A few years ago, I attended a conference where experts expressed opinions regarding the relationship between Israel and its neighbors.
Speakers with a variety of perspectives shared ideas—most importantly on how Jews with various points of view could engage in constructive conversations without yelling, accusing or condemning.
It was a long, but worthwhile, day.
As the day was ending, the moderator rose from his chair, and we anticipated some final thoughts that would reinforce the day’s theme.
But to my shock, he began with words that—these days—are too common.
“Well, I guess everything which needed to be said has been said. But not by me.”
For next half hour, we were subjected to his personal opinions, most of them echoing what had already been expressed.
And I thought of an ancient Middle Eastern saying common to both Jewish and Arabic tradition: “Speech is silver, silence is golden.”
It’s a saying that too many forget these days, when often, silence is the most helpful and constructive behavior of all.
Early in my rabbinical career, a teacher shared these wise words with an assembly of rabbinical students.
“We spend too much time in this culture trying to be interesting, but in reality, what we really need to be is more interested.”
It’s a common affliction. Too often, we can’t wait for someone to finish telling us their opinion before we jump in with ours.
These are the times we live in.
How appropriate that the issue of silence comes up in this week’s Torah portion (Shemini—“on the eighth day”) just following inauguration of the Tabernacle that housed the Ten Commandments.
A major celebration is held, and on the eighth day, the Kohanim, the priests in charge of the Temple, go to work.
Moses’ brother, Aaron, is in charge.
In previous chapters, we learn that Moses is slow of speech. He admits his shortcomings as a public speaker—especially before approaching Pharaoh.
So, Aaron steps in as who we would call today—”press secretary”—and turns Moses’ thoughts and reflections into words of eloquence.
Ultimately, Aaron, his sons and future generations are appointed as eternal overseers of Jewish ritual, sacrifices and blessings. But Aaron’s leadership begins horribly.
In what some rabbis term “the worst first day ever on the job,” disaster strikes.
Aaron’s two sons, Nadab and Avihu, enter the Temple with fire pans blazing. Rabbis speculate that perhaps they were so caught up in their religious fervor, they brought in “alien fire”—perhaps even launching a cult.
Others speculate that they may have still been “elevated” by the previous evening’s festivities. Either way—and we’re not sure why—God strikes them dead.
And suddenly, as the Torah recounts, Aaron, who has always been about the talking, “was silent.”
His reaction has puzzled our commentators.. What would we do if two of our sons were struck down? Would we break down? Would we shake our fists at God?
We can only imagine.
Through its almost 80,000 words, the Torah is very good at quoting God, Moses, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, among others.
How rare it is for the Torah to call attention to someone not speaking.
But, in its wisdom, as the Etz Chaim Biblical Commentary observes, “Perhaps the text is suggesting that there are more possibilities—and more power—in silence other than words.”
During my 20 years of rabbinical practice, immediately following the passing of a congregant’s loved one, I have often observed, that friends and family surround the mourners with food and talk—among other distractions.
There is an instinct to talk—to offer words of comfort or personal theology. We often hear, “They are now at peace,” or “It was their time.”
But according to Jewish tradition, however tempting it is for us to offer consolation during the hours or days during the short period before the funeral and shiva—known as aninut (deep sorrow)—what the Jewish code of practice suggests is “silence.”
It is a time for the mourner to privately reflect. It is a time for tears. It is a time for preparation. It is a time to fully internalize the fragility of life. It is a time—like Aaron—to be silent.
These days, we are so uncomfortable with silence. Patte and I live on a scenic street where it is common for staff at the nearby hospital to take lunch hour walks.
Some days I consider posting a sign reading, “Enjoy the beautiful walk, but please stop talking so loudly on your phone.”
In silence, we become closer to the sounds that surround us. We absorb the sunshine, or a few drops of rain. We appreciate the midday breeze. We embrace just being in the moment.
What must have been going through Aaron’s mind during that lonely time in the desert?
Rabbi Dan Horwitz speculates, “Maybe Aaron was so overwhelmed that remaining silent was the only way he could handle the situation.”
Perhaps he had no words to express his grief.
These days, the idea of silence often feels foreign to us.
When someone we know loses a loved one, I frequently hear friends admitting, “I don’t know what to say.” This can create riffs and resentments among mourners. “Why hasn’t so-and-so called?”
In this world where words are so often overused, it’s sometimes hard to know what to say. Experts advise that the best way we can support someone in mourning, is to quietly listen with our hearts.
Often, it is more helpful just to share, “I don’t know what to say,” or “I will walk with you if and when you need me.”
In this week’s Torah parashah, we learn that Judaism offers the space to remain silent, even encouraging it the Torah recounts Aaron’s response.
“And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10:3)
Let us use those wise few words to guide us, especially during times of grief—that perhaps the best support we can offer is privacy and silence.
Indeed, this week’s Torah portion inspires us to revisit those ancient words echoed in the popular 1960s song:
“Talk is cheap…but silence in golden.”
Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.
Rabbi Irwin Huberman