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Books CCAR Press High Holy Days

Understanding the Spiritual Journey from Tishah B’Av to Yom Kippur

Rabbi Karyn D. Kedar is the author of Unfolding: A High Holy Day Companion from CCAR Press. In this excerpt, she explains the special rhythm of the Jewish calendar from the months of Av to Tishrei.

My wondering is my prayer. Beauty is my prayer. My spiritual agitation is my prayer. My prayer is the quiet by the window, which frames my thinking room as the sun sheds an early hue. I have sought silent amazement all the days of my life. I linger.

And I invite you to linger with me. This volume is my attempt to synchronize our spiritual search for meaning with the heartbeat of a few weeks of the Jewish calendar. It is an ode to our mortality, a song to our sense of impermanence. The words are meant to scratch at our imperfections. If we are flawed, and we truly are, then what is our worth? How do we find our purpose within the cracks and fissures of our being? Where do we find meaning?

We live and tarry in these questions for just a few weeks, from Av to Elul to the beginning of Tishrei. This becomes an arch where we slowly become aware, touching our existential longing to live deeply, intently, lovingly, and meaningfully. It is an invitation to a spiritual unfolding.

We begin with Tishah B’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av—a time of mourning and remembering the many calamities that have befallen the Jewish people. The month of Av is a solemn period grounded in historical circumstances that encourages deep personal reflection. The Temple was destroyed on the ninth of Av in 70 CE because of human frailty; we chose hate over love, and all was lost for the nation. So too, with us—when we give in to negativity, we lose so much. Destruction, we learn, is caused by senseless hatred. Redemption will come with love.

We begin here, in the ashes, for we learn from our tradition that we are but dust. We are of the earth and will return to the earth. This is not a statement of self-deprecation—after all, we are also taught that we stand on holy ground—but rather a call for a humble perspective. It is the reality of human nature to rise and to fall, to love and to hate, to give and to withhold. The month of Av grounds us with a simple warning: Humanity has the unlimited desire and capacity to create and love, but at the same time, humanity has the will and the means to destroy itself. Av asks us to dwell in our desire to live an elevated life—an unfolding toward loving rather than fear.

Nestled between the lowliness of Av and the overwhelming spirituality of Tishrei is the ethereal month of Elul. Elul invites us to contemplate thoughts of forgiveness, love, and beauty. For the entire month, we sing songs of penitence, praying. Praying that we will be forgiven, for we are deeply flawed. Praying that we can forgive, for we are afraid to let go. Remembering that we are created for glorious things—if we can live a life of strength and resilience, depth and compassion.

Love is not a feeling but a spiritual state, not an emotion but a practice. We yearn for an expansive love that lifts us and connects us to our highest impulses. To be gentler with ourselves and find greater self-love. To embrace our relationships with open hearts and understanding. To find a faith grounded in the awareness that love abides and abounds if only we reach for it.

The mantra of the month of Elul is Psalm 27, recited daily: “There is only one thing I seek, to gaze upon beauty all the days of my life” (verse 4). We consider words and concepts such as God, holiness, love, and beauty. For me, they are synonymous and the dwelling place of the aspirational soul.

The calendar leads us further into the thicket of reflection, self-awareness, moral accountability, and spiritual elevation. The first ten days of the month of Tishrei are called the Ten Days of Repentance. For weeks now, we have readied ourselves for the intensity of these ten days. We have practiced sustaining a thoughtful and contemplative pose, thinking about where we have come from, who we are, and who we desire to become. We have tended to our wounds, nurtured our hearts, and immersed ourselves in matters of the spirit. It is healing to realize that these days begin with Rosh HaShanah, a celebration of Creation, when the world shines new and we know that the power to recreate ourselves lies within our attention and intention to do so. The shofar sounds, a clarion call to awaken what lies dormant within so that we may journey ever deeper into repentance and forgiveness, unfolding into a deeper sense of self.

And then Yom Kippur. We are tired, humbled, ecstatic with hope, crying out one last time. We deny ourselves food and drink. On this holiest of days, with nowhere to go, we go inward. We use metaphors that create a sense of urgency like “the gates begin to close” and “seal us in the Book of Life.” We sing one more time of sin and repentance, rocking ourselves, hopeful that we can find the way, the path to a deeper life. A more thoughtful life. A forgiving life. And we bring our generations with us, immersing ourselves in loss and memory and the acute understanding that we are mortal. Morality is the demanding consciousness of Yom Kippur, bidding us to live better, deeper, and kinder. From dust. To dust.

