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 TheNew 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.
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.
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.
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.
CCAR Press and Women of Reform Judaism have recently copublished Covenant of Justice: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations from Women of Reform Judaism. This powerful collection amplifies the voices of female, nonbinary, and genderfluid contributors, addressing vital topics such as racial equity, climate justice, gender equality, and reproductive rights. Grounded in the Jewish value of tikkun olam (repairing the world), the book serves as both an inspiring resource and a call to action.
In this excerpt from the volume, Rabbi Laura Novak Winer shares her blessing for those who work in the food industry.
A Blessing for the Laborers
As Jews, we often say a blessing before eating a meal, known as HaMotzi. We thank God for bringing us bread, food, and sustenance. Yet, it is not only God who brings us this sustenance. Shouldn’t it be incumbent upon us to also remember and offer blessings upon those who labored to grow and harvest this food? With these laborers and farmers in mind, I suggest we offer these additional words of thanks and gratitude in our daily prayers and/or as an addition when reciting HaMotzi.
מִי שֶׁבֵּרַךְ אֲבוֹתֵינוּ וְאִמּוֹתֵינוּ יְבָרֵךְ אֶת הָאֲנָשִׁים שֶׁעוֹבְדִים בְּשָֹדוֹת בַּפַּרְדֵּסִים וּבְבָתֵּי חֲרֹשֶׁת לְהָבִיא .לָנוּ אֶת הָאֹכֶל הַטָּרִי וְהַבָּרִיא הַזֶּה Mi shebeirach avoteinu v’imoteinu, y’vareich et haanashim she-ovdim b’sadot, bapardeisim, uv’vatei charoshet l’havi lanu et ha-ochel hatari v’habari hazeh.
May the One who blessed our mothers and fathers bless the people who work in the fields, in the orchards, and in the factories in order to bring to us this fresh and healthy food.
Pride month is upon us, but our spirits are not consistent with the typical celebratory tone associated with June. Yes, it is the ten-year anniversary of the Supreme Court ruling enshrining marriage equality in law in the United States, and July marks the 20th anniversary for the Canadians amongst us. But at present, members of the LGBTQ+ community feel under siege as federal and state leaders craft legislation targeting trans and nonbinary individuals as well as the broader LGBTQ+ community. Many of the important steps towards inclusion are now under threat. It is from this place of challenge that we have the opportunity to reflect on our journey as Reform Jews in embracing queer rights; we can use these formative memories to mobilize for the fights ahead. Just as we did during the Passover season, we look to the Talmudic words: “In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see oneself as if he/she/they left Egypt.” Today we hold close the legacy of the LGBTQ+ pioneers who marched before us and we accept the responsibility to continue to demand better.
This past March, a key component of the CCAR Convention was the program marking the 35th anniversary of the CCAR Report on Homosexuality in the Rabbinate. CCAR President Rabbi David Lyon used the opportunity to offer words of t’shuvah to our LGBTQ+ friends who suffered in their rabbinate due to the obstacles and biases that they encountered. Of note, this was one of Rabbi Lyon’s first acts as president, and it was approached with great care and sensitivity. We then had the opportunity to witness stories from our LGBTQ+ rabbinic peers that were collected in advance. They each spoke to the raw and challenging encounters of the past three generations of queer rabbis. The CCAR conference attendees heard the pain of senior leadership telling gay and lesbian colleagues they had no place in the rabbinate. We heard of the rabbinic placement searches gone wrong as hurtful comments were directed at queer candidates. We were awed by the strength of friends and colleagues who hid their identities, fearful that they would be discovered and have their careers destroyed.
In the coming weeks a selection of these memories will be published here on CCAR’s RavBlog so that we can spread these important words farther and remember these stories so as to continue to improve our efforts towards inclusion moving forward.
On a personal note, I remember my early rabbinic days. In my naiveté, I thought I would be the only queer student in 2003—I found a community of queer rabbinic candidates in my class and in the rabbinate as a whole. It was during these years that I learned of the important work of the vatikim and vatikot who fought bravely for the diversity of the Reform rabbinate. I feel privileged to now be in a place to continue to champion inclusion in the synagogue and community at large—we have work to do to ensure that our trans and nonbinary peers are accepted and honored.
On a positive note, in recent days I have learned from my newer rabbinic colleagues about Hebrew language innovations that ensure that all queer identities can be authentic within our holy language.
