My family and I went shopping for a refrigerator on Sunday, a needed task before the New Year. We all went, Kathryn, our daughter Emma, and me, searching the crowded aisles of Drimmer's on Coney Island Avenue for the best deal we could find. We finally settled on our choice and sat to do the paperwork with our salesman. When we talked about delivery dates, he noted that many customers would not want delivery tomorrow, "because of the Jewish holiday." But, he said, looking at us, "I don't see anyone Jewish here."

It was stunning to me that this man, who seemed to be Jewish himself, could look at my face and not see anyone Jewish. But we realized later that he wasn't exactly looking at our individual faces. He was looking at the face of our family and we are not what people think of as a Jewish family.

Stereotypes are what drive a lot of the discussion in the Jewish world about Jews and non-Jews and how we relate or are related. Stereotypes about Jews have so often led to violence against us that we can understand the desire to stick together in tribe or clan, mixing only with our own. Stereotypes about non-Jews have often led to exclusion, denigration, and the disowning of Jewish children as they love and marry non-Jews in our increasingly multi-cultural society.

Yet change is in the air. At Kolot Chayeinu, we wrestle with the implications of change and sameness and try to understand where we have come from and where we are going. High on the list of subjects for wrestling is that of the roles and responsibilities of Jews and non-Jews, members all, in our congregation. In this wrestling, we are very much a Jewish family, though here too the Drimmer's salesman might not recognize us as such.

Yet look: Seated right here in this room are scores of people who are learning Judaism and teaching their children and celebrating the holidays and putting up mezuzahs and giving their babies Hebrew names and getting married in Jewish weddings. Some of you are Jews who have a non-Jewish parent, some a non-Jewish spouse. And a whole lot of you are not Jews, but have become our strong allies. You are each ha-ger ha-gar itanu, the stranger who dwells with us.

In one of Rosh HaShanah's Torah portions, the God of Abraham speaks to Hagar the Egyptian after Sarah throws her out, asking her, through an angel, "Where have you come from and where are you going?" She had lorded it over Sarah, thrown her superior fertility in her face. Hagar says to God, "You are El-roi," the God who sees me. The well at which they spoke was called Beer-lahai-roi, the well of the Living One who sees me.

How is it that God speaks to this stranger who is brought into Abraham and Sarah's home? Her very name echoes in our ears, reminding us of ha-ger ha-gar itanu, the stranger who dwells among us, referred to over and over in Biblical legislation; "be kind to the stranger for you were a stranger in the land of Egypt." Having been strangers, we knew what it could be like to be a stranger, and we were to treat others in as open and generous way as we could. But that stranger has morphed into someone we refer to now as a non-Jew, and over centuries we have put more and more emphasis on the word "stranger" and less and less on the possibilities implied in "dwells among us." And yet, here you sit, so many of you, non-Jews who are dwelling among us, strengthening Jewish life, building our community. We should salute you, yet the Jewish community too often denigrates you, castigates your spouse, implies that your presence represents the death of Judaism. You are the no-longer strangers and in our day it is to the Jewish community that the God who sees us all asks, Where have you come and where are you going?

This sermon is one answer, an answer wrung from the pain and fears and hopes and dreams I see and hear every day as a rabbi and those I know in my own life and deepest heart. It is born of 11 years of Kolot Chayeinu's life trying to carve a new path toward Jewish community and 20 years of my own life as the partner of a non-Jew. Both places in which I stand are places of love and joy and not a little defiance. Both are also lonely places to be sometimes, places of struggle and fear, embarrassment and anger. So this is a sermon about that struggle, my struggle to reconcile the sometimes surprising components of my life and my struggle to work with you to shape this community's future. These are struggles I know I share with many of you. And, an odd but somehow happy honor, I am just about the only rabbi who can give this sermon.

It is the sermon I have been afraid to give. Yet this year, as the New Year approached, I knew that this was the year to speak to you from my heart. At this season, that means confronting my conscience or at least that opposing voice in my head, the one that keeps me from insincerity or too much piety. In my twelfth year on this bima, I know I can trust you with my innermost fears and joys as you so often entrust me with yours. It also means speaking directly to God, the thing we so often shy away from doing.

