Let me start by saying that I am not one for marches. I am rarely found at any sort of rally and don’t show up at protests. Not because I don’t believe in them, but because they are simply not where I find the opportunity to hope and make change. I don’t like large crowds, and I avoid Midtown like the plague. At the same time, I am a student of Rav Avi Weiss and his Torah of showing up. I know the importance of being there for people.
Nearly two years ago, after October 7th, while thousands of New Yorkers rallied in support of Israel and the hostages, I walked to Central Park and sat on a rock overlooking the Harlem Meer, a manmade lake in the park. I closed my eyes, breathed, and dreamed of a better future. Behind me, a woman walked up and said hello. She saw my kippah and said she felt drawn to talk to me. She was Jewish, she had a family, she loved Israel, but she felt so alone in this moment. She knew there was a rally happening, but that wasn’t the experience she needed. She needed a walk in the park, and she was thrilled to have run into someone to talk to. She spoke of how she loved Israel but hated Bibi and of her challenging feelings around the conflict.
Then she shifted to talking about Jewish life and where it was lacking for her. She complained about rabbis who loved to talk but rarely listened. I said nothing. Eventually she turned and acknowledged she had told me quite a bit about herself but did not know about me and asked who I was. She blushed when I said I was a rabbi but didn’t take back any of her critiques. We spoke for some time and exchanged information. This would not be the last time we spoke. These are the interactions I cherish. Being there for people when and where they need me, even when they least expect it. I did not need to attend a march to do that. Or so I thought.
I thought that showing up meant leading. To be the person saying “hineini” to the call of G-d and my fellow. To me this meant travelling to Pittsburgh after the Tree of Life shooting to attend shiva and sharing words directly with families or to have a personal conversation with someone struggling in the aftermath of October 7th. This year, though, I realized while reading Parshat Korach on the Shabbat before Jew York Pride, that our text provides valuable insight into another way to show up. After the demise of Korach and his followers, the Torah says that all the Israelites gathered against Moshe and Aaron, critiquing them for bringing death on their fellow Israelites. At first glance, this appeared to be problematic behavior, but I soon realized that the Israelites were simply doing what Moshe did regularly, and twice in that week’s parsha: they refused to stand by and watch G-d destroy the people. Unlike in Moshe’s case, though, there was no clear leader, nor was it clear that every one of them was necessary. But they all showed up. Many probably didn’t agree with Korach’s ideas or his methods, but they still showed up. They knew protesting was unexpected and even risky, but they could not stay silent. None of them were named, but all of them made a difference. None of them were leaders, and all of them were leaders.
My community, which does not affiliate with the Orthodox movement but which shares my hashkafa (worldview) and understanding of halacha (Jewish law), was founded out of a real need in Harlem for a Judaism which is deeply rooted and also intentional, traditional and also fully inclusive. Kehillat Harlem came into being in 2017 to serve this need. But it wasn’t until 2023 that I attended Jew York Pride, the Jewish contingent of the NYC Pride March, for the first time.
A community member who works for Eshel, an organization focused on Queer inclusion in Orthodox spaces, reached out to me to ask if our community would consider being a partner for Jew York Pride. Other synagogues had signed up to partner, but we would be the only one with an Orthodox rabbi. I didn’t think twice. I put our name on it. I was not the only Orthodox rabbi there, but I was one of very few.
This is where I met Rabbi David Kalb. I knew of Rabbi Kalb and even had community members who had converted to Judaism with him, but we had not had the opportunity to meet. We spent most of the march talking and I left having realized something. Generally, if I were to show up at a march, I would either blend in or be tokenized. Here, things were different. My very presence was making a statement: Queer Jews have a place in Orthodoxy. Queer Jews are in our communities and in our spaces and they need us to show up. They need to know that they are supported and that no number of political or social dynamics will prevent us from standing up and saying so.
After that march, I added a sticker from Eshel to my laptop that reads ‘another Orthodox ally.’
This year, for the first time, our community hosted a Pride Shabbat in addition to partnering on Jew York Pride. It felt important to show up not only in queer spaces like the Pride March, but in our own space as well. I wanted to make it clear that everyone in our community is an equal partner in what we are building together. And I shared my own addition to the Torah of showing up that I had learned from Parshat Korach, an unlikely place. I look forward to making both Pride Shabbat and Jew York Pride part of Kehillat Harlem’s annual tradition. More significantly, though, I hope to see more synagogues joining in and more Orthodox rabbis showing up. I long for a day when pride and allyship are the default in Orthodox spaces instead of the exception, and a day when I show up at Pride and I am truly ‘just another Orthodox [rabbi].’
*Photo of Rabbi Kyle Savitch and his wife, Liran Messinger, at Pride courtesy of Eshel.