Vayikra: The Alef You Can’t Hear (But You Need To)

A hidden Alef. A silent scream. And a question only you can answer.

Sefer Shemos ended on a high with a bit of a cliffhanger. The Shechinah filled the Mishkan, taking up all the space, without even leaving room for Moshe, the leader of the Jewish people. This was particularly puzzling, considering Moshe’s profound connection with Hashem. He had spent extensive time on Har Sinai, receiving the Torah directly from Hashem, and had even been shown the model of the Mishkan. Moshe was supposed to be the one to communicate with Hashem in the Ohel Moed. Logic would tell us that if anyone should be allowed to enter, it would certainly be Moshe. Yet, when the long-awaited moment arrived, with the cloud descending, Moshe found himself unable to enter.

Moshe came as close as he was permitted to, and then he waited for a call. That call finally came at the very end of Sefer Shemos, as we finished Chazak, and then, in our parashah, it rang out: ויקרא אל־משה, Hashem called to Moshe. Vayikra is a term of affection, used among the Malachim on high. That special term was reserved for Moshe.

The gap between Shemos and Vayikra isn't only a suspenseful pause. It’s a space for deep reflection. It’s a moment to internalize Chazak Chazak V’nischazek, to gather our strength, and to listen for the inner voice guiding us toward our unique mission.

It’s also worth noting the order of the pasuk: it begins with ויקרא אל משה, and only then follows with וידבר ה' אליו. It could have said more straightforwardly, ויקרא ה' אל משה וידבר אליו. The sequence hints at something deeper, that before Hashem could speak to Moshe, Moshe needed to enter a state of inner clarity, to pause and shed any trace of self-interest, to be ready to serve purely for Hashem.

Once Moshe reached that level of humility, once he heard the Vayikra, he was ready to enter the Ohel Moed and speak with Hashem.

Last week, I wrote about the kol demamah dakah. I wrote:

"The world out there is overwhelming, busy, intense. Sometimes, we need to pause as we race through life, deafened by the noise, and simply take a breath. We need to hear the song of reality. We need to hear the sound of our own breath. We need to hear the kol demamah dakah...

This is the idea of Bilvavi Mishkan Evneh, that there is a hidden Mishkan inside each of us. The same way the Mishkan’s external structure was built first, and only afterward was the inside filled with its vessels, so too, we have our external form, but within, we must place our true purpose.

The deepest revelation of that purpose is found in the most hidden part of ourselves. It is through stillness, through inner clarity, through the building of a Mishkan that lives within...

At the deepest level of the neshama, there is a pure, hidden place, intimately connected to Hashem and untouched by fear. Yet most of us remain unaware of it because it is concealed. The real source of fear is in a kind of spiritual orphanhood, a sense of distance from Hashem. The healing begins by uncovering this inner place within the external form.

We are never alone."

Now back to this week’s parashah. Moshe used the opportunity of the gap between Shemos and Vayikra, to reach into that special place and find the kol demamah dakah. After that he was privileged: Hashem called out to him.

When the Torah writes this, the Alef in the word Vayikra is written small, almost like a subscript. In contrast, when the Torah describes Hashem appearing to Bilam, the word is Vaikar, without the Alef altogether. The meforshim explain that this difference reflects chance versus purpose, Vaikar is happenstance, Vayikra is intentional, intimate.

I’d like to suggest that the Alef, specifically the small Alef, is symbolic of Moshe turning inward to access that kol demamah dakah. Moshe’s act enabled Hashem to call out to him, with that voice. It required Moshe to humble himself even more, to hear what his neshama was really telling him.

I was thinking, and I don’t know if it’s backed up anywhere, that the small Alef of Vayikra might be connected to this whole idea of the kol demamah dakah, like that small inner voice that every person has inside. The small Alef teaches us to get quiet enough to actually hear ourselves, not only to hear Hashem calling to us, but to hear our inner voice, the one that wants us to be better, to do better. To listen instead of speak. To quiet the ego and tune in to what our neshama is telling us to do.

I have two questions about this.

