Gates Are Meant To Be Opened

What follows is my Yom Kippur evening sermon.

One of the highlights of visiting Israel is visiting Jerusalem. And one of the highlights of visiting Jerusalem is visiting the Old City. It never gets old, so to speak. There you can walk through the thin alleys of the Arab shuk, squeeze past Christian pilgrims going to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or run ahead of Moslem worshippers rushing to afternoon prayers at the Al Aqsa Mosque. You can grab a fresh squeezed orange juice from a vendor or argue over the price of T-shirts with a hawker. You can wait in line for a falafel, explore the archaeological remains below the city’s streets and along with thousands and thousands of other Jews touch the stones of what remains of the ancient Temple. There, you can place your hands on the Kotel, the Western Wall.

To get to these sites one typically enters the city through Zion Gate. Other times we walk through the busy Jaffa Gate or even through the Dung Gate depending on where the tour bus finds parking. There are actually eight such gates. Dung sits adjacent to the Arab town of Silwan and is where the trash was taken out from the city in ancient times. The path to Jaffee Gate that before 1967 was no man’s land is now lined with a shopping mall. And Zion is still pockmarked with bullet holes from the fierce fighting that occurred there during the 1948 war. I am particularly fond of this gate. It retains its ancient bend so that you cannot walk straight through, and I often have to jockey for position with a car that wants to make its way out.

Long ago this bend served as an added defense against invaders. Just as the cars cannot speed through the gate so too foot soldiers had difficulties running straight through. This bend is also reminiscent of the judicial benches built into the gates in ancient times. It is where people took their cases and judges sat, rendering judgements. It is a common biblical motif and one that is taken up by many of our prophets. Amos shouts: “Hate evil and love good,/ And establish justice in the gate.” (Amos 5) He meant this literally. Judgement sits at the edges. Justice stands at the periphery.

I have been thinking about gates and the space they occupy in our lives. They are the boundary between us and them, between our perceptions of safety and danger. They are the liminal passageway through which we render daily judgments about what is ok and what is not. We organize our lives around such gates.

In the St Louis of my youth, I grew up in a subdivision called Lac du Bois, a fancy sounding French name for Lake of the Woods. Recall that it is not as we say St Louis but “Saint Louis.” Or that the small town in which Lac du Bois is located is not pronounced as we do Creve Coeur, but the French “Creve Coeur.” Later I can tell you the story about the Native American princess and her broken heart for which the town is named, but these days I am thinking about how intimidating those subdivision gates might appear to others. And how all these names, and all this language, makes some insiders and others, outsiders.

There is judgment in a name. There is exclusion in language. Even though the subdivision’s gates were always opened they remained locked to some.

This evening I wish to meditate on the inadvertent gates we too often construct. This is the Yom Kippur confession I offer.

In Jerusalem’s Old City the gates are obvious. In our lives they are hidden to those who sit inside. We need to shine a light on these gates and acknowledge them. Let us dwell on these gates and most especially on those that provide us with unknowing reassurance but to others exclusion.

This all became glaringly apparent to me as I prepared for a wedding this past June. Every wedding is of course different. Every couple is unique and every ceremony joyous, but David and Max’s wedding was unlike any I had officiated at in my thirty plus years of rabbi-ing. David and Max are gay. They are two grooms. It is not that I refused to officiate at gay or lesbian weddings years ago, but no one had asked. No congregant had invited me to do so. I was grateful for the invitation.

We studied the ceremony together. I pored over the tradition’s language that I have nearly memorized. “Mi adir al hakol, mi baruch al hakol… hu y’varech chatan v’kalah—who blesses the groom and bride.” I may have unlatched the gate, but Max and David threw it open. The ceremony’s gates are everywhere. “Hattan v’kalah. Bride and groom.” They appear on nearly every page. Should I say, “reim ha-ahuvim—loving companions” in its place or “hattan v’hattan—groom and groom?” We spoke openly about their meanings. We decided to interchange both terms. What about the vows? The list appeared lengthy. They forgave my gaffe when I, in one of our preparatory meetings, asked, “How many people are in the bridal party?” The language of yesterday is carved in our brains. It does not, however, have to be etched in our hearts. I rejoice in their love. It was a splendid and joyous occasion. Mazel tov David and Max! Thank you for the teachings.

