LGBTQ+

About a dozen years ago, when I was still serving as a part-time rabbi (read: “full time rabbi” – there is no such thing as a “part-time” rabbi), my son, Erik, took a look at what was scattered about my sewing room.

Tallitot, kippot, challah covers, tallit bags.

I had just completed a tallit set for a trans child based on their loves: bees and celestial objects. The tallit and kippah featured a moon dripping with honey and honeybees flying about.

I had told Erik about the interactions I’d had with the child, the fun of finding the right embroidery motif, the decisions we had made together about color and fabric, the jubilant moment when we knew what verse the child wanted on their atarah.

“Sometimes I think,” he said, “this is really your rabbinic calling.”

I laughed. After all, I loved leading services and singing, above all, with my community. I loved writing (and reading) about Judaism. I loved teaching – children, especially. I loved the chaplaincy work I did as a volunteer in the local hospital.

These things seemed to be the core of whatever had drawn me to rabbinical school in the first place.

This past summer, I remembered what Erik had said.

First, there was the non-binary child whose b-mitzvah was coming up. I met them on Zoom. We talked about big stuff (like living life when you are afraid or anxious) and the timely stuff (like what the Jewish clothing they were to wear the day of the ceremony needed to “say”). The child was inventive, bright, funny. Every single stitch – whether by machine or by hand – was both joyous and intentional.

Second: a client wanted a pride kippah that typically featured the colors of the rainbow in those of the asexual pride flag (purple, white, gray, and black). Could I manage to reformat an embroidery of fifteen thread changes for just those four colors and still come up with something balanced? It took a couple of tries, but when I was done, I decided to take a picture and make that kippah a possible choice on my Etsy site.

Third: a client ordered eight of the Flowering Pride Kippah.

Part of me sighed inwardly. Those particular kippot are the hardest ones to make in my shop. Fifteen color changes take a long time. Constant vigilance is needed so there is no mix-up of colors.

For every two of these that come out right, one goes wrong. It doesn’t center right. The machine goes wonky and thread gets tangled in the bobbin case. A needle breaks and the fabric tears.

Eight of those?

Oof.

Then the client told me that she was purchasing them so she, her wife, and assorted family members could all wear them to shul on Yom Kippur.

I started sewing.

I made eleven to make eight. Every time something went wrong, I took a deep breath and started again.

I imagined her family walking into shul, wearing something beautiful with a tender, mindful message: here are congregants who can, will, and should (using that word intentionally) be seen, recognized, made welcome, embraced – like all entering a shul on any day.

May we open our hearts during this month of Elul. May we embrace Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur softly, with lovingkindess for ourselves and those who are beside us, in front of us, and behind us.

May Pride be elevated and glorious.

That is a calling.

Eddie Jarnoldroy Justice, who died in the attack on Pulse (from GoFundMe) — Eddie Jarnoldroy Justice, who died in the attack on Pulse.
(from GoFundMe)

It was easy to condemn Donald Trump’s self-congratulatory response to the Orlando massacre: “Appreciate the congrats for being right on radical Islamic terrorism…” Trump’s response was transgressive and jaw-droppingly narcissistic, a violation against the victims, their families, and their friends.

It wasn’t hard to be appalled by the letter written by Brock Turner’s father, Dan. The Stanford student had been convicted of rape, but was given a sentence of a mere six months in prison with probation. His father wrote to the judge that his son’s life had been ruined, and that “that is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action.” The actual victim was erased. Again.

Either example is now notorious. But there are many, many more subtle ways to forget a cardinal rule I learned as a teacher, a spiritual director, and as a rabbi: It’s not about us.

At the side of a distressed individual, an anxious congregant, a hospital patient, victims of emotional, physical, and sexual violence we are told to remember: It is about them — their voice, their feelings, and their experience. Listen, acknowledge and honor that fact.

It is natural for any of us to respond to tragedies and horrors from our frame of reference. That’s how we make sense of things – for ourselves. As onlookers we experience sadness, grief, and rage. We use the tools we know and love, the tools that give us strength. These include our rituals, our texts, our liturgies. That’s what they are there for.

In the past week, Jewish communities and their leaders have noted the concurrence of the Orlando massacre with the arrival of Shavuot, matching numbers of those murdered with the days of the omer and juxtaposing the hope for joyous arrival at Sinai with the terror that unfolded at Pulse. This is an understandable response for Jews – our frame of reference helps us comprehend the world.

But our frame of reference is not that of the victims. The victims were members and supporters of the LGBTQ+ community. They were targeted and terrorized. Most were Latino. There were many issues at play for the killer, it seems, from extremist terrorist ideologies to condemnation of the LGBTQ+ community, and even the possibility of sexual confusion and self-hatred. But Omar Mateen certainly did not choose to kill because of associations with Jewish liturgy, Jewish ritual, or Jewish holidays.

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice texted his mother Mina from Pulse:

Mommy I love you
In club they shooting
Trapp in bathroom
Call police
Im gonna die

Eddie did die.

Is the counting of the omer or the arrival of Shavuot relevant for Mina Justice, for Eddie’s friends and family? Is it relevant to the LGBTQ+ community and mostly Latin victims?

Again: What we do privately in our homes to understand this horror in terms of our own tradition and experience is perfectly reasonable. How we describe this horror in public – even among our own constituents – will say something about our capacity to remember that cardinal rule: It’s not about us.

It is important that we create space for the victims, their families, and their friends, to speak in their own voices. It is important that when we speak in public we focus entirely on acknowledging and honoring their frame of reference.

The victims were members of a hunted and despised community. LGBTQ+ individuals in this country do not have the privilege of taking their safety for granted. To give them that safety requires that we avoid overlaying their voices with other voices – of any kind. With the best of intentions, when we do such things we run the risk of silencing the victims, their family, their friends, and the community that has survived.

It’s about them.

Tag: LGBTQ+

Pride in Shul — A Calling for Us All

Orlando: It’s Not About Us