Rabbi Karyn D. Kedar is an author, poet, spiritual counselor, inspirational speaker, and rabbi emerita at Congregation B’nai Jehoshua Beth Elohim in Deerfield, IL. She is the author of Omer: A Counting, Amen: Seeking Presence with Prayer, Poetry, and Mindfulness Practice, and Unfolding: A High Holy Day Companion, all from CCAR Press.

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Rabbinic Innovation

Rabbinic Innovators: Rabbi Rachel Van Thyn / RVT: A Rabbinate Built Upon Supporting People During Their Most Sacred Journeys and Moments

The Central Conference of American Rabbis, Reform Judaism’s rabbinic professional leadership organization, is home to more than 2,000 Reform rabbis across North America and beyond. And while Reform rabbis wear many hats, often at the same time—Torah scholar, officiant, pastoral counselor, chaplain, educator, organizational leader, activist—they also serve in a wider range of settings, changing the shape of the sacred work of the rabbinate with innovative new visions for Jewish communal life.

We’re proud to share the stories of CCAR members who are taking our ancient Jewish traditions and imaginatively and courageously building new programs, practices, collaborations, communities, and transformational approaches to Reform Judaism. We’re also sharing how, even in dark times, so many CCAR members find joy as rabbis, and we share their hopes for the future of the Reform rabbinate and Reform Judaism.

Rabbi Rachel Van Thyn (RVT) is a New York-based Reform rabbi, ordained in 2013. Here, shares her innovative rabbinic journey from working in a congregation to becoming a board-certified hospital chaplain, serving on the front line during the COVID-19 pandemic, as well as her personal challenges with fertility, which became an opportunity to help others on their fertility journey.

How do you describe your rabbinate?
My rabbinate has always been connected to two core values: the pursuit of justice and the value of hospitality or welcoming. My grandparents were Holocaust survivors, and I was raised with the sense that it is our responsibility as human beings to make the world a better place. My home congregation served as a welcoming and inviting space where people were embraced regardless of what they looked like. Since I grew up in a predominantly non-Jewish city, having a place where people were excited and happy to see me and where I didn’t feel excluded shaped my future path without my realizing it.

As a rabbi, these poles of justice and inclusivity guide my professional and personal selves. Every professional role I have embodied has been with a pursuit of these principles, whether working for a congregation, camp, a nonprofit organization, or a healthcare system.

What is the rabbinic motto or the words that guide your rabbinate?
To recognize that there is so much that is happening internally for each person I encounter that I may never know about, and thus to treat everyone with kindness, compassion, and dignity.

I also feel connected to the teaching that says every person should carry a note in each pocket: one that says, I am but dust and ashes, and the other which says, the whole world was made for me. Our work is in each moment to figure out which pocket to draw upon.

How have you innovated within your rabbinic career?
There are two significant ways I’ve been innovative in my career. First, I moved from pulpit work and became a board-certified chaplain, and then completed additional training to become a CPE Supervisor (a CPE Supervisor trains and supervises clergy and professionals in multi-faith chaplaincy). I knew for a long time that being with people in crisis and difficult moments, counseling people, and holding space was something I felt energized by and drawn towards, even before I became a rabbi.

I have worked at a massive healthcare system for nearly a decade, including serving front-line during the COVID-19 pandemic. These surges coincided with part of my fertility journey to become a parent, and I found myself undergoing IVF treatments while we walked through an unprecedented time in history. Our family had good support, but we needed specific kinds of emotional, spiritual, and ritual care that we didn’t have. So I began creating it for myself.

After I was lucky enough to give birth to a child, I established Clara Fertility Counseling & Support—a practice (not associated with the hospital) that provides these types of support to people in their family-building journeys, regardless of whether they consider themselves spiritual or religious or not. I work with individuals and couples, holding space for questions and feelings as they strive to expand their families, and I also work with organizations and congregations with things like offering best practices towards being inclusive to their members, many of whom are wrestling with in/fertility.

I also run support groups for those on in/fertility journeys. I utilize my training as a chaplain and educator to assist people in using their own wisdom and resiliency to make it through difficult moments.

How has your rabbinate evolved throughout your career?
I’ve been privileged to serve in a variety of settings: in a pulpit, in non-profit organizations, at camp, and now in healthcare. I’m not surprised where I’ve ended up, but I could not have predicted the journey!

I think my rabbinate has evolved by listening to that voice of discernment within—the same voice all of us have the capacity to hear for ourselves—to figure out which corner of the world I need to devote my heart and energy to next. It’s not always easy to hear this voice or to sometimes take a leap in a new direction, and in the past I felt pressured to make my rabbinate look a certain way. But along the path I’ve found teachers and mentors who encourage me to be myself, and to pursue my understanding of how a rabbinic life can look, even if it’s different from others. I do my best now to encourage other clergypeople to listen to their own voice, because we need all kinds of people and all kinds of rabbis in the world.

What do people find unique, unusual, or surprising about your rabbinate?
People find it surprising that a lot of my day is spent teaching, serving, and caring for others who aren’t necessarily Jewish. Every day is different, and each story that I encounter is unique. At the same time, my identity as a chaplain and an educator is completely rooted in who I am as a rabbi and in Jewish values. So even if the people I’m connecting with aren’t Jewish, I’m still grounded in and drawing upon my Jewish values and teachings to orient me in the work of caring for others. Training to become a board-certified chaplain and then an educator took many years of study and practice, and I remain humbled every day by learning from and with my students and my patients. The learning never stops—nor should it!

For my family-building and fertility work, which is not associated with my work at the hospital, though I draw on my skills and training to do it—it has allowed me to share with the wider world the complexities of what in/fertility can look like for people. Every story is unique, and for so many, their experiences are invisible. I hope I’m helping change that narrative. Getting to accompany people on their journeys is a deep privilege.

What is the most rewarding aspect of your rabbinate?
It’s very hard to narrow down to one thing! Many days at the hospital, I am meeting patients and their families on some of the worst days of their lives. Being with them in their sacred journey of illness, death, or recovery is intense and meaningful. With my students, bearing witness to their learning a new skill or in their own self-discovery brings me such joy.

With my growing in/fertility work, I feel gratitude when someone shares with me that they feel seen, recognized, and supported. Or when they feel safe enough to say something aloud maybe for the very first time.

What excites you or makes you feel the most hopeful about the future of rabbinate?
I am excited by all the creativity in the field. Just as I have found an area in which I believe I can make a real difference in peoples’ lives, so too have my colleagues and future colleagues—regardless of what type of setting we are in. And that more and more people are being embraced for who they are and what skills they can bring to the world.

Rabbi Rachel Van Thyn is a Clinical Pastoral Educator at The Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City and is also the founder of Clara: Fertility Counseling & Support. She also serves on the Board of the Central Conference of American Rabbis.

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Israel Rabbinic Reflections

Presence, Partnership, and Compassion in Action: Serving Shoham Israel’s Ve’Ahavta Reform Community In a Time of War

Rabbi Rinat Safania Shwartz serves the Ve’Ahavta Reform Community in Shoham, Israel. Here, she shares her experience serving the Reform Jewish community in Shoham during the twelve days of the war with Iran, part of the ongoing war they’ve been living through since October 7, 2023.

Living Without a Shelter

To protect myself emotionally, I tried to disconnect from the reality of what might happen to my family and me. Still, on the first morning of the war with Iran, Friday morning, I joined hundreds of Israelis at the supermarket—stocking up as if for a world war. I spent 2,000 shekels buying food and water, feeling that familiar sense of hysteria and dread. That’s how we cope here.

My home has no shelter room. We run to my brother-in-law’s when sirens sound. Two weeks prior, just as we sat for Shabbat dinner, the first siren sounded. The evening was over before it began. We hardly slept. We got up three times during the night because of the missile alerts. When not in the shelter, we sat in fear, watching horrifying images from Ramat Gan and Rishon LeZion—the first two cities to be directly hit by deadly missiles.

And yet, in a strange way, the missile fire from Yemen in recent months has developed in us some kind of resilience. The kids know the drill, but the fear has only grown deeper. The destruction is massive. The uncertainty is endless. And through it all, I’m checking on our community, leading Zoom-based Kabbalat Shabbat services, trying to keep us spiritually connected.

I worry not only for us, but for our Jewish brothers and sisters abroad, facing growing threats. It’s heavy. I try to function through distance, but it’s hard.

A House Destroyed

It was a terrible night: eleven dead, three missing, dozens injured, and thousands without homes. People emerged from rubble in pajamas. The trauma is everywhere.

As a community, we canceled events due to safety regulations. We have no shelter room in our synagogue. Instead, we called every member, making sure they had shelter. Then, I received a message from a young family in Rehovot—a couple I married—whose home was destroyed. They made it to the shelter just before the explosion. Now they had nowhere to go. I talked the mother through what to pack. I drove over to be with her. She was having a panic attack. We sat in the shelter together, along with others waiting to be evacuated. Volunteers, social workers—everyone helping each other. Eventually, the family was sent to a hotel in Jerusalem.

That same day, we opened a joint relief center with Shoham’s city council to gather donations. And, like every afternoon since October 7, we stood at the intersection, holding photos of the hostages.

Each night brought with it the same uncertainty. And we were afraid.

Our Community Response: Acts of Love and Solidarity

In the face of crisis, our Ve’Ahavta Reform community in Shoham is motivated by compassion and purpose.

We turned our synagogue into a center of compassion, in partnership with Shoham’s welfare department and the Yad MiShoham volunteer organization. We collected clothing, toys, and baby items for displaced families. Teens sorted donations. Volunteers delivered supplies to hotels.

Our youth baked challot and cookies for families of people called to reserve duty. Others prepared meals for these families. Women crocheted dolls for evacuated children. We also supported children with special needs whose routines collapsed, offering relief to their parents.

This is what a community looks like: presence, partnership, and compassion in action.

Holding the Soul

Amid the chaos, we held onto our spiritual core. Each evening, after praying for the hostages, we opened a quiet Zoom space. No expectations. Just presence. On some days, five people attended. On some, fifteen. I was there each time— not to preach, but to be with whomever needed it.

We continued our Beit Midrash. We kept singing, even through tears. Board members called every elder just to ask “How are you today?:

Shabbat continued—on Zoom, or around a single candle. We made space for grief, fear, resilience—and for one another.

Small Hands, Soft Clay

Sometimes healing begins with something small—like soft clay in a child’s hands.

Ronit Hana Golan, a member of our community, opened her pottery studio to parents and children. Schools were closed. Fear was high. Most families were stuck at home. The workshops took place near a bomb shelter. Kids could create. Parents could breathe. It wasn’t just art, it was therapy. A reminder: we are not alone.

Standing with Displaced Israelis

Nearly a hundred buildings around the country were completely destroyed or severely damaged, and tens of thousands of Israelis have lost their homes and had to be displaced. Many lost everything. Others had only ten minutes to retrieve whatever they could

In Bat Yam, we met evacuees living in hotels. They face emotional trauma and bureaucratic chaos. Most are not even officially recognized as displaced. Some were instructed on Saturday night to leave their rooms by Thursday—with nowhere to go. Agreements extended hotel stays until Sunday, but the future is unclear. We’ve started visiting hotel rooms, offering presence, comfort, and dignity.

Now is the time for Jewish solidarity. To listen, to support, to act.

Rabbi Rinat Safania Shwartz is the founding rabbi of the Ve’Ahavta Reform Community in Shoham, Israel.

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Robin Nafshi’s Pride Reflections: ‘They Got a Lesbian Rabbi After All’

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

In the mid 2000s, I applied for a pulpit position in a very conservative part of the country. I had been ordained three years prior, and had not received a single full-time job offer. I pursued this position in part because my partner’s father was from the area and she had many, many wonderfully loving relatives living there.

I was met at the airport by the synagogue’s search chair. He told me that he was excited about my candidacy, as he really hoped the congregation would offer me a job and prove that they were not a bunch of rednecks. I knew my time with these folks was going to be challenging.

At the synagogue, the first person I met asked me if I talked about being gay in all of my sermons. I responded that I usually talked about the Torah portion, not my sexuality. Another person asked if in my previous jobs, I was allowed to work with children. I was so stunned, I just looked at the person with a blank stare.

When I finally got around to meeting with the committee, the questions were irrelevant and even offensive. I was grateful when someone asked me about my favorite professional basketball team, a sport I had not followed since the 1970s. “I was a fan of the New York Knicks when I was a teenager,” I said, not revealing that it was because my dad was a Knicks fan; “I’m sure I could become a fan of the local team if that’s important to the community.” I wondered what presumptions were going through their heads when they asked a lesbian rabbinical candidate about sports. Did straight women get those questions?

