The Truth Is In the Silence: Shemini

The Truth Is In the Silence

D’var Torah for Parashat Shemini

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Shemini (Lev. 9:1—11:47), is the most terrifying of all portions in the Torah.

The setting of the story is the eighth day of Tabernacle’s dedication.  This was to be the most awesome of all days, the first of firsts.  With thorough instructions given (and repeated), with the priests and the Tabernacle now consecrated, it is time to offer the first sacrifice to God.

From the start, however, something goes wrong.  Even after Aaron offers his sacrifice, the expected appearance of God’s presence does not occur.  However, Moses and Aaron seem to know what went wrong, and, entering the Tent of Meeting together, they fix it.  When they next reappear, so does God’s presence, announced by a flame that mysteriously and spontaneously materializes at the altar and consumes the offerings.

It is at this point, however, that disaster happens.  Seemingly eager to follow in their father’s footsteps—or perhaps, as some rabbis think, to supplant him—two of Aaron’s four sons take it upon themselves to offer a sacrifice too.

God’s anger is ignited, and a flame shoots out from the altar and consumes the two lads.

There’s no other sound.  Even Aaron is dumbfounded.  The next few words are uttered by Moses, as he consoles his brother:  “This is what Adonai said:  ‘I will be sanctified through those near to Me, and before all the people I will be glorified” (Lev. 10:3).  Sparse and puzzling as they are, these words have the intended effect:  “And Aaron was silent.”

The specifics of this event have been discussed and written upon for centuries.  What, exactly, did the two boys do wrong?  Some rabbis express their opinion that the two were drunk.  Others say that, in addition to the wrong motivation that led them to offer this sacrifice in the first place, they did not consult with one another; they did not act as brothers.  All-around treachery was on their mind.  Still other rabbis comment that the two brought a fire from the kitchen, a profane flame if there ever was one, instead of a sacred spark from the holy altar.

Just as unclear is Moses’s consolation. What exactly did Moses mean?  How could his words—or any words, for that matter—offer any solace or comfort at such a great and tragic loss?

The Torah sheds little light on the incident.  A few verses later, it does instruct the priests to refrain from offering sacrifices while inebriated.  Perhaps that was the brothers’ sin—that they were intoxicated.  But that’s it; no more said about sacrifices in this portion.  The rest of the parasha is a listing of animals, birds and fish (even some reptiles) that we may eat and other lists of those we may not.   It seems that for the Torah, it really doesn’t matter what Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s two sons, did wrong.

Yet at the end of the portion, things become perhaps a little clearer.  After the kosher and unkosher animals listed and categorized, the Torah explains we refrain from eating impure food because we are holy.  The Torah equates dietary purity—kashrut—with sanctity and holiness.  And if it’s true of what we eat, how much more so of everything else we do!  Whatever it is that Aaron’s sons had done must have been “impure.”  It was unacceptable at a moment and event of holiness, as they—mortal human beings—try to become attached to a sacredness called God.

Yet the question remains.  Why such swift justice?  Is this what we now can expect if we make a mistake in saying a prayer or uttering a blessing?  Can anyone actually be expected to be perfect—we, who are human and, by design and creation, are corrupt and fallible? 

The difficulty begs the ultimate question we pose to God:  Why?  Why God?  Why let these terrible things happen to us?

By coincidence, this coming week we will be observing Yom Ha-shoah V’ha-g’vurah—the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism (in Israel, the full name of this sad observance).  More than at any other time during the year, that is the day when our nation collectively raises its voice and complaint to God:  Why, God?  Whatever it is that we are guilty of, was it a sin equivalent to six million lives?  A million and a half children?  What in heaven’s name could they have done to deserve the all-consuming flame?

We ask, and God is silent.

There are no good answers. 

But then we read this portion, with its terrible disaster and terrifying consequences, and we remember God’s response—through Moses’s words—to Aaron’s silent cry.  “I am sanctified through those who draw near to Me.” 

We are the ones who draw near to God.  We are the ones through whom God becomes manifest and sanctified.  We are the ones who, through our nearness to God, make God’s glorious presence known to the entire world.

Sho’ah does not mean “holocaust.”  Sho’ah means “catastrophe.”  The murder of 6 million Jews was not a sacrifice.  Our God does not accept human sacrifice, remember?  It was a catastrophe, a disaster that befell our people because of many reasons, primarily hatred, perennial, eternal, bloody hatred.

The fire that consumed my father’s family was not holy or sacred in any sense of the word.  It did not originate in the Temple’s eternal flame.  It came from hell’s kitchen, where ignorance and hatred are the devil’s tools.  It was evil, not Godly.

But it consumed our people nevertheless, because we are Jews, and Jews, since time eternal, have been in a holy relationship with God.  To be in this kind of relationship does not mean you don’t make mistakes.  It does mean, however, that simply because we are Jews, we are prone to dangers.  We may be the cause of some of these disasters ourselves.  God is, after all, a very huge source of energy; drawing close to such energy is dangerous and requires much care and attention.  But just as often—if not more—the danger comes from outside ourselves.  It comes to us because God and Israel have taken a vow that forms a sacred bond between us.  If we hadn’t entered into the Covenant, we would not be in this position of danger to begin with.  But because we did, because we remain Jewish despite all our oppressors and murderers, because we prove God’s existence through our perseverance, our existence is fraught with danger.

Well so let it be.  I, for one, believe that this bond, now nearly of four thousand years, is stronger than anything else in this world.  It is like love—it cannot be shattered.  It does have to be, however, carefully maintained, watchfully nourished.  For, like it or not, it is through us that God’s presence is revealed to the whole world, and that is an awesome and fearful goal and mission.

And that is why Aaron was silent.  In his heart, he acknowledged the truth of this avowal.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman