I’ve always loved building things. Legos. Lincoln Logs. Those plastic model cars. And thank you, IKEA, for your infuriating instructions. Anything that involved putting things together and seeing something take shape — I was in. I loved the construction of it. And, let’s be honest, I really loved all the tools that came with it.
From my earliest years, I worked for painting companies, driveway seal-coating crews, and construction sites. You might remember me sharing that when I worked for a construction company one summer, I started with the broom. Only after I had mastered that was I allowed to use hand tools. And then, eventually, power tools. There was a rhythm to it. A respect for the process.
But I was not a master builder. I was a “measure once, cut twice” kind of guy. The kind of builder who learned to cuss on a job site.
I can neither confirm nor deny that I may have asked God to damn a few things — repeatedly — and with great theological creativity.
Still — I loved it. Because even when the work was messy, or slow, or imperfect, there was something deeply satisfying about creating something that didn’t exist before. Something lasting. Something meaningful. Something that might shelter someone or something one day.
Last night, I shared with you our theme for these Holy Days: *“Through a New Door: Welcoming What Comes Next.” We began the New Year with a message about courage. We talked about doors — the ones we face in our lives. The ones we fear to open. The ones we hesitate to walk through. We talked about the door of uncertainty and how Jewish tradition, from Abraham to Nachshon, calls us not to retreat when the future is unclear, but to step forward in faith. Not because we know what’s on the other side, but because we trust that something holy waits there.
Today I want to explore with you the next doorway:
*“The Door We Walk Through Together: Choosing a Shared Future.”*
This year marks the 60th anniversary of Temple Shalom. Sixty years of walking through doors. Building not just a synagogue, but a kehillah kedoshah, a holy community. And now, we stand in the doorway again; grateful for the past, humbled by the present and charged with shaping the future.
The founders of Temple Shalom built a Jewish home in a new part of Dallas — a place to pray, to celebrate, to grieve.
A place where their children could become b’nai mitzvah, where they could learn Hebrew, where holidays could be shared — not just remembered. Back then, the synagogue was the epicenter of Jewish life. If you wanted to be Jewish, you joined a synagogue. It was that simple. And they built it — with vision, with generosity, with sacred grit.
Today, people walk through our doors for different reasons: searching for meaning, for connection, or for healing. They come because they’re hurting, wondering, or trying to remember who they are.
They walk through because something in the world feels broken — and they’re not sure where else to turn.
And right now, that truth is pressing on us more than ever. Beneath the surface lies a fear that is real, not imagined. Antisemitism is rising. We’ve seen Jewish institutions attacked, we’ve seen Jews attacked, we’ve seen Jewish politicians attacked.
We’ve heard chants and slurs in public forums, classrooms, and college campuses. We’ve watched the lines blur between criticism and hate, between activism and denial of our people’s right to safety and self-determination. In the quiet of our hearts, many of us have wondered: What does it mean to be Jewish right now? How public should I be with my Jewish identity? Will my children be safe? Am I safe? That fear is real. But that does not have to be the end of the story. Fear wants us to close the door, to lock it, to hide behind it. Judaism calls us to open it wider. To walk through it together.
Because while fear may shape how we see the world right now — we cannot allow it to define how we live in the world right now.
And that’s why synagogues still matter. That’s why this synagogue matters. Temple Shalom is not just a sanctuary — it is spiritual resistance. Our very name is a testament to our mission and our cause. It’s not just a place to gather — it’s a place for Shalom — wholeness and completeness — indeed a place to repair the world. We are here, all of us, right now, in part to remember who we are, and why we matter.
In a world where being Jewish can feel vulnerable again, we are here to say with strength and vigor:
Yes, we are still here! — we are still proud — we are still building. We will not give up, we will not give in and we will not be moved in our efforts to bring about a radical vision of kindness and compassion, that Shalom is all about. That’s what it means to be a kehillah kedoshah — a holy community. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught:
“To be a Jew is to be part of a people summoned by God to build a society that will be a home for the divine presence.”
That’s what Temple Shalom is — and that is what it must continue to be; not just a building, but a covenant. Not just a place we go, but a future that we build — together.
This past May, May 28th to be exact was my 30th year since I became a rabbi and this is my 21st as your rabbi. Just as Temple Shalom turns 60, I mark these milestones with you. While the numbers are somewhat important, they themselves are not the story. The story is covenant, memory, and the sacred future we now hold in our hands.
For you don’t build a synagogue with blueprints and bricks alone. You build it with blessing, with memory, with grit and determination and with love and with laughter and with learning and with soul. And now, we don’t just celebrate the past. We step into the future with joy and excitement. Because we are building a community:
Where people are truly seen.
Where it’s safe to ask hard questions.
Where Judaism is not performative but transformative.
Whose door is wide enough for those who never thought they belonged.
Where we see a worldview deeper than fear.
And here is the urgency of this moment: if we retreat, the door narrows. If we grow timid, others will define Judaism for us. But if we rise together, we can shape a future worthy of our children.
We step into the future at this critical moment with unmitigated joy and unrepentant excitement to meet the world we experience right now with a response that is unafraid and unapologetic in our welcome and our care.
Because you know what? Our world needs us more than ever! At Temple Shalom:
If you walk in afraid — we will give you courage.
If you walk in hurting — we will help you heal.
If you walk in unsure — you will find your answer here.
We did not get here alone. Others built this for us — and now it is our turn.
“For we are standing on the shoulders of the ones who came before us…”
As our Cantor Emeritus Don Croll’s voice fills this room and we watch the images of our Temple’s story — the story of building, dreaming, and showing up — let it remind us: this is our moment now. To build. To bless. To become.*
Let this be the year we don’t just walk through the door — we widen it. For the seeker. For the skeptic. For the forgotten. For the future. So that no one is left standing on the outside looking in. Because God still dwells not in our buildings — but among us. In how we love, in how we build, in who we welcome.
So let this year begin with sacred resolve:
To build a community that outlasts us, to choose a shared future on purpose, and to step through this door together.
And may those who come after us say this about us:
“They were not perfect. But they were faithful. They built something sacred. They showed up. And we are standing on their shoulders.”
Amen.
