A Pennsylvania synagogue opened its doors to a local church. A 'deeply profound' partnership ensued

PHILADELPHIA — Rabbi Ethan Witkovsky and Reverend Adam Hearlson seem like they've been friends forever.

Witkovsky, 41, is the senior rabbi at Temple Beth Hillel-Beth El (TBH-BE), a Conservative movement synagogue in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania. Hearlson, 44, is the pastor at Overbrook Presbyterian Church (OPC), in Philadelphia.

Sitting in the basement of an Abington senior center after a meeting of Montgomery County faith leaders in mid-October, the two finished each other's sentences as they told the story of the collaboration between their two congregations, one that began after a fire destroyed OPC's sanctuary in 2024.

While the collaboration began as a logistical favor, Witkovsky and Hearlson say it has grown into something "deeply profound." Through Bible and Torah studies, holidays, lunches, and Easter egg hunts, the partnership has now stretched across time and tradition, bringing the communities into a lasting cycle of allyship and understanding.

The beginning of a partnership

Witkovsky and Hearlson met at a 2023 barbecue during Sukkot, a week-long Jewish harvest holiday. Hearlson joked that someone said, "You guys need to meet because you're tall, or whatever." (Hearlson is 6′7″ and Witkovsky is 6′5″).

The two got to talking — about religion, philosopher Aldo Leopold, and a Wisconsin naturalist they both like. A friendship was born.

On Jan. 15, 2024, a fire erupted in OPC's historic sanctuary, displacing the nearly 350 people who called the church their spiritual home. Repair costs were estimated to be close to $10 million.

TBH-BE quickly jumped in to help. Shortly after the fire, OPC began to gather at the synagogue for Bible study and board meetings. Other religious organizations also stepped up to the plate, as well, including Penn Wynne Presbyterian Church, St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Ardmore, and the African Episcopal Church of St. Thomas in Overbrook.

As TBH-BE and OPC began to regularly cohabitate, Witkovsky and Hearlson's friendship deepened. Witkovsky had arrived at TBH-BE from a large New York synagogue with multiple staff members. At the time OPC moved in, he was TBH-BE's only rabbi. Sharing space with Hearlson and having another clergy person "wander into my office" to discuss everything from scripture to emails "was amazing," he said.

'These guys are here for us'

In March 2024, a sign outside TBH-BE reading "Our Community Stands With Israel" was vandalized twice with a swastika. At a prayer service shortly after, members of both congregations stood together. Witkovsky and Hearlson both spoke.

"That was a huge thing for my community of, like, 'These guys are here for us,'" Witkovsky said.

What followed is what Hearlson and Witkovsky described as a self-sustaining cycle of camaraderie, one borne out of the fire at OPC and forged by the vandalism at TBH-BE.

"The hope," Hearlson said, "is that you don't remember who started the mutual circle of care, that it continues to feed back on itself over and over again, and you live in that circle, recognizing its goodness."

(During the interview, Witkovsky told Hearlson that all of the money OPC donated to TBH-BE would be put back into OPC's building fund — the circular care in action.)

In the months that followed the vandalism, the two communities shared scripture, bagels, and multipurpose rooms.

Elizabeth Cosgriff, a member of OPC, attended a study session in which Witkovsky and Hearlson each taught a piece of scripture from the other's tradition. She described a "depth of scholarship" from Witkovsky, who spoke about Jesus' teachings in the Sermon on the Mount. That night, Hearlson taught a passage from the Talmud, the central text of Jewish religious law.

"It helped broaden my understanding of Judaism and appreciate the connections," Cosgriff said.

A Kosher-for-Passover Easter egg hunt

A test for the budding interfaith partnership came around Easter. OPC needed a place to hold services, and Witkovsky suggested the synagogue. For both the pastor and the rabbi, it was "a novel idea."

"The cultural religious power has been in the hands of Christians for so long," Hearlson said, explaining the unease many of his congregants felt about putting up a cross and hosting Easter in a Jewish space. "That was not lost on us."

But for TBH-BE, it was a no-brainer. Anna Caplan, who serves on the synagogue's board of directors, said there was "immediate enthusiasm."

Easter landed on the eighth night of Passover, meaning the church and synagogue would be holding services at the same time. That night, around 200 Jews and 300 Christians gathered under the same roof to pray separately, but together, about rebirth and renewal.

Hearlson and Witkovsky trade off recalling one detail with laughter.

Because Easter and Passover overlapped, Witkovsky quickly realized OPC would not be able to bring sacramental bread into the synagogue. Instead, its congregants would have to take communion with matzah, the unleavened bread eaten on Passover.

Hearlson described leading from the pulpit as the congregation went to take communion. Suddenly, there was "an audible crunch."

"And I'm like, 'I don't think I've ever heard that in a Christian service before,'" Hearlson said.

At the end of the service, Hearlson invited congregants to sing Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus. Both Christians and Jews joined him.

"I felt a real sense of belonging even though I hadn't met most of the people there," said Caplan, one of the TBH-BE congregants who volunteered to sing.

Afterward, the two communities shared a meal and an Easter egg hunt on the synagogue lawn. Inside the Easter eggs was Kosher-for-Passover candy, selected so Jewish children could participate, too. One TBH-BE congregant kept the plastic Easter egg to put on his Passover Seder plate the next year.

Hearlson said the memory of Easter at TBH-BE makes him emotional.

"I can't tell you how theologically capacious and generous that idea is," he said.

Interfaith work on the Main Line, Hearlson added, has long followed a "live and let live" belief.

"This was something more," he said. "We're going to actively support each other. We're going to be in each other's lives."

'Living your values' in a divided world

Though OPC's sanctuary remains under construction, its offices have since been rebuilt. The church can now hold Bible study and meetings in its own space, a relief after nearly two years of displacement.

Yet Hearlson said he and his congregants "feel a loss."

When asked what it means to practice interfaith collaboration in a moment of rising antisemitism, Witkovsky was pensive. Some of it is deeply profound, he said, like exchanging texts from each other's traditions. Other things are simpler, like sharing the leftovers from a catered lunch.

"In this world of difference ... " he said. "Just having people whose faces you know, it's super important. It's just an easy way to live your values."

When OPC's building is complete, Witkovsky joked to Hearlson that he's "having staff meetings there" after all of the Bible studies hosted in the synagogue.

Hearlson quipped back with a smile, "We'll order Hymie's."

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