Personal Redemption?

I’m writing this post a few weeks later than I intended, but it remains relevant in the weeks closely following Pesach. 

On Pesach we recount the tale of the four sons: one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know to ask.  Writers often pay attention to the wicked son because of his distinctive story.  The Haggadic author labels him “wicked”  because he separates himself from his parents nation, asking his father what the story of redemption means to him rather than including himself in those affected by the exodus from Egypt.  The Haggadah commands the father to rebuke this son, for with his attitude the wicked son would not have merited  redemption.   This year, during my family’s first Seder, this story struck a deep cord.  

As a teenager coming to terms with my sexuality, I often had great difficulty relating to my religion and my family.  Try as I might to present a positive attitude and partake in all the sacraments and rites of Judaism, my inner turmoil prevented me from embracing my faith.  And on one Pesach, at what I will forever remember as a low point in my life, I was wicked. 

My family was gathered at the Seder table, recounting the legend of the redemption and conducting the Seder according to customs passed down for generations.  And I, I had locked myself in my room, rejecting my heritage.  To this day I cannot imagine the shame my parents must have felt as extended family and close friends bore witness to my absence. 

But that was then and this is now. 

This year, as I led portions of the Seder at my father’s behest and fielded some of the questions posed by the same friends who were present all those years ago, I realized that I had made a change from wicked to wise.   I now eagerly embrace my heritage, my family, my sexuality, and my faith.   Realizing this, I smiled to myself and continued to partake in the Seder and the holiday with a sense of pride and accomplishment. 

But still, over the next few days something seemed out of place.

For many years after accepting my sexuality I limited the extent to which I came-out to ensure that my siblings’ Shidduchim would not be affected by my sexuality.  My parents did not ask me to do this, but I felt it was appropriate.  Thankfully, the siblings I worried about have all since married and have begun families of their own.  But still, outside of my personal circles of friends and my immediate family, I don’t discuss my sexuality that frequently.  I realized, as I sat around the table with non-immediate relatives and family friends I only see once or twice a year, that most of the people at the table did not know that I am gay. 

I haven’t yet brought a boyfriend home for the holidays and I haven’t done anything to suggest that I am anything other than straight.  Over Pesach I realized that many of the people sitting at the table were probably working off the standard presumption and assuming that I am straight. 

I'm not generally an uncertain person, but I’m not sure what to think about that.  Should what other people know, or don’t know, about me effect my self-confidence?  Does this mean that I haven’t come as far as I thought I have?  I’m certainly not closeted, I just don’t feel the need to share my personal life with someone simply because they are there.   And, for the purposes of full disclosure, there were some people I ran into over the holiday whom I don’t want to know about my sexuality because they lean to the right and I’d rather not rock the boat unnecessarily.  

I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

Watch. Learn.

Occasionally, when I find myself without enough time to write a post, I post a poignant point.
The emotionally depth expressed in this video is magnificent.

Edit:  March 23rd, 10AM.  IThis website that seeks to gain communal support for LGBT Jews is also worth reviewing.  

To Haters, with love.

I encounter homophobia in writings, speeches etc. on a fairly frequent basis and, when I do, wonder how I should react.  Obviously I disagree with the content of these statements, but what attitude should I take towards the authors behind them?  Should I fight fire with fire and approach these individuals with a searing hatred to match their bigotry?  Should I take the high road and ignore them, pitying their unfortunate closed mindedness?

I recently realized that, to answer this question, I must distinguish between the different types of homophobes: those who argue about the existence of  homosexuality in an honest but misguided attempt to find G-d’s truth (example) and those who loathe homosexuals because they lack any productive hobby (more on this later).  The former I can respect, I appreciate their search for truth.  For the latter, those misguided souls with nothing better to do than spread malice, I have no patience.  

Those individuals who honestly seek a higher truth travel on a road we all must take at some point in our lives.  In searching for a theological certainty, these rabbis—and their equivalent in other faiths—interpret the bible consistent with their religious training and leave little room for anything other than the explanation bestowed upon them.  Challenging what one believes to be sacred is an immensely difficult task, especially when the challenging force comes from something other than your own conscious or experiences.  I respect them men and women until the point where they descend into depths of hatred, vice a search for meaning.  Note the difference between attempting to understand a religious tenet and wielding religion as a tool of bigotry. 

The Westboro Baptist Church remains the most public example of the latter category.  Made famous for picketing the funerals of dead service-members with signs like these, the congregants of this church have long since shed any valid claim to represent G-d and now subject themselves only to the ridicule and scorn of even very devout theologians.  But I do not need to go so far from home to breach this unfortunate topic, such small minded intolerance is present even in the world of orthodox Judaism. 

For quite some time, a man deep in denial of homosexuality has subjected many members of JQY and gay Jewish bloggers such as myself to an endless, unsolicited barrage of e-mails meant to rebuke us for our sinful ways.  He uses pseudonyms to mask his identity and has gone so far as to create e-mail addresses under the names of some of our more vocal group members.  His unrelenting attempts to permeate our tight knit support group have left some shaken, but have strengthened others to decry his actions.  Him I loathe, for him I silently wish nothing but ill will.  No god would delegate a mission of hate and to claim as much disrespects His wisdom. 

