Month: November 2025

What happens when the emotional needs people bring to their rabbi far exceed what any rabbi is meant or trained to carry? What are the risks when personal struggle, trauma, anxiety, or crisis becomes directed toward a figure whose role is fundamentally spiritual rather than clinical? And how do we protect both rabbis and congregants when the line between supportive presence and emotional dependence quietly disappears?

These questions arise from a growing reality across many communities.

Halacha Headlines’ latest episode, “Sacred Roles, Serious Risks,” confronts these questions directly. I was privileged to join Rabbi Ari Wasserman as we discussed the shifting emotional landscape in which rabbis, teachers, and communal figures now operate: https://halachaheadlines.com/episodes/sacred-roles-serious-risks-when-rabbis-male-therapists-and-kiruv-professionals-work-with-women/

Anxiety, loneliness, and trauma are rising. Many individuals do not know where to turn. In that vacuum, the rabbi feels accessible, safe, and familiar. He may be the only person someone trusts enough to reveal their struggles.

That instinct is understandable, and it reflects a meaningful relationship that can exist between a rabbi and his community. But it also introduces serious risks. Regardless of how insightful, compassionate, or experienced a rabbi may be, his responsibility is pastoral and spiritual. A therapist’s responsibility is clinical and treatment-focused. These are not simply different skill sets; they are distinct roles, with different goals, expectations, boundaries, and safeguards. This concern applies even to rabbis who hold clinical degrees or advanced counseling training. The core issue is not training but role. The built-in expectations, authority, and ongoing involvement of the rabbi–congregant relationship make it an unsuitable setting for formal therapeutic work, even for rabbis with clinical credentials.

The demands placed on rabbis have fundamentally shifted. It is no longer uncommon for congregants to contact their rabbi frequently, sometimes daily, seeking reassurance, grounding, or help navigating acute emotional distress. Each interaction may seem benign, even positive. Over time, however, these patterns create dependence and mask deeper issues requiring professional intervention. The rabbi begins to assume responsibility not only for halachic or pastoral questions but for someone’s emotional equilibrium. Because rabbis care deeply and want to be responsive, this drift occurs without anyone noticing. This is not a crisis overwhelming every rabbi, nor is it a criticism of rabbis or congregants. It is simply a reality that exists in many settings and therefore needs acknowledgment and clearer management.

When pastoral and clinical roles collapse into one, everyone becomes vulnerable. Most rabbis enter their roles motivated by meaning and service, not expecting to absorb ongoing emotional volatility. Yet functioning in a quasi-therapeutic role without extensive training, supervision, or support quietly accumulates its own toll. I am very familiar with and proud of the great and robust rabbinical training program at RIETS. Still, even with all it provides, there are limits to what any semicha program can prepare a rabbi to handle. Rabbis find themselves responding to crises, trauma disclosures, marital struggles, and complex family dynamics in ways no formal training program was ever designed to address fully. Even rabbis with clinical training face challenges here—the dual relationship of rabbi and therapist creates conflicts that professional ethics explicitly prohibit. Without a framework to navigate these situations, rabbis may internalize pressures that are not theirs to carry, sometimes without realizing the weight they have assumed.

Meanwhile, congregants may not receive the care they actually need. Pastoral wisdom, however valuable, cannot replace clinical treatment for trauma, severe anxiety, or mental health conditions. When someone’s primary emotional anchor is a figure whose role is fundamentally different from a clinician’s, they may miss the intervention that could genuinely help them heal.  The community itself relies on a structure that cannot safely bear the weight placed upon it.

This is precisely why boundaries matter. Clear boundaries are not signs of distance or lack of warmth. They are expressions of responsibility. Boundaries recognize that rabbis and therapists serve different functions, each essential and valuable. They ensure that the right person gives help for the right reasons. They preserve the integrity of spiritual guidance and of mental health treatment. They protect the emotional well-being of those seeking help and the sustainability of those giving it.

In my opinion, our community would benefit profoundly from establishing a basic model of supervision or consultation for rabbis. In the mental health world, supervision is a standard requirement throughout multiple years of training. Even experienced clinicians rely on supervisors to navigate complex situations. Rabbis would benefit greatly from a similar structure—not to turn them into therapists or diminish their authority, but to give them a place to process difficult encounters, recognize situations exceeding their role, and receive guidance on responding responsibly.

There are, of course, settings where less structured versions of this already exist. Some organizations have developed peer-consultation models, and many rabbis consult informally with trusted colleagues. These efforts are valuable and deserve real appreciation. At the same time, peer support is not always a full substitute for structured supervision. Certain situations, because of their emotional complexity or sensitivity, may require guidance that extends beyond what peers alone can provide. This does not diminish the worth of peer frameworks, it simply acknowledges that rabbis may need a range of supports to address the challenges they encounter.

Creating such a model is not a critique of rabbinic competency. It is an affirmation of their humanity and a recognition of contemporary community realities. A structured system, whether within rabbinic institutions or coordinated externally, could significantly improve the well-being of rabbis, congregants, and the broader community.

While the podcast conversation focused primarily on rabbis, especially given the questions raised about boundaries between men and women, it is important to acknowledge that many of the dynamics described here apply to rebbetzins as well. Their roles often place them at the center of emotionally complex situations, and they, too, can find themselves carrying responsibilities that extend beyond what is sustainable or appropriate. This deserves its own fuller discussion, but it should be recognized within the context of this one.

Ultimately, this issue is about all of us. It is about acknowledging the pressures individuals carry and the emotional expectations placed on rabbis, and recognizing the structural gaps that appear when communal needs evolve faster than communal frameworks. For anyone who cares about communal wellbeing, rabbinic leadership, or mental health, this conversation is worth continuing—not to criticize but to understand, and not to assign blame but to build something healthier together.

I encourage you to listen to the conversation with Rabbi Wasserman. Then ask: What would supervision or consultation for rabbis look like in your community? How can we better distinguish pastoral care from clinical treatment? What systems need to be in place so that both rabbis and congregants receive the support they deserve?

These questions won’t answer themselves, but they are answerable.

---

Note: While the full episode features multiple perspectives, I stand behind the views expressed in my own interview, which are the only ones that necessarily reflect my perspective.

I appreciate the thoughtful feedback offered by Rabbi Aaron Reichel, published in the Jewish Press, in response to my recent reflections on the mourning process. I am grateful that he engaged the topic seriously and with evident care for halacha, pastoral sensitivity, and communal well-being.

One impression his letter conveyed is that my article suggested a new norm or alternative template for how shiva should be structured. Let me clarify what was evident from the outset: the classic, open, community-oriented shiva remains the ideal halachic model and an extraordinarily valuable one. We should continue to preserve, support, and promote it.

The purpose of the original piece was far narrower. It was to create space for the small but significant subset of situations in which one or more mourners find themselves emotionally, psychologically, or practically unable to participate in a full traditional shiva framework. These cases are not theoretical. They exist quietly in many homes and far more often than we tend to acknowledge. When such circumstances arise, honoring the dignity and emotional reality of the mourner is not a departure from halacha but entirely consistent with it.

The Core Halachic Question

Before addressing the specific concerns raised, it is important to note that the discussion here is not about whether a person is obligated to sit shiva. That obligation may apply in most cases, although halacha does recognize situations in which aspects of aveilus are suspended or modified. The question at hand is altogether different. It concerns whether a mourner is halachically required to receive visitors regardless of that mourner’s emotional readiness. The obligation to observe shiva is not synonymous with a commitment to host a steady flow of visitors. The framework of nichum aveilim is governed by the mourner’s expressed capacity and desire to engage.

What follows is an effort to articulate that point with greater clarity, respond directly to the concerns raised, and ground the discussion in halachic and pastoral principles.

1. Nichum Aveilim is for the Subject, Not the Object

The mitzvah of nichum aveilim is designed to comfort a human being in pain. Halacha defines this interaction with great precision, placing primary emphasis on the expressed needs of the mourner, rather than on what visitors imagine the mourner should need, or on the needs of the visitor.

The Shulchan Aruch in Yoreh Deah 376 states explicitly that visitors should not initiate conversation and that once the mourner indicates that the interaction has reached its limit, even through a minimal gesture, visitors are no longer permitted to remain. These formulations are not suggestions. They are binding halachic parameters that structure the entire experience.

On this point, I agree with Rabbi Reichel’s statement that the Rabbis knew exactly what they were doing in shaping the mourning process. My argument does not challenge rabbinic wisdom. It applies it. The halachic model does not expect mourners to perform emotional availability. It expects visitors to respect the emotional boundaries that the mourner actually expresses. This is not a contemporary therapeutic insight. It is the halachic framework itself.

For this reason, when a mourner finds conversation overwhelming or when the presence of visitors becomes emotionally difficult, accommodating that reality is not a leniency and not a concession. It is part of the halachic structure of the mitzvah itself.