We cannot let our fear and sadness overwhelm us. We can use this month in this precarious time as an opportunity to honor our stories, to make our voices heard in the present, and to embark on a better tomorrow. Let us remember that in every generation, each of us is called to listen, to bear witness, and to trailblaze.
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 Darren Levine is a New York-based Reform rabbi ordained in 2003. He served in congregations in New York, South Africa, he worked at URJ camps, and he even served in the US Army as a chaplain. But in 2011, he envisioned a new way for Jews to gather in an urban setting, and Tamid: The Downtown Synagogue was born in New York City. Here, Rabbi Levine explains how “church planting” and camp magic helped him create his unique congregation, which calls the oldest church in New York City home.
How do you describe your rabbinate? My rabbinate is modern and progressive with a twist of classical Reform ideology and practice.
What is the rabbinic motto that guides your rabbinate? Jewish connections, one person at a time, makes the world a better place.
How has your rabbinate evolved throughout your career? I grew up at a Reform Synagogue in Southern California and spent fifteen years at Jewish summer camps. I thought I would become a camp director: I loved the camp magic. During seminary, I came to appreciate the range of ages and life-cycle support of the synagogue which spoke to me and still does. But the camp magic never left my soul. I think Tamid has the camp magic in a multigenerational urban setting.
What role has innovation played in your rabbinate? A decade after 9/11, Lower Manhattan was rebuilding. My family lived downtown, and I saw the need for a spiritual community that reflected the local vibe: progressive, creative, artistic, musical, positive, non-judgmental, open, and very Jewish.
When I started a new synagogue in New York City, there were no models for rabbis starting congregations. But there is a wealth of knowledge and expertise in the Christian world. I read every book I could find on “Church Planting” and went to a few church planting conferences. The experiences were very impactful.
We’ve grown into a legacy community for New York City and Westchester County. Our goal today is the same goal we’ve had since the beginning: After a person experiences a Tamid gathering, class, celebration, ceremony, phone call, email, or social media view and they say, “I’d like to have more of that in my life,” we’ve achieved our goal. This feeling is how Jews are inspired and how authentic, long-term, and committed relationships are built and nourished, one person at a time. If you have this, everything else works out beautifully for the person and the community.
Tamid is the resident synagogue of St. Paul’s Chapel, the oldest house of worship in New York City. George Washington prayed here on the day of his presidential inauguration. It’s an honor and a responsibility we feel to Judaism and to America to be here.
What do people find unusual or surprising about your rabbinate? I still surf, ride skateboards, and can dunk a basketball.
What is the most rewarding aspect of your rabbinate? The multi-year and multi-generational bonds of relationships with community members and colleagues.
What brings you joy in your rabbinate? The smiles on the faces of people in the chapel, swaying to the music, and feeling lifted in their spirit and soul.
What excites you or makes you feel the most hopeful about the future of your rabbinate? The most quality people I have ever known are clergy.
The 136th annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held March 23-26, 2025, in downtown Chicago, where over 450 Reform rabbis gathered in person and online. Here, we share CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s moving address acknowledging the incredible work of Reform rabbis, the blessing of leading the Jewish people, and the importance of finding clarity and purpose in these challenging times.
Watch the video, or read the address below.
Welcome to the first ever CCAR Asefah! After decades of calling this the CCAR Business Session, this is now the Asefah. Why? Because we listened to colleagues, who told us that the term “business session” didn’t properly convey what we did here. As The Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon reminds us, the root asaf is related to gathering, to being gathered, and to harvesting. And indeed, more than just “business,” this session is our annual gathering—the annual harvesting of the work of the CCAR.
This week’s parashah, P’kudei, coincidentally the same Convention parashah as last year’s, speaks about the whole and the parts. There is the mishkan, that miraculous construction of artistry and faith, made up so very many parts. And there are the sacred vestments, also made up of different parts: the breastpiece with its stones representing the totality of Israel, the rings of gold, and the chains, and the cords, and the ephod.
The CCAR too is made up of the whole and parts. I’ve found it interesting to hear people talk about the CCAR as some abstract, amorphous organism that operates on its own free will. Actually, the CCAR is you, and me, the board, and the amazing staff we have in this room and elsewhere. We are all part of how and why the CCAR operates. You, the members, give us, the staff, our purpose and reason to exist, and I hope that the staff and I give you tools and resources to achieve your purpose, along with the chevrah and sense of community that strengthens you to do your sacred work. We, together, are the CCAR.
