Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Q1: How have your intersecting identities affected your (faith) leadership?

Back in the late 1970s, I was a lesbian radical feminist separatist. Married to a man in 1975, I came out in 1978. A Marxist during my undergraduate studies as a Sociology student at LSE, after I graduated in 1977, I discovered the Women’s Liberation Movement and realised that, aware of my sexual orientation since I was a child, it was possible for me to come out and live with pride as a lesbian.

It was a heady, liberating moment. But it didn’t last. Within a couple of years, it became clear that the Women’s Liberation Movement in Britain, as in the USA, was rather WASP, that is, predicated on White Anglo-Saxon Protestant assumptions, which marginalised me and my identity and experience as a Jewish woman. We didn’t use the language of intersectionality back then, but along with other Jewish women, I began to feel the need to occupy a feminist space that embraced me as a woman, as a lesbian and as a Jew. So, not long after being involved in the foundation of the Jewish feminist movement in Britain in January 1982, I became part of a Jewish lesbian group.

The journey from radical feminism and lesbian feminism to Jewish lesbian feminism involved me coming to terms with complexity. My life was not just connected to a sisterhood involved in a struggle to overcome patriarchy, it was also connected to a people, with a long history that was, both, one of glorious ongoing inventiveness and creativity and also horrific persecution, exclusion, and genocide.

So, I saw myself confronted with a double challenge. I needed to do what I could to contribute to the struggle to end patriarchy, and I needed to do what I could to contribute to the task of enabling Jewish life to flourish – in particular, after the Holocaust, what Jews refer to as the Sho’ah, the ‘devastation’, that saw the murder of half the Jews of Europe – one third of the world Jewish population – and the destruction of tens of thousands of Jewish communities.

As it happens, my connection to the Sho’ah was also personal. While my mother’s parents fled anti-Semitic pogroms in eastern Europe in 1905, settling in the East End, where they met and married in 1906, my paternal grandparents were Viennese, and experienced the disintegration of their world after the Nazis invaded Austria in February 1938. My paternal grandfather was one of the 30,000 men rounded up by the Nazis after Kristallnacht, the infamous ‘night of the broken glass’ on 9 November 1938 that heralded the beginning of the violent persecution of the Jews of Europe. Incarcerated in Dachau concentration camp on 13 November 1938, my grandfather was released on 19 January 1939, on condition that he and his family left the country. I have a copy of the Dachau document. But it wasn’t easy to get out because refugees were not welcome… In the end, my father, who had emigrated to South Africa in 1936, managed to organise domestic permits for his parents and two siblings to travel to England, and they escaped shortly before World War II was declared.

It’s a much longer story, but for the sake of brevity, determined to contribute to the defeat of patriarchy and refusing to grant Hitler a ‘posthumous victory’^[1], I decided to become a rabbi.

That decision was not only about taking on that double challenge. It also involved the realisation that to have a chance to effect real change, it was no good being part of a radical cadre, separated from society. I needed to participate in society and work to generate change from the inside. My way of doing this was by joining the mainstream Jewish community and doing what I could to contribute to making Jewish life egalitarian and inclusive and fit for purpose in the late 20th century.

But of course, I chose a very challenging path. Needless to say, there was resistance. Another member of my Jewish lesbian group, Sheila Shulman, who sadly died in 2014, shortly after we celebrated the 25th anniversary of our ordinations, had also reached a similar conclusion. So, we both applied to the Leo Baeck College in London, which trains rabbis for the progressive rabbinate, and after a week of interviews in March 1984, we are both admitted – but only on condition that the usual one-year probationary period was extended for the full five years of the postgraduate rabbinic training programme. I don’t have the time here to say more about how difficult those five years were. Suffice it to say that opposition only made me more determined: More determined to create space for LGBT+ people within the Jewish community; more determined to enable all those on the margins of Jewish life to feel welcome and included and enabled to participate.

I have spoken about myself as a woman, a lesbian, a Jew. These are labels, categories. In the past 10 years, I’ve added another: gender-queer. But people are not categories, they are individuals. When we speak as we do today of the ‘protected characteristics’ – race, disability, mental health, gender, gender identity, sexuality – we have to remember the individuals who inhabit those characteristics, many of whom embrace within themselves several at once. Ultimately, my intersecting identities have informed my leadership as a rabbi by making me sensitive to the importance of welcoming, including, and enabling individuals to participate. The text that has influenced me most in this regard is a passage at the beginning of the Book of Exodus chapter 25, which introduces the project of constructing the tabernacle in the wilderness. We read (25:1-9):

The Eternal One spoke to Moses, saying: / Speak to the Israelites, that they take for Me an offering; from everyone whose heart makes them willing you shall take my offering. / And this is the offering that you shall take from that which is theirs: gold, and silver and brass; / and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, / and rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins and acacia-wood; / oil for the light, spices for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense; / onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the cape and for the breastplate. / Then let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them. / According to all that I show you, the pattern of the tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings, just so shall you make it.

There are very important messages for us in these verses. That a collective enterprise requires the participation of individuals. That individuals contribute voluntarily. That each person brings their particular gifts for the creation of community. That participation involves enhancing the community with our personal contributions. That the Eternal One dwells amongst the people when every individual offering is included.

My rabbinate has been framed by my combined personal and professional tabernacle project: to integrate all of who I am in my life and work as a lesbian, feminist, gender-queer Jew and to enable others to live integrated lives in which all the different aspects of their identities thrive, and to participate in all their lived complexity in the life of community.

Q2: People with intersecting identities often find it harder to feel seen and welcomed in faith spaces – what advice would you give faith communities to provide more positive experiences to their members?

Faith communities don’t have a good reputation for being inclusive. Most LGBTQI+ people in search of community and belonging, probably wouldn’t set foot inside a synagogue, a church, a mosque, or a temple, because judging by official religious teachings and standard communal practices, they would regard such spaces as excluding and unwelcoming. Given this perception, which matches with reality in the majority of cases, a religious or spiritual community committed to being egalitarian and inclusive needs to take action to demonstrate that they are inclusive and treat everyone equally.

When I began working as rabbi of Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue in December 2000, the synagogue was not inclusive. Nevertheless, in response to the presence of LGBT+ rabbis since the time that Sheila Shulman and I were ordained in 1989, the movement to which the congregation is affiliated, Liberal Judaism had embarked on a journey, and by 2002 when LJ set up a rabbinic working party on same sex ceremonies on which I served, it had begun to consider the practice of inclusion and equality for LGBT+ people. In the next few years, there were a series of landmark developments. In December 2005, LJ published the Working Party’s liturgy for same-sex ceremonies to coincide with the Civil Partnership Act coming into force.^[2] As the Equal Marriage Campaign gained momentum, with leadership from the Rabbinic Conference, Liberal Judaism gave public support for equal marriage, and also began working with Queer and Trans Jews UK.^[3] LJ also launched other projects: Rainbow Jews^[4], recording Jewish LGBT+ history from the 1950s to today, the trans interfaith project Twilight People^[5] and Rainbow Pilgrims, a project exploring the experiences of LGBT+ migrants and refugees^[6].