Overlooked

With every movement there is an unspoken, unwritten history that tends to be forgotten.  The gay rights movement—and specifically the movement for recognition within the Orthodox Jewish community—is no different.  Over the past few years there has been an amazing amount of attention to gay and lesbian individual.  We have been the subject of panel discussions, video documentaries, op-eds and rabbinical statements.  And we have seen progress within the Modern Orthodox community.  People know, even if they cannot understand, that it is difficult to be gay and religious.  Some have even begun to press for recognition of gay relationships. The forgotten individuals in our stories are our parents.  

Obviously, I cannot tell you about the struggles that a parent faces when they discover or are informed of their child’s sexuality because I have not lived on that side of the story.  I imagine that some wish their child was heterosexual.  Others, if faced with a child who shirks religion in favor of comfort with her sexual identity, may pray that their child find a place in the fold of religious observance.  When I came out to my father he was accepting (I was shocked) but disappointed that I would never have the chance to raise a family as he did.  My mother wished (wishes? I’m not sure) that I would one day wake up and realize my heterosexuality.  They both love me for who I am, but I don’t think they expected or anticipated my homosexuality while raising me. 

It is not easy being gay, but it must be hard to know that your child is treated like a second class citizen and condemned by many in society. Little networking or support exists to unify and strengthen these parents in the challenges they face.  In the past I’ve mentioned Tmicha, an e-mail list-serve that attempts to do exactly this.  I’ve also linked to a blog the documents these struggles.  But is this enough?  While we protect and fight for our own recognition, we gays and lesbians must also ensure that our parents are shielded from the unfortunate small-mindedness that permeates our society.  We must applaud those parents who accept and support us and we must understand those who currently unable to reach this enlightened level of being.   

I am grateful for my parents and impressed by the positive energy I have seen emanate from some other parents I know.

Synagogue: A Prayer House or a Prayer Home?

Since coming out I find myself searching for a shul that I feel comfortable in.  My attitude towards davening (praying) is a result of my upbringing.  I expect a very solemn, serious service with minimal talking in the pews and an all-encompassing feel of spiritual aspiration b’Shma (for its own purpose).  I am therefore comfortable with the services in traditional black-hat and German style synagogues. 

I have different expectations for my community, expectations that I have not been able to fulfill in the traditional synagogues I just mentioned.  I take comfort in a community that is accepting of everyone, a community that sees each person for the inner spark that they can provide and welcomes them into the fold so that spark can be nurtured into a roaring flame.  In these communities I feel that I can be open and respected as a gay man and, more importantly, as a gay Jew.  I have found communities like this among the left-leaning “independent minyanim” I’ve encountered in Israel, New York City, Washington D.C. and others. 

My problem is as follows: in the traditional communities I don’t feel welcome as an individual.   It is as if, upon entering the synagogue, I find myself facing a security guard who demands that I leave my personality at the door.   Then and only then may I participate in the prayers.  In the more liberal communities I feel welcomed, embraced, appreciated for the entirety of what I have to offer.  However, I find it difficult to connect through their services which tend to be a bit more relaxed than I am comfortable/familiar with.  I’ve found some shuls that attempt to create a middle ground, proclaiming a modern approach to Judaic community with basically the same traditional services.  Unfortunately, more often than not this third type of community leaves me wanting for both community and service. 

I once happened a shul in Yerushalayim that actually did a good job at creating a middle ground.  This is the Yedidya community in the Talpiot/Baka neighborhood.  But this community is half a world away.  What am I to do? Should I pray where I feel I could potentially develop a better spiritual connection, even though this nexus is diminished by the limits of the community? Or, in the alternative, should I pray where I feel welcomed, but unable to comfortably engage in a prayer services?  A shul needs to be more than a prayer house, more than a building of concrete and  wood containing mortals aspiring to be more for a few hours a day.  A shul needs to be a home where I feel comfortable approaching G-d as a father, but it cannot lose the quality of inspiring the fear of G-d as a king. 

I suppose I’m just guy trying to find my way home. 

On a LIGHTer note . . .

Gingerbread lattes in visually seductive red cups, Michael Bublé crooning renditions of classic holiday songs and the joy on the faces of cheerful gentiles . . . it’s all enough to sweep even the most observant Jew into the “tis the seasons” and eggnog induced stupors.  I’ve fallen prey to the seductive commercialization of the holidays more than once.  The idea of a warm hearth and brightly decorated home usually trigger my nesting emotions.  (I promise, I’m going somewhere with this). 

As a university freshman I briefly dated a nice young Jewish man a year my senior.  Though our relationship was destined to fail, he loathed orthodoxy, this dalliance with romance—my first—was great.  I found expression for emotions I had never before been able to release.  Particularly vivid from our time together is when I took my then boyfriend to my German club’s holiday Kaffeeklatsch.  Proudly I introduced him to my professor as “mein Freund.”  “Ein Freund,” my professor corrected me.  The possessive “mein” made my statement mean he was boyfriend as opposed to simply a friend.  I knew what I had said, so I smiled and gently reiterated my statement.   I think she was slightly shocked, but she accepted it and the festivities continued.  That relationship ended a short while later on a particularly warm December 25. 

