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A Queens synagogue is moving, and the fate of its storied ark is in limbo
(New York Jewish Week) — Crafted of bronze and gold-leaf plaster, and topped by a bejeweled crown, the astonishing 26-foot-tall ark of the Forest Hills Jewish Center fills its cavernous sanctuary with an imposing presence.
When Temma Kingsley joined the congregation as a newlywed in 1965, she was taken aback by its style.
“I thought it was really quite fancy, overdone,” she recalled recently, comparing it to the traditional wooden ark in the modest Philadelphia synagogue where she grew up. “But I’ve since learned what it’s all about, and I’ve become attached to it.”
The ark, which houses the synagogue’s Torah scrolls, is the work of artist Arthur Szyk (1894-1951), a Polish-born artist who rose to fame in the United States with vivid, technicolor drawings on the covers of influential magazines, in the pages of high-profile newspapers and in fine galleries and museums around the world. When the synagogue dedicated its minimalist post-war building on Queens Boulevard in 1949, Szyk’s opulently designed ark stood out as entirely different.
Now, with the impending sale of the Forest Hills Jewish Center building, Kingsley is concerned about the ark’s future. So too are current synagogue leaders, as well as art historians and museum curators, who are scurrying to find it a new home. Meanwhile, the ark’s fate remains in question.
The Conservative synagogue announced last year it was selling its building and would look for a new home in the same area in Queens. In August, an investment partnership led by Joseph Yushuvayev and Uri Mermelstein of Top Rock Holdings announced it was in contract to buy the building and develop the site.
Fully acknowledging the value and importance of the Szyk ark, the congregation is seeking to find it a new home. At least one art dealer has expressed interest in acquiring the ark, but this route has been rejected as it would not come with any guarantee of where it might eventually land.
Arthur Szyk was known for his vivid Jewish art, including “David and Saul” (1921), left, and his political cartoons and illustrations, including “Madness” (1941). (The Magnes Collection of Jewish Art and Life, University of California, Berkeley)
“What if the buyer decides to disassemble the ark and use its beautiful bronze doors as the entrance to their home?” Deborah Gregor, executive director of the Forest Hills Jewish Center, asked rhetorically, her voice tightening.
Taking into consideration this theoretical scenario, the board has agreed to prioritize keeping the ark intact to honor its legacy. Several museums have been contacted. Thus far none have come forward.
Simona Di Nepi, the Charles and Lynn Schusterman Curator of Judaica at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, traveled to Forest Hills last month to see the ark and “fell in love.”
“I see it as a tour de force of Jewish art,” she said — a unique and spectacular “show-stopper.”
On her recommendation, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts explored the possibility of acquiring it, but the height ultimately presented logistical challenges that could not be overcome. Di Nepi has now turned her attention to several large synagogues with the hopes of finding one that might adopt it.
“I can’t bear the thought of what will happen if it does not find a home,” she said.
Born in Poland, trained in Paris and influenced by the brief time he spent at Bezalel Art School in British Mandate Palestine, Szyk was known for his vivid Jewish art, biting political cartoons and his portraits of American heroes and European figureheads. In 1941, The Times Literary Supplement wrote that his illuminated Passover haggadah was “worthy to be placed among the most beautiful books that the hand of man has produced.” Reprinted many times in the decades since, it remains a staple in Jewish homes today.
While Szyk’s oeuvre is described by critics as “exquisite,” “masterful” and “marvels of technical skill,” the artist did not view his own creations as ends unto themselves. Instead, he used his work to influence politics and world opinion. Irvin Ungar, editor of the 2017 study “Arthur Szyk: Soldier in Art,” wrote that Szyk employed pen and paintbrush as tools to wage war against the Nazis, attack racism, promote Zionism and preserve freedom.
His work caught the attention of two leading rabbis of his day: Abba Hillel Silver in Cleveland and Ben Zion Bokser in Queens. Both led growing congregations that would reach well over 1,000 family members. Separately, the two commissioned Szyk to create significant objects for their respective synagogues.