It was against the backdrop of the first signs of change within Liberal Judaism that I presented to the synagogue Council, the governing body of the congregation, the need to become more inclusive, starting with our approach to unaffiliated and disaffiliated Jews. In September 2002, we held our first outreach event on a Sunday morning, headlined as: ‘Are you Jewish or Jew-ish?’ Advertising in the local press and on BBC Radio Sussex, 70 people – Jewish, Jew-ish and non-Jewish – showed up! And so, we continued. Another important change was the Council’s decision to adopt a Hebrew name: Adat Shalom v’Rei’ut, ‘Congregation of Peace and Friendship’, and also to give the monthly newsletter a name that reflected this ethos: Open Door. At the same time, the decision was taken to address the synagogue’s PR, and proclaim the message of equality and inclusion via our leaflet and website. With inclusion firmly on the agenda, in 2005 the Council adopted Liberal Judaism’s policy on the inclusion of LGBT+ individuals and couples and took the decision to allow same-sex ceremonies to be held in the synagogue. Indeed, in March 2006, my partner Jess and I had the joy of celebrating our wedding with the synagogue packed to the rafters. In due course, the Council also endorsed Equal Marriage. And then, with growing awareness of marginalisation of trans people, the Council’s plans to rebuild the synagogue as an eco-friendly, level-access accessible space, with wide-door entry to all spaces, a new improved hearing loop and sound system and a lift that could take a large mobility scooter, also included an all-gender accessible toilet downstairs and an all-gender toilet upstairs with requisite signage. A 50-month project, the new building was inaugurated and rededicated on the Sabbath of Chanukkah, the festival of ‘dedication’ in December 2015.

As I mentioned earlier, inclusion is not just about how we welcome people in, it’s also about enabling individuals to participate and contribute their gifts. Providing educational opportunities, diversifying religious services and empowering people to participate in these activities in their own ways is essential to ensuring full inclusion. And so, six months after I began work at BHPS, at the AGM in 2001, the congregation voted to vary eve of Sabbath services to broaden their appeal: a shared meal with blessings and songs on the first Friday; a shortened service and a speaker on the second; a creative service on the third, and a classical Liberal service on the fourth.

Meanwhile, I introduced Hebrew for adults at all levels twice weekly, and a rolling Exploring Judaism programme. The idea behind both these initiatives was to give individuals the resources to access Jewish texts and participate in services, and to engage Jewishly in their own lives at home. Over the years, these programmes have attracted members of the congregation who missed out on a childhood education, and individuals on their journeys – Jewish, Jew-ish and non-Jewish – many of whom took their first step by meeting with me and sharing their story. So, the classes have always included a range of people of all ages and backgrounds, identities and life situations.

Empowerment of individuals has extended to religious services. Lay readers lead in their own way, determining how much they do in Hebrew/English and read/sing, how many verses of the weekly Torah portion they read or sing, the incorporation of poetry, meditative practices, and so on. The rota of ‘lay readers’ includes our young people, aged 8 to 15, whose regular leadership of the congregation’s Sabbath morning service with their teachers, includes performing a mini-play written by themselves based on a theme from the Torah portion.

In Jewish life, a young person transitions into adulthood at the age of 13, and at BHPS, the young person leads the service before being called up to read the Torah and give a mini-sermon about their portion. Perhaps the most important step on the path to full inclusion was taken in 2018, when we decided that in addition to preparing young people to become bar mitzvah, a ‘son of the commandment’ or bat mitzvah, a ‘daughter of the commandment, we would offer each young person the gender-neutral option of becoming b’ mitzvah, rather than assume their gender on their journey to adulthood.

Just as services vary according to who is leading, so the congregation are invited to participate in their own way: for example, to sit or stand for as they choose for key prayers rather than be directed one way or another.

I hope that the example of Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue shows that if we are committed to ensuring that people with intersecting Identities feel seen and welcomed in faith spaces, those spaces need to send out messages of welcome, ensure accessibility, and also be committed to putting inclusion into practice for all by treating each person as an individual, cherishing the gifts they bring, and enabling everyone to participate in their own ways.

Q3: What has been your experience with inhabiting other identity spaces with your “faith hat” on?

It’s quite hard to answer this question without sounding angry. The issue from a Jewish point of view is not about being a person of faith in a context in which others are not people of faith. The issue is about being a Jew in a society that is still dominated by Christian cultural assumptions – even, if most of those who are nominally Christian don’t attend church or practice Christianity. So, in a nutshell, when I inhabit other identity spaces as a Jew – which basically means any time I go anywhere that isn’t a Jewish space – my experience as a Jew is marginalised at best and I’m presented with explicit anti-Semitic tropes at worst. The exceptions to this experience are those spaces that are consciously dedicated to Interfaith exchange – and I have been engaged in in-depth Jewish-Christian dialogue and Jewish-Christian-Muslim trialogue for over 35 years.

Let me share a couple of examples of my experience of marginalisation. Since British life follows the Christian calendar, around Christmas or Easter, the assumption is that everyone is celebrating or marking these festivals – so, I’m usually asked questions like: What are you doing for Christmas? When I meet people for the first time, I’m often asked where I’ve come from – I guess because I have looks that mark me out as different from the British norm – although surely, by now, with all the waves of immigration that have followed Jewish immigration in the past 70 years, you would think that being ‘British’ would encompass a wide variety of cultures and ethnicities. But of course, what is true of London and of the other major urban centres, is not true of smaller towns and rural areas.

When it comes to anti-Semitic tropes, the most common and least offensive include the response to a contribution I might make to a discussion, that: ‘Jews are very clever’. And needless to say, in left-wing or progressive circles, I’m often given the strong message that I’m only acceptable as a Jew if I denounce Israel. And then, there is my experience of attending some Christian services, where I’ve heard the Hebrew Bible referred to as the ‘Old’ – as in, redundant – ‘Testament’, and I’ve listened to Christian Ministers contrast the ‘harsh justice’ of ‘the Old Testament’ with the message of ‘love’ in the New Testament, as if ‘Love your neighbour as yourself’ was not a Jewish teaching – as set out in Leviticus chapter 19, verse 18 – and as if 2000 years of Christian anti-Jewish hatred and persecution had never happened.

