Every year I get hung up with my musings on Parshat Shemini. This year was no exception, and I hope you'll bear with me as we explore some issues from last week's parshah, and hopefully weave them into the fabric of the coming weeks.
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One of the more striking events in Vayikra is the sudden and seemingly random immolation of Aaron's two sons, Nadab and Avihu. During the consecration of the Mishkan, Nadab and Avihu took it upon themselves to make an offering, bringing, "before Hashem an alien fire that he had not commanded them (Vayikra 10: 1)." A fire came down and, "consumed them (ibid)." There are several points I wish to draw out from this episode. The first relates to Moshe's response. Although many commentaries have pushed the idea that Nadab and Avihu were truly taken by G-d because of their righteousness, their closeness to him, the pshat pashut of the pasuk is clearly that they did something wrong and payed for it with their lives. One of the pasukim which lends itself to the positive interpretation-essentially that they were so close to G-d that he brought them in to himself-is the first pasuk after the event itself, where Moses comforts Aaron by saying, "Of this did Hashem speak, saying: 'I will be sanctified through those who are close to Me, and I will be honored before the entire people (Vayikra 10: 6).'" Instead of being a real explanation of what happened, I take this more as a lesson in kindness. That is, as a lesson in taking care of the bereaved, in comforting others in a time of tragedy. It was not the time to say, "your drunk kids went and got themselves killed, but don't worry, you still have two more sons." It was the time to say something nice about the deceased, even if this requires an artful bending or twisting of the events.
However, if I reject the 'positive' explanation for Nadab and Avihu's immolation, I am still left asking what they did that was so wrong? It seems that they took an extra act of piety in offering an un-commanded offering, an offering of their own free will, on the mizbeach. Rashi mentions two possibilities for why they were killed. The first being that they rendered a halachic decision without consulting their Rav, that is Moshe. The second is that they were drunk at the time. But what is so bad about being drunk? It does not suggest in the pasuk that they spilled coals all over, or that they slurred their words, or otherwise were lacking in their ability to stand before Hashem. Therefore, I posit that there is something inherently wrong with serving Hashem from a place of drunkenness, in the broadest spiritual sense of the term.
A common drash on why we do-not eat chametz on Pesach is that chametz symbolizes a 'puffed-up' self, an overpowering presentation of the ego which overshadows and hides the smaller, more refined truth of who and what we really are in relation to the creator. Alcohol has a similar effect. And while many (including at least one Chaza"l which I am aware of) claim that this effect is to bring out who you really are, I would argue that it brings out parts of the self, by means of a radical distortion of the self. By means of this distortion, certain aspects of a person may become more prevalent, and others shrunken. The similarity to Pesach being that one is no longer presenting himself as he truly is, as the true organic whole which he is in the world, but rather as a grotesque (or perhaps a beautiful) caricature of himself. Not a newer, better self created through avodah, through striving for closeness to the Creator of the Universe, but artificially, by means of a chemical reaction.
In the last perek of Hilchot Teshuvah, the Rambam writes that love of Hashem comes through Knowledge of Hashem. Of course, knowing the Rambam's general perspective I don't think it a stretch to say that he obviously means 'correct knowledge.' I have always taken this to mean that when we relate to G-d, we must be relating to G-d as he really is, not some imaginary vision of what we would like Him to be. Just like in a relationship with a person, one can be 'in love' with the version they see of a person, only to be disillusioned when reality strikes. In that case the love you experienced may have been real, but the object of that love was not the person sitting across from you. Similarly, with G-d, our mis-directed avodahs are not simply a personal failing, but possibly a form of avodah zarah!
Coming back to Nadab and Avihu, it seems that perhaps this principle works in reverse as well. Not only do we have to address our avodah to the proper object, but it has to truly be us, fully and completely, doing the avodah. At least at the highest levels of divine service, offering korbanot la'shem in the Mishkan, Nadab and Abihu were required to offer a fire from themselves. Perhaps the fire they offered was 'alien,' because they, those making the offering, were alien.
As Plato wrote, one must truly know the self before he can truly know anything else. In another form of this truism bent to our purposes, one could say that one must truly be oneself before he can truly serve anyone (or anything) else. Anything short of that is a forgery, an act written in the name of another.
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Of course, we are none of us perfect, and in this, the season of second chances-coming up to Pesach Sheni-may we all find the strength to rid ourselves of the dross, the chametz, the alcohol, the klipah, that covers our true-selves and prevents a pure, boundless dance between the light of our souls and the endless light of Hakadosh-Baruch-Hu.