Rabbis should stay out of politics.

A rabbi ought to elevate thinking, provide nuance to the overly simple, and widen people’s moral imagination. Politics is the opposite: It rewards conviction over curiosity and dogma over truth.

A Torah scroll (photo: Shraga Kopstein/Unsplash)

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Jewish history is filled with remarkable rabbis who shaped the moral, intellectual, and spiritual core of the Jewish People. They argued, debated, interpreted, and guided — oftentimes fiercely — but always within a framework rooted in Torah, tradition, and communal responsibility.

Rabbi Akiva, one of the greatest sages of the Talmud, taught that “Love your neighbor as yourself” is the fundamental principle of the Torah. He emphasized humility, patience, and the lifelong pursuit of learning, famously beginning his own Torah study at age 40 and showing that spiritual growth is always possible.

Hillel the Elder, known for his gentleness and moral clarity, distilled Judaism into the phrase, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” He believed that kindness and compassion were prerequisites for understanding Torah, and that character mattered as much as intellect.

Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, living during the destruction of the Second Temple, demonstrated visionary leadership by refocusing Judaism on study, prayer, and community rather than sacrifice. His wisdom preserved and transformed Judaism at its most fragile moment.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, redactor of the Mishnah, embodied the belief that Torah must be made accessible. By organizing oral law into a structured text, he ensured that future generations could learn, debate, and deepen Jewish life.

Rabbi Saadia Gaon, a foundational medieval thinker, argued that Jewish tradition and rational inquiry were not enemies but partners. His writings linked faith with reason and showed that Judaism could engage with the intellectual world without losing its identity.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the father of modern Orthodox thought in the West, argued for “Torah im Derech Eretz”—the harmony of Torah with ethical engagement in the broader world. He offered a path of faith that embraced modernity without surrendering tradition.

That is why today, when political polarization is tearing apart societies and pitting neighbor against neighbor, it is more important than ever to insist on a simple principle: Rabbis should stay away from talking about politics.

This argument isn’t about silencing rabbis or stripping them of moral voice. Quite the opposite. It is about protecting that voice from being swallowed by the noise and tribalism of partisan battles, a danger Jewish communities have recognized for centuries.

Historically, rabbis understood this. In medieval Europe, political entanglement often meant danger for Jewish communities, as rulers used rabbinic involvement as a pretext for taxation, punishment, or collective blame. Even in more stable societies, the moment a rabbi aligned with a faction, that faction shaped communal life—and tore it apart.

Nineteenth-century European rabbis who tied themselves to emerging political movements, whether socialist, nationalist, or liberal, often split congregations along ideological lines, creating fractures that lasted generations. In America, too, 20th-century rabbis who blended Judaism with partisan activism sometimes found that they had lost their ability to speak to segments of their own synagogues. This is not a new problem; it is a repeated warning from history. When rabbis insert themselves into political conversations and arguments, politics eventually steps into Judaism.

The authority of a rabbi comes from spiritual credibility, not political alignment. A rabbi’s job is to teach Torah, help people grow, counsel families, guide communities, and illuminate moral principles — not to endorse candidates or become proxies for political tribes. When rabbis publicly take sides, their words create division within Jewish communities and the greater Jewish world.

Halakha (Jewish law) is supposed to speak to all Jews, not only to those who vote a certain way. Judaism is older than every modern ideology; to reduce eternal values to talking points is to cheapen them. Politics, after all, thrives on simplification: slogans, enemies, heroes, villains. Torah thrives on nuance, complexity, and humility. A rabbi’s role is to elevate thinking, to provide nuance to the overly simple story, to widen people’s moral imagination. Politics does the opposite; it rewards conviction over curiosity and dogma over truth.

Partisan politics demands loyalty to a party, personality, or platform — even when it contradicts one’s values. Torah does not. Once a rabbi becomes a political actor, their independence disappears. They are praised when they echo the ideology of their chosen camp and punished when they challenge it. The shift is subtle at first — less criticism here, more applause there — but over time, politics does not bend toward holiness; holiness bends toward politics.

And politics does something even more damaging: It divides. A synagogue or community is one of the last places where Jews of different backgrounds, classes, and ideologies sit in the same room. That diversity is precious. When rabbis wade into partisan activism, they effectively choose sides within their own community. Some congregants feel validated; others feel betrayed. A spiritual home becomes an ideological battleground.

A rabbi should be the spiritual parent of everyone, not the pastor of a political faction. Trust, the most important currency in communal life, evaporates. Parts of the community stop trusting the rabbi’s sincerity, and the other half begins trusting them for the wrong reasons. Once trust breaks, people no longer seek guidance, ask questions, or open up emotionally. Something sacred is lost.

When rabbis insert themselves into political dialogue, they inevitably take on the role of political actors (whether or not they intend to). The moment a rabbi begins promoting a political worldview, endorsing specific approaches to public issues, or framing civic choices through a partisan lens, the relationship between rabbi and community subtly shifts.

The rabbi’s words, which once carried spiritual weight and moral depth, start to be heard as endorsements, positioning, or pressure. Instead of being a source of Torah guidance that transcends ideology, the rabbi becomes someone with a political “side,” and congregants who disagree with that side begin to feel as though their presence in the community is lesser, suspect, or tolerated rather than welcomed.