Let's start with the year just ended. This past spring, at a retreat in which I participated, the Kolot board was presented with a new set of by-laws, the result of months of labor by a hard-working committee. The draft had been looked at briefly at a congregational meeting and now the board was asked to examine it more carefully. A few issues were a little thorny, including what to do about choosing a second rabbi (far into the future, I hope). But none evoked anything like the response to the issue of "who may serve on the board of Kolot Chayeinu?" The drafters left it wide open: any member in good standing of the congregation may serve on the board. Kolot Chayeinu has many members who are non-Jews. Could we agree that board membership was open to Jews and non-Jews alike?

We could not. What we could and did do was talk, argue, raise our voices, retreat into ourselves, and cry - a lot. Some felt very strongly that board members of a Jewish congregation must be Jews. Others felt just as strongly that Kolot was already a different kind of Jewish congregation, one that had created an atmosphere of welcome equality, and must therefore include non-Jews on the board. Added to this was the fact that non-Jews had always been full members of the congregation; how could we deny them participation or representation on the board? Some members and staff were happy, smiling through tears, that this issue had at last been spoken; others wished we could carry on as before and not raise it in all its complexity. Some feared offending those in the room whose spouses are not Jewish, or a new board member who isn't Jewish but is in the process of conversion, which reflects our policy before the new draft by-laws. Some couldn't believe that the person sitting next to them, whom they liked so much, held such a different opinion on what felt like a bottom-line issue. And all the time there were tears, the tears of relief and fear and discomfort and confusion.

Other questions arose, attaching themselves to this discussion: "Well, what do we do in the Children's Learning Program about kids who have only one Jewish parent?" "What do you, the rabbi, do about weddings?" "Who do we consider a Jew here?" All these questions showed legitimate wondering about our decisions and policies. But it was clear they also stemmed from deep emotion, from people's long experience of interfaith marriage or the unwelcoming stance of Jewish communities. The tears were close to the surface. Were some in the room to be exiled like Hagar, while others stayed in the Jewish fold like Sarah? Or were some asserting the right and responsibility of Jews to work for the Jewish future, like Sarah protecting Isaac from Ishmael, while non-Jews who don't hold the same stake are reasonably prevented from board service? The God who sees us almost asked aloud, Where have you come from and where are you going?

I am telling you all this because this discussion was the tip of this iceberg, the way we found ourselves engaged in all the questions that come up when a Jewish congregation talks about Jews and non-Jews among us. More than that, it was for those hours our Jewish family, the one where the non-Jewish member can't understand why having a Christmas tree or not having a bris is so damned important while the Jew thinks the spouse with whom he or she has lived for many years is suddenly a stranger.

Some may wonder whether this sometimes painful subject is fit for Rosh HaShanah, the beginning of the year, a holy day, this holy eve. Trisha Arlin, editor of Voices for Kolot, said a few days ago that one of the things that makes us Kolot is that we can have difficult discussion even on our holiest days and that in fact such dialogue is an expression of the holy. The God who sees, sees us grappling, and calls it good, and asks us, as with Hagar, Where have you come from and where are you going?

Where have I come from? My partner of 20 years and I were married in January. (We were married in Brooklyn, there was nothing legal about it, and this is not a sermon about gay marriage, fraught as that issue also is). As I have said, my partner is not Jewish, and in the year of planning our wedding I came to understand in new ways what many of you have gone through looking for a rabbi, learning which friends support you and which don't, making decisions about the ceremony. The wedding was a mountain-peak, just as our ancestors imagined it. But hovering before, during and all around it were my questions and fears. What did I hope for from the Jewish world around me, or just from my friends who are rabbis? Absolution? Praise? Simple acceptance would be good.

