Reclaiming Ritual - Parashah Matot-Masei - Pride Month 2026

When I first sat down to think about what I wanted to say this evening, I found myself returning to one image from this week's double parashah, Matot-Masei: the Arei Miklat, the Cities of Refuge.

Whenever I speak about LGBT+ inclusion in Jewish spaces, people sometimes assume that the conversation is about changing Judaism. Yet the longer I spend working at KeshetUK, and the longer I spend living my own Jewish life, the more I find myself believing the opposite. I don't think our task is to change Judaism into something new. Rather, I think our task is to keep discovering the wisdom that has always existed within our tradition and asking how it speaks to the world we live in today.

Pride Month naturally invites us to think about visibility, identity and belonging. But over the past few weeks I have found myself thinking about something slightly different: reclaiming the traditional. Not abandoning Jewish tradition or reshaping it beyond recognition but returning to it with fresh eyes and recognising that it already contains the values of dignity, compassion and justice that allow every one of us to find our place within it.

As a transgender Jewish man, there have been moments in my life when I wondered whether there was a place for someone like me within Jewish community. Not because I stopped believing in Judaism, but because I wasn't always sure that Judaism believed there was a place for someone like me. Over the years, through my own experiences and through my work with LGBT+ Jews across the country, I have come to realise that belonging is rarely about finding a completely different Judaism. It is about finding people who help you see that you have always been part of the Jewish story.

At first glance, Matot-Masei feels like an unusual choice for a Pride Shabbat. We move from the laws of vows to the journeys of the Israelites through the wilderness, to the boundaries of the Promised Land, the Cities of Refuge and questions of inheritance. On the surface, these seem like disconnected pieces of legislation brought together as the Israelites prepare to leave the wilderness behind. Yet the more I sat with the text, the more I noticed that each section is asking the same question: what kind of society are the Israelites preparing to become?

As they stand on the edge of the Promised Land, they are no longer simply wandering. They are beginning to imagine the practical realities of living together. How will promises be honoured? How will disputes be resolved? How will land be shared? Where will people find safety? What responsibilities do we owe one another? Before they build homes, they must first decide what kind of home they want to build together.

One of the themes running throughout the parashah is boundaries. Today, boundaries are often spoken about as barriers that keep people apart, but the Torah presents a more nuanced picture. Boundaries can protect as well as exclude. They create shared expectations, responsibilities and spaces where communities can flourish. The challenge is ensuring that our boundaries are rooted in justice rather than fear, and that they exist to uphold human dignity rather than diminish it.

Perhaps nowhere is that seen more clearly than in the establishment of the Arei Miklat, the Cities of Refuge. These were places where someone who had caused a death unintentionally could flee, not to escape responsibility, but to be protected while justice took its course. The Torah insists that before judgement comes safety, before punishment comes due process, and before vengeance comes compassion.

What strikes me even more is that the Cities of Refuge were established before anyone needed them. The Israelites were instructed to build places of safety in anticipation of vulnerability, not in response to crisis. Safety was woven into the foundations of the society they were about to create.

As I reflected on that, I found myself wondering whether every synagogue should aspire to become a modern Ir Miklat, a City of Refuge. Not a place where difficult conversations are avoided, but a place where people encounter dignity before judgement, curiosity before assumption and relationship before disagreement.

Through my work at KeshetUK, I have learned that every week there are people walking into Jewish spaces carrying questions that nobody else can see. Will I be welcomed? Will anyone understand my family? Will I have to explain myself? Can I simply pray without wondering whether I truly belong?

Those questions are certainly asked by many LGBT+ Jews, but they are also asked by converts, interfaith families, people living with disabilities, those who are grieving, those returning after years away from Jewish life and anyone who has ever felt that they stand on the edge of community rather than at its centre. A City of Refuge does not exist because one particular group needs it. It exists because every human being will, at some point in their life, need somewhere to be met with compassion before judgement.

That, for me, is what reclaiming the traditional means.

