Sara Litt’s recent call in eJewish Philanthropy for congregations to “stop censoring your rabbi” has struck a chord in parts of the Jewish community. Litt argues that rabbis should be free, even encouraged, to speak out politically from the pulpit, especially during the High Holidays when sanctuaries are full and communal attention is focused. She frames this as an act of prophetic moral courage in a time of fear, polarization and rising antisemitism.
Litt’s background matters here. She is not a rabbi but a lay leader: the emerita chair of the board of trustees at B’nai Jeshurun in New York City and the emerita co-chair of the board of T’ruah: The Rabbinic Call for Human Rights. Both institutions are known for their activist orientation, especially on issues of social justice and Israel. Litt thus approaches the synagogue not only as a house of worship, but also as a platform for advocacy.
That vision is deeply misguided. A synagogue is not a campaign rally, and the rabbi is not a partisan pundit.
The sanctuary exists so Jews can reflect, pray, and bind themselves to the continuity of Jewish tradition. When rabbis turn this sacred space into a political stage, even for causes they see as righteous, the result is not prophetic clarity but civic division. Congregants who come seeking Torah and community often leave feeling judged or excluded.
Jewish life has always been political in the broadest sense. From the prophets of ancient Israel to the rabbis of Eastern Europe to the American Reform movement’s Pittsburgh Platform, Jewish leaders have spoken about justice, charity, and communal responsibility. But there is a categorical difference between teaching timeless moral values and endorsing specific positions on Gaza, presidential elections, or climate policy. The first binds Jews together across time and space. The second reduces synagogues to ideological factions. In today’s polarized climate, the Jewish community needs spaces of sanctuary, not more division.
Litt’s essay leans heavily on her work with T’ruah, which recently convened 80 rabbis to “strengthen their ability to serve as moral leaders.” She reports that many confided they wanted to speak with a strong moral voice but felt constrained by their communities; some even feared losing their jobs if they addressed contentious topics. One Conservative rabbi put it bluntly: “I don’t like saying things from the bima that I don’t believe. I also don’t like to say things that would get me fired. So I never say anything from the bima about Israel.” Litt sees this as a failure of courage. In reality, it reflects a proper understanding of the pulpit’s role.
Refusing to politicize sermons is not censorship; it is restraint. A rabbi may teach Torah, articulate enduring values, and invite congregants to reflect on justice and human dignity. But using the pulpit to advance personal political convictions under the mantle of religious authority is an abuse of that sacred trust.
Rabbi Anchelle Perl captures this idea powerfully: “When a Jew walks into shul, especially on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, they’re not searching for another opinion about political candidates or policies. They are yearning for meaning, moral clarity, and connection to the Divine. Our task is to give them that.” Perl warns that politics separates people while Torah speaks to what unites them: “These holy days are about lifting people above the fray, not dragging them into it.”
“These holy days are about lifting people above the fray, not dragging them into it.”
The reality is that rabbis who refrain from partisan commentary are not failing their congregations; they are respecting them. In any thriving Jewish community, people will disagree about policy and ideology. The pulpit should never be used to silence some voices or make others feel unwelcome. Its power lies in elevating what transcends politics: repentance, compassion, humility, and the eternal lessons of Torah. A sermon that veers into electoral choices or foreign policy diminishes that sacred mission.
Activists often invoke Jewish continuity as justification for political sermons. They argue that Judaism itself is inherently prophetic and activist, with principles rooted in tikkun olam. There is truth here. From Isaiah to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Jewish tradition has always emphasized moral responsibility beyond the self. Activism is indeed part of our heritage. But this does not mean the pulpit should become an activist stage.
The sanctuary is one of the few spaces where Jews of profoundly different backgrounds can sit side by side and still feel part of a single people. When rabbis use sermons to advance political causes, that unity frays. The prophetic voice should be expressed in civic life, in coalitions and the public square—not in the sanctuary where the community gathers to pray.
Keeping these spheres separate protects both. Activism is stronger when pursued in civic spaces, free from the responsibility of holding together a fragile, diverse congregation. The pulpit is stronger when devoted to Torah and timeless values, not the controversies of the moment. Jewish continuity demands both: a people acting in the world and a sanctuary where that same people can return for solace, renewal and transcendence. Collapse the two and you risk losing both.
The experience of American universities offers a clear caution. In 1967, the University of Chicago issued the Kalven Report, which argued that institutions should refrain from taking political positions even while guaranteeing maximal freedom of inquiry to individuals. The reasoning was simple: A university must remain a home for diverse perspectives. Once it begins issuing political statements, dissenters feel alienated, debate is chilled, and the institution’s mission compromised.