Of course the work of the CCAR is not just the staff, but also the board, and all the many, many volunteers who give their time and ideas to keep all the work going, and all of you who support the work of the CCAR in so many, many ways. Thank you to all the chairs and members, too many to mention, and forgive me for not mentioning every name, or we’d be here all day—thank you to all of you who roll up your sleeves and do the work of our committees and task forces and working groups, thank you to all who give what you can of your resources, your time, your ideas—you are the engine that drives the CCAR. Thank you to the board, both the outgoing and the incoming, whose level of commitment and partnership is so extraordinarily high.
And two exceptional people. Rabbi Erica Asch: I don’t think she realized what she was getting into when she became president, but wow did she jump in with both feet. I am going to miss you so much, but luckily you’re still on the board for two more years as our immediate past president. In these two years of her presidency, we have been through so much together—some of the usual work of the board, and some highly unusual. In this time, Rabbi Erica has become a trusted friend and advisor. I have learned so much from her and have tremendous admiration for how she approaches problem-solving and thinks through the hard stuff with clarity and integrity. Thank you, thank you.
And Rabbi David Lyon, I’m so very excited to be working closely with you the next two years. There’s a lot to do, and I am glad that we’ll be doing it together. If these last few weeks, even these last few days, are any indication, I know we’re going to learn a lot together, do important work for the CCAR, challenge each other in all the best ways, and have fun doing it. Thank you for stepping up, and thanks in advance for all the ways I’m going to grow under your leadership, and the CCAR is going to grow.
Like the biblical mishkan, the CCAR is complex, and multifaceted, made of many parts, and many people each playing their important part, each bringing the best that is in them to make a strong and beautiful whole. So it is for each beautiful element of the mishkan and of the sacred vestments—each one of those dazzling fabrics and stones serves a purpose and matters—and so it is for us as rabbis. What you do matters, and I want to thank you for all the ways you carry your individual leadership. Teaching Torah, leading prayer, bringing comfort, opening doors, moving chairs, raising money, writing, protesting, managing budgets, committee work, coalition building—the elevated and the quotidian—it is not all glamorous, but it is important and necessary. In the words of Marge Piercy [i]:
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart, who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience, who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward, who do what has to be done, again and again.
Thank you for everything you do as rabbis, in all the ways you do it, the work of mala and mata.
There is a flip side though to all of that breathtaking beauty of the mishkan and the priestly garments described in this parashah. Those vestments must have been quite a load to bear. I’m imagining the weight of the layers of linen, the gold, and all the stones, the ruby and the emerald and the turquoise, all of those bright and beautiful but substantial stones on the priests’ shoulders and backs, weighing them down with responsibility and mission.
As the inheritors of these communal leadership roles, we continue to carry the load of these sacred garments. It has been quite a few years of extremely heavy burdens on us. We thought things were challenging before. And suddenly the landscape is even tougher.
If these vestments of leadership imbue us with strength and power, to what end? Do these vestments transmit awe and authority, or might they sometimes also become a form of constraints, keeping us always conscious of the role we play vis-à-vis those we serve? These vestments may identify us as the bearer of special status and power, but they can also be bindings that restrict us.
In an uncertain and ever-roiling world, it’s so important that we articulate our own clarity of purpose. Where do we remain quiet for the sake of sh’lom bayit within our community, or even within our homes, and where do we speak out? On what are we willing to take a risk? Where do the stakes feel so high that we must speak out, even if there are consequences, and where are stakes so high that we cannot speak out?
We rabbis are teachers, preachers, healers, pastors, thought leaders, organizational leaders, strategists, innovators, challengers of the status quo. The responsibility of leadership that we carry can be a burden, but it doesn’t have to be so heavy if we can identify our mission. That sense of purpose can guide us and give us strength, remind us where we’re trying to go and why.
Identifying a personal mission is a process of discernment that can be ongoing, but today, I want to share four elements of my mission at this moment with you.
First, I am here to serve you: to hear your needs and your ideas, to think about what you need today, and envision what you might need tomorrow. This often means pivoting as needs change—and, it does not always mean saying yes, but it does mean listening and considering.
