A Rest Untroubled (Parashat Behar-Bekhukotai)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, May 7, 2021
In our double parashah of Behar-Bekhukotai this week, we are confronted with nothing less than a demand that we afford ourselves physical, psychological, and spiritual rest.
Behar speaks of a sabbatical year (Shabbat Shabbaton) for the land, and a jubilee year (sh’nat hayovel) for all inhabitants of the land. The Israelites are instructed to leave the earth alone -- let it rest and lie fallow -- every seven years (the sabbatical year); and land returns to its original owners, and all Israelite slaves are freed, every fifty years (the jubilee year).
In Bekhukotai, the Israelites are offered the opportunity for untroubled rest should they uphold their end of partnership with God: ush’chavtem v’ein macharid. You will lie down without worry, anxiety, or trembling.
No one is to be concerned that in the years that the land lies fallow, there will not be enough food. In both Behar and Bekhukotai, God assures the Israelites that there will always be more than enough left over from previous years: “you will have to clear out the old to make room for the new” (Lev. 26:10).
Imagine for a moment what these ideals would look like in your own life. Holding the faith that there will somehow always be enough. Having a loving and compassionate relationship with the earth. Enjoying a peaceful, blissful rest of mind and body when you lie down.
This week’s Torah reading reminds us that these idyllic visions need not be so far out of reach. In fact, we are urged to make them a reality. Though our lives may be vastly different from those of our biblical ancestors, we can aspire to the ideals of granting ourselves and our environment gentleness, compassion, and gratitude.
In her poem Wild Geese, Mary Oliver writes:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
This Shabbat, I invite you to think of what in your life is enough -- what you can accept as plenty, instead of chasing for more. Perhaps a few moments may be spent outside, noting what the earth has provided this spring. As we let go of the need, for just a day, to get more, do more, and be more than what has already been graciously granted to us, may we enjoy lying down to peaceful, untroubled rest.
Shabbat Shalom.
The Song in Silence
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, April 9, 2021
In 1952, composer John Cage wrote a three-movement musical piece entitled “4’33”, or four minutes and 33 seconds. The score is written for any instrument or combination of instruments, and it has one instruction from the composer: performers should not play their instrument throughout the whole piece. Essentially, it is 4 minutes and 33 seconds of silence.
Understandably, the piece has been described as one of the most controversial musical works of the 20th century. Imagine a night at the symphony (God willing, we will be there soon), sitting in your seat with great anticipation, ready to hear a new piece of music that everyone is talking about. A pianist enters, sits down, opens a stopwatch, closes it, opens and closes the piano lid at various intervals, and then gets up and leaves. You might leave in a huff, as many audience members did when the piece was first performed, exactly in that way, by pianist David Tudor.
While it may sound ludicrous, in my opinion Cage created a brilliant and thought-provoking work. The piece represented Cage’s view that any sounds can be music -- sighs or coughs from audience members, a creaking piano lid or pedal, and other ambient noises were inevitably part of each performance. By not writing any formal musical notes, Cage created space for the sounds of the environment, sounds that may have been previously ignored or dismissed as intrusive.
In this week’s Torah Portion, Shemini, we read about a moment of silence from Aaron that has puzzled many and sparked voluminous commentary. After a heavy and shocking moment, Vayidom Aharon. And Aaron was silent.
Thinking about Cage’s experiment with “silence,” I imagine now that the silence around Aaron was anything but that. The pounding of his heart, his internal dialogue, his heavy footsteps -- in the absence of speech, each of these sounds may have been brought to the fore, imbued with much more meaning.
When we allow for silence, we let sing the sounds that may usually be ignored: the sounds of our environment, the rustles of nature, and perhaps, the song of our soul.
This Shabbat, I invite you to take five minutes to sit in silence. What is the new song you hear?
Legacy of Light (Chanukah 5781)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, December 11, 2020
The glow of candles inspires different meanings for each of us. It might call to mind the first words uttered by God in the Torah, a spark calling forth the creation of the world. Maybe it reminds us of Leonard Cohen’s observation that “there is a crack in everything / that’s how the light gets in.” Perhaps it fills us with the hope that brighter times await; that after a year of what seems like illimitable darkness, a miracle is around the corner.
This year, the light of the Chanukah candles connects me to the radiance of those who have come and gone before us, whose legacies guide our hearts and our paths forward. As poet Hannah Szenes brilliantly wrote: “...there are people whose scintillating memory lights the world after they have passed from it. These lights – which shine in the darkest night – are those which illumine for us the path.”
Needless to say, these past months have brought us, among other things, great losses – on both global, and personal, levels. We have experienced big losses, and “little,” everyday losses. We have lost beloved members of our communities; we have not been able to gather to weather the vicissitudes of life in each others’ embrace.
Perhaps one of the meanings of Chanukah this year is to bring forth the light emanating from the memory of those we have loved, which grows brighter and brighter through us. As we remember what they taught us, how they lived, and what they stood for – we share and carry on their light, watching it grow just as each branch of the Chanukiah flickers with increasing brightness.
