Parashat Shemini: The Value of Silence

This week we read Parshat Shemini, a portion that, as its name suggests, speaks of the “eighth day” — that inaugural day when the people of Israel witness the Divine Presence descending upon the Mishkan, the Sanctuary they themselves had built.

At first glance, it’s a parashah focused on ritual: the inauguration of the Mishkan, the offerings, the dietary laws. It is a moment of spiritual elevation and collective hope.

But at the heart of the text, the unexpected erupts: a profound tragedy.

Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons, are struck down for bringing what the Torah describes as “a strange fire” to the altar. This stark contrast between the sacred and the tragic, between celebration and mourning, runs through the entire parashah and calls us to pause.

Shemini speaks to the deeply human desire to draw near to the transcendent, to seek meaning, to touch the sublime. Nadav and Avihu, however impulsive and reckless their act may have been, seem driven by an intense need for connection. And yet, the outcome is devastating.

The tragedy of Nadav and Avihu shows us that even well-intentioned acts must be aligned with ethical and communal principles. Our decisions, our actions, our words and our silences affect others, and for that reason, we must strive to act with integrity and respect.

Perhaps one of the most powerful messages is the call to humility. In a world where absolute certainties and unbridled passions can lead to dangerous extremes, Shemini reminds us that even the noblest or most spiritual acts require boundaries, guidance, and responsibility. The sacred cannot be shaped or manipulated to suit our personal impulses or needs.

But there’s something more: Aaron’s response to the death of his sons is silence. Vayidom Aharon.” And Aaron was silent.

That silence is not empty. It is the silence that breaks in when words are not enough. It is the language of the soul facing mystery; the kind of pain that defies reason.

Vayidom Aharon. And Aaron was silent.

I cannot help but draw a connection between that silence, the searing silence Aaron must have felt, and Yom HaShoah veHaGevurah, which we have just commemorated, and of course, October 7th.

I would never dare to judge anyone’s reaction to the loss of a loved one, even when classical and modern commentators alike view Aaron’s silence as either noble or problematic.

During the Shoah, there were many silences: There was the silence of denial of those who could not, would not, or preferred to cling to laissez-faire in order to avoid involvement. Nations, governments, ordinary people accomplices in a complicit silence that allowed Nazism to advance its macabre plans and led to the loss of countless lives.

But the barbarity didn’t end with the war. The damage was so unfathomable that for many, it was simply unspeakable.

Then came the silence of the survivors. For years, they could not share their stories. For fear they wouldn’t be believed, for fear of hurting their children, for the sheer necessity of moving forward and crafting a life that was somehow more just, more joyful.

We, those born in the 20th century, and the younger generations of the 21st, have witnessed a transformation: survivors who found the strength to tell their stories. We have the privilege to listen, to bear witness, to echo their suffering.

And then there is another silence; one that is also unforgivable: The silence of those who choose denial. But also the silence of those who are simply tired of hearing about it, or who choose not to know. That silence may be the worst of all, because it is the silence that breeds forgetfulness.

Parshat Shemini confronts us with both the sanctity and fragility of life. In the midst of the Mishkan’s inauguration, the tragedy of Nadav and Avihu reminds us that there are moments when words fall short in the face of pain and loss.

Aaron’s silence after the death of his sons echoes throughout our history and our lives. It is the silence that rises when we face the inexplicable, when the heart breaks and the mind searches for meaning amid the chaos.

This silence is not empty; it is a space filled with questions, with mourning, and with a deep yearning for connection  with the Divine, and with our humanity.

And of course, we cannot ignore October 7th, 2023, a date marked by horror and loss, which has also left us, and many others, in silence.  

A silence that contains all the types we’ve mentioned: pain, shock, inaction, remembrance, denial, fear of forgetting.

And just as the commentaries on Aaron’s silence often fall short in the face of his pain, so too do the explanations and justifications offered in the face of the Shoah and October 7th often ring hollow.

Because sometimes, attempting to explain is just another way of minimizing the enormity of what has occurred… even of trivializing it.

May we enter this Shabbat with the ability to embrace these silences and transform them into melodies, into dancing, into reverent joy.

May we turn our silences into constructive dialogue toward understanding, growth, and healing as a society, as a community, and as individuals.

And may each of us feel the sacred fire of the Kadosh Baruch Hu, the Holy One Blessed be He, igniting our innermost being, fueling our hope for a better, more peaceful world.

Shabbat Shalom, ve chodesh Iyar tov. Let’s celebrate de new month of Yiar, the month of the independence and the celebration of the existance of the State of Israel

Rabbi Gustavo Geier