As you can imagine - the article is depressing. I was most struck by the response of his mother when the reporter called her. Instead of just talking about her son - she read a prepared statement.
When I called Brick’s mother, she said she did not remember specifics about the coming-out conversation, and did not want to discuss the impact it has had on the family. Instead, she shared a prepared statement: “I have always been proud of my son, I will continue to be proud of my son, and I love him very much.” She said Brick’s father had suggested she add the last part.
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Rabbi Brick has his dream job — actually, dream jobs. He is director of family learning at an Orthodox synagogue in Oakland, California, and teaches Talmud and Jewish ethics at the pluralist Jewish Community High School of the Bay. At the 200-household synagogue, Beth Jacob Congregation, Brick runs the youth program, leads Torah study for adults, and fills in when the senior rabbi is out of town.
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There are a few compromises he has had to make — Brick does not officiate at weddings or witness conversions, for fear their validity could be challenged in other Orthodox spaces. He said he has made those sacrifices to keep the peace. He is also single, and declined to say whether he plans to date — or whether he thinks people can pursue same-sex relationships within the bounds of halacha. That silence may be helping him win — for now — tolerance among his colleagues.
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Today, leading modern Orthodox thinkers broadly agree that a marriage between a gay person and someone of the opposite sex is untenable. At the same time, marrying a man is incompatible with halacha — and celibacy, beyond being a tough sell, runs contrary to what the Torah prescribes: monogamy, procreation, family, continuity.
“There’s a stalemate,” Brick said. “Because everyone’s follow up is, if you love them you’re going to do their wedding, and if you won’t do their wedding, you don’t love them. To engage in the conversation publicly, there’s no way to succeed.”
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As rabbinical school approached, he decided to share his secret with five people — a YU administrator with a degree in social work, who he knew was an ally; a rabbi he had known since childhood; a gay friend who had grown up Orthodox; and a young couple he was close friends with. He told them he was attracted to men, but still would probably marry a woman.
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Back in Israel for his first year of rabbinical school, Brick began seeing a therapist for the first time, referred by a gay Orthodox Jew he’d met through Wexner. He paid out of pocket rather than use his YU health insurance, lest some administrator find out. “I sat down, like: ‘Hi, I’m a gay rabbinical student. That’s what we’re here for,’” he recalled of the first therapy session. It was the first time he had used the word “gay” out loud to describe himself to someone else. He was 23.
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In general, he said, the reaction has been surprisingly positive, though he acknowledged that he mostly avoided telling people he expected to react poorly.
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Perhaps surprisingly, Brick does not think sexual prohibitions are the primary source of pain for gay Orthodox Jews. “It’s how people think of you on a day-to-day basis, with the words that they say, the way that they act — that’s the thing that hurts,” he said. “If you got rid of that, everything else would be so manageable.”
He added: “The main reason why I’m doing this is because there are people out there who think that there are no options for them. There are people who are literally killing themselves over this. People who are incredibly depressed, in horrible situations, because they don’t have access to the full picture of what Judaism has to say about them. I want to get my word out to them.”