Can Religion Make People Go Crazy?
On Parshas Shemini and the rapture of the deep
The accompanying shiur is available on the Orthodox Union's parsha learning app: All Parsha.
Our parsha feels like a crime scene.
The deaths of Nadav and Avihu, two of the sons of Ahron the Kohen Gadol, can be approached like an unsolved murder mystery. In the tenth chapter of our parsha we are told that the sons of Ahron, Nadav and Avihu, take a pan and offer a foreign fire that God did not command. Seemingly as punishment, a fire swallows both of them up.
What exactly were they punished for?
There are lots of clues, but much of the evidence seems contradictory.
The plain meaning of the text seems to suggest that they were punished for the foreign offering that they brought. But why was that punishable by death? Were they ever told not to bring such an offering?
Given that the plain meaning of their sin—that they brought a foreign fire—has such a glaring question, namely, as Rashbam points out that such a fire was normally brought, that many other commentators focus on other clues and give other explanations.
Rashi cites some other opinions. Rebbe Eliezer says it was because the sons of Ahron issued a halachic ruling in front of their teacher, Moshe. Rebbe Yishmael attributes their punishment to the fact that they entered into the holy site of the Mishkan while they were drunk.
Each of Rashi’s explanations has their own clues in the text of the parsha as well. The emphasis of the verse that the fire was not commanded, suggests they disagreed with Moshe about the proper commandment. The suggestion that they were drunk perhaps derives from the clue that the verses following the story that presented the prohibition of drinking wine before serving in the Mishkan.
The Midrash quotes 4 possible reasons why Nadav and Avihu may have died: 1. Serving while intoxicated 2. Not wearing the proper clothes for Kohanim 3. Not washing their hands 4. Deliberately decided not to have children. The Chidah in his commentary Pesach Einayim, quotes six possible reasons all of which are hinted at in the words אש זרה, a foreign fire:
שמעתי רמז נאה בפ' ויקריבו לפני ה' אש זרה שהוא ר"ת אש זרה אש שתויים זרע רחיצה הוראה הן הן הדברים שאמרו רז"ל אש זרה כדכתיב שתויים שתויי יין זרע שלא היה להם בנים רחיצה שנכנסו בלי רחיצת ידים ורגלים והורו לפני משה רבינו. אלו ואלו דברי אלהים חיים וכלם נרמזו בר"ת אש זרה:
With so many clues that lead to so many different possible explanations, one should rightfully wonder if there is an underlying theme that can account for all of these different approaches. In other words, what was the actual underlying issue that caused the deaths of Nadav and Avihu?
To understand all this, let’s explore some of the stories regarding the toll that searching for insatiable spirituality may have had on Hassidic leaders.
Professor Ariel Evan Mayse is one of the most gifted contemporary researchers on Hassidic thought in the academic world. His tour de force article entitled, “Like a Moth to Flame: The Death of Nadav and Avihu in Hasidic Literature,” explores the “tension between the insatiable longing for God and the counter-vailing commitment to this world.”
(Alongside Norm Macdonald’s famed moth joke, these are undoubtedly in the pantheon of moth-related content).
The article begins as follows:
Undersea divers know of a dangerous and mysterious phenomenon felicitously described by Jacques-Yves Cousteau as l’ivresse des grandes profondeurs, or “the rapture of the deep.” This state, also called nitrogen narcosis, often manifests as a sensation of overwhelming euphoria akin to intoxication. Faced with intense pressure, likely compounded by a chemical imbalance from breathing ordinary air so far beneath the ocean’s surface, the body and mind begin to flex curiously. In this rapture, the diver’s judgment and vision become hazardously impaired.