These situations make me feel angry. The times when I feel hurt and pained are when I face marginalising or anti-Semitic comments in LGBTQI+ spaces. Of course, like any other person identified with a faith or religious community who is committed to equality and inclusion, when I’m in LGBTQI+ spaces, I’m acutely aware of the terrible impact of homophobic religious teachings, and that many people who are LGBTQI+ reject religion on this basis. I’ve dedicated a lot of my time during my rabbinate to re-interpreting religious teachings – not least, those infamous verses in the Book of Leviticus, in chapters 18 (:22) and 20 (:13) outlawing sex between men – and to reading sacred texts with LGBTQI+ eyes and generating new teachings that are affirming of LGBTQI+ existence.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah is a Liberal Rabbi, author, and social justice activist. An LGBTQ+ pioneer, who became one of the first two openly lesbian rabbis in the world in 1989, Elli is a member of the British Friends of Rabbis for Human Rights and a long-time participant in Jewish-Christian-Muslim trialogue. Liberal Jewish Chaplain at Sussex and Brighton universities and rabbi of Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue for 20 years, following retirement in April Elli was appointed as Rabbi Emeritus.

1. This is the additional commandment articulated by the Jewish philosopher Emil L. Fackenheim (The Jewish Return Into History. Reflections in the Age of Auschwitz and a New Jerusalem. Schocken Books, New York, 1978, p. 22). ↑

2. Covenant of Love – B’rit Ahavah (Liberal Judaism, 2005). See www.liberaljudaism.org. Also see ‘Marriage by any Other Name’, chapter 8 in my book Trouble-Making Judaism. (David Paul Books, 2012). ↑

3. http://transgenderjews.org.uk/ ↑

4. http://www.rainbowjews.com/ ↑

5. http://www.twilightpeople.com/ ↑

6. https://www.rainbowpilgrims.com/ ↑

Thinking in Twos

In recent years, we have become more aware of the extent to which we make sense of the world in terms of binaries; that is, in ways which split our perception and experience of the world into oppositional, mutually excluding categories. To name just the two most common binaries: good and evil; male and female. When splitting the world into binaries, the issue isn’t just that complexity is reduced to two oppositional elements. The elements are not equal. The elements in opposition are evaluated according to a binary positive/negative assessment: so, good is by definition, ‘good’ and evil is by definition ‘evil’; in other words, they are closed, sealed categories. And as the French Philosopher Simone de Beauvoir argued in her ground-breaking work published in 1949, Le Deuxième Sexe, The Second Sex, the male represents the self and the female the other.

For some people, even today, these binaries are completely self-evident – and I have deliberately mentioned binaries that are taken utterly for granted. Of course, we think we can recognise ‘good’ and ‘evil’ because they seem to us to be natural categories, rather than binary constructs that we impose on our lived experience. Of course, the division of humanity and other living creatures into two biological types is a reproductive imperative. 

Binary Judaism 

Unsurprisingly, binary thinking is also a dominant feature of Jewish teaching. The Torah’s foundational narratives assert this again and again. Ha-Adam, the first Human is split in two; Adam and Eve, two halves driven out of Eden to live lives of hardship, each with their own separate burden^[1]. Their children, Cain and Abel: the first children; siblings; rivals as it turns out for the good favour of God, who favours Abel’s offering, so Cain kills Abel^[2]. Ishmael and Isaac: the two sons of our ancestor Abraham; divided by separate destinies; Ishmael in the line of his Egyptian mother, Hagar; Isaac, the fruit of Sarah’s womb^[3]. Similarly, Jacob and Esau. And with these siblings, who were the sons of the same parents, Rebecca and Isaac, and also twins, the division is even more pronounced: Jacob becomes Israel; Esau is identified as Edom because of his ‘ruddy’ skin, an alien nation^[4]. So completely alien that Edom is later identified in rabbinic literature as Rome^[5], the empire that dominated Jewish life from 65 BCE onwards.

From binary narratives to a religious system embedded in binaries. The Book of Leviticus, Va-yikra, reads like an encyclopaedia of teaching predicated on the binary division between sacred and profane. The Levite tribe is set apart from the Israelite tribes. The priestly family of Aaron and his sons is set apart from the other Levitical families. The choicest agricultural products are set apart as offerings on the altar. Menstruating females and women who have just given birth are set apart for a period of cleansing before being readmitted into the community. Likewise, men who produce seminal emissions and those who experience a skin eruption. Most importantly, the people of Israel as a whole is set apart from the other nations. Significantly, the rationale for the sexual prohibitions outlined in the double portion Acharei Mot-K’doshim, Leviticus chapters 18 and 20, is precisely this separation. We read at Leviticus 18, verses 1-5:

The Eternal said to Moses, / “Speak to the Israelites and say to them: ‘I am the Eternal your God. / You must not do as they do in Egypt, where you dwelt, and you must not do as they do in the land of Canaan, where I am bringing you. You must not follow their practices. / You must practice My laws and keep My statutes and follow them. I am the Eternal your God. / You must keep My statutes and My laws, for the person who practices them will live by them. I am the Eternal’”.

The root meaning of the sacred, the holy, represented by the Hebrew letters Kuf Dalet Shin, means to ‘set apart’. The first time the root is used in the Torah is in connection with the setting apart of the seventh day from the six working days. We read in B’reishit, Genesis chapter 2, verse 3:

Then God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it – Va-y’kaddeish oto – because on it, God ceased from all the work that God had created to do.

The sacrificial system described in the Book of Leviticus ceased when the last Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, and most of the associated purification rites also ceased – with the exception of those associated with females. Indeed, the entire edifice of Rabbinic Judaism is rooted in the division between male and female roles. The Jew is the male Jew responsible for fulfilling the majority of the mitzvot – that is those which are positive and time bound and are undertaken in a public congregational setting. In this gender-divided system, women are specifically responsible as women for three mitzvot, all of which are fulfilled in the private domain: dividing the challah dough, lighting Shabbat and festival candles, and observing niddah, the laws of purification around menstruation and childbirth^[6].

There can be no doubt that social systems rooted in binaries are endemic, after all, they have dominated human life for thousands of years. But such a binary status quo is not exactly life-enhancing, especially for the relegated second category. Binaries generate oppositional dichotomies that ensure that the bifurcated binary elements are mutually exclusive. In contemporary terms, the preoccupation with the gender binary, for example, has led to the ridiculous notion that ‘Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus’^[7]; if only men and women would understand this they would live for ever in harmonious relationships. Social binaries reduce everything – Life/Thought/Experience – to dualistic oppositions, unequal partners at best, generating fear and hatred of the other at worst. We only have to think of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict that has been raging over the past ten days.

Thinking in Threes

Fortunately, despite the preoccupation with binaries, in particular, sacred and profane, male and female, Jewish teaching is more sophisticated. The Torah doesn’t only present binaries. Indeed, right from the outset, alongside an account of Creation that pivots on a binary relationship between humanity and the rest of Creation, there is a three-fold presentation of Life.