In recent years, many universities abandoned this principle. They now release statements on wars, social movements and elections. The results have been predictably corrosive. Faculty and students feel pressured to conform to institutional orthodoxy. Communities fracture along partisan lines. Trust in higher education, once the envy of the world, has plummeted.
Synagogues risk the same fate. When rabbis insist on setting the political tone from the pulpit, the sanctuary ceases to be shared space. It becomes ideological space. People who don’t fit the prevailing ideology leave. Ironically, Litt’s call for “freedom” ends up demanding conformity: rabbis who stay silent or focus on Torah are cast as failures. In truth, they may be safeguarding the very conditions that keep synagogues inclusive and vibrant. Sometimes restraint is not cowardice. It is wisdom.
The impact varies by region. In New York, Jews who want political sermons can find congregations that lean progressive or conservative, activist or traditional. A robust marketplace of synagogues allows for self-selection, much like choosing a university aligned with one’s outlook.
But in suburban and small-town America, a synagogue is often the only Jewish institution within miles. The rabbi presides over an entire Jewish population: families with divergent politics, histories, and priorities. In these contexts, the responsibility to keep the sanctuary broad and inclusive is even greater. The New York model of activist pulpits simply doesn’t fit. Importing it into communities with fewer options risks alienation and decline.
Rabbis are not supposed to be political operatives. Their calling is higher: to guide Jews through celebration and grief, to teach Torah in ways that illuminate enduring questions of justice and responsibility, to model humility before God, and to remind us of repentance and renewal. None of this is apolitical, but it is not partisan. Speaking about teshuvah (repentance), tzedek (justice), or chesed (lovingkindness) is profoundly moral and often countercultural. But it does not require choosing sides between Democrats and Republicans or Israelis and Palestinians.
Rabbis are not supposed to be political operatives.
American Jewish life is already fractured. Pew Research Center data show wide ideological gaps between Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Jews; between younger and older generations; and between urban and suburban communities. Injecting more partisanship into sermons will deepen these divides. Congregants who feel their synagogue has become hostile to their worldview will leave, accelerating trends of disengagement and decline. A rabbi who uses the High Holidays to take sides on controversial issues may find fewer people in seats next year.
Defenders of Litt’s vision often cite Abraham Joshua Heschel, who famously marched with Martin Luther King Jr. Heschel remains a model of prophetic Judaism in action. But even Heschel distinguished between personal activism and synagogue leadership. He marched with his feet, but he didn’t turn Rosh Hashanah sermons into political rallies. His activism was rooted in Torah but expressed in the public square, where persuasion and protest belonged. That distinction matters.
The costs of politicized pulpits are real. Just as trust in universities collapsed when they chose sides, trust in synagogues will suffer if rabbis consistently preach partisan positions. When Jewish teaching is reduced to political advocacy, Torah is no longer the central text. It becomes replaced by politics. That inversion hollows out Judaism itself. Synagogues cannot afford to lose more members, but politicized pulpits virtually guarantee they will.
When Jewish teaching is reduced to political advocacy, Torah is no longer the central text.
The answer is not silence. Rabbis should speak passionately about justice, compassion and humility. They should connect Torah to contemporary moral challenges and equip congregants with frameworks to navigate a complex world. But they should stop short of endorsing partisan positions. They must leave room for Jews across the political spectrum to see themselves in the community and model the humility to acknowledge that no rabbi has a monopoly on political truth.
This might mean sermons that focus on the timeless lessons of Yom Kippur—repentance, forgiveness, accountability—without prescribing how congregants should vote. It might mean acknowledging the pain of war in Israel or Gaza without turning the sanctuary into a battlefield of slogans. Above all, it means remembering that the pulpit is sacred, not performative.
Litt is right about one thing: Rabbis face immense pressure, and many feel constrained. But the solution is not to unleash partisan speech. It is to reclaim the synagogue as a place of refuge and transcendence—a space for Torah and conscience, for spiritual renewal and communal unity.
The Jewish community will not be strengthened by rabbis who act like activists. It will be strengthened by rabbis who remind us that Judaism transcends politics. In an age of division, the sanctuary must remain a sanctuary. When a Jew walks into shul, they should find not a battleground of ideologies but a haven of reflection, prayer, and renewal. The pulpit is not a soapbox. It is, and must remain, a sacred space.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College, a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute, and a scholar with the Sutherland Institute.
