In the first entry of this series, the uncertain role of historic sacred spaces in an increasingly secular world was introduced as the cornerstone of my ongoing research funded by the Arizona Architecture Foundation. As a Jewish architect largely shaped by my ancestry, I’ve felt particularly drawn to the issue. For the second installment, I dive into the origins of Jews in the West to understand the communities they shaped, how their traditions evolved, and the ways these historic narratives might foreshadow potential futures.
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The decision to study desert communities in Southern Arizona was about more than vicinity for me. The allure was in the landscape itself. The desert has always held a grip on our collective imagination. From the Freman on Arakis to the ancient Israelites roaming the Sinai, this severe yet captivating landscape has been a muse for countless mythologies, prospects, and innovations. For the ancient Israelites, their flight from servitude in Egypt didn’t lead directly into the land of milk and honey. As told in the nomadic origin story, this community of nearly three million wandered the Sinai Peninsula for 40 years. While many theologians interpret the prolonged decades of wandering as punishment for idolatry levied by a jealous deity, others regard the Sinai as a desert of the mind as much as a physical plain. A conceit that survival in the diaspora often demands radical adaptation; that the desert was as much a gift as it was a trial.
Like their ancestors, 19th-century Jews perceived the deserts of the American West in much the same way. They fled shtetls, pogroms, and prejudice everywhere from Eastern Europe to the American Northeast, traveling long distances through precarious wilderness searching for a place where their ancestry didn't mark them as pariahs. The mere prospect of sovereignty warranted the arduous journey.
The frontier was far removed from the overpopulation, competition, and bigotry of urban life. A vast territory that, with the proper faith, carried a familiar promise. Jewish craftsmen, miners, bankers, merchants, cowboys, and their families made their way westward. Their skills and willingness to adapt allowed them to overcome much of the discrimination they were accustomed to. The practical necessities of frontier life forced people from different backgrounds to rely on each other for survival. American settlers, European prospectors, Chinese laborers, and local Mexican and Indigenous communities lived side-by-side in a delicate ecosystem. While there were certainly conflicts, there was also profound cooperation. These groups shared and traded goods, services, and building practices, enabling a steady expansion of the territory.
Despite economic successes, Jewish families still confronted unique diasporic challenges. Being removed from centers of cultural life made otherwise mundane facets of Judaism inaccessible. Without a large enough community of practitioners, certain rituals became impossible to perform. Preparing kosher meals, conducting daily prayers, mourning the dead, and finding a Jewish mate were difficult endeavors. They were often delayed, compromised, and forgotten when the immediate concern was survival. However, as communities stabilized and frontier life became more predictable, the resources required to recall and perform these rites became more available. Ethnically Jewish outposts flourished in Tucson, Prescott, Solomonville (great name), and of course, Phoenix.
By the early 1900s, religious services were often performed by traveling rabbis who rode the new train lines between outposts. Their wide scope included blessings, holidays, circumcisions, weddings, counseling, and education. These took place in private homes, hotel ballrooms, and local saloons; however, as the community expanded and all-too-familiar prejudices stirred in the region, the 38 Jewish families in Phoenix resolved to construct a building of their own to house the city’s first congregation: Beth Israel.
In 1921, the community raised $14,000 (just over $250,000 today) to commission local architecture firm Lescher, Kibbey & Mahoney to design and construct a new synagogue on Culver Street in Downtown Phoenix. The building was a modest, Spanish-Mission Revival structure elegantly plastered with a light stucco finish. While Shuls in the diaspora were often oriented east-west towards Jerusalem, Temple Beth Israel was positioned north-south, presumably in response to the urban grid. With its main elevation facing the street, the symmetrical gable end-wall conceals a terracotta shingle roof behind a simply detailed corbel crown. The primary entry incorporates a low stoop leading up to an arched niche with double doors that open into the great hall. This thick end-wall is perforated with six narrow openings to manage the harsh southern exposure while the lower eave walls are punched with a series of oversized windows with operable clerestories to provide natural light and ventilation. Framed by the south entry and mezzanine, ample glazing to the east and west, and a prominent stage to the north, the clear-spanning great hall was finished with a simple palette of smooth plaster and timber floors to accommodate a flexible program year-round.
By 1930, an annex was built west of the temple to house additional offices, storage, and support spaces. While the addition was designed in deference to the more robust sanctuary, much of the geometry, detailing, and proportions were informed by the original design. Another prominent piece of the original campus was a verdant tree-lined garden to the east, cradled by the intersection where Culver becomes North 2nd Street. The shaded oasis allowed the community to take advantage of the milder seasons with additional outdoor event spaces, play areas, and an obvious location for temporary Sukkah structures during the harvest festival.
