Agudas Achim Synagogue
The sanctuary of the abandoned Agudas Achim synagogue in Chicago
Updated February 4, 2020 | By Matthew Christopher
Described as “the last grand Chicago synagogue”, Agudas Achim (which means “gathering of brothers and sisters”) was designed by architect Henry Dubin in Romanesque-Revival style with Art Deco and Spanish touches and was dedicated in 1925. Lauded by Crain’s Chicago Business as “one of the city's most opulent synagogues, with a kaleidoscopic stained-glass arch more than two stories tall that frames a richly tiled ark, or cabinet for housing the sacred Torah”, Agudas Achim merged two congregations – the First Hungarian Congregation, or “Agudath Achim”, from Chicago’s West Side and the “Sons of Israel” North Shore Congregation.
The building consisted of a sanctuary that had seating for 1,750-2,200 (depending on the source), and included offices, kitchens, classrooms, and multipurpose rooms. The building operated until 2008, when it was closed amidst a flurry of legal problems. Members of the congregation alleged that Rabbi Philip Lefkowitz had stolen over $17,000 in donations, but the judge dismissed the claim with a declaration that prosecutors were unable to make a case because the record-keeping was a “total mess”. Lefkowitz contended that declining membership and a lack of funds had led to the closure of the building.
As the congregation was appealing the judge’s decision, the rabbi’s son sold the property for $1.25 million in 2016 to developer Cedar Street. This, too, was contested in court by the congregation in an attempt to invalidate the sale, but one can infer the attempt was unsuccessful as Cedar Street continued with plans to turn the building into condominiums. While the façade, foyer and grand staircase remained, the sanctuary was divided into apartments and the Ark case and stained glass windows were donated to area synagogues. Dubbed “The Synagogue”, the apartments opened in 2019.
When I photographed Agudas Achim in 2016, the interior appeared to be in remarkably good shape beyond the peeling paint and loose plaster that one typically encounters in buildings that have not had proper climate control for years. Despite the vandalism, the beauty of the sanctuary was transcendent; light streamed in through the gorgeous stained glass, and the space was quiet aside from a few pigeons disgruntled at the prospect of a photographer in their midst. As for the vandalism, I can't say much except that if you find it appalling and it angers you, that is in my opinion the only appropriate reaction to such shamefully disrespectful behavior.
As with many conversion projects in former religious spaces, it’s hard to consider the reuse of the building a loss or a success. While preservation of elements of the building is infinitely better than razing the entire thing, arguably the crown jewel of the property was the sanctuary, and that is no more. Historic properties – particularly large, embellished spaces for public gatherings that could and should be considered art – are a finite resource. Carving them into residential units makes sense in terms of short term profits, but the larger issue, that of providing safeguards that ensure the places that constitute the fabric of our cultural history aren’t allowed to deteriorate when the organizations that own them falter, remains woefully unaddressed. Documentation via photography is certainly a small step in the right direction when it’s allowed, which is infrequent at best, but I’m constantly reminded what a pitiful substitute it is for the actual presence of architectural artifacts that our ancestors worked and saved to provide for future generations.
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