D’var Torah: Parashat Shimini

Written by Writings & Sermons by others — 26 April 2025

In 1964 Simon and Garfunkel sang about the significance of ’The Sound of Silence’. Three years later The Tremelos sang that ‘Silence is Golden.’

 

Over a decade before these two songs, in 1952, John Cage, the American composer and pioneer of non-standard use of musical instruments, first performed his composition 4’33” – a piece for piano comprising totally of silence.

Take a moment to think about how you might have felt if I had started this Dvar Torah in silence? Does it make you feel uncomfortable to even contemplate the idea? Well, it would have been an interesting experiment but I decided against it – maybe my discomfort at the thought of it put me off the idea.

 

However, In my counselling practice it is often necessary for me to sit in silence with my client, and to contemplate what quality the silence holds. So, it felt only right that I spend some time contemplating the strange events we find in our Parasha this week.

 

Louis has just read that Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Abihu, bring a strange or alien fire before God. The verse continues… ‘A fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them and they died before Adonai.’ (Lev 10:2)Moses immediately tries to explain to his brother why this has happened, and then…Vayidom Aharon – And Aaron was silent.(Lev 10:3)

 

In the face of unspeakable tragedy and the awesome power of God, we too might be speechless. So does this explain Aaron’s silence?

 

John Cage talks about his reasons for composing and performing a piece of silent music. ‘Confronted with the silence, in a setting we cannot control, and where we do not expect this kind of event, we might have any of a number of responses:  we might desire for it to be over, or we might feel frightened, pensive, baffled, agitated,…’ his list goes on. His was an experiment borne out of years of striving to compose new music, using more and more innovative instruments and technology and always looking for new ways to express himself. In the end, silence allowed him a deeper form of expression.

 

As Therapists we sometimes interpret silence as a form of withholding or aggression, or as a pause to allow space for contemplation; a chance to think freely without the restriction of words – to allow the emotions evoked by the therapeutic experience to come to the surface.

 

Yet silence can also be deafening. As a woman I am always struck by the lack of female voices in the Tanakh. It leaves us all with so many questions about their thoughts and reactions to the situations they found themselves in. I think of Sarah, confronted with the possibility that her husband may have killed her son, of Tamar, so brutally raped by her half-brother Amnon without being given a voice of response, of Dinah molested, abducted and possibly raped by Shechem. Their silences scream out to us as modern day Jews.

What then of Moses’ rather clumsy attempt to console his brother? Immediately following the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Moses tries to explain to Aaron, ‘This is what Adonai meant by saying: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, and gain glory before all the people.’(Lev 10:3)

 

Why did Moses say that? And was it what Aaron needed to hear? Did Moses imagine that his words, while well-intentioned, really would console his grieving brother? And what was Moses feeling in this moment, or did he consciously choose not to feel? In the face of such a violent and shocking event, was the silence too hard to bear?

 

And Aaron; was he consoled by his brother’s words? It’s possible that if Aaron had not been silenced by Moses’ words, and had Moses responded to this tragedy differently, Aaron might have been able to access and express his grief.

 

How many of us also respond with words to the inconsolable grief of a friend who has lost a loved one? Because we may fully believe that no sense can be made of tragedy, and nothing will truly provide comfort, we often find it exceptionally difficult to refrain from speaking. Maybe in the silence there is a fear of contamination, that we might also be caught up in the pain.

 

Grief counsellors understand very well that the most supportive role they can play is that of a compassionate listener. Yet Moses doesn’t even give Aaron a chance to speak, and his words may have made any verbal response impossible.

 

The Jewish laws of bereavement, focus so empathically on the needs of the mourners. They stipulate that the shiva visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks (although this rarely happens). It is thought that the origins of this practice come from the book of Job. Following Job’s afflictions his friends, at least initially, come and sit on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. ‘None spoke a word to him for they saw how great was his suffering. Afterwards, Job began to speak and cursed the day of his birth.’ (Job 2:11-3:1)

 

I had always thought that the point of that teaching was to ensure that the conversation would flow to the place that the mourner needs it to reach. Now I wonder if it also serves another function; to stop us offering a rationale for the death. The deeper human response is to be silent, to live with the sorrow. We don’t need to force meaning into tragedy.

 

Aaron was the High Priest. Potentially, one of the people who could closely commune with God. His role was to act on behalf of the people, to perform and, in some cases, consume the sacrifices offered. He was at the top of his profession and, in that respect he was powerful, knowledgeable and revered.

But he was also a human being, with the same feelings as you and I.

Sometimes, the deepest human response of love is to be silent.

 

Caronne Graham 2025