BY ALEXANDRA ALTER
aalter@herald.com


Mitchell Chefitz, a motorcyclist, novelist, kabbalah scholar and spiritual ''coach'' at Miami's oldest Reform synagogue, never saw himself as a rabbi. Funny, some of his congregants never thought they would join a synagogue.

''Outside of denominational life, I had found a very different way of being a rabbi,'' said Chefitz, who for 22 years lead alternative worship services with Havurah of South Florida, a network of home-based study and prayer groups. ``There was no pageantry; every word was directed to God.''

Now, as head of Temple Israel, a historic synagogue that sits on a barren lot next to a discount auto parts store on 19th Street and Northeast Second Avenue, Chefitz has ignited a spiritual revival -- turning a shell of a congregation into a dynamic urban spiritual center where the Sabbath Queen is greeted with African drums; gay, straight and older married couples mingle; and meditation, yoga and chanting are studied alongside kabbalistic texts and works by Hasidic scholars.

Once the largest synagogue south of New York, the congregation had withered from more than 1,800 families in 1970 to 400 households when Chefitz took over in 2002. Since then, its has gained about 100 members, launched home Torah study groups and turned a deficit of $216,123 into a projected surplus of $76,296. The synagogue has raised more than $250,000 through its Torah restoration project and -- for the first time in decades -- is attracting enough families to warrant a Saturday morning ''Torah tots'' program.

''We saw an empty congregation that was dying,'' said Chefitz, who's lanky, wears beatnik-type wire-rimmed glasses and tends to speak in metaphors. ``When a ship is dead in the water, you can push it any way you want.''

Chefitz said he masterminded a plan to revive the temple more than 20 years ago. In 1980, he suggested Temple Israel start neighborhood study groups to give the synagogue, which was never in a Jewish neighborhood, greater geographic reach. Joseph Narot, Temple Israel's late rabbi who led the congregation from 1950 to 1980, dismissed the idea, Chefitz said. More than two decades later, the experiment is underway.

IDEAS UNHEARD OF

''One of the questions in my mind was, could we bring these techniques that worked so well outside of synagogue walls into a conventional congregation,'' Chefitz said. ``The ideas I was bringing forward were nothing any of the synagogue leaders had ever heard of.''

He also brought in diverse congregants -- former members of Havurah who had left organized religion; gay and lesbian couples looking for a progressive but not exclusively gay synagogue; people in their 20s; and people who considered themselves spiritual but not religious.

''Just as I had never expected to be a rabbi, these people never expected to join a congregation,'' Chefitz said. 'This is quite the opposite of what's happening in liberal suburban congregations where people join to have their kids' needs met, not their own needs.''

Elizabeth Schwartz, 33, who worshipped with Chefitz occasionally through Havurah and joined Temple Israel three years ago, said she found many Jewish services too conventional.

SPIRITUAL SUSTENANCE

''I didn't get much spiritual sustenance from more traditional approaches,'' said Schwartz, a South Beach lawyer who will lead the Temple's annual gay pride Seder next Thursday. ``I consider that to be my first majorly adult act -- joining a synagogue.''

Founded in 1922 when a group of liberal Reform Jews broke away from Temple Beth David, Temple Israel served as the hub of Reform Judaism in South Florida for decades, drawing 4,500 people to its High Holiday services at the Miami Beach Convention Center and spilling into overflow halls when the temple's 800 seats filled up during regular Friday night services.

During its halcyon years from the 1950s to the 1970s, Temple Israel led the city's first interfaith meetings and initiated dialogue between white and black clergy. Its rabbinical ranks included renowned Reform scholars and social activists like Narot, who preached on desegregation, civil rights, the Vietnam war and women's rights.

Throughout its 83-year history, the temple's identity has hinged on its urban location.

''Temple Israel has always been a progressive voice of faith,'' said Robert Glazier, the Temple's incoming president. ``If your church or synagogue is in the suburbs you're not confronted with the world the way a synagogue is on 19th Street.''

