Hachnasat Orchim

Tzfat sits atop a hill with magnificent views of the Kinneret (the Sea of Galilee). Home to spiritual seekers, artists, and students of Jewish mysticism (Kabbalah), her narrow, winding streets are dotted with galleries and synagogues, ultra-Orthodox day schools and meditation studios. She is also home to a family who taught me about the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests.

As a Reform Jew and a lesbian, I was a bit nervous about spending a Shabbat unlike any other I had celebrated: Avraham and Talie are baalei tshuva, Jews who turned to a more traditionally observant lifestyle (relatively) later in life. Their home is strictly Kosher and they observe the Jewish laws against touching the opposite sex. Would Shabbat in their home feel foreign to me? Would I, as a woman, feel excluded from the prayer experience?

From the moment of my arrival, I knew I had to remain open to this Shabbat experience, forgetting my anxiety about fitting in or offending anyone or feeling singled out. Avraham and Talie welcomed me with bright smiles and an easy manner, considering me a family member (Avraham is my wife’s cousin). Their children included me in their games (giving me a chance to practice my Hebrew). Their (almost) four-year-old daughter patiently taught me new Hebrew words and switched from English to Hebrew frequently.

After Talie and I lit our Shabbat candles, Avraham led me to a local shul for Kabbalat Shabbat services. Concerned about my expectations for that evening’s prayers, he reminded me on the way that whatever shul we chose would have a mechitza. He made sure I was comfortable and went in the front door; I entered the back door to find myself in a tiny room divided by a thin lace curtain. The Ark of the Torah and the men’s section were clearly visible from the women’s section. Opening the siddur I had brought from home, I easily found my place in the service. As the psalms for welcoming the Sabbath began, I noticed that many of the women sang as loudly as the men. No one scolded them or asked them to be quiet: our voices joined together, men and women, singing joyously, “How great are your works, God, and how profound your thoughts!” Swaying a bit to the lively tune, I suddenly felt an arm around my back; the group of girls dancing next to me included me in their celebration and we danced together, jumping and swaying. I returned to Avraham and Talie’s house for dinner feeling lifted.

Avraham blessed the wine and the bread with sincerity, using the words of tradition but the melody of his own heart. Throughout the dinner, Avraham commented on the week’s Torah portion and the new month about to begin (Elul, a period of intense preparation for the High Holy Days). Denominational differences mattered less than similarities in terms of our thoughtfulness in approaching prayer and Torah. We related to God and tradition by relating to one another, reading texts and discussing them frankly. During Saturday lunch, Avraham and Talie welcomed more guests to the table: other baalei tshuva with slightly hippie leanings and two American women visiting Tzfat on a community service program. My status as a convert did not alienate me from the group; I was viewed as simply another kind of seeker, and our conversation was lively, friendly, and interesting. No one blinked an eye (at least, they didn’t show it) when I referred to Rachel as my “wife,” and I received much sympathy about our living apart for the year.

Praying and singing, studying and napping, playing with the kids and praying the morning blessings with Talie and their five-year-old son in the living room, I enjoyed a Shabbat of rest, meditation, reflection, and family. Together we went for a late afternoon walk through the old city, meeting up with a group of women and their children while the men went to pray the afternoon service. Talie introduced me to her friends and one invited us to Seudat Shlishit, the third meal of the Sabbath. And then my Shabbat was unexpectedly interrupted.

Wanting not to stand out and wishing to be counted as a married woman, I covered my hair when I was in Tzfat. I hadn’t thought about the simple question that would follow: Where is your husband? I tried to answer indirectly without lying or denying my relationship with Rachel, but eventually, sad about missing Rachel and frustrated with my own choice to mark myself clearly as married, I blurted the word “wife.” The woman’s face betrayed her disgust and she told me that, while I was still welcome to share the meal in her home, I could not discuss this in front of her children. I stammered that I needed her, then, not to ask me about my family life so that I would not have to lie. She walked away and I was left feeling foolish and sad. I missed Rachel and I immediately thought about how difficult a year apart will be. And I began to cry but tried to hide my tears.

Talie, of course, noticed my distress. When I explained to her what had happened, she did not hesitate but immediately embraced me and apologized. As a host, she felt responsible for my well-being, and she apologized (unnecessarily) for not discussing this with her friends before I visited. We both learned about assumptions.

I want to emphasize that I am not angry with the woman for saying her piece or at my hosts. I would not have wanted to be a topic of some kind of “warning.” This is not about my being “right” and the woman being “wrong.” The crux of my experience was not feeling left out or insulted but, rather, feeling cared for and included by Rachel’s family. They treated me quite simply as a person. We returned to their home for Seudat Shlishit and my tears were received with understanding, despite the very different relationship they have to Jewish law (which of course includes injunctions against homosexuality).

At the table, Avraham opened a book of stories by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach and asked me to choose and read one. I began to read about hosts and guests, and about the special taste of simple food prepared with love. Overcome with emotion, I had to hand the book to Avraham, who continued to read a story about profound generosity. We heard many tales that night: stories chosen supposedly at random but that spoke to our experience—stories about choosing a Jewish life and about connecting to the divine through human relationships. Talie and I cried, I think in joy and gratitude, and Avraham paused after each story to sigh in amazement at the way the tales fit our own paths.

People seek out Tzfat for inspiration and learning, for an emotional and not only an intellectual connection to Judaism. On that hill I found a new way to relate to a different kind of Judaism. I was opened to the complexity of the Jewish people, and to the meaning of hachnasat orchim.