In Jewish tradition, this tension between joy and sorrow, celebration and mourning, is a constant theme. And it's beautifully, if somberly, explored in Vayikra Rabbah, specifically in chapter 20.
This passage opens with a seemingly simple verse from Leviticus 16:1: "After the death of the two sons of Aaron..." But as is often the case in Jewish thought, a single verse can open a door to a vast landscape of ideas. Here, it's an exploration of why rejoicing can feel…complicated.
Rabbi Levi starts us off with a quote from Psalms: "I said to the revelers [laholelim]: Do not revel" (Psalms 75:5). The word laholelim itself is fascinating. Rabbi Levi interprets it as referring to those who are "confused," their hearts filled with wicked thoughts. He even calls them "woe-generators," suggesting that their negativity brings suffering to the world. Harsh, right?
The idea is that the wicked shouldn't be rejoicing when the righteous themselves haven't fully experienced joy in this world. Reish Lakish, quoting Rabbi Shimon ben Menasya, takes us back to Adam, the first human. Imagine this: according to this tradition, the heel of Adam's foot outshone the sun! And his face? Even more radiant. Yet, he sinned almost immediately after his creation. So, if even Adam, with all his glory, couldn't sustain pure joy, what right do we have to revel?
Rabbi Levi, in the name of Rabbi Ḥama bar Ḥanina, paints a picture of God creating thirteen canopies for Adam in the Garden of Eden, each made of precious stones. Ezekiel 28:13 lists these stones: ruby, topaz, quartz, and so on. Some say there were eleven canopies, others ten. The disagreement, the text explains, lies in how they interpret the phrase "every precious stone was your canopy." Does "every" imply three additional canopies, or just one? Or none? It's a beautiful, intricate detail that shows how deeply the Rabbis delved into the text.
But even with all this splendor, Adam was reminded: "You are dust, and to dust you will return" (Genesis 3:19). Mortality casts a shadow, doesn't it?
The text then turns to Abraham. He waited until he was one hundred years old for a son, Isaac. And what happened? God commanded him to sacrifice that very son! The story in Genesis 22:2 is heart-wrenching: "Take now your son…and offer him up there for a burnt offering…"
Imagine Abraham's three-day journey to Mount Moriah. He asks Isaac if he sees the cloud fixed on the mountaintop. Isaac does. But Ishmael and Eliezer don't. Abraham then says to them, since they and the donkey don't see it, they should stay behind. The text pointedly calls them "peoples comparable to the donkey" [am hadomim laḥamor].
Abraham builds the altar, arranges the wood, and prepares to slaughter his son. Only an angel's intervention stops him. The story goes that Isaac returned to his mother, Sarah, who cried out six times upon hearing what almost happened. These cries, the text says, correspond to six blasts of the shofar, the ram's horn, blown on Rosh Hashanah.
After the averted sacrifice, Abraham worried that some flaw in Isaac had made the offering unacceptable. A Divine voice reassured him: "Go, eat your bread with joy" (Ecclesiastes 9:7). Even Abraham, the patriarch, faced immense trials that tempered his joy.
The text emphasizes that "Israel will rejoice in its Maker" (Psalms 149:2), suggesting that true, unadulterated joy is something for the future. Similarly, God "will rejoice in His works" (Psalms 104:31) in the future, in the actions of the righteous.
Finally, we meet Elisheva bat Aminadav, who experienced a moment of unparalleled joy when she saw five crowns attained by her relatives: her brother-in-law, Moses, was king; her brother, Nahshon, a prince; her husband, Aaron, the High Priest; her two sons, Nadav and Avihu, deputy priests; and her grandson Pinḥas was anointed for war. But then, her sons entered the sanctuary and were consumed by fire. Her joy turned to profound mourning. Hence, "After the death of the two sons of Aaron."
So, what does this all mean? Is joy forbidden? Of course not. But this passage reminds us that joy exists within a complex tapestry of life, intertwined with sorrow, responsibility, and awareness of our own limitations. It suggests that true joy isn't about ignoring the pain and suffering in the world, but about finding moments of light within it, knowing that even those moments are precious and fleeting. Perhaps, by acknowledging the potential for sorrow, we can appreciate joy even more deeply.