Whose life has increased the fire, the drive within our heart? Whose light is one of the stars that shines as we navigate uncertain waters? This year, may lighting the Chanukah candles be a way to honor their legacy, and to ensure their light continues to shine in this world through us.
Chag Urim Sameach and Shabbat Shalom.
A Time for Reconciliation (Parashat Chayei Sarah)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, November 13, 2020
These past few weeks, the Torah has taken us on a journey through conflict, fear, betrayal, and near-human-sacrifice. A quick recap: In Lech Lecha, Sarah’s apparent infertility drives her to convince Abraham to sleep with her maidservant, Hagar. Hagar becomes pregnant and disrespects Sarah; Sarah submits Hagar to ongoing abuse. Eventually Hagar gives birth to Ishmael. In Vayera, Sarah and Abraham are shocked and overjoyed when an elderly Sarah finally becomes pregnant and gives birth to their son, Isaac. Sarah fears that Hagar’s son will share in the inheritance of her own son, so she kicks both Hagar and Ishmael out, and they almost die of thirst in the desert. When the coast is seemingly clear for Sarah, Abraham hears God’s voice telling him to take their only son Isaac and offer him as a sacrifice. Abraham leaves without telling Sarah, and a young Isaac watches as his father leads him up a mountain, binds him, and almost kills him.
Needless to say, many relationships are in need of repair by the time we get to this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah.
Nevertheless, this parashah begins by telling us that Sarah died. According to the Midrash, she died of a broken heart upon hearing what Abraham had done to their son. This seems credible, as there is no account of Sarah and Abraham ever speaking again. We might imagine other broken hearts at this point. How did Isaac feel toward his father, who had almost killed him? Indeed, we never hear of Abraham and Isaac speaking directly to one another again, either. We can be certain that Hagar and Sarah wanted nothing to do with each other and never crossed paths again. We might even speculate about the relationship between Abraham and God. Though Abraham heard God’s voice frequently prior to the binding of Isaac, after this episode, God and Abraham no longer have any communication. Is Abraham too heartbroken and betrayed to face God? Is God disappointed that Abraham did not stand up for his son the way he stood up for Sodom and Gomorrah?
So many broken relationships, broken hearts, and unresolved conflicts are left hanging as we begin Chayei Sarah. The Torah, which is a mirror for human nature, leaves us wondering where and how to find hope in such a broken reality.
Then, we learn about one major reconciliation, brought to my attention by Rabbi Sheldon Lewis in his beautiful book Torah of Reconciliation: when Abraham dies, Isaac and Ishmael come together to bury their father.
Though this may not seem like such a big deal, we must remember what is at stake here. Two half-brothers, whose mothers were bitter enemies. They have been estranged for years. Perhaps Ishmael thinks his rightful inheritance was taken from him. He likely heard from his mother Hagar that Sarah was horrible to them. On the other hand, Isaac might view Ishmael as a great threat to his own rightful inheritance. Isaac has likely heard his own share of vitriol about Hagar and Ishmael. But as they mourn their father, they realize they are bound together by something greater and more important than their turbulent history: their common wish to give their father a dignified burial. Perhaps in doing so, they come to realize they are more connected than they ever imagined. Rashi teaches us that it was their reconciliation that allowed Abraham to die peacefully.
The image of two brothers from competing factions, with competing interests, coming together for the sake of a common purpose, is not lost on me at this moment.
We have just gone through a very tense election season, and many believe there is more tension and conflict to come. Perhaps more tense than the election itself, however, are the relationships we have with those whom we know voted differently than we did. I believe most of us have experienced some form of disagreement with any number of people whom we are close to -- from family members to friends, classmates to coworkers to fellow congregants. These disagreements have perhaps pained us, broken our hearts, maybe even broken our relationships.
In the face of such high tensions and brokenness, the Torah this week calls us to draw upon our innermost reserves to seek reconciliation. But how?
Last Shabbat, the world lost a brilliant rabbi, teacher, and scholar in Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory. Unsurprisingly, I found in his writings about this parashah some profound wisdom regarding how to move forward in life: take the first step. In his book Lessons in Leadership, Sacks teaches that though God had promised the land to Abraham and Sarah numerous times, Abraham still had to buy the first field of that land. Though God had promised Abraham and Sarah numerous offspring, it was Abraham who made sure a match was found for his son. Through Rabbi Sacks’ wisdom, we learn that we play a big role in bringing out goodness in our own lives.
In the context of reconciliation, I would extend Rabbi Sacks’ teaching to mean that we cannot sit back and assume a relationship will heal itself. We cannot expect the other person to take the first step. If we want to see change, if we want to begin the process of healing, if we want to draw close again to those from whom we are estranged -- including ourselves -- we are invited, if not urged, to take the first step.
This Shabbat, let us reflect upon what brought Isaac and Ishmael together. Let us learn from the never-healed relationships between Abraham and Sarah, Abraham and Isaac, Hagar and Sarah, and perhaps even Abraham and God, and the pain resulting from that silence. And let us remember Rabbi Sacks’ encouragement to begin the journey forward, even if it may be with one, tiny step.
Making Room (Parashat Noach)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, October 23, 2020
Many of us may be familiar with the two different tellings of the Creation story: Genesis 1 (in which, for example, male and female are created together), and Genesis 2 (which tells us, among other differences, that woman was created from man’s rib).
What may be more surprising is that there are also two versions of the story of Noah and the flood. In Genesis 6:9-22 (which we will call Version 1), God is referred to as “Elohim” (אלוהים), we have explicit references to “the Flood” (המבול), and Noah is clearly instructed to take two of every animal into the ark.
Then, in Genesis 7:1-5 (which we will call Version 2), the language suddenly changes. God is now referred to as “Adonai,” not “Elohim”; references to “the Flood” disappear (we are simply told that it will rain for 40 days and 40 nights), and, inexplicably, God instructs Noah to take seven pairs of every clean animal and bird, and one pair of every unclean animal, into the ark. At verse 6, we switch right back to the language of Version 1.
So what really happened? Was it Version 1, Version 2, or a combination of both? Is Version 2 merely an interpretation of or expansion upon Version 1, or vice versa? Which one is the truth?
These questions ring loudly for us today. In this time of severe political and social unrest, discord, and divisiveness, so many are holding onto a version of what they believe is the unshakable truth. We are so certain that our version of the story, our beliefs, opinions, values, and moral judgments, are the right ones. We are so certain, in fact, that when we disagree with someone, when we hear a perspective that opposes our own, it is unimaginable. We feel our anger swell up, raging like waters; we wish to wipe out that objectionable perspective like a great flood that once wiped out all life on earth. We live as though there is only room for one opinion to exist -- like there was only room for Noah, his family, and a few of each animal to exist.
I will admit, not proudly, that I have felt that way at times. And I imagine that I am not alone. But this week’s Torah portion makes room for two versions of the story. And in doing so, it calls me, calls all of us, to make room for the perspectives of others.
In their book Difficult Conversations, Douglas Stone, Bruce Patton, and Sheila Heen of the Harvard Negotiation Project lay out a valuable roadmap for navigating the challenging conversations that are an inevitable and frequent part of our lives. There are many nuggets of wisdom in this book, but the one I would like to highlight is their advice to move from a position of certainty to a position of curiosity. They write:
“There’s only one way to come to understand the other person’s story, and that’s by being curious. Instead of asking yourself, ‘How can they think that?!’ ask yourself, ‘I wonder what information they have that I don’t?’ Instead of asking, ‘How can they be so irrational?’ ask, ‘How might they see the world such that their view makes sense?’ Certainty locks us out of their story; curiosity lets us in” (Difficult Conversations, p. 37).
Each person brings unique life experiences, struggles, pain, fear, and myriad other baggage to a conversation. Next time we hear something we don’t like, what if instead of writing the other person off, we were to ask ourselves the above questions, and continue the conversation accordingly? What might we learn? What might we gain?
We must remember that a diversity of perspectives and voices is absolutely inevitable to the human condition. This lesson is illuminated toward the end of Parashat Noah, in the story of the Tower of Babel. The Torah recognizes the dangers of one singular voice in humanity: the creation of a monopoly over the “truth,” which leads to the hubris of building a tower high into the sky, believing we are gods. When God mixes our speech and imposes diversity in the way we speak, Rabbi Shefa Gold writes, “The tower of our arrogant singular purpose topples and we are given a rainbow of diversity in its place.”
In this contentious time, may we open our hearts to make room for different perspectives with curiosity. As we pause, reflect, and reconsider how we are engaging in difficult conversations, may we begin to heal our discourse. And may we always remember that it is the rainbow of diversity that makes our world, and our existence, so beautiful.
The Beauty of Imperfection (Parashat Emor)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, May 8, 2020
There is a teaching that the Torah is black fire on white fire. The black fire is the ink of the letters - the words that are written on the page. The white fire is the space in between the words: what is not explicitly said. There is a whole world of meaning that we might miss if we don’t gaze into that white fire.
This week’s parashah, Emor, is overflowing with white fire. If we were to look just at the text, the words written on the page, they might strike us as highly inconsistent with the general teachings of our tradition. The same Torah that taught us last week in Parashat Kedoshim, that v’ahavta lareiacha kamocha - you shall love your neighbor as yourself; the same Torah that demands of us compassion, kindness, and the pursuit of justice -- that same Torah tells us this week, in Parashat Emor, that the only people permitted to present an offering to God - must be perfect. They must be priests without a single blemish or defect - without a “moom” as it’s called in Hebrew.
I want to ask you a question - who among us is free of blemishes? Who among us does not have a defect of some kind? We know that we are far from perfect - that no human being even approaches perfection. So how could our Torah possibly demand perfection for a task as holy as approaching God?