Three-fold Presentation of Life

Significantly, there is a second creation narrative in B’reishit, the Book of Genesis that begins at chapter 2, verse 4. In this version, instead of a concern with hierarchy and the placement of humanity at the pinnacle of Creation tasked to subdue and dominate all the other living creatures, the second Creation narrative centres on humanity’s responsibility as steward of the Earth – or rather, as responsible for the upkeep of the much more modest domain of a garden. Indeed, formed ‘out of the dust of the ground’ – afar min-ha-adamah^[8] – ha-adam, the human is created for this purpose: l’ovdah u’l’shomrah – ‘to work and to keep’ the garden^[9].

Further, the animals are introduced, not as creatures to be dominated, but rather as potential companions^[10]. While the first Creation narrative differentiates the human into two forms, ‘male and female’, zachar u’n’keivah, for the purpose of reproduction^[11], the second Creation narrative addresses the existential issue at the heart of singularity: Lo-tov heyot ha-adam l’vado – ‘it is not good for the human to be alone’^[12]. So, in the second creation story, differentiation is driven by the need for companionship. And when the human being fails to find a companion among the animals because the act of naming the animals, an act of power means they are not suitable companionship material^[13], the human is divided into two forms that are essentially two of the same; ishah and ish from the root, Aleph Nun Shin, to be ‘human’^[14]. While the terms zachar and n’keivah specify what differentiates the two humans from one another for the purpose of reproduction, the terms ishah and ish reflect their shared humanness.

Nevertheless, are we still stuck with the binary? No. Because the relationship between ishah and ish is not the exclusive focus of the second Creation narrative. Rather, the narrative focuses on the relationships between the human and the other forms of life. Instead of a binary representation, the narrative suggests the possibility of multiple relationships that emerge from the triangle between the human, the earth, and the other creatures: the interrelationships between the human and the earth and all that grows on it, the interrelationships between humans and animals, the interrelationships between humans.

Three-fold presentation of our people

I have spoken at some length about the second Creation narrative. I would now like to turn to the three-fold presentation in the Torah in connection with the narratives of our people. Significantly, the ancestors are presented in three generations: Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob, Leah, Rachel, Bilhah and Zilpah. And then, the Exodus story is a tale of three sibling leaders – Miriam, Aaron and Moses – although each sibling is accorded very different treatment. The youngest, Moses, is the focus of the narrative from the moment he is born. Aaron, the middle sibling, is tasked with a role of Moses’ right-hand-man, a functionary, even before his designation as the high priest. Meanwhile, Miriam, the eldest sibling, who was responsible with their mother for saving Moses’ life^[15] is side-lined. Although designated a prophet^[16], the Torah devotes just 29 narrative verses and two non-narrative ones in all to the eldest of the three sibling leaders of the Exodus^[17]. If you’re interested in an extensive treatment of Miriam, please read the second chapter of my book, Trouble-Making Judaism^[18]. Interestingly, moving from the Torah through the rest of TaNaKh, we can also discern three forms of religious leadership: priests, prophets and scribes. Later, the scribes became the rabbis.

Three names for our people

This talk is not just an exercise in identifying threes rather than twos in the Torah. The point about recognising the threes is what they can teach us about how breaking down dualistic thought patterns can lead to an opening up of previously closed categories and so enable us to acknowledge the complexity of our lived experience. While thinking in binaries, reduces everything to simple, fruitless oppositions, thinking in threes expands our horizons. I’m now going to take us through this by examining some more threes, beginning with the three names for our people.

Yes, we have three names. To start with the most obvious: Y’hudim, Jews, the Jewish people. This designation reminds us that we are the descendants of the ancestors; specifically, Jacob and Leah’s fourth son, Y’hudah, Judah^[19]. The name Y’hudah expresses the biological dimension of our peoplehood.

And then, we are also Ivrim, Hebrews. When a sudden storm led the sailors to make enquiries about the identity of the stranger who had come on board, Jonah answered, Ivri Anokhi, ‘I am a Hebrew’^[20]. The Hebrew root of ‘Hebrew’, Ivri, is Ayin Beit Reish, meaning to ‘cross over’ or to ‘pass over’. This name reflects our experience of journeying as a people, from the time that Abraham and Sarah set out on their first journey^[21]. We are Ivrim; those who are eternally crossing borders. The name Ivrim expresses the existential dimension of Jewish existence.

Finally, the third element: Yisraeil. As is made clear in the story relating Jacob’s night time struggle with an unknown man on the eve of his reunion with his twin, Esau, that culminates in him receiving a new name, Yisraeil means ‘One who struggles with God’^[22]. The name Yisraeil expresses the spiritual dimension of Jewish existence.

Taken together, these three names, Y’hudim, Ivrim and Yisraeil express the different dimensions of our peoplehood. They also invite us to embrace an inclusive way of thinking about what it means to be a Jew and what it means to belong to the Jewish people. For some, the fact that they are born Jewish expresses the sum total of what it means for them to be Jewish; it is a biological inheritance, which may be a simple fact, or may represent a burden. For some, being a Jew is about identifying with the history of the Jewish people and millennia of journeying; for some this will also mean exploring their roots and the journeys of their own particular family. For some, being part of Yisraeil, the people who struggle with God is the most significant element in their identity. And of course, there will be as many reasons for this as there are individuals. For some, their spiritual identity is key. For some, being Jewish is about engaging in a contest, it’s about arguing and asking questions and striving for answers, and yet finding most meaning in the questions. Some of us may engage with all of these dimensions at different times. These dimensions don’t describe denominations or geographical locations. And only one, the biological link to the first ancestors, is confined to those who are born Jewish. Acknowledging our multiple names enables us to be all of who we are, both individually and collectively.

Three loci of Jewish existence

Of course, both the names ‘Israel’ and Judah’ have at different times designated the land across the Jordan. King Solomon’s great kingdom was divided following his death into two kingdoms, Israel and Judah (c. 922 BCE). Israel was vanquished, along with its ten tribes, by the Assyrians in 722 BCE. In 586 BCE, the Babylonians conquered the Kingdom of Judah and the remaining tribes of Judah and Benjamin, and destroyed King Solomon’s Temple. Other conquests followed – by the Persians (546 BCE), the Greeks (c. 333 BCE), the Assyrian Greeks (175 BCE), the Romans (65 BCE). Judah/Judea, which enjoyed a brief period of independence under Hasmonean rule (140-65 BCE) before the Romans came along, remained a colonial outpost of the Roman Empire until the emergence of Islam. And it wasn’t until the end of the 19^th century that the birth of political Zionism brought new hope in the restoration of Zion and the re-establishment of a Jewish state.

