When I was young, I was an awkward, scrawny kid who everyone assumed was a tomboy and a teacher’s pet. The truth is I liked sports and I wore long shorts because I was insecure about my body, and I was quiet and respectful because I was often too nervous to talk to anyone. Now, I’m still plenty awkward, but I can confidently stand tall at an impressive 5’2 and feel good about the person I’ve grown into – and that person is undeniably Jewish and queer.
In Judaism, we’re taught that we’re all b’tzelem elohim – made in the image of God. It’s one of our core tenets of our faith and guides how we’re instructed to treat ourselves and others around us, no matter their identities or backgrounds. Growing up, I often fell into the same trap many of us get caught in: comparison. I constantly compared my looks, my abilities, my interests, and my social confidence to those around me. For a long time, I didn’t know how to vulnerably and authentically share myself with others because I hadn’t yet connected with a solid sense of myself. My Jewish community and upbringing helped me over the years to internalize the message of b’tzelem elohim. Not so much as a religious principle, but rather an understanding that being me for me is so much more meaningful, important, true, and fun than trying to be anyone else for anyone else. Most importantly though, it was the belief that I am enough; that I am worthy of love and pride just as I am.
When I was first thinking of ideas for this speech, a friend suggested I share my coming out story. It was a good idea, but my story is both brief and boring. My family was almost annoyingly nonchalant. I asked my mom later about her reaction and she said “b’tzelim elohim… it doesn’t matter.” Like many in the LGBTQ+ community, I absolutely experienced that heart-pounding, stomach-in-my-throat anxiety when I first came out and said the words out loud to friends and family. Not because I was ever worried about being accepted, but because I was finally sharing pieces of myself with loved ones that I had hidden for so long.
I was raised in a Reform Jewish home, and I observed major holidays, became a bat mitzvah and was confirmed. I even attended a Jewish sleepaway camp for a whopping 15 summers. My dad was president of my synagogue while I was in high school and both my parents served in leadership positions within the temple for most of my childhood. I didn’t realize it back then, but these experiences and being surrounded by a strong Jewish community taught me what it can look like to be proud of my identity and to be unconditionally supported.
For those who may not know, Reform Judaism is the largest branch of Judaism in the United States and is considered the most westernized branch of the religion. It views the Torah as a living document and has adapted many Jewish traditions and practices to better fit into modern life. Reform Judaism is committed to the values of b’ztelem elohim, tikkun olam – repairing the world, and the spiritual practice of audacious hospitality, embracing Jewish diversity across race, sexual orientation, gender identity, disability, and interfaith backgrounds.
Part of my Jewish upbringing included learning our history – both religious and historical contexts. We learned to read Hebrew, studied biblical stories and teachings, and learned the journey of the Jewish people through the diaspora and navigating recurring oppression and attempts at destruction and annihilation. We were taught the importance of standing up for others who may be less privileged, because there are so many times in Jewish history when we could have benefitted from that same advocacy and allyship. There’s a recurring message that appears throughout the Torah and Jewish teachings exemplified by the passage “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Many of the lessons I learned as a Jewish child were centralized around this idea of showing up for others, as well as for ourselves. One of my favorite informal Jewish sayings meant to describe many of our holidays is “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.” I love this saying not only because I do love to eat, but also because it’s such a simple way to encourage celebration and pride in who we are and what has come before us.
I often joke with my friends here that I’ve got my queer friends over here and my Jewish friends over there. And while I wish I had more opportunities to share space with other queer Jews, I have consistently felt like I can show up as my full and intersectional self in either community. I haven’t had to hide my queerness amongst my Jewish circles, nor have I had to hide my Judaism in my queer circles. I believe this is because I’ve been able to connect with a common set of core principles that goes past any one piece of my identity. Both Jewish and queer communities embrace the values of living authentically, questioning the norm, and advocating for and with others. In Judaism, for instance, we’re taught to question everything, including God. My dad sometimes refers to himself as Jew-ish. Yes he was president of the temple, but he is much less observant than my mom, who was raised in a significantly more religious home, and he claims to still not know the words to prayers he has heard hundreds if not thousands of times throughout his life. He credits his deep involvement in the Jewish community to something his rabbi told him when he was a kid – you don’t have to believe in God to be Jewish… you don’t even have to believe in God to be a rabbi. And that message was absolutely instrumental in my path to being the proud and engaged Jew I am today. I was not just given the permission, but actively encouraged, to find my own definition of my Jewish identity and to fully accept and support other Jews who find different ways of connecting to their faith and heritage.
It’s the same foundation I have for my queer identity, and likely the reason I found so much pride so comfortably in my coming out journey. I had a template for what it could look like, all the while knowing there’s no one blueprint. My Jewish upbringing taught me that being queer wouldn’t change the access I had to love and support. It provided me experience in exploring and redefining an identity so that I didn’t feel as much pressure as I could have to find the right LGBTQ+ label for myself. My version of being queer and gay fits me, just as my version of being Jewish fits me. It taught me the importance of learning more about queer history and those who fought so I could live my truth so openly. It taught me to seek LGBTQ+ community because pride is so much more meaningful when it can be shared and uplifted. It also gave me practice in educating friends outside of my identity group in a compassionate way. There have been a few instances of straight friends referring to me as a lesbian and when I explain to them why that term doesn’t fit me, they don’t always understand the nuances, but they have always respected it. I’m so grateful for those in my communities who choose to see me as I see myself.
