This week's reading places before us the sobering tale of the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron. The grand-opening & dedication of the Tabernacle is in full swing. God has consumed the first offerings and gloriously appeared before all the people. Into the midst of this ecstacy step forth the newly-consecreated priests, Nadav and Avihu. They bring forward an incense offering, an aish zarah – a foreign fire which had not been commanded. The flame of God bursts forth, literally 'consuming' the brothers as surely as it had consumed the burnt offerings. A tragedy has occurred in the midst of ecstacy. The Tabernacle, God's worldly dwelling-place, will for all time be linked with and founded upon this event, the incomprehensible death of two sons.
As I write this I am still reeling from the latest scenes of tragedy here in Israel. Still fresh in my mind's eye are the harrowing images of the Fogel Massacre, the blood-stained slaughter of children. Still vivid in my imagination is the shock of shrapnel that exploded at the bus-stop a short walk from my house. A piercing howl of “Why!?” rises in all of our hearts. Why such death? Why the slaughter of sons and daughters?
Surely, at its best, the establishment of the State of Israel is a modern-day erection of a Mishkan, an abode within which God may dwell. And just as the dedication of the Mishkan is somberly marked by the death of Aaron's children, so too the otherwise extraordinary founding of Israel has been marred and scarred by the tragic loss of sons and daughters. To live in Israel is to encounter both the rapturous joy of arrival, as well as the wrenching pain of violence and loss.
How are we to reckon with such unsettling admixtures of promise and pain? How are we to respond to the deaths of children, either by the hand of God or by the hand of enemies? While it would be anathema to offer pat answers to such sensitive questions, we all wonder how best to respond to such incidents of national loss. Where better to turn for wisdom on this complex issue than to Moses' words of instruction to Aaron upon the death of his sons?
The text reads, “Then Moses said to Aaron, 'This is what God meant when He said, “I will be sanctified in those that come close to me, and before all the people I will be glorified.'” And Aaron was silent.” Moses goes on to instruct Aaron and his remaining two sons, “Do not let the hair of your heads grow long nor rend your clothes, lest you die and wrath come upon all the people; but let your brethren, the entire house of Israel (achechem kol beit Yisrael) bewail the burning which God has burned.”
The text here seems to point to two archetypes within us. One is the priest, and the other the “brethren (literally 'brothers'), the entire house of Israel”. There is the priestly part of us which stays silent, which does not rend clothes, whick is not lost in lamentation. This is perhaps the voice of utter faith, the part of us that intuitively knows the mystic truth of the rightness of Divine will, bewildering as it may be to human senses. This is the voice in us that accepts that even this tragedy is the finger of God, a brutal but necessary offering for the consecration of the Tabernacle.
But then there is the part of us that is represented by the brothers, the House of Israel. This is the rest of the nation, the majority of our being, the part of us that feels deeply and is compelled to mourn. Lest the priest's mystic truth desensitize us to the searing pain of loss, or anesthetize us to the important task of tikkun olam, fixing the world, this familial love for one another prompts us to lament, to weep over the precious lives which have been torched and taken. This is the task of the achim and beit yisrael, the brothers and entire house of Israel.
What's more, it is precisely when we touch that emotive and expressive point of mourning and pain, that we ourselves become siblings and a completed household. When we mourn eachothers' losses as our own, we merit the deepest sense of being brothers and sisters, and essential members of the house of Israel. In our shared mourning we become family. And somehow in the middle of our loss and lamentation, the very house of God is established and the divine dwells in our midst.
The House of Israel
This House of Israel
is in avelut
we sit upon the floor
and weep
the mirrors are black
our robes are slashed
and leather-less our feet
Our clan is clad in ash and sack
a dirge between our bones
a wail of anguish
unabated
rises from this home
The pittance of admission here
is expression
of lament
authentic, rasp and risen
from some sullen mangled
depth
Here the graves are multiple
and flanked
with stacking stones
which could, perhaps, be launched
at enemies
but instead
hold memories
of what is gone
*
Our weapony is our weeping
our protection is our prayer
our strength is born
when we gather to mourn
made siblings by shared despair
And in lamentation lies our comfort
and in our meeting,
a Mishkan built
founded firm on the raw resilience
of the families of the killed.
But hear this,
Our love is mightier than our anger
for we are a nation
of mothers and fathers and priests.
We build houses out of
war-stones
and change cemetaries into
sanctuaries
with our songs of hope.
We are made stronger by this weakness.
We will last longer because of loss.
We are the priestly descendants
who offer up our incense
in this House of God
- and pay the cost...
