So today is a little strange, a little out of sorts.

Rabbi Lubliner is out of town on vacation in Key West. No Bnei Mitzvah. The Florida-Georgia—is not here in Jacksonville this year. We’ve been temporarily relocated due to updates for the stadium of the future. Big plans.

So things are quiet here.

And yet, I’ve been calling this Shabbat—maybe you’ve been calling it this too—Spooky Shabbat.

So who knows what may disturb the serenity of our service?

To be honest, I really don’t remember what my Halloween costumes were as a kid. It was a pre-Party City, pre-Amazon, pre-social-media world. My parents probably have pictures, but I don’t really recall any costumes for Halloween.

I do remember my Purim costumes, just to clarify.

But I remember that the house four doors up, on the left side, gave out real, full-sized candy bars.

I also remember that my orthodontist, who lived farther up our street, gave out the chewiest candy to his potential future clients. I always thought that was a little bit of a chilul Hashem, but that’s what he did.

Yet most of my memories of Halloween as a kid are of us greeting other trick-or-treaters at our front door.

I remember this distinctly because our front door was not a door we normally used. We had what was called a breezeway. Maybe those of you from the Northeast, or somewhere else in the world, know what I’m talking about. We would enter through the breezeway pretty much every day, except maybe for a special party—or Halloween.

And as we passed out candy, I would always hope there might be a couple left over. Maybe some Three Musketeers.

There would definitely be a lot of leftover Almond Joys. My father was probably happy about that.

And back then, we had neighborhood kids. No one was bused into our neighborhood because our street was just like any other street in our town.

The rule was simple. It was a very Motel 6 rule:

“We’ll leave the light on for you.”

If the light was on outside your house, that meant you could knock on the door. There was no basket of candy sitting outside. You actually knocked.

Today, some communities go a step further. Maybe everyone on the cul-de-sac fills their yards with spooky inflatables. Maybe folding tables are set up out front with games or giveaways. There are rounds of applause for two-year-old costumes. Maybe there are adult beverages for total strangers.

Imagine that.

For one night a year, our whole society agrees on something.

Doors that stay closed 364 days of the year swing wide open.

People who would never knock on a neighbor’s door walk right up to it.

And the people inside—who might not know that family’s last name, or even the first names of the people coming to the door—answer with a smile:

“Look at you! What are you supposed to be?”

That moment at the door is real.

For a few hours each year, our society practices how to greet a stranger.

And our Torah portion this week begins at exactly the same place:

An open door.

A stranger approaching.

And a choice about how to answer.

The parashah begins with Abraham sitting at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. According to Rashi, this was the third day after his circumcision—the most painful day of recovery for Abraham.

But he was not resting.

He was sitting at the door, watching the road.

According to the rabbis, Abraham’s tent had openings on all four sides so that no traveler would have to go searching for its entrance.

And then three strangers appear.

The Torah tells us that Abraham ran to greet them.

Remember: an old man, still healing, ran.

He bowed.

He begged them to stay.

And one of the wonderful details of this story is that Abraham tells them he will offer them “a little water” and “a morsel of bread.”

A little water and a morsel of bread.

And yet he runs to the herd for a tender calf. He brings curds and milk.

The Talmud notices this and draws a lesson:

The righteous promise little and do much.

We should also remember the role Sarah plays in this story.

Abraham ran to the road, but the meal was prepared by Sarah’s hands. And it was prepared quickly, and with great abundance, for people she did not know.

This was something they did together.

We call their act audacious hospitality, because nothing about it is convenient.

Abraham is in pain.

It is a hot day.

The guests are total strangers.

They owe them nothing.

And Abraham welcomes them anyway—not grudgingly, but by running.

This is the story of Abraham’s hospitality.

It is a radical way of thinking about what might otherwise be a passive welcome.

There is a whole philosophy of business and leadership called Hostmanship, defined by Jan Gunnarsson and Olle Blohm as the art of making people feel genuinely welcome, respected, and valued.

Hostmanship makes a critical distinction between service and hosting.

Service is transactional.

Service says:

“I gave you a siddur. I showed you to a seat. I wished you Shabbat Shalom. My job is done.”

But Hostmanship says:

“I see you. I notice that you are sitting alone.”

It means taking responsibility for someone’s experience here.

Service is about the provider.

Hostmanship is about the human being standing in front of you.

Today, on October 31, it is easy to be delightful.

The visit lasts thirty seconds.

The costume is adorable and creative.

The kids might say thank you.

Mostly.

Everyone leaves happy, and nobody has to find out what we are like on, say, a Monday morning after daylight saving time ends in a few days.

We are a different monster.

But what about November 1?

What happens then?

The same neighbor might block our driveway.

The same kids might cut across our lawn.

The same family we smiled at is now just “the people with all that noise coming from their house.”

The door closes.

And it stays closed for another year.

We know this pattern from our own lives—and, honestly, sometimes in our own community.

A new face walks in on Shabbat morning.

We greet them warmly.

We ask where they are from.

And then comes the second week.

And the fifth week.

And the fifth year.

They are no longer new.

They are just…there.

Sometimes that works out. Sometimes they become deeply engaged in our community.

And sometimes “just there” slowly becomes “not here anymore.”

And we never notice.

The Midrash relates a story about Abraham, many years after the events of our parashah, when he went to visit his son Ishmael.

Ishmael was away, and his wife opened the door to Abraham.

She did not recognize the old traveler, and she had nothing to offer him—not even bread and water.

The very same things Abraham had offered those three visitors so many years earlier.

Abraham left a message for his son:

“Tell him to change the threshold of his tent.”

After some time, Ishmael remarried.

