Monday, March 10, 2025
At a historic Williamsburg synagogue on valuable land, dueling groups fight for control
Carlota America Ruiz stood outside Congregation Beth Jacob Ohev Sholom with a locksmith and a court order.
Ruiz had prayed at the Williamsburg synagogue since the 1980s. It's where she completed her Jewish conversion, and where her husband served as the board president for years. But a few weeks earlier, she said, a group purporting to be the temple's board had locked her and other long-time worshippers out of the modest brick building and secured the doors with padlocks and chains. On this sweltering September afternoon, Ruiz was back with permission from a judge to re-enter the sanctuary.
Police, bodyguards and feuding worshippers lined the sidewalk outside the shuttered entrance. As officers studied the court papers and deliberated with each side, Ruiz and the other ousted members were anxious to see their beloved sanctuary. The last time they were inside, the walls had patches of peeling paint, but the room was airy and bright, with 20-foot ceilings and multi-colored stained glass windows. There were rows of vintage oak pews dedicated to congregants who donated to the synagogue over the years, some of whom were Holocaust survivors.
Israel Leichter, the synagogue's secretary, urged police not to open the door for Ruiz and the other locked-out worshippers. He said they weren't true members and that they could bring their grievances to court. But after two hours of deliberations, the NYPD allowed a locksmith to slice off the padlock, and Ruiz and other long-time members rushed into the sanctuary. There, they found the benches demolished into a pile of jagged planks. A woman knelt on the floor and cried.
"I have no words," Ruiz said . "It's not the benches. It's the lack of humanity."
Beth Jacob Ohev Sholom is the oldest Orthodox synagogue in Brooklyn and the only one in Williamsburg that isn't Hasidic, according to long-time members. The congregation's building stands on the dividing line between drastic gentrification to the north and an insular Hasidic Jewish community to the south. Until a few months ago, the synagogue followed Orthodox customs, like separating male and female worshippers, but not all of the practices observed at nearby Hasidic congregations. Unlike the many Hasidic synagogues in the neighborhood, the congregation has historically been known for welcoming different kinds of Jews to pray.
Hundreds of worshippers used to pack into Beth Jacob Ohev Sholom's sanctuary on major holidays, Ruiz said. But as many of those congregants died or moved away in recent years, a small group of Hasidic Jews started to pray alongside the mostly non-Hasidic, long-time members. While the two groups co-existed in relative peace at first, in the last few years they have become estranged. Now, the mostly non-Hasidic long-timers and the Hasidic newcomers are suing each other for authority over the synagogue and its building. On Friday, a judge is expected to hear arguments in the case. But the legal dispute is likely to continue for months to come.
The specifics of the strife range from petty arguments over hoarded water bottles on a hot day to profound disagreements about what it means to be a Jew. But the patterns at play in this case underscore broader questions about the fate of New York's revered houses of worship, as religious membership dwindles and property values soar. At the center of the dispute is the congregation's most valuable asset: its building. Each side is accusing the other of plotting to sell the property, raze the temple and construct condos in its wake.
Selling or renting a house of worship can offer monetary salvation for a congregation struggling to stay afloat, like Beth Jacob Ohev Sholom. But such deals can also invite predatory redevelopment and displace or dissolve sacred communities. Dozens of churches, synagogues and other religious institutions from the Upper West Side to Flatbush have sold their properties in recent years. Sometimes the congregation doesn't survive the real estate sale.
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