For the yahrtzeit of Aharon HaKohen
The Mishnah teaches in Pirkei Avos (1:12): “Hillel omer: Hevei mitalmidav shel Aharon, ohev shalom v’rodef shalom, ohev habriyos umekarban l’Torah.” Hillel says, be of the disciples of Aharon, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving people and bringing them close to Torah.
But Avos d’Rabbi Nosson (Version A, ch. 12) adds something the Mishnah only implies. Aharon was a rodef shalom bein ish l’ishto, a pursuer of peace specifically between husband and wife. Of all the arenas of peace, this was the one the Midrash chose to name explicitly. Not between nations, not between communities, but between the walls of the home.
What did he know?
The answer, I think, has everything to do with why we struggle with shalom bayis today, and why so much marriage work fails before it begins.
As a therapist working with couples and individuals in the frum world, I see a pattern. People come looking for tools. Communication skills. Better ways to argue. How to say “I feel” instead of “you always.” And these tools have value. But tools aren’t the foundation. Aharon’s approach was different. He didn’t start with correction. He started with love.
In therapeutic language, we’d call this unconditional positive regard. The sense that before any word is spoken, before any behavior is addressed, the other person is fundamentally acceptable. Not after they change. Not once they see your point. Now.
This is harder than it sounds, because most of us don’t come to marriage with that stance already formed. We come with what our body remembers. A tightness in the chest when our spouse’s voice takes a certain tone. A shut-down feeling that arrives before any words do. A flash of shame when we’re seen as inadequate. These aren’t marital problems. They’re body memories wearing a marital costume.
And here’s where Aharon’s deepest wisdom lives.
Aharon was the Kohen who brought the ketores, the incense. The ketores was made from raw, bitter ingredients. Chelbonah, a resin that smelled foul on its own (Keritot 6b). But when burned together with the other spices, it produced a fragrance described as the most pleasant scent in the world. The bitter, when held in fire and combined properly, transformed into sweet.
This is exactly what happens when a person stops running from what their body holds. Most of us have internal “ingredients” we don’t want to smell. The childhood loneliness. The moment we were invisible to a parent. The times we needed comfort and no one came. We spend enormous energy keeping those ingredients sealed. But in a marriage, they leak. They come out sideways as defensiveness, withdrawal, criticism, or the silent treatment. Our spouse becomes the face of an old pain that has nothing to do with them.
The Midrash in Avos d’Rabbi Nosson records how Aharon would make peace. He’d approach each spouse separately, reframing their grievances so generously that when they next met, they’d embrace. But he could only do this because he himself wasn’t at war. The peacemaker’s stance begins inside.
In our work, this is what makes the difference. When a client can put a hand on the place where they feel something and simply say, “I’m here,” something ancient shifts. The nervous system learns that someone has returned to the body after a long absence. That’s the real beginning of peace. Because a person who’s at war with their own body will inevitably be at war with the person lying next to them at night.
Shalom bayis isn’t primarily about two people learning to get along. It’s about two people each doing the slow work of becoming someone who can offer the ketores, someone who can take what’s bitter in their own history, bring it into the light, and let it transform into something that actually sweetens the air of the home.
On his yahrtzeit, the question Aharon leaves us isn’t: How do I fix my marriage? It’s: Am I willing to become a person who can sit with what hurts instead of passing it on? The home that answers that question is a home where peace can live.