In the years following the cornerstone’s dedication, Congregation Beth Israel struggled to realize their communal vision. Early services were difficult due to a lack of air conditioning, forcing the cancellation of summer services. The community also failed to retain the services of a Rabbi due to the city’s distance from centers of American Jewry. A divide between the Conservative and Reformed factions led to a formal split by the conservative members in 1930 who went on to form the city’s second congregation, Beth El. Over the following decade, Beth Israel welcomed three separate Rabbis, each of whom sustained and expanded the flock. Through regularly performed services, an extension of national affiliations, and a focus on interfaith relationships around the Valley, the community outgrew its first home. In 1949, the congregation sold the downtown property to the Southern Baptist Convention and relocated to a new facility further uptown. The congregation relocated again in 1997 to their current location in Scottsdale.
The history of the synagogue on Culver Street didn’t end with its initial sale. It began a new chapter in 1951 as the First Chinese Baptist Church. During its three decades of stewardship, the church expanded the campus further with a large block building to the north to provide additional office and classroom spaces, allowing it to successfully operate as the social hub for Phoenix’s Chinese-American community. But as many immigrant stories go, the congregation flourished, expanded, and outgrew their adopted home. By 1981, the property was deeded to the Spanish-speaking Iglesia Bautista Central, under whose care it remained until 2001 when it was purchased by the Arizona Jewish Historical Society.
Jewish architectural traditions aren’t nearly as prescriptive as other faiths’. There are components like the raised Bimah, Torah ark, and gendered spaces that are particular to synagogues, but the very nature of diaspora forces scattered communities to adapt to local cultural forces and building practices. In the case of Temple Beth Israel, the universality of light and gathering allowed two separate Christian communities to move in without having to make radical changes to the historic edifice beyond the signage.
Nearly 50 years after Congregation Beth Israel sold the property, the Arizona Jewish Historical Society returned to the site of the community’s founding. Since 2002, the AZJHS has hosted lectures, festivals, holidays, weddings, and Mitvahs (both Bar and Bat) in the old sanctuary.
Following a fruitful fundraising campaign, the organization embarked on a complex restoration project under the direction of Motley Design Group, an architectural practice with decades of historic preservation experience. The scope involved rehabilitating the temple and annex based on original drawings and photographs, along with the addition of modern mechanical, electrical, and plumbing systems. A new parking lot was added to the west and the Garden Terrace along the intersection was replanted. By early 2010, the newly renamed Cutler Plotkin Jewish Heritage Center reopened to the public as a nonprofit headquarters, museum, educational hub, and event venue.
Following their first decade on-site, the AZJHS continued exploring creative ways to maintain and expand the newly restored facilities. With its years as a synagogue behind it and traditional religious observance in decline, the question of how the campus could serve future generations became crucial to the organization. A flexible event space in an urban core has its value, but the site’s cultural significance warranted a broader civic program. A wide range of concepts were entertained and in 2022, the Arizona Jewish Historical Society announced its plan to expand the campus to include a new Holocaust Education Center and Museum.
Meant to act as an anchor for the Downtown Arts and Culture District, the proposed design includes a 27,000-square-foot addition featuring a state-of-the-art Holocaust education center, interactive galleries, classrooms, event spaces, offices, and archives. Led once again by architect Robert Graham of Motley Design Group in collaboration with exhibition design studio Gallagher & Associates, the expansion connects the historical religious buildings to a series of contemporary secular spaces. The intentional positioning of heritage alongside innovation seeks to tell the relevant story of discrimination and survival in more resonant ways.
When Temple Beth Israel was originally built, approximately 120 Jews lived in Phoenix. Today, nearly 82,000 Jews and over 30 congregations reside in the Valley. Beth Israel’s formation provided the community with its first permanent home, a major milestone in developing a culturally diverse population in the region. While the importance of Holocaust memorials and education centers is difficult to argue, the question remains, why here and now?
Throughout my research, I’ve learned a great deal about the challenge of maintaining historical sites. Temple Beth Israel’s historical significance may appear obvious, but practical management issues remain. While designers (present company included) wax poetic about the potential for historic structures to function as market halls, experimental theaters, or pop-up restaurants, the reality is that without determined planning and community organization, far too many historic buildings remain abandoned and in disrepair. Part of the reason so many take the memorial route is its undeniable efficacy as a fundraising tool. In a secular world, spaces that tell relevant stories become potent mechanisms for survival, both for communities and the places in which they gather.
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Diaspora is largely about adapting to the circumstances of the moment. Whether relaxing cultural restrictions, going outside the community to share resources, or modifying ancestral rituals to fit the present course, the act of remembering is often enough. Survival allows memories to endure and evolve. It allows synagogues to be built, to change hands, to become sites of memorial, and to tell stories that recall, educate, and inspire. While there are many lessons to be learned from Temple Beth Israel over the past century, one of the most essential is the importance of responding to the moment; to accommodate the necessities of survival instead of stubbornly imposing naive visions. In the Torah, the word Israel refers to a forefather and a territory, but most often, it refers to the people. Their survival, recollection, and sustenance are paramount in the liturgy. As such, the spaces we build must thoughtfully engage how they serve the past, present, and future all at once.
Solomon Cohen is a recipient of the Arizona Architecture Foundation Research Grant and is publishing this series with ARCADE alongside his research for the AAF
