April 13, 2026|כ"ו ניסן ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Faith in Silence - Serving Without Understanding By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

There is a moment in this week’s parsha, Parshat Shemini, that is as jarring as it is sacred. The Torah describes the sudden death of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aharon, in the midst of what should have been the most joyous day – the inauguration of the Mishkan. The people are celebrating. The Divine Presence has descended. And then, in an instant, tragedy.

Moshe turns to Aharon and says words that are as difficult as they are profound: “Hu asher diber Hashem – this is what God meant when He said, ‘Bikrovai ekadesh - Through those closest to Me I will be sanctified.’” And Aharon’s response? “Vayidom Aharon” – Aharon was silent.

What does that silence mean?

Some understand it as acceptance. Others see it as shock, an inability to process the moment. But perhaps Aharon’s silence is something deeper – not a resolution, but a restraint. Not clarity, but faith without clarity.

But if we look carefully at the parsha, something striking emerges. The story unfolds in stages – almost as if the Torah itself is modeling confusion.

Stage one: Nadav and Avihu die. No explanation.

Stage two: Moshe turns to Aharon and says, “Hu asher diber Hashem…” – and Aharon is silent.

But what exactly is Moshe telling him?

On one level, Chazal – cited by Rabbenu Bachya based on the Gemara in Zevachim – understand Moshe to be alluding to the idea that God said at Sinai that v’gam hakohanim hanigashim el Hashem yitkadashu – those who come too close to God must be sanctified, pen yifratz bahem Hashem - lest Hashem break out against them. Nadav and Avihu came too close. There was a sin.

But Rashi presents a very different understanding. Moshe is not offering a critique – he is offering a perspective. God sanctifies His Mikdash through those closest to Him. Nadav and Avihu were chosen to die. This was not about failure; it was about Divine decree.

And the Malbim suggests that Aharon himself may have been wondering in that moment: Did we do something wrong? Did I fail? Did my children sin? And Moshe’s message is: do not go there. Do not reduce this to a simple explanation.

And so Aharon is silent.

Because in that moment, he is given a message that removes blame, that resists explanation, that asks him not to understand – but to accept.

But then comes stage three.

Later, Aharon is told that a Kohen may not enter the Mikdash intoxicated. And in Parshat Acharei Mot, we are taught that entry into the Kodesh HaKodashim is restricted – implying that Nadav and Avihu’s sin was that they came too close, at the wrong time, in the wrong way.

Suddenly, there is an explanation.

Which leaves us with a powerful question:

Why wasn’t that the message at the beginning?

Why does Moshe initially offer a framing that resists explanation – only for the Torah later to suggest that there was a sin?

Perhaps the Torah is teaching us something essential about how we confront tragedy.
There are moments when explanations exist – but even when we can understand why something happened, those explanations are not enough to guide how we live. Life asks for more than answers; it asks for faith, presence, and integrity in the face of uncertainty.
There are moments when the reasons we seek are partial, conflicting, or even contradictory.
And there are moments when the only authentic religious response is not explanation, but vayidom – to stand in silence before complexities we cannot fully resolve.

Aharon’s journey is not one from ignorance to clarity. It is a journey from shock, to acceptance without explanation, to a deeper, more nuanced awareness that still does not remove the need for silence.
Even when reasons exist, they do not eliminate the call to faith without full understanding.

We live in a world that urges us to explain everything. We crave reasons. We demand answers.
But Aharon teaches us that sometimes the holiest response is not to answer, but to pause. Not to resolve the tension, but to live within the tension itself.

And yet, the Torah does not leave us in silence alone. Immediately after Aharon’s tragedy, God commands him and his surviving sons about the laws of the Kohanim – and includes a striking prohibition: they may not serve in the Mishkan while intoxicated. The Ramban sees this as a warning: drunkenness can lead to improper thoughts, and improper thoughts can have fatal consequences as what happened to Nadav and Avinhu. Abrabanel offers another insight: God is telling Aharon not to seek comfort in alcohol, not to try to escape the pain of mourning.

It is as if the Torah is saying: do not run from your grief. Do not blur your confusion. Do not numb your heart. Feel it. Stand in it. And even there—amid your deepest loss – continue to serve.

This is the challenge of religious life: not to serve God only when things make sense, but to serve God precisely when they do not. Rav Soloveitchik often spoke about the difference between a “why” question and a “what now” question. Judaism does not always give us answers to the “why,” but it demands that we respond to the “what now.”

Aharon does not understand – but he continues.
He is silent – but he serves.

And that may be the deepest form of faith.

This lesson is not only about the past. It is painfully relevant today, as Yom HaShoah approaches next week. We remember the six million who perished, many without explanation, many whose lives were stolen simply because they were Jews. We search for reasons, but we will not always find them. Hatred is often irrational. Pain is often incomprehensible. And yet, like Aharon, our response must be presence and service. We honor their memory not only in words, but in how we live.

We live in a time of rising antisemitism and anti-Zionism. And like Aharon, we search for explanations.

We are told: it is because Jews are too powerful.
Then we are told: it is because Jews are weak and parasitic.
We are told: it is because Jews have assimilated too much.
Then we are told: it is because Jews are too insular, too different.
We are told: it is because of Israel’s strength.
Then we are told: it is because of Israel’s very existence.

The messages are contradictory. The reasons are unclear. And yet we keep searching – trying to understand, trying to be seen as worthy.

Aharon teaches us a different path. Sometimes we will never fully understand. Sometimes the hatred we face is not about us at all. And if that is true, we cannot define ourselves by it.

Aharon does not wait for clarity. He does not resolve the contradiction. He continues to serve.

Our task is the same. Not to ignore hatred, not to be passive – but to focus on our avodah: Torah, family, community, chesed, Medinat Yisrael, and lives of meaning. Life does not wait for understanding. Pain does not excuse inaction. From grief, responsibility flows; from confusion, commitment emerges.

Many mefarshim explain that the number seven represents the natural world, while eight signals transcendence. Seven reflects the world as we understand it – ordered, familiar, and intelligible. Eight, by contrast, points beyond nature: it represents the decision to live with faith even when we do not understand.

This is Aharon’s legacy beyom ha-shmini – on the eighth day: presence, commitment, and resilience. We stand amid questions we cannot answer, in a world that does not always make sense. Yet we are still given a choice: to be shaped by confusion, or to be shaped by God. Aharon chose to remain. Aharon chose to serve. And so must we.

Sometimes, the greatest sanctification of God’s name is not in what we say – but in how we continue.