The silences of Yom Kippur

So here we are and here I am. It’s another Yom Kippur. Another day of forgiveness, a day designated for pardon. A day that, somehow, gently, feels healing and restorative. After the soul-searching, self-examination and stock taking of the month of Elul, after the effort to repair damages we have caused or contributed to, the day arrives, this one day, this achat b’shana: Yom Kippur. Its spiritual aura is unassuming, quiet, pure and gentle.

More than anything, I think, Yom Kippur is an honest day. A day of wholeness. Our soul reconnects with our source and, at a bare minimum, for one day, for one moment in time, it reveals our deepest, truest self. At the very least we can glimpse it.

The Torah reading on this holiest of days relates the story of a terrible tragedy. We read about the death of Aaron the High Priest’s devout children, Nadav and Avihu, on the day of the much anticipated, one-time event, the dedication of the Tabernacle.

Studying the many commentaries who struggle with the meaning of this terrible event makes one thing clear. There are so many different viewpoints about where Nadav and Avihu went wrong, warranting such a punishment. When we are presented with a variety of sins as the reason, this is almost an admission that we really don’t have one good reason. That, ultimately, we really don’t know the reason.

Granted, the true understanding probably lies within a composite of the possibilities. Yet, the fact is, whether you go with the opinion that Nadav and Avihu behaved irresponsibly, or pompously, or with ecstatic but excessive fervor — ultimately their tragic death remains a mystery.

Aaron’s response is poignant. Only two words in the text describe his reaction to this devastating personal, yet public, tragedy and loss: “Vayidom Aharon. And Aaron fell silent.”

It’s impossible to convey in translation the terseness, poignancy and power of these two words, the father’s response to the death of his two beloved children.

Some translate Vayidom Aharon as “And Aaron was silenced,” or “And Aaron held his peace,” or “and Aaron was stilled.”

Aaron’s response is the true commentary to this tragedy. Silence. Incomprehension. We don’t understand.

When I hear these words, “Vayidom Aharon,” the feeling of restraint is almost palpable. The inaudible pain of Aaron, the father, is almost screaming — and yet, it’s not. Within this Vayidom Aharon I hear gracious acceptance of G-d’s decree, as well.

Why do we read of this account on Yom Kippur?

When we part from this day we leave with a sealed fate. We pray we were inscribed for good — but we really don’t know.

Then, we are in shul again, now, for another Yom Kippur, with the realities of the year behind us. Perhaps a chair right near us that has always been filled by a fellow davener through the years is now empty. Perhaps we struggled with illness, with loneliness, with failure, with disappointment, with marital disharmony, with not making ends meet, with homelessness, with ruptured relationships, with loss of loved ones . . . or, like Aharon, with the death of a child — all the struggles of life that we really don’t comprehend.

They are not meant to be comprehended by us. Yet, they have touched us, seared us, leaving their scars. As the year has passed, these struggles are now unfolded before us, no longer an innocent hope, a mystery.

Aaron the High Priest comes to us on Yom Kippur to teach that in the face of the incomprehensible decrees which the day carries, we are Vayidom Aharon. We are silent, humble before G-d, with no explanation.

Words and noise and detailed verbal explanations are not the point, not the way, at such times. It’s OK just to be quiet. Just to be with your thoughts. Your pain. Your struggle. Your faith. Vayidom Aharon. We fall silent at our incomprehension of Him.

The root of the word vayidom appears to us again in the Prophets.

This time, Elijah the Prophet is chastising the Jewish people, the tribes, in the book of Kings, saying that the L-rd is not found in the fire, meaning the dramas, the pomp and circumstance, of things, but in the kol d’mama daka, in the still, small voice of things.

“D’mama,” silence, is etymologically related to “Vayidom, and Aaron, was silenced.”

“D’mama” is not total silence, however. Even if it is a very, very fine sound, a very fine voice, there is still a voice. A sound. A kol d’mama daka. So Aharon was not totally silent.

And Yom Kippur is a day, after the model of Aharon, not of total silence. Maybe we need to stand in acceptance on Yom Kippur, endeavor to feel serene with G-d’s decrees, but not totally silenced. “D’mama” — there is yet a faint, inner voice we must connect with and express to G-d. Even if it is only we who hear ourselves. Even if the sound is as faint as faint can be, as fine as a hairsbreadth, it is our voice to propel, to reach forward toward G-d.

That, in a word, is Yom Kippur: a whisper. A kol d’mama daka. A still, small voice. The comforting whisper of Aaron reflected onto us as a response to life’s challenges, to past, present and what might be future incomprehensible Yom Kippur decrees.

We must learn to trust our voices, in prayer, in response to each other and in response to G-d. For G-d, our Creator, hears us. The gates of Heaven are open. It’s Yom Kippur! Pierce the Heavens with your prayers, with your words — and with your silence and kol d’mama daka.

I wish you, my readers, together with your loved ones and the entire House of Israel: Be inscribed in the book of life, health and happiness! Gmar chatima tova.