I am an Orthodox rabbi and I am gay.
For a long while I denied, rejected, railed against this truth. The
life story that I had wanted -- wife, kids, and a family that modeled
Torah and hesed-- turned out to be an impossible fantasy. I have begun
to shape a new life story. This essay is part of that life story, and
thus remains unfinished, part of a stream of consciousness rather than
a systematic treatise. a
It is hard to say how or when I came
to know myself as a gay man. In the beginning, it was just an array
of bodily sensations; sweaty palms and that excited sort of nervousness
you feel around certain people occurred without awareness. The arrival
of the hormonal hurricane left me completely dumbfounded. Just when
my body should have fulfilled social expectations, it began to transgress
them. I had no physical response to girls. But I was physically pulled,
eyes and body, toward guys. I remember my head turning sharply once
in the locker room for an athletic boy whom I admired. At the time,
I must have noticed my body's involuntary movement, but it meant nothing
to me. I understood nothing. How could I? I had no idea what it meant
to be homosexual. "Faggot" or "homo" were words
reserved for the boys hounded for being passive, or unathletic. None
of this said anything about sexual attraction. There were not categories
for this experience, no way to explain the strange muscle spasms, the
war sensation on my face, or the flutter in my chest. Not until years
later, after countless repetitions of such events, did it slowly, terrifyingly,
breath through to my consciousness. a
When other boys were becoming enraptured
by girls, I found my rapture in learning Torah. I was thrilled by the
sprawling rabbinic arguments, the imaginative plays on words, and the
demand for meaning everywhere. Negiah, the prohibition to embrace, kiss,
or even touch girls until marriage was my saving grace. The premarital
sexual restraint of the Halacha was a perfect mask, not only to the
world, but to myself. a
My years in yeshiva were spectacular,
in some measure because they were so intensely fueled by a totally denied
sexuality. There were so many bachurim (students) in the yeshiva whose
intense and passionate learning was energized with repressed sexual
energy. For me, the environment deflected sexual energy and generated
it as well. The male spirit and energy I felt in yeshiva was both nourishing
and frustrating. I do not know if I was alone among my companions or
not. From those early years, I remember no signs by which I could have
clearly read my gayness or anyone else.'s. I only know that I was plagued
with stomach aches almost every morning. a
Later, on one desperate occasion, beset
with an increased awareness of my attraction to a fellow yeshiva student,
I visited a sage. Rav Eliashuv, who lives in one of the most secluded
right-wing Orthodox communities in Jerusalem. He was old and in failing
health, but still taking visitors who daily waited in an anteroom for
hours for the privilege of speaking with him for a few minutes.
Speaking in Hebrew, I told him what, at the time, I felt was the truth.
"Master, I am attracted to both men and women. What shall I do?"
He responded, "My dear one, then you have twice the power of love.
Use it carefully." I was stunned. I sat in silence for a moment,
waiting for more. "Is that all?" I asked. He smiled and said,
"That is all. There is nothing more to say." a
Rav Eliashuv's words calmed me, permitting
me to forget temporarily the awful tensions that would eventually overtake
me. His trust and support buoyed me above my fears. I thought that as
a bisexual I could have a wider and richer emotional life and perhaps
even a deeper spiritual life than is common--and still marry and have
a family. For a long while I felt a self-acceptance that carried me
confidently into rabbinical school. I began rabbinical training with
great excitement and a sense of promise. At the center of my motivations
were those powerful rabbinic traditions that had bowled me over in my
early adolescence. I wanted more than anything else to learn and to
teach Torah in its full depth and breadth. I finished rabbinical school,
still dating and carefully avoiding any physical expression and took
my first jobs as a rabbi. There were many failed relationships with
wonderful women who could not understand why things just didn't work
out. Only after knocking my shins countless times into the hard wood
of this truth was I able fully to acknowledge that I am gay. a
It has taken a number of years to sift
through the wrecking of "my life as I wanted it" to discover
"my life as it is." It has taken more time to exorcise the
self-hatred that feeds on shattered hopes and ugly stereotypes. I am
still engaged in that struggle. I have yet to receive the new tablets,
the whole ones, that will take their place in the Ark beside the broken
ones. Rav Nachman of Bratzlav teaches that there is nothing so whole
as a broken heart. It is in his spirit that I continue to try to make
sense of my life. a
Although much has changed in the past
few years as I have accepted by gayness, much remains the same. I am
still a rabbi, and I am still deeply committed to G-d, Torah, and Israel.
