Before We Put Someone on Trial

Religious Freedom, the Constitution, and the Jewish Obligation to Judge Fairly

“Will you denounce it?”

I have come to distrust this question. Not because condemnation is unimportant, but because the question can end the discussion ought to begin. Sometimes it is a genuine request for moral clarity. At other times, it is a test of allegiance: say the expected words, or we will decide what kind of person you are.

The difference matters. A declaration can be necessary, but it is not the same as understanding a person’s beliefs, examining a record, or engaging in an honest conversation.

The controversy surrounding Abdul El-Sayed, Michigan’s Democratic nominee for the United States Senate, illustrates the difficulty. After the March 2026 attack on Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, El-Sayed condemned the violence but also connected it to a broader cycle of suffering, saying that “hurt people hurt people.” Many Jewish observers felt that his attempt to provide context diverted attention from the pain of the Jewish community. In August, he apologized and acknowledged that it was not the time for context. His explanation and apology deserve consideration alongside the criticism his remarks prompted.

The attack was indefensible. The anguish of the congregation and the wider Jewish community deserved recognition without qualification. Understanding the circumstances surrounding violence does not excuse it.

But this episode raises a question larger than one candidate or one synagogue: When does our demand for moral clarity become a substitute for the work of judgment?

The United States Constitution offers an important starting point. The First Amendment prohibits the government from establishing a religion or prohibiting its free exercise. These protections apply to state governments as well as the federal government. They protect the freedom of Jews to practice Judaism and Muslims to practice Islam, just as they protect Christians and people of other faiths. Religious liberty does not depend on whether our neighbors approve of our theology, our traditions, or our identity.

This constitutional principle does not require us to agree with one another. It does not make religious beliefs, political opinions, or public statements immune from criticism. Nor does it prevent voters from examining a candidate’s positions and conduct. It establishes something more fundamental: a person’s religious identity should not become a reason to deny that person the dignity, liberty, or fair consideration we expect for ourselves.

Jews understand why this protection matters. Our history includes periods when authorities restricted Jewish worship, excluded Jews from public life, or demanded conformity to the dominant faith. We know what it means when a majority treats its own convictions as the standard by which everyone else must be judged.

That history should make us especially careful about the standards we apply to others.

Jewish tradition makes a similar demand. Proverbs 18:13 warns, “If one answers before listening, it is folly and shame.” Leviticus 19:15 commands us to judge our neighbors fairly. And in Pirkei Avot 1:6, Yehoshua ben Perachiah teaches, “Judge every person favorably.” The Talmud connects this principle to the command to judge another person with righteousness (Shevuot 30a). These teachings do not tell us to overlook wrongdoing. They ask us to distinguish evidence from assumption and accountability from prejudice.

That distinction becomes particularly important when someone belongs to a religious or political group we distrust. We may scrutinize that person’s words more closely, interpret ambiguity less generously, and demand declarations that we would not demand from someone whose views resemble our own. We may believe we are protecting our community when, in fact, we are allowing suspicion to determine the outcome before the evidence has been considered.

This is not an argument for lowering our standards when antisemitism is involved. It is an argument for applying standards consistently. We should examine what public figures say about Jews, Muslims, Christians, and other communities; whether their actions match their stated principles; and whether they acknowledge harm when they cause it. An apology is relevant, but it does not automatically settle every question. Neither should one controversial statement automatically settle every question about a person.

The same principle applies to all of us. If we expect others to distinguish Judaism from the actions of individual Jews, we should distinguish Islam from the actions of individual Muslims. If we expect others not to treat a Jewish person as responsible for every action taken in Israel’s name, we should be cautious about assigning collective responsibility to Muslims for the actions of individuals or organizations. Equal citizenship cannot depend on which community is under scrutiny.

The rabbis of the Talmud warned of sinat chinam, baseless hatred, when reflecting on the destruction of the Second Temple (Yoma 9b). Their lesson is not that disagreement should disappear. Jewish tradition is full of vigorous argument. The lesson is that disagreement becomes destructive when we stop seeing the person across from us as someone entitled to be heard and judged fairly.

Micah 6:8 calls us to do justice, love goodness, and walk humbly with God. Humility is not easy when we are convinced that we are defending a vulnerable community. But that is precisely when it matters most. We must be willing to ask whether our convictions have sharpened our judgment or closed our minds.

So, when someone asks, “Will you denounce it?” I want to ask a further question: What happens after the declaration? Are we prepared to examine the evidence, consider an explanation, and hold the person accountable for what he has said and done? Or have we already decided what the answer must mean?

The Constitution protects religious freedom. Jewish tradition demands fair judgment. Both challenge us to resist the temptation to make another person’s identity a verdict.

If no answer could change my mind, I was never really asking a question. I was protecting a verdict.