Look who’s coming to the seder: Local families invite strangers to break matzah

When she was 5, Rachama Burrell invited her entire kindergarten class to her family's Passover seder.

Decades later, the Berkeley resident is still surprising strangers with invitations to her open-house seders, hosting the homeless, shy singles, Russian emigres and yeshiva kids passing through town.

Wednesday night, Burrell again will follow the Jewish directive to welcome strangers and the hungry into her Passover seder, a practice also followed by other Bay Area residents.

Before one of Burrell's seders, a tall young man weighed down by a heavy backpack appeared on her porch. Not knowing his story, she ushered him inside -- as if he were Elijah.

Later he revealed he was carrying all his possessions on his back. He had been living in a nearby park.

"We did not think a young Jewish man should be sleeping in a park," Burrell said. "We were responding to the ancient call to welcome. People who know about us must have sent him. He acted like a regular guest."

The homeless man ended up staying in Burrell's guest room for several months.

Burrell said she and her husband, Avraham, have hosted several other needy visitors since their kids left for college.

The words of the Haggadah -- "Let all who are hungry come and eat" -- direct Jews to make their homes a haven for the downtrodden.

The phrase comes from a story in the Talmud about a rabbi who shouts the words out his door before he eats, according to Rabbi Alan Lew of Congregation Beth Sholom in San Francisco.

"If there are hungry people in the world, we can't enjoy our bounty without doing anything about it," he said.

"The stranger is the person we shut out and demonize and try to imagine we are different from. On Passover, when we remember our freedom from slavery, we express oneness with the stranger. Their suffering is our suffering."

But despite the Haggadah's injunction, Lew remarked that, sadly, few Jews choose to break matzah with complete strangers at the seder table.

"Often Passover doesn't mean much more than a meal with the family," he said. "It's kind of scary bringing in a stranger but it's part of our obligation as Jews."

While no one expects the stranger to jump up and announce he's Elijah, Lew remembered one occasion when he was visited by a holy messenger on Passover.

Several years ago, he was rushing home for the seder when he stumbled upon an old man. The man explained he just had a fight with his son and now was without a seder.

Lew took him in and quickly found out the man was a deft scholar of Kabbalah. He enchanted the seder guests with his own commentary. Bowled over by the experience, Lew studied with the man for two years afterward.

Several local synagogues and agencies swoop up stray and needy guests on Passover by hosting their own seders or referring people to welcoming families. For example, Congregation Shir Hadash of Los Gatos has a matchmaking service to connect those who don't have a seder with a host family. Jewish Family and Children's Services offers to pair Russian emigres with families open to new guests.

Rabbi Eliezer Finkelman of Berkeley's Congregation Beth Israel often takes in callers himself. "My wife says we never know how many people we are going to have for the seder until it's over," Finkelman said.

Jan Rose, in charge of matchmaking at Shir Hadash six years ago, took a call from a single woman who had just moved to the area. Rose already had "a zoo" of 25 family members attending her seder but knew that if the caller wasn't included she would have skipped the holiday.

She set an extra plate, and the guest soon became a hit. Within a few weeks, the two became best friends.

"If there's love at first sight, then there's love at first sight for friends as well. This was it," said Rose, who lives in San Jose.

"People who open their homes and hearts to wanderers have an opportunity to enrich their lives. I now have a wonderful friend who comes each year to the family seder."

Rabbi Shlomo Zarchi of San Francisco's Congregation Chevra Thilim recalled that on Passover, his extended family's residence in Pittsburgh, Pa., turned into "a halfway house."

Of all the unusual characters coming to the seders, Zarchi remembered a family that mostly kept quiet in the background during the evening -- until it came time to sing. Although the family probably didn't know much about Judaism, Zarchi speculated, they knew their "Dayenu."

They sang boisterously in English and made up lyrics based on what had happened to them during the past year, Zarchi recalled.

"It was like a play, and it made a very strong impact," he said. "What impacts me now is how serious they were. They were so grateful to be able have that meaningful time each year."

For every Passover, Rabbi Yehuda Ferris of Berkeley's Chabad House and his wife, Miriam, prepare to host a seder for nearly 100 people. Many pop in at the last minute.

One year, Miriam Ferris was opening the door to beckon Elijah, only to find a haggard Russian-speaking man on the porch. He had seen the Hebrew writing on the door, explained he was Jewish and begged not to be tossed out hungry. The Ferrises took him in.

"You never know which disguise Elijah will come in," Ferris said. "His classic disguise is as a wayfarer, a homeless person."

Another time a pizza deliverer rang the doorbell on the seder evening. The Ferris family had not ordered such fare, "which was public enemy No. 1 because of the raised dough," the rabbi noted.

The man wasn't delivering but he wanted to stay for the seder. He was from Poland, and told Ferris that he had not been interested in his family's Jewish past until one day he received a sign while he was kicking a soccer ball. A slip of paper blew in and slapped him on the face. It was a scrap from a Torah saying "I will redeem you from bondage."

The pizza man, Ferris remembered, happily scarfed down plenty of matzah. "We welcome all those who are hungry to come and eat," Ferris said. "Needy people should have regular food as well as spiritual food."

This year Ferris is expecting guests who have learned the difference between freedom and bondage the hard way.

A few women inmates from a nearby federal correction facility, accompanied by a guard, will be allowed to attend the Ferris' seder. However, they won't be permitted to drink wine.

"They really want to drink grape juice, to taste freedom," Ferris said. "It's a wonderful thing."