I’ve encapsulated 3000 years of the history of the land on the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean in a few sentences. It is tempting to regard Jewish existence today in binary terms – on the one hand, in the diaspora, on the other hand in the State of Israel. In an effort to resist this temptation, let us go back to the foundational narrative, back to the Torah, where we find not a simple distinction between Egypt, where you have been and Canaan, where you are going – to paraphrase those verses at the beginning of Leviticus 18 I quoted earlier – but rather a picture of three loci of Jewish existence: Egypt, the wilderness, the land beyond the Jordan, in a chronology; Egypt, the past; the wilderness, the present; the Land, the future. Forever looking backwards and yearning forwards, we tend to ignore the present moment, the wilderness. Just a few days ago, we were reminded of the wilderness on Shavuot, the festival of ‘Weeks’ that, in the absence of a Temple after 70 CE and the possibility of bringing agricultural offerings, the rabbis transformed into z’man matan Torateinu, ‘the season of the giving of our Torah’. The ex-slaves, both the descendants of the ancestors and the erev rav, the ‘mixed multitude’ that made a dash for freedom with them^[23], encountered the Eternal One in the wilderness, in the empty desert. It was there, between Egypt and the Land, that they entered into a covenant with the Eternal One. Moreover, that experience was not simply a fleeting present moment between past and future; in that fleeting moment, the wilderness became eternally present. We carry that wilderness within us wherever we go. The wilderness is space, emptiness, without the accretions of space that we associate with organised societies; pieces of land that are named and claimed and populated and built-up and defended against outsiders. Our roots as a people in the wilderness teach us that space is always conditional, mobile, elusive. We are reminded in B’har, Leviticus 25, in the Torah portion that envisions a time of ‘freedom’, d’ror, in the fiftieth year beyond the seven cycles of seven: ‘The land shall not be sold in perpetuity; for the land is Mine; for you are strangers and settlers with Me^[24]. Like the actual wilderness that our ancestors trekked, the wilderness is a perilous bridge between Israel and the diaspora, and ultimately, even in the Land we are in the wilderness still, stripped of our presumptions, our possessions, and our certainties. The wilderness is with us in the Land and it is with us in all the other lands that we inhabit. What is the wilderness? It is a perpetual reminder of the Eternal.

Living in cycles of three

Eternal wilderness wanderers, we are united as a people with all our names, in all our complexity and multiplicity, and in every place, in moments of time: Shabbat and the annual cycle of festivals and commemorations. Interestingly, if you look at the Torah‘s accounts of the sacred days, we find two intersecting sets of three. The most familiar threesome is known collectively as shalosh r’galim, the ‘three feet’ festivals, when our ancestors would go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem to present their offerings to the priests at the Temple: Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot^[25]. And there is also another cycle, although it’s not so immediately apparent: the sacred days of the seventh month^[26]: the first day, which later became the new year for years, Rosh Ha-Shanah^[27], Yom Kippur and Sukkot followed by Sh’mini Atzeret, the eighth day of ‘closure’ that concluded the festival cycle in Temple times. Significantly, while the pilgrim festivals root us in a horizontal dimension, in the earth, in the seasons and the cycles of nature, and in our history of journeying, the sacred days of the seventh month lift us up into a vertical dimension. The link in the two intersecting cycles of three, Sukkot -Sh’mini Atzeret, draws on and expands the themes of the first ten days of the seventh month – repentance and renewal in the context of eternity. At the same time, framed by the wise teachings of the biblical Book of Kohelet, Ecclesiastes, Sukkot-Sh’mini Atzeret, brings together the horizontal focus of the pilgrim festivals with the vertical focus of those ten days through concrete action. We build the fragile sukkah that is open to the sky and to the elements, and as we recall our ancestors’ wilderness wanderings, we acknowledge the fragility of life. We shake the lulav in the four directions of the compass, beginning in the east, and also towards the heavens and towards the earth, and simultaneously, give thanks for our material blessings while recognising that everything passes, however hard we grasp.

The context of Jewish Teaching: The Eternal – Torah – Israel

So, what do we learn from an exploration of Jewish space and time? That space is elusive and time is momentary and we live in eternity. But there is more. Alongside the intersection of the two annual cycles of Jewish time, there is the intersection of space and time in that wilderness moment we refer to as the Revelation at Mount Sinai. It’s not just that our ancestors encountered the Eternal in the barren desert, in the owner-less empty space that is the wilderness. That encounter inhabited and continues to inhabit another dimension: Torah. The Torah is neither the word of God (which is the traditional view), nor, written by men over centuries (as understood by critical scholarship). The Torah is, both, the teaching we have received and our on-going engagement with the Eternal. The Torah is the expression of a living conversation between the Eternal and the people that encompasses many texts and multiple voices – including our voices. Every time we study our Jewish texts, we engage and enlarge that conversation. After the destruction of the Temple, in place of a sacred space, the Torah became the eternal meeting place between the Eternal and Israel. And so, the covenant between the Eternal and Israel may be regarded not simply as an agreement, a contract with multiple clauses and conditions, but also as the agreement to participate in and contribute to that eternal conversation; an agreement that begins with an invitation to bring Torah in its widest sense, into our lives.

Triangular Teachings: a Magein David framework for Jewish Life

So: The Eternal – Torah – Israel: the relationship between the Eternal and Israel mediated by Torah from Sinai until now. In the last part of my talk, I will focus on two rabbinic passages that, rooted in the Torah as eternal teaching, offer us a framework in threes for our lives as Jews today.

In these passages, both from Pirkei Avot, The Chapters of the Sages, appended to the Mishnah

the world is presented as standing on three pillars.

We read in chapter 1, mishnah 2:

Simeon the Righteous was one of the last survivors of the Great Assembly. He used to say: ‘The world stands on three things: al ha-Torah – on Teaching; v’al ha-Avodah – and on Divine Service; v’al G’milut Chasadim – and on Loving Deeds.’

And then, in the same chapter, mishnah 18:

Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel used to say: ‘The world stands on three things: al ha-Din – on Justice; v’al ha-Emet – and on Truth; v’al ha-Shalom – and on Peace (1:18)

These teachings describe the essential pillars of the world and delineate the particular and the universal responsibilities of Jewish life. But we’re not just noticing here two sets of threes. And now we get to the heart of the matter of why threes are so important. Taking us beyond the binary, threes introduce multiplicity because of the potential for multiple interactions. 

Considering the particular responsibilities of Jewish life. The world stands on Torah, Teaching, and on Avodah, Divine Service, and on G’milut Chasadim, Loving Deeds. Torah, a pillar, and also an archway, linked to the other pillars. Moreover, there is complete interdependency. Torah is actualised through Avodah, service of the Eternal, and also through G’milut Chasadim, the service of our fellow human beings. Torah is not the preserve of the sacred, set apart for ritual veneration on Shabbat and the festivals. Torah is our morashah, our ‘inheritance’^[28] and lives in our lives when we engage in the work of living Torah in our relationships with others. The world stands on Torah and on Avodah and on G’milut Chasadim; on all three pillars. All three are essential. 

