Voices of WRJ: Sh'mini

Seven years ago, when I came to teach a Torah Corps class to the URJ Kutz Camp in New York, I was confronted with a completely different Jewish reality than I had known until then from my home country – the Czech Republic. The most striking difference was the fact that my American colleagues and students openly spoke about being Jewish. I was shocked by their matter of fact approach to their Jewish identity but appreciated it at the same time. I remember somebody asking me: “What was the form of Judaism you grew up with? Reform, Orthodox or Conservative?” Even though most of my Jewish ancestors adhered to Reform Judaism before the war, my answer had to be: “It was Silent Judaism.” Judaism was a stigma, something, which belonged to the past and one did not talk about it in public. The joyous aspects of it were completely unknown to me.

I am reminded of this experience every time when I read about the tragic death of Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu in Parashat Shemini. The Torah tells us that Nadav and Avihu took their fire pans, put fire in it, laid incense on it and offered before God. What happened after could not have been more unexpected: “And fire came forth from the Eternal and consumed them; thus, they died at the instance of the Eternal.” (Vayikra 10:2) Nadav and Avihu were dead. Moses immediately tried to comfort their father by saying: “This is what the Eternal meant when he said: ‘Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, and gain glory before all the people.’” (Vayikra 10:3) But Aaron did not say anything: “And Aaron was silent.” (Vayikra 10:3) Most commentators seem to suggest that Aaron’s silence indicated that he had been comforted by Moses’ words and accepted his explanation, but I actually prefer Ramban’s point of view, which opposes them all: “He was crying loudly and fell silent.” (Ramban on Vayikra 10:3) According to this explanation, Aaron was devastated, and his only answer was silence. Aaron’s personal tragedy was even more horrifying when we take into consideration the fact that he and his family were forbidden to mourn the death of their beloved: “Do not bare your heads and do not rend your clothes, lest you die and anger strike the whole community.” (Vayikra 10:6)

I cannot help but every time when I study the tragic story of Aaron’s family, I am reminded of the experience of my own family. My father, who was in his late sixties when I was born and who survived the Nazi occupation in hiding, once told me: “The only answer after we came back and learnt about the death of our beloved family members was silence.” Just as Aaron did, those who survived fell silent having faced the tragic loss of their beloved. And just as for Aaron, it was, in many cases, not possible for them to mourn them. Elie Wiesel aptly says: “We link this tragedy of Nadav and Avihu to others equally overwhelming, personal and collective.” In fact, this silence became the common denominator of the Jewish experience in my country. Growing up with it I took it as something inherent in Jewish tradition.

The Torah indicates that Aaron eventually decided to break the silence, re-enter the sanctuary and continue the journey. How did he manage it? Where did he find enough strength to continue? I am convinced that it was thanks to all his fellow Jews who did not let him down and supported him. When I think about my own “breaking the silence” and “re-entering the sanctuary,” I can very much relate to this explanation. I am here thanks to the care of my fellow Jews. Thanks to this care, I could visit my very first Jewish religious event in my life, which was Pesach Seder years ago. Thanks to this care, I was invited to teach at the URJ Kutz Camp. Thanks to this care, I was given the opportunity to study to become a rabbi at the Abraham Geiger College in Germany. Thanks to this care, I am going to start my rabbinic work in the Czech Republic and hopefully help others to break the silence there as well. And thanks to this care, I do not have to say that I am a Silent Jew anymore, but I can proudly say that I am a Reform Jew. This would have not been possible without so many people who offered their help. I know how much Women of Reform Judaism are involved in the revival of the Jewish life in the post-Shoah Europe and how much they supported my rabbinic training. I want to tell you: “Thank you. You are my heroes!” Shabbat Shalom.

David Maxa is a rabbinic student at Abraham Geiger College in Potsdam, Germany and a WRJ YES Fund scholarship recipient.