Fiery Death

Shmini

Lev. 9:1-11:47

Précis:  On the final day of the week-long ordination ceremony Moses instructs Aaron and his sons on the proper rituals. Aaron makes his offering. Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu offer “strange” fire before God. They are slain. Moses tells Aaron that he must not engage in the normal mourning rituals. The Priests are prohibited from drinking alcohol while they are engaged in their sacred duties. Next, God tells Moses and Aaron to instruct the people about the animals they are permitted to eat (part of the laws of kashrut). A general warning to guard against defilement and to be concerned about ritual purity is given.

Lev. 10:1-2  “And Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, each took his censer, and put fire in them, and laid incense on them, and offered strange fire before Adonai, which He had not commanded them. And there came forth fire from before Adonai, and devoured them…”

            The death of Nadab and Abihu in fire which we read this week has a particular resonance with our upcoming observance of Yom Ha Shoah, as suggested by Allan Myers (Torah Sparks, 4/20/17). I concur with him. As I have written before, there is no satisfactory explanation for the sudden death of these sons of Aaron; traditional commentaries leave the answer debatable. They died in fire for no apparent reason.

            On Yom Ha Shoah, we remember those of our People who were killed by fire for no apparent reason, other than being Jewish.

            Some traditional sages, such as Rashi, suggest that Nadab and Abihu were slain because they were inebriated (a prohibition against strong drink by priests follows the cited text). In a similar vein, there are modern commentators who attribute the Holocaust to the sins of the Jewish People.

            As outrageous as this idea may seem, it is rooted in traditional Talmudic thought: if a disaster happens to the Jewish People, we must be to blame. They suggest that the Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred among Jews (and not, more obviously, by the Romans putting down an insurrection). Maimonides suggests that the world’s evil is a result of humanity’s free will, exercised wrongly. This would account for the ability of the truly evil, be they Nazis or suicide bombers, to create destruction against the innocent. 

            Will the forces for good prevail against the darkness we see around the world, be it in Syria or Sudan or elsewhere?     

            Like Myers, I personally do not believe that there is such a thing as “Divine Justice.” There is, however, human justice. But if there is human justice, there is also human injustice. Perhaps God can help us end human injustice; that is the hope for Yom Ha Shoah. 

Avoiding the Plague

Shabbat Chol Moed Pesach 

            On the Shabbat which takes place during Passover, we omit the regular Torah reading and instead chant a section from the Book of Exodus (33:12-34:26). In this reading, Moses comes down from Mount Sinai and, seeing the Israelites dancing before the Golden Calf, shatters the Tablets. He returns up the mountain to make a second set, and returns 40 days later.

            Instead of reviewing this Torah reading (which I’ve done often when it is read annually earlier in the year), I wanted to offer a comment about an activity we began on the second day of Pesach, the counting the Omer: the 50 days between Passover and Shavuot. Literally, an omer is a measure (like a bushel) of grain, and the name is derived from the commandment to count the 49 days between Passover (when an omer of barley was presented at the Temple ) to Shavuot, when an omer of wheat was offered. This period also marks the time the Israelites spent from the Exodus (Passover) to Revelation (Shavuot), so the “Omer” has both agricultural and religious overtones. Finally, the Omer has rabbinic implications, as it is said that it is a period of mourning for students of Rabbi Akiva who were slain by plague because of their refusal to treat each other with respect.

            It is this final aspect of the Omer which seems appropriate for consideration this year. First, my family and I are in a state of mourning due to the passing of our matriarch. While technically the most limiting aspects of mourning were lifted because of the occurrence of the festival of Pesach, we still are in deep distress.

            Second, our nation is suffering from the same kind of lack of mutual respect which the opposing groups of Rabbi Akiva’s students displayed. Disagreement in all things – whether religious law or political action – is part of human nature. When we refuse to respect the opinions and positions of the opponents, and castigate them as the devil incarnate, we repeat the tragedy of Rabbi Akiva’s students. This lesson is not limited to the right or to the left. When we treat those with whom we disagree with respect, and recognize that they believe (however wrong-headed) what they are arguing for is in the best interests of our country, we may yet avoid the students’ plague.