I'm Gay, I'm Trans, And Yes I'm A Religious Jew
[October 2025]
I'm Gay, I'm Trans, And Yes I'm A Religious Jew
[October 2025]
There are moments when I feel like a living paradox, not because I am inherently contradictory, but because the world loves binaries and I was never meant to live inside one. I am a gay trans man. I am also soft, flamboyant, nurturing, and fierce in ways that don’t always register on the world's narrow masculinity scale. And I am Jewish, with a soul braided from tradition, questioning, and sacred fire. These parts of me are not in conflict. They sing in harmony, though it has taken me years to tune out the dissonant noise of others telling me otherwise.
Judaism, to me, has always been a tradition of tension and transformation. We wrestle with G-d, with texts, with ourselves. We don’t run from complexity—we bless it, name it, build entire commentaries on it. Our tradition begins with wandering and wondering, with an ancestor who becomes Israel not through conquest but through struggle. So why should my identity as a queer, trans, flamboyant man be anything less than sacred in this context? Why should my softness, my queerness, my refusal to conform, be seen as exile instead of Exodus?
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I often refer to G-d as They—not just as a nod to inclusive language, but as a reflection of something far deeper. Hashem is not male or female. They are not one thing or another. They are all and beyond all.
When Moshe asks for Their name, Hashem replies, “Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh”—“I will be what I will be” (Exodus 3:14). That is not the language of a fixed identity. That is the language of divine fluidity, of sacred becoming.
The Holy One appears in the Torah with both masculine and feminine grammar; as an example, Torah refers to Hashem as Ish milchamah (a man of war)… but also as El Shaddai—a name many mystics associate with breasts and nurturing [the word shadayim, "breasts"].
In Kabbalah, we speak of the Shekhinah—the indwelling Presence of Hashem—as feminine. She is the last of the ten sefirot, the one closest to Earth, the one who enters exile with us. She is the Shabbat Queen. The radiant bride. She is not a separate goddess. She is part of Hashem, always. She is one facet of the Divine Whole—because Hashem contains all facets.
Shekhinah is not the only feminine aspect, either. Binah, the sefirah of intuitive understanding, is also considered feminine. So is the womb-like, creative essence of Tehom (the Deep) from Genesis. Jewish mysticism is rich with divine femininity—and it’s not just symbolic. It’s real, embodied, worshipful. It’s G-d Herself.
And yet Hashem is also Tiferet—beauty, harmony, the androgynous center between masculine Chesed and feminine Gevurah. Hashem is the balance and the blur. The in-between.
Hashem is Ein Sof—Infinite.Limitless. Boundless. Beyond all form and yet the root of every form.
To speak of Hashem as They is not to reduce the Divine—it is to honor Their limitless, gender-transcendent nature. If G-d is nonbinary and genderfluid and multiform, why should we—created b’tzelem Elohim (in Their image)—be anything less?
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We’ve always been here—our souls etched into the margins of the sacred scroll.
Take Dinah, daughter of Leah and Jacob. But according to Midrash haGadol on Genesis 30:21, Dinah’s story begins quite differently:
“The fetus in Leah’s womb was originally male, but G-d turned it into a female so that Rachel could give birth to a son.”
This teaching is echoed in Bereshit Rabbah 72:6 and in the Zohar (1:156a). Dinah’s soul was masculine, but G-d changed the body in utero to prevent Rachel’s disgrace. In that moment, Leah’s prayer was answered—and Dinah’s destiny was redirected.
Some queer and trans Jews see this as a story of transmasc resonance: a soul that remembers its original shape, a body not aligned with its essence. Rabbi Elliot Kukla and other progressive scholars have written about Dinah as a proto-trans figure, living a life in Torah without the words to name it.
And when people ask where trans Jews are in the sacred text, I point to Dinah—and say: Right here. In the womb. In the silence. In the holy possibility of transformation.
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Much ink has been spilled over Deuteronomy 22:5:
“A woman shall not wear that which pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman’s garment.”
At first glance, it sounds anti-trans. But look deeper—and, as always, bring context.
Many classical and modern scholars agree this verse is not about gender identity or clothing expression. It’s about deception, idol worship, and violation of social boundaries in specific contexts.
Rashi reads it as a prohibition on cross-dressing for the purpose of deceit—like sneaking into gendered spaces to commit harm. Ibn Ezra and the Sefer ha-Chinuch both suggest it refers to disguises used for idolatrous rituals. Other commentaries suggest it’s about blurring gender roles to access power unjustly, not about someone dressing or living in alignment with their true gender.
