We are living in a constant state of tension. Since Purim, time has seemed to accelerate unnaturally. And now it is the day after Pesach—we all exclaim, where has the time gone. We moved like zombies—waking in the middle of the night to sirens, or worse, lying awake in anticipation of them. Sleep became shallow and uncertain. Even now when there is a two-week ceasefire, on some level, we are still numb. Can we trust it. We still wait for the next catastrophe, hoping it will not touch us or those we love. We remain glued to the news, trying to find out whose lives have been shattered—and do we know them? This strange combination of dread and detachment is our daily reality.

It is no surprise, then, that many of us find ourselves returning to familiar texts and reading them in entirely new ways. That is, after all, the purpose of study: to keep texts alive and relevant. But since October 7th, this process has intensified. Biblical and rabbinic narratives now feel less like distant stories and more like reflections of our present condition.

The Struggle to Understand Evil

Before October 7th, many of us identified as centrist liberals, inclined toward seeing the good in all people. I still hold that identity. Yet it has become increasingly difficult to maintain faith in the potential goodness of humanity. Evil, it seems, is not only present—it is persistent. Can it be fought? Should we even try, knowing it can never be fully eradicated? These questions have accompanied me since I finished teaching the Book of Job two years ago. There, God answers Job מתוך הסערה—from the whirlwind—yet offers no clear resolution to the problem of unjust suffering. The imagery of Leviathan suggests that even the Divine contends with forces of chaos and evil. If God does not provide a satisfying answer to suffering, how can we? And more troubling still: what if God allows, or even participates in, what we perceive as evil? Our tradition has never stopped grappling with these questions. And neither can we.

Parashat Shemini: Tragedy in a Moment of Joy

This week’s parashah, Shemini, feels uncannily relevant. At the height of celebration—the consecration of the Mishkan—tragedy strikes. Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, are consumed by divine fire:  “And Aaron was silent” (Leviticus 10:3).

Moses instructs Aaron and his remaining sons not to mourn publicly, not to disrupt the ritual order, and to continue as if nothing has happened. This raises painful questions. Why are they denied the basic human need to grieve? Why is there no second chance? And what does such enforced silence do to a person, to a family? The scene is deeply unsettling: catastrophe interrupts joy without warning. One cannot help but think of moments in our own time when celebrations have turned instantly into horror.

Silence, Shock, and the Meaning of Mourning

Aaron’s silence—va-yidom Aharon—has long troubled commentators. Is this silence an act of faith, or a sign of emotional paralysis? Some, like Rashi, interpret it as acceptance: Aaron does not protest, and is rewarded for his restraint. Others, like Abravanel, offer a more human reading—Aaron is so overwhelmed that he becomes emotionally numb, like stone. A third possibility, suggested by Ramban, is that Aaron did cry—but then fell silent. His silence may come after an outburst of grief, not instead of it. This ambiguity reflects a deeper question: what is the “right” response to tragedy? Blu Greenberg draws a crucial distinction between mourning and weeping. Mourning is structured, reflective. Weeping is primal, uncontrollable—a release of unbearable tension. To deny weeping is to deny something fundamentally human. And yet, Aaron is commanded not to display either.

Leadership and the Suppression of Grief

Why must Aaron suppress his grief? One possibility is that leaders are held to a different standard. Public mourning might destabilize the community. There is an implicit expectation that leadership requires emotional restraint, even at great personal cost. But this raises ethical concerns. Is such suppression sustainable? Does it come at the expense of one’s humanity?

Interestingly, rabbinic tradition allows Elisheva, Aaron’s wife, to mourn. She is not bound by the same expectations. This contrast highlights the burden placed on those in positions of authority. Still, the question remains: is this strength—or damage disguised as strength?

Consolation and Its Limits

A revealing midrash tells of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai mourning his son. Various rabbis attempt to console him by citing biblical precedents—especially Aaron’s silence. R. Yohanan rejects these attempts: “Is it not enough that I suffer? Must you add to my pain?”

This story exposes the limits of theological consolation. Comparisons and precedents may offer intellectual comfort, but they often fail to address the rawness of personal grief. Modern psychology introduces the concept of Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG)—the idea that individuals can find meaning and even growth after trauma. Perhaps Aaron’s continued functioning reflects such growth. But the midrash challenges this notion: growth cannot be imposed. It requires time, processing, and genuine mourning.

The Persistence of Unanswered Questions

As we move from Passover toward Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron, these questions become even more urgent. How do we respond to tragedy? Do we seek meaning, assign blame, or accept randomness? Today, we are less inclined to blame victims—a moral step forward. Yet the need to “make sense” of suffering remains strong.

The truth, however, may be simpler and more disturbing: bad things happen to good people, and good things to bad people. The Book of Job makes this painfully clear. No amount of caution or righteousness guarantees safety. Missiles fall unpredictably. Violence and illness strike without warning. There is an arbitrariness to existence that resists explanation.

A Personal Reflection

On a personal note, I recall my father’s funeral over fifty years ago. My mother insisted that I not cry in public—that we maintain a façade of dignity. That moment has stayed with me. It shaped my understanding of grief and explains my deep discomfort with interpretations that valorize emotional suppression. Our responses to tragedy reveal who we are—not only individually, but culturally.

I would like to suggest a provocative re-reading of the biblical text. The verse describing Nadav and Avihu states that they brought “alien fire, which God had not commanded” (lo tzivah otam). But what if we read lo (לא, “not”) as lo (לו, “to Him”)? In this reading, the verse becomes: they brought a strange fire that God commanded them to bring to Him. If so, their deaths are not punishment, but a form of divine selection— “through those close to Me I am sanctified.” This interpretation is extremely disturbing. It suggests that God may choose the closest, the most beloved, as sacrifices.

If this reading holds any truth, then silence is not an appropriate response. We have a responsibility to question, to protest—even to challenge God. If divine or human authority acts unjustly, we must not remain silent. The story of Aaron, often read as a model of acceptance, may instead be a cautionary tale about the dangers of suppressing protest. In a world filled with suffering and moral ambiguity, our task is not only to endure—but to speak.

Shabbat shalom and as we now say ironically in Israel, Moadim le-pigrah!**

**instead of the greeting, moadim le-simchah, having “festivals for joy”, we say it’s time for a break, a festival to slack off (at least for two weeks)!

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)