How queer-friendly Shabbat helped me fully embrace my Jewish heritage

Judaism and I got off to a rocky start. My dad made no real effort to acquaint me with my heritage until, aged six, I pointed at some Hareidi Jews and reportedly said, “Not them again!” The reasons behind this story have been lost in the ether, but my dad decided it was time to get me to the first synagogue he could find before I decided to display any other potentially anti-Semitic tendencies. It wouldn’t be until my 20s that I’d celebrate Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest that marks the end of one week and the beginning of a new one. And it wasn’t until the pandemic that I began actively welcoming it as my safe space. 

As the U.K. went in and out of various lockdowns, I was cut off from my friends and family, and time quickly began to feel like Groundhog Day. My world became much more contained: I went from travelling for work and hosting big events at the community centre I run to spending my days filling out endless job applications and walking around the same park. When my housemate told me she wanted to celebrate Shabbat by having weekly Friday night dinners during the U.K.’s first lockdown, I said yes, because it wasn’t like I had any other plans. We’d previously hosted them once a month for our community events, but we had never done it just for ourselves, and never every week. 

On Fridays, we began making an effort. Despite having a limited budget, we would splash out a little bit extra for Shabbat and take more time to cook something special, like fancier recipes for fish, while my housemate baked fresh challah. Although pajamas had become day clothes as well as night clothes and bras were a distant memory, I would take pleasure in going through my wardrobe and picking out my outfit. Some weeks I’d be in much-neglected formal wear; other weeks it would be sequins and club gear. I did a full face every Friday, making my way through my lipstick collection and experimenting with eyeshadows. The Friday Night Selfie became part of the ritual. 

While my housemate and I were trapped together during lockdown, those dinners were pure indulgent joy, where we let ourselves laugh and get drunk. They gave me a respite from the endless drudgery and terror of the pandemic, and they gave time some meaning again. 

In my 20s, I came to two separate realizations: first, that I am bisexual, and second that, with my grandparents gone, I had to actively choose if I wanted a relationship with Judaism—and if so, I needed to decide what that relationship was going to be. I’d grown up spending Saturday mornings at synagogue and seeing extended family for Pesach, but ultimately Judaism was separate from the rest of my life. While I’ve always loved being Jewish, I can see now that I hadn’t wanted to seem even more different than all my non-Jewish classmates and the friends I was surrounded by when I wasn’t at synagogue. 

At university, I was keen to get more involved but was shocked at how inaccessible the wider Jewish community was; being a patrilineal Jew (meaning my Judaism comes from my father’s side), I had grown up in the Liberal movement, and the differences between my experience of Judaism and others’ was a barrier. I associated being Jewish less with the fun of learning it had as a child, and I worried that trying to get involved might lead to more rejection and denial of my identity, since many other denominations still do not accept or have only recently begun accepting patrilineal Jews. 

I unconsciously cut myself off from Judaism the same way I hadn’t allowed myself to realize I was bisexual: being different scared me and I didn’t understand the multitudes I contained. This changed when I went on a birthright trip to Israel to honour my grandmother who had recently passed away. I realized how passionate I was about my Jewish identity— conflicts, disagreements, doubts and all. I began to talk about it more actively with friends and at work, the same way I had with my recently accepted bisexuality. I realized that these were parts of me I hadn’t let myself explore because of potential backlash, but I wanted to know myself more than I was scared of others’ opinions. As a result, I set up Moishe House Clapham, a Jewish community centre for people in their 20s and 30s, to create the community I wanted to be part of—one that welcomed everyone and let them bring their whole identity with them. 

With Shabbat being a very important weekly Jewish festival, it was inevitable that our once loosely held Friday night dinners would become part of that mix. Once a month, we led Shabbat celebrations with others. The first one we hosted, I did the blessings and thought it was a joke when one of our guests asked where the rest of it was—I’d never been taught the longer version, and I was mortified at being called out at our first gathering. But despite confusion over certain rituals and the imposter syndrome that occasionally came with it, I began to cautiously look forward to celebrating our weekly dinners. The hodge-podge group who turned up became the queer-friendly Jewish community I’d craved. I loved that everyone felt welcome, that our community members knew they could bring their same-sex partner and still be asked if they wanted to say kiddush, and that conversations ranged from what was on TV to if it were possible to make Shabbat vibrators (the consensus was yes, but that vibrators on timers would be great situational comedy). 

The last event we hosted before the lockdown announcement was a Friday night dinner. It was a small affair; with so many people already being cautious, our monthly gathering went from the usual 20 or so people to just six. But perhaps because we had a sense that lockdown was coming (most of Europe was already under one), it was even more of a celebration, with loud music and loud laughter that went past midnight, and it’s a memory I hold onto more than a year later. 

Afterwards, as we adjusted to a new normal and began programming all of our events online, Shabbat slightly fell by the wayside; we didn’t feel we could make it a meaningful experience in an online setting. We threw ourselves instead into interactive learning and silly events that we felt our community would enjoy, like a Ruth cheese and wine night, where we looked at the story of Ruth depicted in art and consumed cheese and wine with gusto. My housemate and I were so concerned about keeping our community connected, it didn’t occur to us until a month into lockdown to do something just for us. 

A year on, Shabbat is still a respite. Every week, it gives me a chance to pause and reflect on how I am doing, and it gives me strength for the week ahead. When I first set up Moishe House Clapham, I did it for the community. But Shabbat is now very much for me. Though I’d recognized the need for a space where being Jewish could comfortably sit among other intersectional identities, I hadn’t realized how I had yet to integrate the different parts of me. Now, when I bring in Shabbat, I get to do so with other queer Jews and people who recognize me as both bisexual and Jewish. I do it not because I have to, but because I choose to, and not because of rules and restrictions but out of joy and celebration—even against the backdrop of a world out of control.