The title of this lecture could be the motto of the way Bruno Zevi saw the quintessence of architecture in general terms. It also summarizes Judaism’s approach to aesthetics: Whereas the Hellenistic world saw perfection as the foundation of beauty, Judaism never viewed perfection and stability as a goal. Perfection is not an end; rather, the act itself is the end.[1] Bruno Zevi would probably have developed this opinion of dynamics in the space as an interpretation of the historical sequence of Jewish architecture.

In fact, this definition can be used to understand the concept of art in Judaism.

The essential element of Jewish art is whatever promotes consciousness of the sacred.

This is also expressed with regard to the deliverance from slavery to freedom. The worst form of slavery is enslavement to one’s artifacts. The Jewish people were liberated from their physical slavery and spiritual slavery at the same time.

A people accustomed to temples of marble and travertine, to the architectonic perfection of peristyle courtyards surrounded by monumental columns that dwarf those who stand next to them, to titanic statues that resemble divine sentinels that people went out to the exposed, blazing, and empty desert. There, they gave freely of themselves and their wealth to provide the materials for the Tabernacle: “blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, and goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, badger skins, … acacia wood”[2] and gold and silver for the sockets.

The pagan peristyle surrounded and guarded the inaccessible interior. In Judaism, the peristyle, if there was one, was treated as an extension of the interior (Fig. 1).

The Tabernacle is a work of art assembled from materials that are ready to hand, and it is put together by human hands. It does not strive for perfection. Rather, it is a collective work of art that can be taken apart and reassembled. It is portable and therefore not attached to a specific place.

Its concept of place is dynamic, not static. The stasis of the Egyptian (and later of the Hellenistic) temple was replaced by a dynamic sanctuary that moved from place to place as the Israelites journeyed through the wilderness.

The Tabernacle was not the work of a single man, but the fruit of the combined labor of the entire community. The responsibility for transporting it from place to place fell on the entire tribe of the Levites. In contrast to the prevailing practice of the ancient world, for the Israelites art was a collective social endeavor—and this was the source of its power.

The Temple that would later be built in Jerusalem was a surrender to the spirit of the age and environment, not a product of Jewish thought. Inside the Tent of Meeting, in the Holy of Holies, there was no portable statue, but an ark that contained two tablets, inscribed on both sides. The first commandment, “I the Lord am your God …”[3] deals with the unity of the Divine; while the second, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image …You shall not bow down to them or serve them,”[4] prohibits the making of an image to which one could become enslaved, like the idols that surrounded the Israelites before those commandments were given to them.[5]

The first synagogues were modeled on the Roman basilica, as were the earliest churches, which originated in the same era. But the two types developed in different directions. The church was oriented towards the altar at the far end, so that believers’ thoughts and gaze were focused on a defined point. In the Jewish basilica, by contrast, worshipers faced the center (but addressed their prayers to an abstract, or better yet, remote direction—Jerusalem), focusing both their ears and their voices.

“A platform is placed in the center of the hall, so that the one who reads the Torah or one who gives a sermon can stand on it, so that all the others will hear him…”[6] The synagogue is mainly a place of listening rather than own expressing It is possible that the layout of the synagogue was also influenced by the secular basilicas of the Hellenistic world, like the bouleuterion (called boulé in Jewish sources),where the speaker stood in the center and the other legislator-judges sat against the walls facing him—as at Masada[7] (Fig. 2) and Herodium.[8]

There is another interesting phenomena in synagogues from the time of the Mishnah and Talmud. In pagan temples the peristyle became a place where the people gathered in front of the sanctuary, which they could not enter, but only stand outside and admire, along with its unattainable content (only the priests were admitted). Synagogues, too (at least some of them), had a columned court, but its function was diametrically opposed: the entire congregation entered and left the synagogue through the courtyard, which served as an extension of the interior, a dynamic courtyard (Fig. 1).

“R. Ammi and R. Assi, though they had thirteen synagogues in Tiberias, prayed only between the pillars [i.e., in the courtyard] where they used to study”[9]—and not inside the synagogue itself.

By sitting in the sunlit courtyard, instead of inside the dark synagogue, they could make much more efficient use of the daylight hours.

So the synagogue was not a static space where a passive audience listened to sermons and passively participated in the prayer service. It was rather a dynamic space where the congregation created a movement between the closed interior and the open world outside. There are no ritual or liturgical rules. The rules stem from the use of the space, which varies.

From the archaeological remains of Roman and Byzantine-era Jewish basilicas we learn that the seats were arranged circumferentially (similar to the bouleuterion). an arrangement that makes worshipers active participants rather than passive observers—in contrast to the frontal pews of the contemporary churches.

