Imagine the moment…
Leviticus 10:1 But Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aharon, each took his censer, put fire in it, laid incense on it, and offered unauthorized fire before YHVH, something he had not ordered them to do. 2 At this, fire came forth from the presence of YHVH and consumed them, so that they died in the presence of YHVH. 3 Moshe said to Aharon, “This is what YHVH said:
‘Through those who are near me I will be consecrated,
and before all the people I will be glorified.’”
Aharon kept silent.
What could possibly be going through this father’s mind at this very moment?
All of the things he’s lived, things he’s seen, and things he’s done -- flashing before his mind’s eye. His entire life up until this point playing over and over hoping to find some shred of reasoning to make sense of what he just witnessed with his own eyes.
Two sons, each with a history, each with a life -- gone in an instant. As Aharon stood there in utter shock, do you think he was more focused on the holiness of YHVH or the loss of his sons?
Turns out, it is perhaps neither. This sounds absurd at first but when tragedy hits in an instant, so does your life. Your decisions, your humanity, your relationships -- they all come front and center, and there is literally no other place to look.
As a father that has lost a son of my own, the thoughts that came upon hearing the news were not what I would have expected. Sure, you’re trying to wrap your head around the reality of them being gone, but soon after I would have maybe expected to think of the good times, the days of his youth, the moments through the teenage years, jokes being told as adults, and so on. But that wasn’t what came first.
Well meaning people even try to help by having you speak and dwell on the high points of their life. And that’s ok. Good, even. But what really camped there was this:
When and where did I mess up? Am I somehow responsible?
You begin thinking of all of the ways you could have done something different. You tumble around the missed conversations, the missed holidays, the missed average day just occupying the same space. You reflect on your moments of cold and hard discipline, periods of disappointment, and seasons of comfortable distance.
In the wake of this tumbling, however, there is a very real sense of what it truly means to live. All of the things you thought were important turn out to be less than important. It’s sad that it takes a tragedy to learn this. But once you learn it, it’s hard to shake it.
And this reality was sinking deep into Aharon’s bones.
Before we turn our attention back to Aharon at this moment, let’s see what all got him here in the first place.
Aharon’s life had never been simple.
He was the firstborn in his family and, as a 3 year old little boy, witnessed a horrific tragedy within his community. Babies born around him were thrown into the Nile on a regular basis, and the crying and wailing likely filled his ears every single day. This was not a season of joy in Goshen. His own brother, in fact, was even shipped downstream to prevent his being killed. Growing up in a community that experienced this kind of cruelness and hatred surely took a toll on a small little boy that was relatively new to this world.
But he carried on.
Fast-forward now 80 years. A full life had been lived, and the memories of death had largely been supplanted by the daily thoughts of oppression. The season of which Aharon grew up was one filled with struggle, hardness, and, frankly, not much hope.
From the moment God called Moshe at the burning bush, Aharon was drawn into the story as his younger brother’s spokesman before Pharaoh. He was the one who stood in the courts of Egypt, lifting his staff to unleash plagues on the land of their bondage. That was no small task. To stand before the most powerful man on earth and declare YHVH’s demands required courage, even if Aharon was trembling inside. He learned quickly that representing God was no casual assignment. But even then, he was not the leader, Moshe was. He remained in the supporting role, always second, always aware of his limitations.
But he carried on.
And then came the Golden Calf. With Moshe gone up the mountain, the people pressed in on Aharon with their demands. Fearful of the crowd, he folded. He gathered their gold, crafted an idol, and proclaimed a feast to YHVH. It was a catastrophic failure of leadership.
That day, about 3,000 men fell by the sword at Moshe’s command. Think of the guilt Aharon must have had. 3,000 souls, gone. All because he didn’t stand up against them -- in order to save them. He likely carried that number in his heart all of his days. 3,000 families torn apart, 3,000 funerals, 3,000 reminders that his weakness had cost lives. His own flimsy excuse of, “I threw it in the fire, and out came this calf!”, surely rang hollow in his ears for years to come. If ever there were a man marked by the consequences of sin, it was Aharon.