First, why did this have to wait until Sefer Vayikra? Vayikra is mostly about the technical details of the korbanos. Wouldn’t this idea have made more sense as the closing of Shemos? Why begin Vayikra with this?

Next, how did Moshe even know that this was what was holding him back from entering the Ohel Moed? How did he know that he needed to dig down and find his kol demamah dakah?

To answer this, it’s important to go back to one of the first korbanos ever brought to Hashem. The Midrash in Pirkei D’Rebbi Eliezer¹ tells us that on the night of Pesach, Adam HaRishon said to his children, Kayin and Hevel: “On this night, the Jewish people will one day bring the Korban Pesach. Why don’t you also bring korbanos to the Creator of the world?” Kayin brought fruits or flax. Hevel, it’s not entirely clear, may have brought either wool or an unshorn sheep. Rav Reuven Sasson even suggests that he brought ketores.²

We know the story. Kayin and Hevel each brought a korban. Kayin’s was not accepted, Hevel’s was, and then Kayin killed Hevel.

The idea that Hevel’s korban may have been ketores is fascinating. The ketores brought the Kohen to a place deep within, a place inaccessible any other way. Maybe even a place of kol demamah dakah.

Rav Kook, in Olas Reiyah³, explains that the ketores represents the innermost connection a Jew has with Hashem. That connection exists at the very core of the neshama. It is the kol demamah dakah. Of course Hashem accepted it.

When Kayin killed Hevel, Hashem asked him, “What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground.” What was this voice coming from the ground, this sound no one else could hear? Could it have been Hevel’s own kol demamah dakah?

Rav Moshe Dovid Vali, in his commentary on Bereishis, offers a powerful lens on this early story of korbanos. He explains that for a korban to be accepted, there must be alignment between the makriv (the one bringing it) and the korban itself. Both must be pure.

He writes: "בענין הקרבנות צריך שישתוו המקריב והקרבן להיות שניהם כשרים... אבל בקין היה להפך, שהמקריב והקרבן היו שניהם בלתי הגונים..."

In Hevel’s case, both the korban and the one who brought it were worthy, so it was accepted. In Kayin’s case, neither were worthy.

This teaches us something essential: a korban isn’t only about what you bring, it’s about who is bringing it. It’s not enough for the act to be correct; the soul behind it must be, too. Maybe that’s why the kol demamah dakah is so necessary, because it helps us get to the place where we, too, can be proper makrivim

The seforim teach us:

ידוע הוא שמשה הוצרך לתקן גלגול ראשון שלו שהיה הבל

It’s known that Moshe’s purpose was to bring a tikkun for the earlier gilgul of Hevel. To do so, he had to access the kol demamah dakah.

When we begin Vayikra and start learning about korbanos, we’re really being asked to begin with ourselves. To humble ourselves. To ask: what is Vayikra? What is calling out, with that very small Alef? That very small you.

Who are you? What are you doing?
Let’s come to terms with reality.

To bring a korban is to bring out the animalistic elements within ourselves and return to being 1:1 with the Creator. In his commentary on the Siddur, Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch offers a magnificent insight into the symbolism and purpose of korbanos. We don’t offer animals as some act of barbarism or to satisfy a primitive urge. Rather, Rav Hirsch explains, we purchase an animal, bring it to the Beis HaMikdash, and have it offered, as a declaration to Hashem, and to ourselves, that we are ready and willing to sacrifice the animal within us.

The Ramban⁴ explains this even more deeply. He writes that human wrongdoing is about thought, speech, and deed. Each part of the korban corresponds to one of those layers:

• Laying hands (semicha) on the animal atones for the misdeed.

• Verbal confession corrects the misuse of speech.

• Burning the innards and limbs corresponds to one’s inner thoughts and desires.

• The blood, which represents life, is sprinkled on the mizbeach, symbolizing the person's own blood.

The korban becomes a mirror. It teaches the person: “This should have been me. My blood. My body. However Hashem, in His kindness, accepts this offering instead.”

Maybe that’s also why we bring an animal, beyond the physical aspect, it’s personal. It’s something we’ve nurtured, something that belongs to us. Now, we offer it, not just for Hashem, but to help us come closer to Him. The korban is a tool of return. Of humility. Of alignment.

In fact, Rav Moshe Dovid Vali, in his commentary on Vayikra, gives this even deeper significance. He asks: why is the Olah, a fully burned offering, the very first korban mentioned?

He writes: "והנה כבר ידוע, שהמחשבה היא החלק העליון של הבנין הקדוש, והחלק החשוב שבאדם... לכן המחשבה הפגומה, צריכה תיקון על ידי קרבן עולה... לפי שעלייתה עד המחשבה העליונה, לתקן שם את הנפגם ואת המעוות."

Thought, he explains, is the highest and most essential part of the human being, it’s what truly makes us Adam. When our thoughts become distorted, they require a direct ascent to the Machshavah Elyonah, the divine realm of thought, for repair. That’s the role of the Olah: it rises entirely upward, consumed by fire, as if to say, this was my thought, and now I’m offering it up to be realigned.

Maybe this is why Vayikra begins here. Because the journey back, the journey of teshuvah, doesn’t begin with our actions. It begins with our thoughts.

In order to bring a korban, we need to access our kol demamah dakah as much as we’re able, to the point that we become like a small Alef, humble and driven with purpose. It comes from a place of honesty. We recognize that we’ve made a mistake. We realize that we need to become centered on our soul, aligned with Hashem. Once we do that, once we reach that still, small voice, then we can offer the korban.

That’s why this story continues into Sefer Vayikra. It’s to show us that when we pause and create space, we can reflect on who we are. We can access that quiet voice. Through that voice, we can find kaparah. We can bring about a tikkun.

The whole Sefer Vayikra, and everything beyond it, is about that tikkun of Hevel.

As much as it's about Moshe, it is about all of us since the beginning.

In fact, there’s a beautiful idea from the Rebbe of Radomsk, the Tiferes Shlomo⁵ that brings this full circle, tying together Hevel, Pesach, and the deeper repair of human history.

The Tiferes Shlomo comments on the pasuk "והבל הביא גם הוא מבכורות צאנו..." and cites the Midrash that Hevel’s korban was brought specifically on Leil Pesach. Later, Bnei Yisrael would be commanded to bring the Korban Pesach on this same night. This wasn’t a coincidence. The Radomsker explains that embedded in that night, from the very beginning, was the potential for tikkun for the sin of Adam HaRishon.

He quotes the Gemara in Pesachim⁶:
"אם דעתו לחזור, אפילו מראש השנה נמי."
If one’s intention is to return, even from Rosh Hashanah, it is accepted.

The Tiferes Shlomo explains that Hashem stands and waits for each and every Jew to experience a spark of teshuvah on this night. When that spark happens, even in thought, Hashem finalizes for good all that was uncertain from Rosh Hashanah until now. This turns Leil Pesach into a night of resolution.

Yetzias Mitzrayim was more than a physical liberation, it was a geulas hanefesh, a deep spiritual release. Even the mitzvos, he says, experience their own kind of cheirus on Pesach. It’s the night when everything comes together.

This leads to another beautiful idea. The Gemara asks:
Was the world created in Tishrei or Nisan?

The Tiferes Shlomo resolves this: Tishrei is herayon, conception. Nisan is leidah, birth. Just like Yitzchak, who was conceived on Rosh Hashanah and born on Pesach, the world itself may have been conceived in Tishrei, however its true tachlis, its purpose and completion, is revealed on Pesach, when Hashem tears through the veil of nature and brings redemption.

According to the Tiferes Shlomo, Pesach is more than Yetziyas Mitzrayim, it is also the night of tikkun, the opportunity to correct the cheit of Adam HaRishon.

The korbanos of Kayin and Hevel, the commandment of the Korban Pesach, and the redemption from Egypt are all connected to the same underlying process. A process of tikkun. A chance to return to our original wholeness. It all begins with that very first korban, offered in the stillness of that first Leil Pesach.

However, it’s clear that in order to bring a korban, in order to bring yourself, you have to properly access a certain inner state of consciousness. You have to find your kol demamah dakah.

Michael Singer, in The Untethered Soul, puts it like this:

“What differentiates a conscious, centered being from a person who is not so conscious is simply the focus of their awareness. It’s not a difference in the consciousness itself. All consciousness is the same. Just as all light from the sun is the same, all awareness is the same.

Consciousness is neither pure nor impure; it has no qualities. It’s just there, aware that it’s aware.

The difference is that when your consciousness is not centered within, it becomes totally focused on the objects of consciousness. But when you are a centered being, your consciousness is always aware of being conscious. Your awareness of being is independent of the inner and outer objects you happen to be aware of.”

Singer’s language may be modern, but the idea is ancient. To truly bring a korban, to step into that space of meeting with Hashem, we need to become aware of being aware. To step back from the noise, from what we’re doing, feeling, thinking, and simply be present with who we are.

That’s what Moshe needed before entering the Ohel Moed. That’s what we need, too.

Rebbe Nachman, in Sichos HaRan 16, gives us a practical, and deeply spiritual, exercise to access the kol demamah dakah. He writes:

דע, שיכולין לצעק בקול דממה דקה בצעקה גדולה מאד ולא ישמע שום אדם כלל

Know that one can cry out in a kol demamah dakah with a great scream, and no one around will hear a thing.

He explains that this isn’t metaphorical. You actually create the cry in your mind, picture the sound, imagine the scream exactly as it would be, complete with the tune and force of a real cry, until you are truly screaming, but silently, within. The cry doesn’t come out of your throat. It travels through inner pathways, what Rebbe Nachman calls the symphonot dakim, delicate channels that connect the lungs and the brain.

When you do this, he says, you are literally screaming inside your mind.

You can be standing in a room full of people, screaming from the depths of your soul, and no one will hear a sound. At most, a whisper might escape, but only faintly.

It’s easier to do without words. When you try to form words, your mind naturally wants to move them toward your lips. However if you keep it wordless, just a silent cry, the kol demamah dakah, it stays internal. It stays pure. It stays real.

Rebbe Nachman says this was one of his own spiritual practices. It doesn't replace tefillah with voice and kavannah -- it opens a different door, a quieter one. A deeper one.

Simon and Garfunkel once sang:

“And the vision that was planted in my brain /
still remains /
within the sound of silence.”

In his dream, he walks alone through the streets, and suddenly sees:

Ten thousand people, maybe more /
People talking without speaking /
People hearing without listening.

It’s haunting. What are these people doing?

They’re communicating, though not really. They’re hearing, but they’re not listening. They’re surrounded by noise, yet disconnected from meaning. It’s exactly what happens when we lose touch with our neshama, when we go about life without ever stopping to hear what’s actually calling to us.

I sometimes wonder if he saw a generation screaming out their kol demamah dakah, quietly, invisibly, while the world around them just kept walking by. Maybe he saw others, so numb, so distracted, they couldn’t hear it at all.

The song ends mysteriously:

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls /
In tenement halls /
And whispered in the sound of silence.”

A whisper. A breath. Not noise. Not shouting. Just presence.
That’s where the prophets speak. That’s where the Vayikra begins.

I don’t know if all of this fully makes sense, and maybe that’s okay.

Because once we access that inner stillness, we can finally bring the korban.

That’s why there’s a small Alef. That’s why Vayikra is a continuation of Shemos.

Maybe this is what Sefer Vayikra is really asking of us.

It’s not only about the technical details of korbanos. It’s about the process required before the korban.

It’s about becoming the kind of person who can offer something meaningful. Someone who listens to the Vayikra, the Divine call, not with noise, rather with presence.

With humility. With the stillness of the small Alef.

Moshe couldn’t enter the Ohel Moed until he accessed that voice, the voice of Hevel, the voice buried in the earth, the kol demamah dakah.

Once he heard it, he could finally enter. He could bring the korban.

Not just the animal, but himself.

We begin Sefer Vayikra not with action, but with a call.

A quiet one.

The rest of the sefer, maybe the rest of our lives, is about learning how to respond.

1. Perek 21

2. Ye’alas Chein on Noach, p. 253

3. Vol. 1, pp. 136–138

4. Vayikra 1:9

5. Shabbos HaGadol, 28

6. 6b