Most Greco-Roman public and private buildings share the details we see in these early “synagogue” buildings: columns dividing the main hall, as well as benches. Dining rooms (triclinia), city council chambers (bouleteria), gathering places for all citizenry (ecclesiasteria), privy council rooms (curia), and the like are examples of essentially secular models from the Roman world that display these architectural features. Churches and pagan temple buildings also share these elements. It may be the case that Herodium, Masada, and Gamla were simply public assembly buildings.
Archeologists tend to describe Roman public buildings by the plans of the buildings or their shapes. Roman-era archeologists distinguish the colonnade (stoa), theater, and basilica—an oblong with its visual focus directed toward the front short wall, which may be capped by an apse or semicircular recess, and perhaps even a dome. The basilica has two rows of columns running the length of the building that serve to hold up the roof or second floor, as well as to divide the space into three aisles. Below is a photo of the Basilica of St. Ambrose in Milan. Although it has been repaired and rebuilt over the centuries, the plan and many sections date back to the original fourth- and fifth-century construction. Note the rows of arched columns that divide the church space into a center aisle and side aisles. The front of the church has a rounded apse containing the altar.
Basilica of St. Ambrose, Milan
An alternative building plan, the broad-house, is also an oblong, but its focus is at the middle of the long wall. Synagogues and churches seem to be built with one footprint or the other: basilica or broad-house. Further, they share the fact that many of them began as private homes, which were likely donated to the religious community and then architecturally adapted for communal use over time. Excavators have discovered homes upon which were built synagogues that were later expanded or otherwise remodeled—leaving three or more layers of remains for zealous diggers to uncover.
One of the reasons I have made use of archeological terminology is to underscore the extent to which Greco-Roman structural design informs Jewish public buildings in the period. It is not all that surprising that buildings tend to be erected in the styles of the surrounding culture. They partake of the fashion current in a particular locale. If one pauses for a moment to think of American or European synagogues from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the point is well illuminated. Some look like public buildings, while others look like neighboring churches. Each fits the time and era when it was built.
Before we leap ahead to examine the many different types of Jewish buildings from the later “Talmudic era” (second through seventh centuries CE), we should take a step back to situate Jewish sacred architecture within the broader context of Roman building practices. Synagogues are, to be sure, quintessentially Jewish buildings—but so are the homes and shops and assembly buildings of the Jewish community in Roman Palestine, aren’t they? What makes a building Jewish, per se? Is it sufficient that it was in a Jewish town? Or inhabited by Jews? Need it have had a mezuzah (see Deut. 6:9) on its doorpost? Or must that building have had a rabbi in charge? This last question seems absurd on its face, since the vast majority of Jews were not, in fact, rabbis. Indeed, it may well be the case that the vast majority of synagogues in Late Antiquity were not related to the rabbis either, at least not to those rabbis we know from the classical rabbinic literature. With that in mind, we will take a fairly broad view of the architectural and artistic remains of Palestine and the Diaspora, counting as Jewish pretty much any remnant that bears some relationship to Jews or Judaism.
Lest we think that Jewish buildings shared common features with other Roman construction plans merely due to the limitations of engineering in that period, it is worth remembering that Roman architecture was incredibly sophisticated. Think, for example, of Roman aqueducts. These were driven by gravity, which means that for the water to run from its source to the baths or spouts of a town, great attention had to be paid to the ups and downs of local topography. Considering the lay of the land was a hallmark of all Roman construction.
Aqueduct, Caesarea Maritima
Roman architecture also featured refined design. The Pantheon was built in Rome under Emperor Augustus and then rebuilt in the second century during the reign of Hadrian. It remains the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world. Clearly, Roman architects could build pretty much any way they wished.