My Jewish upbringing also taught me how to be unapologetically myself in the face of bigotry and ignorance. I was insulated within my immediate community but still dealt with swastikas etched into classroom desks, a student showing up to school on Halloween dressed as Hitler, and national and global news of anti-Semitic hate crimes. The pain I felt in response to the Tree of Life Synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh was the same pain I felt in response to the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando. It’s horrifying that any of us should ever know this pain – that anyone could hold such misinformed, unfair, and ugly beliefs about someone else’s identity – someone else’s personhood. And yet, both my Jewish and queer histories emphasize the need to speak up, work collectively to protect each other, and persevere proudly.
My work as a psychologist has provided me an opportunity to give back to my communities and help support others who may not have received it from their friends and family. I’ve worked with a lot of LGBTQ+ young adults and there are unfortunately two concerns that often come up: lack of familial acceptance and religious trauma. It’s incredibly painful and frustrating to see the impact of families and communities abandoning or actively harming those who are simply trying to invite them into an honest and authentic way of living. It’s also quite humbling. It’s humbling because while I always enjoy relating to my LGBTQ+ clients on a number of shared queer experiences, I can never fully know firsthand what it feels like for my family or religious communities to shame me for being gay.
However, through the insecurities and self-doubt I experienced for much of my childhood and adolescence, I can identify with the sense of feeling like an outsider. I’m not a stranger to questioning my sense of belonging. Anyone with historically marginalized identities knows that membership to a group or space may not be a given the way it is for others. I lucked out that I had the gift of a strong community and overwhelming support and it would be unfair of me to speak on how comfortable I feel as a gay Jew amongst my friends and family without giving credit to the people and systems that facilitated that journey.
I was so fortunate to not just grow up in a Reform Jewish community, but specifically my Reform Jewish community in Miami Beach. My friends, family, and community did everything they could to love me unconditionally – which is to say they treated me the same after coming out as they did before. With one exception: my mom now sends me every gay-affirming tweet she sees. And I so wish this were the experience for other LGBTQ+ folks. Because when I was younger and unsure of myself, I was given room to figure it out. And it didn’t take big sweeping gestures, just consistent messaging that I was loved no matter what. I never once heard bigoted or discriminatory language in my house that made me fear my parents would love me less. I was given free range to wear what felt comfortable and express myself the way I wanted to without ridicule or judgment. My parents might have helicoptered over my homework and responsibilities, but never over my definition of self. B’tzelim elohim – if I was good enough in God’s eyes, how could I not be enough in the eyes of those who cared for me?
I was also surrounded by Jewish LGBTQ representation growing up – there was a visiting gay rabbi at my sleepaway camp who later worked at my temple for a time, one of our rabbis has gay and trans children, our synagogue employed trans and nonbinary staff, and our Jewish community regularly advocated for LGBTQ+ rights at the local, state, and even federal levels. However, this is often not the norm, and certainly wasn’t so for many Jews in the generations before me. It wasn’t until 1965 that Reform Jewish leadership passed its first pro-LGB resolution with a call to decriminalize homosexuality. In the subsequent decades, multiple Reform Jewish institutions have passed additional resolutions improving inclusion and affirmation of LGBTQ+ Jews, ordained out LGBTQ+ rabbis and cantors, and lobbied nationally for expanded gay and trans civil rights.
But the Reform movement certainly has a long way to go to more consistently back up its resolutions and promises to LGBTQ+ communities, especially in regards to synagogues more consistently hiring trans clergy. No religious institution or community has it all right. And b’tzelem elohim is not a magic pill that solved all of my insecurities. But it is reflective of the lessons and care I was given by those around me – a safety net to question and explore and redefine. I came out later in life while I was completing my graduate program, but I came out when I was ready to. After I had the time and space to fully come to peace and understanding of my identity and how I wanted to share myself with the world. I went from an insecure kid to a confident Jew to an insecure baby gay to the version of me standing here in front of you today, and I truly don’t think I’d be the same person without the repeated messaging that I was enough and that I was wanted in my truest form.
I’d like to end with a prayer that my friend Rabbi Lexi Erdheim shared with a group of Jewish young adults at a recent pride-centered event. This is the Pride Shabbat Blessing from an Ally by Sara Stock Mayo, and even though it is not Shabbat today, it felt particularly apt for today’s service.
Blessed are you Adonai our God
Who made us in your image
Which knows no race nor gender
nor sexual identity or orientation
Blessed is the word pride
Which is the consciousness
of one’s own dignity
To see oneself as completely whole in living
as they were created to be
Blessed is joy and pleasure in the physical, spiritual, emotional connection we feel
in relationship to another
Blessed is knowing and being and celebrating
Blessed is allyship
Truly seeing someone just as they are
And how they’ve told you they want to be seen
Blessed is allowing ourselves to be led
Blessed is allowing ourselves to follow
Blessed is the ability to transform, to allow for movement and possibility
To create and re-create who and what feels most authentic today and tomorrow and into the future knowing that the possibilities are endless
Blessed are you Adonai, who made me in your image which knows no form
Blessed is limitlessness