For most of the twenty years in which I have lived with my soul's beloved, I have also been in the process of rabbinic study and working as a rabbi. So I have heard or read every version of Jewish condemnation of interfaith relationships and marriage, from the biblical Rebekah's fear that Jacob would marry a Hittite woman and Ezra's instruction to the people to separate from the foreign women to my classmates' unrelenting condemnation of intermarriage as the death of the Jewish people. The latest version? At my rabbinic conference in Toronto in June, I joined other rabbis in a study session with a professor of Jewish literature. We were looking at a variety of Jewish views about rabbis as seen in literature of many kinds, from a very early rabbinic contract to Friday the Rabbi Slept Late, by Harry Kemelman. As one rabbi read aloud from an early 20^th century story, he came to the section about a rabbi falling in love with a non-Jewish woman. And every single rabbi in the room except me began to laugh, make fun, question the story, until the voices rose and swirled and I wondered whether I was Isaac as Ishmael played with him or Ishmael excluded from the tent.

Is it so strange for a rabbi in the 21^st century to be married to a non-Jew? I am one of two or three, as far as I know, a lonely place indeed, but what a joy to have met a rabbi last year who is also in what she calls an intercultural marriage and to correspond with her. Intercultural may be a better term than interfaith; Rabbi Harold Schulweis says a lot of couples he sees are actually "interfaithless." And while we are talking terminology, "non-Jew" is such a strange label: Kathryn for instance, is a permanently lapsed Irish Catholic, student of Buddhist meditation, ally to me in all my Jewish thinking and practice, creator of our Jewish home. But she isn't Jewish. Does that matter to the God who sees me? This is not a rhetorical question, but the very heart of the matter to me. Our rabbi said that our wedding strengthened Judaism. I hope beyond hope that God believes it.

Oh, God, You see me, You know me inside and out. Are You willing to believe in me, believe in my complete devotion to Judaism, which is enhanced by my marriage to my non-Jewish love? Can You believe that she enhances my Judaism, even helped open the door to my being a rabbi? I could stop being a rabbi, but I can never stop being a Jew. Do You know that, You who are the Hai Roi, the Living One who sees?

Once, our ancestors couldn't understand a modern-day gay relationship, yet today we are able to interpret Leviticus 18's condemnation of gay connection in light of all we know of modern open possibilities. Similarly, our ancestors, whether in Biblical Canaan or early 20^th century Brooklyn, could never have understood a modern-day devotion to Judaism by someone who married "out," as they would have said, out to the Hittites or out to the Irish Catholics. So how could they have imagined marrying "in," bringing in new strength and creativity to Judaism? I remember the words of one of my professors who said, "Anyone can say words," referring to the fact that repeating a blessing doesn't make you a Jew. Of course it doesn't. But it can help to create a Jewish home.

I will always remember that the year I lived in Israel to start my rabbinic studies, Kathryn lit Shabbat candles here every week while I was gone. And it was our daughter Emma who started our practice of bringing to the Shabbat table the kiddush cups of everyone in the family even if they aren't present. Kathryn was part and parcel of all the early discussions that began Kolot Chayeinu and has been a regular presence here for 11 years. I ask anyone here to tell me that I am not or we are not contributing to the Jewish future.

That's my defiance showing. But this is hard because I have other voices, too, voices that question and worry and wonder. It is so hard because like many of you I grew up with tribal Jewish notions and loving the Jewish tribe, even if it felt stifling sometimes. It is so hard because underneath my questions I feel my desperation, a desperation made of love for family of origin and Judaism, often tightly intertwined; love for my partner and child; a desire to please them all; and fear or certainty that I am pleasing none. Sometimes I KNOW from reading all those texts and hearing my classmates and a lot of other Jews talk and reading Jewish newspapers regularly and all the years of being a rabbi that I am single-handedly causing the decline, if not the death, of Judaism. I wrestle with that knowing, with that fear. Yet when we married - when we stood together under a huppa and yes, said blessings together, that fear receded.

So this sermon is also a coming out: For too many years I walked a fine line of trying to have my cake and eat it too; have my life with Kathryn AND please all the Jewish classmates and rabbis and teachers and sociologists and guests at the last wedding I performed that I might meet as she and I walked around the city or went to a play. But the cake I was eating wasn't only Rosh HaShanah honey cake, it was also Irish soda bread and for a while in the early days (though no longer) it was Christmas cookies, and at some point I just couldn't please everyone, hard as I tried.

