Shabbat Parshat Vayikra 5 Nisan, 5770, March 20, 2010

Shabbat Shalom: Parshat Shemini

Leviticus: 9:1-11:47

By Shlomo Riskin

Efrat, Israel: "And a fire came forth from before the Lord and consumed them (Nadav and Avihu, the two sons of Aaron) and they died before the Lord… And Aaron was silent" (Lev. 10:2,3)

Many commentaries attempt to explain and even to justify the premature death of these two young priests on the eighth and final day of the festivities celebrating the consecration of the Sanctuary. Was it because they had brought a "strange fire" (esh zarah), which they had not been commanded to bring (Lev 10:1) – an extra, added sacrifice which has the echo of “strange service” (avodah zarah) – idolatry?

Was it because they had entered the Sanctuary in an inebriated state, insinuated by the prohibition which immediately follows this story, "Do not drink intoxicating wine, neither you nor your children with you, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, so that you will not die…" (Lev.10:8, 9)? Was it because they were jealous of the seniority of Moses and Aaron, and were impatient to take leadership of the nation (Midrash Tanhuma, ad loc)? Or was it because they were more righteous and more pure than anyone else – even than Moses and Aaron – and they were therefore chosen to be the most sanctified sacrifice for the dedication of the Sanctuary (Vayikra Rabbah 12: 2 and Rashi on Lev 10:3)?  Whichever explanation we offer, none of them seem to justify the enormous tragedy of untimely death of young men, and such suffering of the innocent Aaron at the climax of his week as High Priest dedicating the Sanctuary!

But if the Bible doesn’t present us with a satisfying explanation, it does provide us with a dignified response: "Vayidom Aharon” – and Aaron remained silent. This restrained and regal silence of Aaron in the face of inexplicable tragedy has reverberated throughout the generations as a signpost for parents silently weeping at the gravesites of their beloved children.

I was present, as a very young boy, at the first Sabbath circumcision of the Klauzemberger Hassidim in the temporary home they made for themselves in New York – their way-station between the European destruction and the rebirth of their community in Kiryat Sanz, Netanya. The Rebbe intoned the time-honored verse, "Then I passed and I saw that you were rooted in your blood, and I said to you, 'by your blood shall you live'" (Ezekiel 16:6), as he blessed and named the newly-circumcised child entering the covenant of Abraham.
At the conclusion of his blessing, the Rebbe commented, "I always understood these words from the prophet Ezekiel, ‘be'damayikh hayii,’ to mean ‘by your blood shall you live,’ because of the sacrifices the Jews have forced to make for our God and our faith, we merit the covenantal gift of eternal life. However, now that we have suffered the unspeakable tragedies of the European conflagration, it seems to me that Ezekiel's ‘damayikh’ comes not from the Hebrew dam, blood, but rather from the Hebrew dom, silence, as in 'Vayidom Aharon’ – and Aaron was silent. It is because we held back from battering the gates of heaven with our cries, because we swallowed our sobs and continued to pray and to learn and to build and to plant, because we utilized our energies not to weep over our past losses but rather to recreate our communities, our synagogues, our study-houses, here in America and, please G-d, soon in Israel, that we continue to live and even to flourish…"

But it took an experience some 54 years later to teach me how truly apt the Rebbe's interpretation actually was. Mordecai and Ann Goodman, beloved congregants and faithful friends, tragically lost their beloved son Yosef, a courageous paratrooper in the Maglan unit of the Israel Defense Forces. I had to find Mordecai and break the terrible news. It was one of the most difficult tasks I have ever done in my life. That evening an army representative came to explain to the family the incredibly brave and selfless way in which the young soldier met his death. Mordecai simply couldn't bring himself to join the family group to listen. He went up to his bedroom. I followed him up; I embraced him, and we sat together in silence. After a while, when I got up to leave for home, Mordecai walked me to his bedroom door. "Rabbi," he said, "when you give your eulogy tomorrow, just don't say 'that is the price for aliyah.' It's not the price we pay; it's the job of aliyah…"

I didn't understand what he meant and all that night I mulled over his words. And then I realized that Aaron did not merely remain silent; "They [Aaron and his remaining sons] did not leave from the door of the Tent of Meeting" (Lev 10:7), they remained in the Sanctuary; they continued to lead the services. Now, I understood Mordecai. To say that such a sacrifice is the price for aliyah would be inappropriate; after all, one could think that the price is too high and choose another, cheaper product – to live elsewhere, where there is less danger. A job, a G-d-given task, has to be completed, even if danger is integral to it. And if you are really astute and dedicated, you might even see it as a privilege, despite the risks. For the last 2,000 years, we couldn't do this job, we didn't have the ability to fight back or to train for future battles in a standing army, as Yosef did.

A year later, shortly before Israel's Memorial Day for its Fallen Soldiers, I learned that my interpretation of Mordecai's words was correct. He and Ann came to see me with a difficult question. "Yehuda, our next son in line, is being inducted into the IDF. He wants to enter Maglan, Yosef's unit. It requires our signature – and we don't want to sign. But he very much wants to go…" I took a deep breath, and responded that we cannot make moral decisions for our children; we must let them take their own decisions, even if it causes us much pain. Ann and Mordecai both wept, and left my house. I ran after them. "I believe in what I told you," I said. "But I want you to know that if I had to decide whether or not to sign the permission document for my own son; I cannot tell you what I would do…"

After the Memorial Day ceremony, Mordecai escorted me to his home, where there was a pizza and ice cream party for all of Maglan to welcome Yehuda into their unit. "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din," I said to Mordecai. "Our children are better than both of us," he answered me.

“I say to you, "be'damayikh shall you live, be'damayikh shall you live.” By your silence and by your sacrifice, by your resignation and by your commitment, with tears and with pride, with tragedy and with privilege. Aaron never left the Sanctuary – and neither did Mordecai and Ann. With such parents and children, we in Israel will not only survive, we will prevail!

Shabbat Shalom

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