The laws outlining the Yom Kippur service is first introduced in the context of it being instructed 'after the death of Aharon's two sons, when they approached before G-d.' 

On the first of Nissan in the second year after the exodus, on the eighth day of the inauguration service, Nadav and Avihu, the two sons of Aharon, brought an 'alien fire, that He had not commanded them. A fire came forth from before G-d and consumed them.'

The Jerusalem Talmud explains that these two events are juxtaposed to teach us that just as the Day of Atonement effects penance so does the death of the righteous.

In fact, the Holy Arizal asserts, that one must shed tears on Yom Kippur over the loss of these two holy sons, adding that those who are truly pained over their deaths will not only be assured to be forgiven for their sins their children will also not die during their lifetime. (מג”א תרכ”א ס”ק א)      

Can one possibly bring oneself to tears over the deaths of Nadav and Avihu who died so many years ago?

Is this — the power of atonement — the only thing that connects these two events?

The very first reaction a human has upon entering this world is to cry. It is a sign of life.

Why?

The Holy Reb Levi Yitzchok of Barditchev reveals a most astounding idea.

In his own words: A chosson cries at the time of his chuppah because when a soul descends to this world it experiences extreme pain since he was just taken from a realm of joy, happiness, and glee to be placed on this mundane earth. That is why when a child is born, he cries, because his soul sheds tears over his arrival upon this world. In a similar vein, the chosson cries because all the future souls that are destined to descend from him are present at the chuppah as well, arousing those fears and pangs of longing for a world of joy they must depart from, provoking his own tears as well. (קדושת לוי לקוטים ד' קח:)

Embedded within each of our souls is a yearning for closeness to a world of perfection where we basked in the exquisite joy of being in the presence of the Divine.

When we must separate from that reality, we become frustrated — the first step in the path that leads to tears. It begins with being upset, then being pained, leading to grieving over that loss, finally feeling helpless and giving up, eventually releasing a torrent of exasperated tears.

The holy souls of Nadav and Avihu pined for ever greater closeness to the Divine Presence. Their overwhelming love for G-d drove them to engage in acts that were expression of extreme devotion to G-d but went beyond the confines of the Torah's restrictions. Their urge to express their love blinded their clearer thinking.

Their very names bespeak this very struggle.

נדב which literally implies volunteering is rooted in נטף — to flow from within, and נדף — to blow strongly. An overpowering urge to give altruistically, solely out of love. אביהו stems from אבה — to accede to a demand, thus אב — a father, the family determiner. (RSRH)

They struggled, unsuccessfully, to explode with love within the rule of G-d's expressed will, but erred, and were duly punished, as only the truly righteous are held to a strict accounting of justice, yet still admired for their inner drive, as G-d asserted בקרובי אקדש — I will be sanctified through those who are nearest to me. (ויקרא ×™ ×™×’)

We each struggle in the same way. We all instinctively want to submit and dwell in the graces of G-d, but often find our instincts to cleave strongly misplaced in areas foreign to G-d. In the case of Nadav and Avihu, that youthful exuberance was directed towards G-d, but overstepped its boundaries. We detour our inner drive from its intended purpose of professing closeness spiritually, toward material objectives that deceive us with its lure, pulling us magnetically towards an opposite pole.

When we sin though, the pangs of frustration over our failure stem from our innate craving for that magnificent world we left to begin our journey down here on the very physical earth, that has been hijacked by our misguided drives here on terra firma, that arouse within us a calling to a higher purpose.

Nadav and Avihu in their quest to recapture life in that former realm they parted from before having their souls fused to a fetus of flesh and blood, overextended themselves by going against the command of G-d.

On Yom Kippur when we seek to realign our errant instincts to a clear-minded determination to adhere and submit to the clear directives of G-d, we recall the fate of Nadav and Avihu, remembering the admirable frustration they felt that misled them as well. We cry like a newborn child pining for closeness yet place those emotions in a renewed commitment to accept our mission, despite the frustration, realizing that despite the disappointment, only within the confines of strict adherence to the letter and spirit of the law we can attain an even greater nearness to the Shechinah.

Ironically, the angels admire us on Yom Kippur for emulating them, by refraining from material pursuits completely, acting towards one another without jealousy or enmity, yet we return immediately after it is over to our physical struggles. It is precisely this dichotomy that accentuates our greatness. We can live in both realms enthusing everyday life and its challenges with a striving for heightened spirituality.

These are the tears we must shed, for they are the cries that will bring us back to our senses, effecting a full repentance. If we walk this tightrope successfully, we are guaranteed that our children will be enthused to follow in kind, staying on track, carrying our mission, even after we return to the place, we began our journey from.

The very first words in the Vidui the Kohen Gadol says are אנא השם — I beg of You Hashem, they have erred… The Holy Arizal revealed that the word אנא is an acronym for the names of אליהו, נדב, אביהו — Eliyahu, Nadav and Avihu.        

The souls of Nadav and Avihu reincarnated into the soul of Eliyahu HaNavi achieving rectification. Eliyahu mastered this balance between instinct and adherence attaining the status of both an angel and a human.

Perhaps the deeper meaning behind Eliyahu's mission to restore the hearts of אבות — fathers to their בנים — children, and the hearts of children to their fathers, refers to aligning every individual's determined submission to the will of G-d to their youthful exuberance. When we achieve that, we are guaranteed the children will be inspired to greatness in kind.

The great Tzaddik of Yerushalayim, Rav Aryeh Levine would visit the prisoners of Zion, who were imprisoned by the British, on the morning after they celebrated the Seder in captivity. They described how despite their dire predicament they managed to arouse their spirits despite their unfortunate circumstances. But they bemoaned the fact that one vital component of their Seder was missing — the opening of the jail cell door to greet Eliyahu HaNavi.

Reb Aryeh responded that they were mistaken. Every person is imprisoned within oneself and can only exit if one opens the door of their heart. Even in a jail cell he can free himself from that which imprisons him and discover true freedom.

As the Holy Kotzker once said to his disciple who ran enthusiastically to open the door for Eliyahu only to be disappointed by his absence, “You think Eliyahu enters through the door? He enters your heart!”

In the recent Mishpacha magazine, Pesach edition, a collection of stories of modern day Eliyahu HaNavi encounters appeared. The following account, that happened to Moshe Chaim Cohen as a kid, was retold.

On a chilly morning at the end of January, my alarm clock went off at 6:45. It was still dim, and my bedroom was shrouded in shadow. Through the window, I could see the promise of imminent snow.

It was a Sunday, I was 14, and it was under 20 degrees outside. Nothing’s going to happen if I miss Shacharis in yeshivah. I’ll daven at the local shul. But at 7:05, I had a change of heart; I didn’t want to miss Shacharis in yeshivah. I yanked myself out of bed — I had to hurry.

I usually took the B23. I had to make the 7:23 bus. If I missed it, it would be another 20 minutes before the next one came.

It was still dark when I dashed out of my house, and the wind chill was in the teens. I raced to the bus stop, but as I approached, I could see the back of the bus two blocks down. Disappointed, I started questioning my decision to get out of bed, but I pushed those thoughts aside. I’ll get a minyan at Reb Menashe Klein, I thought, then I’ll go to Moti’s for some breakfast.

I turned to walk the single block to shul when an old green car the color of string beans pulled over. An older man with a trim white beard, plaid flat cap, and heavy brown coat rolled down the window.

“Where are you headed?” he asked. “Torah Vodaath,” I said. “Hop in,” he replied. “I’m going the same way.” I didn’t usually take rides from strangers, but it was freezing, so I accepted his offer.

He was quiet as he drove and asked me only one question: “What are you learning?” “Masechas Pesachim,” I told him. That was the extent of our conversation — he didn’t respond. I was grateful he didn’t farher me.

There was no one on the street — probably because it was so cold — and we made great time. As we were waiting for the light at Ocean Parkway, I snuck a peek at the driver. He caught me looking and gave a small smile. Wrinkles creased his forehead.

When we got to yeshivah in time for Shacharis, I thanked my driver and turned around for one last glance at the stranger who drove me to school on that cold morning. I watched the green car until it reached the elementary school about 100 feet from where I stood. Then it disappeared…

I do not know whether it was Eliyahu HaNavi driving that car, but no doubt it was Eliyahu HaNavi who entered this young boy's heart.

When we overcome our instincts to proverbially 'stay in bed', transforming our youthfulness to assure we 'daven in shul' despite the cold, allowing the memories of an idyllic world to inspire our actions, we can hear the echoes of the 'restoring the hearts of father to children and the heart of children to their fathers!'  

באהבה,

צבי יהודה טייכמאן