Monte Halparin, a Jewish kid from Winnipeg, Manitoba, was born August 25th, 1921. His father was a butcher and part-time cantor. His mother ran the local grocery. They were Orthodox, Yiddish-speaking immigrants from Eastern Europe, and they struggled through the Great Depression. Like many children of that era, he grew up with big dreams and limited means.
He got into medical school — but couldn’t afford to go. So he pivoted. First to radio, where he worked as a sports announcer in Canada. He had the voice, the charm, and an almost supernatural ability to make people feel at ease. And through the happenstance of a few misspellings of billboards, became who we know today – Monty Hall.
In 1955, he and his wife Marilyn — a cousin of Leonard Cohen, by the way — moved to New York City so he could try his luck in television.
He hosted a few smaller shows, including Video Village and Split Second, but it wasn’t until 1963 that he struck gold with the idea that would change his life — and American game shows forever. It was a game show built around one simple question:
Will you stay with what you have… or take the risk of something better?
That idea became Let’s Make a Deal. But Monty wasn’t just a host. He was a co-creator, a producer, and an observer of human behavior.
He understood that the show wasn’t really about the prizes, it was about people standing at a threshold, forced to choose between comfort and risk. Between the door they knew and the one they didn’t.
He once said he was fascinated by how irrationally people make decisions under pressure — how we cling to what we’ve chosen, even when a better path is available. And maybe that’s why the show worked. It wasn’t just a game. It was a parable — disguised in sequins – about uncertainty, courage and the moment that could change everything.
And isn’t that what tonight is, too? A moment before a door? Not a game show door, but a real one. A personal one. Maybe you already know what it is. Maybe it’s a change you’ve been avoiding. A possibility that keeps whispering to you in quiet moments. Or maybe you haven’t named it yet, but you can feel it. Something is shifting. Something is waiting.
What’s the door in your life right now?
You know how this works. You’re on the show. You’re shown three doors. Behind one is a car. Behind the others, goats. You pick Door #1. Monty, who knows what’s behind them all, opens Door #3 — revealing a goat. Then he turns to you and says: “Do you want to switch to Door #2, or stay where you are?” Most people stay. It feels safer. It feels familiar. But statistically, you should switch. Staying gives you a 1-in-3 chance. Switching gives you a 2-in-3 chance. Still, most people stay. Why? Because we fear the unknown more than we fear being wrong.
Because staying feels like control — even when it isn’t. Because change, even when the odds are in our favor, is hard. And because uncertainty is deeply uncomfortable.
Statisticians call it the “Monty Hall problem.” But for us, it’s not just math. It’s a spiritual dilemma. What lies behind the doors in front of us? Which ones will we open — and which ones will we leave shut? This is the moment that confronts us as we step onto the threshold of a new year.*
Beginning tonight and throughout our High Holy Days, we will be exploring this dynamic; what doors do we open, what doors do we close and why and most importantly, what will it mean to walk through them? Our theme for our holidays and throughout our year is “Through a New Door: Welcoming What Comes Next.” The High Holy Days are a season of gates — and indeed so is each day of our lives. But this year, we imagine them not only as gates, but as doors: some familiar, some unexpected.
Every door is a threshold between what was and what might yet be. Tonight, I’d like to explore the first – Welcoming what comes next.
So there we are about to make a decision – should we stay or should we go? Do I stay with Door #1 or take door #2? While a game show might be low risk and high thrill, life choices seem fraught with high risk and high fear. There’s a particular kind of fear that rarely gets named — but shapes so many of the choices we make. It’s not the fear of failure. It’s not the fear of rejection. It’s the fear of how we’ll feel if we’re wrong. Psychologists call it anticipated regret. But most of us don’t need a clinical term for it. We know exactly what it feels like. It’s the moment before you hit send on a message that could change everything. It’s the breath you take before you say, “I’m sorry,” or “I need help,” or “I think it’s time.” It’s the knot in your stomach when you wonder: What if this makes things worse? What if I look foolish? What if I open the door… and wish I hadn’t? So instead — we stay. We stay quiet. We stay stuck. We stay put. Not because we’ve made peace with where we are but because we’re afraid of regretting where we might go.
We imagine the future pain of a wrong decision and we preemptively protect ourselves from it. But in doing so, we also protect ourselves from the possibility of something better. This kind of regret doesn’t announce itself loudly. It comes quietly — in the middle of the night, or when another year ends and we realize – we’re still exactly where we were. Fear wants us to keep the door closed. Faith dares us to open it. And that’s the threshold these Days of Awe place before us.
And so the deeper question of these High Holy Days is not: What have I done wrong? It’s: What possibilities have I kept sealed behind a door? Not because they weren’t good. Not because they weren’t holy. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of choosing without knowing what would happen next. We want certainty. We want to know what’s behind the door before you commit. But life doesn’t offer that kind of certainty. Not in game shows. Not in relationships. Not in careers. Not in faith. We crave logic. But what we get is a choice.
Long before Monty Hall invited people to choose between Door #1, #2, or #3, Torah gave us its own game of chance, but with much higher stakes.
In Genesis, God called to Abraham with two words: Lech lecha — “Go forth.” Or “Go from your land.” But Lech lecha can also mean: Go to yourself. Leave what you know. Step into what you don’t. Abraham was 75 years old when he heard those words. He wasn’t navigating the chaos of early adulthood, the midlife grind, the college search, or career change.
He was settled. Established. Comfortable. Or at least, he thought he was. That’s what makes God’s call so disorienting—and so powerful. It wasn’t: “Start fresh.” It was: “You’re not done becoming.” That’s the spiritual threshold we stand on tonight. Not because we’re lost, but because we’re brave enough to ask: What now? “What threshold have you been lingering at — waiting for the courage to cross? What are you standing in front of — maybe for the first time, or maybe for years? What would it take to reach out and to step forward?
Judaism gives us a way forward. 3 ways, in fact.
First: we trust. Not in the outcome, but in the holiness of the step itself. Abraham didn’t know where he was going. Nachshon ben Aminadav, according to rabbinic tradition, chose to walk into the waters of the unparted Sea of Reeds and prayed for a miracle – he didn’t wait for proof. Ruth didn’t demand a guarantee from Naomi. “Wherever you go – I will go” she said. They walked. That was faith. Not certainty, but trust.
Second: we bless the threshold. Judaism teaches us to sanctify the ordinary and the risky. We bless bread and thunder. We can bless courage too.
Baruch Atah Adonai… ha-potei’ach sha’arim ba-z’man hazeh.
Blessed are You, who opens doors in this very moment.
Third: we don’t go alone. The most Jewish way to face a threshold is with someone beside you. Moses had Aaron. Naomi had Ruth. Abraham had Sarah.
Even God says “It is not good for a person to be alone.” Let Temple Shalom be your family. Reach for their hand. Let them walk beside you. Even the bravest among us need community.
This year, let’s stop clinging to the doors we know just because they feel safe. Let’s stop confusing standing still with standing strong. Let’s open the door. Let’s walk through the door of uncertainty together. Because what comes next could be beautiful. Sacred. Life-affirming. Needed. And we were not meant to face it alone.
Together, here at Temple Shalom, we will open the doors to our next 60 years. Doors to a new preschool that will shape the voices of the future. Doors to an expanded garden that will feed bodies and souls. Doors to new learning, new celebrations, new acts of justice, new sparks of joy.
And in my own family, in just 8 months, we will open the door to a wedding — and welcome new love, expanded family and fresh beginnings.
There are so many doors in front of us. I don’t know exactly what they will reveal. But I do know this: we won’t discover blessing by staying put. We find it — we create it — when we walk forward, in faith, in community, in hope.
So let’s take the step – together. Let’s open the door – together, and let’s welcome – not fear, but welcome what comes next – together.
Amen.