I am left wondering how many locked gates are arrayed before us. How many does our inheritance arrange while we sit unknowing and unaware within its walls? Our language and how we idealize relationships can be doorways to openness or locked gates turning people away. In our traditions’ efforts to make us feel like insiders it may make more people than we realize feel like outsiders.

I am holding on to the symbolism of the huppah. It is open on all sides. We usually explain it this way. The huppah is open to symbolize that a couple’s home should be welcoming to others. It should include not just friends but family. It should most especially be open to the new family each partner is joining. The couple is now one family and no longer two. But perhaps we should see the huppah’s openness in a different manner. It is open to all who wish to sanctify their commitment and love. It has no gates. It offers no judgments!

Reverend Victoria Safford, an author and minister, writes: “Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope—not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower; nor the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense; nor the strident gates of Self-Righteousness…. nor the cheerful, flimsy garden gate of ‘Everything Is Gonna Be All Right.’ But a different, sometimes lonely place… the piece of ground from which you see the world both as it is and as it could be, as it will be….” Open the gates of hope. Every loving relationship offers promise. Place your faith in hope. Too often we say things like, “That’s not really marriage.” Or “That’s not what God wants.” But how can we be so sure? We shut others out to our own demise. When we close those gates, we banish hope from our own souls.

Back to neighborhoods. Recently I installed a ring doorbell. It’s awesome. I can see when packages are delivered. I can get notified when someone is at my door, even when I am not home. I did not know about another one of its features called “Neighbor,” but it confirmed my love-hate relationship with technology. Before I figured out how to turn these Neighbor notifications off, I was receiving frequent alerts that said for example, “Man carrying plastic bag and when I didn’t answer he tried to enter my backyard. He lurked around my house for about 45 minutes.” Or the following, “Man carrying green bag and smoking and walking into yards and snooping around property.” Everyone is suspect.

Keep the doors locked. Scan the property for anyone who does not look like us. Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to critique the need for us to have security or ignore the frightening increase in antisemitism, or the daily occurrences of violent gun attacks in our country, or to suggest if you are home alone that you should fling the door open to a stranger, but not everyone on the other side of the camera or the other side of the gate is dangerous. We are so worried about letting the wrong people in that we may be keeping the right people out. Just because they are on the outside does not mean they do not belong on the inside. Just because they are on the other side of our gates does not mean they are a threat, and that we should not welcome them in. The Torah is clear: “Love the stranger. V’ahvtem et ha-ger.” (Deuteronomy 10) And who is the stranger? It is the person who we feel is distant but stands right nearby. It is the person who sits just outside those gates. That is why judges sat at the edges of the city. We echo the prophets and affirm their message. How we respond to those on the periphery is a measure of our righteousness.

We have erected filters, whether they are the tradition’s eyes or technology’s cameras, through which we look out into the world. Take down those gates. We should caricature less. We should judge far less frequently. If we would take the time to sit across the table from others who are not yet friends, we might fill our hearts with hopefulness. And I am certain our souls will respond with gratitude. They will shout words of thanks.

A story. A few years ago, when traveling with Ari in Laos (I know not your typical rabbinic field trip), Ari convinced me not only to meet him in Laos but I also that we should sign up for a hike through the jungle. The destination for the hike was a remote Hmong village. I was quite trepidatious. I offered up many roadblocks before saying yes to the hike. I had a multitude of worries, chief among them the availability of gluten free food in the jungle. Ari opened the gate, and we walked through. Soon after the start of the hike, another traveler heard Ari’s unmistakable Long Island accent and asked, “Where on Long Island are you from?” We answered, “Huntington.” Turns out Rob grew up in Huntington and had just moved to of all places, Missouri. A friendship with Rob and his partner Melissa was born. Nowhere in our planning did we imagine the following, “Go to Laos, hike the jungle, discover a fellow Long Islander and become longtime friends.” I almost did not go! The gate is opened. Serendipity walks through. The soul is renewed.

When we open those gates, venture beyond their edges, and push past our fears, we encounter the unexpected. We welcome renewal. Too often fear stands in our way. It need not rule our souls. We forget. Gates are meant to be opened!