Turning to the universal responsibilities of Jewish life. The world stands on Din, Justice, and on Emet, Truth and on Shalom, Peace. Again: All three are essential. A system of Justice, which is what the word Din denotes, cannot be a just system if it is not allied with Truth. Why? Is Truth an absolute? Why is Truth not a singular absolute? Because Truth is embedded in a context in which perspectives are diverse. Truth is not a self-sufficient given. Truth is only Truth when it is connected to Justice, that is, when it is connected to the conditions, contexts and perspectives in which Justice is practised. Meanwhile, Peace is not possible without Justice. Peace is not abstract. The establishment of peace between parties engaged in conflict, for example, is only possible if both parties are treated justly and their differing narratives, their particular truths, are recognised.

The pillars of the world. What a powerful image. The world stands on Torah and on Avodah and on G’milut Chasadim and on Din and on Emet and on Shalom. And what a complex web of interactions emerges when we bring the interrelationships between all six pillars into play. I will leave that to your imagination. One way to envision these interactions is by thinking of the two sets of three as interlocking triangles. The Magein David, the six-pointed star, is made up of two triangles. So, we could picture the intersection of these two sets of three-fold teachings to form a Magein David of Jewish life, in which the particular and universal elements engage together, as they do in the context of our individual lives and in our lives lived in community.

Final words – and the example of Havdalah

So, what do we learn from all these ‘threes’? That while binaries split elements in a mutually exclusive oppositional way, threes introduce the possibility of interconnection, generate complexity and release the potential for multiplicity as the three elements interact in different ways.

And there is more. Unfortunately, I have not had time in this talk to reflect explicitly on the liminal space between different elements. In place of exploring ‘betweens’ in detail, I will leave you with a particular example. Shabbat begins with the kindling of light and the making of kiddush and it ends with havdalah, the ceremony whereby we ritually create a distinction between the sacred seventh day and the six days in which we engage in work and productive activity. Havdalah means ‘distinction’. Significantly, according to halakhah, we should not make havdalah until the Shabbat day has ended, indicated by three stars appearing in the sky. In other words, there must be a clear distinction between day and night. As we know between day and night there is evening. The Hebrew word erev is connected with another word with the same root: ma’arav, meaning ‘west’. The sun sets in the west, and after sunset, the sky is a mixture of light and dark. The Hebrew root letters for both erev and ma’arav is Ayin Reish Beit, meaning to ‘mix’.

So, havdalah is about marking the ‘distinction’ between the Shabbat day that has ended and the six days of the working week, and the ceremony concludes with a blessing that is a litany of distinctions: ‘… between sacred and profane, between light and darkness, between Israel and the nations, between the seventh day and the six working days.’ (The distinction between Israel and the nations is omitted from most progressive prayer books). And yet, the binary distinction between Shabbat and the six working days is expressed in a ritual involving three elements, each of which subverts binary distinctions.

A blessing is recited over a cup filled with the fruit of the vine, the symbol of joy, that marks Shabbat as a day of joy, but in addition to drinking from the cup, its contents are spilled at the end of the ceremony to express the loss of Shabbat – and not just spilled, spilled over the havdalah candle to douse the flames. The havdalah candle is utterly distinct from the usual two candles, each with a single wick, that are lit to inaugurate Shabbat. But the havdalah candle consists of many intertwined wicks. Shabbat and the days of the week are inextricably connected. Shabbat means to cease from work. Shabbat only has meaning in relation to the six working days of the week. Further, the blessing we recite over the blazing havdalah candle acknowledges the Eternal One as ‘creator of the lights of the fire’ – borei m’orei ha-eish. Multi-wicks and multi-lights – and not simply lights: ‘lights of the fire’; the igniting of fire, symbolising the first creative act after Shabbat. And, of course, fire isn’t just a creative power; it is also a destructive power. Fire is not singular and it is, potentially, uncontainable. The power to create and to destroy is in our hands.

Finally, the spices. I say, finally, but significantly, the blessing of the spices is recited and then the spices inhaled between the blessings over the wine and the havdalah candle. A mingling of different contrasting scents, as reflected in the blessing acknowledging the Eternal as ‘creator of different types of spices’ – borei minei v’samin – the spices symbolise drawing in to our beings the spirit of Shabbat for the week ahead. But, again, the representation of multiplicity and complexity; unlike other sources of smell, spices combine aromas. Between the blessings for wine and the lights of the fire, contrary to the binary assertions of the concluding havdalah blessing, the blessing of the potent mix of spices, subverts simple dualistic distinctions.

So, where does all this leave us? Looking forward to havdalah, I hope! In my reflections on the benefits of thinking in threes and embracing multiplicity, I am not suggesting that Jewish teaching dissolves into an array of relativities. Jewish teaching is a firm framework that is enriched by nuance and the awareness of complexity. And most important, engaging in Torah in its widest sense, encourages and enables us through study and reflection to subvert the assertion of absolutes and binaries and so enrich our experience of our lives and the world around us.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

1. Genesis 2:21-3:20. ↑

2. Gen. 4:1-15. ↑

3. Gen. 21:1-21. ↑

4. Gen.25:5-34; 27:1-45; 32:4-17; 36:1-43. ↑

5. An early link between Edom and Rome is found in Sifrei, the 2^nd century collection of midrash on Deuteronomy, e.g., Sifrei 343. Later, the identification is found in the 4^th-6^th century collection of midrash, B’reishit (Genesis) Rabbah, e.g. 6:3. ↑

6. The Talmud devotes one of the six ‘orders’ to ‘Women’, Nashim. One of the tractates in Nashim, Kiddushin, concerned with the laws of betrothal and marriage, includes a discussion of positive precepts dependent on time from which women are exempt’ mitzvat ‘aseh she-ha-z’man g’ramah (Kiddushin 33b-35a). ↑

7. The title of the best-seller book by John Gray. HarperCollins, 1992. ↑

8. Genesis 2:7 ↑

9. Gen 2:15. ↑

10. Gen. 2:18-20. ↑

11. Gen. 1:27. ↑

12. Gen. 2:18. ↑

13. Gen. 2:19-20. ↑

14. Gen. 2:21-23). ↑

15. Exodus 2:1-10. ↑

16. (Ex. 15:20). ↑

17. Narrative texts: Exodus 2: 1-10, Ex. 15: 19-20, Numbers 12:1-16, Num. 20:1. Non-narrative references: Numbers 26:59, Deuteronomy 24:9. Plus elsewhere in TaNaKh: Micah 6:4. ↑

18. David Paul Books, 2012. ↑

19. Genesis 29:35. ↑

20. Jonah 1:9. ↑

21. Genesis 12:1ff. ↑

22. Gen. 32:29. ↑

23. Exodus 12:38. ↑

24. Leviticus 25:23. ↑

25. Exodus 23:14-17 and Deuteronomy 16:16. ↑

26. Leviticus 23:26-43. ↑

27. Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1. ↑

28. As we read in Deuteronomy 33:4: ‘Moses commanded us the Torah, an inheritance of the congregation of Jacob’ – Torah tzivvah-lanu Moshe, morashah k’hillat Ya’akov. ↑

Introduction: Why a radical feminist Jewish lesbian decided to train for the Rabbinate

Good evening everyone. Thank you, Nigel for inviting me to speak to you all this evening. I’m going to begin with a sobering backdrop to our lives and take you back briefly to that devastating time over 75 years ago.

