Of Microphones and Diversity of Thought (Rabbi Sarah Krinsky- May 12, 2025)

As a rabbi, I have the privilege of spending much of my time engaged in deep, thoughtful, personal conversations about some of life’s most important and existential matters. Family. Identity. Literal life and death. 

I also spend a lot of time talking about microphones. 

Our congregation is a diverse one on almost all metrics. We are from many places; we do many things; we look many ways; and we are drawn to and practice many facets of Judaism. Some are quite traditionally observant, heeding the myriad strictures of Shabbat, kashrut, and holiday rules. Others come to synagogue for reasons outside of classic obligation, and construct Shabbat and holiday experiences that live alongside but not necessarily within the conventional structure. (Others, we know, often do not even come at all.)

Hence the microphones. For a large subset of our community, microphones fall outside the bounds of halakhic observance and therefore should be prohibited, especially in public spaces, on Shabbat and holidays. For others, this is not a consideration. For others still, disability or other factors require a microphone for full and active participation. And so the negotiations begin. What kind of microphone will we have where? When will it be on? Can it be moved? Should it be goose-necked and standing or should it lay flat? (Yes, this is a real live debate). 

On one recent Shabbat morning in which - rather than leading from the bimah - I was sitting in the pews, I received critiques and complaints on this from all sides. One person articulated explicitly what I think many felt: “There is no place here where I’m totally and completely comfortable.” 

There is no place here where I’m totally and completely comfortable. 

This was meant, I assume, as criticism - based on an underlying assumption that the role of a synagogue is to provide just such a place to each of its members. And to be sure, we do strive to be a place that is and can feel like home to each of our diverse constituencies. But “totally and completely comfortable?” Even if feasible, I’m not sure that is the goal. And not only that. Indeed, this interaction helped me realize that, in fact, l’hefech - the opposite. Our role - or a role of ours - is to be a place in which people have to exercise the muscle of not always being totally and completely comfortable. 

This is not a muscle that gets a whole lot of attention. Our information bubbles are typically as curated and monolithic as our social media feeds. The line between news and opinion has blurred. And in an era in which even facts are apparently relative, it can be so easy to move through a moment with righteous (and sometimes even deserved) anger and indignation at an opinion, or group of people, that is actually wholly apart from and non-intersecting with our own. Our interlocutors become caricatures; those with whom we disagree so quickly and easily become enemies. And this is only compounded when there are parties and forces who are trying to manipulate even the justice system itself to formalize homogeneity of thought, to outlaw certain opinions. Tolerating disagreement is a spiritual muscle, but it is a political one too, and if not given attention, space, or affirmation, it can and will quickly atrophy with dire consequence. 

I can observe and even bemoan these national and international trends as a human. But I combat them as a rabbi. And in such a role, I am blessed to have a tradition that has my back. It is impossible to engage with Judaism with any degree of seriousness and emerge with uniformity - of thought or practice - as a value or goal. From our earliest texts (Genesis 1 and 2, for instance, and the many discrepancies between them) to our latest, from pages of the Talmud to the floor of the Knesset, we are a people who prize and preserve multivocality. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels hopeless. Even when it is totally and completely uncomfortable. 

We’ll start by disagreeing about microphones. And selections for kiddush. And tunes for Adon Olam. And in so doing, we will strengthen both our muscle and resolve to make space for the previously-only-imagined Other: For the opinion that’s hard to hear; for the narrative that feels fraught to engage with; for the protest that may genuinely shake us to our core. We don’t have to agree - but we do have to listen, to make space, and to let it in. Our democracy likely depends on it. Our authenticity to the tradition certainly does.

Rabbi Sarah Krinsky is part of the leadership team at Adas Israel Congregation in Washington, DC. She has served as a member of the Rabbinical Assembly’s Social Justice and Public Policy Staff, and a Legislative Assistant at the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism. She has developed social justice programming, including community engagement opportunities, for all age groups. She is the recipient of several awards from UJA and JTS. Views and positions expressed here are those of the writer, and do not necessarily represent NJN's views and policy positions.