A Room of One's Own?:
One Person's View on Gay Synagogues
By Wendy Rosov
I write this article with serious reservations and a slight sense of trepidation. When I was 15, I realized I was gay. I felt ashamed and embarrassed, afraid of what fate awaited me should anyone find out. I hid my secret, biding my time until I went off to college. By the time I turned 18, I had concluded that the Judaism I had grown up with had no room for "someone like me." I felt that my Judaism and my sexuality were mutually exclusive. I could choose one or the other, but I couldn't have both.
Once in college, I made a conscious decision to leave Judaism behind. Rather than face rejection from the tradition, I felt empowered by rejecting the tradition first. I spent the next 10 years completely divorced from Judaism--from my past, from everything I had known and grown to love. During this time I had heard that there were gay synagogues--places where Jews like me could go, feel counted and supported. I'll admit I was curious. Finally, one Yom Kippur I walked into a gay shul(synagogue). I couldn't believe my eyes: there were hundreds of people, all like me: gay and Jewish. All the trappings were there too: a rabbi, a chazan(cantor), an ark, a Torah. Yet, something didn't feel quite right. I stayed for a couple of hours in the hopes that I would grow to feel more comfortable; it never happened. I left and put it out of my mind.
Many years have past since that day. I have had a lot of time to reflect on that experience. I can now say boldly and (as much as I can ever be these days) definitively: I think gay synagogues are a mistake. I think they only serve to reinforce the marginalization and ghettoization of gay Jews, as well as to reinforce the misguided mainstream Jewish notion that there are none of "us" in their midst. I think gay synagogues are antithetical to any true sense of klal Yisrael(all the people of Israel). I think that we in the gay community are missing opportunities to educate while those in the straight community are deprived of opportunities to learn. Both groups lose out on the opportunity to do some real tikkun (repairing) in the world.
Last Spring our rabbi went on sabbatical. As a member of the ritual committee and a professional Jewish educator, I was asked to "play rabbi" in his absence. One shabbos (Sabbath) morning it came to my attention that an older, distinguished couple in the congregation needed an aliyah (prayer) to celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary. I knew that several years ago the husband of the couple was embroiled in a bitter set of discussions about the place of gays and lesbians in the shul community. He was not exactly an ally, to put it mildly. It was my job now to offer the "me she-berach" -- a prayer asking God to bless this couple. It was a powerful moment that was lost on no one, least of all the three of us standing at the lectern. There was a sense of healing, of tikkun, at that very moment.
Look, I admit it: I'm lucky. I live in Berkeley (with my partner of 10+ years) where I am a member of a Conservative shul best described as "liturgically Conservative (big "C") and socially progressive." We are a diverse community, yet we represent the rich tapestry that is now the reality of North American Jewry. We are straight, gay, single, coupled, intermarried, in-married, graced with the gift of some 70 children under the age of 5 and an aging, yet active, community of seniors. We are all striving to grow Jewishly, and we are committed to grappling with the issues that confront our community day in and day out. I know that my being an active member of this community has had a tremendous impact on people. Not just in my capacity as a professional Jewish educator, but as a gay, Jewish woman. The simple act of my being there forces those who would otherwise be comfortable in their homophobia to confront me as a person, as a Jew, and not just as some abstract "aberration."
At the kiddush (reception) following shul that shabbos morning, the husband of the couple came over and gave me a great big hug. As we ended our embrace, I could see that he had a tear in his eye. I did, too. I couldn't imagine a better place to be.
Wendy Rosov is a doctoral candidate in the School of Education at Stanford University. She graduated from Barnard College in 1986 and received her MAED from the University of Judaism in 1995. She is an active member of Congregation Netivot Shalom, Berkeley's only Conservative shul. She lives in Berkeley with her partner Lisa and their two dogs.
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