A few weeks ago I talked about how when I was a little kid, my job on Passover was to open the door at the end of the basement hallway to welcome Elijah. (Still gives me the jeebies talking about it!)
Opening the door for Elijah is often talked about as one of the acts of hospitality woven into the Seder. Another comes at the beginning of the meal, when we recite the words, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” Some families open the door then, too—because that’s even more obviously supposed to be an act of hospitality.
But of course, both of these door-openings are a little bit of symbolic theater. I’ve opened a lot of doors at Passover Seders, and never have I seen someone on the doorstep who says, “Oh, thank you so much—I actually am hungry, and I’d love to get some of that brisket.” To make the act more than just a gesture, we’d have to go out into the streets, or perhaps put something out there on social media, to invite people who genuinely need our hospitality.
If you actually do that, serious mitzvah points. But if you’re more like me and haven’t unlocked that level, I want to invite you—dispassionately, without judgment—to think about why not.
One reason, of course, could just be convenience: It takes some effort to go and find people and invite them into your home. We’re all busy, especially at Passover, but really all year long. Life is busy. Getting food on the table is work enough, much less finding people outside our social bubble to share it with. It takes time that we feel like we don’t have.
But, honestly, that’s a technical problem. We could solve it if we wanted to. My guess would be that for many of us, there’s something much deeper at play.
This is the second episode of a ten-episode series on ethical mitzvot, and today, as you may have figured out, our theme is hachnasat orchim, literally translated as “welcoming guests,” or in English, hospitality.
Years ago my Hillel rabbi in college, Jim Ponet, provided a definition of home that has stayed with me: Home is a place where we can invite guests. I love this idea, because I think it applies not only to our physical homes, but to the feeling of home. When we feel at home, we feel powerful. We feel like we can determine who and what comes in, and who and what stays out. We rule the roost. That means that, on the one hand, we feel safe: If something is threatening us, we can keep it out. On the other hand, as Rabbi Ponet’s teaching tells us, we feel like we can be generous: This is our space, so we get to share it with others.
Welcoming guests, then, can both be an act of generosity and an act of vulnerability at the same time. When we welcome someone into our home, we’re like, literally, letting down our guard—like in some movie about medieval times when a stranger would show up at the castle gate and the guy with a spear would say, “Halt, who goes there?” and the King would come out and say, “Put down thy sword, soldier. We shall treat this wayfarer as a guest in our company.” A home is a person’s castle, and so today, any of us who is fortunate enough to have a home is sort of a king in that space—with the power to keep people out, or to welcome them in.
And that’s actually another expression of the idea we talked about last week, in our first episode of this miniseries: that we are all created in the divine image. Judaism classically thinks of God as a king—a king who has these same powers. So we can think of our very existence in the universe as an act of hospitality—the Creator is sharing creation with us, wow! And, as images of God, when we practice hospitality, we’re being, well, Godly, like the Talmud says: “Just as the Holy One welcomes guests, so too should we welcome guests.”
I’ve shared frequently on this podcast my bumper-sticker definition of spirituality: It’s our ability to feel truly, deeply at home in the universe. So one of the paradoxical truths of hospitality is that, by welcoming guests, we can actually feel more at home. Maybe that’s why hachnasat orchim, hospitality, is a basic act of religious life in pretty much every religion on earth—including Judaism.
That can be easier said than done, so here’s a short meditation practice that can help.
Begin by closing your eyes and taking a few good, deep breaths. Let your body arrive. Let your mind settle.
Now try to imagine yourself in a place you feel secure and at home. See if you can notice what it feels like in your body. Maybe at ease, warm, secure. Powerful, perhaps.
And now imagine welcoming someone you know, someone you trust completely, into that space. Perhaps you offer them some food, something to drink. What does that feel like?
And now imagine welcoming someone you know, but not quite as well. You still trust them enough to let them in. You still offer them food and drink. What does that feel like?
And finally, what about letting in a stranger? This might feel threatening, it might feel good, or something else. You might have prior experiences that cause you to raise your guard. And if that’s the case, be gentle with yourself—you have good reason to be careful. Perhaps your need for safety outweighs the desire to open up your home. That’s totally okay. Or maybe not—maybe the idea of welcoming a stranger prompts warm feelings in you. Just notice what’s here, without judgment.
And now, come back to that feeling of home. Of safety and security. Remember that you can always come back to this place. That you are an honored guest of the Creator in the universe. You are held and embraced and beloved.
As you go through your day, see if there is a moment where you can extend that feeling of warmth and welcome to someone else. See how it feels, and let me know how it goes.