It’s a strange question, isn’t it? Why would anyone want to hospice a synagogue? The rabbi’s sermons can’t be that bad, right? Yet at this moment in American Jewish life, it is a question that needs to be asked. Across the country, synagogue communities are facing similar realities of lower affiliation rates and economic concerns about the cost of Jewish living. Many congregations have an aging membership, and the synagogue facilities they built decades ago when membership was younger and growing are in desperate need of repair and maintenance.  

In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, I became the rabbi of a small, struggling community. Congregation Beth Mordecai (CBM) in Perth Amboy, N.J., was once a vibrant and shining example of post-war Conservative Judaism in America. Even before COVID, CBM was not in great shape; when I arrived, it was just a shell of its former self. 

While the pandemic raged, we ran Shabbat services and classes on Zoom and were able to maintain some sense of community amidst the chaos. But the die had already been cast: By the time I was hired to serve as the congregation’s part-time rabbi, it was clear that there was an expiration date on the institution.

So how does one hospice a synagogue? I had never done anything like this in my career, but I looked to Jewish traditions around mourning and my pastoral care training for guidance. What I discovered is that just as there are life cycles for Jewish people, there are also life cycles for Jewish institutions. Seeing the demise of the synagogue framed in this way allowed for an authentic, thoughtful, pragmatic and ultimately (I pray) fulfilling process. 

Hearing bad news and making arrangements

After a death, many arrangements need to be made: announcements to the community, the funeral, meals, shiva and eventually attending to the accumulated possessions of the deceased. With a synagogue, however, all of that needed to be addressed before the sale of the building. 

The sale was the easiest part — that was just a real estate deal. We found a buyer at the right price and that was that. We were fortunate to have the offer instead of a broken boiler or a leaky roof left on our hands. It was a prudent decision.

More difficult was finding good homes for almost 100 years of things that one finds in a synagogue. Siddurim and machzorim were donated, and congregants took home photographs, plaques and other keepsake items. Some of the furniture was sold. 

The disposition of our Torah scrolls required more thought. CBM was fortunate to have seven Torah scrolls, all of which found wonderful, new homes. Some went to new synagogues where our members had relatives. We sent one Torah each to emerging communities in Abidjan, Ivory Coast; Byron Bay, Australia; and Riverdale, N.Y.  

Even as the Torahs left our possession, we were touched to know they would be part of Judaism lived elsewhere. Our members felt good about the fact that their sacred Torah scrolls would be used by Jewish communities all around the world. This gave the congregation an immense sense of purpose. The investment and emotion they had poured into these ritual items would now become the foundation for another community, representing a contribution that CBM was making to Jewish life and culture. 

De-consecration

Burial and the preparation for burial are framed in Jewish tradition as part of kavod hameit, honoring the deceased. The next step is nichum aveilim, comforting the mourners. In this case, the attention paid to honoring the legacy of CBM was a comfort to the congregation.

CBM really was a special synagogue. Those who remembered the congregation when it was flourishing lamented its decline but remained loyal and steadfast. I listened to their stories of bnai mitzvah and weddings, high holy days and funerals, educational programming and social gatherings. They painted a picture of an institution that deserved honor and celebration.

At our de-consecration ceremony, those memories and more were named and raised up as we stood in the sanctuary for the last time. It was a poignant event. Past rabbis sent messages and the president spoke, as did a few of the congregation’s lay leaders. Finally, we recited Tefillat Haderech, the Traveler’s Prayer, before removing the mezuzahs from the front doors. Tears were shed at the threshold to our sacred home. But the community understood. They responsibly and compassionately let go. 

As the congregation’s last rabbi, I had the least amount of institutional memory. This was an asset, as I had no sentimental attachments to navigate while helping to make very difficult decisions. It also allowed me to focus on the pastoral needs of the community at large.

My message to the community was simple: You, the people, are the community. “Buildings are not communities,” I wrote in one email. “They never have been and they never will be. Communities are made up of the people that are valued above all else. It is the relationships that are built and sustained in that physical space that will last and endure.”

The next 18 months

Just as with a death we seek to linger as long as possible with the person we have lost, so too we weren’t ready to say goodbye to each other just yet. This is what shiva is partially about: an extension of life accomplished through sharing memories. A handful of people wanted to continue gathering, and I was happy to facilitate that.

For the next year and a half, we re-envisioned ourselves as a mini havurah. We met in people’s living rooms and in parks and other public spaces. We found rental space for High Holy Days so as not to leave a vacuum in people’s Jewish lives. As small as the congregation had become, we still had some life left and we were determined to live it. And it was wonderful. Small, intimate, familiar and new all at once. CBM was what brought us together, and we strengthened our ties to one another even after the closing and sale of the building.  

Yizkor

At our final Yom Kippur, we were all filled with emotion, knowing that this was the last official gathering of Congregation Beth Mordecai. During Yizkor, I spoke about the power of memory. The Israeli historian Yosef Haim Yerushalmi and former Chief Rabbi of the U.K. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks each described Jews not as people of history but people of memory. So too with our cherished synagogue: Above and beyond the congregation’s history, memories are what endure and sustain us.

At a funeral and at the Yizkor service that is recited on major Jewish holidays, including Yom Kippur, the service includes the prayer El Malei Rahamim (“God Full of Mercy”). Here is the version I offered during the Yizkor of our final Yom Kippur: 

“God full of compassion, grant infinite rest under your sheltering presence to the soul and legacy of Congregation Beth Mordecai, which has reached the end of its institutional life.  Guard its memory in the hearts of the congregation to be a beacon for their Jewish journeys moving forward. May its memory be bound up in the bonds of life. May Congregation Beth Mordecai rest in peace. Amen.”

Rabbi Uri Allen is the rabbi of Temple Sha’arey Shalom in Springfield, N.J., and an independent rabbi serving the community. He is an alumnus of the Clergy Leadership Incubator (CLI) Rabbinic Fellowship sponsored by Adamah: People, Planet, Purpose, and he is a contributor to the CLI Synagogue Innovation Blog.