Human Fervor and
Divine Flames
D’var Torah for
Parashat Shemini
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
Flying too close to the sun is a theme found in many popular
and classical sources. In western
tradition, Icarus is possibly the best known of those who were burned by their
overreaching pursuits. But there are
also others, in Chinese as well as ancient Hindu folklore. A legendary British king also seems to have
constructed wings which failed him in mid-flight, as did an Assyrian emperor of
pre-Biblical times.
Though the details change from story to story, what they all
have in common is the lesson they teach—the dangers of arrogance and
overreaching.
In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini, a similar cautionary tale is told. In this parasha
(Leviticus 9:1—11:47), two of Aaron’s four sons, Nadav and Avihu, attempt a
dangerous feat. For seven days, Aaron
and his sons, the priests, were in the process of becoming ordained, or
qualified, to offer the sacred sacrifices.
Now, on the eighth day (shemini means
“eighth”), Aaron is told by Moses to offer the first sacrifice and thus
initiate the sacred service. Aaron
follows Moses’s instructions to the detail, and a flame appears “from before
God’s presence” and consumes the offerings.
Next, however, Nadav and Avihu offer a sacrifice, “a strange
fire [eish zara] which God did not
command them.” To the horror of all the
Israelites, a flame appears once again “from before God’s presence,” but this
time it consumes not the offerings but rather the two would-be priests.
What did Nadav and Avihu do that was deserving of such harsh
punishment? Much has been written about
this. Some say that they failed to act
as brothers, each outvying the other for fame and glory. Another interpretation says that in offering a
sacrifice that was neither commanded nor sanctioned by God, Nadav and Avihu
reached for power and authority far beyond their rank. Yet a third explanation offers that the
“strange fire” came not from the eternal fire, the only authorized source of
fire for the sacred sacrifices, but rather from the kitchen—a more mundane,
perhaps even impure, source.
A law that immediately follows this story commands Aaron and
the priests to offer their sacrifices in complete sobriety, never to touch wine
or any other intoxicant when they enter the Tent of Meeting. The Rabbis interpret the proximity of this
law to the horror of the preceding story by teaching that Nadav and Avihu were
drunk when they made their sacrifice. Regardless
of the specific reason and nature of their transgression, say the Rabbis, Nadav
and Avihu had blurred the line between sacred and profane. Whatever their intention was, they
overreached and crossed over into a realm that was not theirs. They flew too close to the sun.
Up to here, this story is not unlike the many other variants
of this theme.
Yet the Torah continues, teaching us even deeper lessons as
it develops the story further. For in
consoling Aaron, Moses says to his brother:
“This is what Adonai spoke, [saying], ‘I will be sanctified through those
who draw near to Me, and before all the people will I be glorified’” (Lev.
10:3).
These mystifying words seem to carry a lesson far different
from the one we had expected. Is Moses
approving of Nadav and Avihu’s actions? And
if so, if the two young men had only striven to draw close to God, did they
actually deserve such punishment?
From the cultural context of the story, we know that Nadav
and Avihu overreached. They were guilty
of excessive pride, perhaps even of fomenting rebellion against authority. Yet what Moses turns them into is icons of
self-sacrifice! If they were guilty of
anything, Moses seems to say to his brother, it was of excessive zeal, not
rebellion. They did overreach, yes, but their
motivation was not selfish. Rather, it
was to honor God.
So why such harsh punishment?
In the mournful silence that engulfs the brothers,
understanding is born. Moses was kind;
he forgave his nephews as he had forgiven the Israelite people many times
before. His great love always enabled him
to see the people’s inner rage, their frustration, their fire and their
thirst. In all those cases, he
understood their all-too-human mentality, and it tempered his own
reactions. He forgave them and pleaded
for God’s mercy even when they went beyond all bounds of decency, bowing to a
golden idol. Now, too, he sees Nadav and
Avihu’s motivation as being fervor, not rebellion. It was their attempt to be close to God that
brought this disaster upon them. It was
overreaching, yes, but it was not for power.
Rather, it was to be close to God, to become sanctified through love and
religious zeal.
From this story (as well as from the Akeida, the story of Isaac’s willingness, perhaps even eagerness,
to become Abraham’s sacrifice), that we Jews have learned the sacred notion of
“Kiddush ha-Shem,” dying in
sanctification of God’s holy Name.
Throughout the centuries, thousands of Jewish martyrs leaped into fires
and rivers while chanting the Sh’ma, preferring
the sword rather than to convert and defame their heritage and faith.
And yet, while teaching us that such religious zeal can be
sacred, the Torah is also clear in admonishing us of its dangers. The lines between the sacred and the profane
are not always clear. Religious fervor
is not unlike drunkenness. It’s a state
that lies beyond the boundaries of ration and reason. Zealotry is possession of a person’s body and
soul, a force so powerful that it can lead one to extraordinary yet also
dangerous realms. Anything is possible
under such conditions. As lines between
reality and fantasy blur, morality itself becomes uncertain and ambiguous.
It’s a state of being the Torah prohibits. Rather, we are admonished “To distinguish
between holy and profane and between unclean and clean” (Lev. 10:10). The boundary lines must be clear and well
defined, both to us and to those we teach, those who will follow our example.
Reaching for holiness is not unlike flying close to the
sun. Both are metaphors for the human
urge to understand our origin, purpose and destiny. It is an inborn impulse, motivating us to
greatness. But it is also dangerous. Holiness can be an all-consuming fire. It can take us to great heights, but it can
also plunge us into the deepest wells of darkness and oblivion.
We must be careful.
© 2104 by Boaz D. Heilman
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