royal hospitality

When I was parenting toddlers one of the most delicate determinants of my days was how well I managed to get my kids through a transition from one activity to another. From having breakfast to going to school or dinnertime to tubtime. In order to soothe myself and cope with what were some very difficult transitions, I started singing a parody of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof in my head, “Transitions! Transitions!” This made me chuckle and helped soften me to the challenges of transitioning. (Which you would think as a trans person I would be familiar with). 

But the truth is, transitions are most enjoyable when there is spaciousness. The clutter of daily activities seeps into the moments between them, which minimizes necessary time to integrate, arrive, pivot, be present. 

Which is why I think Judaism calls our attention to transitions. Judaism sees transitions as holy carve outs. Our prayer services mark transitions in time. The reddening of the morning sky. Twilight. The moment the sun dips below the horizon. The first three stars in the night sky. Our festivals mark transitions in seasons and the natural cycles. Sukkot brings on the rainy season in the Fall and Passover the dry season in the Spring. And our lifecycles call attention to personal transitions. The onset of puberty with B’nei Mitzvah, the time between the death of a loved one and burial known as aninut, to name just a few. 

This Saturday night we get to make one of the most sacred and storied transitions, from havdalah to seder. Much rabbinic ink has been spilled about the holy handoff between Shabbat and Passover, notably how do we honor both sacred times as we end shabbat and begin Pesach. “Transitions! Transitions!” I love to imagine the delicacy of trying to avoid our sacred holidays from getting cranky. 
We must both sanctify the new holiday and separate between Shabbat and the weekday using the same ritual act of drinking wine. The Havdalah cup does double duty as the Kiddush cup. But how do we manage these simultaneous obligations? Or, more precisely, in what order ought we combine all the necessary blessings?
It's a tricky spiritual transition. Both shabbes and Passover want our undivided attention. But the truth is, I am realistically going to be preparing for seder on Shabbat afternoon. How do we offer each the kavod they deserve, and how might we learn to offer that to ourselves?

In the Babylonian Talmud, the rabbis imagine this moment with royal hospitality. 
In masechet Pesachim, Rabbi Hanina teaches that this is comparable to a queen who is exiting a city and a governor is entering. Etiquette dictates that the inhabitants of the city first escort the queen out of the city to take leave of her in a dignified fashion, and afterward they go out to greet the governor. Similarly, one should first recite havdala, to take leave of Shabbat, and only then recite kiddush over the Festival, whose sanctity is lesser than that of Shabbat.

Now mind you, I am not so deferential to queens and governors as these texts suggest. But I do love considering the social etiquette of sacred time and how to be most hospitable to the flow of honored guests in our home. 
The answer the rabbis offer is my favorite acronym: יקנה״ז, pronounced YaKNeHaZ: יין (yayin) for the blessing over the wine; קידוש (kiddush) for the blessing over the new holiday just beginning; נר (ner) for the blessing over the flame; הבדלה (havdalah) for the blessing Hamavdil; and זמן (zman) for Shehechiyanu.
May we be blessed in our comings and our goings. ​