Unscrolled, Shemini: Strange Fire

In Parashat Shemini, we learn how Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, filled their firepans with incense and offered before God a strange fire that had not been commanded of them.

But what is the meaning of “strange fire?”

Perhaps, as Ibn Ezra said, the strange fire was no different than any fire one could kindle by rubbing two sticks together; the profane sort of fire that lights our candles and our stoves and burns our forests here on earth. In that case, it was only “strange” from the perspective of God, Whose fire is of a different sort than ours; capable of engulfing a bush without consuming it or descending from the sky to gulp up ritual offerings; as gentle as a caress or as deadly as a weapon.

But perhaps it was a fire unknown among the fires of the earth for it was kindled in a new spirit for the purpose of illuminating that which had not yet been seen. Perhaps it was a fire of poetry and prophecy and portent, an un-commanded offering, conjured from nothingness, stolen from the storehouses of the world to come.

We then learn that fire blazed forth from God and consumed Nadav and Avihu and that they died before God.

But what was Nadav and Avihu’s sin that they should be punished thus?

Perhaps, as the sages teach, Nadav and Avihu were cunning opportunists. Unhappy serving under their father Aaron and their uncle Moses, they would grumble to one another, “When will these old men die so that we can take their place?” If this was so, the brothers were rebels and usurpers. Their offering was no offering at all, but a mutiny disguised as piety.

But perhaps every rebel is actually a prophet, punished by the world they try to wake from its slumber — so said the Kabbalists of Korach, who the earth swallowed whole for daring to say that all souls are holy. If so, their only sin was being born when the world was yet unripe, when God was yet young, when the people were not yet ready to witness their offerings of fire or to smell the incense that they let burn in the open air for all to savor.

Perhaps every rebel is actually a prophet, punished by the world they try to wake from its slumber.

The Torah then tells us that Moses said to Aaron, “This is what the Lord meant when he said, ‘I will become holy through those who are close to me.’” And Aaron was silent.

But why did Aaron go silent?

Perhaps his silence signaled acceptance of the divine decree. Or perhaps, as Sforno has suggested, his silence signaled that he was comforted by the cryptic words of his brother. “He consoled himself with knowing that the death of his sons represented a sanctification of the name of the Lord.” Or perhaps his silence signaled unfathomable grief, as wrote Abarbanel: “His heart became like a lifeless stone, and he did not raise his voice in crying or eulogy, as would a father for his children; he also did not accept condolences from Moses. For he had no breath left in him, nor did he have any speech.”

But perhaps his silence was the silence of guilt — the guilt of a father who had never noticed that the sons trailing behind him were filled to the brim with a strange and reckless fire, ready to offer it to God in an act of wild love.

Matthew Schultz is the author of the essay collection “What Came Before” (2020). He is a rabbinical student at Hebrew College in Newton, Massachusetts.