Emerging, as we just have, from the revelry of Purim, when we celebrated our miraculous escape from the existential threat that Haman represents, we find ourselves with mere weeks to prepare for the next leap into redemption. I was surprised this year, as I am many years, at the energy, both physical and emotional, that I expend of this fun, celebratory holiday. The victory of Purim, though miraculous, is hard won, and it is all about staying alive another day. Even in the conclusion of the Megilah, God’s presence is hidden and real freedom is tenuous. Nevertheless, we celebrate the topsy-turvy nature of life, that what started as a tragedy, an occasion for mourning, was overturned, and the Jews ended up celebrating our survival.
This week, in the parsha, however, the topsy-turvy-ness does not work in our favor. In Parshat Shmini, we face one of the most difficult moments in the Torah. Aaron and his sons emerge from seven days of confinement in the mishkah, the portable sanctuary in which they are being ordained to serve as kohanim, priests. Aaron, now ordained as the high priest offers his first sacrifices and a fire comes from God to consume the offering.
The next thing we hear, two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Abihu take their firepans, fill them with incense and offer a “strange fire” that God did not command them. Again a fire comes from God, this time consuming not their offering, but Nadav and Abihu themselves. And so, very quickly, what had started as a celebration turns into a shocking loss, a sudden moment of mourning.
Midrash and commentaries are full of attempts at explaining why Nadav and Abihu die in this way. Maybe they were drunk. Maybe they failed to wash their hands and feet before approaching the holy space. Maybe they were callously discussing the time when Moses and Aaron would pass on and they themselves would be the most important leaders of the people. Maybe they were simply too close to God’s holiness with too little regard for the danger inherent in that closeness.
Whatever the reason, the fire from God, which is initially so powerfully inspiring, representing the presence of God among the people, a presence that promises to bring a sense of security and comfort to the people who have been yearning for a tangible manifestation of God in their camp, turns into a source of danger. Fire as a manifestation of God plays this dual role in other moments as well. God’s pillar of fire is a protective and guiding presence as the Israelites travel through the desert, its protection coming in part for the danger it poses to enemies who might attack. Later, in one of Moses’ parting sermons to the Israelites in the book of Devarim, he warns them to observe the commandments, referring to God as an Esh Ochlah, a consuming fire.
The relationship being built through the work of the mishkan holds powerful potential for good, for connection, for protection, for meaning, but it also holds the potential for danger. The Talmud, in Masechet Sotah, talks about the closest relationships between human beings in similar terms, holding both great potential and potential disaster. “If man [ish] and woman [isha] do good and are worthy, the Divine Presence is between them. If not, fire [esh] consumes them” The word play here is that the Hebrew words ish, man, and isha, woman each contain the letters aleph and shin, which, on their own spell esh, fire. But ish also contains the letter yod, and isha, the letter heh, both parts of God’s name. The claim here is that, human beings, made in God’s image, are in a sense, essentially fire, but that we are each also given an calming element of God’s name. The balance is delicate, and requires careful attention to the way we nurture our interpersonal relationships if we are to avoid being burnt up.
Maybe it is this same dynamic that comes into play with Aaron’s sons in this parsha, that newly close relationship between their fiery human selves and the fiery presence of God needed a careful attention to their conduct, so that a seemingly small oversight like handwashing, thoughtless conversation, or the wrong kind of incense at the wrong time could lead to their being consumed in the fire that ensues.
I often notice, in my children and my students, the way that small moments of thoughtlessness in the way they nurture their relationships can lead to blow ups that seem much greater than necessary. Sometimes just giving them the words to express themselves with more explicit concern for one another can diffuse an situation on the verge of becoming explosive. This week, Brian Gordon, creator of Fowl Language Comics released a cartoon, pointing to the tendency that children have to allow the fiery part of their personalities clash, igniting one another’s anger, and burning up what is in their path. In his second pane, he points to adults tendancy to fall into the same trap, lighting on each other’s fiery souls, and burning ever hotter, and more destructive.
In difficult moments, it is tempting to look around and write off others and even ourselves as creatures of fire, slaves to our inborn nature, incapable of quelling our tendencies to burn each other up. But in Parshat Shmini, the fire is not only an instrument of destruction. It is also a representation of holiness, of connection. The fire within us also allows us to pursue our passions, to pursue justice, to fight for freedom, to reach out for relationship. The trick, as we reach for the liberation of Pesach, is to temper the fire with the element that helps us to do good and be worthy, and to nurture our relationships with humility, kind words, and careful respect. May we all be worthy of finding it within ourselves and nurturing it in our children.
Shabbat Shalom.