Holy Land Hospitality: How a Shabbat Dinner on a Work Trip Renewed My Catholic Faith

I walked the streets of Jerusalem as a skeptic, unsure what I believed about the city, Jesus, or the biblical stories. I had stopped going to church years before the trip, but when my policy job offered me the chance to accompany state policymakers to Israel to learn about the region’s politics, I felt the stirrings of my childhood and a long-held fascination with the Holy Land. 

My spirituality has guided me since I was a little girl. Raised in a devout Catholic household, our family always sat in front at Mass, even when we arrived late — which was most Sundays. As much as I wanted to slide into a back pew, my parents would march my four siblings and me up to the front. We’d kneel until Mass started, then kneel again after the final song as everyone else filed out of church. 

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I attended Catholic schools and have journals of prayers and conversations with God, dating back to when I was about 11. I felt the sorrow of Holy Week and the anticipation of Advent, recognizing the liturgical seasons reflected in my life. I remember tearing up, more than once, when “Here I am, Lord” was sung, sensing that my life journey was divinely guided, including its hardships and challenges. I dedicated my career to helping the disadvantaged, beginning with a job at Catholic Charities. 

As a young adult, I attended multiple Catholic churches, seeking that sense of home I had as a child. But as a single woman, I felt like an outsider, unable to relate to the young families around me or the older couples in the pews. After Mass, I would look around, hoping to make eye contact with some nice soul who would come over and say hello. But the families were busy corralling their children, and the older couples gathered in their little groups. I’d walk out alone, still scanning the crowd for any connection.  

I eventually stopped attending Mass. I didn’t stop believing; I just no longer had a community of people or a dedicated place to share that belief.  

I carried this history to Israel, along with questions about what was being asked of me at that moment. The trip took place not long after I had recovered from stage four cancer, and I was struggling to go back to normal life. My illness and recovery awakened something in me, a faith I couldn’t articulate, and I wasn’t sure what it meant for my career or life as a whole. But I resisted the temptation to turn the trip into a spiritual pilgrimage. It was a business trip. I was in Israel to learn about politics, not go on a religious retreat.  

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The weekdays were filled with meetings and briefings with Israeli officials, politicians, and academic experts. On Friday, we traveled to Jerusalem. The trip organizers recognized Jerusalem’s significance as a holy city and gave us ample time to experience it on our own. I wandered through the Christian Quarter by myself, trying to reconcile the reality with my childhood images. It was crowded and noisy with vendors selling everything from ornate crucifixes to kitschy knick-knacks. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was bursting with tourists and buzzing with chatter about hotels, restaurants, and travel stories. As a child, I imagined lush, green hills, wide open deserts, and flowing rivers. But mostly I imagined a place of peace and reverence, not loud and cramped. I longed to feel a sense of homecoming in this Holy Land, but I felt even more outside the fold.

That evening, our group of 13 was invited to celebrate Shabbat with a local Jewish family. It was also Hanukkah. Two Jewish traditions I recognized but had not experienced firsthand. I sensed the holiness of the invitation as we climbed the stairs to their tidy house on the hill. We were greeted by our gracious hosts, a young couple with three children. The house smelled of savory spices with hints of cinnamon. A long table lined with many chairs filled the room, and a large island was crowded with bowls and plates overflowing with food. With barely room to move, I watched as the children slid between the adults, taking coats and smiling eagerly at our group. 

It was like walking into a scene from my childhood. I stepped back in time, recalling the meals at our farmhouse where my parents hosted engaged couples they mentored through a church program, and we children performed the same coat-taking and welcoming ritual. 

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I felt a sense of grounding, of connection, and a visceral reminder of the grip the holy spirit has had on me since I was a little girl. The memories flooded my system. The children’s smiles and graciousness overpowered my efforts to stay professionally detached. I saw myself as a little girl writing her prayers, my teenage self singing “Here I am, Lord,” and my adult self advocating for the poor all sitting down at that table with me. 

Later, the host invited everyone to participate in a family ritual and share their answer to a nightly question. That evening’s question: “What is your life motto?” 

I listened as my colleagues, many of whom did not know each other before the trip, shared their senses of purpose and life priorities. The mood shifted as we descended from our heady world of politics to the softer space of our hearts. It reminded me of the moments during the Catholic retreats I attended when the room settles, and laughter and nervous giggles turn into quiet presence and reflection. When you know the Holy Spirit has entered the room and each person rests in a place they can give thanks, cry or maybe just exhale. 

It had been a long time since I had experienced this collective soul journey. What seemed like a simple meal, an opportunity to observe a different tradition, felt like eucharist to me; a holy communion among strangers willing to participate in the sacred and vulnerable act of opening oneself to others. This beautiful Jewish family created space for the holy to be heard. Like my experience at Mass and weekend retreats, they led us inward, where we could speak our truth and feel our souls’ longing. That evening, around the kitchen table in a foreign country, observing a religious tradition not my own, felt like an intimate retreat. The family’s nightly question ritual offered an invitation to go deeper, to be our true selves. That invitation to drop in, to listen deeply, to hear the holy, is what eucharist means to me.  

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That dinner opened my heart to hear the answer to my question about what to do next. It was not about going back to normal life, but about surrendering to a new life guided by my soul, grounded in fulfilling my unique and divine purpose. The Jewish family reminded me of what I appreciated about growing up rooted in my Catholic faith. The Church is where I learned to listen and search for the sacred. My first retreat in high school was a powerful example of shared vulnerability and spiritual reflection. Those formative years are why I still look forward to attending Mass and sitting in front with my parents at my hometown church. It was my first holy home. It is now the only church I attend. Maybe I’ll find another parish, but as the Jewish family so eloquently demonstrated, experiencing the divine is not limited to Mass. My ability to listen for and see the sacred has been the Church’s greatest gift to me. Without it, I would not have opened myself to the sacred moment unfolding on what was supposed to be a business trip. The moment that led me to a new career and to a clear understanding that we are all called to be and bring forth the holy wherever we are. 

The Catholic Church first called me forth as a young girl, and a Jewish family renewed that calling as an adult woman. Here I am, sometimes in church, but mostly not, doing my best to heed the call and bring light to the world. 

Reflection Questions

The author shares that when going to Mass, she “felt like an outsider, unable to relate to the young families around me or the older couples in the pews. Have you ever felt alone in a place where you were “supposed” to belong?

The author shares that the Shabbat dinner on a business trip felt like “a holy communion among strangers.” How can traditions outside your own deepen your understanding of faith?

Have you ever had a moment that “re-centered” your life or identity?