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The Torah Reading on Yom Kippur discusses the instructions to Moshe and Aharon concerning the priestly service of atonement for the Children of Israel on Yom Kippur.  The reading begins with the acknowledgement of the recent death of Aharon’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu who were consumed by Divine fire, an acknowledgement that Aaron is in the early stages of mourning and likely reeling from the shock of losing two children on the same day, in the same moment, in such a shockingly dramatic way.  

In an earlier chapter, we learn that right after the dramatic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Moshe instructs Aharon not to mourn nor be distracted from his priestly duties and reminds Aharon that his job is to distinguish between the profane and holy.   Aharon has to be impeccable regardless of his personal circumstances.

Aharon responds to Moshe’s instructions with silence – vayidom – from the root DaMaM.  Aharon said nothing.  It is interesting to note that in biblical Hebrew there is another verb with the same root letters in the same order, that means “to wail,” which points to the possibility, or even likelihood, that Aharon had to wail in silence.   

Many of us know what that feels like, especially now.  To wail in silence.

Compare Aharon’s response with Moses’s grief after losing his sister Miriam, the story of Moses hitting the rock that many of us know so well.  

The Gemara tells us that Miriam’s well had sustained the Israelites in the wilderness.  After her death, the well disappeared, and the Israelites became thirsty and complained bitterly. As a result, God commanded Moses to speak to the rock to yield its water.  But Moses couldn’t keep it together.  He does not follow God’s directions; instead, Moses insults the Israelites and calls them “disobedient rebels” and hits the rock twice with his staff.  Moses allowed his emotions to take over, which took him off his game, and for that he was severely punished and could not enter the Promised land — even after dealing with Pharoah, leading the Israelites out of Egypt, crossing the Red Sea, after receiving the Torah on Sinai, even after leading the Israelites through the desert for 40 years.

Being impeccable, remaining centered no matter what, is hard enough at the best of times, when everything is running smoothly, but when we are upset, angry and especially grieving, it seems nearly impossible.

So, what can we learn from holding these two biblical narratives together?  

One thing is that life goes on, regardless of what we’re going through.  I remember how devastated I was when my father died, and then when my mother died a few years later, I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, but I was so wrong.  I cried and cried and cried, to the point that my husband worried about me and challenged me: “Do you want to go into the grave with your mother?  Is that what you want?”  

Although his words stung, they affected me deeply.  I realized that I couldn’t stop living because my mother died, because I no longer had parents.  Yes, I loved, adored and missed them, but I realized this is my time to live.   

In Torah, we are taught to choose life – bacharta bachayim l’maan tichyeh – “choose life in order to live,” while we carry the memory of loved ones, while we carry grief.  Both personal and collective grief, and this year we know about collective grief all too well.

Let’s face it.  This past year has been a living nightmare.   And yet we are here, in this sanctuary.  That, in of itself, is an act of hope.   This is our time to do the best we can, to do teshuvah, to live and to be together and find meaning in our tradition, in our lives.  

Another thing we can learn from these two stories in Torah is that we should not be expected to be perfect. Moses who the rabbis say was the highest prophet, the most adept, in closest communication with God, had trouble keeping it together.  He is the one who loses it and hits the rock.  Yet, he instructs his brother not to mourn, to carry on and be impeccable.  Moses did not go into silence.  Frankly, Moses was a bit of a kvetch.  He would complain to God and to the Israelites.  He did not keep silent.  But his brother Aaron, the high priest, did.  Vayidom.  He wailed in silence and carried on with his holy business in impeccable detail.  But at what cost to himself?  We can only imagine.

Uvshofar gadol yitakah, v’kol k’mama daka yishama – when the great shofar is sounded, when it cries out, a small quiet voice can be heard.

As the thunder of grief is screaming in our ears, let it not stifle that small quiet voice within.  Let it not snuff out our inner spark.  Let us not go into the grave with those we have lost, because WE ARE HERE.  Hinenu.  And as we step into hinenu, let us not carry the burden of perfection, as individuals, as a community, as a country, as Jews.  It is too much to bear and it is unattainable.

As we grieve, let us make room for hope.  We can do both.  We’re here to day to do teshuvah, to try to transform, to try to forgive ourselves and others, to try to be more compassionate, interconnected human beings in the midst of this ongoing hurricane.  We’re here to try to do this sanely, with compassion, generosity and hope.  

Within the extreme polarities that are battering us day after day, my teacher, Lori Lipten, tells us that we must “learn how to live within the paradox of embodying authentic power and vulnerability; hope and despair; birth and death; love and fear; wisdom and unconsciousness; resentment and forgiveness; trust and doubt; reaction and responsiveness; distraction and presence; calm centeredness and anxious control; us and them; mine and yours.”  

As we learn to dance within these contrasts, we can touch the beauty of something far different than we believed was possible. We do not need to war with either side of these contrasts to wake up and evolve.   

Let us not allow our grief to make us cynical.  As 20^th century Talmudist and Jewish philosopher Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote, “grief and lament have their place, but they cannot, must not, be given the final word.”  The artist Nick Cave puts it a bit differently.  “Unlike cynicism, hopefulness is hard-earned, makes demands upon us… Hopefulness is not a neutral position either. It is adversarial. It is the warrior emotion that can lay waste to cynicism.”  

So let us be warriors for hope that is fueled by love, generosity and compassion that is not undermined by the tyranny of cynicism, the tyranny of fear, nor the tyranny of perfectionism.  

G’mar Chatima Tova – May we all be sealed for a good and fulfilling life in the coming year. May we be safe, healthy, courageous and hopeful.