Over the past year, one of the projects I have been leading at KeshetUK has been Belonging in Ritual. At its heart is a very simple idea: LGBT+ Jews should not have to leave Jewish ritual behind in order to live authentic Jewish lives. Whether someone is marking a wedding, becoming a parent, navigating gender transition, mourning a loved one or celebrating another life milestone, the question is not, "How do we invent something completely new?" Rather, it is, "What already exists within our tradition that can accompany this moment and help it feel deeply and authentically Jewish?"

The more I have worked on that project, the more convinced I have become that Judaism has always known how to evolve whilst remaining rooted in tradition. Throughout our history we have interpreted, adapted and responded to the realities of the generations in which we have lived. Reclaiming the traditional is not about rewriting Judaism; it is about rediscovering the richness that is already there and allowing more people to recognise themselves within it.

That is why, although this week's parashah comes from Bamidbar, I found myself continually returning to another part of the Torah: Leviticus 19. When LGBT+ Jews hear the word "Leviticus", many of us instinctively brace ourselves because we assume people are thinking of one particular verse. Yet the same book also commands us, V'ahavta l'rei'acha kamocha, "Love your neighbour as yourself." A few verses earlier we are told, Lo ta'amod al dam re'echa, "Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbour." And later still, Ka'ezrach mikem yihyeh lachem hager hagar itchem, v'ahavta lo kamocha, "The stranger who resides with you shall be as one of your citizens; you shall love them as yourself."

I don't think it is a coincidence that these verses came to mind as I reflected on the Cities of Refuge. They describe the values that make refuge possible. Love your neighbour. Do not stand by when someone is vulnerable. Treat the stranger not as an outsider to be tolerated, but as someone who belongs.

If we are going to reclaim the traditional, perhaps we should reclaim all of Torah, not just the passages that have so often been used to divide us. Rather than allowing a single verse to define the relationship between LGBT+ Jews and Judaism, we can choose to centre the teachings that have always challenged us to build communities rooted in compassion, justice and human dignity.

One of the final episodes in this week's parashah concerns the daughters of Zelophehad and the question of inheritance. Once again, the Torah encounters lives that do not fit neatly into existing structures. Rather than ignoring those realities, it enters into conversation with them. It wrestles with them. It seeks a way forward that preserves both justice and community. That is not a departure from tradition; it is one of the ways our tradition has always worked.

The families we build today may not all look the same. Some are built through marriage, others through friendship, adoption, fostering, chosen family or communities of care. As LGBT+ people, many of us know that family is not defined solely by biology, but by commitment, responsibility and love. Jewish communities have survived for thousands of years because people have continually expanded their understanding of what it means to care for one another.

Perhaps reclaiming the traditional does not mean asking whether LGBT+ Jews fit into Judaism. Perhaps it means asking whether our Jewish communities are living up to the tradition they have inherited.

As we reach the end of Bamidbar, the Israelites stand on the edge of something new. They do not yet know exactly what life in the Promised Land will look like, but they know the values they want to carry with them. Before they cross the Jordan, they build places of refuge. They establish systems of justice. They define responsibilities to one another. They are deciding what kind of society they hope to become. 

I think every generation stands in that same place.

We inherit an extraordinary tradition. Our task is not to replace it, but to carry it forward in ways that allow more people to recognise themselves within it. To build communities that are places of refuge. Communities where people can ask questions without fear, where families in all their diversity are embraced, where differences are met with curiosity rather than suspicion, and where every person knows they are created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

If Pride teaches us anything, it is that people flourish when they are able to live truthfully and love openly. If Matot-Masei teaches us anything, perhaps it is that holy communities do not happen by accident. They are built intentionally, with refuge, responsibility and compassion woven into their foundations.

My hope is that our synagogues continue to become places where anyone who walks through the doors, whatever their story, whatever their family, whatever questions they carry, can experience something of the Ir Miklat: a place of safety, of belonging and of hope.