But for decades, Temple Israel's ZIP code proved a greater liability than asset. When the neighborhood deteriorated in the 1980s as crime rates rose and businesses closed, the temple suffered. Jews moved to the suburbs and joined other synagogues, and the religious school, which had more than 1,000 students in the '60s, shrunk to 80 students. Twice, the synagogue's leadership considered moving the temple. But an emotional connection to the building prevailed over sense.

''It was a big gamble to stay on Northeast 19th Street,'' said Joan Bornstein, a member since 1952, whose late husband, Jacob Bornstein, was the Temple's first cantor.

It's a gamble that seems to have paid off: Temple Israel is preparing for a major influx of new members as Miami's urban core undergoes a rebirth of its own.

''All of the sudden, without moving we're in one of the hottest pieces of real estate in the world,'' Glazier said. ``We want faith to continue in the city. A city should not be only beautiful apartment condominiums and pricey boutiques.''

So far, most of Temple Israel's new members commute. A handful crossed over from the Havurah movement and others came from Congregation Etz Chaim, a gay and lesbian synagogue in Fort Lauderdale.

AN UNUSUAL DILEMMA

For a synagogue that faced an uncertain future five years ago, the influx of new members has presented an unusual dilemma: How do you create a service for people in their 20s and in their 90s, for families with young children and gay couples, for observant Jews and those who are wary of organized religion?

Chefitz created a 6 p.m. chanting session for those who wanted a less structured worship service (including himself), and kept the traditional 8 p.m. service for people longing for the familiar.

''I was terrified when I started that I wouldn't be able to pray, that I would have to perform,'' Chefitz said. ``So I started the half hour of chanting and meditation for myself and anyone who wanted to join me.''

Jason Solomon, 27, an equity trader who joined Temple Israel last June with his wife Brendee, 25, was among the 20 or so congregants at the temple's informal Friday night service.

''I'm one of those after-your-bar-mitzvah dropouts,'' Solomon said. ``This is something different. It's kind of meditative.''

Another returnee to organized Judaism, Steven Cohen, started coming to Friday night services after meeting Chefitz in a diner near the synagogue and recommending the turkey. 'He said to me, `You need to come by our service, it's different.' I said, 'Nah, I really don't go to services,' '' Cohen said. Now Cohen brings his dates to the 6 p.m. Friday services.

Not everyone's ready to jettison tradition. The majority of Temple Israel's members are over 50, and more than half are 65 and older.

''Many of the old-timers long for the way it used to be, but more who come are happy with what they see,'' said Bornstein. ``We've moved with the times. The beautiful Reform classical service could not be successful today.''

Glazier, the new president, said it's a challenge all Jewish leaders are facing.

Chefitz, however, seems comfortable taking the congregation in an unchartered direction.

On a recent Friday night, a few people had already gathered when Chefitz casually sat on the steps leading to the altar and checked his watch.

''One minute to Shabbat,'' he said. He was soon joined by Karina Zilberman, Temple Israel's cantorial soloist who sings in six languages: English, Spanish, Hebrew, Yiddish, Ladino and Portuguese.

The pair began beating conga drums and tapping their feet, and Karina started to sing Shabbat Shalom in slow, meditative Hebrew. After a few minutes the drumming got louder and faster and some of the congregants danced. Chefitz rose to his feet and recited fragments of spontaneous prayer:

''Spread over us a blanket of shalom; let us dream shalom,'' he said.

The service -- part meditation, part song -- had an air of intimacy, as if it was taking place in someone's home. That's what Chefitz intends; eventually he'll hold services in people's homes, allowing them to keep the Torah scroll for an allotted time.

''Taking a physical Torah out of the synagogue and into people's homes is pretty radical,'' he said. ``But it's not radical to me.''




_____

© 2005 Herald.com and wire service sources. All Rights Reserved.
http://www.miami.com

Posted on Sat, Jun. 11, 2005

Hosted with Jvillage Network