Are LGBTQ Jews welcome in Orthodox communities? This is how they build their own spaces

It was a heartbreaking choice. But when Daniel Gammerman decided to never set foot back in an Orthodox synagogue, he considered it an act of love. Not to the Jewish community into which he was born, but to himself.

“A synagogue is a spiritual place, but it’s also a community place,” Gammerman, 47, said from his home in Miami. “If I have to check half of my ID at the door to get in, I don’t think that’s welcoming enough for me.”

Dozens of LGBTQ+ Jews like him have struggled to find support and acceptance in their Orthodox communities. Most were raised with little knowledge of what it means to be gay or queer. They just felt different, but it was hard for them to ask their rabbis, “This is who I am, is there still room for me here?”

“The way it mainly works is invisibility,” Gammerman said. “The existence of LGBT people among us is not addressed. And whenever you hear something about it, of course it’s negative.”

He can’t put his finger on a specific date where he realized he was gay. But he clearly remembers what happened to him when the news broke.

“I used to get enormous texts from different people trying to explain to me how it was wrong,” Gammerman said. “There was a bombardment of people trying to fix me.”

The grandson of Eastern European Jews who fled during World War II, Gammerman was born in Brazil. He moved to the US after finishing high school in the 1990s and continued his studies at an Orthodox Jewish university. At 21, he got married. He and his wife—whom he still considers a friend—raised four children together.

“We built a perfect family,” he said. “I ticked all the boxes of what an Orthodox Jewish family should be.”

Afraid of ruining his future and the lives of his children, he shut down his feelings for years until he couldn’t do it anymore.

He initially traveled to Brazil and met with a therapist who counseled gay men in heterosexual marriages. That helped, Gammerman said, but something was missing. What about his life in an Orthodox religious community that didn’t even acknowledge that LGBTQ+ people exist?

Embracing his true identity felt easier after meeting Steven Greenberg, an openly gay rabbi who founded Eshel, a US-based organization focused on connecting LGBTQ+ Orthodox Jewish communities.

According to Miryam Kabakov, Eshel’s executive director, most of the people who reach out share similar concerns: I’m coming out, and I’ve been part of this community all my life. Can I still belong? What will happen to me now? Can you find a rabbi to help me?

“We guide them to religious leaders who will tell them there is still room for them,” Kabakov said. “That they still have the religious obligations and expectations they’ve always had, and that they should stay true to their heart and tradition if that’s what they want.”

Ely Winkler, a 37-year-old LGBTQ+ Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn, will soon return to an Orthodox synagogue after years of estrangement from his community.

“After the war between Israel and Gaza broke out, I felt a deeper calling,” he said. “I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself, for my beliefs, and I knew I had to strengthen my Judaism, remember who I am.”

Abrielle Fuerst, 32, moved from Texas to Philadelphia six years ago. Eshel helped her connect with a local rabbi and an inclusive synagogue.

“Here it’s not, ‘Oh, come because you’re Jewish and gay, we accept you.’ It’s just, “Hi, you’re Jewish, thanks for being in this space and nice to meet you.”

One of Eshel’s projects, called “Welcoming Shuls,” enlists more than 200 rabbis working in North America to make their synagogues welcoming to LGBTQ+ people. Many of them agree to be publicly identified; others ask to keep a low profile, anticipating hostile reactions within their Orthodox communities.

“Many rabbis are very afraid to be public because they will be ostracized,” Kabakov said. “But we know they’re there.”

The group also counsels Orthodox LGBTQ+ Jews who wish to maintain distance from their religion.

“People who don’t want to be religious anymore are torn about it,” Kabakov said. “But we’re trying to help them through the struggle and let them know they can be gay and religious. It might be hard to find a place, but we’re working on it.”

Gammerman has tried to return to Orthodox synagogues since coming out. So far, no one in Miami has made him feel truly accepted.

“I’ve tried many times, but it’s like wearing a suit,” he said. “At one point I could live with it. But the more you accept yourself, the more you love yourself, you just can’t do that.”

His Orthodox community did not prevent him from attending religious services after he came out, but the rejection was still there. People no longer greeted him and he was no longer allowed to hold services in his synagogue. Once, during a speech, the rabbi looked at him and said, “Homosexuality is destroying humanity, and if this continues, there will be no more children in the world.”

“I lost my friendships, relationships, participation and community,” Gammerman said. “It all went away very, very quickly.”

Meeting Greenberg, who is married to another man and has a child, helped her realize that she can still live a happy and fulfilling life. After their meeting, Gammerman decided to talk to his wife. The couple separated and found a way to break the news to their children.

“Since then, I’ve rebuilt my life,” he said. “I remarried. I have a husband. My children are part of my life and they understand.”

In time, he realized that not only his family, but also his approach to his religion should change. At first he tried going to liberal Reform synagogues, some of which fully embrace LGBTQ+ believers, but having been raised Orthodox Jewish, he still felt out of place.

“Being LGBT is an entire identity,” Gammerman said. “And I want to be embraced in a place where there are no buts and ifs.”

He prefers not to label his current religious observance, but Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur still hold huge meaning for him. So every year on the high days he gets up early, dresses up nicely and opens his prayer book.

“I say the prayers from beginning to end,” Gammerman said. “How to all the praise as if I were in a synagogue, but I do it alone in my house.”

He was once taught that Jewish prayer required at least 10 men to be led, but since then he has learned a few things.

“If I was given a switch that I could flip to change who I am, I wouldn’t do it,” he said. “God made me this way, so it’s not up to me to change. I have to love myself for who I am.”

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