On this Yom Kippur let us open the gates. On this day when we seek to better ourselves, and when we recount most especially our frequent misuse of words, let us acknowledge those hurtful comments and inopportune phrases we too often utter. Let us work to throw these gates of “You don’t belong here” and “That’s not what marriage is meant to be” open. These gates exclude some we are meant to include. These bolted doors offer judgment where understanding and compassion will better serve not only others but us as well. We are very good at using these gates to keep others out. We are very good at using language to exclude people. We say things like, “That’s forbidden. This is not your place.” Or “Get off my property. They make me uncomfortable.”

Too often we think gates are only meant to be closed. We think they are all about protecting us. They are meant to be opened. They are intended to be invitations for welcome. Open the gates to the unexpected. Serendipity restores the soul. Hope is burnished by compassion.

A community is a hodgepodge of differences. Let’s sit like the judges of yesteryear at the periphery. Rather than offer their judgements let’s wave people in. Let us embrace others even if they don’t always look like us, or talk like us, or think like us, or act like us.

Soon we will be celebrating the holiday of Sukkot when we are supposed to welcome everyone into these temporary booths. The sukkah has no doors. Its walls, and its flimsy roof through which we must be able to see the stars, must all have a temporary quality. This temporariness enhances the sukkah’s openness. Its feel is akin to a tent. The sukkah cannot be so strong so as to be able to withstand a storm. When it rains, we are commanded to leave the sukkah and go inside to our house. The sukkah is too open to stand up against bad weather. Without doors and sturdy walls, without a roof that keeps the rain out, things do feel flimsy. Openness feels threatening. And so, what do we do? We bolt our doors. We erect formidable defenses, some in plain sight and others not even seen by ourselves.

We turn our focus on these locks and these gates. We soon forget how to open them. We forget even how to unlock them. We lose sight of how to invite others in. We look only within and only without through lenses and peep holes. Our vision narrows. We lose sight of those who sit on the edges. How do we now unlock the gates? How can we embrace the openness of the sukkah and not lose faith because of its apparent flimsiness?

Back to Jerusalem. “Rabbi Elazar said: Since the day the Temple was destroyed the gates of prayer are locked and prayer is not accepted as it once was. Yet even though these gates of prayer are locked, the gates of tears are never locked. One who cries before God may rest assured that these prayers will always be answered.” (Babylonian Talmud Brachot 32b) Tears open the gates if only we can hear them, if only we can see the pain that sits nearby.

Hear the cry of our forefather. I imagine that when Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, on the very spot where the Temple once stood and below which we can now touch the Western Wall’s stones, Isaac shed tears as he looked up at his father who was clutching the knife, lifted up above his neck ready to sacrifice him. Abraham was so zealous in his pursuit of what he believed to be God’s command that the angel had to shout his name twice to stay his hand. “Avraham! Avraham!—Abraham! Abraham!” Finally, Abraham looks up from his son and saw the ram which he then sacrificed in place of Isaac. Perhaps this was God’s intention from the very beginning. Isaac represents the hope and promise of the future. How could God want Abraham to sacrifice his son? If you don’t look, if you don’t open the gates of hope, you cannot really see. After slaughtering the ram, Abraham names the place, “Adonai yay-ra-eh—God sees.” (Genesis 22) Too often we are like that zealous Abraham slamming those gates shut, unwilling to see the person standing nearby and unable to see the tears before us. We close the door to hope.

If we do not see the person standing on the periphery, then we too are likewise blinded by what we believe. If we do not see the gates that bar others from feeling welcome, then we are just as zealous. How do we help to make these gates more visible so that we can unlock them? How can we no longer be blinded by zealousness? There is only one answer. And that is to sit with others and listen. It is to learn how others feel. It is to imagine how our words might sound to their ears. It is to open with compassion and invitation rather than exclusion and judgment.

According to tradition when the messiah comes to rescue the world the mashiach will come first to Jerusalem and begin the messianic redemption in the Old City. And through which of Jerusalem’s eight gates will the messiah enter the city? Shaar HaRachamim—the gate of compassion. Here is the funny thing about that gate. Today that gate is literally blocked up. It is filled with stones from floor to ceiling, all cemented together. The gate of compassion is sealed shut.

That seems the perfect metaphor for our age. We spend so much time erecting gates in our effort to keep others out, or to say people don’t belong, rather than the few moments it takes to unlatch them. Gates are meant to be opened.

The one gate that can unlock hope is blocked. The gate of compassion beckons if we but unlatch it. We are called not to judge. We are asked to welcome and invite. Only then will the messiah enter. Only then will redemption occur. Only then will hope return to our hearts.