Pantheon, Rome
As I turn back to Jewish buildings, we will see that most ancient synagogues that have been discovered tend to be basilicas, which means they had columns running down the sides to hold up the roofs or upper stories. This effectively divided the main hall into a central section (nave) and two side aisles. That central hall was approached by means of doors that often opened out into an atrium or other kind of forecourt. Presumably this is where people gathered to enter and maybe to gossip about those within. The ninth-century Midrash on Proverbs captures this double doorway:
“Waiting at the posts of my doors” (Proverbs 8:34). This refers to the gates of prayer. One is obligated to rise early and go to the synagogue every day. There he will enter through the two doorways and then stand in prayer.
This doubled entrance can be seen in synagogues all across the Roman world: in Sardis, Priene, Ostia, Dura, Delos, Aegina, Naro, and Stobi as well as among the synagogues of Roman Palestine. In a church, this area outside the main sanctuary would be called the narthex; but some of these synagogues had both a forecourt as well as a narthex-like section within the synagogue.
Some of the synagogues also had a table in the front, just where one would expect an altar in a church or the Torah-reading platform in a modern synagogue. Here is the table in the immense Sardis synagogue. Note that the upright leg has a Roman eagle and that just beyond the table is one of a pair of lions. Since most contemporary synagogues have Torah reading tables, and public reading of Scripture in synagogues is attested from the first century onward, it is tempting to assume we are looking at such a reader’s table. But we don’t really know what took place at this table, or whether this building had a public civic function before it was given over to the Jewish community. Maybe it came furnished, as it were.
Sardis synagogue stone table
Depending on the layout of the synagogue, congregants might use any of a number of inner doors to enter on the side of the main auditorium, which held what is called either the Torah-shrine or the seat of Moses, or in some cases they might enter on the side opposite these features.
The Sardis synagogue has three entry doors, with the so-called Torah shrine between the center door and the one to the right. We can see that there are steps leading up to it and that it is carved in stone but made nevertheless to look like a set of doors—symbolic either of the ark where the Torah is stored, or, perhaps, of the doors to the long-gone Jerusalem Temple. Doors like these were a common feature of synagogue art, and we cannot be sure what they were meant to symbolize. They also happen to be found in pagan and Christian Roman settings.
At some synagogues there was a “seat of Moses” in place of the “Torah shrine.” The synagogue at Dura Europos offers an example from the mid-third century. Atop the seating area at the Dura synagogue is a depiction of a large seashell. Above the shell shape there is both a menorah and a painting of a set of doors. To the right of those doors, just above the right pillar of the “shrine,” is a depiction of the Binding of Isaac from Genesis 22.
Sardis synagogue entryways
Two other features are commonly found among sites identified as synagogues, as well. The first is a side room that may have been used as either a place for the synagogue officials to live or guest quarters. It was fairly common in the Roman world for observant Jews to spend Shabbat—when they would not otherwise travel or do business—within the Jewish communities where they found themselves on their journeys. The Babylonian Talmud reports that three famous rabbis, Rabbi Meir, Rabbi Judah, and Rabb
i Yosé, once were traveling outside of the Land of Israel, and when they arrived at a certain town on the eve of the Sabbath, they sought hospitality there.
Dura-Europos synagogue, Torah shrine or Seat of Moses
Of course, these extra rooms attached to the synagogue could equally well have been used for storage or even served as a geniza—a book depository for used or worn-out sacred texts. We have evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Bar Kokhba letters, and the Cave of Letters that the storage of documents, old and current, was common among Jewish communities in the Roman world.
The second feature occasionally associated with synagogue sites was a Mikvah, or a ritual immersion pool. These small pools, which were filled with rainwater or other natural water flows, were a primary means of making ritually fit the objects and persons who had contracted unfitness—most commonly through menstruation or semen. When a Jewish community built their synagogue, it was natural for them to build these ritual baths nearby. Yet even here they mimic in some way Roman custom; as in the Hellenistic world, it was de rigueur to build public baths among the very first of the buildings erected in a town. Although ritual purity and bodily cleanliness are not the same thing, immersion was nevertheless cleansing. Neither hospitality nor cleanliness, however, was an exclusively Jewish custom within the Greco-Roman milieu.
