
When I began at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah (CBST) in 1992, the AIDS Crisis reigned unabated, and institutional Judaism formed part of the circle of stigma that was choking the LGBT community. Few synagogues were welcoming of LGBT people. Gay men were dying and funeral homes refused to accept their bodies. Queer people were rejected by schools, employers, their own families. Only gay synagogues would consider hiring gay rabbis. When I started at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College in 1985, the Conservative Movement would not yet ordain women, let alone out lesbians or gay men. The Reform Movement would not ordain openly lesbian or gay people.
As the Senior Rabbi of CBST, now the largest LGBT synagogue in the world, I have helped shatter glass ceilings and brick walls of anti-gay, anti-women, anti-queer, and anti-Semitic bigotry. Given the current wave of racism and misogyny it may be hard to remember that we have come far, but we have many victories behind us that should give us hope for the future. The pursuit of justice happens one victory, one change at a time. The same principles may lead us forward, but every challenge is unique to the moment we face it.
In 1992, the AIDS Crisis reigned unabated, and institutional Judaism formed part of the circle of stigma that was choking the LGBT community.
In the 1980s and early 1990s, AIDS became one of the most urgent issues facing our community. Jewish traditions around caring for the sick, giving respect to the dead, and sheltering and including the stranger, the widowed, and the orphaned, these traditions were strong hammers to bring to the walls of stigma around people with HIV/AIDS. Bringing the force of Jewish tradition to bear on the issues that directly threatened the LGBT community created opportunities for LGBT Jews and our allies to take pride in their heritage and to engage with Jewish life and worship. Until the rise of the gay synagogue movement, Jews who were religious were often made to feel ashamed of their sexual orientation, their gender identity or expression. And within the LGBT world, there was censure for those who were religiously observant. It was a time of revolution, and religion was seen as the as a source of pain, not comfort. We have lived through some terrible times, and I mourn all the LGBT Jews we lost to AIDS or the anguish of oppression. I am profoundly grateful, though, that what was originally a “gay synagogue” evolved into an LGBT one, and what began as a shelter for Jews fleeing homophobic organized Judaism is part of the New Sanctuary Movement, sharing our strength and resources with refugees and asylum seekers fleeing governmental oppression and hatred abroad and at home.
No one who truly knows us can hate us. If we don’t teach those who don’t know, who is going to do it for us?
My way of combating any stigma or injustice draws on my rabbinical identity and my Gandhian philosophy of pacifism. To effect change, we have to be willing to teach. That means we talk to, listen to, get close to the people with whom we most passionately disagree. We cannot only speak to those who are already our allies and friends. It makes the work challenging, sometimes exhausting, but it is the only way. Gandhi taught that we must not lose faith in humanity. The Torah teaches in the Book of Ezekiel that “God does not desire the death of the wicked, but wants them to turn from their evil ways and live.” We have to believe that the people we oppose are worth teaching. We have to believe that their souls are as precious as ours. We cannot give in to the temptation to hate them and dismiss them. Gandhi said “The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” We, the LGBT community, are a powerful force. We have immense strength. We have proven our capacity for peaceful engagement, for putting our bodies on the line in protest, for the patience to teach. No one who truly knows us can hate us. If we don’t teach those who don’t know, who is going to do it for us?