On a cold weeknight, a few dozen people packed into a synagogue that defies every conventional rule of American Jewish life.
It is Orthodox and led by a woman. Its sanctuary is divided not into two sections, but three: men, women, and a small area for nonbinary congregants. It has no mandatory dues. And instead of struggling to survive, it is expanding so quickly that it has already outgrown its building.
Founded in 2019, the South Philadelphia Shtiebel has become a closely watched experiment in American Judaism — an urban congregation built from scratch in a neighborhood where no new synagogue had taken root in decades, and where most religious institutions had long since retreated to the suburbs.
A century ago, the idea of an Orthodox synagogue thriving in South Philadelphia would not have seemed unusual at all. In the early 1900s, the neighborhood was home to an estimated 150,000 Jews — mostly immigrants — packed into row houses within walking distance of work, markets and extended family.
Jewish life revolved not around grand sanctuaries but around dozens of small, informal prayer spaces known in Yiddish as shtiebels. More than a hundred of them dotted South Philadelphia’s blocks, often tucked into storefronts or private homes, intimate rooms where daily life and religious life blurred together.
Most of those shtiebels disappeared long ago, casualties of suburban flight and institutional consolidation. The South Philadelphia Shtiebel takes its name from that vanished landscape not as a reenactment, but as a wager.
The timing could easily have sunk the project. The Shtiebel launched only months before the COVID-19 pandemic upended communal life. Yet even during lockdown, around 40 people were still showing up each Shabbat. When the small Vespa scooter shop where the congregation first gathered became untenable due to the pandemic, the community improvised — meeting in backyards, public spaces and parking lots. Today, the congregation leases a two-story industrial building.
On a typical Shabbat morning, the sanctuary fills with roughly 175 people — a mix of young families, retirees, longtime Orthodox congregants and people still learning the prayers. And as attendance has grown, the question facing the Shtiebel is no longer whether it works, but what happens next, and whether this kind of community can scale without losing what makes it feel human.
What has emerged here is not a nostalgia project, but a congregation aligned with the DIY attitude of how people now choose institutions: voluntarily, relationally, and on their own terms.
Its growth has not been accidental. It reflects a series of choices — about space, ritual, leadership and belonging — made deliberately by its founder.
Welcoming the LGBTQ+ community
Rabbanit Dasi Fruchter grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland, the granddaughter of a rabbi who served pulpits across the country. She arrived in Philadelphia single and actively pursuing solo parenthood, but embraced the nonlinear turns of that journey, which led her to connect with and marry Daniel Krupka, a software engineer who had been serving as the congregation’s gabbai. Together they are raising a growing family.
She was ordained at Yeshivat Maharat, the Modern Orthodox seminary in the Bronx, and also holds a dual master’s degree from New York University in Jewish Studies and nonprofit management. She has been trained in community organizing, with an emphasis on relationships over programs.
She launched the Shtiebel with an acute awareness of how easily people fall through the cracks of Jewish life — not because they lack commitment, but because the systems around them are built for someone else.
“The approach here is that everybody is enough,” said Fruchter, 36. “We value the fact that you’re here and we’re not looking around at who’s not.”
Around 15% of the congregation identifies as LGBTQ+, Fruchter said. It’s a figure she offers not as a marker of ideology, but as a reflection of who has found their way into the room. That ethic is visible before a word is spoken. The sanctuary’s three sections all center around the bimah and are separated by a mechitza, or barrier, that still allows everyone to see, and hear, what is happening.
Fruchter is careful about how she describes the choice. It is not, she insists, an attempt to flatten difference or sidestep halacha, Jewish law, but an effort to acknowledge everyone. “We’re not trying to create a perfect solution,” she said. “We’re trying to create a place where people don’t have to disappear in order to pray.”
For Soren Simcha Barnett, a nonbinary congregant who uses they/them pronouns, that distinction mattered. When Barnett, 28, first arrived in early 2022, the idea of praying behind a mechitza was unfamiliar — and uncomfortable. “That would have been a red line for me,” they said. They had grown up in a Conservative synagogue and had never experienced gender-segregated prayer.
Still, they stayed.
