Jewish Deaf Support and the Right to Community

The Talmud, written in late antiquity, became the halakhic source of Jewish law and theology. But it wasn’t perfect. Its authors assumed deaf people were incapable of learning Jewish culture, so they were excused from following the commandments and therefore exempt from religious obligations. As the centuries passed, synagogues ignored the needs of deaf Jews.

Centuries later, I’ve experienced this same disregard. Thirty years ago, I awoke one morning to a profound silence caused by a virus. Severe hearing loss cut me off from my normal connection to my family, community and congregation at Temple Judea in Tarzana, California.

Until modern times, deaf Jewish young men were not encouraged to become bar mitzvah, and if they were, they would be called up to the bimah to read only a small passage. Our access to Jewish communal life was restricted. For centuries, deaf Jews were classified with minors and idiots and were not permitted to enter transactions requiring responsibility and independence. In the eye of classic Jewish law, deaf people were regarded as mentally incompetent.

After my hearing loss, I stayed at my synagogue because I wanted my daughters to attend the temple’s excellent Hebrew school and bat mitzvah programs—even though I couldn’t understand a word coming from the bimah. But when I learned about Temple Beth Solomon of the Deaf (TBS), the world’s first synagogue for the deaf, located in Northridge, California at Temple Ahavat Shalom, I began attending monthly Shabbat services there and quickly made friends. I kept in contact with community members during the pandemic, and when the world opened again, Friday night services resumed. Around the same time, our 90-year-old president of 30 years resigned his post and passed the torch to me.

As temple president, I soon became aware of the Jewish Deaf Congress, a national resource center, rooted in Judaism and the deaf experience, with the goal of life-long Jewish learning and discovery. It’s an organization that presses for inclusivity of the deaf into regular synagogue life. I learned more about the organization and was invited to their yearly retreat that was held October 7-9, 2022 at the Pearlstone Conference and Retreat Center, in Reisterstown, Maryland.

On the first evening of the retreat, at Shabbat services, I was given the honor of reciting the Shema in American Sign Language (ASL). At the bimah I introduced myself and before signing the prayer said, “I’m late deafened. I started learning ASL in my late 40s, so please sign slowly.”

Everyone at the event was kind, helpful and patient—some of the sweetest people I have ever met. And not just to me. Ruth, a 97-year-old deaf Holocaust survivor, was catered to by almost everyone because they were concerned about her comfort. Leana, a 45-year-old deaf woman confined to a wheelchair, had ideas to share. Unfortunately, a decade ago she was in an auto accident, turning a vibrant young woman into a paraplegic. She had difficulty moving her hands, but everyone in our group guessed at her signs until understanding miraculously coalesced in the minds of the best signers. Even though Leana’s contribution took a long time to achieve, everyone considered her ideas to be as important as the woman who signed at light speed.

At one discussion group, a question was asked: What does the JDC do for outreach? After my hearing loss I didn’t know who to turn to. I suggested they need to do more to help the late deafened, hearing loss occurring after childhood. Our group leader listened and accepted my suggestion.

One theme of the conference was Jewish values, the center of which is kindness. As one speaker suggested, “We need to use our strength to make other people stronger.” To do this requires staying focused with compassionate accountability. For me, as president of my shul, it means staying after services and engaging with congregants to uncover their ideas.  

“We need to use our strength to make other people stronger.”

Hillel Goldberg, ASL and Shabbat Services Coordinator, explained, “The JDC provides a model for the Deaf Jewish community, providing signs for Hebrew prayer.” It also serves Jewish deaf, deafblind, deaf disabled, hard of hearing, and late deafened and their families no matter their religious affiliation. They are an essential part of Klal Yisrael—the worldwide community of Jewry. Their core guiding values include inclusivity and embracing Jewish tradition and history while using ASL or Israeli Sign Language as the means for communication. They focus on bringing Jewish spirituality to light as they move forward to grow and preserve Jewish heritage.

The JDC is run and operated by deaf Jews who are far from stupid. Its membership includes businesspeople, a movie producer, inspirational presenters, writers, teachers and health care professionals. It also includes me. King Jordon, the first deaf president of Gallaudet University, a university for the deaf in Washington, D.C., once said, “Deaf people can do anything but hear.” The authors of the Talmud were wrong about the deaf. We are very capable of learning Jewish culture and should be included in synagogue life.

Technology has advanced exponentially since the early days of rabbinic Judaism. Back then rabbis decided deaf Jews could not be involved in Jewish life. Though the Talmud may provide insight into Jewish law, it failed miserably in its understanding of deaf Jews. All Jews, even the ones who can’t hear, have the right to learn Jewish culture, follow the commandments and feel the embrace of their community. Thanks to organizations like the Jewish Deaf Congress, this dream is becoming a reality.