My religious life had always been directed by the desire to be a servant
of the Lord. None of that has changed. The question is an old one, merely
posed anew as I strive to integrate being gay into my life. Given that
I am gay, what is that the G-d of Israel wants of me? a
Of course, many will hear this as an
illegitimate question-- fallacious in thinking that the G-d of Israel
can somehow accept and move beyond my gayness. Leviticus 18:23 instructs:
"Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman, it is an abhorrence."
I do not propose to reject this or any test. For the present, I have
no plausible halachic method of interpreting this text in a manner that
permits homosexual sex. a
As a traditionalist, I hesitate to overturn
cultural norms in a flurry of revolutionary zeal. I am committed to
a slower and more cautious process of committed to a slower and more
cautious process of change, which must always begin internally. Halacha,
as an activity, is not designed to effect social revolution. It is a
society-building enterprise that maintains internal balance by reorganizing
itself in response to changing social realities. When social conditions
shift, we experience the halachic reapplications as the proper commitment
to the Torah's original purposes. That shift in social consciousness
in regard to homosexuality is a long way off. a
If I have any argument, it is not to
press for a resolution, but for a deeper understanding of homosexuality.
Within the living Halacha are voice in tension, divergent strands in
an imaginative legal tradition that are brought to bear on the real
lives of Jews. In order to know how to shape a halachic response to
any living question, what is most demanded of us is a deep understanding
of the Torah and an attentive ear to the people who struggle with the
living question. Confronting new questions can often tease out of the
tradition a hiddush, a new balancing of the voices and values that have
always been there. There is no conclusive psak halacha (halachic ruling)
without the hearing of personal testimonies, and so far gay people have
not been asked to testify to their experience. a
How can halachists possibly rule responsibly
on a matter so complex and so deeply foreign, without a sustained effort
at understanding? Whatever the halachic argument will be, we will need
to know much more about homosexuality to ensure that people are treated
not merely as alien objects of a system but as persons within it. Halachists
will need to .shtml"> in their deliberations the testimony of gay people
who wish to remain faith to the Torah. Unimagined halachic strategies,
I believe, will appear under different conditions. We cannot know in
advance the outcome of such an investigation. Still, one wonder what
the impact might be if Orthodox rabbis had to face the questions posed
by traditional Jews, persons they respect and to whom they feel responsible,
who are gay. a
There is one quasi-halachic issue I must address--that of choice. One
of the mitigating factors in halachic discourse is the presence of free
will in matters of law. A command is only meaningful in the context
of our freedom to obey or disobey. Thus the degree of choice involved
in homosexuality is central to the shaping of a halachic response. There
is indeed a certain percentage of gay people who claim to exercise some
volition in their sexual choices. But for the vast majority of gay people,
there is no "choice" in the ordinary sense of the word. Gay
feelings are hardwired into our bodies, minds, and hearts. The strangeness
and mystery of sexuality is universal. What we share, gay or straight,
is the surprising "queerness" of all sexual desire. The experience
of heterosexuals may seem less outlandish for its being more common,
but all sexual feeling is deeply mysterious, beyond explanation or a
simple notion of choice. a
The Halacha addresses activities,however,
not sexual identities; thus, in halachic Judaism there is no such thing
as a gay identity- - there are only sexual impulses to control. The
tradition describes all sexual desire as yetzer ha'ra (evil impulse),
rife with chaotic and destructive possibilities. Heterosexual desire
is redeemed and integrated back into the system through a series of
prescriptions and prohibitions that channel sexuality and limit its
range of expression. Confined within marriage, giving and receiving
sexual pleasure, even in non-procreative ways, is raised to the level
of mitzvah.
