The shock is immense. For several weeks and many chapters – the longest prelude in the Torah – we have read of the preparations for the moment at which G‑d would bring His presence to rest in the midst of the people. Five sedras (Terumah, Tetzaveh, Ki Tissa, Vayakhel and Pekudei) describe the instructions for building the sanctuary. Two (Vayikra, Tzav) detail the sacrificial offerings to be brought there. All is now ready. For seven days the priests (Aaron and his sons) are consecrated into office. Now comes the eighth day when the service of the mishkan
will begin. The entire people have played their part in constructing
what will become the visible home of the Divine presence on earth. With a
simple, moving verse the drama reaches its climax: “Moses
and Aaron went into the Tent of Meeting and when they came out, they
blessed the people. G‑d’s glory was then revealed to all the people.”
Just as we think the narrative has reached closure, a terrifying scene takes place:
Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu,
took their censers, put fire into them and added incense; and they
offered unauthorized fire before G‑d, which He had not instructed them
to offer. Fire came forth from before G‑d, and it consumed them so that
they died before G‑d. Moses then said to Aaron: “This is what G‑d spoke
of when he said: Among those who approach Me I will show myself holy; in
the sight of all the people I will be honoured.” (10:1-3)
Celebration turned to tragedy. The two eldest sons of Aaron die. The
sages and commentators offer many explanations. Nadav and Avihu died
because: they entered the holy of holies;
they were not wearing the requisite clothes; they took fire from the
kitchen, not the altar; they did not consult Moses and Aaron; nor did
they consult one another. According to some they were guilty of hubris.
They were impatient to assume leadership roles themselves; and they did
not marry, considering themselves above such things. Yet others see
their deaths as delayed punishment for an earlier sin, when, at Mount
Sinai they “ate and drank” in the presence of G‑d (Ex. 24: 9-11).
These interpretations represent close readings of the four places in
the Torah which Nadav and Avihu’s death is mentioned (Lev. 10: 2, 16: 1,
Num. 3: 4, 26: 61), as well as the reference to their presence on Mount
Sinai. Each is a profound meditation on the dangers of over-enthusiasm
in the religious life. However, the simplest explanation is the one
explicit in the Torah itself. Nadav and Avihu died because they offered
unauthorized (literally “strange”) fire – meaning “that which was not
commanded.” To understand the significance of this we must go back to
first principles (Covenant and Conversation, Terumah) and remind
ourselves of the meaning of
kadosh, “holy”, and thus of mikdash as the home of the holy.
The holy is that segment of time and space G‑d has reserved for His presence. Creation involves concealment. The word olam,
universe, is semantically linked to the word neelam, “hidden.” To give
mankind some of His own creative powers – the use of language to think,
communicate, understand, imagine alternative futures and choose between
them – G‑d must do more than create homo sapiens. He must efface Himself
(what the kabbalists called tzimtzum)
to create space for human action. No single act more profoundly
indicates the love and generosity implicit in creation. G‑d as we
encounter Him in the Torah is like a parent who knows He must hold back,
let go, refrain from intervening, if his children are to become
responsible and mature.
But there is a limit. To efface himself entirely would be equivalent
to abandoning the world, deserting his own children. That, G‑d may not
and will not do. How then does G‑d leave a trace of his presence on
earth?
The biblical answer is not philosophical. A philosophical answer (I
am thinking here of the mainstream of Western philosophy, beginning in
antiquity with Plato, in modernity with Descartes) would be one that
applies universally – i.e. at all times, in all places. But there is no
answer that applies to all times and places. That is why philosophy
cannot and never will understand the apparent contradiction between
divine creation and human freewill, or between divine presence and the
empirical world in which we reflect, choose and act.
Jewish thought is counter-philosophical. It insists that truths are
embodied precisely in particular times and places. There are holy times
(the seventh day, seventh month, seventh year, and the end of seven
septennial cycles, the jubilee). There are holy people (the children of Israel as a whole; within them, the Levi’im, and within them the Cohanim). And there is holy space (eventually, Israel; within that, Jerusalem; within that the Temple; in the desert, they were the mishkan, the holy, and the holy of holies).
The holy is that point of time and space in which the presence of G‑d
is encountered by tzimtzum – selfrenunciation – on the part of mankind.
Just as G‑d makes space for man by an act of self-limitation, so man
makes space for G‑d by an act of self-limitation. The holy is where G‑d
is experienced as absolute presence. Not accidentally but essentially,
this can only take place through the total renunciation of human will
and initiative. That is not because G‑d does not value human will and
initiative. To the contrary: G‑d has empowered mankind to use them to
become His “partners in the work of creation”.
However, to be true to G‑d’s purposes, there must be times and places
at which humanity experiences the reality of the divine. Those times
and places require absolute obedience. The most fundamental mistake –
the mistake of Nadav and Avihu – is to take the powers that belong to
man’s encounter with the world, and apply them to man’s encounter with
the Divine. Had Nadav and Avihu used their own initiative to fight evil
and injustice they would have been heroes. Because they used their own
initiative in the arena of the holy, they erred. They asserted their own
presence in the absolute presence of G‑d. That is a contradiction in
terms. That is why they died.
We err if we think of G‑d as capricious, jealous, angry – a myth
spread by early Christianity in an attempt to define itself as the
religion of love, superseding the cruel/harsh/retributive G‑d of the
“Old Testament.” When the Torah itself uses such language it “speaks in
the language of humanity” – that is to say, in terms people will
understand.
In truth, Tenakh
is a love story through and through – the passionate love of the
Creator for His creatures, that survives all the disappointments and
betrayals of human history. G‑d needs us to encounter Him, not because
He needs mankind but because we need Him. If civilization is to be
guided by love, justice, and respect for the integrity of creation as
such, there must be moments in which we leave the “I” behind and
encounter the fullness of being in all its glory. That is the function
of the holy – the point at which “I am” is silent in the overwhelming
presence of “There is”. That is what Nadav and Avihu forgot – that to
enter holy space or time requires ontological humility, the total
renunciation of human initiative and desire.
The significance of this fact cannot be over-estimated. When we
confuse G‑d’s will with our will, we turn the holy (the source of life)
into something unholy and a source of death. The classic example of this
is “holy war” – investing imperialism (the desire to rule over other
people) with the cloak of sanctity as if conquest and forced conversion
were G‑d’s will. The story of Nadav and Avihu reminds us yet again of
the warning first spelled out in the days of Cain and Abel.
The first act of worship led to the first murder. Like nuclear fission,
worship generates power, which can be benign but can also be profoundly
dangerous.
The episode of Nadav and Avihu is written in three kinds of fire. First there is the fire from heaven:
Fire came forth from before G‑d and consumed the burnt offering . . . (9: 24)
This was the fire of favour, consummating the service of the
sanctuary. Then came the “unauthorized fire” offered by the two sons.
Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu took their censers, put fire in them
and added incense; and they offered unauthorized fire before G‑d, which
He had not instructed them to offer.(10:1)
Then there was the counter-fire from heaven:
Fire came forth from before G‑d, and it consumed them so that they died before G‑d. (10:2)
The message is simple and deadly serious: Religion is not what the
European Enlightenment thought it would become: mute, marginal and mild.
It is fire – and like fire, it warms but it also burns. And we are the
guardians of the flamesource
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