It does not ban people from being trans. In fact, Judaism recognizes at least six sexes or gender categories in rabbinic literature: zachar (male), nekevah (female), androgynos (both), tumtum (ambiguous), aylonit (intersex female who doesn’t develop), and saris (intersex male or eunuch). Gender diversity isn’t new—it’s part of the scroll.
A trans man wearing men’s clothing is not violating Torah. He’s living in truth. A non-binary person wearing genderfluid garb is not transgressing—they are reflecting the Divine name:
אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה — “I will be what I will be.” (Exodus 3:14)
If Hashem is beyond binaries, why shouldn’t we be?
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The old “Sodom equals homosexuality and proves G-d is against it” claim falls apart once you actually read what the Tanakh says and how our sages understood it. The destruction of Sodom in Genesis 19 is not framed as a punishment for consensual same-sex intimacy, but for cruelty and injustice. The prophet Ezekiel 16:49–50 spells this out clearly: “Behold, this was the iniquity of your sister Sodom: pride, fullness of bread, and careless ease was hers and her daughters’; neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy. They were haughty and committed abomination before Me; therefore I removed them when I saw it.” The “abomination” here is linked to arrogance and callousness, not loving same-gender relationships. The rabbinic tradition reads the story as a warning against inhospitality and cruelty toward strangers, especially vulnerable ones.
Midrashim add detail to this reputation. Sanhedrin 109a describes Sodom as a place where charity was outlawed, and people were punished for helping the poor. Another tradition (Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 25) explains that the Sodomites sought to torture travelers and deny them basic rights. In that light, the mob outside Lot’s house demanding access to his guests (Genesis 19:5) is not about sexual orientation, but about a violent intent to degrade outsiders—using rape as a weapon of humiliation. This is consistent with how warfare and abuse in the ancient world often employed sexual violence as domination, not expression of desire.
The prophets consistently reinforce this reading. Isaiah 1:10–17 invokes Sodom as a metaphor for societies steeped in injustice, bloodshed, and oppression of the vulnerable. Jeremiah 23:14 links Sodom with lies, corruption, and strengthening the hands of evildoers. Not one of these later commentaries from the Tanakh equates Sodom’s sin with homosexuality. Instead, they identify systemic cruelty, greed, and exploitation as the root rot.
So when people point to Sodom as if it were the Torah’s stance on consensual queer love, they’re actually twisting scripture. What’s condemned is violence, arrogance, and turning away from the needy. The Torah has strong words for injustice—none of them, in context, equate to a loving same-sex relationship.
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Let’s be blunt: Judaism is not "Christianity without Jesus". It is not obsessed with virginity, shame, or repressing the body. It doesn’t teach that sex is only for procreation or that desire is inherently sinful. Quite the opposite.
In the Talmud (Ketubot 61b), it is a commandment—a halachic obligation—for a husband to satisfy his wife sexually, based on her needs and rhythms, not his. The mitzvah of onah is about pleasure, not procreation. The rabbis saw erotic joy as part of a just, loving marriage—and some interpreted this expansively, not exclusively.
And then there’s the Song of Songs, that lush, fragrant, unapologetically erotic poetry that somehow snuck into the Bible.
Christians often allegorize it as “the love between Christ and the Church.” But Jews know better: this is ancient Hebrew porn dressed in fig leaves and pomegranate juice.
Let’s get explicit: "Her navel is a rounded bowl that never lacks mixed wine" (Song of Songs 7:2) is not about a belly button. In Hebrew, the word “shor” here is more accurately translated as vulva or clitoral mound. The “mixed wine” is… what it sounds like. Yes, it’s a verse about cunnilingus, and about savoring the sacred juices of a lover’s desire.
And that’s just one verse. The entire text drips with sensuality, mutual longing, and lustful praise of the body.
This is the tradition I belong to. A tradition where sex is not a sin but a sanctified act. Where love, pleasure, and the body are gifts from G-d, not sources of shame. Where intimacy can be prayer, and queerness can be k’dushah—holiness.
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So let’s talk about so-called “sexual immorality.”
In Jewish tradition, forbidden sexual acts (arayot) refer to rape, incest, adultery, and exploitation. Not loving sex between two consenting adults. Not queerness. Not trans embodiment. Not premarital sex between people acting with integrity and mutual care.
