Dear TBZ Community:
This Sunday marks 6 months since the horrific massacre of October 7th. It is hard to believe that the war in Gaza continues, that 134 hostages remain in Gaza, that the toll of Palestinians’ death continues to rise, with a terrible, unthinkable humanitarian crisis in Gaza. This week, with the airstrike that killed aid workers in Gaza from the internationally renowned aid organization World Central Kitchen (WCK), an organization whose sole purpose is to feed the hungry no matter where they are, we are left, once again, speechless and heartbroken.
It is in times like these that I can’t stop asking myself, what happened to humanity? When I hear explanations that say these kinds of things happen during war, I wonder, again, where is our humanity? What has happened to our capacity to be outraged for the suffering of others? To stop for a moment and not explain or find an excuse, but to scream, to call out when something is wrong.
This week’s parasha (Torah portion), Shmini, has one of those stories that leaves us questioning and uncomfortable, but that commentators and many of us try to explain with different reasoning. Shmini focuses on the inauguration of the altar and the beginning of the officiation of the Kohanim, the Priests, led by Aaron and his sons. Chapter 9 of Leviticus describes the communal experience of a ritual that all do together, followed by Chapter 10 which describes the story of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, who do not seem to be part of this communal experience and bring a “strange fire” that God has not commanded of them.
Chapter 10, verse 1 reads:
וַוַיִּקְחוּ בְנֵי־אַהֲרֹן נָדָב וַאֲבִיהוּא אִישׁ מַחְתָּתוֹ וַיִּתְּנוּ בָהֵן אֵשׁ וַיָּשִׂימוּ עָלֶיהָ קְטֹרֶת וַיַּקְרִיבוּ לִפְנֵי יְהֹוָה אֵשׁ זָרָה אֲשֶׁר לֹא צִוָּה אֹתָם
Now Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the LORD alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them.
Then, with little warning, as Nadav and Avihu are making an offering, a fire comes forth, and they are abruptly killed by God. This moment, sudden and striking, is quite mysterious, and our tradition struggles to make sense of it.
Chapter 10, verse 2 continues:
וַתֵּצֵא אֵשׁ מִלִּפְנֵי ה’ וַתֹּאכַל אוֹתָם וַיָּמֻתוּ לִפְנֵי ה’
And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them;
thus they died at the instance of Adonai.
So much is taught and said in our tradition about the sin of Nadav and Avihu: they went their own way, they got too close, they got drunk, they did not listen, they made their own rules. They did what they wanted, they were not part of the communal experience or the prescribed mode:
Vayikra Rabbah (12:1) explains that the two young men acted while under the influence of alcohol, while Ibn Ezra comments on 10:1 that they were not commanded to bring any fire at all, let alone the “strange fire” specified in the text, thus justifying their cruel fate.
What makes this story even harder, is that this happens in the presence of their father Aaron. The text tells us right away Aaron’s response: Aaron is left literally speechless.
In Leviticus 10:3 we read:
וַיִּדֹּם אַהֲרֹן
And Aaron was silent.
And then, to add to the challenging nature of this text, Moshe, Aaron’s brother, moves on to his role as a leader, perhaps instead of comforting his own brother (there are a lot of explanations to this too, but that is for a different teaching!).
Over the years, I have thought about the response of Aaron. One that is very different from the response of Moshe (uncle of Nadav and Avihu). Aaron is speechless, Aaron has no words. Much of our traditional commentary is not able to relate to Aaron as a parent who grieves, or is angry, or shocked. Rashi writes that Aaron’s silence was one of submissive acceptance, while the commentator Rashbam expounds that Aaron will go on to be rewarded for this virtuous silence. These explanations of course are an attempt for us readers to accept the young men’s deaths, by imagining that Aaron accepted them too. But the commentator Ramban, offers perhaps a different understanding: Ramban asks, why does the Torah use the word vayidom? The word means “to stop” more than “to be silent;” and if silence was the meaning, why not use a different word, such as vayishtok, which comes from the word sheket – “silence”?
Rambam says:
שהיה בוכה בקול ואז שתק
This means that he had cried aloud, but then he became silent.
Vayidom is best translated then as “he became silent.”
Ramabam imagines Aaron first crying out loud and then, only after that, standing still.
Rambam does not rush to say that Aaron accepted the death of his sons. Rambam offers room for true reaction, without explanation.
Rabbi Aaron Leven, in his commentary to this week’s parasha for T’ruah’s weekly (M)oral Torah column (which inspired this d’var Torah), reminds us that Aaron was known as a lover of peace, but even more critically, as a chaser of peace. Rabbi Laven suggests that:
“Aaron was not silent because he was ready to accept things as they were. His silence was a way to express loud and clear: I am experiencing inexplicable pain; no one should have to feel this loss. Aaron’s silence is an act of protest rather than abandonment. Aaron is teaching us that wanting intimacy means wanting everything that comes with it, not only the spiritual highs, but the moments of deep pain and discord.”
This Shabbat is also Shabbat HaHodesh, the sabbath of the month, when we announce the month of liberation. On Passover we will recite: All those who are hungry come and eat.
As soon as I heard the news about the WCK, my first thought was: all who are hungry should have something to eat. And then I started to weep. Everywhere, everyone.
Like Aaron, I am both crying and speechless.
And this time, this year, the explanations and commentaries that try to explain that which is unexplainable are not enough. When we lean into excuses we forget our humanity. And I pray and hope we know when to cry, when to be silent, when to scream injustice, and most importantly when to stop finding excuses, so we can work to achieve peace and the dignity of all human beings.
May this Shabbat bring blessings and consolation to all of you and your loved ones. May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity. May all those who are ill find healing.
And may the hostages soon be returned to their families and friends; may the Israeli and Palestinian peace workers in the land continue their sacred work and not be deterred or turn away from the vision of peace and dignity for all.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia