Shemini (Casimir Pulaski Day)

A fire came forth from God and consumed [Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu]; thus they died at the instance of the Eternal.  Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what God meant in saying, ‘Through those near to Me, I show myself holy and gain glory before all the people.’”

And Aaron was silent.

(Leviticus 10:2-3)

All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning in the window

All the glory when he took our place
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face
And he takes and he takes and he takes

                        (Sufjan Stevens, “Casimir Pulaski Day”)

As Ecclesiastes reminds us, there is a time to for speech and a time for silence.  The challenge is to figure out which response is best in any given situation—particularly in times of trauma and tragedy.

This challenge is at the heart of our Torah portion for this week, Shemini.  Aaron suffers the ultimate heartbreak when his two sons, Nadav and Avihu are instantly killed by a mysterious fire from God while offering incense on the altar.  Upon hearing of this calamity, Moses attempts to comfort his brother.  He offers a rambling—even incoherent— explanation for his nephews’ inexplicable deaths: “This is what God meant when God said, ‘Through those that are near to Me, I will be sanctified, and before all the people, I will be glorified.’”

Not surprisingly, this lame speech does not console Aaron.  His response is telling: Va-yidom Aharon—“Aaron was silent.”  In the immediate aftermath of tragedy, we don’t want explanations, excuses or diatribes—even if they are well-intentioned.  What Aaron needs from his brother is a silent, loving presence.  In such situations, words always fall short.  Explanations fail because there are no explanations.  Sometimes good people suffer and die without any justification whatsoever to ameliorate the pain of those who loved them.  We best understand and acknowledge this reality with compassionate silence.

In Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar wisely advises: “Do not appease your fellow in the time of his anger, nor comfort him while his dead lies before him.”   Our tradition’s laws of bereavement stipulate, accordingly, that when making a shiva call, the visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks first.  As Blu Greenberg notes, “The halachah enjoining the comforting visitor to hold back in silence serves a 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.”

In social justice matters, it has often been noted that silence implies consent.  Failing to speak out against oppression perpetuates the injustice.  But in personal matters, especially in the aftermath of heartbreak and calamity, excessive chatter is only a reflection of our own discomfort.  In these situations, loving silence is often the best balm for the pain. 

*******

Sufjan Stevens offers a heart-achingly poignant story of death and silence that echoes the emotion of this week’s portion in his song “Casimir Pulaski Day.”

He opens with two responses to the news that a good friend has been diagnosed with a terminal case of leukemia.  Stevens brings her a couple of sentimental objects; the patient’s father weeps, torn with remorse and grief:

Goldenrod and the 4H stone
The things I brought you
When I found out you had cancer of the bone

Your father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car into the navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry

As the song unfolds, Stevens—a serious practicing Christian—raises the omnipresent question that confronts believers in the face of tragedy: Why doesn’t God respond to our petitions for healing:

Tuesday night at the Bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens

The songwriter’s relationship with the dying young woman and her family is erotically-charged and complicated.  Her loss of innocence is also his own, and it creates tension with her parents.  But when she dies, everyone is simply overwhelmed with grief.  As in the aftermath of the death of Aaron’s sons, here, too, there is an immensely heavy silence.  The songwriter concludes with his anguish over what he sees as God’s role in this inexplicable loss:

In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window. . . 

All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning in the window

All the glory when he took our place
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face
And He takes and he takes and he takes

This last line is devastating: He takes and he takes and he takes

God takes and takes and takes—to our horror and dismay.  Neither Aaron nor Sufjan Stevens tries to defend him.   The words echo, then there is only the painfully, beautifully poignant instrumental music—and after the music, the silence. 

When the song ends, there is nothing, really, to say. 

Only tears. 

To hear Casimir Pulaski Day, from Sufjan Stevens’ record Illinoise: