In just a few weeks, we will fill the pews to hear Parshat Vayeira, the Torah portion in which Abraham, aged and childless, sits in the entrance of his tent when he sees — what’s that? Three strangers?
Abraham, we read, now 100 years old, runs — yes, runs — to offer them his finest hospitality, complete with a foot bath and his fattest calf.
Now I ask you, one parent to another: would Abraham have been so eager to welcome in these strangers (famously, angels of the Almighty) if, say, LEGOs were scattered across the tent floor like landmines? Or muddy shoes were left to dry in the desert air? Or a toilet seat had been left up?
No. I know it and you know it. The key word, of course, is “childless.” Abraham and Sarah were not parents — as is the point — to any little agents of chaos.
In 2022, the Kansas City Jewish Community Study revealed something uncomfortable: ours is not a welcoming group. This study, conducted by Brandeis University, explained that Jewish Kansas Citians are certainly nice to newcomers, but that doesn’t extend to opening our homes, our friendship circles and, by extension, our hearts. This does not jive with our self-image. Not only are we nice, we’re the nicest. We’re Midwestern, for heaven’s sake.
As a native Kansas Citian, I have dedicated significant thought to this, and I have a few theories: one, Midwestern humility makes us wonder why strangers would want to hang out with us; two, time is limited and we want to spend it with people we already know and love; and (here’s the biggest one) three, preparing for company is hard.
My parents are coming over for the holiday, and I see a shoe on the dining room table, a tall and messy stack of books by the couch, an errant bag full of cookie cutters that I’ve never used but that my toddler loves, two wooden swords sticking out from under the couch and socks (clean) on the kitchen counter (they’re mine, for the record). I’m not ready to host people who love me, much less people I’ve only just met.
Enter: scruffy hospitality. Coined by Anglican priest Jack King, “scruffy hospitality means you hunger more for good conversation and serving a simple meal [than] in the impression your home makes.” Scruffy hospitality assumes that even guests know that, best-case scenario, your child doesn’t remember where the forks go in a place setting and, worst-case scenario, your child really was wearing all his clothes only a moment ago. Scruffy hospitality remembers that people love pizza even if you didn’t make it from scratch. Scruffy hospitality means that you let people see who your family really is, and, in turn, you give them permission to be their own true selves.
This is the spirit of hachnasat orchim, welcoming the stranger.
Abraham set a high standard by washing the feet of his guests, and I daresay that those newest to our community wouldn’t accept (or appreciate) the same treatment. If this is where the bar is set, who among us is eager to meet it? Let us instead welcome strangers — the newcomers — into scruffy homes in which our families are happiest and safest. Let us show our children that people are welcome to see us for all we are: flawed and messy, warm and welcoming, and completely human.
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