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April 5, 2002/Nisan 23, 5762, Vol. 54, No. 29
Ritual and faith overcome tragic pain
Torah Study
DR. ISMAR SCHORSCH
Shemini/ Leviticus 9:1-11:47
Death in old age is sad but not tragic. The pain of loved ones left behind is tempered by the knowledge that this is the way of the world. Thus, King David on his deathbed instructs Solomon, his son, soberly: "I am going the way of all the earth; be strong and show yourself a man." (I Kings 2:2) There is no reason to protest. The loss will take resolve to overcome, but the naturalness of the death holds its own comfort.
That is not the case with a life extinguished prematurely. Parents should not have to bury their children. What goes against the natural order of things drives us to distraction.
Such is Aaron's fate on the day of his entry into office. The tabernacle was about to be inaugurated as God's earthly residence. A divine fire had just issued from inside the Tent of Meeting to consume Aaron's burnt offering on the altar, signaling not only God's favor but also the fact that the cult's fire was not of human origin. At this long-awaited moment, Nadab and Abihu, two of Aaron's four sons, misstepped. They intruded into the unfolding drama with a fire of their own making. But this time the fire from the tent shot forth to incinerate them both.
A reprimand by Moses must surely have aggravated Aaron's state of shock: "Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, and gain glory before all the people." (10:3)
In the face of such calamity, Aaron's response was one of silence. Was his the silence of submission or of anguish too great to voice? When David's vain and rebellious son, Absalom, was killed in flight, his father gave full vent to his grief: "O my son, my son Absalom. If only I had died instead of you!" (2 Samuel 19:1) But from Aaron not even a shriek.
Many centuries after Aaron, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai also lost a son. He had a cohort of five outstanding students. Each one visited Rabban Yohanan to comfort him. The first four took the same tack, recounting one of several biblical stories in which a father lost one or more children and yet did not weep inconsolably. Each time he refused to find relief in the misery of others.
Finally, Rabbi Eleazer ben Arakh entered and sat down before his teacher. "I shall tell thee a parable: to what may this be likened? To a man with whom the king deposited some object. Every single day the man would weep and cry out, saying: 'Woe unto me! When shall I be quit of this trust in peace?' Thou too, master, thou hadst a son: He studied the Torah ... and he departed from the world without sin. And thou shouldst be comforted when thou hast returned thy trust unimpaired."
Said Rabban Yohanan to him: "Rabbi Eleazer, my son, thou has comforted me the way people should give comfort."
All of us suffer bitter losses, but far from helping us, grief and mourning only harm our body and weaken our soul. And no one depressed in body can worship God as he should.
In the final analysis, it is an unshaken belief in providence that keeps us from going mad. The world is not without a maker nor our lives without a purpose. As long as that framework holds, we can endure the tests that come our way. Faith fills in where our understanding falters. Ritual keeps chaos at bay.
To this day, at the start of a funeral service, Jews recite the words of Job, "the Lord has given and the Lord has taken away," as they rend a garment. A single all-encompassing and caring God permits us to rage even as we are obliged to praise. Aaron's silence is not a virtue.
Dr. Ismar Schorsch is the chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary.
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