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April 26, 2025 - 29 Nisan 5785 Parashat Shmini - Suddenness
Dear Friends, We would like to thank Lili Chalom-Weitzen for sponsoring this Shabbat’s Kiddush luncheon to mark the tenth Yahrzeit of her mother, Henriette Chalom (Aharona Bat Tziona v' Mordechai, ז"ל). As Lili related to me, Henriette was a vivacious, larger than life, intelligent, and resilient woman. She was born in Alexandria, Egypt, to Sephardic parents, before WW2. Her gregarious personality, as well as fluency in seven languages, allowed her to make many friends. In addition to being a mother of eight children, she volunteered in local schools, tutoring students who needed help in French and Spanish. Honoring one’s parents is a wonderful Mitzvah, so please join us at the Kiddush table to share in Lili’s Mitzvah and please consider sponsoring a Kiddush to honor or celebrate a person or event that is meaningful to you. One of the reasons I love playoff hockey so much is that, if a game is tied after regulation, there is overtime. No shootouts, or to use a soccer phrase, "penalty kicks." No, the stakes are much too high to let the game be decided by something other than the game itself. So, overtime is played. And played and played. Until someone scores. It could be one minute into overtime or it could be in the 3rd overtime period. You never know. And once it happens, once someone finally scores, that's it. Game over. There is no finishing the period or giving the other team a chance to respond. It's just over. This makes the tension and pressure of overtime thrilling and exhilarating, but potentially terrifying as well, hanging on every shot slapped towards the net, and every bounce of the puck. In the few soccer tourneys where this is the format, it's called "golden goal." In hockey, they call it "sudden death." This week's parsha, Shmini, horrifically contains an actual sudden death. Just after the ordination of Aaron and his sons as the Kohanim, the high priests, two of his children, Nadav and Avihu, go into the Holy of Holies and "offer alien fire, which was not commanded of them." As that is all the text tells us, we don't know for sure exactly what they did wrong, but we know it was really bad, at least in the eyes of God. Instantly, a blazing fire swoops down from heaven and kills Nadav and Avihu on the spot, eerily similar to the divine fire that had consumed the ordination sacrifices offered just moments before. Sudden death, indeed. For all of the positive lessons Moses teaches us throughout the Torah, here is an instance where, I feel strongly, he comes up woefully short. As many of us do when speaking with a mourner, usually coming from the heart with the best of intentions, Moses attempts to comfort his brother with an explanation as to why this happened. Vayidom Aharon, we read, "And Aaron was silent." Moses' words are not helpful here. When a loved one experiences a tragic and sudden loss, saying things like "God must have wanted them in heaven" or "This must have happened for a reason" is not only not comforting, it may actually upset the mourner even more. I understand that it's human nature to try to find a way to explain and, by doing so, understand more and feel better about what has happened, but this can be, and often is, adding insult to injury. There is a "right" answer here. It is simple and profoundly important, as long as the sentiment is genuine. "I'm so, so sorry." Perhaps adding an offer to see how you can best support them in this moment, and if appropriate, offering a hug. This may not feel like you have contributed anything of real meaning or value, but believe me, you have. It may actually be all that is really wanted or needed. There is no rationale or justification that will ever make their painful loss go away, even if God's self were to come down to explain it. Unconditional love and support, and the willingness to do whatever the mourner expresses as a need, this is literally the best we can do. And then to allow for silence to create space for our loved ones to mourn and grieve, to process their sudden loss in whatever ways and stages are authentic to them. I would argue that there are few lessons we can learn from Torah more significant than this. From Parshat Shmini, we learn how to, and how not to, comfort loved ones who have experienced real sudden death. This is all the more true and resonant as yesterday, we marked Yom HaShoah, our people's Holocaust Remembrance Day, now 80 years after the conclusion of World War II. The suddenness of Jews rounded up and forced into cattle cars, and murdered in cold blood, still echoes through the generations in our collective ears. We still feel their loss as though it just happened. We know so many who, like Aaron, are still mourning, still grieving, still processing, in everything from silence to screaming and everything in between. And, we struggle within ourselves as to how we should move forward, learning from history to ensure we never repeat it. As for so many of us, I am always so moved by the unfathomable courage and bravery of those who survived such unspeakable atrocities and horrors, who now take every opportunity to share their stories, allowing us to bear witness to the terrors they have lived through. I am also inspired beyond words by those who dedicate any part of their lives to preserving the stories and history of this darkest of chapters in our people's history, like our own Beth Gerson and David Isaak. Thank you, Beth and David, and all who perform such Mitzvot. You are truly, deeply, doing God's work, creating space and time for all of us to mourn, grieve, process, and learn. You help us to fulfill the prayers of condolence we offer our loved ones, by making their lives a blessing. To give those who, like Aaron, have lived through sudden and inexplicable loss. May the memory of the six million Jews taken from this world in the Shoah, for no reason other than their heritage and faith, always be a blessing for us, inspiring us to live full and meaningful lives, and to make our world the best place it can be for all of us. Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Joshua Strom
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