After the Fire: Ritual, Risk, and the Holy Path

Think about the Olympics, the moment when each nation’s delegation steps into the stadium — flags raised high, colors shining, protocols honored with precision and pride. Think about the medals, the different levels of the podium. The athlete who stands tallest has achieved something rare, something sacred in its own way. And then, someone places the medal gently around their neck. That simple act, rich with ceremony, tells the truth: something important has happened here.

Now, think about other processions. A wedding. A surgery. A funeral. Each one governed by ritual. Each one bound by holy choreography—whether joy or terror stands at the threshold.

The common thread? Rituals are how we survive the chaos.

This week’s double Torah reading begins Acharei Mot—“after the death.” After the fire. After Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, were consumed for coming too close. What does that mean—to come too close to God? And how can Aaron ever approach the Holy again, knowing what the cost had been for his children?

And yet, the Torah tells us, Aaron does draw near. He is commanded to. But this time, he does it differently. Carefully. Intentionally. Step by step.

He brings incense, just as his sons did. He steps behind the curtain, into the most intimate sacred space of all—the Holy of Holies—just as his sons did. He approaches the Presence, God’s self, revealed between the cherubim, just as his sons did. But this time, the ritual is not spontaneous. It’s structured. Guarded. Measured.

A force field of incense, the Torah says, shields Aaron from what is too much, too holy, too real. It isn’t that God has changed. It’s that we have learned—painfully, tragically—how to come close with reverence, not recklessness.

There’s a message here, but I don’t think it’s simple. Aaron performs the Avodah, the most sacred service we have—on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, for his people, for his family, for himself. And to do it, he must carry the trauma of his loss into the sanctuary and still leave it behind. He must compartmentalize the human part of him in order to become the vessel his people need.

Is that holy? Is that tragic? Is it both?

Acharei Mot leads us into Kedoshim—“you shall be holy.” After the death, we are called to rise, to live differently. To build a life that honors limits, a life where boundaries make space for beauty. A life shaped by ritual, not ruled by it. A life that dares to be sacred, even when the world is still reeling from the fire.

I don’t have a neat ending. I have only the image of Aaron stepping through the smoke, bearing grief and responsibility in the same hands. I have only the question of how any of us live after loss, how we hold fire without getting burned.

Maybe the answer is in the rituals we keep. The meals we make. The goodbyes we remember to say. The prayers we offer, even when our hearts are unsure. Maybe holiness is not the absence of chaos—but the choice to move through it with intention.

What will you choose to carry, and how will you carry it?