Tonight, I officially stop trying. I stop the years of blanching when meeting someone who may disapprove and trying not to introduce Kathryn, or get away as quickly as I can. I stop the apologetic way I sometimes feel or speak to friends about our Jewish practice. I stop trading off honoring my beloved with attempts at an approval that is never coming anyway and which, really, I don't want. Al Heyt Sheh-hatati lifanekha; for the sin which I have sinned against You by betraying my love.

Where have you come from and where are you going?

Planning our wedding made me look seriously also at questions about my own officiation. Early on we realized that, if we asked them to, some of our close friends who were rabbis wouldn't officiate at our wedding. They confirmed this and we have had a lot of intense talk with them; we are still figuring out how and if to continue those friendships. We knew who would be our rabbi, and she agreed, so we didn't have to ask others. But it made me think about my own meeting with couples, especially when I turn them down. And it made me know that our wedding could not be different in its way of being a Jewish wedding than any wedding for which I would agree to officiate.

Several years ago, some people here will remember, I refused to officiate at a wedding of a long-time friend who was also a member of this congregation. She was marrying someone who was very involved in his church, and they wanted the wedding to be led by his minister and me. I said no, for reasons I will explain in a moment, and then I referred them to another rabbi who did officiate; they later joined his synagogue. My friend has never forgiven me. I wrote to her every year for four years during the month of Elul, asking that we begin to repair our friendship, if not her connection to this community. Our parents live in the same continuum of care community, so I see her folks and she recently saw my dad. But we never see each other. For the first time, this year, I was able to understand her pain and anger. I have not changed my mind about the weddings I do and don't do, but I have thought more about it.

Let me be clear about what I do as a rabbi about weddings: I officiate on a case by case basis for couples where one is a Jew and one not, in a Jewish wedding, and I do not officiate with clergy of another faith. What I do is officiate at a Jewish wedding in which one member of the couple is not Jewish. With clergy of another faith, the wedding becomes a different thing, to me: It is an interfaith wedding or a Christian wedding or something else, but no longer a Jewish wedding. Once I was asked to do a wedding of a Jew and a Zoroastrian and thought it was so cool that for a moment I forgot that the Zoroastrian priest, too, was not Jewish! I referred them to another rabbi who does co-officiate with other clergy.

When I meet a couple, I try to get a sense of how deep and active is the Judaism of the Jewish partner and how involved or not the other partner is in another religious community. I don't ask for promises, such as "are you going to raise your children as Jews?" because I don't believe in promises and I believe with our tradition that you can't promise what you don't have in hand. Often I say no to weddings, either because of time or location or the reasons I just noted. Sometimes I say yes, and I have had the pleasure of officiating at the weddings of a lot of people sitting here.

I respond to gay and lesbian couples in the same way I do to heterosexual couples: With them (us?) too, I try to gauge the current Jewish connections of the Jewish partner and the lack of other religious involvement of the other partner. While my Jewish decisions may strike some as inconsistent and idiosyncratic, I do make them from my sense of Jewish integrity.

Where have you come from and where are you going?

My Jewish integrity is offended to learn of the way that non-Jews are sometimes treated in synagogues or other Jewish institutions, including occasionally this one. Remember that my partner is noticeably not Jewish in origin. She's also 6'1" and she's the rabbi's wife. So she may get some comments here that others don't, but I have heard from others too about the ways non-Jews are spoken to, even those who have converted to Judaism but don't look Jewish, whatever that means anymore. I understand that sometimes our old fears and stereotypes are driving those comments - someone told me that to say something like "You're not Jewish so you wouldn't understand, " is much like saying "You're white so you wouldn't understand" or "you're heterosexual so you wouldn't understand." And I have said words like those too, from my own fear that my spouse could not possibly comprehend the entire sweep and sorrow of Jewish history as I feel it in my bones. This last in spite of her twenty years of Jewish education with me, everything from reading a1950's text about what a rebbetzin should do to helping a friend and me understand that a text we couldn't believe really must say that Moses was bowing to God to telling me of the way her amazing high school teacher taught them about the Holocaust. But we can acknowledge our fears without putting the full weight of them on the non-Jews among us who are already our supporters. That doesn't mean we won't fight anti-semitism where it exists, in France or Brooklyn. It does mean watching our words, a good lesson in any case. Let us be kind to the stranger BEC AUSE we were strangers in all the lands we lived in before this one, and often in this one too.