In those days, synagogue art did not depict stories from the Acts of the Apostles, as was the case in churches, or the deeds of sages and the righteous. The decorations, especially on the mosaic carpets, were often representations of the zodiac, as an expression of the cosmic nature of the divine creation. The zodiac (Fig. 3) may be surrounded by the four seasons, representing the repetitive cyclical nature of time, guided by the Creator himself, with the constellations representing days and months. Helios, riding in a chariot of fire, holding the sun in his hand and surrounded by the moon and the stars, symbolizes the universe created by God. When the Temple is depicted in such mosaics it is not as an image of the rebuilt future, but instead a remembrance of the past. The seven-branched candelabrum, the ram’s horn, the censer, the Four Species—all these became the heritage of the people of Israel, not only as a memorial to the destroyed Temple but also as its surrogate. The pagan world believed that the destruction of the Temple would doom the people of Israel. They were wrong. Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai instituted precepts meant to serve as reminders of the Temple—memory is in each person’s heart. Precisely as a result of its destruction, the Temple was transferred from the physical dimension to the mental and psychological plane. After the Temple was destroyed the Jews adapted to life without it. Even after 2000 years without a temple, the people of Israel have not disappeared—a phenomenon unparalleled by any other nation. Bruno Zevi mentions Abraham Joshua Heschel’s wonderful essay, The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man, in which Heschel asserts that “the Sabbaths are our great cathedrals”: the Jewish people no longer need some concrete element in order to draw close to God.[10]

The Romans thought that the destruction of the Jewish temple would annihilate the nation as well—but the people of Israel demonstrated that they could survive without the Temple. The quasi-pagan Temple was transformed into a virtual and even abstract sanctuary—a temple that individuals could hold in their memory and imagination throughout their wanderings.

Many churches with three aisles were built during the Middle Ages. They all towered heavenward, with at least two rows of columns that direct one to the transept, where, under the brightly lit dome, visitors and worshipers stare straight ahead and the sight of Christ on the cross fills their heart with faith.

Synagogues constructed during those same centuries employed the same materials and general design, but usually had only two aisles. Worshiper cannot focus on the heikhal or Holy Ark because the central row of pillars obstructs the view. The interior space is oriented towards the bimah at its center; the congregation does not sit facing the Ark but against the walls, eyes on the bimah. This was true in Sopron-Miltenberg,[11] in Regensburg[12] (Fig. 4) in many synagogues of the Rhineland, and even in the Rambam Synagogue in the Old City of Jerusalem.

In those synagogues, the heikhal corresponds in some respects to the altar in churches. The difference is that it is concealed behind a row of pillars and serves a real function as the repository of the Torah scrolls, whereas the church altar, the highpoint of the interior, is symbolic and represents the presence of the deity. [13]

A new design and new concept emerged in Spain in the Middle Ages—the bipolar prayer hall. The synagogue of Isaac Mehab b. Ephraim in Córdoba[14] has two foci—the niche containing the heikhal or Holy Ark and, on the opposite wall, the recess with the bimah.

Adjacent to the latter, which was enclosed by a multilobed arch, was the wooden tower or bimah, which Spanish Jews called almimbra (a term derived from the mimbar in mosques, which serves a similar function). Inscribed around the arch is a verse from the Song of Songs: “Your neck is like the tower of David, built with turrets; on it hang a thousand shields, all of them shields of warriors.[15] The allusions are clear:

“Like the tower of David” refers to the wooden tower on which the cantor stood.
The sages[16]played on the rare Hebrew word talpiyyot, {turrets} whose meaning is uncertain, as if it referred to an elevated spot (obviously the bimah) or tel (“a high place”) towards which all piyyot, “mouths,” turn (or from which they are directed by the cantor). “On it hang a thousand shields, all of them shields of warriors” refers to the royal arms of Castile, which in that era adorned every Ark and bimah in the country (Fig. 5). Not every Iberian synagogue was designed this way; some, like that in Tomar, Portugal[17] (Fig. 6), employed a floor plan based on four central columns, to which we will return later.

Many Spanish synagogues were based on the basilican model, but probably the most common layout of Spanish synagogues before the expulsion was the bipolar and concentric model (with four central pillars), which spread in Europe after the expulsion.

Bipolar synagogues were built in Cavaillon and Carpentras[18] in Provence (in their current form they date from the end of the seventeenth century but are probably modern versions of the older structures that preceded them). A bipolar prayer hall is dynamic: rather than a single point that is the magnet of attention, like the altar in a church. The interplay of these two loci in these synagogues vitalizes the prayers. Those who are not used to this design it might see the lack of a single focus as disorganized and even chaotic, and as failing to emphasize the sublime; in fact it has a dynamic order (one that rarely found in the chapels of other religions). It might even be called revolutionary. Bipolar synagogues can also be found in Italy, in Venice, Pesaro, and Mantua, among other places. These are spaces where the time dimension reigns supreme. There is movement from one pole to the other, following a schedule dictated by the liturgy and the differing customs from time to time and holiday to holiday.

This is a commitment that poses a challenge to the sublime and the mythical—a commitment to freedom and to shattering anything that might smack of be pagan. In those synagogues (as mentioned earlier) the form of the heikhal resembles the church altar, but it is much smaller. The heikhal holds the Torah scrolls: it is effectively a cabinet and its dimensions are determined by the height of the keyhole, meaning the reach of the person honored with opening it. In short, the heikhal is designed to suit human dimensions. By contrast, the size of the church altar reflects its importance and the impression it leaves (along with the grand icon incorporated into it) on the human beings who are dwarfed by it. The heikhal makes the interior of the synagogue into the worshiper’s home, while the church altar turns the entire space into the abode of the deity.

In North Africa, the refugees from the Iberian Peninsula built similar bipolar synagogues, such as the Ibn Danan[19] Synagogue in Fez.

Some of the refugees developed a new tripolar model. In Turkey we have the Ahrida Synagogue in Istanbul as well as the Mayor and Gerush[20] (Fig. 7) synagogues in Bursa (Turkey’s ancient capital). Here the prayer hall has three foci: the Holy Ark, the bimah placed above the entrance opposite the Ark (and sometimes near the women’s gallery), and a small raised platform in the center.

We find a similar phenomenon in other parts of the far-flung Portuguese diaspora, such as Cochin. Jewish merchants from the Netherlands (Cochin was a Dutch colony at the time) brought the Iberian spatial solution with them, as found in the Paradesi and Kadavumbagam synagogues.[21] There too there was a raised bimah near the women’s gallery so that the women (who were very active in the Cochin Jewish communities) would be able to hear and participate in the prayers. There was also a central bimah, and of course the Ark in the wall facing Jerusalem. Once again we see that the character of the synagogue is determined by the use made of it. The multiple foci turn its interior into a dynamic space controlled by the congregation. It is not a sanctuary that overawes the worshipers, but a very human space.

How did these synagogues really function? The raised bimah was used for the reading of the Torah and the canonical prayers. It is likely that in addition to the cantor who stood on the raised bimah, there was also a paytan—a poet who produced nonce prayers, who stood in the center of the prayer hall, among the members of the congregation, to whom he distributed parts of his composition to recite.

In other words, the service was not just a matter of an official cantor who was followed by passive worshipers. Instead, it involved congregational singing—by groups, families, and individuals. The congregation’s active participation made the prayer experience more intense, and more alive. In fact, in this system it can be said that the congregation and synagogue interior are one, in a kind of paraphrase on Heschel’s remark cited earlier.

Another architectural solution employed in the Iberian Peninsula, which we have already mentioned, is the concentric design, in which the bimah is enclosed within the four pillar at the center of the interior, while the Ark is still on the wall facing Jerusalem as in Tomar in Portugal.[22] The central placement of the bimah means that the worshipers are seated around a sort of magic center, even though the direction of prayer, towards Zion, is indicated by the location of the Ark. So there is an internal contradiction in this space that is typical of the Jewish penchant for contrariness—facing the center, but also turning towards Zion. At first sight, the internal dynamic created by this ambiguity may appear to be chaotic and dissonant. Such a situation cannot exist in a mosque (where the qibla wall faces Mecca, and both the mimbar and mihrab are located against it; to translate to the Jewish case, we could say that in the synagogue the mimbar and mihrab are in competition). Nor could it be found in the contemporary Gothic churches, which were totally focused on a single point at the end of the elaborate interior. The chapels off the central aisle point worshipers towards the transept and the altar, the sole sacred focus.

The concentric plan is found in many synagogues in Asia Minor, such as the Seniora[23] and Bikkur Holim[24] (Fig. 8) synagogues in Izmir. The Ottomans conquered much of central Europe in the seventeenth century, and we can identify Turkish-inspired synagogues in Hungary (in Mád, Apostag, and Bonyhád) and Slovakia (Bardejov). The outstanding example  in Asia Minor is the synagogue in Bergama (Fig. 9), where the four pillars are actually part of the bimah. There are many concentric synagogues in Morocco, too, including in Tahla, Tiznit and Ifran.

