The Weekly Sedra – Parshas Shemini – The Kiss Of Death

The Midrash records the story of when Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai lost his son. Upon hearing the news his students all came to comfort him. Each one cited another great individual who had lost a child. To each he responded, “You are not comforting me. You are, instead, giving me more to grieve about.” In the end, Rabbi Eliezer ben Azaryah was the one who comforted him. He presented the following analogy:

A king once deposited a very special object with a trusted subject. Every day, the man would anticipate the moment when he could return the precious object and no longer have to bear the responsibility. He was apprehensive that he might not return it to the king in perfect condition. How happy was he when the awaited day arrived, and he was able to return a perfect item to the king.

“So too,” said Rabbi Eliezer, “Hashem gave you a precious deposit. You nurtured it; you taught him Torah, and he left this world sinless, a pious scholar who took leave of his earthly abode much in the manner that he arrived – perfect. You should feel good that you returned the ‘King’s’ deposit in such exceptional condition.”

It was the big day; the Priests were being installed for the very first time. The atmosphere was euphoric, Aharon was serving, the Levites were singing and Moses was coordinating. Then, just when the joy of the inauguration had reached its peak, tragedy struck fast and fierce.

Two of Aharon’s oldest sons, Nadab and Abihu – whom Moses described as the most outstanding sons of the nation, even more so than Moses and Aharon themselves1 – having offered a “strange” (unsanctioned) fire, were suddenly entirely consumed by its flames.

As you can well imagine, the majestic moment was tragically marred, leaving Aharon dumbstruck and wailing in grief. By way of consolation Moses says to Aharon, “This is what the Lord spoke ‘from my nearest I shall be sanctified . . .’ And Aharon fell silent.”

As is often the case, the Torah’s comments are extremely cryptic and require in depth analysis. The Sages and commentators offer a wide range of interpretations on what caused their sudden death. Yet even from a surface reading it is quite obvious that Moses was reminding Aharon that this was the result of G-d’s doing, and it was therefore not to be understood as a negative occurrence.

This puzzling episode, related in this week’s Parsha, presents a profoundly unique perspective on the often raised question as to why good people suffer – why unfortunate things happen to the most decent and righteous of men and women.

The Torah’s perspective on how to react to challenge and adversity – even premature death (Heaven forbid), is abundantly clear. We are not to lose faith and turn against G-d. We are rather to humbly accept that G-d knows what’s best for us.

Since we, as mortals, don’t understand what our purpose in entering this world is in the first place, how can we expect to understand the meaning and proper time of death?

Of equal importance is to understand what death is. In a society that considers death the end of all existence, both physical and spiritual – the demise of the body as well as the soul – death has one connotation. However, in a culture, such as Judaism, which purports that the soul goes on to thrive in the, so called, after life, the definition and reaction to death must be entirely different.

As hard as it is to imagine, death may sometimes be G-d’s gift to a certain individual, or individuals, as was certainly the case with Aharon’s two sons – through whom G-d sanctified his name whose souls go on to thrive and bask in the Divine glory on the highest of levels.

Does this mean that we should never question G-d? Not quite. Questioning and faith are not mutually exclusive. According to Judaism they are actually two very distinct and very necessary human traits that happen in different places inside of us. They hence can and must coexist.

We question with our mind; we believe with our soul. The mind is employed to think, and the soul is employed to believe. To say, “I believe,” is to say: “I feel my soul, and it’s alive”. Non-belief is a sense of detachment, not only from G-d but also from our own soul. Our soul already knows G-d, because our soul is essentially a fragment of the divine existence.

Being a part of G-d, our soul needs no proof of G-d’s justice and benevolence. Our mind, on the other hand, struggles to accept things that make no sense. The mind wants things to fit into a logical picture. So while the soul may believe, the mind may not be so sure.

But we can believe even as we question, because belief operates on a different plane, and the two are not mutually exclusive. This attitude is reflected in Israel’s first advance towards people-hood and their distinctive relationship with G-d.

Before revealing Himself at Mount Sinai, G-d instructed Moses to make a covenant with Israel. When Moses conveyed G-d’s message, the people answered: Naaseh ViNishma, “We will do and we will listen” Before even hearing what G-d would say, they promised to obey.

Chassidic philosophy interprets “Nishma” not merely as to hear with our ears, but to hear with our souls – to internalize.

Our people, accordingly, entered into a covenant with G-d at Sinai that reaches well beyond the confines of intellect. This is the foundation of our unique relationship with the G-d. It serves as the very basis of our bond with Him for all time. And so, we can question and believe at the same time. We question with our mind and simultaneously believe with our soul.

Difficult questions don’t have simple answers, but it is our faith that consoles us.

Moshe declared to Aharon “this is what G-d said: ‘From My nearest I shall be Sanctified . . . ‘ And Aharon was silent.” Aharon set the standard – and in every generation there are martyrs that remind us – that what might seem like the worst nightmare might just be the kiss of G-d.