2. Overwhelm, Not Just Withdrawal

Rabbi Reichel correctly notes that unmitigated withdrawal after loss can have harmful long-term consequences. That is true. But the cases I addressed are not primarily cases of withdrawal. They involve overwhelm. There is a profound difference between depressive avoidance and the inability to manage constant emotional stimulation while still in shock, trauma, or exhaustion.

For some mourners, an open-door shiva does not alleviate isolation; it increases distress. Contemporary pastoral literature notes that many mourners fulfill and benefit from shiva through quiet presence rather than conversation. Silent companionship is often the most authentic expression of nichum aveilim.

3. Alternatives Are Helpful, But Not Always Sufficient

Rabbi Reichel suggests several strategies as preferable to private shiva, such as limiting hours, restricting topics, waiting for cues, or stepping out when needed. These approaches are useful in many situations.

However, they do not address cases in which the flow of visitors itself is destabilizing or emotionally unsafe. Suggesting that a mourner repeatedly exit, redirect, or manage boundaries places the entire burden of emotional regulation on someone already in acute pain.

Halachic authorities caution against overburdening mourners, and many contemporary guides acknowledge the legitimacy of firm visiting hours or limited access based on the mourner’s needs. Yet even these measures do not always suffice. There are situations in which a more structured and private environment is necessary for the mourner’s well-being.

4. Shiva Within a Family Is Not a Referendum

Rabbi Reichel raises thoughtful questions about families with differing needs. Must every member of a household conform to one mourner’s preference? What if another family member wants visitors? What if a minor needs support or a sibling requires a more traditional expression of comfort?

Halacha acknowledges that grief is an individual experience, not a collective one. Different family members may have vastly different emotional needs. Accommodations need not be all or nothing. Staggered visiting times, separate spaces, or individualized plans are all possible. The goal is never to close doors for those who seek traditional comfort. It is to avoid forcing someone, often the most emotionally fragile mourner, into an environment that may cause harm.

5. The Mitzvah Belongs to the Mourner, Not to the Visitor

Rabbi Reichel notes that visitors derive meaning and spiritual benefit from offering comfort. This is true. Many visitors experience connection and elevation through the mitzvah of nichum aveilim. And yet the halacha is clear that the mitzvah is oriented toward the mourner’s comfort, not the visitor’s fulfillment.

Visitors fulfill the mitzvah even in complete silence. Remaining silent until the mourner chooses to speak is part of the halachic structure itself. Silent presence, brief presence, or restricted presence all count fully. The visitor’s desire to offer comfort cannot override a mourner’s emotional boundaries. The mitzvah exists for the mourner.

6. Personal Anecdotes Cannot Be Universalized

Rabbi Reichel’s story of a rabbi who initially resisted visitors and ultimately drew strength from them is moving and entirely valid. I could offer many similar stories of my own. There is no question that for some individuals, the shiva process can prove deeply cathartic and profoundly healing. At the same time, I can also share personal accounts of mourners who, long after the week ended, had to recover not from the loss of their relative but from the emotional pain they endured through the shiva process itself.

The point is not to compare stories. Personal anecdotes, no matter how powerful, cannot establish a rule. They illustrate the range of human experience, but they do not determine what should be expected of every mourner in every circumstance. Our responsibility is to meet each mourner where that person truly is, guided by halacha and by genuine sensitivity, not by assumptions drawn from the experiences of others.

7. Preserving the Classic Model, Making Space for the Exceptions

Nothing in my original article advocated moving away from the classic shiva framework. The vast majority of shivas should remain exactly as they have always been, open, communal, comforting, and centered on shared grief.

My intention was far more modest: to acknowledge that for a minority of mourners, the standard model is not emotionally sustainable and that in those cases, halacha itself provides flexibility, and compassion demands it. A shiva that honors the mourner’s stated needs, whether full, partial, or limited, is not a diminished shiva. It is a faithful one.

Conclusion

Rabbi Reichel concludes with the assertion that “there are no limits to the benefits that accrue from traditional public shiva visits.” I understand the sentiment behind this line, but it is simply not supported by the experience of many mourners. There are, in fact, limits to those benefits, and for some individuals, the limits are quite pronounced. In certain situations, there can even be emotional harm. I was aware of this long before writing the original article, but the responses I received afterward from individuals in a wide range of circumstances only reinforced it. Some described distress, anxiety, or retraumatization that arose not from their loss but from the nature or volume of the shiva experience itself. These accounts do not detract from the immense value of a traditional shiva for those who find it comforting. They do, however, remind us that its benefits are not universal and that our communal practice must be broad enough to recognize and support those for whom the standard model is not emotionally safe or sustainable.