Finally, the geographic orientation of a synagogue is notable. Ideally, at least according to rabbinic rulings, worshippers in the synagogue should be facing Jerusalem. As it is expressed in the Tosefta, a third-century companion to the Mishnah:
Those who stand in prayer in the Diaspora should direct their hearts toward the Land of Israel, as it is said, “pray in the direction of their land” (2 Chron. 6:38).
Those who stand in prayer in the Land of Israel should direct their hearts toward Jerusalem and pray, as it is said, “they pray to You in the direction of the city which you have chosen” (2 Chron. 6:34).
Those who stand in prayer in the city of Jerusalem should direct their hearts toward the Temple, as it is said, “to pray towards this house” (2 Chron. 6:32).
Those who stand in prayer in the Temple should direct their hearts toward the Holy of Holies and pray, as it is said, “they pray towards this place” (1 Kings 8:30).
Thus those in the north face the south; those in the south face the north; those in the east face the west; and those in the west face the east. Thus all Israel prays to one place.
It might seem from this rabbinic text that the orientation of a building would be a great help to archeologists who are trying to identify whether certain architectural remains are in fact synagogues. Unfortunately, builders paid much more attention to details of the topography, such as which way the land tilted, what other buildings abutted the space, or whether there was a water source nearby, than they did to rabbinic law—assuming that they knew it or cared about it in the first place.
In truth, the most reliable means of identifying a synagogue from antiquity is the presence of a donor inscription. Of course, we cannot help but appreciate that synagogues of Late Antiquity are identified by donor plaques, much as modern-day synagogues are. A Midrash from the fifth-century Galilee (Lev. Rabbah 5:4) reminds us that nothing ever changes, at least when it comes to fund-raising:
The story is told that Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Aqiba traveled to the suburbs of Antioch to collect charity funds. There was a man there called “Father of the Jews” who gave charity generously, but he had lost his fortune. When he saw the rabbis, he went home looking ill . . . the rabbis said to him, “Even though there are others who gave more than you, we still put your name at the head of the donors’ book [tomos].”
I know that you are shocked, shocked that donors got special treatment. There was a donors’ list, referred to in Greek/Latin as the “tome.” And just like they do at the opera or ballet today, the largest donors were listed first. In an earlier chapter we saw a Greek donor inscription from the synagogue in Hammat Tiberias. That same synagogue, dating from the third to fourth century, also has an Aramaic inscription that reads, “Peace be to all who gave charity in this Sacred Place and who will give charity in the future. May he be blessed, amen, amen, selah. And to me, amen.” I just love that the guy who laid down the mosaic included himself for a blessing while he was at it.
Assuming for now that we actually can identify a synagogue in the postdestruction period by its inscriptions, art, and architecture, we should note that from the third through sixth centuries CE there was a veritable building boom. I want to discuss eight synagogues to give you a feel for their architecture, their layout, and some of their salient symbols. The number eight has no special valence but represents five Diaspora synagogues from all corners of the Roman Empire, plus three more synagogues from urban centers in the Land of Israel. Right now we will be taking a bird’s-eye view. In our next chapter we will zoom in on the interior features of each and, in particular, its art.
The synagogue of Dura Europos, located on the easternmost border of the Roman Empire, is famous for its shift away from the nonfigurative art in earlier synagogues to a full flowering of biblical scenes emblazoned on wall-paintings from the top to the bottom of the sanctuary. We have yet to discover pictorial art in synagogues from before the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, with the recently discovered synagogue at Migdal in the Galilee being the notable exception. Dura’s synagogue was covered by sand when the town was destroyed in 256 CE, during the Persian invasion. Here is what archeologist Clark Hopkins wrote when he first discovered the synagogue:
All I can remember is the sudden shock and then the astonishment, the disbelief, as painting after painting came into view . . . in spite of having been encased in dry dust for centuries, the murals retained a vivid brightness that was little short of the miraculous.