And here is where I see the white fire glowing. God knows it is impossible for us to be perfect. But do we?
How many of us seek perfection in our lives? Do we try to present a picture-perfect version of ourselves to the outside world? Do we criticize and blame ourselves for making mistakes? Do we postpone beginning a project or assignment because we are so anxious that it won’t be good enough? Do we compare ourselves to others, and then feel shame when we think we fall short?
In her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection”, author and researcher Brene Brown writes that being authentic with ourselves and with others about our imperfections leads to the gifts of courage, compassion, and connection.
It takes courage to be vulnerable and embrace who we really are. We cultivate compassion and empathy toward others when we let go of that tough expectation of perfection in ourselves, when we recognize that we all have struggles. And finally, we build connection - I think we build connection with God, and with others - authentic connection - when we believe that we are enough, and we are whole, no matter where we are in our life’s journey.
Leonard Cohen said it beautifully in his song “Anthem”: “there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
Perhaps between the lines, within the cracks of Parashat Emor, is this message: our attempts to achieve perfection are futile. Better that we spend our time and energy on cultivating the courage to be our authentic selves. By doing so, we can inspire others to do the same. And this can lead to more compassion - compassion toward ourselves and toward others -- especially at a time like this in our world, when compassion and understanding are so vitally important. At the very least, by embracing and revealing who we really are, we can all feel more truly and honestly connected.
This Shabbat, may we recognize that imperfection is not only the reality of who we are: it is also beautiful. Shabbat Shalom.
A Very Narrow Bridge
Published in Jewish Journal, April 1, 2020
Cantor Jacqueline Rafii shares her thoughts about finding meaning in Passover during the COVID-19 pandemic, alongside other Los Angeles Jewish community leaders.
The Blessing of Shared Leadership (Parashat Yitro)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, February 14, 2020
Jethro is our people’s first organizational psychologist. He witnesses his son-in-law, Moses, sitting from morning until evening, tending to an endless line of people as they wait for Moses to resolve their disputes. Jethro recognizes that this task alone would wear out even the most tireless and capable judge; let alone a person carrying the burden of leading an entire nation through an unnavigable wilderness.
“What is this thing you are doing to the people?” Jethro asks Moses, sensing that his son-in-law is on the brink of burnout. “You will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone” (Ex. 18:14, 18).
Apart from his concern for Moses’ health, Jethro has a keen eye for organizational health. He recognizes that the people will also burnout while they wait in line day and night to meet with one person, who, facing exhaustion, is likely a less than ideal adjudicator. So he counsels Moses to delegate the task of resolving minor disputes to other wise people, while Moses will remain the judge of the more difficult-to-resolve disputes. As Jethro assures Moses, “If you do this...all these people too will go home b’shalom, in peace” (Ex. 18:23).
Last weekend, our Shomrei Torah Synagogue community came together to present Songstruck 2020, a heartwarming night of celebration, music, and togetherness. Countless volunteers and professionals in our community spent hours upon hours in the months leading up the event, and on the day of the event, pouring their hearts, minds, and talents into ensuring that the night would be a success.
Reading Parashat Yitro this week, I realized that Jethro’s advice is inherent in the soul of this community. We are a community that shares the burden and blessing of leadership. Our lay leaders envision and spearhead projects, and they can count on a willing committee to help. Our clergy, staff, and volunteers collaborate and work together in a labor of love to bring ideas, initiatives, and programs to life. As we help one another see our visions through, our personal bonds grow, our spiritual community thrives, and our souls are nourished.
As the year unfolds, if you find yourself wanting to get more actively involved in the Shomrei Torah Synagogue community, whether it is to lead a program already in place, or to carry out a new idea or vision, come talk to your clergy, staff, or a lay leader. Rest assured that you won’t be alone, and that you can find a team to rally behind you and help you carry out your vision. With a community like ours, we know that at the end of the day we can all go home “b’shalom”: unwearied, uplifted, and in peace.
Speaking from the Heart (Parashat Chayei Sarah)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, November 22, 2019
When it comes to praying, do you ever feel stuck?
Our tradition has a prescribed set of prayers for every service, every day, and every holiday, as well as countless other occasions. Some of us at times find great comfort in the familiarity, consistency, and repetition of prayers we know and love. Some of us at times find ourselves facing spiritual boredom as the repetition becomes rote. For those of us who may sometimes find ourselves in the second category, this week’s Torah portion reveals a great gift of guidance.
In Chayei Sarah, we read about two instances of spontaneous, personal, and creative prayer. The first is from Abraham’s servant, who has been sent on a journey to find a wife for Isaac. As his camels kneel down by the well and evening falls, Abraham’s servant utters a heartfelt prayer to God: “O Lord, God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day, and deal graciously with my master Abraham…”. The servant requests a sign from God, a way of recognizing who is fit to be Isaac’s mate. When retelling the events of that evening, the servant himself refers to his conversation with God as l’daber el libi, “praying in my heart” (Gen. 24:45).