I am grateful to Rabbi Reichel for his engagement and his genuine concern for preserving the integrity and power of the shiva experience. On that goal, we are aligned. My hope is not to alter communal norms but to ensure that within those norms we recognize and dignify the lived reality of all mourners, including those for whom the standard structure is overwhelming.

We honor the mitzvah most fully when we remember that it was designed not to protect a structure but to uplift a human being.

We have a serious problem and, as far as I can tell, nobody is talking about it.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been hearing from rabbinic colleagues, mental health professionals, educators, and families about a growing pattern that can no longer be ignored.  Gambling and sports betting, most often through phone apps, have quietly become among the fastest-spreading addictions in our community.

Almost always, it occurs in secret. Yet, at the same time, it’s hiding in plain sight. Conversations about “the spread,” casual bets on a fantasy team, constant comments about parlays – they’re happening in shuls, yeshiva dorms, and high school lunchrooms. What may seem like harmless sports talk is, in many cases, something much more serious.

In almost three decades of public life in communal leadership, I cannot recall another issue with such a dramatic gap between the scope of the problem and the absence of public conversation.

If you’re reading this, you fall into one of two groups. Either you already know exactly what I’m talking about, you’ve seen it, heard about it, maybe even dealt with it up close, or you think I’m overstating the case. If you’re in that second group, just ask. Ask a rebbe, a guidance counselor, a camp director, a college student, or a teenager. Trust me, you won’t have to ask twice.

The spread is real, the harm is real, and the silence is deafening.

Since the Supreme Court lifted federal restrictions on sports betting in 2018, gambling has exploded across the country. In 2024, Americans wagered nearly $150 billion, the highest total ever recorded. Thirty-eight states now allow sports betting, and most permit it online. Gambling no longer takes place mainly in casinos; it happens at home, in schools, or anywhere your phone can locate a signal.

A landmark multi-year survey of 19 yeshiva high schools in the New York tri-state area, encompassing thousands of students, found that Orthodox teens gamble at higher rates than their peers in the general population, with sports betting leading the way. The research, first highlighted several years ago and since replicated, reveals something deeply consistent: this is not a marginal issue. It’s a sustained trend, a uniquely persistent problem in our community.

Still, most parents and educators react with disbelief. We assume “our kids” are immune. We imagine that structure, spiritual grounding, and a close-knit community will protect them. Yet the very privacy that defines modern life, the screens, the apps, and the individual accounts, creates the perfect cover. Gambling doesn’t need rebellion to thrive, only secrecy. And while the concern often centers on teenagers, the problem extends well beyond them. Rabbanim and therapists are now hearing similar stories from adults, parents, professionals, and even community leaders quietly struggling with the same behaviors. It is not only a youth issue but a communal one, and like all addictions, it preys on the very values we often admire: energy, competition, and social connection. It takes what feels normal and turns it into a compulsion.

Some might argue that casual betting is harmless, a few dollars on a Super Bowl pool, a fantasy league among friends. But the line between playful and destructive is thinner than most realize. The same mechanisms that make these games exciting, risk, suspense, reward are the same ones that drive addictive behavior. For an increasing number of people, what starts as entertainment becomes a dependency.

Technology has accelerated that shift. Gambling apps are built for speed, privacy, and constant engagement. Teens can fake birth dates, use prepaid cards, or tap into shared family accounts. With Venmo, Apple Pay, and digital wallets, money moves instantly and invisibly. A generation ago, a teenager might have asked for twenty dollars in cash, and by the third time that week, a parent would start asking questions. That safeguard is gone. The transactions are quiet, seamless, and easy to miss, until the losses start adding up.

This is no longer a potential problem waiting on the horizon. It is already here, unfolding in front of us, whether we choose to look or not. The data, the stories, and the steady rise in concern from educators and therapists all point to the same conclusion: our community is facing an emerging addiction crisis that we are barely acknowledging.

Before we can begin to address it, we need to say it plainly: gambling has entered our homes, our schools, and our culture. The first step is to stop pretending it hasn’t.

I have intentionally paused here. In a follow-up piece to be published shortly, I plan to share some thoughts on what we as a community can begin to do, practically, responsibly, and with care, to address this growing issue. But first, we need to confront it honestly, to acknowledge and name the problem before we can talk about solutions.

Awareness alone won’t solve this, but silence guarantees that it will grow. A community that looks away while addiction spreads in its midst cannot call itself healthy. The question isn’t whether gambling has reached us—it has. The only question is how long we’ll keep pretending it hasn’t.