Opening my heart and table to friends who are new to Jewish culture demystifies ritual, deepens empathy and creates the kind of honest conversation that brings people closer.
My mother had a marvelous talent for filling our home with joy. She rarely passed up an opportunity to welcome the stranger, inviting Jews and non-Jews alike to family celebrations. In our home, the openhearted sharing of Jewish culture and tradition built bridges that have lasted for decades. The best illustration of inclusion was our father’s Haggadah, marked up with guests’ names, to ensure that everyone was involved in the retelling—and that no one could quietly escape a reading part. When I ask friends what they remember about being guests in our house, they mention the long Passover table set with carrot tsimmes, beet-colored horseradish and charoset; the comfort of Shabbat prayers and age-old traditions; the lights of the menorah and the fresh latkes sizzling in my mother’s electric frying pan. And nobody forgets her gift bags of homemade zemelach set out on the hearth.
More than anything, my friends remember being included.
Since my mother’s death, I have become the family hostess, doing my best to carry on her tradition of generous hospitality. Opening my heart and table to friends who are new to Jewish culture demystifies ritual, deepens empathy and creates the kind of honest conversation that brings people closer, while setting a positive example for the next generation.
Most recently, I invited two non-Jewish friends to attend a Tisha B’Av sorrow circle with me. They were both deeply grieving the loss of a sister, and I thought they might find comfort in a room where sadness was not only accepted but welcomed. At the end of the evening, they said, “This is exactly what we needed. When can we come to temple with you again?” Their response touched me. I had extended an open hand, and our friendships deepened.
Last year, a Baptist pastor attended our Passover seder. Afterwards, he told me that reading the Haggadah gave him material for a month’s worth of Sunday sermons, especially in its insistence that each generation tell the story as if they themselves had come out of Egypt. He then joined us for a Friday evening service, his first time ever in a synagogue, and thanked me for offering a meaningful opportunity for cross-cultural contact and understanding.
Why carry on my mother’s tradition of inclusivity? Because each invitation widens the circle of empathy. When one friend tells me after Shabbat services that she was moved by the beauty of the prayers and the warmth of the congregation, something opens in our relationship. When another says a High Holiday sermon felt as if the rabbi were speaking directly to him, misunderstanding gives way to recognition. And sometimes sharing my Jewishness is as simple as making a pot of chicken soup—still my most reliable form of interfaith dialogue.
It is intimidating to extend ourselves beyond our comfort zone, and it can be just as intimidating for guests entering unfamiliar traditions. Cross-cultural hospitality does not have to be complex. Keep it simple: Offer guests context in advance, give them a sense of the timeline, provide English translations for prayers, explain ritual foods, invite them to join in readings and encourage questions. You might ask guests to bring a reading or poem from their own tradition to share. A little orientation goes a long way; nobody wants their first question to be whether they are holding the prayer book upside down.
It also helps to think in advance about how to navigate polarizing questions, which may surface in today’s high-stakes climate around Jewish identity, safety and belonging. A host does not need to have every answer, but can listen generously, name boundaries when needed and steer the room back toward curiosity rather than debate. When people sit together in community it encourages honest and respectful dialogue.
As it turned out, years after attending our family seder, my friend Tina married a Jewish man. She told me recently how grateful she is for those Passover celebrations with my family because they helped her create a seder for her husband and his children. This is the ultimate kvell for me. I thank my mother every day for teaching me the quiet power of the goodwill gesture: One open door can become another, carrying understanding from one table to the next.
Megan Vered is a contributing writer to My Jewish Learning and Jlife magazine.