The second moment of spontaneous prayer occurs just before Isaac and Rebecca meet. We read that “Isaac went out to meditate in the field toward evening…” (Gen. 24:64). The word used here in the Torah is lasuach, which our rabbis have translated as “to meditate” or “to pray.” We don’t know what Isaac is praying about; the Torah leaves that to our imagination. What we do know is that it appears Isaac is taking a stroll and having a personal talk with God.
Perhaps this is our call in moments of spiritual restlessness. Like Abraham’s servant and like Isaac, we are free at any moment to have a direct conversation with God, to speak our own creative words, to pour out our hearts. As Rebbe Nachman teaches us, “The very act of speaking is the concept of revealing and rousing one’s heart and soul for God” (Likutei Moharan, Part II 98:1). If we are stuck, all we have to do is speak from the heart.
Tomorrow morning, at our first-ever Zamru Shabbat Morning service, you will be invited to many such moments and opportunities of personal and spontaneous prayer. May the words pour freely from your heart as we share in this new experience together. Shabbat Shalom.
This Year, Will We Answer the Call?
Published in Jewish Journal, October 16, 2019
“This year, in this new beginning, what will it take for us to stand in our vulnerability? To face our fears about who we really are, and what we are being called to do?”
An Open Door (Parashat Bekhukotai)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, May 31, 2019
I have always struggled with the notion of a linear system of reward and punishment. This Shabbat we read Bekhukotai, which presents a list of comforting, beautiful blessings that are promised to the Israelites if they follow God’s laws and teachings. Following these blessings is a longer list of horrible, painful curses that will assuredly befall the Israelites if they turn their back on God and fail to observe God’s commandments. This list of curses is known as the tocheichah (rebuke), chanted in a low voice by the reader, and it occurs twice in our Torah: once here, and once in Deuteronomy.
What would it mean to accept a plain reading of this text? Follow God’s teachings, and you will be blessed with peace, bounty, and a close relationship with God; disobey God’s teachings, and you will face death, destruction, and misery. How does this explain the many examples, past and present, of the suffering of righteous and innocent people, while the wicked go unpunished? Our sages and scholars have interpreted this text in various ways throughout the ages, from arguing that rewards and punishments are meted out in the World to Come, not in this life; to explaining that God’s ways are incomprehensible to the human mind, and we should have faith that the system is just; to consolations that suffering makes you grow and can therefore be seen as a blessing in disguise.
None of these explanations have ever been satisfying to me. While studying the text this week, I was struck by a possible new interpretation of this back-and-forth. Amidst the harsh language of curses, two glaring leniencies popped out. God is painting a picture of the painful, awful results of God’s wrath, and suddenly, I catch all the caveats: “And if, for all that, you do not obey Me…”; “And if you remain hostile toward Me…”; “And if these things fail to discipline you for Me, and you remain hostile to Me…”; But if, despite this, you disobey Me and remain hostile to Me…” (Lev. 26:18, 21, 23, 27). How did I never notice this before? The curses are a result of repeated offenses, of Israel refusing to come to the table in relationship with God. It seems that God is promising to give chances to the Israelites, over and over again, to come back around. God will give them the benefit of the doubt; only if they keep acting in hostile ways, and keep breaking the covenant, will God’s hostility continue.
And then, in an even more blatant show of leniency, God promises the Israelites commitment and loyalty: “Yet, even then, when they [the Israelites who have repeatedly turned their back on God] are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them or spurn them so as to destroy them, annulling My covenant with them...I will remember in their favor the covenant with the ancients…” (Lev. 26:44, 45). Even though God’s partners have broken the covenant, have disrespected the relationship, have effectively pushed God away… God will never break the covenant. I picture God waiting, with open arms, for reconciliation and return. Now that’s love.
For the first time, I see God’s presence in this text as a model for our human relationships. God leaves the door open for reconciliation and repair of a damaged relationship. How often do we do that in our own relationships with our loved ones? In moments of pain and anger, inevitable in human relationships, are we inclined to give the benefit of the doubt, or do we immediately write off the people that have hurt us? Our parashah is teaching us to open our hearts, to learn to be forgiving, even after the most dire rifts. Even if we are hurt, angry, or upset by the actions of a friend, family member, or loved one, we must make room for the relationship to be repaired. As God promises to do so with the Israelites, we must leave the door open for reconciliation.
In the words of one of my favorite songs from the Disney movie Frozen, “love is an open door.” Is there someone in your life now, who deserves an open door, and an open heart?
A Mixed Multitude (Pesach)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, April 18, 2019
During the past few weeks, I have read and heard statements like the following: “Every Jew has grown up with matzah ball soup and gefilte fish at their seders.” Newsflash: Not this one! While I have developed a deep affinity for matzah ball soup, my Persian seders growing up consisted of cow tongue on the seder plate, hitting each other gleefully with scallions to imitate whips during the retelling of the Passover story, and eating rice at the festive meal. Although these differences might seem trivial, I have felt varying degrees of exclusion from mainstream American Jewry because of them: everything from scrunched noses when mentioning cow tongue, to a puzzled look when describing the scallion-hitting ritual, to perhaps even a raised eyebrow or two at the mention of rice on Passover. I am by no means immune to this habit of judging differences: I cannot imagine not eating rice on Passover, and even the thought of gefilte fish makes me queasy.
