Are Our Synagogues More Like Abraham’s Tent or Sodom’s Gate?

The spaces we inhabit reflect what we value and shape how we live. In a home filled with Torah books or with a tzedakah box place somewhere prominent, it may be much easier to make some time to learn and give a little more charity, since we would be constantly reminded of the values we hope to embody. Similarly, the Talmud (Menachot 43b) teaches that a benefit in wearing tzitzit is that seeing them reminds us of the mitzvot, which in turn inspires us to fulfill them.

Our environment also communicates our values to others. We understand our intentions and aspirations, so we can interpret our surroundings with nuance. Newcomers and guests, however, have only what they see and experience. First impressions can influence whether they return and what kind of relationship they develop with us and our communities.

I go to various synagogues, both where I live and when I travel. No matter where I go – even at the synagogue I regularly attend – the biggest impact on how I experience the service is in how I enter the building. There is a world of difference for me between walking into a synagogue and being greeted by smiling faces, warm introductions, and genuine curiosity, and walking into one where people glance you up and down, asking who you are or why you are there. This is not a remark about synagogue security. We live in a time when, unfortunately, security is an important part of Jewish communal life. It is an observation about how we greet our visitors (and fellow members), both at the entrance and while inside our spaces.

From our entranceways and security procedures to seating arrangements and where people gather after services, every detail sends a message about who is welcome and who belongs. They also communicate our values more powerfully than anything written on a synagogue website or announced from the pulpit. When it comes to creating a welcoming community, actions speak louder than words.

The Torah teaches this lesson by showing the contrast between Abraham and the people of Sodom, both through the spaces they inhabit and the ways they treat people.

Abraham’s Open Tent

Abraham encounters three strangers as he sits at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. The Midrash describes Abraham’s tent as open on all four sides, allowing him to see travelers approach from any direction.

Imagine walking up to Abraham’s tent for the first time. You may be a little hesitant to go in, but you see how inviting the space is and Abraham’s enthusiasm to welcome you, anticipating your needs before you even ask. Abraham’s tent and his actions communicate that strangers are potential friends in the making.

Lot at the Gate and Sodom’s Walls

Lot follows his uncle’s example and sits at the gate of Sodom. He knows to position himself where he can encounter travelers, and, like his uncle, he rises to greet visitors and invites them into his home.

There is, however, a stark contrast between an open tent and a walled city. Of course, gates and walls have legitimate purposes. They provide protection, establish boundaries, and create security. The problem is not their existence but the ethos and attitude they could impart. There’s a reason why the two angelic visitors prefer to sleep in the town square rather than in Lot’s home. They understood the message conveyed by the unwelcoming surroundings and responded accordingly, keeping to themselves rather than joining those inside.

When the people of Sodom hear that newcomers had arrived, they gather around Lot’s house, not to welcome but to confront them. To facilitate Lot’s escape, Sodom’s residents are stricken with sanverim or blindness. This word appears in only one other biblical story. When an Aramean army surrounds the city of Dothan to capture the prophet Elisha, Elisha prays that the soldiers be struck with blindness, and God answers his prayer.

In both cases, the punishment fits the crime. Rashi explains that sanverim is a form of confusion in which people can see but can’t make sense of what is before them. The people surrounding Lot’s home and Dothan are physically blinded because they have already demonstrated the moral blindness of being unable to see others as anything but threats to their own way of life.

Slipping into Sodom

It is hard to learn from angels or devils, since we can easily dismiss them as fundamentally different from us. Yet, the Mishna in Pirkei Avot teaches that the mentality of Sodom is not as far removed from our own as we would like to believe.

“One who says: ‘[What is] mine is mine, and [what is] yours is yours’: this is an ordinary sentiment. Some say that this is the character of the [people of] Sodom.’”

It is natural to protect what is ours, and our identity – whether individual or communal – is worth preserving, even when it grows and changes over time. Moreover, Judaism does not promote homogeneity of culture or even of legal norms. According to the Talmud (Chullin 18b), “Each river has its unique course.” Yet, “what is mine is mine” can easily become “this is my space, not yours,” and, eventually, “you do not belong here.” The slope from preserving one’s identity to keeping others away may be more slippery than we think.

Even if our synagogues need gates, walls, and security personnel, they can and should still embody the spirit of Abraham’s open tent. Otherwise, we may lose more than we gain. After all, a synagogue’s success should not be measured by whether people enter, but by whether they feel invited to stay.