Today, we’re going to dive into a fascinating passage from Vayikra Rabbah (Leviticus Rabbah) 20 that wrestles with this very problem.

Our entry point is the Book of Leviticus, specifically chapter 16, verse 1: “The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron, when they approached before the Lord, and they died.” The text uses this tragic event — the sudden, inexplicable deaths of Aaron’s sons — as a springboard to explore a deeply unsettling idea: “Everything is as it is for everyone. There is one fate for the righteous and for the wicked” (Ecclesiastes 9:2).

Wait a minute. Is the Bible really saying that there’s no difference between how the righteous and the wicked are treated? That goodness doesn't matter? Well, not exactly. The rabbis in Vayikra Rabbah aren't promoting moral relativism. Instead, they're acknowledging a difficult truth: life is often unfair, and outcomes don't always reflect merit.

To illustrate this point, the text offers a series of contrasting pairs. Take Noah, the righteous man saved from the flood. Rabbi Yoḥanan, citing Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, suggests that after emerging from the ark, a lion bit and maimed Noah, rendering him unfit to offer sacrifices. His son, Shem, had to step in. Now, compare that to Pharaoh Necho, hardly a paragon of virtue. Yet, according to this tradition, he, too, was bitten and maimed by a lion when he tried to sit on Solomon’s throne. "This one died limping, and that one died limping," the text notes. "That is what is written: 'There is one fate for the righteous and for the wicked.'"

The comparisons continue: Moses, described as "good" (tov) in Exodus 2:2 (Rabbi Meir even suggests he was born circumcised!), and Aaron, who "walked with Me in peace and uprightness and he returned many from iniquity" (Malachi 2:6), are juxtaposed with the scouts who spoke negatively about the Land of Israel. Both the "good" Moses and Aaron and the "impure" scouts were barred from entering the Promised Land. "For the good, for the pure, and for the impure," the text reiterates.

Then there's Josiah, a king who generously donated sacrifices, versus Ahab, who, according to II Chronicles 18:2, "slaughtered for himself sheep and cattle in abundance… but not for offerings." Both died by arrows.

The comparisons become even more nuanced. David, described as "of fine appearance" (tov) in I Samuel 16:12, a beauty that Rabbi Yitzḥak connects to his knowledge of halakha (Jewish law) — people remembered their studies when they saw him! — is paired with Nebuchadnezzar, a sinner who was told to "redeem your sins with charity" (Daniel 4:24). David built the Temple and reigned for forty years; Nebuchadnezzar destroyed it and also reigned for forty years.

And what about oaths? Zedekiah broke his oath to Nebuchadnezzar and suffered the consequence: his eyes were gouged out. Samson, on the other hand, made others swear an oath not to harm him. Yet, he, too, ended up with his eyes gouged out by the Philistines.

Finally, the text returns to the original tragedy: the sons of Aaron. They are contrasted with the assembly of Korah, who rebelled against Moses. Both groups, offering sacrifices, met a fiery end.

So, what are we to make of all this? Is it a counsel of despair, a suggestion that morality is meaningless? I don't think so.

Perhaps the point isn't that there's no difference between right and wrong, but that the rewards and punishments of this world are often distributed in ways we can't understand. Maybe the rabbis are urging us to focus on living a righteous life for its own sake, not for the promise of earthly reward.

It's a challenging thought, isn't it? To accept that sometimes, despite our best efforts, things will go wrong. That even the most righteous among us can suffer. But maybe, in acknowledging that, we can find a deeper, more resilient kind of faith. A faith that isn't dependent on easy answers or guaranteed outcomes, but on a commitment to goodness, even when the world seems unfair.