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The Torah concludes its discussion of "ma'akhalot assurot" (forbidden foods) as follows:

Rashi explains the seemingly superfluous expression, "for distinguishing between the impure and the pure," as referring to a specific halakha where the fine line between "kosher" and "non-kosher" becomes especially apparent: the law requiring the severing of the majority of an animal's esophagus and trachea in order to render its meat kosher. The Torah "distinguishes" between an animal the majority of whose esophagus and trachea was severed and an animal whose esophagus and trachea were severed only halfway or less. Whereas the first animal may be eaten, the latter may not.

The difference between the majority of these two tubes and less than a majority is, of course, minuscule. Yet, this fractional amount differentiates between "pure" and "impure!"

The message for us is clear. Seemingly, trivial details often make a world of a difference. Although this is true in life in general, it requires perhaps greater reinforcement with regard to mitzva observance. We often look at halakhic minutiae and wonder, does it really matter? What difference does it make? The Rambam writes in Moreh Nevukhim that although we can unearth the underlying reasons behind many if not most of the mitzvot, many of the relevant details remain light years away from human comprehension. We can and must simply accept them as divine decrees. .0001% of an esophagus can determine whether an animal is "pure" or "impure"; the slightest mark of ink - or lack thereof - on the parchment of tefillin render the tefillin unfit for use and any blessing recited thereupon a "berakha levatala." Our obedience to God demands compliance with all His rules, down to the very last detail. Only in this way can we lift ourselves from spiritual impurity and become truly pure.

[Prepared by David Silverberg]

Towards the end if this week's parasha we read of the tragic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, two of Aharon Ha-kohen's sons. The Torah, however, is surprisingly enigmatic in its description of this incident, with the only direct reference to their sin being a mention of "eish zara" - foreign fire. What exactly did Nadav and Avihu do wrong, and why did it warrant so immediate and harsh a punishment?

R' Shimson Rafael Hirsch, focusing on a number of key words utilized in the story, suggests an answer to this question. He points out that the pasuk says that they offered ketoret "ish machtato" - in their own pans, as opposed to the klei kodesh of the Mishkan. Additionally, he claims, the "esih zara" they used to burn this ketoret came not from the central flame of the mizbeiach but rather from their own personal pile of embers. (Along the same lines, the Chizkuni asserts that the ketoret they used was of their own making and was not of the national mixture).

Combing all these points together, R' Hirsch concludes that Nadav and Avihu had decided to bring an entirely voluntary personal offering of ketoret. They had chosen to be their own kohanim, instead of the kohanim of the nation.

During the extended dedication ceremony of the Mishkan, when the entire nation had joined together as one to welcome God's Shechina, this was an entirely inappropriate expression of individuality that separated them from the nation and made them unworthy to perform any service in the Mishkhan. It is this "self-disqualification" that made them deserving of death.

[Prepared by Reuven Weiser]

In this week's parasha we find the law stipulating which mammals a Jew may eat. A general rule is given: a given mammal is permissible if it has BOTH a cloven hoof AND chews the cud. From this law we could deduce that a mammal with only one of those signs would be forbidden. However, the Torah sees fit to list the mammals with only one sign and to tell us that they are forbidden. Why does the Torah emphasize this?

Perhaps we can understand this through a question asked by the Sages: why did God cause the destruction of the second Temple to be so much worse than that of the first? After all, the people at the time of the first Temple were guilty of the three cardinal sins of murder, idolatry and sexual immorality. The people at the time of the second Temple learnt Torah and kept its laws. So why were they punished more? We find two different answers in the sources: that there was causeless hatred between them and that they did not say the blessing on learning Torah. Why is this considered worse? The people of the second Temple were rotten from the core. They learnt Torah, but not because it was from God. That is why they did not say the blessing. Similarly, they outwardly showed love of God by following His commandments, but inwardly showed contempt of God by hating His beloved children, their fellow Jews.

Our Sages linked this back to our parasha. Cloven hooves are an outward sign but chewing the cud is not immediately apparent. The people of the first Temple were like a mammal that chews the cud but does not have cloven hooves. Anyone could see that they were doing the wrong thing. Those of the second Temple were like the pig, with cloven hooves but not chewing the cud. From the outside they seemed to be serving God, but inside they were not serving Him at all. We see the Roman Empire similarly likened to a pig. A pig loves to lie on its back and show off its cloven hooves. Outwardly it makes a show that it is permitted. But really it is not. The Roman Empire, similarly, loved to show itself as just and civilizing. But really it was corrupt to the core.

So perhaps we can learn that the Torah is emphasizing the animals with only one sign to teach us a moral lesson. We as people can fail in two different ways. We can transgress outwardly (no cloven hooves) and we can transgress inwardly (not chewing the cud). May we merit to serve God not just in all our actions, but also in our hearts.

[Prepared by Samuel Jackman]

Following the tragic, sudden death of Aharon's two sons - Nadav and Avihu - God proceeds to discuss the prohibition of entering the Mikdash while intoxicated. Several explanations for the sudden appearance of this halakha have been offered, including Chazal's comment that among the possible sins for which Nadav and Avihu were killed was precisely this violation - entering the Sanctuary after drinking.

The Keli Yakar, however, offers an insightful - albeit somewhat surprising - interpretation. He suggests that Aharon may have justified "drinking on the job" in the aftermath of this devastating calamity as acceptable means of consolation. He may have entertained the possibility that he may engage in alcoholic drinking - even prior to his entry into the Mikdash to perform the service - in order to help him overcome his distress over the unexpected death of his sons. God therefore reminds him that under no circumstances may one enter the Sanctuary in a state of intoxication.

One need not work in the field of psychology to know that alcohol is often used as an escape mechan. It allows the melancholic sufferer to temporarily divest himself of any outstanding obligations or pressures and, if only for the moment, enjoy himself in a worry-free state of bliss. It goes without saying that no comparison can be drawn between Aharon Ha-Kohen and the alcoholics with which contemporary society has grown all too familiar. But, at least according to the Keli Yakar's suggestion, Aharon may have sought to alleviate some of his anguish by drinking, to use wine to drive the painful memory of his sons from his mind. But the Almighty warned that no such means of consolation may be employed. Service in the Mikdash demands an absolute sense of responsibility, of dealing with the here and now, rather than with the "what could be." Although wine certainly rejoices the heart, as is recognized by the prominent role wine assumes in Jewish ritual and halakha, there is somewhat of an artificial element to this joy. Serving in the Mikdash means taking upon oneself the obligations relevant to the service and confronting them to the best of one's ability. Performance of the service in state of intoxication may undermine - if only slightly - this awareness. One must enter the Mikdash with total consciousness, prepared to serve the Almighty without external or artificial devices.

The same applies in our personal "Batei Mikdash," our religious lives. We are bidden to engage in Torah and mitzvot out of a strong, mature sense of responsibility, and never try to shy away. The prohibition of performing the "avoda" after drinking may serve to remind us that our own "avoda," too, must be carried out seriously, earnestly, and through genuine, rather than artificial, joy that ought to accompany "avodat Hashem." Just as a despondent kohen may not try to boost his frame of mind with alcohol amidst performing the service, so must we accept and carry out the duties of the Torah boldly and resolutely, without looking for ways to escape or shake off this eternal responsibility.

[Prepared by David Silverberg.]

In this week's parasha, the Torah relates the story of the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. Their actions are briefly mentioned in 10:1:

The rabbis posit several possibilities regarding the precise nature of their sin. The first opinion that Rashi quotes is Rabbi Eliezer's. He maintains that their sin was the rendering of a halakhic decision in the presence of their teacher, Moshe. The gemara in Eruvin 63a explains that the law that they revealed was the need of a human to light the altar even though a heavenly fire descended from the sky. A question can be asked based on this gemara in Eruvin. What exactly was the sin of Nadav and Avihu; was it merely stating a rule in front of Moshe, or was it the stating of this particular rule?

Actually, it seems that their sin had nothing to do with the particular ruling that they presented. The gemara in Eruvin recounts the story of Rabbi Eliezer's successful prediction of a student's death based on the student's teaching of a halakha in his presence. The gemara doesn't tell us what that particular halakha was, and seemingly, it doesn't matter. Additionally, the Meiri understands a passage in Yoma 27a as stating that if a sacrifice was offered without a person placing a fire on the altar then a replacement sacrifice need not be brought. (This rule differs from the typical protocol for neglecting a requirement of the sacrificial process.) Thus, the ruling that Nadav and Avihu rendered was not of paramount importance. However, the punishment of Nadav and Avihu for the relating of this particular halakha is very telling.

The only reference to this limitation of not relating a law in front of one's teacher in Torah is by this rule of a human lighting fire on the altar. One could have suggested that this limitation should apply to only major issues in Judaism. Seemingly, one could argue that one only suffers serious disrespect if he is not consulted on a major issue. However, the Torah tells us this rule by the halakha of lighting a fire on the altar to emphasize the need for constant vigilance in order to avoid disrespect of Jewish leadership. (Accordingly, Tosafot extends this halakha to any preeminent Jewish scholar, even if he is not one's teacher (Berakhot 31b as understood by Terumat Ha-deshen 1:138.))

[Prepared by Yossi Kra.]

Our parasha begins with the last day of the dedication of the sanctuary. Our Sages noted that the phrase 'and it was on the eighth day' parallels the language of the creation, for example: 'and it was morning and evening, the sixth day'. The seven days of creation are linked to the eighth day of dedication, when God's presence comes to dwell among the Jewish people. The 'creation' of the Jewish people is now complete. The Jewish people with God's presence dwelling among them are the means through which God plans to bring perfection to His world. Hence, this day is indeed worthy of being ranked alongside the seven days of creation.

On the other hand, our parasha begins with the word vayehi, which our Sages link to misfortune, since it appears elsewhere in the Bible introducing stories of painful times. What is sad about this eighth day?

The Or Hachayim brings two answers: one is in the continuation of the parasha. Just after God sends fire from heaven to burn the offerings on the altar, the sign that God has returned to his people and the happiest moment, Aharon's two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu, transgress and God send fire that burns them to death. However great this event is, even though it ranks alongside the days of creation, it is nothing because two people died. It is a sad day.

The other is that it is a sad day for Moshe. He was originally going to be the high priest and all priests were to be his descendants. Later, God gave this role to his brother Aharon and the matter was finalized on this day. We do not know who Moshe's descendants are. But we do know Aharon's. Moshe's descendants, among their fellow Levites, help Aharon's descendants, the priests, in the Temple. They have a lesser role. Moshe was happy that God's presence came down and was happy for his brother, but deep down he was sad at what he had lost. Because of this sadness, God could call it a sad day with the word vayehi.

What do we learn from this? We love to generalize, especially when it comes to world events. We are quick to celebrate a day as a landmark or a turning point in history. What does our tradition say? That even on the greatest day since the Shabbat of creation, the eighth day of dedication, even then, the tragic death of two brothers or the loss felt by one man can turn all the happiness to mourning. That however great the overall picture is, we must never let that blind us to individuals for whom it is a disaster or a tragic loss. May we merit never to forget the suffering of the individual.

[Prepared by Samuel Jackman.]

In parashat Shemini, Moshe and Aharon engage in a brief halakhic dispute regarding the consumption of certain sacrificial meat. Upon hearing his brother's rebuttal, Moshe concedes: "Moshe heard, and it was pleasing in his eyes" (10:20). Rashi, citing Chazal (Zevachim 101a), adds, "He confessed, and rather than being ashamed and saying, 'I did not hear,' he said 'I heard and forgot.'"

What exactly is this "shame" that Moshe did not display, thus earning the praise of Chazal?

Rav Moshe Feinstein zt"l, interestingly enough, offers two diametrically opposite explanations regarding this "shame." First, he suggests that one ought to be terribly embarrassed when he forgets his Torah knowledge. Were the individual to have cherished the information to the extent that it deserves, it would have stayed with him. One never forgets critical information, and thus the departure of Torah knowledge from memory can only mean an insufficient regard of the knowledge on the individual's part. The greatness of Moshe here involved his willingness to confess to his forgetfulness of Torah law, despite the immense embarrassment brought about by his confession. In other words, Chazal mean to say that Moshe was in fact ashamed, but he did not allow this shame to bring him to deny his error.

Rav Moshe then cites the explanation of his son, Rav Reuven ybl"ch, that in fact Moshe was not ashamed. To the contrary, he teaches us an important lesson regarding forgetfulness - one need not be embarrassed! We must realize that Torah scholarship is acquired over the course of a long, grueling process of success and failure. Rather than responding to occasional setbacks with frustration and distress, one should move forward and seek to progress further. Moshe was not embarrassed, because forgetting is just part of the process.

These two opposite approaches reflect the double-edged attitude with which we must relate to our own shortcomings. On the one hand, we ought to be ashamed at much of what we do or don’t do. One should be his harshest, most unrelenting critic as well as the subject of his harshest critique. Concurrently, however, one must realize that as humans we are prone to mistakes and tend to fail on occasion. At some point, our embarrassment and frustration over our imperfections must develop into a confident, steadfast drive forward, on the way to lifelong improvement and growth.

[Prepared by David Silverberg]

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