The baroque form of Szyk’s ark at the Forest Hills Jewish Center, left, is reminiscent of the arks of Eastern European synagogues that were destroyed in the war; Szyk’s stained glass “Warrior Windows” at Cleveland’s Reform Temple Tifereth Israel feature the biblical figures Gideon, Samson and Judah Maccabee. (Courtesy of Irvin Ungar)
Szyk’s stained glass “Warrior Windows” were dedicated in Cleveland’s Reform Temple Tifereth Israel on the last day of Hanukkah in 1947. Commissioned to honor congregants who fought in World War II, the 15 windows include the names of fallen soldiers and showcase the biblical figures Judah Maccabee, Samson and Gideon, resplendent in sumptuous battle dress.
In a letter to Silver, Szyk explained that he would have ordinarily charged $15,000 for the project (the equivalent of $200,000 today). But because Szyk aligned so closely with the rabbi’s ideological mission — Silver was a leading proponent of Zionism — he viewed the job as “a personal favor,” and agreed to a much lower sum of $4,500.
Bokser, a social justice activist whose edition of the Jewish prayer book was a staple of Conservative synagogues for decades, was also drawn to Szyk’s bold, innovative style for the sanctuary of his congregation’s sleek new building on Queens Boulevard. Art historian and Cleveland State University Distinguished Professor Samantha Baskind calls it “sui generis”: Like Szyk’s illuminated manuscripts, the ark’s design packs in a dizzying array of abstract ornaments woven together with Jewish emblems. Scrolls, flowers, acorns and leaves are interspersed with holiday symbols, lions of Judah and representations of the Israelite tribes.
Its baroque form is reminiscent of the arks of Eastern European synagogues that were destroyed in the war. But Szyk was neither mournful nor nostalgic. Forward looking and hopeful, his ark doors are flanked by birds that can be read as either eagles or doves. With their wings spread wide, the figures stretch toward the biblical and Talmudic passages that border the work, invoking God’s judgment and heralding freedom.
Ungar assesses the ark as “an American and a Jewish icon” and a “culmination of [Szyk’s] prayers” as expressed through his art. Gregor refers to it as the artist’s “ark de triomph,” quite literally: “It is Szyk’s own statement of triumph, celebratory and grand,” she said.
The Forest Hills Jewish Center has been a fixture on Queens Boulevard since the late 1940s. (New York Jewish Week)
Ironically, its grandeur is precisely the source of its uncertain future.
When the Jewish Center’s current building was dedicated in 1949 in the presence of 5,000 guests, its scale was meant to accommodate a growing membership. Its main sanctuary held 1,200 seats, and its religious school would eventually accommodate some 900 students. Now the hulking space has become too large and costly for its 300-400 member families to maintain. The congregation has not yet announced relocation plans. But their hope for the future is an intimate space with a cozy aesthetic, where the monumental scale of the Szyk ark will likely not fit in.
Art historian Samantha Baskind has been preoccupied with the issue. “A logical solution would be to unite it with Szyk’s Warrior Windows” in Cleveland’s Temple Tifereth Israel,” she said. “Bringing the works into conversation with each other in the same sacred space is conceptually brilliant and would honor the memory of Rabbi Silver at the same time that it beautifies the synagogue.”
Whatever the future holds for the ark, some Forest Hills Jewish Center members are finding it hard to say goodbye. Kingsley recalled the central role the synagogue has played in her life since she moved to Forest Hills 57 years ago. For her, the ark is not just about its aesthetic details, or the artist who created it.
“That was the ark Rabbi Bokser commissioned,” she said wistfully. It holds his spirit, too.
Alanna E. Cooper serves as the Abba Hillel Silver Chair in Jewish Studies at Case Western Reserve University. Her book “Disposing of the Sacred” is forthcoming with Penn State University Press.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
The post Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement appeared first on The Forward.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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