But he carried on.
Despite this catastrophic result, YHVH, in mercy, called this same man to be kohen gadol, the high priest. How heavy that must have felt. Every time he put on the garments of glory and beauty, every time the anointing oil ran down his beard, he must have felt the weight of being a living contradiction: the one who had led Israel into sin now appointed to mediate their atonement?!
He most certainly had to battle the imposter’s voice: “Why me? I am unworthy. Do they not remember the calf? There is no way these people will see me as one that can intercede on their behalf.”
And perhaps that was exactly why God chose him. Only someone who had stared failure in the face and stuck around could carry the compassion necessary to intercede for others.
So he carried on.
Then came the day of his consecration. Fire from heaven consumed the offerings, and the people shouted for joy. The weight of his role had never been clearer: he was standing in the place between God and Israel, bearing their guilt and offering their sacrifices.
He must have felt a flicker of hope that, despite his failures, God had accepted him. Maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to believe he belonged in this role after all.
Perhaps all had been forgiven.
And then…tragedy struck. His sons Nadav and Avihu, newly consecrated priests, offered strange fire. Without warning, fire came forth from the presence of YHVH and consumed them. Aharon’s heart must have split in two -- joy turned to ashes, consecration overshadowed by death.
In that instant, the questions of his own worthiness would have come flooding back:
“Is this my fault? Did I fail to teach them reverence? Did my own sins plant seeds that bore this bitter fruit?”
As a father, he must have replayed every word he spoke to them, every moment he withheld correction, every failure to show them the seriousness of holiness.
But as he’s piecing together in his mind and heart what just happened, Abba steps in and gives Aharon the fullest and deepest revelation regarding this whole concept of atonement, and equally important, the true role of the priest:
‘Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified.’
Translation: “Those closest to Me must treat Me as holy, for through them My holiness will be revealed. And in the eyes of the whole community, My glory will be displayed.”
Everyone else sees the glory of YHVH through how we treat Him. What does this mean? It means that if we are casual with Abba, His appointed times, His commands, etc, then those watching us will see a casual God.
“Oh yeah, they claim to serve God but it’s clear that they only do that when it works for them. If it’s inconvenient, confusing, or simply what they don’t want to do, then they don’t actually serve Him.”
So if we don’t see and treat Him as holy, there is no chance the people in our lives will see Him as holy either. We really are the earthly witness and it’s our lives, not our words, that show the world who He is.
Upon hearing these words, the Torah simply says: “Aharon kept silent”.
So here we are.
That silence tells us everything we need to know about atonement and Aharon’s true role in all of this. He knew this was not the time to defend, to argue, or to explain. He had seen what happens when you trifle with God’s holiness. He had lived it in Egypt, he had nearly destroyed the nation at Sinai, and now he saw it strike his own household. Silence was his confession, his submission, his acceptance that YHVH is holy and His glory cannot be compromised.
And yet, beneath the silence, he must have been trembling with grief and bewilderment. How could the same God who showed mercy to him at the calf now consume his sons in an instant? The truth in this is that sin is no respecter of persons. Even his own history proved that sin devastates families and nations alike.
But…
As high priest, he would carry that awareness into every sacrifice, every sprinkling of blood, every step into the holy place. His own story -- his failures, his shame, his loss -- became the lens through which he understood atonement. He knew better than anyone that sin destroys, and that only God’s provision of blood and mercy could cover it.
In an amazing turn of events, his life was no longer a reflection of failure, but one of restoration. And everything he did from this precise point in time was to reflect the holiness of God.
In that moment, as the smoke cleared and his sons lay dead, Aharon stood in the tension of grief and holiness. He was a man crushed but not destroyed, humbled yet still chosen. His silence was not empty. It was the silence of one who knew that God is holy, sin is deadly, and mercy is costly. And from that day forward, every time he stood to make atonement, he knew in his bones what was at stake.
Do you?