Parashat Shemini: Between Silence and Fire: The Ethics We Inherit

We have just concluded Pesach, that season which invites us to internalize the mandate of the Haggadah: that each person must see themselves as if they personally had come out of Egypt. In an ideal return to routine, we would pack away the special Pesach dishes, place them back in their cupboards, let go of the nervous excitement of preparations and the surprises prepared for the children, and gently re-enter the rhythm of work and study. 

And yet, these days have little to do with calm. We live in a time in which new empires —no longer called empires— continue to sow fear and destruction in the name of power, and others in the name of who knows what false god. And while they believe they are defending causes proclaimed as just —and many of them are— what remains is a constant detonation of the human at every turn.

There are causes that must be defended, rights that cannot be abandoned, values that are also ours. But the tradition we have inherited does not allow us to stop there. It demands a deeper question, an ethical question that crosses generations: how do we defend life without losing sight of the human? How do we protect a right without endangering the lives of those we claim to be defending?

While the history of ancient civilizations speaks of the brilliance of Egypt and its monumental grandeur, the Torah insists on a different, uncomfortable version of history —one that refuses to be monumentalized. This is what Pesach leaves us: we do not celebrate an empire; we celebrate having left slavery. We do not remember the splendor of the powerful, but the fragility of the oppressed. The Haggadah does not ask us to recall the Exodus as a distant historical event, but to see ourselves as if we are leaving Egypt. This is not only memory; it is identity. No one stands outside the history they live through, and the present tense of our time continues to challenge us.

The Torah warns later, in Devarim (Deuteronomy 8:12–14), that when we eat and are satisfied, build good houses, and see our wealth increase, our hearts may become proud and we may forget that it was Adonai our God who brought us out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage. That warning feels written for every generation. The vertigo of events and the culture of instant gratification push us to forget, quickly and almost effortlessly, the wounds of our time. Perhaps because we are not always where humanity bleeds, where the oppressed suffer… and yet, we are all wounded. Our memory as a people teaches us that forgetting slavery is not a historical mistake —it is a permanent risk of the present.

And in that passage from the memory of Egypt toward the days we count in the Omer, we arrive at Parashat Shemini. The narrative begins with what seems like a perfect scene. After so much effort, so many contributions, careful design, and shared expectation, the Mishkan is erected in the middle of the wilderness. The Divine Presence descends. Everything is ready. Everything seems to be in its place. The frameworks are built, the roles defined, meaning seems clear. It is the eighth day, the beginning of a new collective stage. A fire descends and sanctifies.

And yet, in that very moment, the unexpected breaks in. Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aharon, take their incense pans and offer a strange fire —a fire not commanded, not instructed, not shared. An excess. The same fire that had been a sign of closeness and meaning becomes destructive. The same force that could have illuminated… consumes. The sons of the High Priest are consumed by that fire and die.

The sin of Nadav and Avihu has been the subject of countless interpretations throughout the centuries. The Torah, significantly, remains silent regarding the exact nature of their wrongdoing. And that silence has generated generations of commentary, hypotheses, and attempts at explanation. Perhaps this absence of clarity teaches something essential: there are moments in which the human impulse to produce quick answers becomes a moral danger in itself.

There is a painful phenomenon in contemporary Jewish life of rabbis who rush to offer easy explanations for incomprehensible tragedies. Whether it is faulty mezuzot or inappropriate private conduct, these modern “prophets” often seem to possess a perfect manual of divine reward and punishment. Traffic accidents, terminal illnesses, premature deaths —or even the Shoah we remember— are all readily explained with disturbing certainty. Faced with such moral recklessness, which presents earthly justifications for suffering as absolute truth, the silence of Aharon becomes deeply significant. When something is not understood, perhaps silence is the most honest response.

That silence —so difficult to bear— confronts us with a profound human limit: not everything can be explained, not everything can be understood, not everything can be said. There are sufferings that cannot be contained within words.

In these days, as our calendar moves from the memory of the Exodus toward Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and then Yom HaAtzmaut, this experience becomes especially palpable. These are not isolated days, but a continuum of memory, mourning, and hope —days in which life insists on breaking through despite everything.

Yet silence is not the only language of our tradition. Alongside the silence of the one who cannot find words, there is also the boldness of those who dare to ask. Abraham confronts God over the destruction of Sodom and questions whether the righteous will be destroyed with the wicked. Moses offers himself to be erased from the book if the people are not forgiven. The prophets challenge, protest, and even omit words from their prayers when they do not see the divine attributes reflected in reality. The sages of the Talmud reinterpret verses in response to their anguish before divine silence in the face of destruction.

No one could accuse these figures of lacking faith because they questioned. On the contrary, deep faith is precisely what allows questioning. It is not built on passive resignation, but on radical honesty. Jewish tradition knows silence… but it also knows the sacred boldness of questioning.

Perhaps that is why this parashah resonates so strongly in our time. It forces us to ask what we do with the fire in our own hands. Because the problem was never the fire itself. Fire can illuminate, warm, and guide. But when it is used without limits, without structure, without responsibility, it becomes a strange fire —one that destroys. One that consumes precisely what it was meant to protect.

This teaching is not only ritual. It is deeply human and profoundly political. When power is exercised through impulse, absolute certainty, or the need to dominate, it ceases to generate meaning and becomes a destructive force. When we confuse power with truth or security with imposition, fire no longer illuminates —it devours.

Against this danger, the parashah introduces another axis: discipline. The capacity to distinguish, to set limits, to recognize that not everything we can do, we should do. What appear to be technical laws, such as kashrut, are in essence an education of character —a way of learning to govern ourselves and to build societies that do not tolerate violence, humiliation, or injustice.

We are a people sustained by narratives of memory —a memory that is not nostalgia, but responsibility. Egypt built pyramids so that no one would forget its greatness. The Torah built a story so that no one would forget slavery. And even when we construct the sacred —like the Mishkan— the Torah warns us not to turn it into a pyramid, not to erase the fractures, not to edit out the pain.

Today too, we are building narratives with our words, our positions, and our decisions. When this chapter of history is told by those who come after us, our voices will be part of that memory. We are not outside the events; we are part of them. And amid narratives of victory and power, there are still slaves, children who die, and parents who remain in silent grief.

Perhaps, like Aharon, we too often remain silent. And perhaps that silence is sometimes the only possible response before what cannot be understood. But even within that silence, the Torah teaches something essential: no suffering must be forgotten.

Because it is precisely in that act of remembering —even when it hurts, even when it disturbs— that our humanity is at stake. And perhaps the greatest challenge is not merely to survive, but to decide what kind of fire we choose to carry: a fire that illuminates, that protects, that warms life… and not one that consumes everything in its path.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Gustavo Geier