Unholy Fires: Shemini
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
April 5, 2024
In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini (“On the Eighth Day,” Leviticus 9:1—11:47) a disastrous event is described: the sudden death of two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu.
The cause of their death is as mysterious as what led up to it. The Torah sums it up in two verses: the two brothers offered “strange fire before the Lord, which He commanded them not. And fire came out from the presence of the Lord and consumed them, and they died before the Lord” (Lev. 10:1-2, NIV).
There are many rabbinic commentaries on this disturbing yet puzzling event. Some Rabbis say that it was simply overzealousness that drove Nadav and Avihu to disobey. They were over-eager and took a few shortcuts around some rules. Other rabbis focus instead on the “strange” fire that the brothers brought, and propose various theories as to what that might have been.
In any case, the Torah offers this story as an example of the wrong ways to offer sacrifices, when there is, of course, only one right way, exemplified by another set of two brothers: Moses and Aaron. In the world of the Torah, there is no room for moral relativism. Right is always right, and wrong is always wrong.
Of course, we know that in reality life isn’t always black and white. Sometimes we need to bend the rules a bit and deviate from norms that, under other circumstances, we would never even question. Towards the end of World War Two, some Jewish survivors of the Shoah formed a group called in Hebrew Ha-Nokmim, “the avengers,” with the purpose of exacting vengeance on Nazis and their partners. At the time, their deeds may have seemed justified in light of their suffering, as well as the immense suffering of the Jewish People as a whole. Yet toward the end of their lives, most expressed remorse for their actions. Taking a life invariably diminishes our own humanity. We can never again regain the innocence that had characterized our lives previously. Wrong is wrong, no matter the circumstances. The consequences can be sudden, as was the fire that burst out and consumed Nadav and Avihu, or appear much later, when we have had time to reflect on our lives.
That’s why the passage from our Torah portion is so purposefully vague: not only to make us stop and ponder about what might have happened 3000 or more years ago, but also to make us think about the many choices that we have to make every day, lest we, like Nadav and Avihu, bring “strange” fire to our efforts, no matter how well-intentioned these might be.
Among the meanings the early rabbis assign to this story, there are at least four theories about what might have happened. Rabbi Akiva taught that the fire was brought in from the kitchen, not the sanctioned source that had to be used for rituals and sacrifices. Another rabbi suggests that the brothers were drunk. Yet a third—that they sought to unseat and replace Moses and Aaron themselves. And a fourth, that they did not consult one another; each tried to outdo the other, each tried to prove himself superior to the other.
Unlike Moses and Aaron, whose relationship the Torah presents as the example of doing things right, it was Nadav and Avihu’s pride and arrogance that led to their downfall.
Now, fomenting rebellion against recognized and approved authority is always inherently dangerous. If that was Nadav and Avihu’s purpose, they definitely had their punishment coming to them. But bringing fire from the kitchen? Why would Rabbi Akiva see that as wrong? Is it because the kitchen is where life is taken and blood is spilled? Yet, in this respect the kitchen is not unlike the sacred altar, where countless animals were slaughtered on a daily basis. And isn’t the hearth also often the heart within our homes, the place where families and friends gather to celebrate and share life and love? What makes the kitchen profane and the altar holy?
Perhaps it’s that the rules for sacrificing at the altar were strictly prescribed and observed by the priests, while the kitchen is more commonly a place where improvisation takes over, where temptations can lead us astray—taste this, lick that, try a new recipe, or a different spice. Or as my cardiologist said to me just the other day after reviewing my lab numbers, “If it tastes good, it’s bad for you.” In the kitchen you aim for what tastes and looks good, not what is inherently good for you. In the kitchen, it’s easy to forget what’s kosher and what isn’t.
Despite the Torah’s injunction against entering the Tent of Meeting drunk, the idea that Aaron’s two sons were inebriated is also a matter of debate among rabbis. Some actually see spiritual elevation as a positive result of this state. Yet there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that alcohol hampers us physically and mentally. A person can see themselves as completely bright and competent, yet the confusion that accompanies intoxication can lead them to a totally wrong conclusion and outcome. This might have been the case on the night of October 6, just prior to the most traumatic event to befall the Jewish People since the Holocaust. There is no doubt about the absolute evil that was perpetrated by the Hamas terrorists. Yet prior intelligence reports did indicate that the terror organization was planning something big. But what followed was miscalculation and wrong analysis of the signs. Maybe it was sheer carelessness, or that dizzying feeling of carefree lightness, a form of intoxication. In any event, the intelligence reports were ignored, and the disastrous results were quick to follow.
The Torah admonishes us against the dangers posed by arrogance, confusion and miscalculation.
Torah doesn’t just tell tales. It teaches. The story of Nadav and Avihu teaches us that there is no such thing as moral relativism. A deep and wide gulf lies between right and wrong, sacred and profane, holy and evil.
Ultimately, “strange fire” may be our first impulse to cut corners as we strive for greatness and success. But in the end, without a doubt, it will consume us. It’s an unholy composite of arrogance and selfishness, ignorance and bigotry. These are the danger signs we have to watch out for within ourselves and in society around us.
What we should aim for instead is to follow the teachings of the prophet Micah, who wrote that all that God wants of us, all that holiness really is, is “To act justly and love mercy and walk humbly with our God” (Micah 6:8). That is the difference between the “strange” fire which Nadav and Avihu brought to the sacrifice, and the sacred fire which we try to bring into our lives and to the life of the world around us, the light of holiness and God.
We must not—and may we never—forget this difference.
© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman
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