I’m embarrassed to say that the very next year I fell prey to the very same mistletoe infused emotions.  This time I went a bit further and attempted to date a non-Jew.  I both smile and cringe when I recall that our first date was spent building a gingerbread house.  He was sweet, charming, looked adorable with a Santa hat on and wished me a Merry Christmas.  Talk about destined to fail. 

It’s these experiences and others that make me appreciate the lessons of Chanukah. Falling into the trap of hedonism and the simple of thrills of secular life is so easy.  Admittedly, standing behind our windows, kindling our Chanukiot  and knowing that, even though Chanukah  may not permeate every aspect of society like Christmas does, we stand on a greater path is sometimes a challenge.  Sometimes we just need to pull ourselves out of the holiday haze and remember the sacrifice of the Maccabees and what it stands for.  I only really learned to appreciate Chanukah because of the relationships I attempted.  I succumbed to the holiday spirit and found that nothing lay there for me.  I came to understand that those eight little lights (and countless sufganiyot) represent a purpose and a meaning that has survived millennia, despite the prosecutions and unyielding temptations. 

I still smile at the sight of a wreath hanging on a door and the Starbucks red cups make me giddy, but I now know that my future resides in something greater. 

The first night of Chanukah is Tuesday, 20 Dec.  Light with pride. 

A short video to get in the Chanukah mood.

Some much needed Mussar

I had earnestly hoped that that when I had the time to post it would be a Dvar Torah filled with inspiration and warmth.  Thanks to a bit of commotion in the Jewish world (and a bout of insomnia) I’m again writing before I intended on not exactly on the topic of my choice. 

A few weeks ago R’ Steven Greenberg, author of Wrestling with G-d and Man, director of Trembling Before G-d and self-proclaimed gay Orthodox rabbi officiated at a gay orthodox wedding.  In the aftermath of this occasion a group of 100 orthodox rabbis from across America organized the signing of a latter condemning the ceremony. Source .   R’ Greenberg, in response, claimed that the ceremony was not a wedding and was not intended to be one because it lacked Kiddushin.  Source .  Yet actions speak louder than words and the circumstances fo the ceremony place it within the context of a wedding.  The ceremony contained a chuppah, both men exchanged rings, smashed glasses and wore kittles . . . looks a lot like a wedding to me. Source .

I’m not against gay marriage—I plan on getting married myself.  I’m against people trying to find loopholes in halacha and wordsmithing their way out of a difficult situation.  I also believe that other strains of Judaism (Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist) are free to do what they want with gay weddings.   Source.   I, however, do not subscribe to that interpretation of Judaism and don’t think anyone would try and label it as “orthodox.”

The next even of significance was the presentation of letter—shall we say a contra-Statement of Principles—that held nothing back as it blasted Jewish gays in demanding that they undergo reparative therapy and seek Teshuva for their misdeeds.  Source (you can ignore the op-ed and read the actual letter at the bottom).  This made my blood boil  for a number of reasons:

1)       Its suggestions are ignorant and scientifically rejected

2)       It seems to have been in the works for well over a year but cowardly kept separate until enough signatures were gathered (note the date on R’ Kamenetsky’s signed copy as well as the request that the contens be kept secret until enough signatories were amassed). 

3)       One of the primary supporters—R’  Shmuel Kamenetsky—is a man I was raised to revere and this causes me to question his status as a Gadol HaDor.
(UPDATE, 1/5/12 the complete list of signatories can be found here)

After all this I stumbled upon yet another article, this one from a rabbi at Brown University I had previously not heard of.  source .  While I don’t agree with all of what he writes, his main point is striking and I place 100% of my support behind it: Orthodoxy is shattered.   As the bearers of Hashems eternal truth in this world we—via our rabbinical leadership--  are failing in our mission as we hide behind letters, allowing ourselves to flee from confrontation as we fail to establish a uniform response to the issues that plague our society—or in many cases, any response at all.   I weep for the days of the Sandhedrin or the Shoftim.   Even if those scholars of old would chastise me, or worse, for my sexuality, I long for the days when G-d’s will permeated every aspect of Jewish life as it found embodiment on the lips of men and women wiser and more spiritually connected that I can ever hope to be.  Orthodoxy has failed.  We have succumbed to the divisive effects of Galut and are a flock of lost sheep.  

I believe you can be orthodox and gay.  I believe you can be orthodox, gay and a rabbi.  I believe you can be orthodox, gay, a rabbi and celebrate the companionship of a same-sex couple.  I don’t believe that the tradition of orthodoxy was meant to be bastardized by and vast number of rabbis who would seek to use the Torah to promote their own points of view that they dare not challenge. 

A man whose wisdom and guidance I cherish and view as a return to the tradition that is all-but-lost recently told me that, to him, the sexuality of the man davening next to him is irrelevant.  I hope we can all relate to the message in his poignant and simple truth.