Remains of S.F. synagogue continue to haunt

I'm chasing a ghost and I've brought Fred, my small canine companion, to help me — or just to keep me company. The sun is setting, but there it is: a building with beautiful stained-glass Magen Davids, wrought-iron Magen Davids. A decorative relief of a Torah high up on the front.

I am at 3535 19th St., in the Mission District, two blocks from my home. I'm standing in front of an apartment building. Well, it's also the former home of Temple B'nai David. All I know is that it closed in 1978 and had one of the few mikvahs in San Francisco.

Yet I'm frequently drawn to this place — usually with Fred, who almost always happens to be bored just as we arrive there and wants his dinner.

I also live just a few blocks from Congregation Sha'ar Zahav, a thriving and active temple. So why is it that I gravitate more toward the remnants of B'nai David?

Maybe because the mystery of a vanished Jewish history around the corner from my bedroom feels safer than the certainty of a Jewish present — which is tied into a confusing Jewish future.

Standing there, my mind expands into a vision of what might have been in the synagogue. What does the sanctuary look like now and how did it look in the past? Are there remnants of the bimah and the ark inside? What happened to the Torahs and why does a synagogue ever shut down? What is the story of that loss?

Do the people who live there now ever experience twinges of the spiritual activity that once filled the space, a ghostly presence of sacredness in the Mission now filled with hipsters and others?

With reflection comes a storm of doubt. For me, Judaism is associated with so many questions. Metaphysical questions, political questions — the gamut of queries that face Jewish identity and practice.

I reassure myself by saying that the act of questioning is the mark of Jewishness today, that Judaism singularly can be defined by its celebration of debate, respectful argument, erudition.

Right now this conclusion feels like a cop out. Temple B'nai David was a real temple with real people who believed in something specific, just like the congregants of Sha'ar Zahav do today.

There is a majesty and a kind of sadness in the symbols of faith and culture remaining on this building that no longer has any Jewish definition. And that's how I feel about my Jewish experience growing up — sad and empty. The Reform congregation I attended as a youth in Los Angeles reduced Jewish belief to the practice of mitzvahs and a kind of "do unto others" ethos. As I prepared for my bar mitzvah, I learned the sounds of Hebrew but not the meaning of the words I could read. There was little in the way of explanation or the ability to use Hebrew as a tool to learn more.

So why did my parents attend the temple? They felt their children should have an exposure to Judaism. But I feel like the Jewish training I had prepared me simply to stand in front of B'nai David, but unable to read the Hebrew on the relief above me or to find the history of the former temple in my neighborhood.

The question Fred and I face standing there is, do I want to know more about the place, and in what form? Do I want to be able to know the meaning of the Hebrew on the building? Do I really want to extend the effort to learning about the particularities of life at B'nai David?

My heart can't get much past the questions. They feel more romantic, more mysterious, than the answers — if I can find any answers at all. And what I also sense in this space of uncertainty is that these questions plague the Jewish universe at large. Unless people like me, who face this bewilderment, feel compelled to move forward, I fear that more synagogues will end up like B'nai David than like the thriving center of Jewish activity at Sha'ar Zahav.




Jay Schwartz frequently stalks the Mission searching for remnants of Jewish history. He can be reached at .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).