Needless to say, I was not offered the job. A wonderful colleague did, who, after a few years, came out of the closet and married her female partner. They got a lesbian rabbi after all.

Rabbi Robin Nafshi serves Temple Beth Jacob in Concord, New Hampshire. Her partner, Cantor Shira Nafshi, also serves Temple Beth Jacob.

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Shoshanah Tornberg: Pride and Two Pregnancies

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

During my first contract negotiations, my congregation was in new territory, never having hired a woman as clergy. I argued for maternity leave. In the end, they gave me about four weeks of leave only in the event that I personally gave birth. There was something curiously odd about how my gender failed to align with their ideas about what parenting could or should mean.

In the end, my partner and I had a remarkable pregnancy story. We had chosen an anonymous donor, and decided my partner would try to get pregnant first. We both wanted the chance, but it seemed like she might have less time to work with. She tried for many months and had a few miscarriages. We took a hard look at our situation, and realized that we had two wombs in “their” mid-thirties.

We wanted to maximize the odds that we would have a child. So our plan was to go back and forth until we had a viable pregnancy. The IVF team assured us that we would be very unlikely to BOTH have pregnancies that “took.”

Well, in later years, folks would ask us if we planned it. We learned that she was pregnant, and then a week later, we learned that I was pregnant. My response is always, “Do you know anything about fertility?” How on earth would someone plan for two simultaneous pregnancies? It gave new meaning to the oft-uttered phrase, “We are pregnant.”

When we brought our new little ones to shul for a formal welcome, my partner and I each held one of our babies as we schmoozed at a reception. A woman nearby us complained to a friend that I should not be carrying the child that my partner birthed, and vice-versa (as we were at the time), because it confused people.

I had no words in that moment for how one might respond.

Rabbi Shoshanah Tornberg, RJE was ordained at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (HUC-JIR) in 2006. She serves Congregation Keneseth Israel in Allentown, Pennsylvania.

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Peter Kessler’s Pride Reflections: ‘I Have No Room In My Soul to Remember the Disappointments’

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

When I realized I was different from the other boys, not actually knowing what gay meant, the idea of embracing the “other” made it into my consciousness. I loved my connection to Judaism—after all, my father was a lifelong Jewish educator, and my late mother loved being president of the sisterhood and our congregation, which inspired me to spend my life helping others. The collision of Judaism and my blossoming gay life cemented the fact that the rabbinate was my calling.

In the late 1970s, there was no place for an openly gay man to become a rabbi. I found solace at Congregation Or Chadash in Chicago, a haven for the gay and lesbian Jew, where I made lifelong friends—at least lifelong for those who survived the AIDS epidemic, which decimated my social circle in the 1980s. By 1990, it was clear to me that applying to rabbinical school as an out gay man would be my lifelong goal.

I was ready for rabbinical school, but rabbinical school wasn’t ready for me. It took a year of Hebrew study before I applied a second time, after being rejected the year before, most likely by a committee unwilling to make history. So in 1991, I was the one who made history, and made my way to the HUC-JIR Year in Israel program, hoping that I would be able to be a congregational rabbi after my years of study.

I was the last one in my class to be placed.

Now, on the 35th anniversary of gay and lesbian rabbinic students who were the trailblazers at HUC-JIR and in the Reform Movement, I have no room in my soul to remember the disappointments, only the triumphs that I was able to accomplish with a supportive family made up of my relatives, friends, and colleagues.

In 2025, I consider myself to be the luckiest rabbi in America, serving a pulpit on a sub-tropical island in the Gulf of Mexico, and basking in the pride of my accomplishments both personal and professional. I remain grateful for the happy years I spent with my ex-partner and continue to bask in the joy of the accomplishments of my son, Floyd. I am proud to be who I am, and proud to be what I am.

Rabbi Peter Kessler is a CCAR member and serves Congregation B’nai Israel in Galveston, Texas. He is originally from Chicago and was ordained by the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in 1995. He earned his Doctor of Divinity in May of 2021.

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Forcing the Door Open: Rabbi Don Goor’s Pride Month Rabbinic Reflections

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

When I was ordained in 1987, all I could see in my future were closed doors. When I applied to Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion, I hid the fact that I was gay, for fear of discovery which would bar any opportunity to be ordained, let alone find a position upon ordination.