What drew Barnett back was that they were taken seriously. They learned the melodies. On Shabbat mornings, they stand close enough to the action to help when the Torah is lifted off the bimah, hands ready, just in case. “I love being in the thick of it,” Barnett said. “We’re literally not in the margins.”
That sense of belonging, Barnett said, came with limits, though. About six months after they began attending regularly, Barnett asked Fruchter about expanding ritual roles for nonbinary congregants, such as leading services. Fruchter said no, a decision rooted in her reading of halacha.
“That hurt,” Barnett said. “I really wanted to be able to do everything I’m capable of.” But again, the disappointment did not send them away.
What mattered, they said, was not the answer but the process: that the question was taken seriously, and that the boundary was named rather than ignored. Barnett stayed. “I was willing to grapple with the complexity,” they said.
If Barnett’s story is about negotiation, Gary Saft’s is about commitment.
Saft, 35, a gabbai and the head of the Shteibel’s volunteer security team, is broad-shouldered, bearded, and impossible to miss. He grew up Reform and spent years assuming traditional Judaism had no place for him. “I didn’t see where I fit,” Saft said.
Saft began searching for a community after his father died in 2020, and he found it at the Shtiebel. Today, Saft prays daily, keeps kosher, walks to shul, and helps run services. “This shul is now a huge part of my life,” he said.
A sense of belonging
By all accounts, what holds the community together, more than anything else, is song.
For many congregants, music is the primary way in. Even those still learning Hebrew can participate fully, buoyed by a group that carries them along. Fruchter’s own voice is strong and steady, but it rarely stands alone. She sings with the room, not over it. Over time, congregants say, that has changed who feels comfortable raising their voice. Women sing loudly. So do people who might once have stayed quiet. Authority here is not projected; it circulates.
Lisa Levy, 66, a three-time cancer survivor, moved to Philadelphia after decades in New York City. She arrived newly retired and living alone. She describes herself as “conservadox” — committed to Orthodoxy, but wary of rigid lines.
What she did not encounter, she said, was pressure. “There are no dues,” Levy said. “You pay what you can afford. No questions.”
For Levy, that mattered. Many synagogues, she said, quietly assume a level of financial stability that leaves some people on the margins — especially older congregants or those navigating illness. At the Shtiebel, presence itself felt like the baseline contribution. “It’s more like a minyan than a shul,” said Levy, who lives three blocks away.
For Jamie Goldberg, 33, the Shtiebel became real when she started showing up pregnant.
Goldberg began attending in mid-2022, just before the birth of her first daughter. She and her husband, Stuart, had grown up in Reform and Conservative settings and spent years searching for something that felt both serious and accessible. “I learned the traditional prayers in my late 20s,” she said. “I didn’t grow up knowing how to follow along.”
Now she has two young daughters and serves on the Shtiebel’s advisory board. In the past year alone, she said, roughly two dozen babies have been born into the community. On Shabbat afternoons, families spill out to nearby playgrounds after naps, an informal ritual that has become its own gathering. Growth here is not abstract. It is measured in strollers.
That future comes with questions. There is no Jewish day school in South Philadelphia. Families will eventually have to drive children to the suburbs or help invent something new. After years of the Shtiebel’s children’s programming being volunteer-run, it’s now supported by a mix of people in paid positions and community members.
“It’s a place where people can grow,” she said.
Where the conversation never stops
During the week, the sense of belonging migrates online. The Shtiebel uses Slack, the messaging platform, as its connective tissue: organizing meal trains, coordinating who will read the Torah at services, sharing names of people who are ill and need prayers, checking in on each other, offering extra seats at Shabbat tables. There is no need for a printed directory or a hallway bulletin board.
Steve Schauder noticed that immediately.
Schauder, 61, the executive director of the Jewish Relief Agency, moved to South Philadelphia last spring after what he called a “trial Shabbat.” He had previously been a dues-paying member of synagogues across denominations. What struck him here was not just the warmth, but the infrastructure beneath it. “It never stops,” he said of the Slack messages. “I wander on every day, just to take a look.”
Schauder was also struck by what didn’t happen at the Shtiebel. The synagogue is intentionally apolitical. It’s careful about keeping partisan politics out of communal spaces. Congregants span the ideological spectrum, he said, and that diversity is treated as a given rather than a problem to solve. “You can walk in there whatever your background and politics are,” Schauder said.
On a Shabbat morning, a Donald Trump voter might be sitting next to a Zohran Mamdani supporter. What matters is not agreement, but a choice, Schauder said, to prioritize what he called “joyful Judaism” over the culture wars that have fractured so many other institutions.
The Shtiebel has taken shape amid the quiet collapse of many American institutions — houses of worship, unions, neighborhood associations — leaving fewer places where people are expected to encounter one another across differences.
In that sense, the congregation is not only a Jewish experiment but a civic one: an attempt to rebuild habits of shared life in a society that has grown increasingly siloed, polarized, and private. What happens inside the Shtiebel — negotiating disagreement, making room for difference, choosing presence over purity — mirrors a broader struggle over whether communities can still hold together without demanding sameness.
But Fruchter bristles at the idea that the Shteibel’s success can be reduced to a program, platform or politics. What she calls the synagogue’s “secret sauce” is not a tool so much as a discipline: “It’s being intentional about seeing and witnessing everybody with what they need,” she said.
Sometimes that attention registers in small ways. A congregant mentions liking Dr Pepper; it shows up at the kiddush they sponsor. Other times it demands structural work: rethinking seating for those with sensory needs, slowing down ritual explanations, or redesigning space so people who would otherwise drift away can stay. None of it is scalable in the abstract. All of it requires time, memory, and a willingness to keep revising.
“Folks who are stepping up and stepping in not only feel belonging,” Fruchter said, “but that they’re really being seen, cared for and nurtured.”
A model, and its limits
What Fruchter built has also reshaped the landscape beyond South Philadelphia. At a moment when many American synagogues are shrinking, consolidating, or aging in place, the Shtiebel has become an unlikely case study in what Jewish life looks like when it grows outward rather than inward.
But growth, Fruchter is quick to note, does not automatically produce stability.
Instead of mandatory dues, the Shtiebel operates on what she calls an NPR-style model, funded through voluntary monthly support. About 120 households currently donate each month, she said — including some supporters who don’t live in South Philadelphia but believe in the mission. Those recurring contributions cover about a quarter of the annual budget. The rest comes from a mix of larger individual gifts — typically in the $10,000 to $25,000 range — and national grants supporting the Shtiebel’s work, including initiatives around Orthodox feminism and efforts to reimagine synagogue life.
The result is a congregation that looks robust from the outside, but still operates like a lean startup on the inside. In its early years, Fruchter lived in the synagogue to keep costs down. “I think what happens with that kind of growth is that the infrastructure struggles to keep up,” she said.
One constant challenge, she added, is perception. “Sometimes we’re seen as being very flush because of our success.” The reality, she said, is more fragile: building governance, raising money, and maintaining a physical space while attendance climbs — all at once. “That footing takes time,” she said.
That tension, between visibility and vulnerability, is part of what other Jewish leaders have been watching closely.
Rabbanit Leah Sarna, the spiritual leader of Kehillat Sha’arei Orah in the Philadelphia suburbs, credits the Shtiebel with shifting expectations.
“In Philly, Dasi really normalized the idea of a Modern Orthodox shul led by a woman,” Sarna said. When her own congregation went searching for a spiritual leader and hired her in 2024, she said, opening the role to women did not trigger the kind of upheaval it might have elsewhere. Fruchter even spoke at Sarna’s installation. “By then,” Sarna said, “people had spent a Shabbat at Dasi’s shul. It wasn’t theoretical anymore.”
Sarna said that because the Shtiebel has no membership dues, inclusion comes first, and fundraising never really stops. “That model means you’re constantly in a fundraising stance,” Sarna said.
In a neighborhood of young professionals who want to live urban lives, and not decamp to the suburbs, Fruchter’s approach has been especially powerful. The two congregations, Sarna said, have even developed what she called “purposeful handoffs,” directing people to the other as life circumstances change: city to suburbs, suburbs to city. Rather than competing, they function as part of a shared ecosystem.
