As the sun slides down the sky and the air fills with a golden haze, a small crowd gathers in front of a gray house just south of the University of Oregon campus. The youngest are teenagers; the oldest are graying. Some have made an effort to dress up, but many are clad in jeans, even shorts. A few of the men are wearing yarmulkes and some of the women have tied scarves over their hair. It’s Friday night, and they are here to celebrate Shabbas, the Jewish Sabbath.

Outdoors, cigarettes glow in the fading light; indoors, people fill the front hall. Two young children, a boy and a girl, run giggling through the rooms. Old friends introduce strangers, saying “Good Shabbas!” to each other.  The sky deepens into lavender, and the windows blaze with electric light. All the guests move inside and slowly separate: the women into the front room, the men into the hall.

Twenty minutes before sunset, the women are responsible for lighting the Shabbas candles. Rebbetzen Aviva Spiegel, the evening’s hostess, asks for a show of hands: How many know the blessing? Several hands go up, some more tentatively than others. Candles cover a corner table, and Aviva invites the women to take turns lighting them; the tea lights and silver candelabra begin to flicker. The women watch Aviva, a petite woman who always looks taller on Shabbas, clad tonight in black and a trailing red scarf. They follow her lead, waving their hands slowly towards their faces, wafting the smoke of the flames towards them, welcoming the arrival of Shabbas.

Together they place their palms over their faces, fingertips up, and chant the brakha, or blessing: “Barukh atai Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’had’lik neir shel shabbat. Amen.” 'Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and commands us to light the candles of Shabbas.' Some women remove their hands and watch the candles for a minute before moving away; others hold their hands over their faces for a while, swaying slightly. The men all stand in the hallway, a little awkward, watching and waiting. Some murmur “Amen” along with the women, sotto voce, as if their deeper voices would break the spell. Shabbas has begun.

Aviva and her husband, Rabbi Asi Spiegel, moved to Eugene with their two small children (now three) in the fall of 2002. They are members of Chabad Lubavitch, a branch of the mystical Orthodox Jewish movement known as Hasidism. Every aspect of their lives is Jewish, from the clothing they wear (modest) to the food they eat (kosher) to the work they do: sharing their approach to Judaism with other Jews they meet. There are no Jews quite like the Spiegels in Eugene. But that’s why they’re here.

With the candles lit, the men head across the hall into the library and shut the French doors, while the women pull chairs into a circle in the long front room. Aviva passes out blue Siddurs, or prayer books, written in Hebrew with English translations. Every Friday night, the Spiegels open their home to all comers; usually they welcome about 15 guests. But tonight, in addition, there are at least seven first-timers, members of Eugene’s Havurah group. There are Havurahs all across the U.S., and they usually function as religious-study and social-action clubs for Jewish adults. Weeks before, the Eugene Havurah had invited itself over to check out the Chabad experience, and Aviva is slightly nervous about making sure she does everything right.

She opens by asking the women to introduce themselves by giving their names and then their mother’s name, going back as far as they know, using the Hebrew word bat to signify “daughter of.” The women struggle with this for a minute, then get into the rhythm: I’m so-and-so, bat so-and-so, bat so-and-so. One woman knows only her own mother’s name; everything beyond that, she says, is lost in the Holocaust. Everyone also shares what they like about Shabbas, whether it’s seeing friends or having to walk everywhere for a day. A few women are puzzled by this last response until it’s explained that observant Jews do not drive cars, carry objects outside, turn on light switches or do other activities that could be considered “work” on Shabbas.  They shrug, accepting. Some of the women know blessings and songs in Hebrew; some are also familiar with the many subtleties of being an observant Jew.  Others know little beyond the fact that they are Jewish. But they’re curious, and Aviva doesn’t want them to leave unsatisfied.