I am happy to say that there are other voices. Here at Kolot Chayeinu last spring, we adopted a Statement of Values that includes this, "Diversity is a hallmark of the Kolot Chayeinu community. We continue and grow as we began, with profound respect for individuality, believing in and striving for broad inclusivity, sharing meals, conversation and camaraderie. Our experience has taught us that a wide range of Jewish background, practice and understanding is necessary to a vibrant community, as is the active presence of non-Jewish members, loved ones, and friends. We are proud to be a community comprising individuals of varying Jewish traditions, sexual orientations, races, and family arrangements."

Present at one of the many discussions we had on the way to adopting the Kolot Values Statement were several Jews whose spouses are not Jewish and a couple of non-Jewish members of Kolot. They were adamant that it was this diversity that drew them to Kolot, that made it possible for them to remain in a Jewish community, and that must be stated loud and clear in our Statement. At another discussion, Jews with non-Jewish spouses rejected in no uncertain terms the uncertain term "allies" to refer to those non-Jews among us who support our Judaism. They said, "Look. You are referring to the people we love. Why not say so?" And so we did. For the whole issue of Jews and non-Jews in the congregation really turns on that statement: You are talking about us, or the people we love.

Where have you come from and where are you going?

Where are we going? We are moving into an unknown land, hoping that God is seeing, and watching out for us all. I personally hope for as open a tent as possible and as high a Jewish standard as possible. That is why, in spite of or because of the family I choose, I believe that Jewish children of a Jewish and a non-Jewish parent, either parent, are Jews if they live and practice as Jews. I believe certain Jewish liturgical roles should be limited to Jews. I believe conversion is deeply serious, requiring time, study and thought, and I am delighted at present to be working with 5 conversion students. For the record, and to answer all of you who have asked or are wondering, "Why doesn't she convert?", Kathryn believes that conversion is the equivalent of a sex-change operation. Post-operation, many people who have had that surgery say that they have come home to who they really are. Kathryn feels she already is who she is. If she could convert to Kolot Chayeinu Judaism, she says, she might do it. But becoming a Jew is becoming a Jew. You can't convert to one small shul. You can convert to Judaism and come to Kolot, and for you and for those who choose not to covert, I hope that here we create a space where the skeptical questions and denigrating comments can be left at the door.

Back in the Kolot board retreat room, we dried our tears. Someone proposed a compromise: that a certain number of non-Jewish members can be on the board. That way, the board will be mostly Jews, but there will be representation of the many allies - I mean people we love - among us, the no-longer-strangers who are truly dwelling among us. I am all for it, if our lawyers say it can fly. If not, let us find some way to have a Jewish congregation with Jewish leadership that also includes some leaders who are not Jews, but who dwell among us.

Some in the Jewish world have called for a new category, a reviving of the ancient term ger toshav, to apply to those "strangers" who dwell among us. Those suggesting this recommend that these geirei toshav should receive some benefit after all that they do for our community, or should at least have some obstacles removed. I am less concerned with terminology and more concerned with new attitudes and new ways of speaking. In place of shut doors and narrowed eyes, we need open tents and the God who sees. In place of denigration, we need celebration. And in place of suspicion, curiosity and welcome.

Welcome. Blessed are you who come in the name of Adonai the living God who sees us all.

And stay tuned. We will be talking about this at Kolot Chayeinu this year. So you might want to start now to think about your answer to the question God posed:

Where have YOU come from and where are YOU going?