What it does mean is hearing you, helping you out with challenges, me or others on the CCAR staff. It has meant figuring out immediate needs in times of natural disasters, global pandemics, and wars. It means, just as some examples, offering webinars on antisemitism, offering Shekels, our fundraising seminar, and a multi-session course on facilitating difficult conversations. It means starting a series for rabbis going into retirement or a support group for those coping with despair. It has meant working with our partner organizations to engage in the work we should be doing together—the URJ, the ACC, ARJE, and more. It means taking a group of rabbis to Israel every year to connect with our MARAM colleagues and to stay current with the reality on the ground.
Second, I am here to serve the future of the rabbinate. How can I be strategic about what we will need tomorrow? With whom should I be in conversation? What do we need to put in place today in order to be ready for tomorrow? How can we think practically to prepare for tomorrow, and how can we dream about what might be possible? That means policy changes in the office of career services, like a new policy requiring search committees to engage in anti-bias training, or in our admissions policy as we expand our CCAR ranks to include more rabbis ordained from other seminaries—many of whom are already serving Reform congregations—and creating a group to help with emeritus/successor challenges. It means working with the ACC to create the Small Congregation Clergy Collab to serve small congregations no longer being served by students, and working with the URJ to reimagine the Gold Book. It means expanding our Mishkan T’filah family of offerings to include a new Friday night service booklet and a Spanish supplementary version, both currently in the works. And it means going big and creating the Torah commentary for the 21st century, a project that is creative and generative and will be an incredible gift for the future.
Third, it means reconciling with our past in order to pave the way for a better tomorrow. That has meant creating an ethics department, accepting accountability for the past, engaging in the difficult, ongoing work on our ethics code and system, and continuing to update our system. It means recognizing the pain of our history in regard to the acceptance and inclusion of LGBTQ+ colleagues. It means being committed to apologizing for the past while also believing in an organization and a rabbinate that can continually learn and do better.
And ultimately, fourth, is about mustering courage and heeding the still, small voice within, pushing me to speak out for justice and our values. There is much in this broken world of ours that calls to me. Of those, I must discern, which I will speak out on publicly. Part of this role is knowing when to be quiet. But part of it is also deciding when to speak out.
I wasn’t always so concerned about the peril of speaking out, but today there can be real risks in speaking out—personally, professionally, organizationally. And, I may disappoint you, or I may anger you—either because we did speak out on something or because we did not. That is going to happen. We cannot do everything, say everything, respond to everything, nor should we.
In these challenging days I am buoyed by being in conversations with other faith groups and alliances, united in our concerns for the future of shared ideals and values. (Sidebar note: I want to apologize to the Canadians here—well, I want to apologize to you regardless, but right now this is going to sound very American-centric. And to the Israelis and Europeans, again, apologies.)
But that is far from the only issue we need to be concerned about. There is a long list: bringing the hostages home, supporting transpeople, protecting immigrants, the slashing of the federal workforce, ceasefire with Gaza, democracy itself, the climate, reproductive rights, the future of medical research, deporting people without due process, the rise in antisemitism, it is a shockingly long, and still incomplete, list.
What rises to the surface for me in this moment, not because it matters more, but because it is perhaps more stealthy in its danger, is the weaponization of antisemitism. I don’t have to tell you that we are seeing antisemitism come to the fore in ways previously unimaginable. Hate speech, defacement of Jewish property and institutions, threats of physical harm, actual violence. The list goes on. You know about the number of synagogues experiencing bomb threats, which even when thankfully false, creates an atmosphere of fear and intimidation. How many of you have had to deal with damage to property? How many of you have received threats to your personal safety or that of your families? And of course there is the very real harassment and threats of danger to Jewish students on college campuses.
Rabbi Jade Sank Ross is the author of To You I Call: Psalms Throughout Our Lives from CCAR Press. In this interview, she discusses encountering challenging aspects of psalms and how they can provide meaning during significant life moments.
What inspired you to write To You I Call? To You I Call grew out of my rabbinic capstone project, completed in 2018. What I love most about being a rabbi is making Judaism approachable for people who feel like they don’t know enough or don’t know where to begin. I want people to understand the richness of Jewish tradition, especially its texts, and to feel personally connected with it. As I began serving as a congregational rabbi, I was most often asked questions like: “Is there something I can say when I light a yahrzeit (memorial) candle?” “Is there something authentically Jewish I can say when I am sitting in the waiting room as my doctor reviews my test results?” “It’s the Shabbat after a deeply divisive election. How can I express my relief or despair in a way that is deeply rooted in Jewish tradition, but also responds to the events and emotions of my daily life?” For me, the psalms provided the answers to these questions.
What was the most challenging part of working on this book? As I worked on this book with the CCAR Press editorial committee, we arranged and rearranged the way that the psalms were organized many times. We reworded the section subjects and the language we used to refer to various moments over years. We assigned moments to psalms and psalms to moments, swapping them around again and again. Making decisions required making assumptions about those using this book, and that was a big challenge!
Additionally, the psalms sometimes contain problematic texts and metaphors that may not speak to us in the twenty-first century. These include, but are not limited to, descriptions of violence, vengeance against enemies, gendered language, and theologies that don’t resonate with our own (for example, Psalm 137:9: “Happy is the one who seizes your children and dashes them against the rock”). When this comes up for me, I often focus on just one or a few verses of a psalm. This approach alleviates tension and allows me to take what I need from the psalms while releasing the problematic texts. I always try to remember too that psalms are poetry, and almost all poetry is metaphor. The beauty of metaphors is that they can be redefined. Ultimately, I see this book as an invitation and a starting point. I hope that it can be a resource and a space to see the psalms as poetry, prayer, and song to inspire readers’ spiritual journeys.
Can you recall a time when a psalm spoke directly to a personal experience? Psalm 45, which I’ve assigned to the modern life-moment of “holding a child for the first time” (p. 135 in To You I Call), spoke to me on the occasion that my children were held by their great-grandmothers for the first time. My children are named in memory of their great-grandfathers, the deceased beloveds of their living great-grandmothers. I particularly love Rabbi Richard N. Levy’s translation (used in my book) of Psalm 45. It starts as “a song of love” and continues, “a heart bubbling with good…gird yourself with glory and glitter…God has anointed you with oil of joy…” I realized that the imagery of God anointing with oil was familiar to me from Psalm 23. We say Psalm 23 in times of mourning, and Psalm 45, with the same imagery of God anointing with oil, is so strikingly for the exact opposite moment, yet still one borne of overflowing love—here bubbling, glittering, and with the hope of new beginnings.
How do you recommend that readers use To You I Call? My vision was to make the psalms more accessible and easier to navigate so they could be seamlessly incorporated into moments of prayer and carried anywhere. To achieve this, the seventy-two psalms in the book are divided into six broad categories. Each category is further divided into specific moments and experiences. When reading the psalms, I often find myself focusing on just one or a few verses.
To guide readers, I selected one verse from each psalm included in the book, which is featured in Hebrew and bolded in the English translation. I also wrote kavanot (prayerful intentions) to help connect moments from our lives with these ancient words. Of course, by making these decisions, I made assumptions about the reader’s emotional responses to particular moments. In using this book, you might find these divisions inaccurate or one-dimensional. To help guide readers, I included suggestions in the footnotes of each psalm to at least one other psalm in the book.
I invite you to explore what you are feeling at any moment—beyond the way I’ve divided the contents and beyond the specifics of the occasions identified, even among the remaining seventy-eight psalms that are not included.
Rabbi Jade Sank Ross serves the Community Synagogue in Port Washington, New York. She is the author of To You I Call: Psalms Throughout Our Lives, published by CCAR Press.
Poet and liturgist Alden Solovy, a CCAR Press author, shares two poems for Passover:
At the end of the Passover Seder, people around the world say that we have told the tale, followed by “next year in Jerusalem.” Few, if any, actually act on that aspiration. In one sense, it is the impossible dream. We all—even those of us who actually reside here—aspire to live in the heavenly Jerusalem, the fantastic, archetypal dream of Messianic wholeness and peace, with the word of God radiating into all of existence. And our story is far, far from completed. I offer this, then, as a new aspiration to add to the end of our Seders. It is, in part a response to October 7, in part a call to remember the long arc of our history. My suggestion: say this prayer-poem followed by “next year in Jerusalem.”
Our Story Our story is not complete. Oh no. There will be more highs And lows, But the ending, Oh my, Will be tremendous. This is faith. Faith knows That our story is not complete, And the ending Is beyond All our hopes For joy and wonder.
Elijah Is with the Hostages Elijah, The prophet who will announce salvation and peace, Will not visit your Pesach Seder this year. Don’t fill the cup. Don’t waste the wine. The prophet is exhausted, Pleading with the heavens for the hostages Pleading the heavens for the displaced, The grieving and lost.
Find hope in your own hands, In deeds of repairing the world And acts of lovingkindness.
Elijah is not coming to your Seder. The work of healing the world, And bringing redemption, He has left to us.
