Leviticus 9:1-11:47
By Barrett Holman Leak
SAN DIEGO — This narrative bursting with the anticipation of sacred inauguration, abruptly descends into the chilling silence of loss. The joyous celebration, the culmination of meticulous preparation, is shattered by the sudden, devastating demise of Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons – a consuming fire that leaves Aaron speechless.
Once, as a reporter covering a fire, I stood nearby and watched a man in screaming agony, engulfed in fire, run onto a second-floor balcony and jump to his death on the ground. I will never forget the smell and witnessing his horrific pain.
That sudden shock was experienced in America at the last election and every day since the inauguration. Now we are entrenched in grief. San Diego’s Independent voters who tended to also vote for Democrats are not voting for Republicans instead. What they are doing is withdrawing from politics. They are avoiding political debate, political news, and political conversation. They are withdrawing from social media and social contacts. They are also not voting, as we could see in the last election. In the urban core of San Diego, the Democrat won but with even fewer votes then in 2022 and 2020.
NPP or no political party voters see no point in participating in extremist left or right politics, so they are silencing themselves. A noted Jewish scholar from Yale University states that the goal of fascism is to cause the people to lose hope, trust and joy so they cannot function as part of a community and stop the plans of the aggressor.
This silence, this withdrawal, is a manifestation of grief. Grief is not merely the mourning of death; it is the response to any significant loss. This grief is not abstract. It manifests in tangible ways, affecting the human mind and body. The psychological impact of prolonged stress and disillusionment can lead to feelings of apathy, hopelessness, and isolation. The brain, overwhelmed by negativity, can shut down, leading to cognitive decline and emotional numbness. The body, under constant stress, experiences a cascade of physiological changes: elevated cortisol levels, weakened immune systems, and increased risk of chronic diseases like heart disease, diabetes and cancer.
This is not just a theoretical concept. I know this silence intimately. When I was 10 years old, my father died. The world exploded, and I found myself plunged into incomprehensible darkness. Against my father’s wishes, a massive, drawn-out wake and funeral were planned. This prolonged Aninut period between death and burial is the most intense time of grief. It became a crucible of pain.
At school, I was not spared. A classmate, a delivery boy for the local newspaper, decided to cut out my father’s obituary from every copy he had to deliver, and stuff them into my desk. When I opened it, the obituaries shot up and rained down on me. He snickered and I leaped across my desk, and beat on him in my 10-year-old pain and grief.
The funeral itself was a surreal, detached experience. I tried to jump in the casket with my father’s body, collapsing. At the cemetery, my older sister, in her own agony, dove into the open grave, her feet caught just in time by two adults who had to drag her out. I remember, later, carefully cleaning the wet January dirt from under her fingernails with a nail file
My father, an artist and engineer, was giving us art lessons. When he died, I stopped painting, as did my sister. We each took our own paths, she into her own world and I into a search for spiritual answers, where I discovered Maimonides and his 13 Principles of Faith. That helped me begin to understand how to exist in a world that felt irrevocably broken. I wrote poems and fiction and played guitar to express my emotions. I, like so many others, went verbally silent.
Rabbi Moses ben Maimon (Maimonides), the 12th-century physician and scholar, offers a profound insight into Aaron’s silence. He suggests that Aaron had already begun the arduous journey of mourning his sons, and that Moses, recognizing this, gave him something to do, a task to focus on, as if to say, “Here, my dear brother, focus on this.”
Moses, who also bore the weight of grief, having lost his beloved nephews, understood the paralyzing nature of sorrow. Neither of them could undo what had happened, but they could find a way to move forward, to rebuild, to live. And they could only do this in community.
How, then, do we respond to this silence? How do we mourn with those who have withdrawn, who have silenced themselves in the face of overwhelming grief?
–Acknowledge their pain: We must recognize that their silence expresses deep sorrow and disillusionment, and listen with empathy, without judgment.
–Offer presence, not pressure: The most compassionate act is simply being present, offering quiet support and acknowledging their isolation. Resist forcing them back into social situations.
–Rebuild trust with actions: Trust is rebuilt through concrete actions, not empty promises. We must create spaces where dialogue, empathy, and collaboration are prioritized.
–Promote healing in community: Grief thrives in isolation, while healing thrives in community. We must create inclusive spaces for connection, support, and dialogue across divides, working together towards a common goal.
–Cultivate hope by highlighting resilience: We must cultivate hope by remembering past losses and celebrating acts of kindness that remind us of our shared humanity. Hope is an active choice, a commitment to creating a better future.
Silence is not a symbol of defeat, but a testament to the power of grief and the resilience of the spirit we have been given. Let us acknowledge that we are wounded, that people are wounded and allow for grief. Then let us emerge from our silence with a renewed commitment to building a life and a community of visibility and purpose as well as embodying our Jewish values.
Let us use the silence to reflect, take a pause before the renewal of our individual and collective spirit. And may we, in our own ways, help those who are silenced, find their voice again. Finally, as the sage Rabbi Hillel implores us, let us be here, yes, for ourselves, and also for each other.
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Barrett Holman Leak is a freelance writer based in San Diego.