Much of the Shtiebel’s cohesion still runs through Fruchter herself — a concentration of responsibility that has fueled its growth, and may yet test its limits. Asked whether the Shtiebel model could be replicated elsewhere, Sarna paused. The structure, she said, might travel. The person at the center of it might not. “You need someone who’s as talented and warm and magnetic as she is,” Sarna said. “That part is the least replicable.”
The greater Philadelphia area, where the Jewish population hovers around 350,000 people, may be uniquely suited to such experiments. “America was founded here,” Sarna said. “It’s the birthplace of ideas.”
The experiment has, perhaps, yet another advantage. Chaim Saiman, a law professor at Villanova University in Philadelphia and a thought leader in the Modern Orthodox movement, believes congregations like the Shtiebel should also be seen as competing with Conservative shuls for a slice of the membership who may be looking for something more traditional.
“These sorts of shuls are often born on the decay of mainstream Conservative shuls, which are not growing or are hemorrhaging,” Saiman said. “There’s a market for a community with liberal sensibilities but whose liturgy and Shabbat and kosher practices are more traditional.”
The challenge ahead
For Fruchter, those dynamics are less abstract than personal. Many of the people who find their way to the Shtiebel arrive with long Jewish histories — years in Conservative congregations, half-finished religious journeys, fluency in tradition paired with frustration at the structures around it.
They haven’t rejected Judaism so much as struggled to find a community that fit the way they were living. The work of the Shtiebel, she said, has been to meet those people where they are, and then ask what kind of community they are willing to build together.
“In a shul today,” she said, “we shouldn’t bolt chairs to the floor.”
The post A Millennial rabbi built a synagogue where others have closed. Her maverick ideas are becoming a model. appeared first on The Forward.
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Remembering Abe Foxman, the longtime ADL leader known as the ‘Jewish pope,’ who always answered my calls
Friday before sundown, I realized that Abe Foxman had not sent me his weekly “Shabbat Shalom” message. For the past seven years, since we began texting regularly about Jewish and political issues, the message would arrive each Friday like clockwork — often accompanied by screenshots of Shabbat memes. My response never changed: “Good Shabbos, tzaddik,” using the Hebrew word for a righteous person that Foxman himself often used.
A few minutes after sundown, I texted him anyway: “Good Shabbos, tzaddik.” Then I turned off my phone. The message showed as “read” Saturday night. But there was no response.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one waiting for Foxman’s Shabbat greetings. The silence said everything. On Sunday, the Anti-Defamation League announced that its former longtime chief had died at age 86.
I first started texting with Foxman after he stepped down in 2015 as national director of the ADL, concluding a remarkable 50-year run with the organization, including nearly three decades at its helm. By then, he had become one of the most recognizable Jewish communal leaders in America. He was nicknamed the “Jewish Pope.” Former President Barack Obama, a frequent target of Foxman’s criticism over Israel policy, said upon Foxman’s retirement: “Abe is irreplaceable.”
For me, a rookie journalist covering national politics through a Jewish lens, Foxman became an invaluable source. He was in the room with presidents, prime ministers and world leaders during some of the Jewish community’s most consequential moments. Yet he was always available. He answered calls quickly. He texted back. He spoke candidly. He could be sharp, direct and deeply critical when he thought leaders were making mistakes. But he was also compassionate, warm and surprisingly personal.
Every conversation began the same way: asking about me. My kids. How I was holding up. Only then would we get to politics. The conversation would often veer from Yiddish to English and back again.
Our last conversation was on April 15, after a record 40 Senate Democrats voted to block $295 million for the transfer of bulldozers to Israel and 36 of them also supported a measure to block the sale of 1,000-pound bombs to the Jewish state. “A broch,” Foxman replied, using the Yiddish word for disaster. “A sad time for American politics.”
That worldview shaped much of his public commentary in recent years. In interviews with the Forward and other publications, Foxman weighed in on rising antisemitism, campus protests, Democratic divisions over Israel, President Donald Trump’s rhetoric, and the Biden-Netanyahu relationship.
