Someone Had To

I’m stepping away from essays this week and offering a midrash, a made-up biblical scene, to coincide with the Yom Kippur holiday.

Aaron, Moses’ older brother, showed up late at synagogue on Yom Kippur and sat in the back. He saw Moses sitting in the front row. “Typical,” he thought.

The rabbi spoke: “For transgressions of one human against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another.”

“Kill me,” Aaron thought. “Two minutes down, two hours to go.”

Moses looked around and felt like an idiot, again. Why does he always save a seat for Aaron when he knows his brother will never show? Never again, he thought.

Aaron counted the number of chandeliers hanging in the synagogue, the number of men in hats. He counted whenever he was bored or nervous. He once counted the number of times he was mentioned in the Torah—320, which was terrific until he saw how many times Moses was mentioned. 613.

“You counted how many times you were mentioned in the Torah?” Aaron’s wife Elisheba asked. “Are you crazy?”

Aaron didn’t think it was crazy. He was just keeping track. Someone had to.

She accused him of being jealous, but she didn’t get it. He wasn’t jealous of his big shot little brother.

It was the calf. The stupid golden calf. The calf that the Israelites prayed to while Moses was taking his sweet time up in the mountains. Moses and God threw a fit when they saw the people dancing around the calf.

Aaron knew Moses would never forgive him, but he blamed Moses for the whole thing. Moses left him alone with thousands of people who were incapable of entertaining themselves. They needed something to do. Giving them a golden calf to pray to was genius, really.

One little mistake and suddenly you’re an idol worshipper.

Moses tried to focus on the words the rabbi was saying but was lost in thought. Who questioned his authority? Aaron. Who criticized his wife Zipporah? Aaron again. Moses never had an unkind word to say about Aaron or Elisheba, though God knows he could.

He got up to go to the bathroom, angry.

The rabbi began the Al Chet confessional prayer. “We have all committed offenses and together we confess these human sins.” The congregation read the list in alphabetical order: “Arrogance and bigotry, cynicism and deceit—”

Aaron rolled his eyes and got up to stretch his legs.

“Egoism, flattery and greed—”

And he walked downstairs to the bathroom.

“Injustice and jealousy and keeping grudges—”

Aaron walked into the men’s room and saw Moses standing at the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. For a moment, neither brother said anything. Aaron searched for something to say. He instinctively started to count the sconces but stopped.

“Hey,” he managed.

“Hey,” Moses replied, turning on the faucet.

Aaron watched his little brother wash his hands, and suddenly he was three years old again, standing on the riverbank as their mother placed baby Moses in a basket and set him afloat. Aaron cried to his mother, “Don’t send him away. I’ll be good.” He cried for days.

Moses looked up at his brother. “Aaron, you know—”

Aaron smiled.

“I know, Moses. I know. Me too. Let’s go back up.”

“I saved you a seat.”

Aaron rolled his eyes.

“Terrific.”

If you missed last month’s essay about my brother and me, you can find it here.