Shabbat Shemini

Written by EJ Cohen Thursday, 12 April 2007

On the eighth day of the consecration of Aaron as the High Priest, the people were told to bring their sacrifices to the altar. Aaron's two eldest sons, Nadav and Abihu, offered a sacrifice that was above and beyond what was commanded. They added a 'strange fire' to their pan, and as a result of their disobeying, the fire consumed them, killing them.

Moses had the task of informing his brother that God said, ‘Through those near to Me, I show Myself holy and gain glory before all the people’. And Aaron was silent (Lev. 10:3). He was further instructed not to mourn, not to rend his clothes and to carry on with his priestly duties, while the community mourned.

Two parts of this intrigued me. First, the 'strange fire'. Some think it was added incense, which made the sacrifice more than what was requested or required. Therefore, newly named High Priests who added to or made up a new ritual went against the 'law'. When I read the following lines, which forbade the use of alcohol in the Sanctuary, I first wondered why this was next. Some commentaries think that Nadav and Abihu were drunk upon approaching the altar (Leviticus Rabbah 12:1), which showed a lack of respect or decorum, and that is why they died. My first inclination, if they indeed were drunk, was to imagine that maybe some of the alcohol spilled into their offering—alcohol and fire would indeed make a 'strange fire'. As (according to a rabbinic interpretation) they remained intact, bodies and clothes, with their insides incinerated, this made sense to me.

The second was, where was Aaron's grief? Rabbi Melanie Aron gave a sermon stating that Nachmanides tells us that  ‘va-yidom’ means 'then he became silent'. So did Aaron react first and become quiet second? These were his beloved sons, who would also become High Priests, and yet his reaction was silence. I have known various people who died in fires: my friend Susan in a horrific hotel fire, Stevie, a NYC fireman who was among the first group to go into the burning buildings on Sept. 11, the astronauts on the Challenger and Columbia shuttles. Seeing these events unfold live on TV was beyond belief . . . and I recall my first reaction as disbelief. Shock. Too stunned to scream. But the tears and grief did come pouring out later. Not so with Aaron.

I can't imagine what went through his mind: on the happiest, most important day of his life, being invested as a High Priest, and then seeing his sons die in front of him. I recall hearing of the sudden death of my own father (z"l), I was too numb to react. It wasn't 'real'. Possibly, that was analogous to Aaron's reaction. Having others mourn for you is not the same as doing it for oneself. Jewish tradition is that visitors to a house of mourning do not speak to the mourner until spoken to. Maybe this is to allow the mourner to express his/her feelings, share memories and pay homage to the deceased. Aaron did not have that opportunity.

I also found it odd that Moses had told God that he was slow of speech and hesitant to speak to Pharaoh; he asked Aaron to do it, with Aaron becoming the first interpreter (Exodus 4:16). However, Moses now becomes the interpreter of God's wrath to his brother, reversing the roles.  As Aaron followed God's wishes, he too was rewarded—by having  God speak directly to him. An honour to be sure, but at what price?

We need to remember that respect is our responsibility. We should not behave drunkenly or disrespectfully in a house of prayer or a house of mourning. By allowing the mourner to reflect on his/her loss, we, as a caring community, can lead better lives to honour those who came before us.