On what should have been the most exalted and auspicious day of Aharon HaKohen’s life – the inauguration of the Mishkan with Aharon as the Kohen Gadol, alongside his sons who would serve as Kohanim –he was stunned by the sudden (what appeared to be) inexplicable and devastating loss of his two sons. They did not just die. They were struck by a Heavenly conflagration which burned from within, leaving their bodies intact. The Torah describes Aharon’s heroic response: no response, Va’yidom Aharon; “And Aharon was silent (actually mute).”
Prior to attempting to explain Aharon’s response and from where he took the extraordinary fortitude to remain mute in the face of tragedy, we first take note of a significant nuance in the text. The Torah does not say dom Aharon, that Aharon was silent, but rather, va’yidom – a verb form that subtly focuses on the future, implies continuity, an unfolding silence. Aharon’s silence was not a one-time expression to tragedy; rather, it was a conscious, enduring stance which imbued generations of Jews throughout the millennia with the ability to confront tragedy with emunah, restraint and dignity. All future generations were infused with Aharon’s silent strength and stoicism. He taught us how to grieve – without rebellion, and how to accept the most bitter decree with quiet nobility.
Having said this, we now must ask: From where did Aharon derive such strength? From where did he garner the spiritual fortitude to remain mute in the face of such overwhelming tragedy? How can we learn from him? How can we, who are far-removed from his spiritual stature, derive a lesson to enable us to confront challenge and even tragedy?
Perhaps the following story might lend some insight from which we may glean a deeper understanding of Aharon HaKohen. A terrible tragedy occurred in Yerushalayim when a bomb went off on a bus, taking the life of the son of one of Yerushalayim’s most illustrious Torah scholars. The tragedy was overwhelming; the grief was debilitating as the family sat dumbstruck in deep shock, attempting to make sense of what had happened. One walked into the shivah house to the sounds of the bitter weeping of the family members.
In walked Horav Nota Tzeinvirth, zl, a well-known Yerushalmi tzadik, a Boyaner chasid. He immediately sat down next to the father of the deceased. When he came in, the other members of the family moved closer to hear what he would say. He turned to the father and said, “I have a halachic query to share with you. What would happen if Avraham Avinu had, in fact, slaughtered Yitzchak Avinu? Would he have had to sit shivah, observe seven days of mourning, for him? The father replied, “It makes sense that he would have kept all the rituals connected with mourning.”
Rav Nota interjected, “Do you know why? Because if he would not have sat shivah (because this was a Heavenly-mandated decree to sacrifice Yitzchak), it would appear as if we sit shivah only when Hashem does not want a person to die. This is categorically impossible, because, if Hashem does not want a person to die, he will not die. Apparently, the obligation to sit shivah applies even when Hashem wants a person to die.
“I am alluding to a powerful principle which you must accept: If your son was killed, it is because this was the ratzon, will, of Hashem. He also wants you to mourn, because that is part of the process. However, He does not want you to mourn excessively. This, too, is the ratzon Hashem.” The family understood the message: Everything that occurs is the will of G-d. We must accept it as so.
Having said this, let us now return to Aharon and attempt to understand his superhuman response to the enormous tragedy of losing his two sons. We are taught that Aharon accepted the ratzon Hashem, the will of the Almighty. Ordinarily, we perceive existence as comprising three distinct entities: Hashem, His will, and man. Man has desires; Hashem has a will. We often experience life as a tension between the two. Not so with Aharon. Aharon did not view himself as a separate entity standing opposite the Divine will; rather, he saw himself as at one with the Divine Will. His personal identity was so completely aligned with the ratzon Hashem that, when that will changed, Aharon changed. He had no inner conflict, no clash between “what I want” and “what Hashem wants,” because Aharon had no independent will of his own. His entire essence was an extension of the Divine will. Thus, when Hashem decreed a reality that shattered the human heart, Aharon did not need to suppress emotion or conquer resentment. He had nothing to conquer. His silence was not forced; it was natural. His will had already been surrendered, long before tragedy struck.
This is the legacy of vayidom Aharon –not silence born of numbness, speechlessness to a mind-numbing tragedy; rather, it was silence, the result of a deep unity – between man and Hashem – a total abnegation of self in order to align with the will of Hashem. Aharon had no will of his own. If is from this place that true acceptance of Divine decree emerges. It is this ideal that manifests itself throughout the generations in some individuals to a greater extent than in others. This is what it means to live within the embrace of the ratzon Hashem.
Horav Aryeh Levin, zl, was no stranger to adversity and suffering. During his lifetime, he buried children, lived in abject poverty in which the only thing palpable in his house was the hunger. His body was weakened by illness, and his life was marked by quiet suffering. Yet, he never once uttered a word of complaint. He did not merely endure his suffering, he accepted it.
When asked how he was able to sustain so much loss, Rav Aryeh remarked with utter simplicity, “If Hashem gave this to me, then obviously He feels I am able to carry the load.” This was Rav Aryeh’s mission statement of emunah. He saw pain, not as Hashem abandoning him, but rather, as Divine trust and confidence in his ability to succeed. Rav Aryeh also was silent – a silence born of submission, faith and the privilege of serving Hashem.
Rav Aryeh did not just feel his own pain; he was also sensitive to the pain of others. He visited prisoners of the British Mandate who were on death row. He sat and cried with them, treating each one as a precious soul (which every one was). He talked to them as a loving father addresses his son. When asked how he could absorb so much suffering, he replied, “If another Jew is in pain, how can I not feel it?” When one comes to terms with his own suffering, he is then able to carry — and empathize with — the suffering experienced by others.
Accepting the suffering does not mean one becomes absorbed in himself, lives in a secluded bubble. It means that he remains active helping others. Some people privately endure suffering;
others are unable to endure and fall victim to its crushing effect. Others rely on their deep-rooted faith and trust. Thus, Hashem’s decree elevates him. After all, it is His will.
