Shmini and Carrying Memory

In Parashat Shmini we read a heartbreaking story. Beginning last week we read about the intricate ordination ceremony of Aaron and his four sons that elevated them as the first priests of Israel. This week’s portion opens on the eighth, and final, day of that festival. Special sacrifices were offered, Aaron blessed the entire nation for the first time as High Priest, it is even told that God made God’s presence known and seen to the entire Israelite nation. Yet what begins as a celebratory, joyful event ends in tragedy. 

The Torah narrative tells us: “Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before GOD aish zarah - alien fire - which had not been enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from GOD and consumed them; thus they died by GOD’s will.” (Leviticus 10:1-2) 

For the act of bringing aish zarah before God, two of Aaron’s sons are killed. The deeply troubling aspect of this story is that, according to the Torah, what the two young men did was not a sin. Nowhere is it written that presenting aish zarah is forbidden. Generations of Jewish thinkers have struggled with this story. Many have offered explanations, but even the most compelling commentaries are forced to read into the text aspects of the story  that simply are not there. 

Parashat Shmini forces us to grapple with inexplicable, tragic loss of life. For me it is no coincidence that, most years, we read this portion at this moment in the Hebrew calendar during which we are most engaged with our collective national memory. We remember our triumphs - redeemed from the destructive hand of hate on Purim and from the physical and spiritual degradation of slavery during Passover; we also remember our tragedies - the devastation of our people in Europe on Yom HaShoah and the sacrifice made by far too many in establishing and protecting a Jewish state on Yom HaZikaron. 

During these days, Jewish time and Jewish tradition come together and push us to confront the most difficult aspects of tragic loss. We ask, what are we supposed to do in the face of such awful disasters? 

In the parasha, we read many different responses to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. Moses, in his role as national leader, looks to explain and make sense of what happened. In the face of Moses’ literalism, the Israelite nation joins in bewailing the tragedy, the pain overwhelming them and needing to be given a voice. Aaron, for his part, falls silent and says nothing. 

These descriptions seem to infer that there is no one proper way to act in the face of loss. The range of methods in which to deal with tragedy is as diverse as humanity itself. While varied, the throughline that runs through each is that they are human attempts to make sense of a world that, at times, breaks our hearts and challenges the strength of our spirits in inexplicable ways. 

Our tradition offers many responses to tragedy and sorrow. One of them is the recitation of psalms. A particular psalm recited in times of trouble is Psalm 121. The Psalmist asks “I turn my eyes to the mountains; from where will my help come?” Answering its own question, the text responds, “my help comes from God, maker of heaven and earth.” As we reflect over these next two weeks on the tragedies of the past, distant and all too recent, our faith can be a source of great comfort. We can turn our eyes to the expanse, as did generations of our ancestors, to find inspiration and strength to carry us through these difficult days. 

May we all be blessed this Shabbat with the strength of spirit to carry the memories of those who were taken from us and may those memories serve as an eternal blessing for our People.