But this week, reading over our Passover texts, I realized that this is exactly the opposite of what Passover so beautifully teaches us. An excerpt from the Torah portion for Pesach tells us that as the Israelites fled from Egypt in a haste, finally liberated from slavery, “a mixed multitude went up with them” (Ex. 12:38). What does our text mean by a “mixed multitude”? Is it a catch-all phrase to describe the diversity of the Israelites who left Egypt -- a mish-mosh of men, women, young, old, strong, frail, hopeful, cynical, and everything in between? Does the phrase also include those non-Israelites who chose to leave Egypt and join the Israelite family, as Rashi and some of our other sages explain? Today, this phrase strikes me as profoundly important, as the Jewish people have come to represent a rich, multi-layered, and diverse tapestry of cultures, observances, and traditions. Passover teaches us, among other things, to respect and open our hearts to differences.
Our Seder supports this idea. We are instructed to leave the door open during the Seder, both figuratively and literally, opening our hearts and homes to anyone who wants to come in and eat. We read about four very different children, representing the vast spread of personalities within even a single family. The Haggadah, and much of Jewish liturgy, urge us to always remember that we were strangers in the land of Egypt. We all have had some experience of feeling like a stranger, and of treating another as a stranger -- not just because there is a lack of familiarity, but also because differences exist among us.
Passover, and our tradition in general, are very clear about how we are expected to treat the stranger. The Torah commands us to befriend and show compassion for the stranger, reminding us that we were once strangers in Egypt (Deut. 10:19). Among the many physical and spiritual liberations granted to us by God when we were redeemed from slavery, one of those must be freedom from judging the stranger. Another meaning of the Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, is “narrowness”. Judging those who are different from us is constraining; it perpetuates a narrow and closed heart. Just as we left Egypt, we must strive to leave this narrowness behind.
What would it look like for you to open your heart to someone, or ones, whom you might consider a stranger? Perhaps it would involve inviting someone with a different Jewish upbringing to a meal at your home. Perhaps it could be a meaningful, empathic conversation with someone who has a widely different understanding than you of what it means to embody Jewish values. Many years ago we physically left Egypt, but often we find ourselves emotionally returning to a place of limited thinking and closed hearts. Passover reminds us to open our hearts, get out of Egypt, and together, as a colorful, messy, and eclectic mixed multitude, find our way to a promised land of compassion and understanding for the other.
Kashrut as Mindful Consumption (Parashat Shemini)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, March 29, 2019
There is a new habit that has entered my life -- and it’s not one that I’m proud of. Every morning when I wake up, in a half-conscious stupor, I lean over the side of my bed, grab my phone, and, with eyes still adjusting to the light, start scrolling through my phone. I check every outlet of communication - personal emails, school emails, work emails, and social media. As I hop out of bed and go about my morning routine, I switch to reading the news, or perhaps watching a video about a kitten and puppy who became best friends. The first 10 minutes of every new day, a precious gift I’ve been given, pass in this manner of mindless consumption.
Perhaps that is why in Parashat Shemini this week, the dietary laws struck me with new meaning. As I read the prohibitions against eating certain animals, I could not stop thinking about the idea of mindful consumption. In our ancient text, God regulates what we consume, what we take inside of us. It affects us not only physically but also, and likely much more so, spiritually -- as illustrated by God’s concluding statement to the dietary laws, a seeming justification: “You shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy” (Lev. 11:44). Regulating what the Israelites consumed, controlling what they took into their bodies and souls, took them one step closer to holiness.
While the laws of kashrut evade (and many argue, don’t necessitate) logical explanation, they point to a deep understanding of presence: recognizing that what you take in matters, becomes a part of you, and affects you profoundly. Beyond what we physically eat, in an era of indiscriminate media consumption, 24/7 connectivity, and instant information gratification, what if we step back for a moment, and take stock of what we are letting into our minds, our hearts, and our souls? What if we create healthy boundaries for what we consume, and sanctify our time on Earth with more frequent, real-time presence? This week, perhaps instead of reaching for my phone and letting my mind be fed with incessant and uncontrolled chatter each morning, I can pause, breathe, and take a moment to express Modah Ani, gratitude for the holy gift of another day.
Superstition (Shabbat Shekalim)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, March 1, 2019
Very superstitious,
Writing's on the wall,
Very superstitious,
Ladders bout' to fall...
When you believe in things
That you don't understand,
Then you suffer,
Superstition ain’t the way.
