In the kitchen, the women talk excitedly while they assemble salads, collect loaves of Aviva’s homemade challah bread, and unwrap foil from dishes already cooked and kept warm on a hot plate. One woman touches Aviva on the arm. “Everything you were saying in there — they were all things I needed to hear,” she says, breathlessly. A wide, gratified smile appears on Aviva’s face. “Well, you know, I only say the things people need to hear,” she says.

In German, spiegel means mirror, and in a sense, the Spiegels are just trying to live up to their name. Most Hasidim are insular, living in Hasidic neighborhoods, shopping at Hasidic stores, going to Hasidic schools. But for more than 50 years, Chabad Lubavitchers have been traveling from their home base in Brooklyn to look for other Jews. They hope to light a spark in each Jew they find, a sense of recognition, a feeling that being a Jew should mean living like a Jew. Chabad Lubavitchers, like all Hasidim, are visibly Jewish, the men in particular with their thick beards and dark fedoras and dangling fringes, or tzitzit. But only the Lubavitchers actively hold up their visibility to other, less observant Jews as an image of Jewishness. The more Jews there are doing Jewish things, they believe, the sooner the world’s troubles will end, and the sooner the Messiah will arrive. In a sense, they are Jewish missionaries looking to spread the gospel of Judaism among the scattered flock of Jews.

But the Chabad Lubavitch outreach movement stops short of the hard sell. Yes, young Chabadniks regularly hit the streets of cities around the world, approaching total strangers and asking, “Excuse me, are you Jewish?” If the answer is yes, they will be invited to pray, or offered a set of Shabbas candles. But those who express interest in what Chabad has to offer are encouraged to learn at their own pace. On a table in the Spiegels’ house is a basket with spare yarmulkes; male visitors are welcome to don one if they wish, but they are not required to do so. One of the Spiegel regulars is Geordie Van Der Bosch, an architecture student at the University of Oregon. He wears a tallith with tzitzit under his shirt, but prefers to wear a bandanna or a visor to hold his short, spiky dreadlocks out of his face. “I’d be wearing an undershirt anyway, and they look cool,” he says of his tzitzit. “But I don’t like things on my head.”

In the front room, the women are busy setting three long folding tables, placing plates and cutlery on the heavy white tablecloths. Aviva’s bread is arranged in the center of one table.  When someone asks where Aviva keeps her special challah cover, she simply unfolds a purple napkin and drapes it over the bread. There is a difference, in the Spiegels’ lives, between being observant and being rigid. They may have hundreds of books about Judaism, but they also have books on gardening and marketing. Their walls are covered in reverent Judaica — images of Hebrew letters, of Israel, of the last Rebbe to lead Chabad — but they also have a refrigerator magnet that reads, “Oy Ve! The Pressure!”

But tonight, Asi begins the evening looking suitably severe, in a fedora and a long black overcoat tied below his waist with a black sash. He is a tall man, with clear blue eyes behind rimless glasses and a forbiddingly dense brown beard. As all the guests gather around the tables, they instinctively hesitate to sit down before this intimidating-looking rabbi. “Sit, sit,” he finally admonishes with a smile, lowering his arms in encouragement. They sit. He remains standing, with Aviva standing at his right hand, and welcomes everyone to their home. “On Shabbas,” he says, in a strong Israeli accent, “we don’t say, ‘Good morning,’ or ‘Good evening.’ We only say, ‘Good Shabbas.’ This is because Shabbas is beyond time.” He lifts up his left arm, and points to his bare wrist. “We don’t wear watches on Shabbas, either.” Everyone nods, smiling; some are familiar with this concept, while others are intrigued. But everyone is reminded of time by their growing hunger — it’s after 10 p.m. — and Asi acknowledges this with a joke about Shabbas dinners always starting late.

In front of him on the table is a small silver cup sitting on a silver tray. He pours white wine into the cup until the wine runs over the lip and fills the tray. More bottles of white and red wine are passed around so everyone can pour a small amount. (The wine, like everything else the Spiegels serve, is kosher.) Asi lifts the cup and recites the kiddush, a blessing said over wine and bread on Shabbas. Everyone holds up glasses and sips together.

Aviva beckons to the women, who all stand and head for the kitchen again. Before eating, everyone must wash hands; Aviva stands at the sink with another silver pitcher and sloshes water in three quick motions over each woman’s hands while saying a short blessing. Once the hands have been ritually cleansed, nobody is allowed to speak. But the women are in such a good mood, and so impatient for the men to finish washing, that they start humming. The tune is catchy, and suddenly one woman grabs another and starts twirling her around the room. They laugh, delighted, faces red. As they spin to a stop, the second woman can’t contain herself; she starts talking about how much fun she’s having. Her dance partner gives her a friendly shush, and she claps her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.