This past week was Parashat Chukat, the Torah portion from the Book of Be’midbar (known in English as the Book of Numbers, but which literally translates to “In the Wilderness”), in which, as part of the prolonged wanderings in the wilderness, Aaron, the High Priest and elder brother of Moses, dies. “[When] the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last,” the Torah says, “all the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days” (Numbers 20:29).
The ancient rabbis took special note of the fact that the text says, “all the house of Israel bewailed Aaron” (emphasis mine). For Moses, at the end of the entire Torah, when he dies, it merely says, “The Israelites bewailed Moses in the steppes of Moab for thirty days.” No “all the house of Israel;” just “the Israelites.”
Wondering why this was, the rabbis produced the following explanation. First they recognized that Moses was in a difficult position. Moses was, in effect, the chief justice. It was his duty to pronounce innocence and guilt, who was liable and who was not liable. He angered many who either disagreed with, or felt the ill-effects of, his judicial pronouncements.
Still, the rabbis wondered what made Aaron so beloved. He was, after all, the High Priest—not exactly a man of the people.
Louis Ginzberg shared their discovery in the following midrash (rabbinic elaboration):
“Aaron recognized his special task as that of the peacemaker. If he discovered that two people had fallen out, he hastened first to the one, then to the other, saying to each: ‘My child, do you not know what the one with whom you have quarreled is doing? They beat at their heart, rend their garments in grief, and say, “Woe is me! How can I ever again lift up my eyes and look upon my companion against whom I have acted so?”‘ Aaron would then speak to each separately until both the former enemies would mutually forgive each other, and as soon as they were again face to face salute each other as friends.”
Aaron had a gift for—and commitment to—making sure, when two friends were riled up against one another, that each fully understood the other to have a sense of their pain.
In other words, if we felt wronged by our friend or loved one or companion, Aaron would come up to us and effectively say, “Don’t you understand? [So-and-so] is in pain! They see that they have wronged you! They feel terrible, and they want you to know how truly sorry they are!”
Aaron had the ability, if someone was in pain over a conflict, to go to them and say, “Not only do I see your pain, but your friend who has wronged you sees it, too, and they are so, so sorry about it.” It had the effect, one might understand from this, of lessening the pain, the anger, or the resentment—serving as a release valve for these emotions. By hearing that not only the High Priest but our friend, too, saw our pain, we would let go of it, even if just a little bit, smoothing the pathways for reconciliation.
This was made all the more effective by going to both parties ensuring that it was communicated that the other person’s elements of the conflict also were understood by their loved one, easing their own sense of tension, and quelling the feedback reinforcement loop that often surfaces in conflict.
Whether the other member of the conflict truly felt the pain reflected in Aaron’s words was almost immaterial to the rabbis: they understood that his intent in making peace and his ability to truly understand what a party needed to hear, by truly listening to and seeing that person, brought love and peace to the community in Israel.
As an aside, I wonder whether, when we are in our own conflicts, if we have no Aaron to lean on, it’s worth reflecting on what the words are that we would need to hear in order to feel assuaged? Is there a way to communicate this need in a direct way to the other partner to the conflict? Am I able to communicate to them the words they need to hear, reflecting the fact that I hear and see their experience?