When Evan and I first met, we hid our relationship. Instead of speaking at school, we left messages on each other’s voicemail, so that we could meet clandestinely, away from eyes that might lead to the door of ordination being shut in our faces.

I went into placement confident that only as a closeted “single” man could I find a synagogue position. When I did accept a job in the New York area, the senior rabbi asked if I was gay. With a quivering voice I answered, “Yes!” He then told me he couldn’t have me on his staff. The door slammed shut. In follow-up interviews, I was careful to avoid the question of sexual orientation. As an act of self-preservation, I was complicit in keeping that door tightly closed.

At Temple Judea in Tarzana, California, I spent many years as a rabbi, sharing a home with Evan—my “roommate!” We were careful to build an impermeable barrier between our professional and personal lives. When the senior rabbi position at Temple Judea became available, I knew it was up to me to open the door so I could serve with wholeness and integrity. I met with leaders of the congregation to share my story and come out to them. None of them were surprised. All were supportive. Doors began to open.

At the time it seemed that I was the first openly gay rabbi to be appointed senior rabbi at a mainstream congregation, a story interesting enough for The New York Times. While the synagogue celebrated, protestors attended my installation, and a famous radio personality spoke about me for an entire week as an abomination. I’m forever grateful to my teachers and mentors, Rabbi David Ellenson, z”l, and Rabbi Richard Levy, z”l, for supporting me publicly. Eventually, despite facing hurdles, I was welcomed for twenty-six years as rabbi, not as gay rabbi.

While the journey to full acceptance and welcome within the community wasn’t an easy one, I never imagined as a student at HUC-JIR, hidden deep within the closet, that my career would be so fulfilling and meaningful. I’m pleased and proud that over the years more and more doors swung open. The seminary that wouldn’t ordain me had I been out invited me to teach and mentor students. The world of synagogue life that was closed to me, in the end embraced me and Evan, and opened doors—and hearts—so that I could serve as their rabbi with complete openness and integrity. I feel privileged to have shared my professional journey with a loving partner, caring friends and family, and a supportive community.

Together we forced open the doors so that future generations of rabbis could walk through them with their heads held high.

Rabbi Donald Goor was ordained in 1987 at Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion in New York. In 1996, Rabbi Goor was appointed the first out, gay rabbi to serve a mainstream congregation. Rabbi Goor served on the faculty of HUC-JIR in Los Angeles for many years and is rabbi emeritus at Temple Judea in Tarzana, CA. He made aliyah in 2013 and now serves as the rabbinic liaison at J2 Adventures—planning trips to Israel for rabbis and synagogues—and on the boards of the Israel Religious Action Center, Shutaf—a program for special needs kids—and the David Forman Foundation. Rabbi Goor is married to Cantor Evan Kent, his life partner of over thirty-seven years. 

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Reuben Zellman’s Pride Month Reflections: Let Us Stand Up Now and Bear This Together

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

Fifteen years ago, a couple of months before my ordination, I quietly walked into the carpeted back entrance of a hotel ballroom where I was due to lead a session at a professional conference. The speaker before me, a nationally known radio host, was telling a story he meant to be funny. After a few minutes the tale wound up to its punchline: the protagonist was androgynous! Their gender was totally unclear! They looked so weird that hilarity ensued! Apparently, the expected audience did not include the trans person now standing in the back entrance.

As the laughter floated by, I had three minutes to decide. I could turn around and leave, just disappear into the streets of the city and forfeit this piece of my future. Or I could take the podium and give everyone a piece of my mind: how many public events I had led while people pointed and laughed; how many times I was turned away from a job, an education, a public building; how many young transgender and intersex people I had already buried; how many more would die if society continued to treat us so cruelly.

I walked to the front and stepped up to the podium. And I slowly looked around at the couple of hundred assembled people, and waited a long, long moment. No one seemed to have noticed anything, cheerfully chatting and waving to each other. At first I thought someone would meet my eye, shake their head, let me know I was not entirely alone. Or perhaps afterwards, someone would acknowledge what we’d all just seen? Surely someone would want to affirm it together, just for a moment: this may be who we are, but it is not who we should be.

But there was nothing. Not in that ballroom, nor after that session, and not after that day was done, and not in the fifteen years since.

I don’t know what I should have done. What I did do, after a very long silence, is I adjusted my tallit and began the Maariv prayers for the 2010 Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. V’hu rachum y’chapeir avon, “God is merciful to forgive our mistakes.” And I asked you to bless with me the One who should be blessed.