Homosexual desire, in contrast, is not
seen as redeemable and thus remains an implacable yetzer ha'ra that
needs to be defeated rather than channeled. In this argument, gay people
are treated as people with a dangerous and destructive sexual desire
which must be repressed. The spiritual task of a gay person is to overcome
that yetzer ha'ra which prods one to have erotic relations with members
of the same sex. a
The unfairness of this argument begins
with the recasting of homosexuals as heterosexuals with perverse desires.
The Torah is employed to support the idea that there is only sexuality,
heterosexuality. G-d confirms heterosexual desire, giving heterosexuals
the opportunity to enjoy love and companionship. With the impossibility
of another sexuality comes the implicit assumption that gay people can
"become" straight and marry and indeed should do so. a
This has in fact been the ordinary state
of affairs of many, if not most, gay men and women throughout history.
I know a number of gay (or bisexual) men who have married and sustain
relationships with their wives. Of course, most have had an affair at
some point which did not end their marriage. Two gay rabbis I know were
married and are now divorced, and a third remains happily married, surviving
recurrent bouts of depression and emotional exhaustion. What disturbs
me most in this sometimes heroic attempt at approximating the traditional
ideal is the cost to the heterosexual spouse. a
While in my first rabbinical post, I
decided to come out to an older rabbi and seek his advice. He counseled
me to find a woman and marry. I asked him if I was duty-bound to tell
her about my attractions to men and my general sexual disinterest in
women. He said no. I was shocked to hear that it was alright to deceive
a woman who could very easily be damaged by such a marriage. It made
no sense to me. a
Surely some heterosexual women might
be willing to marry a gay friend who could provide children and be a
wonderful father. a
There have been rare instance of gay
women and men who have worked out marriages where the "disinterest"
was mutual. I struggled for a number of years to find such a woman,
gay or straight, with whom to begin a family. Sometimes I still torment
myself to think that this is all possible--when it is not. I still feel
ripped apart by these feelings--wanting a woman at the Shabbat table
and a man in my bed. If I am judged for some failure, perhaps it will
be that I could not choose the Shabbat table over the bed, either for
myself, or for the forlorn woman, who, after dinner wants the comfort
of a man who wants her back. a
Having rejected this option, the standard
Orthodox position is to require celibacy. Many recent articles and responsa
regard gay sex as indistinguishable from adultery, incest, or bestiality.
The heterosexual is asked to limit sexuality in the marital bed, to
non-relatives, to human beings; the homosexual is asked to live a loveless
life. I have lived portions of my adult life as a celibate clergyman.
While it can have spiritual potency for a Moses or a Ben Azzai, who
abandoned sexual life for G-d or Torah, it is not a Jewish way to live.
Always sleeping alone, in a cold bed, without touch, without the daily
physical interplay of lives morning and night--this celibate scenario
is life-denying and, for me, has always led to a shrinking of spirit.
What sort of Torah, what voice of G-d would demand celibacy from all
gay people? Such a reading of divine intent is nothing short of cruel.
a
Many gay people now and in the past have
been forced to purchase social acceptance and G-d's love through a denial
of affection and comfort, and, worse, a denial of self. Today many simply
leave Judaism behind in order to salvage a sense of dignity and to build
a life. This understanding of homosexuality leaves no sanctified option
for gay people, no possibility of kedussha or keddushin. a
I have come to understand my gayness
as akin to my Jewishness: It is integral to my sense of self. I did
not choose it, but it is mine. To try to escape it would be self-defeating.
There is nothing left to do but celebrate it. Whether in or out of the
given halachic rubric, I affirm my desire for a full life, for love,
and for sexual expression. Given that I am gay, and cannot be otherwise,
and given that I do not believe that G-d would demand that I remain
loveless and celibate, I have chosen to seek a committed love, a man
with whom to share my life. a
But so little of life is carried on in
the bedroom. When I indeed find a partner, what sort of life do we build
together? What is it that the G-d of Israel wants of me in regard to
family and community? a
Struggling with G-d and with Torah as
a gay person was just the beginning. To be Jewish is to be grounded
in the continuity of the Jewish people as a witness--a holy people,
a light amongst the nations--a blessing to all the families of the earth.
