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.
To Whom It May Concern 