"I Will be Sanctified" - a Thought for Parashat Shemini

Nadav and Avihu, Leviticus 10

Dennis Prager likes to say that the Torah is all about boundaries and distinctions.  Israel and the Nations.  Sacred and Ordinary.  Male and Female.  Allowed and Forbidden.  And so on.  At first glance, this might sound like a rather pedestrian focus for one of the most revered holy books on the planet. (I say this, because the Torah is holy not only to the Jews but to Christians as well.  Other sects which are offshoots of Christianity also revere it.  As do Muslims.)  How is a book whose author sometimes seems obsessed with classifying things - and who expresses this obsession amply through the Torah's text - so elevating to so many?  What's so spiritual about boundaries?

This is an easy question for me to answer, having spent 28 years in the military service of the United States.  Some people think that the military man's taking comfort from an easily definable structure and rules, reflects a weakness of character, but the truth is that structure and rules are liberating in that one need not worry about the correctness of one's actions.  If one is following the regulation, and using the command structure the way one should, one can accomplish great things.  It's when the leadership is capricious, neither following nor enforcing the regs, when troops are stymied into inaction, not knowing what will be the consequences of their efforts.  Of course, some endeavors require more structure than others.  But think about the worst job experience you've ever had in your working life, and I'm betting that it was a lack of knowing where you stood in the company or agency that made the experience bad.  I'm for rules and structure which are constant, even when I don't completely agree with them.

In that spirit, this week we read a narrative in the Torah that is, certainly on the surface, disturbing.  The Ohel Mo'ed, the Tabernacle or movable sanctuary has been inaugurated.  Moses' brother Aaron, who has been chosen for the office of offering the divine service, has made the first sacrifices exactly according to instructions.  Hashem has shown His satisfaction with the service.  The people are happy to have pleased their G-d.

And then Aaron's two sons, Nadav and Avihu, take it upon themselves to offer a sacrifice that has not been commanded.  The 'alien fire' that they offer, flares up on the altar and consumes the two.  G-d has shown His displeasure, in spades, for this breach of protocols.

One would have to be heartless to not see this as a very harsh judgement.  At least on the surface.  Nadav and Avihu saw the wonder of their father's service, and wanted to emulate it.  For that, they were instantly killed.  Did these two spirited young men really deserve to die?  Did Aaron deserve the grief that must have accompanied the loss of two of his sons?

But think about it.  The duties of a priest are highly scripted, and what he does is seen to placate Hashem and reconcile Him with His people.  The priest cannot just go off-script, go free lance.

It reminds me of an incident that occurred on Christmas eve 2015, back when hover boards were all the rage.  Remember?  Before people realized that their batteries were subject to exploding spontaneously, and the fad faded.  Video that went viral all over the world showed a Philippine Catholic priest, Father Albert San Jose, rolling and spinning on one of the boards, during Mass.  Some of his parishioners were delighted that their priest was so down-to-earth.  But his bishop was not, and promptly suspended him for not serving the Eucharist with the respect and reverence it required.  Father Albert went free lance, and was whacked down for it.

I've never tried speaking from a hover board while performing my public duties as a rabbi.  Frankly, I'm such a klutz that I would probably have ended up flat on my back in the aisle of the shul!  That aside, I can imagine that it would have gone over like a rock in most places where I've served.  We rabbis don't serve under bishops, but there was always someone who thought that he or she was my boss, (Hint:  usually whoever was signing my paychecks.)

In this context, Nadav and Avihu's punishment might seem harsh but not outlandish.  By offering a sacrifice not commanded - and this by these two who were not empowered to offer it in any case - they, in effect, made a powerful statement. "G-d?  I'm in charge!"

The ancient Israelites knew the misery that comes when there are no rules.  In their servitude to Pharaoh, there was no protection by labor laws or safety regulations.  When in his capriciousness the Pharaoh stopped providing straw while not easing the quota of bricks, there was nothing to stop him.  When Pharaoh ordered all the male offspring of the Israelites killed upon birth, there was no constitution to protect the babies.  There were only two crafty midwives, Shifra and Puah, who found excuses for noncompliance.

This lack of law, this arbitrary action by an all-powerful monarch, certainly terrorized and traumatized the Israelites.  When Hashem led them out of slavery to freedom, that freedom didn't mean 'anything goes.'  Rather, it was the freedom that comes with predictable, enforceable structure, by rules that the people could easily learn and, even if they might not agree with them, live by them without worrying about whether they were actually in compliance.  The law, when you're unfamiliar with how it works, can be frightening.  But when it is comprehensible, it is liberating.  Nadav and Avihu had no use for the law's strictures.  They insisted on going off-script, offering to G-d what He hadn't required or requested, serving in a role for which their father, not them, had been appointed.  The judgement may seem harsh, but in this light it does not seem as much so as at first glance.  Shabbat shalom.