How does a gay person help to shape the continuity of the Jewish people?
The carrying forth of the Jewish people is accomplished by marriage
and procreation. It is both a tool of the Abrahamic covenant and its
most profound meaning statement. a
We are a people on the side of life--new
life, more life, fuller life. The creation story invited the rabbis
to read G-d's blessing of "be fruitful and multiply" as a
command to have two children, a male and a female. Every Jewish child
makes the possibility of the Torah's promise of a perfected world more
real, more attainable. Abraham and Sarah transmit the vision by having
children. Often the portrayal of blessing .shtml">s being surrounded
with many children. Childlessness is a punishment and curse in the tradition,
barrenness a calamity. a
Gay life does not prevent the possibility
of producing or raising Jewish children, but it makes those options
very complicated. Being gay means that the ordinary relationship between
making love and having children is severed. There is a deep challenge
to the structure of Judaism, since its very transmission is dependent
on both relationship and reproduction. For Jews who feel bound by mitzvot,
bound by the duty to ensure that life conquers death, the infertility
of our loving is at the core of our struggle to understand ourselves
in the light of the Torah. a
This problem, among others, lies at the
root of much of the Jewish community's discomfort with gay people. To
a people that was nearly destroyed fifty years ago, gay love seems irresponsible.
Jews see the work of their lives in light of the shaping of a world
for their children. By contrast, gay people appear narcissistic and
self-indulgent. Gay people's sexuality is thus a diversion from the
tasks of Jewish family and the survival that it symbolizes, and is perceived
as marginal to the Jewish community because we are shirkers of this
most central and sacred of communal tasks. a
This challenge also has a moral chord
which strikes deep into the problems of gay subculture. The tradition
understood parenting as one of the major moral crucibles for human development.
No judge could serve without first being a parent for at fear that without
the experience of parenting one could grasp neither human vulnerability
nor responsibility. Being heterosexual carries one down a path that
demands years of selfless loving in the rearing of children. While not
all straight couples have children, and some gay couples adopt them,
the norm is shaped less by choice and more by biology. Yet if gay people
do not ordinarily fall into monogamous coupling and childbearing, how
do we find our place in the covenant? And what of the moral training
that caring for children provides, how do we make up for that? Is there
another job to be done that requires our service to G-d and to the Jewish
people? Of all the problems entailed in gay sexuality, this one looms
for me, both spiritually and emotionally. a
Although there is no obvious biblical
resource for this dilemma, there are biblical writers who struggled
to address G-d's will in very new social circumstances. Isaiah was one
such writer who bridged the worlds before and after the Exile. Some
familiar passages have become charged for me with new meaning. In these
verses Isaiah is speaking to his ancient Israelite community and trying
to convince them that G-d's covenantal plan for Israel is larger than
they think. The covenant begins with Abraham and Sarah but has become
much more than a family affair. He speaks to two obvious outsider groups
in chapter 56, the b'nai ha'nechar, the foreigners of non-Israelite
birth, and the sarisim, the eunuchs: a
Let not the foreigner say, a
Who has attached himself to the Lord, a
"The Lord will keep me separate from His people"; a
And let not the eunuch say, a
"I am a withered tree." a
In the Talmud, a eunuch is not necessarily
a castrated male, but a male who is not going to reproduce for various
reasons (Yevamot 80b. Why does Isaiah turn his attention here to the
foreigners and the eunuchs? In the chain of the covenantal family, the
foreigner has no past and the eunuch no future. They both seem excluded
from the covenantal frame of reference. It is this "exclusion"
that the prophet addresses: a
For thus said the Lord:
"As for the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths, a
Who have chosen what I desire a
And hold fast to My covenant-- a
I will give them, in My House a
And within my walls, a
A monument and a name a
Better than sons or daughters. a
I will give them an everlasting name a
Which shall not perish. a
The prophet comforts the pain of eunuchs