Stevie Wonder’s hit song from 1972, “Superstition,” makes me think he must have just read Torah. In Parashat Kedoshim, God commands that the Israelites may not practice divination or soothsaying (Lev. 19:26); in Parashat Shoftim, Moses also warns against anyone practicing “divination, or a soothsayer, a diviner, a sorcerer, one who casts spells, or one who consults ghosts or familiar spirits…” (Deut. 18: 10-11).
This Shabbat is Shabbat Shekalim, the Shabbat before the 1st of Adar II. We read a special Torah passage in preparation for Purim, which requires any Israelite who is counted as part of the census to contribute half a shekel to the sanctuary as an offering to God. Everyone must pay the same amount: “The rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel” (Ex. 30:11-16).
Why is this donation required of those counted in the census? Rashi explains that things that have been numbered are subject to the “influence of the evil eye.” He recalls that when King David ordered his troops counted as part of a census, a great plague fell upon those counted (II Samuel 24:10). Therefore, it is no surprise in this week’s reading that God commands those who are enrolled in the census to pay a “ransom” for themselves, “that no plague may come upon them through their being enrolled” (Ex. 30:12). Could God possibly be trying to ward off the evil eye?
In my family, we sometimes observe a Persian tradition of burning the seeds of an Esfand (wild rue) plant on the stove, and letting the smoke wash over us. The tradition (OK, I’ll say it: superstition) is that this smoke fends off the evil eye, illness, and other bad things. I have many fond memories of my parents gathering us around the kitchen stove, taking an imaginary swath of smoke with their hands and circling it above all of our heads, blessing us and hugging us. While I may have rolled my eyes growing up, I adopted this tradition as an adult, and even my Ashkenazi fiance sometimes suggests that we “burn Esfand”.
There are many other superstitious practices we see in everyday life, apparently intended to avoid a negative outcome: knocking on wood, skipping the 13th floor, walking around ladders instead of under them, avoiding opening an umbrella indoors. Are these superstitious acts in blatant disregard for the Torah’s commands? And if they are, then why in this week’s reading, does God give a green light to an act (the half-shekel contribution) that is seemingly meant to stave off a plague?
Rabbi Ovadiah Sforno provides a fascination explanation. He comments that the need to count human beings in a census arises from the fact that human beings change, both in their personalities and literally via death. According to Sforno, these changes occur because people have the capacity to, and do, sin. Therefore, counting people is a stark reminder of their sins, and it is fitting that at the time of such count, each person counted should pay a ransom as a form of atonement for such sins. This also explains why the poor and rich must give exactly the same amount: atonement is not calculated by the quantity of money offered to God, and one cannot simply buy more atonement with more money.
Sforno’s explanation sheds a whole new light on apparent superstitions. We shouldn’t interpret what God commands in Shabbat Shekalim as an empty superstition, which could lend itself to the magical thinking that we pay a certain amount, and poof! we are safe. This could indeed lead to suffering: holding onto a lucky object and feeling pained when it doesn’t bring the luck you expect; turning away from prayer and throwing pennies into a pond for a quick fix to a problem.
Instead, what if we reframe and rethink our rituals as follows: what, if any, productive act are we carrying out, in order to bring about positive change?
Rather than an empty act of superstition, God commands a meaningful, constructive action: Make an equitable donation to help the upkeep of your holy place of gathering, and of God’s presence; and perhaps in the process, face your sins and become inspired to atone for them.
Burning Esfand does not literally stave off evil spirits, and our tradition warns against believing that it (or anything else) has any magical powers to do so. But it does bring my whole family together in a moment of stillness and of love, to pray to God for the wellbeing of our loved ones, and to express humility and gratitude for our blessings. It reminds us how much we care for one another, and what is truly important in life.
What superstitions are you holding onto, that may be displacing positive, constructive action on your part, such as service to our beautiful Jewish values? Can you rethink your rituals as opportunities for prayer, for connection to one another, and to God?
Reawakening our Spirits (Parashat Va’eira)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, January 3, 2019
Ah, January. The month when so many of us make New Year’s Resolutions, grand expectations for the year ahead. We make lists and promises that we vow, this year, we’ll keep.
In this week’s parashah, Va’eira, God sends Moses to once again deliver an exciting promise to the Israelites in Egypt: God will soon deliver them from slavery, take them to be God’s people, and lead them to the Promised Land. The last time Moses shared this news, the Israelites were convinced. Then, Pharaoh increased their oppressive labor. So what is their response this second time? “When Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage” (Gen. 6:9).
Reading this passage, I started to think: How many well-intended but unrealistic New Year’s Resolutions go unfulfilled, year after year, burdening us and crushing our spirits, so that we no longer even listen to ourselves when we make them?
After seeking many different types of exercise, hoping one would stick, this year I began actively practicing yoga. I know what you’re thinking. Yoga?! That ancient practice that has been hijacked into some new-age, self-important, breathing thing that is “so L.A.”?
