Between the Pulpit and the Playground: On Being a Father and a Rabbi Right Now
Rabbi Noam Raucher, MA.Ed — Executive Director, FJMC International
When my sons were little, I was a pulpit rabbi. For ten years, I tried to hold the balance — leading services, teaching, counseling, and showing up for families in joy and in grief — while also learning how to hold a baby bottle in one hand and a sermon in the other. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and often guilt-ridden. I’ve now been away from the pulpit for six years, but I still remember that tension in my bones.
The past few years, that memory has felt especially sharp. In the wake of Israel-Hamas war, and the political tumult in the United States, the American Jewish community has demanded more of its rabbis than ever before. Pastoral emergencies, vigils, sermons, meetings with congregants who are scared, grieving, and angry — all of it piles on top of an already grueling 60+ hour work week. Then the High Holiday season arrives, and a month of non-stop services, teaching, and programming stretches rabbis even thinner.
And while the congregation may see a rabbi in the pulpit, at home they are also, most likely, a spouse and a parent. Someone whose partner and children need presence, patience, and energy. The pull between both roles is relentless.
A decade ago, much of the conversation around work and family balance was shaped by Sheryl Sandberg’s “lean in” mantra directed at women. But what often went unsaid was what “leaning in” meant for the men at home. It demanded that fathers step up too — not just to mow the lawn or coach soccer, but to engage in the invisible work of emotional care, scheduling, and household logistics. Eve Rodsky has since popularized the language of “fair play,” helping families name and redistribute this labor so it doesn’t silently default to one partner.
That shift is still uneven, and Jewish fathers feel it acutely. We are pulled toward our communities by duty and compassion, and pulled toward our families by love and responsibility. Too often, the choice feels like failure either way. Miss bedtime because you’re counseling a grieving family? Guilt. Miss a committee meeting because you’re helping with homework? Guilt. Even outside the pulpit, that tension persists for Jewish fathers who juggle demanding jobs, fragile community life, and their spouses and children’s needs.
What’s worse is how invisible this burden can feel. We rightly celebrate rabbis for showing up for their communities, but we rarely ask how their families are faring. We applaud fathers who “help out” at home, without fully recognizing the deeper responsibility they carry as equal partners in raising children. And we overlook the emotional toll of always feeling torn between two sacred callings.
So what do we do?
First, we need to say it out loud: Jewish fathers — including rabbis — are stretched to the limit. This is not a personal failure but a structural one. Congregations must be honest about the demands they place on clergy, especially during crisis. Families must be honest about how much unseen work lands on one parent’s plate.
Second, we need to normalize fair play at home. This means fathers taking ownership of whole areas of domestic life — not “helping,” but leading, whether that’s bedtime routines, doctor’s appointments, or managing the family calendar. It also means partners being willing to trust that responsibility, even if the approach looks different.
Third, communities must build support systems for fathers the way we’ve long done for mothers. Men’s groups, parenting circles, and clergy peer networks are not luxuries — they are lifelines. They create space for fathers to speak about guilt and exhaustion without shame, and to learn strategies from one another.
Finally, we must practice compassion — for ourselves and for each other. Rabbis cannot be everywhere. Fathers cannot be perfect. But both can strive to be present in the moments that matter most, whether that’s on the bimah or at the breakfast table.
I look back at my decade as a young father and rabbi with both pride and regret. Pride that I showed up for so many in their moments of need. Regret that I sometimes missed moments at home. Today, I know better that one role cannot come at the expense of the other. Both are sacred. Both demand attention. And both deserve a community willing to support the men who carry them.
Because in the end, the question is not whether Jewish fathers and rabbis will feel the pull — it’s whether we will let them carry it alone.