The emancipation in Europe stripped the Jewish world view of its autonomy and vigor. Rather than seeking to convey a Jewish message, the synagogues built then preferred to emulate the cathedrals of the age. These Jewish “cathedrals” were no longer embodiments of the Sabbath and festivals, as Heschel put it,[25] but static and unemotional structures that tried to be as similar as possible to the prayer sites of the non-Jewish world surrounding them.

Many years would pass before ideas such as the “Carlebach-style service” would trigger a new development that Jewish thinkers had not anticipated, a new and dynamic architectural challenge for the planners and builders of future generations.

[1] In his Ebraismo e Architettura (p. 12), Bruno Zevi wrote that “God, being God, could have created a perfect world, free and bright, without corruption and incorruptible, in which man, sentenced to ecstasy, would have yawned to the point of nausea, feeling himself a worthless and decorative element, a passive onlooker, always ready to applaud the same performance. Instead, God worked as an avant-garde artist: he painted only half of the canvas, he composed only half of the score—or, if you will, three-quarters, leaving to the viewer or listener the completion of his creation, in cooperation with Him.” Here Zevi, in addition to reaffirming the mishnaic dictum that serves as the title of this article, also relates to the kabbalistic concept of tzimtzum (“contraction”) or tikkun olam (“reparation of the world”)—the Deity withdrew as it were in order to leave room for His creation and allow a space in which human beings could repair the world.

[2] Exodus 35:6–7.

[3] Exodus 20:2.

[4] Exodus 35:4–5.

⁵ Zevi (ibid., 10) quotes the same verses and notes that in the First Commandment God did not represent Himself as the creator of the universe and of humankind but rather as a revolutionary leader who rescued the people from an evil oppressor, “Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage. The identity card He shows Moses, ratified by the historical event, is not the act itself or the outcome of a miracle but a commitment to combat slavery and the enslavement of the mind.

[6] Maimonides, Laws of Prayer 11:3

[7] The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land (Jerusalem: Keter, 1993), 3: 987.

[8] Ibid. 2: 450.

[9] b Berakhot 8a.

[10] Zevi quotes and expands on Abraham Joshua Heschel’s observation (The Sabbath [New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1951, 8] that “The Sabbaths are our great cathedrals. … Jewish ritual may be characterized as the art of significant forms in time, as architecture of time. … The essence of the Sabbath is completely detached from the world of space. The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time.”

[11] Hans-Peter Schwarz, ed., Die Architektur der Synagoge (Frankfurt am Main 1989), 65–66.

[12] Schwarz ibid. p. 80  Hans Peter

[13] Zevi (Ebraismo e Architettura, 14) cites Heschel again as insisting that the Torah emphasizes that God’s interest is in the routine of day-to-day life. The challenge is not to organize grand systems of proofs, but the way in which we manage the common space. As a result, Zevi adds, our sanctuary can be a tent under the open sky with a movable Ark of the Covenant that accompanies us on our journeys; the synagogue is a scuola, a school, in which we study our history from the “book” that is in the heart of each and every one of us.

[14] Rachel Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogues (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Soceity), 1964. See also J. L. Lacave, M. Armengol, and F. Ontañón, Sefarad Sefarad, La España Judía (Barcelona: Lunwerg, 1987), Figs. 12–19.

[15] Song 4:4.

[16] B Berakhot 30a.

[17] Wischnitzer, European Synagogues, 41–43.

[18] For the plans and appearance of these synagogues, see  Bezalel Narkis, “The Heikhal, Bimah, and Teivah in Sephardi Synagogues,” Jewish Art (1992): 32. See also Geoffrey Wigoder, The Story of the Synagogue (Jerusalem: Domino Press, 1986), 115.

[19] Joel Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco:  An Architectural and Preservation survey (New York: s.n., 1993), 29–33.

[20] Joel Zack, The Historic Synagogues of Turkey (New York: American Sephardi Federation Istanbul, 2008), 124–127.

[21] Shalva Weil, India’s Jewish Heritage: Ritual, Art, and Life-cycle (Mumbai: Marg, 2002), 150–159. See also Jay Waronker and Shalva Weil, “A History of the Parur Synagogue: Trial by fire, Inquisition and Neglect,” eJP 2012, https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/a-history-of-the-parur-synagogue/; Orpa Slapack, ed., The Jews of India: A Story of Three Communities (Jerusalem, The Israel Museum, 1948), 56–67.

[22] Wischnitzer, European Synagogues, 41–43.

[23] Zack, The Historic Synagogues of Turkey, 134–135.

[24] Ibid., 129–130.

[25] See above, n. 9.