Frequently, when one converts to Judaism, a passage out of the Talmud (Shavuot 39A) is pointed out. It explains that every Jewish soul stood together at Mount Sinai and was a part of the covenant laid out there – both the souls of those who would be born Jewish and the souls of those who would eventually convert. The souls of those who would convert are compared often to lost lambs who have to travel a long distance to return to their Shepherd. Regardless of how far away the soul may be, no matter where the lamb is born, it still belongs to the Shepherd.
It’s a beautiful, beautiful thought, and when I heard it at my conversion two years ago, it struck me. My Rabbi told me I was becoming the Jew I was born to be, and I believed her. I still do.
However, recently, sitting in class, a Rabbi again mentioned this piece from the Talmud. Perhaps because of distance from the glow of conversion and homecoming; perhaps because I have a few more years of age, and a bit more confidence in who I am and what my soul looks like; perhaps because of some deep and secret reason still waiting to come out, this idea that seemed to me to glow and welcome me at my conversion struck me differently, with a deep sense of fear and nerves. Rather than the recognition of the truth of my soul, I was uneasy, unsettled.
What does it mean that my soul was at Mount Sinai, at that most sacred of moments? Was all of my soul there? And what did my soul look like? What was it shaped like? Was it me or only some part of me, the part that would be drawn home to Judaism?
I wonder… was the soul that would be mine, the soul that stood at Mount Sinai and accepted the covenant that would come to rule my life, the soul that would shape my very being… was it queer?
We hide in the closet.
We come out of the closet.
We struggle to reconcile parts of ourselves that conflict with other parts.
We recognize that we are whole beings, whole souls.
We are queer.
We are transgender.
We are drawn at once to Orthodox religious practice and the Transgender community.
We learn that the conflicts in are soul are what make us human, not what make us wrong.
It’s a long and cyclical fight, not more difficult, but definitely different, for those of us who are queer in some way and also religious. For those of us who believe, not culturally, not because our families believed, but because something in our hearts longs for more, longs for a deeper love and connection to G-d, the fight to reconcile ourselves and our souls to G-d takes place in a changed way. Fighting our way through religious tradition to find what G-d says or thinks about our souls becomes consuming. Are the Orthodox Jews who condemn me right? Is my soul ill, because I wear men’s clothing, or date a woman?
When I first converted, these thoughts weren’t high priorities for me. Like a new groom, I was overwhelmed both with the love I felt, and the love I knew G-d felt for me. I knew that I wouldn’t be abandoned, and that my soul, while certainly unworthy, would be cherished. I knew that I was picking up the burdens that come with the Jewish people, but light and joy and love were able to wash away, at least temporarily, previous fears I had felt about being queer and religious at the same time. I loved the Jewish people, the Laws, the Torah and all of the burdens. I wanted to be…no I knew that I was, and was born to be, Jewish. Who cared if I was gay at the same time?
As time has passed, as in any good marriage, the glow and glitter of the honeymoon has deepened into searching and understanding and companionship. My life has become filled with theology, with Talmud, with conflicting views of what it means to be a Jew, and what it means to be a good Jew.
I read about Jews who were queer and proud. I read that I was unnatural and going against the Torah. Perhaps most painfully, I read that my soul was ill in a way that even G-d could not heal.
I also read that the soul is the candle of G-d. Torah and mitzvot are the wick of a soul, and through them I can radiate the light of the Divine. I read that my soul, the very soul that found its way back to the Covenant, was made in the divine image of G-d.
And this is what brings me back to Mount Sinai.
This is what Torah tells us in Deuteronomy: the covenant was made not only with those who were there on that day, but also with all who were not there.
This is what Talmud tells us: that this means those souls who convert, those souls who are born lost lambs and spend their lives finding their way home to G-d, Torah, and the Jewish people, were standing with the Jewish people at Sinai.
And this is what I tell you: Today, and every day, I recognize in myself a soul that stood at Sinai – a soul that struggles to fulfill the mitzvot, a soul that struggles to live the Torah. I recognize in myself, and in each of us, a soul that, even as it stood at Sinai, played with gender, crossed the boundaries of “normative sexuality”, that doubted and argued and wrestled and loved and held on to G-d as tightly then as I hold on to Her now.
And as I stand on Shabbat, as I welcome the Sabbath bride into the synagogue with love and devotion and joy, sometimes I see a bride and sometimes I see a groom. Both are the Imago Dei for me. And as you read this, or hear this, as you worship and nurture your own souls, I know that you too stood with me at Sinai, beautiful and beloved, Jewish and queer, your souls hand-fashioned by G-d in all Divine glory.
