There but for the grace of HaShem
וַיֹּ֨אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן הוּא֩ אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֨ר ה’ ׀ לֵאמֹר֙ בִּקְרֹבַ֣י אֶקָּדֵ֔שׁ וְעַל־פְּנֵ֥י כׇל־הָעָ֖ם אֶכָּבֵ֑ד וַיִּדֹּ֖ם אַהֲרֹֽן׃
Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what ‘ה meant by saying: through those near to Me I show Myself holy, and will be respected before all the people.” Aaron was silent. (Lev. 10.3)
On this Shabbat we read of the tragic deaths of Nadav and Abihu, two young men on their first day working in the newly-established priesthood serving HaShem on behalf of the Israelites. We understand very little of the Torah’s account as it is preserved, and what we do have is so troubling that trying to understand it has been the aspiration of many a midrash.
Most of the interpretations given to this passage assume that the punishment fits the crime. Using the tools at their disposal to try to explain, the rabbis note the juxtaposition of a rule that requires priests not to drink alcohol on the job and deduce that Nadav and Abihu must have been drunk, and so were punished. Another midrash interprets through the Torah’s description of their bringing of “strange fire that had not been commanded” that the two of them were disrespectful of the established ways and were impatient to take over and innovate.
What many interpretations share is the desire to justify their treatment; they must have deserved it. The ways of HaShem, they seem to feel, must not only be just, they must be always justifiable. This way of thinking is ultimately nothing other than self-interest. If I can see the logic in what happened to them, I can avoid it, and thus be safe; and from our natural interest in self-preservation it is only a short step to dehumanization of the other, who is not me. If it is happening to them and I am not them, then I am safe from what happened to them.
If there is no logic to this thinking, then uncertainty, and anxiety, must ensue. The ultimate impact of the escape from uncertainty is cruelty. And so HaShem is seen as arbitrarily cruel, when it is our own assessment that leads to that conclusion.
This seemingly innocent tool of thinking is not morally neutral. Proceeding from the assumption that events have reasons can and does lead us to a place of moral judgement. It is only the belief that events may be mysterious that leaves room for kindness. It is only when we can face our anxiety free of the burden to find meaning for it that we can make room, strangely enough within the anxiety and the uncertainty, for empathy and kindness.
In Tomer Devorah the great scholar Moshe Cordovero offers us an ethical practice greater than discerning how another person deserves what has happened to them: when we remember that we are created in the divine Image, and that we are capable of not only expressing all the divine characteristics of being, we can come to see that what we act out is what exists in the world.
כְּפִי מַה שֶּׁיִּתְנַהֵג כָּךְ מַשְׁפִּיעַ מִלְמַעְלָה וְגוֹרֵם שֶׁאוֹתָהּ הַמִּדָּה תָּאִיר בָּעוֹלָם
As a person acts below, so [too] will one merit to open for oneself the highest trait above – exactly as one acts, so will there be a flow from above. And one will cause that trait to shine in the world. (Moshe Cordovero, Tomer Devorah, 1.14)
The trait Cordovero names as being the highest expression of the divine in the world? it is not justice, nor certainty, nor even peace – it is mercy. HaShem’s most holy presence in the world is adumbrated by kindness.
We don’t know why Nadav and Abihu died. We don’t know why the person living in a tent down the street lost everything. And we do not know why suffering comes to us in unequal measures in this world. All we know is that our ancient and well-traveled Jewish tradition asserts that the answer to our sadness and our fear is not to be found in logic, but in love.
Torah for the 21st Century by Rabbi Ariel Stone 