Never before have the lives of Jews and non-Jews been so closely intertwined. I don't mean negatively, as during times of persecution. I mean the intimate texture of American society that increasingly brings us all together in positive ways – not just commercially and socially, but religiously.

It all began with experiments in joint Thanksgiving services. Then, in the 1950s and '60s, we marched side by side for civil rights and against the Vietnam War. Welcome now to a new frontier: non-Jews who ask to participate with us in Jewish ritual.

The most obvious example is the seder, where sometimes there are as many non-Jews as Jews in attendance. In some Hanukka celebrations, non-Jewish neighbors sing the Hebrew blessings as forcefully as their Jewish hosts. In thousands of intermarriages, the non-Jewish partner values Shabbat dinner more than the Jewish partner does.

This phenomenon is bound to grow, as more and more Americans seeking meaningful spiritual moorings discover the attraction of Passover freedom, Hanukka miracles, and Shabbat sanctity. Imagine, then, the next step: regular visits by gentile friends who have no marital or familial relationship to Jews but who want to incorporate Jewish celebration in their lives. That day is coming.

Our ingrained reaction is usually the "how nice" syndrome – "How nice that non-Jews acknowledge the beauties of Judaism." But "How nice" misses the point. These are not Christian guests taking time out just to watch, or even to admire, what we do; they are spiritual seekers coming to share in Jewish ritual because it feels to them like the right religious thing to do.

Our weekly sedra gives us a way to think about all of this.

In what seems at first an innocuous verse that we might easily pass over, God cautions us to keep the commandments, because "a person (adam) lives by them." Three times, the Talmud explains that the generic reference to "person" must include everyone, not just Jews. All three discussions establish the principle that "gentiles engaged in Torah [so as to learn the mitzvot] are on the same level as a kohen gadol [a high priest]." Is it possible, the Talmud wonders, that non-Jews who voluntarily take on Jewish responsibility derive the same rewards that Jews do?

Well, maybe not. One strain of the argument suggests that action taken in response to divine command ranks higher than that which is done purely voluntarily. But surely it is equally arguable that acting out of obligation (because you have to) is less praiseworthy than acting through free choice (when you really don't have to at all). And who is to say that a non-Jewish volunteer is not motivated by the desire to satisfy divine will, while many Jews (though theoretically performing mitzvot) may really be acting only out of habit or nostalgia? In any event, the issue is hardly a competition for reward.

The rabbis hold that gentiles have their own commandments, described as the generally humanitarian precepts given to all human beings via Noah –' not to kill, for example, or do without a system of justice. So another strain in the talmudic discussion applies the high-priest parallel only if gentiles are studying Torah specifically to learn about their own Noahide obligations. The Talmud suspects that non-Jews might study Jewish mitzvot to devise ways to mislead Jews. But however logical that might have sounded to our talmudic forebears, who lived in a society so drastically unlike ours, it is hard to imagine, in our time, that our non-Jewish neighbors would huddle over Torah with the aim of befuddling us into error.

Especially those committed to Jewish continuity ought to welcome jettisoning such outmoded suspicion. We are properly hesitant to engage in the kind of active conversionary efforts that we condemn in those who try to proselytize us, but it is a mitzva to teach Judaism to anyone who approaches us with inquiries. If we believe what we say when we argue that Judaism is captured better in the doing than in the knowing, why not encourage non-Jewish seekers to experiment with the joy of Jewish activity?

Centuries of persecution under Christian rulers have made us rightfully suspicious of those who approach us with a religious agenda in mind. But the world is far from Christian now. Our global village opens everyone to spiritual possibilities never before imagined. Why should we be surprised to find that Judaism beckons positively beyond ourselves? Why not, then, welcome the spiritually curious into our homes and synagogues, not as Jews (for they are not that), but not just as interested visitors (for they are not that either). Who knows? Maybe, like Abraham and Sarah, these non-Jewish seekers of our time are on their own journey of lech l'cha to a land that God will show them.