with the claim that there are other ways in which to observe, fulfill,
and sustain the covenant. There is something more permanent than the
continuity of children provides. In G-d's House, the achievement of
each individual soul has account. A name in the Bible is the path toward
the essence, the heart of being. It is passed on to progeny. But there
is another sort of a name, a name better than the one sons or daughters
provide. The covenant is carried forward by those who live it out, in
the present. Loyalty to the covenant is measured in G-d's House in such
a way that even if one's name is not passed on through children an eternal
name will nonetheless be etched into the walls. Isaiah offers a place
to the placeless, an alternative service to the person who cannot be
part of the family in other ways: a
As for foreigners a
Who attach themselves to the Lord, a
to be His servants-- a
All who keep the sabbath and do not profane it, a
And who hold fast to my covenant-- a
I will bring them to my sacred mount a
And let them rejoice in my house of prayer. a
Their burnt offerings and sacrifices a
Shall be welcome on My altar; a
For My House shall be called a
A House of prayer for all people.s a
Thus declares the Lord G-d, a
Who gather the dispersed of Israel: a a
"I will gather still more to those already gathered." a
a
So inclusive is G-d's plan for the Israel
in the word that any foreigner can join. The notion of conversion, so
obvious to us now, was a striking innovation for the generation of Isaiah.
Conversion is about rewriting the past. Like adoption, conversion redefines
the meaning of parents and family. Birth and lineage are not discarded.
The central metaphor for Israel is still family. But Isaiah and later
tradition open up another avenue into the covenant. Those with no future
are promised a future in the House of the Lord; those with no past are
nevertheless .shtml">d in Israel's destiny. a
G-d can only require the doable. A foreigner
cannot choose a different birth, or the eunuch a different procreative
possibility. Gay people cannot be asked to be straight, but the can
be asked to "hold fast to the covenant." G-d will work the
story out and link the loose ends as long as we hold fast to the covenant.
a
Holding fast to the covenant demands that I fulfill the mitzvot that
are in my power to fulfill. I cannot marry and bear children, but there
are other ways to build a family. Adoption and surrogacy are options.
If these prove infeasible, the tradition considers a teacher similar
to a parent in life-giving and thus frames a way that the mitzvah of
procreation can be symbolically fulfilled. a
Holding fast to the covenant demands
that I seek a path towards sanctity in gay sexual life. The Torah has
much to say about the way people create kedusha in their sexual relationships.
The values of marriage, monogamy, modesty, and faithfulness which are
central to the tradition's view of holiness need to be applied in ways
that shape choices and life styles. a
Holding fast to the covenant means that
being gay does not free one from the fulfillment of mitzvot. The complexities
generated by a verse in Leviticus need not unravel my commitment to
the whole of the Torah. There are myriad Jewish concerns, moral, social,
intellectual, and spiritual, that I cannot abandon. Being gay need not
overwhelm the rest of Jewish life. Single-issue communities are political
rather than religious. Religious communities tend to be comprehensive
of the human condition. The richness of Jewish living derives in part
from its diversity of attention, its fullness. a
For gay Orthodox Jews, this imagination
of engagement between ourselves and the tradition is both terribly exciting
and depressing. Regretfully, the communities that embrace, both gay
and Jewish, also reject us. The Jewish community wishes that we remain
invisible. The gay community is largely unsympathetic and often hostile
to Judaism. There are some in the gay community who portray Judaism
as the original cultural source of homophobia. More often, the lack
of sympathy toward Jewish observance derives from the singlemindedness
of gay activism. Liberation communities rarely have room for competing
loyalties. a
Gay synagogues have filled a void for
many, providing a place of dignity in a Jewish community. This work
is part of a movement toward a fuller integration in the larger Jewish
community for which most gay Jews long. Gay-friendly synagogues may
well point the way, modeling a community of families and singles, young
and old, straight and gay that is in spirit much closer to my hopeful
future imagination than anything yet. a
Gay Jews who wish to be part of an Orthodox
