With the conclusion of Passover and the return of our house to normal, I find myself constantly referring to the Jewish Calendar. Besides counting the Omer every evening since the second night of Pesach, I start checking the calendar because a new Jewish month begins shortly. I check the calendar because this week the Jewish people commemorated Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day. Next week, Israel will observe Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day) and Yom Ha’Atzmaut (Independence Day). I recently conducted a funeral for a Holocaust survivor. The woman died alone. She had no surviving family members. She never married, never had children. She lived with her sister and when the sister passed away she went into an old age home. The lawyer who looked after her estate explained this to me. Normally, I would meet with the family and ask all kinds of questions in order to get to know the story and the life of the deceased. The silence occurs after the family has shared numerous details about the life of their loved one and that silence is the silence of quiet peaceful pleasant memory. For the funeral of this Holocaust survivor, there was only the silence of an elderly woman’s life and an even more resounding silence in her death. There was no one to tell me about her life nor her death. Rather there was only silence.
This morning we read from Parsha Shemini. The Parsha is comprised of chapters 9,10, and 11 of Sefer Vayikra. In the first chapter of the Parsha, Aaron has now been separated from the camp, and the people for 7 days. He has now become spiritually pure to make offerings on behalf of the people to God. He now makes the first public offering on behalf of the people and God accepts it. The second chapter is a narrative that tells us about Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu. They want to approach godlike their father did, however, they are not spiritually ready. They offer “strange fire”, and are immediately killed. Moshe instructs Aaron and his two surviving sons about the appropriate behavior that is necessary when making offerings on behalf of the people. The third chapter of the Parsha discusses all the animals that are permitted and prohibited under the laws of Kashrut.
Upon the death of Nadav and Avihu, Moshe has to tell his brother Aaron of his son’s death. Vayomer Moshe El Aharon Hu Asher Diber Adoshem Leimor Bikrovai Ekadesh V’Al P’nei Chol Ha’Am Ekaveid – Moshe said to Aaron: “Of this did God speak, I will be sanctified through those who are closest to me, thus I will be honored by this entire people.” (Lev. 10:3) In as touching and humane a manner as one will ever read, Moshe tells Aaron that his sons have gone to God. Aharon’s response is silence. Vayidom Aharon – and Aaron was silent (Lev. 10:3). He didn’t cry out, he didn’t protest, but rather remained silent. Ramban, the 13th century Spanish Torah commentator explains that prior to Moshe’s words of comfort, Aharon had been weeping loudly. Moshe’s words of consolation calmed Aharon and he became silent. Aharon’s weeping was not only because he discovered that two of his sons had died but he was unable to make sense of the senseless. Parents aren’t supposed to bury children. Aharon’s silence was not the silence of indifference, nor the silence of emotional shock. Aharon’s silence was the silence of acceptance. He accepted Moshe’s words and God’s actions. Aharon’s silence indicated that he was able to make sense out of something that seemed senseless. When his sons died, there was someone to weep for them and there was someone to give meaning to their lives and to their deaths. Only in the aftermath of ascribing meaning to his sons' lives and his sons' deaths were Aharon capable of silence. Only then could Aharon listen to Moshe speak to his remaining two sons as to the appropriate manner in which he and his sons, given their stature and role within the community, must conduct their lives.
For the funeral of the Holocaust survivor, there was only silence because no one was able to tell me about this woman’s life nor death. I couldn’t help but think about the hundreds of thousands, if not millions of Jews whose deaths were greeted with silence because there was no one to talk about their lives, their deeds, their stories. This was not the silence of a pleasant memory after the memories have been shared. Nor the acceptance of death because that person’s life made sense. Instead, there was only the silence of not accepting the unacceptable nor trying to make sense out of the senseless.
Peace,
Rav Yitz
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