We Open the Door for Elijah. Can We Open It for Seekers Too?

At every Passover seder, there’s a hopeful moment: someone rises, walks to the door, and opens it—for Elijah the Prophet. We don’t know who, if anyone, is on the other side. Still, we open the door. That’s what faith looks like: not certainty, but the courage to invite.

I still remember the first time I helped open such a door. It was 2015, in my hometown of Lancaster, Ohio. The city’s only synagogue had closed over two decades earlier. I was a college student, still in the process of converting to Judaism in Columbus, when I helped organize a community Passover seder—the first public Jewish celebration there in decades. A small group of locals and Chabad student rabbis gathered. We read from the Haggadah. We opened the door for Elijah. And for a moment, Jewish life flickered back to life in a town where it had almost disappeared.

I wasn’t even Jewish yet. But I already knew: this was a tradition I wanted to build a future in—and help build a future for.

Since then, I’ve spent much of my adult life working and volunteering with Jewish communities: on college campuses, at federations, with chevra kadisha burial groups and historical societies. I’ve seen how powerful Jewish belonging can be. And I’ve seen how hard it can be for seekers—even those who’ve chosen Judaism—to feel fully welcomed.

Each year at Passover, we recite the words: “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” We open the door for Elijah. But when it comes to people spiritually hungry for Judaism, do we open the door the same way?

Many find their path to Judaism through marriage. But love for a person shouldn’t be the only recognized path to loving a tradition. Some people feel deeply drawn to Jewish teachings, rhythms, and values—and yet they hesitate at the threshold, unsure if they’ll be let in. Sometimes the barrier isn’t halacha itself, but how individuals invoke it. It’s cultural. Coded language. Lingering doubts about who belongs.

But our tradition tells a deeper story—one that stretches back to the Exodus itself.

In Exodus 12:38, we learn that a “mixed multitude” left Egypt alongside the Israelites. They weren’t born into the covenant. But they walked out of Egypt anyway, choosing purpose over familiarity, seeking a better future in a people not yet fully formed.

Later, Ruth the Moabite would declare, “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God,” becoming the great-grandmother of King David. In the early Roman period, Judaism welcomed converts widely enough that Roman writers like Tacitus and Seneca criticized it. Even the Christian Bible (Matthew 23:15) criticizes Jews for proselytizing too eagerly. These weren’t outliers. They were threads in a much larger and more open tradition.

Of course, that openness hasn’t always been possible. For centuries under Christian and Islamic rule, conversion to Judaism was often banned—sometimes punishable by death. Jewish communities became cautious, at times banning conversion entirely. But we don’t live in those conditions anymore. Today, most Jews live in Israel and the United States—places where Jewish life is unprecedentedly visible and vibrant. Yet our instincts are still shaped by trauma, not by the freedom we have today to welcome others.

We could choose differently.

In the 19th century, American Reform Judaism embraced that choice. Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise envisioned Judaism as a global ethical force, open to all who sincerely sought it. Isaiah’s words—“My house shall be a house of prayer for all peoples”—were etched into synagogue facades from Minneapolis to Flushing to small Ohio towns. It was more than architecture. It was a statement of confidence.

And that confidence is needed again.

Interfaith marriage rates have hovered above 50% for decades. Birthrates outside Orthodox communities remain below replacement. More people are seeking meaning—and many are finding their way toward Judaism. But they’re not always sure the door will open.

I’ve stood at that door. I’ve been the one asked where I’m “really from” or told I “don’t look Jewish.” I’ve also been invited to give divrei Torah, to lead seders, to care for the dead according to some of our oldest customs. I know what it feels like to be embraced—and what it feels like to be quietly held at arm’s length.

The truth is, every Jewish community draws its lines differently. But the ones that thrive, the ones that endure, are the ones that remember how to open the door—without losing themselves.

This isn’t about lowering the bar. It’s about remembering who we’ve always been: a people whose story began not with certainty, but with movement. Not with borders, but with a journey. A tradition that made space for those who chose it.

This year, when we pour the cup for Elijah and open the door, let’s remember who else walked out of Egypt. The mixed multitude didn’t arrive later. They were there from the beginning.

There are people standing outside today, wondering if Judaism is for them. Some are already inside in every way but name. Others are waiting for a sign that they’re truly welcome.

We don’t need to erase boundaries to open the door. We just need to remember that our story began with people who walked through one.

And if we open it wide enough—not just for Elijah, but for seekers, too—we may find that the Judaism we pass down becomes not only resilient, but radiant. Not diminished by openness, but defined by it.