I love a story when great heroes fail. Fail in the face of enormous tragedy.

       Hamlet?

       Bigger?

       Superman?

       Even Bigger.

       Moses.

       Call it schadenfreude but when heroes falters, it helps me realize that even the best of us do not always get it right. Gives me hope that despite my own inabilities, insecurities and stumbles, I can learn to embrace my inadequacies. Reminds me that though I am only human I can learn, as our Shabbat prayers teach us, to be truly human.

       This week's Torah tell us about the death of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron the High Priest. They die after they offer "an alien fire" before G-d (Leviticus 10). The text is ambiguous about what they actually did to cause G-d to strike them down. The rabbis try to offer various thoughts based on the Hebrew narrative (Nadav and Avihu approached the altar drunk , they were inappropriately dressed,  they showed disrespect by offering a sacrifice not called for by their elders, etc.). The explanations all provide good material for discussion but are mere prologue to the response of Moses to the death of his nephews and Aaron's reaction to his brother's words of comfort.

       Moses approaches Aaron and says "This is what the L-rd meant when He said: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy. And gain glory before all the people."

        "And Aaron was silent."

        Moses was saying: Aaron, G-d holds faithful leaders and saints to a higher standard. Be comforted, my brother, for G-d selected Nadav and Avihu and elevated them. Be grateful your sons are so highly regarded by G-d.

        Epic fail.

        What kind of comforting message is that to a person who just lost two children?

        And yet, we do that all the time to those who lose loved ones. Trust me, I have said one time too many something I later realized was utterly inappropriate. We say things that sound good at the time but fail to recognize the real hurt and pain a person is going through.  "G-d needed another angel." "This is all part of G-d's great plan." "Be grateful for how many years you had him. " "Your lucky she didn't suffer long." "You are fortunate. You were married for 50 years. I lost my husband after only 35." "At least you have two more children."

       Please. Stop. Talking. 

       Moses, like many of us, felt compelled to give the unfolding event "spin". Here were two men, two brothers devoted to the service of G-d and there had to be an explanation for this enormous tragedy. 

       Maybe there is.

       Maybe.

       But we are not G-d; we are human beings. Recognize that and be human. Instead, see the broken humanity before you. And the ocean of tears. 

       And learn to hold your tongue.

       I like to think that Aaron's silence and the discussion that follows a few days later that has Aaron lashing out at Moses and leading to an apology from his brother teaches us something.

      You don't need to always have an answer. You just need to be there and share in the humanity that unites us.

       I thought of that this week when I parked near our house and saw a neighbor down the block who had just experienced the greatest loss imaginable, the loss of a child. I hadn't seen her since the tragedy, but there she was working in her yard. We know each other but only as neighbors who exchange pleasantries from time to time. I don't know her background, her philosophy on life, her theology, what is going on in her mind and, definitely, what she is going through right now.

       Here was I with decades of theological "smarts", being with people during times of crisis and sadness and now struggling to figure out what I should say. Whether I should walk over. I sat there frozen for a few minutes thinking what would be the proper words to say. I confess I even had thoughts of sneaking into my house for fear I might say the wrong thing and thought it would be good to think things through and prepare first.

       But I saw her there, wondering how she even had the strength to be outside, and remembered not the words of Moses but the silence of Aaron. His deafening silence. Aaron needed arms to embrace him not words to comfort. He was not looking for a Moses to speak in G-d's name but for a brother to recognize his anger and pain. 

        He needed the silence of humanity.

        I walked over to her, stood by the gate, and asked if I could come around and give her a hug.

        We hugged. 

        We did talk a little.  I know I stumbled on my woefully inadequate thoughts. We will talk more, hopefully, in the days and weeks to come. But I remembered Moses and tried hard to keep in mind that there are no good answers and even the best of us fail in our attempts to comfort.

        Even Moses.

        And that the best response to tragedy is, oftentimes, the deafening power of silence.

        The silence of being human. Together in the arms of others.

        

                             Shabbat shalom.