Foxman could be combative and unapologetic. Critics on the left viewed him as too hawkish on Israel, while critics on the right sometimes accused him of being too willing to criticize the Israeli government or American conservatives. But nobody doubted his commitment to the Jewish people and to Israel.
Foxman’s own life story
Born in Baranavichy in 1940, in what is now Belarus, Foxman survived the Holocaust as an infant after being hidden by his Polish Catholic nanny, who baptized him to hide his Jewish identity, while his parents were confined to a ghetto. After the war, he was reunited with his parents, first living in a displaced persons camp in Austria before immigrating to the United States.
Those early experiences shaped the course of his career and ultimately made him one of the most influential Jewish communal leaders of the modern era.
In 1965, after getting degrees from City College of New York and New York University School of Law, Foxman joined the Anti-Defamation League as a legal assistant. Over the next five decades, Foxman rose through the ranks of the organization before being named its national director in 1987, a position he held until 2015.
Under his leadership, the ADL became one of the world’s most prominent voices combating antisemitism and hate.
In 1987, President Ronald Reagan appointed Foxman to serve on the council of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. He was reappointed by Presidents George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton and Joe Biden. He was also vice chairman of the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York City.
Foxman was often willing to challenge leaders he believed were wrong on Israel, including Democratic presidents he otherwise respected. He was sharply critical of Obama’s approach toward Israel early in his presidency and became one of the leading Jewish voices opposing the administration’s 2009 demand for a freeze on Israeli settlements.
In remarks at Foxman’s farewell dinner in 2015, Susan Rice, former U.S. ambassador to the U.N. and national security advisor under Obama, told the audience: “The thing I most value about Abe is his candor and integrity. He holds everyone to the same high standards, and I can always count on him to tell it to me straight, even when he knows I won’t necessarily like what he has to say.” In 2020, Foxman publicly advocated for Biden to choose Rice as his vice-presidential running mate.
“America and the Jewish people have lost a moral voice, a passionate advocate for the Jewish people and the state of Israel, and a remarkable leader,” Foxman’s successor, ADL CEO Jonathan Greenblatt, said in a statement announcing Foxman’s death.
Foxman’s political commentary
Even after retiring from the ADL, Foxman remained a leading voice in Jewish public life, especially after the election of Trump in 2016.
Foxman told me in an interview at the time that the Jewish community should engage with Trump and hold him accountable when needed. He advised Trump to be cautious about making good on his promise to move the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. He became more critical of Trump after the president said that there were “very fine people on both sides” in response to a 2017 neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia.
In 2020, Foxman broke his tradition of not endorsing political candidates to back Biden. He argued that Trump was a “demagogue” whose reelection would be a “body blow for our country and our community.”
Once Biden took office, Foxman started to express doubts about the president’s handling of the U.S. relationship with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. He said it “sends the wrong message to our friends and enemies” that Israel is being held to a higher standard than other countries in the region. Foxman was also a harsh critic of the Netanyahu government’s judicial overhaul, warning that the right-wing cabinet ministers could hamper support for Israel among American Jews.
In 2024, he warned that Biden’s increasingly harsh rhetoric over Israel’s military campaign in Gaza would repel Jewish voters. “I believe that this administration, because of its political season, is taking American Jews for granted or has written us off,” said Foxman. ”If they’re worried that the Arabs in Michigan will vote with their feet, they need to worry that Jews can also vote with their feet.”
Most recently, Foxman was critical of national Democrats opposing the military operations against the Iranian regime in March for a lack of congressional authority. “Sadly, it is purely political games,” Foxman told me, noting that previous Democratic administrations conducted military operations without explicit congressional authorization. “Ninety-nine percent of Democrats are on record saying Iran is a terrorist state and cannot have nuclear weapons. So why this game?” he asked.
Now, as Jews mark Jewish American Heritage Month, that voice is silent. But for me, and for the many people still waiting for one more “Shabbat Shalom” message from Foxman, he will not soon be forgotten.
Foxman is survived by his wife Golda, his daughters Michelle and Ariel and four grandchildren.
JTA contributed to this article.
The post Remembering Abe Foxman, the longtime ADL leader known as the ‘Jewish pope,’ who always answered my calls appeared first on The Forward.