The synagogue was built in at least two stages. It originally was a private home. Dura, located on the Euphrates River, in what today is Syria, marked the border between the Roman and Sasanian-Persian empires. The synagogue was in a neighborhood that also housed temples to Roman gods, temples to Eastern gods such as Mithra, and a church. The styles of all these buildings are fairly similar. The synagogue was right up against the city’s western wall. When that wall was reinforced by heaping an earthen bulwark against the invading Persians, the amazing paintings were inadvertently preserved. Once the Persians conquered the town, in 256 CE, Dura sat desolate until it was excavated in the 1920s. We will return to look more closely at Dura’s art soon, but for now it is sufficient to note that the worshippers in the synagogue faced southwest—that is, they faced Jerusalem. While that may be indicative of some kind of piety, it may also simply be a function of the successive layers of building erected as the congregation grew.
I began this chapter by recounting how my wife likes to wander Manhattan observing the architecture. She also travels with me to archeological sites dotted across the former Roman Empire. We have visited locations from England to Israel. Often a dig consist of little more than a low grouping of stones that archeologists have interpreted as a given building. Sometimes there is little more on an otherwise empty plain than what appears to be a pile of rubble among the weeds. But then, with a little help from a guidebook, the outline of a former building becomes discernible. With a bit of imagination, my wife and I reconstruct the buildings in our mind’s eye. My wife tolerates my appetite for visiting otherwise desolate sites because Sandy is a true believer in viewing what she aptly calls “history where it happened.”
One such site is at ancient Sardis, now in modern central Turkey. The Sardis synagogue had been a public building before it was turned over to the Jewish community. It fits neatly with its surroundings, and its style—witness the eagle on the table at the front of the synagogue—is decidedly Greco-Roman. The final stage of the synagogue displays the remains of two rows of columns running parallel, creating a basilica with an atrium forecourt. At the western end
of the synagogue, behind the large table, was an apse with rounded benches. Perhaps the synagogue elders sat there. The remainder of the congregation faced west-northwest—away from Jerusalem. The Sardis synagogue sits snugly in the ancient town center—there is no modern town at the site—right next to the excavated gymnasium and market.
Sandy and I have also taken the local tram to Rome’s ancient port town of Ostia. The synagogue there was founded in the first or second century, and its final construction layer dates to the fourth century. During that time Ostia was still a bustling port. Since then, the waters have receded, leaving the beach of Ostia an entire tram stop farther down the line. The synagogue, in fact, was discovered when highway workers were widening the road to the beach to make it more accessible.
When we waded through the weeds, we found the scant remnant of the Ostia synagogue, with its three doorways, Torah-shrine, and forecourt. This entry court is bordered by a mini-tetrapylon—a monumental four-arched gate. While the architectural elegance of the structure seems out of place among the weeds today, it betokens the importance of the Ostia synagogue back when the harbor still reached the town. The inside of the synagogue covers a large area that, at least presently, is lacking interior columns. Yet it does have a curved, apse-like wall on the side opposite the entrance. If the officers of the synagogue sat on benches around the apse, they would have faced the Holy City (Jerusalem, not Rome). It is easy to imagine the synagogue’s elders, shipbuilders, traders, and sailors praying heartily for a safe voyage.
The synagogue at Stobi, in Macedonia, also went through more than one phase of construction. We can gain insights into the gradual stages of a synagogue building program from this particular site. A certain Claudius Tiberius Polycharmos, described as “father of the synagogue at Stobi,” repaired and expanded the building. He is mentioned in a lengthy Greek donor inscription. His name is classic Greek, and his imperial-sounding names—Claudius and Tiberius—may reflect his lineage and status. It could be that he had very impressive (and originally non-Jewish) relatives. Or, more likely, someone in his family had been taken captive in a war, become a slave to the imperial household, and eventually earned his freedom. It was the custom for freedmen to take their former owners’ names, especially names as impressive as Claudius and Tiberius.
Aphrodite and the Rabbis Page 17