By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D.
SAN DIEGO –In just a couple of weeks we’ll be asking, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Yes, Passover will be soon upon us. This week’s Torah read, coming upon the 32nd yahrtzeit of my mother, Yehudis bat R’ Binyomin HaKohen on Adar II 29, helps us deal with loss, among other common adversities in life. Parsha Shemini helps us live within an ethical framework, asking us to exercise self-control, make mindful choices, avoid toxic “inputs,” stay humble, respect authority, and maintain personal holiness. Following these principles can lead to greater emotional equilibrium and help one lead a better life. Can you imagine what society would look like?
Indeed, this year we may ask not only why is this night different from all other nights, but given the profoundly distressing, disquieting, and worrisome amplification of antisemitism swelling across the world, we may rightly also ask this year, “Why is this year different from all other years in our lives?”
The parsha presents us with the abrupt, heart-rending, seemingly inexplicable loss, the passing of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. We read in the parsha (10:1-2), “And Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, each took his pan, put fire in them, and placed incense upon it, and they brought before the Lord foreign fire, which He had not commanded them. And fire went forth from before the Lord and consumed them, and they died before the Lord.” And in the very next pasuk, we read, “And Aaron was silent.” SILENT? Aaron, the boys’ father was SILENT? How could a parent be silent upon losing two sons? How can we be silent in the face of the frightening eruption of antisemitism in our lives? This narrative has troubled many erudite scholars, thinkers, and elders over centuries. We are currently ensnared in a time that has killed many, upended lives, and endangered our daily paths. Are we to be silent?
Rashi tells us that Aaron’s silence was honorable and illustrated his acceptance. The Rashbam tells us that Aaron censored his desire to mourn and cry, for the sake of Hashem and his community. The Ramban, based on his understanding of “vayidom,” believes that Aaron did cry and then became silent. He cried, mourned, and then accepted. He entrusted himself to Hashem’s judgment.
The tragic deaths of Nadav and Avihu serve as a cautionary tale about the dangers of spiritual arrogance and not respecting boundaries. Psychologically, this illustrates the need for humility, following rules/guidance from wiser sources, and the perils of unbridled ego. The tragic deaths of Aaron’s sons serve as a stark warning against entitlement and arrogance, even for those in positions of religious leadership. They offered a “strange fire,” which Hashem had not commanded them to do, suggesting they acted with presumption and a sense of privilege rather than following Hashem’s instructions. This underscores the importance of humility, even for those closest to Hashem.
Commentators note that Nadav and Avihu did not consult their father about their ideas, highlighting the need for leaders to seek counsel and input from others, rather than relying solely on their own judgment. This applies not just to religious leaders, but to anyone in a position of authority or responsibility.
We may feel anger, fear, anxiety, confusion over the mysterious deaths of Aaron’s sons, just as we do when we face personal loss, and as many currently feel facing the calls for our death in streets and on campuses in our country. Our best response in every circumstance is to see the hand of Hashem in all our days, in every breath we take. Of course there are other responses as well. No, it’s not always easy to place Hashem in the centermost place in our lives, our hearts, and our minds, but it is our wisest conduct. Wisest that is, if we want to live optimally and cope with hardship in healthy ways.
Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, an early Hassidic master noted, “There are two kinds of sorrow . . . When a person broods over the misfortunes that have come upon him, when he cowers in a corner and despairs of help—that is a bad kind of sorrow. The other kind is the honest grief of a person who knows what he lacks.” We can help our emotional pain mainly by encouraging a healthy airing of anguish, staying focused on the here and now, acquiring acceptance of honest grief, and magnifying emunah and bitachon.
We see in this week’s parsha the importance of following divine laws and maintaining our holiness. Doing so relies on the system of ethics, values, and boundaries we marshal to govern our behavior. Psychologically speaking, this requires self-discipline, restraint, and the ability to delay gratification, elements of what is often referred to as “emotional intelligence.”
For example, we learn about the laws of kashrut and which animals are permissible to eat, encouraging us to make conscious decisions about what we consume, both physically and metaphorically. We are encouraged throughout the parsha to be mindful about what we bring into our minds, our thoughts, our bodies, which drives our wellbeing.
As we learn how to deal with loss in the parsha, the thought of saying Kaddish comes to mind. My father’s yahrtzeit is on Adar I 29, and this year with Adar I and II, I will say Kaddish for both my father and my mother. The Talmudists tell us how this prayer protects us and serves as a merit to the lives of those for whom we say this prayer. Others focus on how it helps the soul elevate to higher and higher levels. Aaron certainly dealt with the profound personal experience with which we all are asked to deal.
Interestingly, in the profound silence of Kaddish, the essence, the name, of the departed soul remains unspoken. I don’t mention my mother or my father. No words grace them, no whispers of their spirit. Instead, Kaddish reveres Hashem, extolling the magnificence of Hashem and His sacred name. Even when we touch upon “peace” and “good life,” it is solely to deepen our bond with the Divine. Yet within this sacred absence lies Kaddish’s strength, transcending mortality, and grief. With profound insight, Kaddish acknowledges the inadequacy of words to soothe our sorrows. Kaddish embraces us and our loss like nothing can. We don’t focus on our own pain and loss, we don’t focus on the departed life – but on the source of all life, the source of the immortal soul — Yeetgadal v’yeetkadash sh’mey Rabbah, “Exalted and hallowed be His great Name.”
The Torah reveals that beneath this world’s seeming darkness lies immense spiritual energy awaiting release through our virtuous deeds, our mitzvot. Our positive actions refine and reframe our material realm, aligning it with the eternal soul within. Physical death separates body and soul temporarily, yet our connection to the Eternal through our mitzvot prepares for ultimate reunion. A sublime world dawns where soul and body reunite forever in Hashem’s radiant presence. When we open ourselves to the Eternal Source through sacred words like the Kaddish – Yeetgadal v’yeetkadash sh’mey Rabbah – we transcend mortality’s bounds. We unite with the departed soul’s deathless essence and the boundless wellspring of all life. Mere existence cannot conquer death, but a life imbued with higher purpose, guided by the Divine, infused with the holiness we learn about in the parsha, triumphs over oblivion’s grasp.
Aaron taught us a great deal through this week’s reading. May we never need to rely on this, however, his insights are profound and quite helpful.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun. He may be contacted via michael.mantell@sdjewishworld.com