And then, finally, you did respond, in a roar of voices: Baruch Adonai hamvorach l’olam vaed.

Colleagues, there is no time left now to speak only the words we have already memorized. Our society is in danger; some of us are under grave threat. Will we be disturbed enough to risk words that don’t feel familiar, people who don’t feel familiar? Will we be moved enough to name what we see, even if we don’t yet know its full name? Let us stand up, friends, and bear this together—not when we are comfortable, but when we are needed, which is now.

Rabbi Reuben Zellman (he/they) is a member of the CCAR, an activist, educator, musician, and leader of the Welcome Home Project at Sha’ar Zahav in San Francisco. Watch his May 2025 Transgender Courage Shabbat drash at Sherith Israel in San Francisco.

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inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

‘You Belong Here’: Rabbi Ariel Tovlev on LGBTQIA+ Belonging On (and Off) the Bimah

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

One Friday night at my student pulpit, I came out in a sermon. Those present now knew I was trans, and I was sure they would tell the rest of the community.

Fast forward a few months to another Friday night. As soon as I finished our closing song, a woman I hadn’t seen before dragged her son to the bimah before I had a chance to descend.

“Rabbi,” she said, “I have a question for you.” Her son shyly half-hid behind her, keeping his gaze on the ground.

“Sure,” I said to her, bracing myself for what could come next.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she confessed, somewhat sheepishly. “Let’s say, hypothetically, there was a child who was born female but then became male, a female-to-male transgender child. Hypothetically, would that child be allowed to have a bar mitzvah?”

My heart rose to my throat and I couldn’t help myself from blurting out, “You don’t know I’m trans?”

The mother’s concerned expression vanished, replaced by joy and excitement.

“Look sweetie,” she exclaimed, pulling her son’s shoulders to bring him in front of her, “the rabbi is just like you!” The son, no longer hidden, grinned wide, somewhat in disbelief.

“I never answered your question,” I said. I turned to the child. “Yes, you can have a bar mitzvah. You can do anything you want. You can be anything you want. You can even be in my position one day. You belong here, and we are so happy to have you in our community.”

“Looks like we need to get you in Hebrew school, mister,” she said to him, and his eyes lit up with excitement. This was not the answer they had anticipated. They did not have to hide here. They were free.

Rabbi Ariel Tovlev (he/ him, they/ them) is a member of the CCAR, a writer, poet, consultant, and educator. Read his writing on Jewish approaches to Transgender Awareness Week here and in Mishkan Ga’avah: Where Pride Dwells.

Categories
inclusivity LGBT Rabbinic Reflections

Y’all Means All: Being Queer in Texas: Rabbi Annie Villarreal-Belford’s Pride Month Reflection

In honor of Pride Month, the critical contribution of our LGBTQIA+ rabbinic and Jewish community, and the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate, the CCAR is honored to share the stories of the experiences of LGBTQIA+ Reform rabbis.

In the next room, I can hear my wife Joy, who works for Keshet as the Southwest Education and Training Manager, planning Pride events from the small Texas towns of Round Rock to Richardson, and the larger towns of San Antonio and Houston. Outside, we have a rainbow flag that says “Y’all Means All,” a counterpoint to my neighbors’ signs that say things like “Pray for America” and “Pray for Trump.” Marjory, my next door neighbor, waves to me, and we chat as we grab our mail. My kids bound into the house with backpacks and paper flying, having emptied their lockers for the end of school. It is June, the month of Pride, and we live in the decidedly unwelcoming state of Texas.

I say it is decidedly unwelcome, and in many ways that is an understatement. This legislative session, a record number of anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced, and two bills targeting transgender Texans are making their way through the legislature.[1] In our last legislative session, dozens of anti-LGBTQIA+ bills were pursued and many were passed—including bans on puberty blockers and hormone therapy for children.[2] When these bans passed, a friend whose daughter is transgender moved out of state to ensure ongoing and appropriate medical care. I know another person who makes a monthly drive to a more open state with her trans daughter, where they lie to the doctor and say they are residents to ensure ongoing hormonal treatment. These choices—the regular pain inflicted on members of Texas’s queer and trans community—are heartbreaking and unjust. In truth, if I think too much about these forced choices, I am overwhelmed with pain, sadness, and an ongoing feeling of disbelief that these kinds of actions are not only the law of my home state but are spreading to more states. How can we sanction hate this way?

And yet… and yet. Cameron Samuels, a young person from the congregation I served in west Houston, has started an organization called SEAT, which advocates for students to have a seat at the table in educational policymaking. Their motto is “Nothing about us, without us.” The origins of SEAT lie in the choice of Katy Independent School District (ISD) to remove books about queer folks from their school libraries and to block access to life-saving websites like It Gets Better and The Trevor Project. Cameron started speaking out at Katy School Board meetings against this policy and began collecting and delivering queer-themed books to classmates who desperately needed them. Cameron and other young people all over the state are doing incredible and life-changing work like this.

In the last month, both Katy ISD and the nearby Fort Bend ISD both had major shifts on their school boards, ousting anti-LGBTQ+ and pro-book-banning members in favor of more moderate and open candidates who have affirmed their desire to create safe, inclusive schools in their districts.[3] The Houston suburb of Deer Park—where my wife grew up­—just hired a new superintendent who happens to be a lesbian. She faced a local pastor’s anti-gay smear campaign, and was hired anyway.[4] (In fact, Houston was the first major city in the entire country to be led by a mayor who is lesbian—Anisse Parker![5])

My wife has a collection of Pride tee shirts, and whenever she wears the one that says “Protect Trans Kids,” she is approached by people who say, “I love your shirt.” It surprises me every time.

Indeed, Pride will be celebrated all over Texas—not only in the perennially weird Austin and other major cities like Houston and Dallas, but in small suburbs and rural towns like Denton (where my eldest attends college), Round Rock, Marble Falls, and Rowlett.[6] There may be only one rainbow flag waving on our street, but during Pride rainbow flags will wave throughout Texas—sometimes even at city halls.

In other words, there is reason to hope and believe that being queer and trans in Texas will become easier.

I was born in Texas, but to tell you the truth, I left Texas at eighteen and never wanted to return. I did not apply to a single in-state college. But we all know the saying—humans plan, God laughs. When the 2008 recession hit, I had two children younger than two and needed a new job, so I looked at places closer to home where it would be easier for family to offer their support. At the time, I was married to a man (whom I affectionately call my “wasband”), and we found a lovely community in the suburbs of Houston that was a phenomenal fit. So we returned to Texas, much to my ongoing chagrin. Despite this, my family is deeply happy here. My kids—one in a Texas state university, one in high school, and one in middle school—are thriving. My in-laws live nearby, and my wife has deep roots in Houston’s queer community. My father moved to Houston to be closer to us. Our lives are not perfect, but they are good. I recognize that we are privileged and do not face the hardship my friends with trans kids face, or that my best friend who is trans faces whenever she visits family in Texas. But despite my constant chafing against, despair about, and anger toward the Texas legislature, Texas has again become home.

I think all the time about permanently putting Texas in my rearview mirror, but part of me suspects I am here for good. And that means I will work to make life good for all people who live in Texas—especially my queer and trans friends, neighbors, and community members. From this Texan’s heart to yours, Happy Pride! And remember—Y’all means ALL!

_____

Rabbi Annie Villarreal-Belford’s rabbinic journey has taken her from Pennsylvania to India, Virginia, and Missouri, before she made her home in Houston, Texas. She served as the rabbi of Temple Sinai in West Houston for thirteen years and was proud to be the first full-time solo female rabbi in the city. Today, she serves as the editor at CCAR Press. Rabbi Annie holds a BA in Creative Writing, rabbinic ordination from Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion (NY, 2004), and a doctorate in psychology with an emphasis on Victor Frankl’s logotherapy. When she’s not immersed in text or community, she can be found art journaling, reading, or exploring national and state parks. She treasures time with her wife and their three wonderful children.

[1] Equality Texas notes record number of anti-LGBTQ bills introduced in 2025 Legislature – Dallas Voice

[2] Texas bills affecting LGBTQ people: Here’s what you need to know | The Texas Tribune

[3] Katy ISD community wants book bans, transgender policies repealed; Fort Bend ISD trustee election won by candidates who opposed controversial book and gender policies – Houston Public Media

[4] Tiffany Regan named new superintendent in Deer Park ISD

[5] Annise Parker

[6] Texas town still celebrating Pride ‘against the odds’ after losing city support – lonestarlive.com