One of my favorite professors from rabbinical school, Rabbi Israel Francus z”l, was beloved at the Seminary for his quick, sharp wit and self-deprecating modesty. He once told my Talmud class a story about his own days as a student at JTS. Relatively new to critical text study and to America, he was sitting in a Bible class taught by the great Bible scholar H.L. Ginsberg. Ginsberg - who would later be one of the primary editors of the JPS translation that we use today - was well-known for emending the text to get at its truest meaning. By switching letters in certain words or even words themselves, previously opaque sections of the biblical text would become clear. Reading through the JPS translation of the Tanakh, one can often find footnotes that say, “Emendation yields xxx.” These all came from H.L. Ginsberg. 
 
In this Bible class, Rabbi (then student) Francus watched his teacher work his magic with the text. It seemed to make sense to him, so he thought to try it out himself, raising his hand and offering his own suggestion for an emendation of the text that would clarify its meaning. Enraged, Ginsberg (in Rabbi Francus’s telling) pushed his desk over as he stood and yelled, “Moron!” Rabbi Francus ran out of the room, banished from class. 
 
(Because Rabbi Francus was hilarious - he also told us the coda to the story: “I didn’t run out of the room because he yelled at me,” he said. “I ran to the library to find a dictionary so I could look up what was a ‘moron.’”)
 
While Rabbi Francus’s story is amusing, at its core is an example of a student not quite ready to stand in the shoes of his teacher, not quite aware of the depth of expertise it took to draw such meaning from the text. He overstepped a boundary and immediately felt the consequences of his hubris.
 
Parashat Shemini gives us the story of Nadav and Avihu, who similarly overstepped a boundary. The consequences imposed upon them, however, were far more dire. The parashah begins immediately after the seven days of inauguration for the Mishkan, during which Moshe showed Aaron how each of the sacrifices was to be properly done. On the eighth day, it was finally Aaron’s turn to assume his role as the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. 
 
Aaron dutifully followed the instructions he had been given and carefully offered each of the sacrifices, solidifying his place at the top of the priestly hierarchy. He then blessed the people, entered the Tent of Meeting with Moshe, bringing more blessings to the nation and triggering the appearance of God’s presence. 
 
In the wake of this powerful scene, Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu step forward to make their own offerings, placing incense in their fire pans and lighting it. Immediately, God’s fire came forth, not to consume their offerings, but to consume them, and they were killed. 
 
There are many ways to understand this story. Undeniably, it is a troubling one to read for so many reasons - it speaks to the danger that lurks in holy spaces, to God’s seeming fickleness. It challenges our sense of justice in the world since it never quite explains exactly what Nadav and Avihu did to deserve such immediate and severe punishment.   
But it also contains a powerful message about the importance of boundaries and of knowing our own places in the world. In this context, it reads like an exaggerated cautionary tale. Nadav and Avihu, foolishly thinking that they could step into their father’s place as Kohen Gadol, incurred swift and permanent consequences. 
 
We can understand why they might have believed themselves qualified to bring their offerings. Having witnessed up close first Moshe and then their father performing the sacrificial rituals, and knowing that they were slated to eventually take Aaron’s place, they probably did understand the technical procedures for offering each of the sacrifices. The priestly system was still quite new; they likely didn’t quite realize just how firm the hierarchical boundaries were. We’re meant to learn from their tragic example to tread carefully in the holy spaces of our communities, to be aware of which roles are accessible to us and which ones are not, to recognize that just because something looks straightforward doesn’t mean it actually is. 
 
Our communities today have much lower and more flexible boundaries than in the time of the Torah. Chevrei Tzedek, in particular, is especially democratic - we welcome and seek out everyone’s meaningful participation in the life of our shul. We are a community of learners and doers, who love sharing our viewpoints and skills, and who value the new ideas, melodies, and perspectives we encounter. How blessed we are to be able to hear and learn from so many different voices. 
 
Each of us has something we can offer to the community with skill and expertise. And each of us has areas where we can continue to grow and learn as we try out new things. We are fortunate to have a community full of people with ability in many different areas; ideally we reach out to them to benefit from their experience as we try out new ways of contributing. 
 
Especially as we walk that path of exploration and experimentation, we will inevitably butt up against some boundaries, breaching them perhaps without even realizing it. We may unwittingly say something hurtful to another person, for example, not realizing the impact of our words. We might take liberties with the tradition without fully understanding the implications of our actions. Fortunately for us, God’s fire will not burst out and consume us when we do. And we can be kind, patient, and give each other the benefit of the doubt when we feel our boundaries crossed. The story of Nadav and Avihu reminds us to be mindful and self-aware in how we act in community. When we strive to do so, our communities can be the holy spaces they’re meant to be. 
 
Shabbat shalom.