One of the most unnatural and painful deaths to endure is surely that of a child. It challenges our assumptions about life, faith, identity and parenting. As Rabbi JB Soloveichik has written: “Death is always the great evil man cannot accept. It is certainly unacceptable to a father whose grief over the loss of a son is limitless”. In this week’s Parasha, Shemini, Aharon, the high priest, is faced with the death not of one son, but two of his sons. His grief is magnified by the circumstances of their deaths.
They died on the very day which he had anticipated so much joy and fulfilment, and they died while serving G-d. This is surely one of the most heartbreaking events in the Torah and, while the text is spare in its description, the commentators are meticulous and detailed in their unpacking of the incident. Their explanations range from the sons’ thirst for power (and to replace Moshe) to their hedonism and self-preoccupation. One interpretation suggests they arrogantly assumed that they alone had discovered the real source of light, power and truth – the authentic flame of life itself.
It is, however, the pathos rather than the justification that I turn to now. The Torah describes Aharon’s response to this tortuous tragedy in just two simple words:
“Vayidom Aharon”, and Aharon was silenced (10:3).
In two words the Torah captures the devastation and uncomprehending shock of the mourner; the deep, bottomless pit of grief and silence that opens at the news of a shocking death. It is the silence when words fail, especially the awful numbness of the initial stage of mourning. Perhaps the poet William Wordsworth had this in mind when he wrote about grief saying: “To me the meanest flower … can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”.
The grief of the mother of the boys, Aharon’s wife (Elisheva) is not recorded. The text is focusing on the public official response of the High Priest in the context of his duties, but is also possibly indicative of the Torah rarely addressing the interior emotional lives of women. One rare exception to this is ironically the acute pain of the mother of Sisera (Judges 5:28-30) as she anxiously waits for his return from battle against Deborah, ruler of Israel, knowing in her heart that he will probably never return to her. “Through the gates peers Sisera’s mother, behind the lattice she wails, why is his chariot so long in coming”. The Torah here does what most of us dare not: It records the priority of passion for our own loss, but also compassion for the loss of even our enemy’s children. The different Rosh Hashana shofar blasts recall the poignant cries, broken sobs and bereft whimpers of the mother. Deborah, who writes these words about Sisera, empathises with the heartbreak of a mourning mother.
There have been too many wrenching stories of parental grief over the past two and half years since October 7, too many accounts of the young men and women torn away from their families by the ongoing war in Israel. The deeply felt and eloquent words of Rachel Goldberg-Polin whose son, Hersh, was murdered in Gaza made her the embodiment of every parent’s worst nightmare of losing a child. She, her husband and the other brave parents like Rabbi Doron Perez have helped us to recognise and speak publicly about this most terrible of fires burning our people.
It is, however, also the silence that can eventually, gently nudge the grieving individual back into the stream of life. For our Rabbis well understood that the quietness of contemplation and introspection can be healing. “Silence is good for the body” said our sages and by extension it (silence) nurtures the soul.
In a world filled with so much sound and fury we often rush to fill in the silence of a mourner or Shiva house with chatter and lame words. The words may be well intentioned, but often they cause more pain. Halacha, which pays respect to Aharon’s silence in the many laws of mourning based on his loss, cautions us to be silent and to take our cue from the mourners. In this way, both grievers and comforters come to appreciate the textured power of silence.
After this terrible loss, Aharon does rediscover his voice and speaks about his unfathomable loss. The Torah reminds us that when confronting grief there is a time for silence, but also a time for articulating it.
Rabbi Ralph Genende OAM
AIJAC Interfaith and Community Liaison
Rabbi to Kehilat Kesher, The Connecting Community