This subaquatic bliss is all the more dangerous because it may lead to an inscrutable longing to go deeper, overruling the panicked instinct to surface. Cousteau noted after a 1951 dive that “I could see, stretching temptingly below me, as far as my eyes could reach, what seemed the infinite sweetness and quiet of a blackness that would yield up the secrets of the universe if only I were to go a bit deeper.” On that occasion Cousteau’s instinct for self-preservation prevailed, but he later acknowledged that this brush with limits of reason and mortality transformed him forever. And the combination of physical pressure, the feeling of rapture, and the sweeping undersea expanse have tempted other divers into continuing their journey even as prudence calls them to return.
This phenomenon, the “rapture of the deep,” has parallels in the religious world as well. There is a longing to remain in an ecstatic or mystical state of divine euphoria that can sometimes impede on some religious seekers ability to remain grounded in reality. In Drs. David Greenberg and Eliezer Witztum’s fascinating book Sanity and Sanctity: Mental Health Work Among the Ultra-Orthodox, they explore the phenomenon known as “Jerusalem Syndrome,” a breakdown in mental health experienced by some who visit the holy city of Jerusalem. Encounters with holiness and transcendence can upend our very grasp of reality.
Jerusalem Syndrome, the authors explain, is comparable to “Stendhal syndrome,” named after the author Stendhal, a pen name used by Marie-Henri Beyle, whose novel describes the frenetic excitement of someone viewing art—heart pounding, thoughts racing. Similarly, as Greenberg and Witzim explain, “the sanctity of Jerusalem has an effect on its guests that, for a few of them, has very unsettling consequences.”
It is always a tricky endeavor to ascribe very real psychological conditions to historical figures. This is especially true when considering the lives of mystical figures, people immersed in divinity, where it is not always clear where divine engagement ends and unhealthy unhinged unions begin. As Gershom Scholem, the great scholar of Jewish mysticism once remarked, “In treating the history and world of the kabbalah, using the conceptual terminology of psychoanalysis—either the Freudian or the Jungian version—did not seem fruitful to me.”
Interestingly, as Zev Eleff points out in his worth-reading-a-second-time article, “Psychohistory and the Imaginary Couch: Diagnosing Historical and Biblical Figures,” Scholem did not always follow his own advice. Scholem’s biography of Shabtai Tzvi, Sabbatai Ṣevi: The Mystical Messiah, 1626–1676, is littered with psychological speculation. Whether it was schizophrenia, paranoia, or his “manic euphoria,” Scholem did not abstain from considering Sabbatian messianism through a psychological lens. Scholem’s contradictory approach to applying psychological speculation to mystical activities was not lost on his book’s reviewers. Notably, Salo Baron expressed deep discomfort with the psychological analysis of such figures and incidents—a sentiment he expressed in response to Mortimor Cohen’s book on Rabbi Yaakov Emden Jacob Emden: Man of Controversy.
“In short,” Eleff concludes his treatment of the psychological analysis of Shabbetai Tzvi, “Sabbatian scholarship has by and large ignored the advice of Salo Baron to steer away from reconstructing psychohistory from a finite number of documents that may or may not capture the total personality of the deceased historical figure.”
It was not just subversive figures like Shabbetai Tzvi who invited psychological speculation. Many other mainstream Hassidic personalities had their lives and mystical works considered through a psychological lens. One notable example is Authur Green’s biography of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, Tormented Master: The Life and Spiritual Quest of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, which by the author’s own admission considered much of Rebbe Nachman’s mystical ideas through the lens of his own personal psychological struggles.
I reached out to Professor Ariel Evan Mayse, whose aforementioned article on Hassidic interpretations of Nadav and Avihu, I found so fascinating. I asked him if there were any Hassidic leaders who, in his opinion, embodied this struggle of the moth to a flame, an unraveling as a result of the pursuit of spirituality. His response did not at all surprise me. He mentioned two Hassidic leaders, each of whom I had already assumed were intimately familiar with the toll that the relentless pursuit of unbridled spirituality can take: Rebbe Menachem Mendel Morgenstern (1787-1859), known as the Kotzker Rebbe, and his once disciple, Rebbe Mordechai Yosef Leiner (1801-1854), known as the Ishbitzer.