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Jailed Iranian Peace Laureate Mohammadi Moved to Hospital in Tehran
A picture of Nobel Peace Prize winner Narges Mohammadi on the wall of the Grand Hotel in central Oslo before the Nobel banquet, in connection with the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize 2023, in Oslo, Norway, Dec. 10, 2023. Photo: NTB/Javad Parsa via REUTERS
Iran’s imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize winner Narges Mohammadi has been moved to a hospital in the capital, Tehran, and has been granted a suspension of her sentence on heavy bail, a foundation run by her family said on Sunday.
Mohammadi, 54, won the prize in 2023 while in prison for a campaign to advance women’s rights and abolish the death penalty. She suffered a heart attack two weeks ago.
Her family had called for her to be transferred from Zanjan, northwest of Tehran, where she was serving her sentence and where she had been initially taken to a hospital, so that she could receive better medical care.
She is now at Tehran Pars Hospital for treatment by her own medical team after being transferred by ambulance, the Narges Mohammadi Foundation said in a statement.
Mohammadi was sentenced to a new prison term of 7-1/2 years, the foundation said in February, weeks before the US and Israel launched their war against Iran. The Nobel committee at the time called on Tehran to free her immediately.
She had been arrested in December after denouncing the death of a lawyer, Khosrow Alikordi. A prosecutor told reporters that she had made provocative remarks at Alikordi’s memorial ceremony.
The foundation gave no details of the bail arrangements or suspension of her sentence.
“However, a suspension is not enough,” it said. “Narges Mohammadi requires permanent, specialized care. We must ensure she never returns to prison.”
Iran shut down most of the internet in the country in January as authorities suppressed mass protests triggered by economic unease. Rights groups have reported ongoing executions of people involved in the unrest.
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Israel’s Attorney General Calls to Cancel Netanyahu’s Mossad Chief Appointment
Israeli Attorney-General Gali Baharav-Miara. Photo: Twitter
i24 News – Attorney General Gali Baharav-Miara told the High Court of Justice on Sunday that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s decision to appoint Maj. Gen. Roman Gofman as the next Mossad chief must be canceled.
Baharav-Miara filed her position ahead of a Tuesday hearing on petitions challenging the appointment, telling the court that “substantial flaws” had been found both in the process conducted by the advisory committee and in the conclusions it drew. She said Netanyahu’s decision suffered from “extreme and blatant unreasonableness” and could not stand legally.
At the center of the dispute is the case of Ori Elmakayes, who was a 17-year-old minor when he was activated in 2022 by Division 210, without going through authorized intelligence channels. At the time, the division was commanded by Gofman. Elmakayes was arrested in May 2022 under espionage charges after two officers sent him classified information and told him to post it online as part of an “influence campaign,” despite not being authorized to do so. Gofman initiated this operation. Elmakayes was then held in full detention until July, spending an extended period under electronic monitoring and house arrest before the indictment against him was canceled in late 2023.
Baharav-Miara says Gofman’s involvement in leaking the classified information to the minor, “casts a heavy shadow on Gofman’s integrity and thus on his appointment to head the Mossad.” The attorney general also identified serious procedural failings in the advisory committee’s work. She notes that the majority members signed their opinion before committee chairman and former Supreme Court president Asher Grunis had written his dissent and before two members had reviewed several classified documents significant to the full picture. Grunis concluded that integrity flaws had been found and that it was not appropriate to appoint Gofman as Mossad chief.
The attorney general also says the committee failed to hear directly from Elmakayes or from a relevant senior military intelligence officer, instead relying in part on media interviews.
Netanyahu, who appointed Gofman to head the Mossad starting in early June, for a five-year term, submitted his own response to the court on this past Friday, arguing that the decision fell within his executive authority. The Prime Minister also said that his assessment of the matter was “dozens of times superior” to that of the court, adding that Gofman’s integrity was “found pure,” and describing him as the most qualified candidate.
Other coalition figures responded to the attorney general with sharp criticism, including National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir. Ben-Gvir accused Baharav-Miara of fighting the state, while Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich said her position was “one step too far” and vowed to advance legislation splitting the attorney general’s role in the Knesset’s summer session.