Parashat Shemini opens with Moses’ instruction to Aaron and his sons to bring offerings to the sanctuary as atonement for any sins that they or the people have committed. Aaron follows Moses’ instructions carefully and places the offerings on the sanctuary altar. Afterwards two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, decide to bring fire offerings of their own. Because they have brought offerings not commanded by God, they are punished by death. Moses tells Aaron and his other sons, Eleazar and Itimar, not to mourn for them. Later in the portion, God tells Moses and Aaron which foods are permitted for eating and which are forbidden to the people of Israel. In this section the laws for keeping kosher are established.
The first part of this week’s parasha is most troubling. Nadav and Avihu bring some type of strange, unsanctioned offering to the sacred altar. There are many commentaries on this story with rabbis suggesting what they might have brought to the altar. Perhaps a foreign, idolatrous substance; perhaps it wasn’t the substance but the way they men brought it; some suggest that the two were drunk when they can into the sanctuary which is strictly forbidden. I cannot make a judgment on their actions as not enough information is provided. But the part that I feel most uncomfortable with is the part where Moses tells Aaron and the other sons not to mourn the death of Nadav and Avihu. They are told to be silent, not to cry, not to tear their clothing, not to take time to process their grief but to continue their work in the Mishkan or Tabernacle.
How can we reconcile a God of compassion with a demand for such emotional suppression? On the surface, it feels like a denial of the very humanity Torah usually champions. It suggests that “the work” is more important than the worker, and that the sacrifices must proceed even after the most profound of losses. Reading this is painful, uncomfortable, and even offensive.
Some might suggest that perhaps the “wrongness” we feel is exactly what we are meant to sit with. This silence isn’t a sign that grief doesn’t matter; it’s a reflection of those moments in life when a tragedy is so immense that words are not just inadequate—they are offensive. By remaining silent, Aaron acknowledges the magnitude of his loss in a way that no eulogy could.
Today, let us remember that while our tradition values the strength to carry on, it must never come at the expense of our right to feel. May we be a community that, unlike the desert Tabernacle, always makes room for the broken heart.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Amy Schwartzman