Judaism condemns harm, not difference. The Torah teaches us not to violate trust, not to coerce, not to betray. But it also blesses erotic joy, relational honesty, and even sex that creates covenant without the paperwork. Halachically, sex itself could create kiddushin (marriage) in ancient times.
Purity culture? That’s not us. We’re the people who say, “Go forth and multiply,” then argue about how many times a week you’re supposed to make your wife orgasm.
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Jewish people—religious, secular, and everything in between—have long been leaders, visionaries, and cultural icons within the LGBTQ+ movement. Here are just a few influential Jewish LGBTQ+ individuals whose identities and contributions have left a lasting mark:
Frank Kameny – Often called one of the grandfathers of the gay rights movement in America. After being fired from a government job for being gay, he co-founded the Mattachine Society of Washington, D.C., and helped remove homosexuality from the APA’s list of mental disorders.
Leslie Feinberg – Trans Jewish author of Stone Butch Blues, a landmark work in queer literature. Feinberg’s activism linked LGBTQ+ liberation to broader anti-racist, anti-capitalist, and anti-fascist struggles.
Larry Kramer – Jewish playwright and co-founder of ACT UP and the Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC). His fierce advocacy during the AIDS crisis forced the world to pay attention to the epidemic and demanded government accountability.
Harvey Milk – One of the first openly gay elected officials in the U.S., Milk was the child of Lithuanian Jewish immigrants. His activism and tragic assassination made him an icon of both Jewish and LGBTQ resilience.
Kate Bornstein – Gender theorist, performance artist, and author of Gender Outlaw, Bornstein was raised in a Conservative Jewish household and has helped generations rethink gender identity through a radical, compassionate lens.
Abby Stein – A former Hasidic rabbi who came out as a trans woman and has since become a powerful voice for LGBTQ+ inclusion in faith communities. Her memoir Becoming Eve details her journey through gender and ultra-Orthodox Judaism.
Judith Butler – Influential philosopher and gender theorist whose work on gender performativity has reshaped modern feminist and queer thought. Butler is secular but has often spoken about their Jewish identity and its relationship to ethics and justice.
Elliot Kukla – One of the first openly transgender rabbis ordained by a major Jewish seminary. Kukla’s work focuses on disability justice, trans theology, and pastoral care for those on the margins.
Amos Lassen – Film critic and blogger whose LGBTQ Jewish reviews and essays have helped promote queer cinema, Jewish voices, and the intersection of identity in media.
Deborah Waxman – The first woman and the first lesbian to lead a major Jewish seminary (Reconstructionist Rabbinical College). She is an outspoken advocate for pluralism and LGBTQ inclusion in Jewish life.
Sarah Schulman – Jewish lesbian writer and activist, co-founder of the Lesbian Avengers, and a historian of ACT UP. Her work often centers on queer Jewish experiences, chosen family, and radical social movements.
Tony Kushner – Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright of Angels in America, a powerful queer epic interwoven with themes of Jewish identity, spirituality, and political justice.
These are just a handful of the Jewish LGBTQ individuals who have shaped our world through activism, scholarship, art, theology, and lived experience. Whether deeply observant or culturally Jewish, their work is often infused with the Jewish ethical commitment to tikkun olam—repairing the world—and the understanding that queerness and Jewishness are not mutually exclusive, but profoundly intertwined.
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So yes, I am a trans man. I am a gay man. And I am a Jew.
I light Shabbat candles in a binder and tallit, not as a woman left behind, but as a man who sanctifies time with tenderness. I speak to Hashem not as just "Father" or "King," but as "Mother" and as They—the G-d who breathes between binaries, who holds every form of becoming.
I am not a contradiction. I am a sacred unfolding.
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ברוכה אתה שכינה הרוחשת בתוכנו
Baruch Atah, Shekhinah ha’Rocheshet b’tocheinu
Blessed are You, Shekhinah who stirs within us--
Who dances beyond binaries, who breathes between pronouns,
Who declares: You are Mine. You are holy. You are whole.
May every queer Jew, every trans soul,
Be wrapped in tallit and truth,
Be kissed by Torah and not by shame,
Be held by community and not by fear.
May we know our bodies are holy.
May we know our desires are sacred.
May we never mistake another’s ignorance for G-d’s judgment.
And may we walk forward with pride,
For we are not outside the covenant--
We are its newest revelation.