This dynamic quickly reshapes the culture of a synagogue or school. Rather than encouraging congregants to form their own thoughtful views, the rabbi — by virtue of their influence — begins setting a political tone that people feel pressured to adopt. Those who agree with the rabbi feel validated and become more vocal; those who disagree grow quiet or drift away.

Over time, the community’s range of perspectives narrows as the rabbi’s worldview becomes the dominant and expected one. What was once a diverse, intellectually vibrant, pluralistic community becomes an echo chamber centered around the rabbi’s political preferences. This does not strengthen communal unity; it weakens it. A healthy Jewish community should contain multiple voices and encourage civil disagreement rooted in shared values. But when a rabbi steps into political leadership, that diversity shrinks, and the community begins to lose exactly what makes it strong: the ability to hold different people, with different views, in the same sacred space.

None of this means rabbis should be silent about moral issues; it means they should know the difference between moral teaching and political prescriptions. A rabbi can teach the Jewish value of human dignity without endorsing a candidate’s immigration policy. A rabbi can speak about protecting the weak without prescribing a legislative agenda. A rabbi can affirm Jewish peoplehood and the moral necessity of Jewish self-defense without promoting a specific Israeli political party or policy. Speaking about Israel is essential; dragging Israel into American partisan warfare is not. Judaism provides moral frameworks, not policy blueprints. A rabbi’s responsibility is to shape character, conscience, and community, not to act as a pundit.

There is also a profound educational argument for rabbinic restraint. Torah study trains Jews to ask hard questions, challenge assumptions, and embrace disagreement as a path to deeper understanding. Political ideology punishes those exact qualities. A rabbi’s role is to teach people how to think, not what to think. When rabbis present political positions as religious mandates, they replace inquiry with conformity. They risk exchanging the Talmudic tradition of debate for the modern culture of outrage.

That said, there are rare moments when political silence would have been irresponsible or even dangerous. Judaism has always recognized that when a political movement or leader poses a clear and present threat to the physical security, civil rights, or freedom of Jews, the moral obligation of rabbinic leadership can shift. This is not about endorsing a party or elevating partisanship; it is about protecting life, a value that sits above almost every other commandment. In such circumstances, a rabbi is not acting as a political actor but as a guardian of communal welfare, fulfilling the ancient principle of pikuach nefesh — the duty to protect life.

The most recent example is Zohran Mamdani, the Mayor-Elect of New York City, which features the single-largest Jewish population outside of Israel. Mamdani made “anti-Zionism” a central pillar of his campaign, not as a passing comment or a side issue, but as a defining feature of his public identity. This was not a race about policing, housing, or subways; it was about symbolism. Mamdani made hatred of Israel his brand.

And here’s the most absurd part: Israel is an ocean and two continents away from New York City. He is not Palestinian. The city’s budget has nothing to do with Gaza, Jerusalem, or the West Bank. So why on earth would “anti-Zionism” be a plank in a New York City mayoral campaign?

There is only one answer that makes sense: “Anti-Zionism,” more accurately described as the socially acceptable form of 21st-century antisemitism, wins votes. It flatters the self-image of moral superiority. It positions the candidate as a warrior for “the oppressed” while providing a safe, permissible outlet for bigotry. “Anti-Zionism” is now the most fashionable form of hate in the Western world, precisely because it hides behind “progressive” language. And Mamdani understood that perfectly.

So, in this case, New York City rabbis (and others across America) were wise to speak up against Mamdani. He is an existential threat to Jewish safety, rights, and dignity in New York City and potentially elsewhere in America.

But this exception and others highlight a crucial distinction between routine political disagreement and genuine moral danger. A rabbi should not weigh in on tax policy, immigration frameworks, healthcare models, or party platforms. If any political movement or actor begins spreading antisemitic ideas, legitimizing violence, undermining Jewish safety, or threatening the ability of Jews to live openly and freely, a rabbi has a duty to alert the community. This is not political tribalism; it is moral triage. The goal is not to tell anyone whom to support but to ensure that Jews recognize threats when they arise.

Even in these exceptional cases, the rabbi’s role remains carefully bounded. The task is to protect the community, not to become a political operative. The rabbi should explain the nature of the danger, articulate the values at stake, and provide historical and moral context — without dictating political allegiance or prescribing partisan solutions. The focus stays on principles, not parties; on safety, not strategy; on Torah, not politics. This balance honors both the independence of Jewish thought and the rabbinic duty to guard Jewish life.

These exceptions ultimately reinforce the broader argument: Rabbis must rise above daily politics precisely so that, in the rare moments when true danger appears, their voice carries weight, credibility, and moral clarity.

The better path is not silence, but elevation. Rabbis should guide communities through moral complexity instead of political certainty. They can help congregants articulate their values, disagree respectfully, and understand the ethical dimensions of contemporary issues — all without telling them what position to take. They can create synagogues where civil dialogue is possible again. They can strengthen Jewish identity, literacy, and community life so that Jews are rooted before they are political. They can be voices of moral courage precisely because they refuse to be voices of partisanship.

Judaism survived empires by staying above them. From Babylonia to Rome to medieval Europe to modern states, Torah outlasted every political system because rabbis anchored themselves in what is eternal, not in what is fashionable. Empires rise and fall. Politicians come and go. Ideologies trend and fade. But Judaism endures.

We need rabbis who remember that.

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