Do We Still Need Queer Synagogues?
Last night, I attended a Jewish queer happy hour, eager to connect with others who share my identity and background. However, I encountered a clash of generations that left me both floored and frustrated. Younger queers were being dismissed and sidelined by the older attendees — many of whom seemed genuinely perplexed by the loss of younger members to more activist synagogues. Despite their concerns about sustaining the synagogue, it was clear that their approach hadn’t evolved to meet the needs of the very people they wished to attract.
There are many factors contributing to the downward trend in membership at queer synagogues. Our progress towards queer families’ inclusion in traditionally straight synagogues has helped lure potential members away. Increasing housing prices have driven many potential members to the suburbs, where they often need synagogues that offer services beyond the spiritual, like preschools, afterschool programs, and communal spaces for children to find others like themselves. Jewish life cycle events, such as bat or bar mitzvahs, require infrastructure that queer synagogues often lack. Additionally, there seems to be a dwindling interest in broader activism, leaving younger members feeling disconnected from a larger sense of community engagement. For many young queers, activism is central to both their Jewish and queer identities, and the absence of this focus makes synagogues appear irrelevant to their lives.
As I sat among this group, I found myself recounting my history of dismissal and humiliation with their former Rabbi — a story met not with an apology but with a return to the pressing issue of membership. The rabbi was a mom and a lesbian, much like myself, and we initially met at a march in Washington, DC, where I thought we might connect as friends. But despite our shared identities, she consistently ignored me in favor of my wife, barely saying hello before walking away in public settings. When I brought this up to synagogue board members, they were initially skeptical but later witnessed the behavior themselves. It was this kind of persistent, unacknowledged exclusion that led me to leave that synagogue for another one. At this moment, as I revisited that painful history, it became glaringly obvious: the synagogue’s focus was not on healing past harms or even acknowledging them but on its immediate need to maintain membership.
I offered a simple solution rooted in my experience and observations: focus on activism and radical welcoming. These are not just buzzwords; they are tools for real change. They are what younger generations are seeking, and they are what will sustain any community in today’s world. This isn’t some idealistic dream — it’s a strategy that has proven successful in queer spaces outside the synagogue. Yet, despite my suggestion, the conversation quickly reverted to the synagogue’s need for members. It felt like talking to a narcissistic organization, one that constantly asks what you can do for them, not what they can do for you. It was as though they were wearing blinders, unable or unwilling to understand that the way forward isn’t through numbers but through connection.
It’s a pattern I’ve seen repeatedly in similar spaces. Institutions, no matter how well-intentioned, often fall into a one-sided approach: they want help to survive but rarely reflect on how their survival strategies may have actively harmed others. They are fixated on what they need — members, funding, programs — and they rarely ask what we, as individuals, need. This singular focus perpetuates a cycle of disconnection, and it’s little wonder that many young queers are drawn to spaces of radical inclusion and activism instead.
Activism is not just about marching or making signs; it’s about living your values and fighting for justice in everyday interactions. It’s about creating spaces where people are seen and valued for who they are, not just for what they can contribute. In contrast, the current approach of many queer synagogues feels transactional. You show up, pay your dues, and maybe, just maybe, you get a sliver of validation or community in return. But for younger queers, especially those who have experienced exclusion or harm in Jewish spaces before, that’s not enough. They crave genuine, two-way relationships where their voices matter as much as their membership fees.
The radical inclusion message works elsewhere because it’s not just a slogan — it’s a lifeline. It’s not about policing who’s inside and out or clinging to structures that have grown rigid with age. It’s about creating a space that genuinely welcomes and embraces, that actively seeks to understand why people have left and what might bring them back. It’s about addressing real pain, listening, and adapting. And yes, it’s about activism because, for many of us, our Jewishness and queerness are deeply intertwined with a desire to change the world.
This is where queer synagogues seem to falter. They want to preserve traditions, which is admirable, but they fail to see that traditions must evolve to stay relevant. The world has changed dramatically, as have the needs of the people they wish to serve. The synagogue’s reluctance to engage in activism and external outreach puts off more social justice-minded twenty-somethings. Younger queers often see Zionism through a critical lens, viewing it as part of a broader conversation about justice, human rights, and inclusivity. Refusing to address this only widens the gap, pushing younger members further away and making the synagogue seem out of touch.
Our queer and straight synagogues need to prioritize healing as much as they do High Holy Day services. Imagine a space where younger queers feel welcomed not just for their potential as members but for the unique perspectives they bring. Imagine a community that embraces dissent as a path to growth, not a threat to unity. It’s not enough to ask for membership anymore — queer synagogues must earn it by demonstrating a commitment to inclusion that goes beyond words.
We do not need spaces that mirror the broken hierarchies and exclusions of the larger world. We need spaces that embody the radical love and justice that Judaism, at its best, calls for. If queer synagogues can be that, then they have a place. If not, we may find that the need for them has passed, eclipsed by spaces more willing to listen, evolve, and genuinely welcome all who wish to be part of the community.
The question remains: do we still need queer synagogues? Maybe. But not in their current form. For queer synagogues to stay relevant, they need to let go of their fear of change. They need to stop measuring success solely by membership numbers and start measuring it by the depth of the relationships they build. They must embrace activism as a Jewish value and radical inclusion as a sacred practice. They must become places where everyone can feel at home, where queer families and individuals pushed to the suburbs can still feel connected, and where the past harms are acknowledged and addressed.
