Parashat Shmini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

What can we learn from silence?

We are surrounded by sound. Shopping malls, restaurants, medical offices, all play specially designed programs, a sophisticated descendant of what was once called "elevator music,” sounds that are designed to convey a subtle message:

A business’s background music is like an aural pheromone. It attracts some customers and repels others, and it gives pedestrians walking past the front door an immediate clue about whether they belong inside.

The Soundtrack of Your Life: Muzak in the realm of retail theatre, 

David Owen, The New Yorker, April 10, 2006

Silent films were shown with musical accompaniment; film soundtracks are still used to convey an added emotional dimension. Laugh tracks were created for to convince us that television comedies are truly funny. When you are put on hold during a phone call, you will hear something on the other end; often an irritating message about how busy the operators are but thanks for waiting, played ad infinitum.

We use sounds to drown out other sounds. Offices install white noise machinery that obscures the sounds of conversations in surrounding cubicles. Many of us carry our sound preferences with us, be they audio books or a personal music mix that we listen to on our ipods while walking, exercising, or taking public transportation.

The still of the night is not silent. City dwellers grow used to car alarms, buses, conversations of late night revelers. On truly quiet nights in the city or country, you will still hear animals, insects, and the wind blowing.

That is why it is so startling to be confronted by Paul Simon's old friend: The sound of silence. Sounds convey information, but what can we learn from silence?

This is the dilemma we face in Shmini. After the ordination of the priests, two of Aaron's sons, Nadav and Avihu, offered before the Lord alien fire, which He had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord. (Leviticus 10:1-2) Moses attempts to explain the situation to Aaron: "This is what the Lord meant when He said: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, / And gain glory before all the people." (Leviticus 10:3) How does Aaron respond? Va-yidom Aharon, And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10:3)

These two words va-yidom Aharon are the only description we are given of Aaron's reaction to what has taken place.

The Torah usually does not call attention to someone’s not speaking. What, then, is the unusual significance of Aaron’s silence? That he accepted God’s decree without protest? That his anguish was too great for him to put into words? That he was tempted to burst out in anger at the unfairness of what had happened to his family but was able to restrain himself? Perhaps the text is suggesting that there are more possibilities— and more power—in silence than in any words.

Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary, David L. Lieber, senior editor, p. 634

Aaron's silence has been treated as a void which has been filled with much commentary.

Rashi understands this silence to be an acceptance of what has occurred. In fact, his reaction is rewarded according to Rashi: Aaron was rewarded for his silence because the next set of instructions (Leviticus 10:8-10) is addressed solely to him. Sforno understands Aaron's silence to indicate that he is comforting himself in the thought that God was sanctified through the death of his sons. Rashbam also believes that Aaron is accepting of God's decree though not without turmoil. According to Rashbam, Aaron silenced his mourning, suppressing his personal feelings. Nachmanides (Ramban) offers two explanations. According to the first, Aaron cries aloud and then falls silent. In his second interpretation, Ramban takes the word yidom to mean "he ceased," meaning that he stopped crying completely. In the first interpretation Aaron could still be struggling with what has happened and is mourning silently; in the second he has accepted the tragic event that has occurred.

All of these interpretations attempt to explain an incident that defies comprehension and in so doing try to bring a level of justification to it. A completely different viewpoint is expressed by Blu Greenberg who, having tragically lost an adult son, can empathize with Aaron:

Aaron’s response is the profoundest human and religious response to the reality that there are times when good people die unjustly or are consumed in tragedies that seem to be arbitrary, shocking, without justification, and with nothing to ameliorate the pain and loss of those who love them. ...

The Jewish laws of bereavement, so exquisitely tuned to the needs of the mourners, stipulate that the shiva visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks. I had always thought that the point of the precept was to ensure that the conversation would flow to the place the mourner needs it to reach. But I now understand that the halachah enjoining comforting visitors to hold back in silence serves a different function: to caution against offering a rationale for the decree of death. The deeper human religious response is to be silent, to live with the contradiction, and to affirm that we need not force meaning into tragedy. Sometimes, the deepest response of love is to be silent.

The Torah: A Women's Commentary, 

Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss, editors, p. 633

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel