How far can religious rituals be pushed? That question lurks at the heart of a baffling story appearing in this week's reading.

The first part is relatively familiar: Aaron's two sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring a sacrifice of incense on the altar—not the one prescribed by God but an improvised recipe, a "strange fire." In punishment, a blast of even stranger fire comes down from heaven and abruptly roasts them to death. Aaron, stunned and horrified yet cognizant of his role as master of ceremonies, says nothing.

What happens next is painful to read. Not only has Aaron witnessed the death of his children, but his own brother Moses immediately informs him that such is God's will: "This is it which the Lord spoke, saying, I will be sanctified in them that come near me, and before all the people I will be glorified." (Leviticus 10:3). Then Moses adds that because Aaron and his two remaining sons have been anointed with oil and are in the midst of serving in the tabernacle, they are forbidden to show any signs of mourning; instead, "let your brethren, the whole house of Israel, bewail the burning which the Lord has kindled" (10:6). Finally the sons of Aaron are commanded never to perform the ritual service while under the influence of alcohol—suggesting that Nadav and Avihu might not have been merely improvising but drunk.

Just a few paragraphs later, however, in what may be the most poignant act of passive-aggressive behavior in the whole Bible, Aaron makes his feelings known. The Israelites bring their sin offerings, part of which the priests are supposed to eat in expiation for the people's sins. Aaron refuses, and when Moses accosts him he replies: "Such things have befallen me that if I had eaten the sin offering today, should it have been accepted in the sight of the Lord?" Whereupon Moses, instead of being appalled or furious, is "content" (actually, more than content: "and it was good in his eyes").

These are the final words of the story, words suggesting that even without any response from God himself, the Bible endorses Aaron's refusal to perform his expected part. What is going on here?

Most Bible-based religions have two sides to them: a formal, public side and an informal, human one. Through formal, public rituals we represent God in the world; through public obedience to His rules we demonstrate our dependence on and gratitude to the Creator. A breach of those rules is a matter of the utmost gravity. This seems, indeed, to be the point of the fire that devours Aaron's sons. By publicly defying God's mandated recipe, they affronted and humiliated Him before all Israel.

Yet the Bible also displays a strong undercurrent that limits, cuts against, and can sometimes even override its formal side. Poor people are the objects of special dispensation: we are told never to refuse their requests for charity, or to delay their wages, or to lend to them at interest, or to take their clothing as collateral. When we see our personal enemies struggling with their burdens, or their animals going astray, we are to drop what we're doing to help them. We are instructed repeatedly to care for the widows, the orphans, the landless Levites, and the strangers in our gates because "you, too, were strangers in Egypt." Response to human suffering is an overwhelming religious issue, a moral trigger that stands at the heart of what it means not just to be human, but to be a part of God's people.  

Which brings us back to Aaron. This patriarch of all priests is depicted in the Bible as a weak man who has won his elevated role by dint not so much of his character as of his ability to speak precisely on Moses' behalf. In the episode of the Golden Calf his weakness takes on shocking effect as he assumes the role of facilitator, bowing to the Israelites' pressure to create a god for them to worship, and then hemming and hawing when Moses calls him to account. Other priests are portrayed as much worse human types: insensitive, mendacious, corrupt. 

In our story, the real punch line, it would seem, is less the death of Nadav and Avihu than the surprising refusal of their otherwise compliant father to eat the sacrifice—and Moses' acceptance of this refusal. While it was possible to require of Aaron that he keep his peace as the ritual show went on, asking him actually to eat the sacrifice, and to do so in a spirit of forgiveness, was just too much. There is a point at which humanity trumps purity, when even the most brazen refusal to follow ritual commandments can be excused in the face of unfathomable anguish.

David Hazony's first book, The Ten Commandments: How Our Most Ancient Moral Text Can Renew Modern Life, will be published by Scribner in September.