One third of the world Jewish population was murdered and tens of thousands of Jewish communities across Europe were destroyed in the Sho’ah, meaning ‘devastation’, ‘ruin’ or catastrophe’, which is the preferred Jewish designation of the Holocaust^[1]. The Nazis also persecuted and murdered the Roma people, disabled people, gay men, lesbians and nonconforming women, as well as communists and socialists. The child of a mother, whose parents fled pogroms in the Russian Pale in 1905, and a father whose own father was incarcerated in Dachau concentration camp after Kristallnacht in November 1938, after I came out in 1978 and became active in the Women’s Liberation Movement and Lesbian Feminism, as a Jew living in the shadow of the Sho’ah, I began to realise that a vibrant Jewish lesbian life couldn’t be forged out of those horrors…

And then, it became obvious to me that I needed positive reasons for being Jewish when, in the aftermath of Israel’s first Lebanon war in 1982, the media reacted with anti-Semitic tropes that included depicting Prime Minister begin as Hitler. Disappointingly, the feminist media, represented by the WLM weekly newsletter, the monthly magazine, Spare Rib and Outwrite, the black feminist newsletter jumped onto the bandwagon. Fortunately, Jewish feminists had already began to connect and I was part of a Jewish Lesbian group, which meant that I was not dealing with this hostile atmosphere on my own. And so, in the company of other Jewish lesbians, rather than be defined by anti-Semitism, I started to explore what it meant for me to be a Jew.

My Jewish education having stopped, aged 8 ½, when my brother became bar mitzvah, I decided to go to Liberal Judaism’s Montagu Centre in central London and learn to read Hebrew. That was the beginning of my rabbinic journey. Very quickly, I went from novice Hebrew reader to applicant for the Leo Baeck College rabbinic programme, starting in autumn 1984.

It was just as well that I became absolutely determined to do what I could to contribute to making Jewish life more egalitarian and inclusive because the next five years were almost impossibly challenging. But I wasn’t alone. Another lesbian, Sheila Shulman, who sadly, died in 2014, not long after we celebrated the 25^th anniversary of our ordinations, also decided to embark on the rabbinate at that time. We both belonged to the same Jewish Lesbian group, but hadn’t said a word to one another about it. Clearly, it was meant to be. Except that the Jewish world, even the progressive Jewish world, wasn’t quite ready for two ‘out’ lesbians. We were both put on probation for the full five years of the programme – the usual probation period is one year – and were told that we could be asked to leave at any time if the two progressive movements that sponsored the college, Liberal Judaism Reform Judaism, felt that their constituent congregations were not prepared to accommodate us. Fortunately, the first gay rabbi in Britain, Lionel Blue, became my tutor, and he and other key teachers offered both Sheila and I enormous support. I was very honoured to be ordained by Lionel on 9 July 1989.

Working as a lesbian rabbi in the mainstream Jewish community

When I first began working as a rabbi, I experienced a lot of challenges in my efforts to ensure equality and inclusion for LGBT+ people, particularly, around the issue of trying to secure same-sex marriage.

Back in 1989, Lionel, Sheila and I were the only LGBT rabbis in Britain. Following ordination, Sheila co-founded with a group of other lesbians, Beit Klal Yisrael, a synagogue which has been a beacon of inclusivity in the Jewish community ever since. Meanwhile, I became rabbi of the mainstream Reform synagogue that I had served as a rabbinic student in my fifth year.

I’m not going to recite the litany of homophobia and persecution I have experienced in the early years of my rabbinate – which included a small group lobbying to oust me from that first post. The good news is that since I became part of Liberal Judaism in 1998, beginning with a two-year stint at Leicester Progressive Jewish Congregation and then going on to the just over 20 that I have been rabbi of Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, the involvement of LGBT+ rabbis – now 20% of the progressive rabbinate – has generated a major transformation in Jewish life. In 2000 Liberal Judaism established a rabbinic working party on same-sex relationships, including two LGBT+ rabbis: Rabbi Mark Solomon, who grew up in Sydney and left the orthodox rabbinate for Liberal Judaism in the early 1990s – and me. Liberal Judaism has been championing the rights of LGBT+ people ever since. In December 2005, LJ published the first fruits of the working party, a booklet of commitment ceremonies to coincide with the Civil Partnership Act coming into force.^[2]

LJ then went on to support the campaign for equal marriage. In the past few years, LJ has also provided a home for a series of LGBT+ projects: ‘Rainbow Jews’, exploring the heritage of LGBT+ Jews; ‘Rituals Reconstructed’, creating opportunities for LGBT+ Jews to develop our own rituals; ‘Twilight People’, a multifaith transgender initiative; and ‘Rainbow Pilgrims’, which focuses on the lives of LGBT+ migrants and asylum seekers who come to the UK.^[3]

A lesbian rabbi at Brighton Hove Progressive Synagogue

So: a very positive story of LGBT+ inclusion within Liberal Judaism over the past 20 years. But this evening, I’ve been asked to focus on my experience of working to make Brighton and Hove Progressive synagogue a place of welcome inclusion for LGBT+ people.

When I left the Reform Synagogues of Great Britain over the issue of same-sex marriage in July 1997, there was as a vacancy at BHPS, so, thinking that It would be nice to live in the LGBT-friendly atmosphere of Brighton and Hove, I applied. But at that time the Union of Liberal and Progressive Synagogues that came to be called Liberal Judaism, wasn’t any more hospitable, and I wasn’t invited for an interview.

Thankfully, the following summer the congregation I had served as a rabbinic student in my fourth year, Leicester Progressive, offered me a weekend-a-month position, which felt very supportive. I then left London to live in Brighton in March 2000, and when the post at BHPS became vacant again in July 2000, I put in another application. Fortunately, with the help of the Executive Director of Liberal Judaism at the time, Rabbi Dr Charles Middleburgh, who had persuaded the synagogue leadership to speak to me, after an initial conversation, I was interviewed – by the entire council, the governing body of the synagogue, as it happened. The notion of appointing a lesbian feminist as Rabbi seen as potentially extremely controversial, the council decided to make the decision themselves, rather than take the proposal to a general meeting of the members of the congregation, so I got the job.

2000-2001

In my first year as Rabbi of BHPS, half a dozen members chose to resign their membership rather than have a lesbian as a rabbi. Fortunately, I also received much support from the Council and its officers. After each resignation, the then president of the congregation would call me up and reassure me that I had the support of the Council and that I shouldn’t take it personally, Bear in mind, that each resignation meant a membership subscription fee lost.

So, that first year was challenging. Thankfully, I enjoyed the support of the majority of the congregation, so, I found my feet. I also found that the congregation was willing for us to take a journey together.