But, I gave it a try. And after 10 months, apart from its many deep physical and emotional benefits, yoga has taught me three important lessons:
Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s. Looking around a typical yoga class, I sometimes see fellow yogis doing one-legged, twisted, animal-named poses that look, quite frankly, like they are bending the laws of nature. I used to feel discouraged, but I have learned to be patient, and recognize that my journey is unique and valuable.
Show up often, and take baby steps. The problem with many New Year’s Resolutions is that they require drastic changes, all at once. It is much easier, more pleasant, and more realistic to take small steps toward change; and the best way to cement those steps, is to take them often. When I started yoga, I could scarcely do any of the poses - but I kept showing up, week after week, several times a week, doing whatever I could. Which leads to #3:
Acknowledge and recognize your gains. After ten months of showing up, moving slowly but consistently, I have learned new poses and improved older ones. Each new or improved pose is accompanied by an internal squeal of delight, and whichever family member I see next being subject to show-and-tell. Annoying, maybe. Encouraging, definitely.
May this new year of 2019 be one of appreciating our own journeys, taking baby steps often, and recognizing our gradual gains -- so that, with spirits reawakened, our hearts will listen to the goals we set out for ourselves. Shabbat Shalom.
A New Song (Parashat Lech Lecha)
by Cantor Jacqueline Rafii, October 19, 2018
“Shiru L’Adonai shir chadash / Sing to God a new song.”
Each week, we sing these words during Kabbalat Shabbat, the mystical prelude to Friday evening services. They form the opening lines of psalms 96 and 98, two psalms that offer potent imagery about the natural world roaring and humming as an expression of the harmony and awe of God’s creation.
What does it mean to “sing a new song”?
In this week’s Parashah, Abram hears God’s divine call, guiding Abram to the land of Canaan and promising him countless offspring, blessings, and the birth of a great nation. For thousands of years, this call was read as “Lech lecha - Go forth”. But in a bold move, in our modern era, famous Jewish composer Debbie Friedman introduced a whole new reading in her song “L’chi Lach”.
“L’chi lach, to a land that I will show you / Lech lecha, to a place you do not know / L’chi lach, on your journey I will bless you / and you shall be a blessing…”
The lyrics, written above, are Friedman’s slightly adapted version of the opening lines of the Parashah. Her lyrics include not only the command uttered by God specifically to Abram in Gen: 12:1, necessarily in the masculine form: “Go forth” - lech lecha; but her lyrics also include, indeed begin with, the feminine form of the Hebrew command to go forth - l’chi lach. Her choice to expand the original Hebrew is what strikes me most.
Often, when studying Torah, I find myself asking: “What about [insert female character here]?” When we read about Abram setting out on his journey from Haran to Canaan, with God’s guidance and blessing, I can’t help but wonder, “What about Sarai? Where was her divine call?” When Sarai must pretend she is not Abram’s wife in Egypt, and is taken into Pharaoh’s chambers to spare Abram’s life, I find myself thinking: “What if Sarai had a better idea?”
“L’chi lach” offers a new interpretation, that God’s call was uttered not only to Abram, but also to Sarai. She was an integral part of the important, life- and name-changing journey that gave birth to a new worldview. Indeed, the Torah teaches us that “because of her [Sarai], it went well with Abram” (Gen. 12:16). Friedman takes a call, seemingly addressed exclusively to one ancient ancestor in our Torah, and makes it applicable not only to Sarai too, but also to everyone - expanding its meaning to include women, men, you, me, them… Friedman sings a new song.
But how “new” is a new song? Kohelet teaches us, “there is nothing new under the sun.” (1:9) Abram and Sarai both left all that they knew behind -- their ancestral homeland, their parents, their parents’ religious practices -- to begin on a new path. But perhaps, the song was always in Abram’s and Sarai’s hearts.
How might we infer this? According to the chronology of the Torah, Abram and Sarai were already on their way to Canaan, led by Abram’s father, before the divine call was uttered (Gen. 11:31). Neither Abram nor Sarai expressed hesitation or doubt when God commanded Abram to go forth. Maybe, just maybe, this new song had been already playing quietly inside of them. And maybe, too, Friedman’s song uncovers what has always been the case: God’s divine call is made not only to Abram, but also to Sarai, and to all of us.
In the psalms of Kabbalat Shabbat, singing a new song is expected not only of us, but of the heavens and the earth too: the psalms portray beautiful imagery of the seas roaring, the trees singing, the rivers clapping hands -- all in a harmonious symphony of soul-lifting sound. Perhaps singing a new song, moving forward in life, is what God wants of every created thing in the world.
May you enter this Shabbat with a sense of harmony, as the psalms paint for us. May you be able to clear the noise and hear the new song already beating in your heart, and may it lead you to exactly where you are meant to go.
Shabbat Shalom.
Lean In: A Persian Jewish Perspective by Jackie Rafii
Published in The Skribe Magazine, 2014
“Let’s strip our minds from conventional wisdom once in a while. Ladies, don’t accept the limiting thoughts that society places on you. Don’t be afraid to be a leader. You might just be the leader that our community needs.”