community will find very few synagogues in which there is some level
of understanding and tolerance. Some gay Jews attend Orthodox services
and remain closeted in their communities. It is crucial that Orthodox
rabbis express a loving acceptance for known gays in their synagogues
even if public legitimation is now impossible. Attacks on homosexuality
from the pulpit are particularly painful to those who have remained
connected to the traditional synagogue, despite the hardships. a
I have hesitated until now to address
the central halachic concerns of homosexuality. Real dialogue is necessary
before such a process of responsa writing can begin. Still, it appears
to many Orthodox Jews that in the case of homosexuality there is little
use for dialogue in the face of such a clear biblical prohibition. A
number of my colleagues and friends want very much to respond compassionately
to gay people, but feel compelled to remain loyal to what they see as
the unambiguous word of the Torah. Let me offer the possibility of an
intermediate position to demonstrate that real listening may indeed
give birth to new halachic strategies. a
The Torah very specifically forbids anal
intercourse between two men. If the Torah expressly forbids only this
one form of sexual fulfillment, could we articulate a possible "halachic"
form of gay loving that excludes anal intercourse but permits a loving
physical and emotional relationship between two men or two women? After
all, heterosexuality is not a free zone of activity of halachically
committed Jews. For the sake of holiness, the Torah requires heterosexual
couples to refrain from intercourse during menstruation. Why not offer
such a sanctified option to gay men who wish to find acceptance in the
halachic community? a
For many gay men, this will not be a
realistic choice. But until it becomes a real possibility, who knows
who will agree to commit? Of course, this challenge to gay Jewish men
will be sincere only if the halachic community then takes a lead in
accepting the couples who commit in this covenantal fashion (Lesbian
women would be accepted without condition, because there is no Torah
text that specifically prohibits their relationships.) a
I offer this framework knowing that Orthodox
Jews will protest that there are rabbinic prohibitions that invalidate
it, and that many gay Jews will feel it too severely limits the essence
of gay lovemaking. Let it then simply demonstrate at least the beginnings
of a language of discourse between the tradition as it now stands and
the lives of gay people. a
For the present, in regard to sexual
behavior, I personally have chosen to accept a certain risk and violate
the Halacha as it is presently articulated, in the hope of a subsequent,
more accepting halachic expression. I realize that this is a "civil
disobedience." It is not the system itself which I challenge but
its application to an issue that has particular meaning for me and for
those like me. There is always the possibility that I am wrong. Ultimately,
the halachic risks that I take are rooted in my personal relationship
with G-d, Who I will face in the end. It is this faith that makes me
both confident and suspicious of myself. a
I have, admittedly, a rather privatized
from of community. I am closeted and have chosen to write this essay
in anonymity to preserve what is still most precious to me: the teaching
of Torah and caring for my community of Jews. what concerns me most
is neither rejection by the Orthodox community, nor the loss of my particular
pulpit. Were I to come out, the controversy would collapse my life,
my commitments, my identity as a teacher of Torah, into my gayness.
Still, the secrecy and the shadowy existence of the closet are morally
repugnant and emotionally draining. I cannot remain forever in darkness.
I thank G-d that for the time being, the Torah still sheds ample light.
a
I have a small circle of friends, gay
and straight, men and women with whom I share a sense of community.
We are looking for other tradition-centered Jews who can help build
a place that embraces both the Torah and gay people. Not a synagogue,
not a building, but a place for all the dispersed who are in search
of community with Israel and communion with G-d. In this place, this
House of the Lord, now somewhat hypothetical and private, and soon,
I pray, to be concrete and public, those of us who have withered in
the darkness, or in the light of day have been banished, will discover
our names etched upon the walls. a
(Written by Rabbi Steve Greenberg
under the pseudonym “Rabbi Yaakov Levado” before he “came out”. Published
in Tikkun Magazine 1993)
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