2001-2004

Because of my experience as a lesbian on the margins of the Jewish community, the principal priority of my rabbinate has always been the inclusion of people on the margins: in particular, LGBTQI+ people, but also patrilineal Jews, Jews in mixed relationships, women, who had not received a Jewish education as children; people who for one reason or another were unaffiliated or had disaffiliated

And so, as soon as I began at BHPS, I established weekly Access to Hebrew and Exploring Judaism programmes. At the AGM in 2001, the decision was taken to diversify Sabbath services to make them more appealing to a wider range of people. In September 2002, we held our first outreach event on a Sunday morning, headlined as: ‘Are you Jewish or Jew-ish?’ Advertising in the local press and on BBC Radio Sussex, we had no idea how many people would cross the threshold. 70 people – Jewish, Jew-ish and non-Jewish – showed up! Another important change was the council’s decision to adopt a Hebrew name: Adat Shalom v’Rei’ut, ‘Congregation of Peace and Friendship’ – a name that reflected the welcoming, nurturing ethos of the synagogue – and also to give the monthly newsletter a name that reflected this ethos: Open Door.

2005-2011

With inclusion firmly on the agenda, in 2005, after participating in two Sunday mornings of homophobia training, conducted by my partner – now my spouse – Jess Wood, in her capacity as Director of Allsorts Youth Project. the council adopted Liberal Judaism’s policy on the inclusion of LGBT+ individuals and couples and took the decision to allow same-sex ceremonies to be held in the synagogue. Indeed, in March 2006, Jess and I had the joy of celebrating our wedding with the synagogue packed to the rafters. In due course, the council also followed Liberal Judaism’s lead in supporting and endorsing Equal Marriage.

In addition to these changes, I asked the council to look at its publicity materials, and suggested changes that would state that the congregation welcomes people on the margins, including LGBT+ people, people in mixed relationships, patrilineal as well as matrilineal Jews, and so on. And so, in addition to revamping the synagogue web-site, a new attractive synagogue leaflet was created – at a time when paper communications were still important.

Needless to say, before too long more people, who had hitherto lived on the margins, including LGBT+ people, started attending services and study sessions and other events.

2011-2021: The last ten years

And then, with growing awareness of the marginalisation of trans people, the council’s plans in 2011 to rebuild the synagogue as a totally accessible space encompassed installing an all-gender accessible toilet downstairs and an all-gender toilet upstairs – with requisite signage – proclaiming loud and clear that when we say ‘all are welcome’, we really mean it.

The rebuilt synagogue was inaugurated on Sabbath of the festival of Chanukkah, on 12 December 2015. In 2017, one of our members, who had become bar mitzvah with me at the synagogue celebrated her transition as a Trans woman, with a special ceremony during a Shabbat morning service. Then in 2018, very significantly, the council unanimously endorsed the Education committee’s proposal to offer each 12-year-old the option of preparing to become bar, bat, or non-binary gender b’ mitzvah, rather than continue to assume their gender identity.

Meanwhile, the synagogue began to connect with the LGBT+ calendar of the city. I had already participated over the years in LGBT+ History Month, and other LGBT+ community events, by giving talks and sharing panels, and had also participated in Trans Pride. So, the decision was taken to host a Sabbath evening meal with blessings, songs and reflections on the eve of Brighton Pride 2016. Open to our own congregants, it was also open to anyone who wished to attend. The event was so successful that until the pandemic struck, eve of Sabbath shared meals have been held on the eve of Pride each year through 2019. At one of these, cis ally, Rabbi Janet Darley, came to speak to us and showed a film of the special LGBT+ Seder meal held each year at her congregation, South London Liberal Synagogue.

In addition to the annual eve of Pride event, the new building has hosted exhibitions created by the various Liberal Judaism LGBT+ projects I mentioned earlier, including, Rainbow Jews, Rainbow Pilgrims, and Rituals Reconstructed.

Creating an inclusive congregation

I have focused on the journey to inclusion of one synagogue. What does it take to make a synagogue – or a church, or a mosque, or a temple – a place of welcome and inclusion?

My 20-year experience with BHPS suggests a number of key factors:

• That the larger movement to which the particular congregation belongs makes inclusion and equality a priority, and takes action to demonstrate that commitment.
• That the spiritual leader of the congregation is fully committed to making inclusion and equality a priority.
• That the lay leadership of the congregation is prepared to work with their spiritual leader to make inclusion a reality.
• That congregants themselves are prepared to open their hearts to welcome others into their midst. 

With all these elements in place, it is possible to transform the culture of a congregation. And let’s remember, that when we are talking about creating a culture of welcoming and inclusion, people don’t approach our congregations as categories, they are individuals, with their own lives and stories and journeys. Being welcoming and inclusive, comes down to how we treat each and every individual who comes knocking at the door, or who sends a message to the website or an email to the office.

I would like to close by sharing with you one of my favourite passages from the Torah – which is at the beginning of the Book of Exodus chapter 25, and introduces a theme that takes up most of the rest of the book; the building of the mishkan, the tabernacle in the wilderness (Exodus 25:1-8):

The Eternal One spoke to Moses, saying: /Speak to the Israelites, that they take for Me an offering; from everyone whose heart makes them willing you shall take my offering. / And this is the offering that you shall take from that which is theirs: gold, and silver and brass; / and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, / and rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins and acacia-wood; / oil for the light, spices for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense; / onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the cape and for the breastplate. / Then let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.

The Jewish people has not had a physical sacred place, a mishkan, a tabernacle, a Temple, for almost 2000 years since the Romans destroyed the last Temple in 70 CE, but, nevertheless, there are very important messages in these verses for our lives today. That individuals contribute voluntarily. That each person brings their own special gifts for the creation of community. That participation involves enhancing the community with our personal contributions. That the Eternal One dwells amongst the people when every individual offering is included. I’ve been fortunate to spend the last 20 years of my rabbinate at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue. In the past two decades the congregation has gone on a journey to becoming an inclusive congregation. As I prepare to retire in a few days’ time, just prior to my 66^th birthday on Monday, my hope is that before too long all congregations of every faith and culture will find ways of accepting and embracing the gifts of LGBTQI+ people and all those who seek to contribute to communal life.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Sexuality, Gender and Faith Group

Zoom meeting, Tuesday, 27 April 2021 at 7.30 pm

1. Holocaust means ‘burnt offering’, suggesting that the murder of the Jewish people had a sacred quality to it. Alternatively, Sho’ah, found in the Hebrew Bible, e.g. in Isaiah chapter 10, verse 3, more directly suggests the impact: ruin, desolation. ↑

2. Covenant of Love. Service of Commitment for Same-Sex Couples. Liberal Judaism, London, 2005. ↑

3. See: https://www.liberaljudaism.org/what-we-do/lgbtqi-projects/ ↑