And though this ravenous altar
may take the lives
of those who tend its flame
we will make
of this Land
a looking glass
for God's impending face
and pen His name
*
A knock upon the lintel
lets in the shiva guests
God shuffles in amidst them
and bends to offer His
Condolences
And in the madness of the mourning
and the anguish so immense
a Mishkan is suddenly erected
regal and resplindent
And a sacred space is made amidst the family
who endures such loss and grief
And the Mishkan stands strong
amidst the weeping throng
and God's Presence
refuses to leave.
As I write this I am still reeling from the latest scenes of tragedy here in Israel. Still fresh in my mind's eye are the harrowing images of the Fogel Massacre, the blood-stained slaughter of children. Still vivid in my imagination is the shock of shrapnel that exploded at the bus-stop a short walk from my house. A piercing howl of “Why!?” rises in all of our hearts. Why such death? Why the slaughter of sons and daughters?
Surely, at its best, the establishment of the State of Israel is a modern-day erection of a Mishkan, an abode within which God may dwell. And just as the dedication of the Mishkan is somberly marked by the death of Aaron's children, so too the otherwise extraordinary founding of Israel has been marred and scarred by the tragic loss of sons and daughters. To live in Israel is to encounter both the rapturous joy of arrival, as well as the wrenching pain of violence and loss.
How are we to reckon with such unsettling admixtures of promise and pain? How are we to respond to the deaths of children, either by the hand of God or by the hand of enemies? While it would be anathema to offer pat answers to such sensitive questions, we all wonder how best to respond to such incidents of national loss. Where better to turn for wisdom on this complex issue than to Moses' words of instruction to Aaron upon the death of his sons?
The text reads, “Then Moses said to Aaron, 'This is what God meant when He said, “I will be sanctified in those that come close to me, and before all the people I will be glorified.'” And Aaron was silent.” Moses goes on to instruct Aaron and his remaining two sons, “Do not let the hair of your heads grow long nor rend your clothes, lest you die and wrath come upon all the people; but let your brethren, the entire house of Israel (achechem kol beit Yisrael) bewail the burning which God has burned.”
The text here seems to point to two archetypes within us. One is the priest, and the other the “brethren (literally 'brothers'), the entire house of Israel”. There is the priestly part of us which stays silent, which does not rend clothes, whick is not lost in lamentation. This is perhaps the voice of utter faith, the part of us that intuitively knows the mystic truth of the rightness of Divine will, bewildering as it may be to human senses. This is the voice in us that accepts that even this tragedy is the finger of God, a brutal but necessary offering for the consecration of the Tabernacle.
But then there is the part of us that is represented by the brothers, the House of Israel. This is the rest of the nation, the majority of our being, the part of us that feels deeply and is compelled to mourn. Lest the priest's mystic truth desensitize us to the searing pain of loss, or anesthetize us to the important task of tikkun olam, fixing the world, this familial love for one another prompts us to lament, to weep over the precious lives which have been torched and taken. This is the task of the achim and beit yisrael, the brothers and entire house of Israel.
What's more, it is precisely when we touch that emotive and expressive point of mourning and pain, that we ourselves become siblings and a completed household. When we mourn eachothers' losses as our own, we merit the deepest sense of being brothers and sisters, and essential members of the house of Israel. In our shared mourning we become family. And somehow in the middle of our loss and lamentation, the very house of God is established and the divine dwells in our midst.
The House of Israel
This House of Israel
is in avelut
we sit upon the floor
and weep
the mirrors are black
our robes are slashed
and leather-less our feet
Our clan is clad in ash and sack
a dirge between our bones
a wail of anguish
unabated
rises from this home
The pittance of admission here
is expression
of lament
authentic, rasp and risen
from some sullen mangled
depth
Here the graves are multiple
and flanked
with stacking stones
which could, perhaps, be launched
at enemies
but instead
hold memories
of what is gone
*
Our weapony is our weeping
our protection is our prayer
our strength is born
when we gather to mourn
made siblings by shared despair
And in lamentation lies our comfort
and in our meeting,
a Mishkan built
founded firm on the raw resilience
of the families of the killed.
But hear this,
Our love is mightier than our anger
for we are a nation
of mothers and fathers and priests.
We build houses out of
war-stones
and change cemetaries into
sanctuaries
with our songs of hope.
We are made stronger by this weakness.
We will last longer because of loss.
We are the priestly descendants
who offer up our incense
in this House of God
- and pay the cost...
And though this ravenous altar
may take the lives
of those who tend its flame
we will make
of this Land
a looking glass
for God's impending face
and pen His name
*
A knock upon the lintel
lets in the shiva guests
God shuffles in amidst them
and bends to offer His
Condolences
And in the madness of the mourning
and the anguish so immense
a Mishkan is suddenly erected
regal and resplindent
And a sacred space is made amidst the family
who endures such loss and grief
And the Mishkan stands strong
amidst the weeping throng
and God's Presence
refuses to leave.
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