This week, in Parshat Shemini, we stand with the Israelites at the edge of a tremendous spiritual milestone. After all the anticipation, the Mishkan is finally up and running. We’ve spent what feels like forever building this sacred space, with all its intricate details. Aaron and his sons offer the first sacrifices, and the Divine Presence appears before the people in a burst of holy fire.
But then there is tragedy. Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons, bring what the Torah calls “strange fire,” something not commanded. And they are consumed by flames. The joy of divine closeness is shattered by the pain of sudden, inexplicable loss.
To be honest, I’ve always found this to be one of the Torah’s most difficult and painful moments. Every year it brings up the same haunting questions: What did they do wrong? Why such a harsh response? And why now, at the very moment when everything seemed to be going so right?
I’ve often bristled at the Midrashim that try to make sense of this moment, going to great lengths to explain what Nadav and Avihu did wrong. That they were arrogant. That they ruled in front of their teacher. That they were drunk. That they acted without consulting Moses. None of it feels quite right to me. The attempts to justify their deaths often feel like a desperate scramble for meaning in a story that may, at its core, be unexplainable.
But this year, I’m wondering if the Midrashim are doing something else entirely. Maybe they’re not about blame. Maybe they’re about warning. Maybe the rabbis, like us, were trying to make sense of a loss that defied logic. Maybe they’re saying: life is so precious, we must search for meaning in every death, no matter how senseless, so that we might prevent future ones. Because death and pain and tragedy are all around us. And I don’t think any of us really knows the clear path forward, the sure way to diminish loss and suffering. But I do believe that most of us want the same thing: for it to end. Like the rabbis of old, I think many of us are trying, in our own way, to hold onto the principle that every life matters. That every life has meaning.
I hope we can allow that belief, the sanctity of life, to guide us, even when we are afraid, even when we are angry. From every death, every loss, may we remember the preciousness of life, and commit ourselves to protecting it. May we remember them not as a cautionary tale of failure, but as a sacred reminder: every life is worthy of reverence. Every life deserves our care.