The Kotzker Rebbe was known for his unrestrained pursuit of truth. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel describes in his book on the Kotzker, A Passion for Truth:
The Baal Shem dwelled in my life like a lamp, while the Kotzker struck like lightning. To be sure, lightning is more authentic. Yet one can put confidence in it; one can live in peace with a lamp.
Truth, however, took its toll on the Kotzker Rebbe. In the winter of 1839, as legend would have it, the Kotzker publicly violated Shabbos and spent the rest of his life in seclusion. It is a fantastic tale, deeply upsetting to adherents of the Hassidic movement. Did the Kotzker fly too close to the flame? As Professor Morris Faierstein explores in his article, The Friday Night Incident in Kotsk: History of a Legend, the truth behind this story about the Hassidic leader who so championed unbridled religious truth, is not so simple. While the Kotzker did indeed spend the end of his life in seclusion, perhaps due to some sort of breakdown, the actual desecration of Shabbos seems entirely dubious. More likely, as Faierstein argues, the story was exaggerated by opponents of the Hassidic movement for polemical purposes to highlight the more enlightened Maskilic movement.
Faierstein concludes:
The legend of the “Friday night incident” seems to have arisen from a convergence of the facts of Menachem Mendel’s seclusion, the rumors circulating about the reasons for the seclusion, and Baer of Leovo (one of the original people who circulated the story) embrace of Haskalah. An examination of all the available evidence shows that the legend of the “Friday night incident” has no real factual basis. How it came into existence and gained popularity remains a subject of speculation.
Rav Mordechai Yosef Leiner was a student of the Kotzker who broke off from Kotzk and established his own Hassidic court in Ishbitz in 1839/1840. (And, yes, that is in part why my podcast is called 18Forty). The Hassidic school of Ishibitz was in many ways a reaction to the fires of Kotzk. The Rebbe of Ishbitz emphasized the ability to access divinity in all facets of life, even in aspectsmoments of distance and religious failure.
This emphasis on divinity in all aspect of life can also be a dangerous one. As Morris Faierstein’s book on the Ishbitz Rebbe’s thought, All is in the Hands of Heaven: The Teachings of Rabbi Mordechai Joseph Leiner of Izbica, explains:
There is an inherent danger in Mordecai Joseph’s teaching that the purpose of the mitzvoth is to bring man to an awareness that all is in the hands of God. For example, is the person who has already attained this level of understanding still required to fulfill the obligations imposed by the commandments?
When Rebbe Mordechai Yosef Leiner’s teachings were first published by his grandson, Rebbe Gershon Henoch Leiner, in the work Mei ha-Shiloach, a warning was appended to the introduction. The ideas contained within, cautioned Rabbi Gershon Henokh, could be difficult to understand and apply. Therefore, the cautionary note explains, this work has only been published “for the sake of our intimates who understand their true value.” As I wrote in my book Sin∙a∙gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought, “When Hasidic theology is extricated exclusively from text, divorced from its communal context and ambiance, radical suggestions suddenly become more plausible in some circles.” Without the tempering effect of the communal environment, Hasidic texts can seem deceptively radical. but
ויקחו שני בני אהרן: אף הם בשמחתם, כיוון שראו אש חדשה, עמדו להוסיף אהבה על אהבה ויקחו וכו'.
ספרא
Nadav and Avihu were drawn to God. They wanted to become close, but they became too close. Midrash describes their actions as an attempt to “add love upon love.” They wanted to experience divinity, they ended up being consumed by it.
And this explains the underlying issue for all of the diverse explanations for their sin. Whether it is rejecting the normalcy of familial relationships or their intoxicated spirit, Nadav and Avihu allowed the pull towards havdalahthe flame of concentrated divinity to ultimately consume them.