That is what it meant to “change the threshold.”

Abraham again came to visit his son.

This time, the woman of the house brought food and drink for the old traveler, even though she had no idea who he was.

And Abraham left another message for his son:

“This threshold is good. Keep it.”

The test of the threshold was not a grand occasion.

It was a knock on the door on a regular day, when no one was watching and no one was dressed up for the occasion.

That is the difference between being friendly and being kind.

Friendliness is wonderful.

But friendliness is a moment.

Kindness is a commitment.

Pirkei Avot does not tell us to greet people warmly the first time.

Shammai teaches:

Receive every person with a pleasant face.

Every person.

Every time.

Including the ones we already know.

And especially the ones we already know a little too well.

So what does that look like in real life?

Welcoming is the cheerful “Happy Halloween!” at the door.

Kindness is knocking on that same neighbor’s door before a hurricane to ask whether anyone in the house needs help preparing for the storm.

Welcoming is saying, “So glad you’re here!” to a new face at Kiddush.

Kindness is noticing three weeks later that they are sitting alone—and pulling up a chair.

Welcoming is handing a newcomer a prayer book.

Kindness is quietly showing them the page when they look lost, and doing it again next month without making them feel foolish.

Welcoming is bringing a meal to the family with a new baby.

Kindness is calling two months later, after the meals have stopped, and asking how they’re really sleeping.

Welcoming is:

“Let me know if you ever need anything.”

Kindness is knowing them well enough not to wait to be asked.

A first impression opens the door.

Kindness is what keeps it open.

I want to share the story of a man named Cecil.

For many years, Cecil was a kind of “director of first impressions” at Tree of Life Synagogue.

Cecil had a gift for remembering the particulars of people’s lives.

He remembered the new job.

The sick parent.

The grandchild on the way.

He held onto those details.

Think about what that means.

Cecil did not simply make a good first impression.

He made that same warm impression the second time.

And the hundredth time.

And for years.

You were never just a face to him.

You were you, with your story.

And he remembered it.

That is an eshel: something planted that grows from one encounter into the next.

That is a tent open on four sides.

And that is exactly the kind of kindness that outlasts the first knock.

On October 27, 2018, Cecil was standing beside his brother, David.

Where were they standing?

You guessed it.

At the door.

Doing what they always loved to do.

And a man came to that door filled with hatred.

Cecil was 59 years old.

David was 54.

They lived with intellectual disabilities and in a group home operated by a nonprofit called ACHIEVA.

Based in Pittsburgh, ACHIEVA advocates for, empowers, and supports individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities and their families.

Every Friday night and every Shabbat morning, Cecil and David were at Tree of Life.

They were the greeters.

People called them the unofficial mayors of the place.

One of their caregivers called Cecil “the ambassador to Squirrel Hill.”

If you walked through that door, theirs were likely the first faces you saw.

Following the attack at Tree of Life, ACHIEVA, in partnership with Cecil and David’s family, began the campaign #LoveLikeTheBoys, remembering their welcoming personalities and the connection they had to their community.

People around the world have been encouraged to share posters, stickers, and cards with that hashtag, and to share their own acts of kindness—to demonstrate that welcoming with kindness is a value our world desperately needs.

This week I attended one of OneJax’s Breaking Barriers forums. We hold them several times a year on a variety of subjects, and this week’s topic was immigration.

One of the panelists described the process so many people go through:

Years of forms.

Fees.

Interviews.

Waiting.

And then finally comes the day:

The oath.

The certificate.

The official welcome.

But what stayed with me was something the panelist said:

“A document can’t make you feel like you belong.”

Legal status matters enormously.

Ask anyone who has waited years for it.

But a document can only tell you that you are allowed to be here.

It cannot tell you that you are wanted here.

The same is true for us.

You can belong to a synagogue the way you belong to a gym.

Your name is on a list.

You pay your dues.

That is belonging to an organization.

But that is not what Cecil and David offered at the door.

And it is not what Abraham and Sarah offered at Mamre.

They offered belonging with people.

The sense that you matter here.

That you have a part to play.

That someone would notice if you did not come.

The deeper belonging that comes from purpose and connection can only be granted by people—not by a form.

Abraham took a simple order from his houseguests and turned it into a magical gathering.

So here is a simple order—not a commandment—from me, to help us further invest in one another.

Four things.

First: Remember the details, like Cecil did.

Learning someone’s name the first time is courtesy.

Using it the fifth time—and asking about the thing they told you last month—is kindness.

This week, think of one person you greeted warmly once and never followed up with.

Reach out.

Second: Run toward the familiar.

Abraham ran toward strangers.

Our challenge may be to run toward the people we have stopped noticing.

The regular who always sits in the back.

The neighbor we only wave at.

The relative whose stories we have heard too many times.

Give them the same energy you would give a newcomer.

Third: Cross someone else’s threshold.

Belonging is a two-way street.

Visit a neighboring church, mosque, or temple when there is nothing wrong.

Celebrate with our neighbors in good times as well as bad.

Then we will know one another by name when we face difficult times together.

And lastly: Say little and do much.

Skip the grand gesture.

Bring the baked goods.

Hold the door.

Stay ten minutes longer at Kiddush.

Small, steady, repeated acts of kindness.

Our homes—and this community—can be open on all four sides as well:

To the stranger on the road,

and to our friends,

our neighbors,

and our regular attendees.

My hope and prayer is that we are people whose thresholds are welcoming.

May we greet every person with a pleasant face—not just the first time, but every time.

And may the warmth we show strangers tonight, if they come by our homes, become the warmth we all live by all year long.

Shabbat shalom.