Welcoming the hungry on Seder night and the 10/4 rule

We open every Seder with the same ancient invitation as the first matzah crumbles: “Ha Lahma Anya — All who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are in need, let them come celebrate Passover with us.” When explaining why we would invite guests to eat the bread of affliction, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks comments in his Haggadah that “what transforms the bread of oppression into the bread of freedom is the willingness to share it with others.” He captures the true beauty and divinity of outreach on this holiday: “Reaching out to others, giving help to the needy and companionship to those who are alone, we bring freedom into the world, and with freedom, God.”

In the Talmud, it seems that inviting guests for Passover was a more abrupt, less formal affair: “When Rabbi Huna would eat bread, he would open the doors to his house, saying: Whoever needs, let him come in and eat” (BT Ta’anit 20b). This was not only on Passover; when he had bread, Rabbi Huna made sure to dispense it freely to hungry strangers. The poor knew they could stand outside and wait for Rabbi Huna’s doors to open on Seder night. The same sage, it turns out, also placed medicine at the threshold in case anyone needed it. His door was one of the true “sha’arei tzedek” — gates of righteousness — every day of the year.

Rava, another luminous talmudic scholar, claimed he followed Rabbi Huna’s teachings to the letter except when it came to Rabbi Huna’s open-door policy; there were a lot of soldiers billeted in his hometown of Mehoza. If he let them all in, they would have eaten him out of house and home. Bless Rava’s honesty. This mitzvah is not easy for everyone.

And, if we’re truly honest with ourselves, we know that when we say these words at the Seder, it is a little late to invite hungry guests. Sure, we can invite them weeks earlier and recognize them as the Seder begins. These lines should also inspire us to give more charity, as Maimonides recommends, before each holiday. And they should motivate us to consider those who might be hungry for company as we plan our Passover meals: some single acquaintances far from home, the newly widowed, the person with a recent diagnosis, a friend who recently divorced.

It is upon us to take Isaiah seriously: “It is to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the wretched poor into your home. When you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to ignore your own kin. Then shall your light burst through like the dawn and your healing spring up quickly…” (Is. 58:7-8). Generosity is light and life, infectious and healing. Catch the good vibes while you can.

Yet, even so, I must confess that inviting all who are hungry so late in the game feels off for me, year after year. Every Passover, I’ve struggled with my own insincerity when I recite these words. Every year until now.

Let me explain. The Jewish festive table is, in so many ways, symbolic of the Jewish heart. It is beautiful, expansive, abundant, and there’s always a little more room to squeeze in someone else. The heart has many chambers. Its capacity expands in ways unfathomable, even when we have already used every table leaf. Our tables are places where God’s work is performed. We take to heart the advice in Ethics of the Fathers: “Do not yearn for the tables of kings, for your table is greater than their table, your crown greater than their crown” (6:5). It’s not about the food – not even when the food is wonderful. It is about the feelings, the warm associations, the sense of belonging that a Jewish table and a Jewish heart offer.

To me, the Jewish heart gives expression to the Jewish face. The heart is tucked inside and invisible. The face is its external, highly visible manifestation. The face, like the table, can be open, loving, kind, and inviting. It can also be cold, withdrawn, remote, and alienating. We can greet those we don’t know with eyes of curiosity or with emotionless disinterest.

I have been thinking a lot about the face lately, as I’ve come to articulate with greater clarity the pain of being a stranger in new environments or sometimes familiar but crowded ones. I think of the person who walks into a synagogue, school building or community center and needs a smile, but gets “the stare” instead. It is the once-over, judgmental “I-don’t-know-you-nor-do-I-care-to-know-you” disapproving look that may also say “and-I-also-don’t-like-what-you’re-wearing.” It may be followed by, “You’re sitting in my seat.” It’s non-denominational, and it happens everywhere. This Passover, when synagogues are filled with newcomers and traveling family members, there will be a lot of stares when there should be a lot of smiles.

In his article, “The Community,” Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik writes precisely of this very experience: “Quite often a man finds himself in a crowd of strangers. He feels lonely. No one knows him, no one cares for him, no one is concerned about him. It is an existential experience.” This is not merely about a greeting. For Rabbi Soloveitchik, something happens to us when no one acknowledges us. This lonely man in the crowed “begins to doubt his own ontological worth.” Am I worthy of being noticed if no one notices me? Then the dynamic shifts in the Rav’s example. Someone taps the man on the shoulder and asks about him: “In a fraction of a second, his awareness changes.” He is suddenly somebody. His ontological worth has been returned to him. That’s what the power of a hello can do.

I get it. We defend the stare by saying things like, “This shul has so many people. I can’t possibly know them all” or “It’s in the DNA of the Jewish people to be suspicious of strangers, especially now.”

I don’t buy it for one second. You know what’s in our DNA? The genes of Abraham and Sarah who put themselves out for strangers who then became their angels. No one asked you to know everyone, but Ethics of the Fathers demands that we greet every person with a welcoming countenance. A smile is the best unexpected Afikoman present that does not cost a thing. And it actually may save someone’s life — someone who is deeply lonely, afraid, and craves the littlest bit of human kindness.

Someone recently told me, “I find that the more religious people are, the less likely I am to be welcomed.” I cringed. And then I opened a small and helpful book Zingerman’s Guide to Giving Great Service. Zingerman’s is a non-kosher deli with a very kosher attitude. They do not leave kindness up to chance for their employees. They have a 10/4 rule that I hope becomes an accepted norm in all Jewish spaces: when you are within 10 feet of someone, make eye contact and smile, and when you are within four feet, greet someone verbally.

Jewish law loves measurements, and Passover is no exception. We even have laminated cards to tell us how much matzah we should consume to satisfy legal requirements. Now we have another measurement for Passover to last throughout the year. We have four questions, four sons, and now four feet for a greeting. We have Ten Commandments, 10 plagues, 10 drops of blood, and now 10 feet for a smile. It’s really that simple.

Try it for the duration of Passover. It is a new loving habit for a lifetime of transformation. See how your own world comes to feel more gentle, more tender, and more kind as a result. Let all who are hungry for wonder, for company, for belonging know we care. If we meet every stranger with a smile in place of a stare, the hunger will dissipate before we even get to the table.