And that explains a remarkable connection between the story of Nadav and Avihu and the havdalah service performed after Shabbos. As my dearest friend, Rabbi Ben Greenfield once shared, the havdalahservice thematically mirrors the story of Nadav and Avihu. Both involve fire. Both involve wine. Both involve spices. And both are performed after the seventh day.
Think it’s just a coincidence?
The very phrase we say in havdalah, “Hamavdil bein kodesh l’chol,” separating the holy from the profane, is taken from the story of Nadav and Avihu as well—וּלְהַבְדִּיל בֵּין הַקֹּדֶשׁ וּבֵין הַחֹל.
Rabbi Greenfield was the first to share this connection with me, but he is not the first to see the connection between havdalah and Nadav and Avihu. Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, no stranger to the allure of mystical union, writes this explicitly. In Likkutei Halachos, Laws of Interest #39, Rebbe Nachman says:
וְעַל-כֵּן נִסְמָךְ עִנְיָן זֶה שֶׁל הַבְדָּלָה לְמִיתַת בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן, כִּי הֵם פָּגְמוּ בָּזֶה שֶׁהָרְסוּ לַעֲלוֹת אֶל הַקְּדֻשָּׁה שֶׁהוּא בְּחִינַת אֱמֶת לִפְנִים מִמַּדְרֵגָתָן וְאַף-עַל-פִּי שֶׁנִּדְמֶה לָהֶם שֶׁכַּוָּנָתָם אֶל הָאֱמֶת, אֲבָל שָׁגוּ בָּזֶה, כַּמְפֹרָשׁ בַּתּוֹרָה. נִמְצָא, שֶׁפָּגְמוּ בִּבְחִינַת סוֹד הַבְדָּלָה כַּנַּ"ל, עַל-כֵּן נִסְמָךְ פָּסוּק 'וּלְהַבְדִּיל', לְמִיתָתָם וְכַנַּ"ל:
The story of Nadav and Avihu is a cautionary tale of becoming too close. Life cannot be lived exclusively in the inner sanctums of the holy of holies. We need havdalah to remind us that there is divinity to be found even within the rest of the week, even in our mundane lives. Just as we make kiddush to sanctify Shabbos, Rav Tzadok, a student of the Rebbe of Ishbitz, describes havdalah as the kiddush we make to sanctify the rest of our week. Even separated from unrestrained holiness, divinity can still be found.
Super Brief, Semi-Mystical Gematria Addendum
וכן יש בפ' שמיני צ"א פסוקים כמנין שני שמות שחטא נדב ואביהו שהיו חושבים בעוה"ז שהכל בידי שמים והפ' בא ליקבע בלב כל אחד השני שמות הללו וא"י לתפוס זה בלא זה בעוה"ז.
Since we discussed the Mei HaShiloach, it is worth noting the Rebbe of Ishhbitz points out that our parsha contains 91 verses—which is the numerical value of the two names of God—הוי”ה (26) and אדנות (65). Their sin, the Rebbe explains, was that they could not merge these two perspectives, the transcendent name of God, הוי”ה, and the more personal God that is revealed through the normalcy of life, אדנ-י. Our parsha contains 91 verses as a reminder that we need the experiences that each respective name of God represents to always be integrated and merged with one another.
Shabbos Reads — Books/Articles Mentioned
Like a Moth to Flame: The Death of Nadav and Avihu in Hasidic Literature, Ariel Evan Mayse
Sanity and Sanctity: Mental Health Work Among the Ultra-Orthodox, David Greenberg and Eliezer Witztum
Psychohistory and the Imaginary Couch: Diagnosing Historical and Biblical Figures, Zev Eleff
Tormented Master: The Life and Spiritual Quest of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, Arthur Green
A Passion for Truth, Abraham Joshua Heschel
The Friday Night Incident in Kotsk: History of a Legend, Morris Faierstein
All is in the Hands of Heaven: The Teachings of Rabbi Mordechai Joseph Leiner of Izbica, Morris Faierstein
Sin∙a∙gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought, David Bashevkin
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