By Marco Del Monte
We have just emerged from the celebrations of the festival of Pesach, whose very etymology defines it as Pe-Sach, "the mouth that speaks": a time of year entirely dedicated to recounting, narrating and stimulating dialogue with the four sons, involving both the wise son, capable of articulating complex questions—a totally "speaking" being—and the son who does not even know how to ask, who almost embodies a stage of embryonic silence.
Now as we enter the parashah of Shemini, the Torah challenges us to make a qualitative leap in our relationship with language. If Pesach was the expression of the voice, Shemini speaks to us of other children, but in this case confronts us with the trauma of Aaron and his sublime reaction: "Vayidom Aharon", and Aaron was silent. Literally, it can mean he became "stone", he was petrified. We could read this journey as the transition from speech to total silence. This silence is not a simple absence of sound, but an ontological event. As stated beforehand, the root of the word Vayidom actually refers to the term Domem, which defines the inanimate level of creation: the stone. In the mystical hierarchy, the world is divided into four stages, perhaps like the four sons, from the "lowest" silent mineral (Domem), which asks no questions, passing then to the vegetative (Tzomeach), animal (Chay), and finally the speaking (Medaber). Aaron performs an inverse and extraordinary movement: the most elevated human being, he who is by definition "speaking", chooses to become a disciple of the stone (Vayidom-domem). Here a spiritual paradox emerges that touches the heart of our expressive capacity. In the tradition of the Sefer Yetzirah, one of the most ancient texts of Jewish mysticism, according to some dating back to Abraham, the letters of the alphabet are called precisely "stones". They are the atoms with which G-d built the universe and with which man constructs his own reality. The secret of the stone thus lies in this dual nature: it is simultaneously the basic element of speech (the letter-stone that builds) and the emblem of absolute silence (Aaron's becoming mute). Aaron, by keeping silent, reveals that the densest and most meaningful word is precisely the one that man chooses not to pronounce, that is, when the "speaker" learns from the "silent one", from the stone. It is the same lesson that Elijah the Prophet learned when he came into close contact with the Eternal: G-d was not in the wind, in the earthquake, or in the fire, but in the “Kol Demama Dakkah”, “The voice of subtle silence” – a well-known song comes to mind, The Sound of Silence. G-d, the Infinite, reveals Himself not only in the Aseret Hadiberot, the Ten Commandments, but also in the empty space we leave when we stop imposing our voice. “I have found nothing better for the body than silence”, Pirkei Avot teaches us. Hidden within this silence is a crucial teaching for our personal growth, especially in an era dominated by the inflation of speech. We live in a culture that confuses freedom of expression with the compulsive urge to opine on everything; social media has mainstreamed a reactive communication where the speed of a comment counts more than the consistency of thought. If speech is a stone, it possesses weight and responsibility. When we speak only to win a debate or to assert our ego, we are subverting our Divine essence. Learning from the stone means connecting to the deepest message of silence that leads to an encounter with Hashem. Judaism certainly teaches us to speak and to debate, but the prayer that throughout the centuries caused our identity to emerge is the: “Shema Yisrael”, “Hear O Israel”. Today people listen far too little, perhaps because the meaning of words has become noise, or perhaps because we are no longer interested in listening to the other as much as talking about ourselves, or perhaps because we consider our opinion better than that of our interlocutor, even if it were Hashem Himself (Chas veShalom). Listening to the other is what connects us empathetically to the other; too much din in communication creates social errors. Most of the time it would be better to keep silent and learn from Aaron to transform silence into language, into sociality, into respect for the other, especially when it is Hashem who speaks even in His apparent silence. From this emerges a language that builds the space in which truth can exist without being altered by distorted speech. The Talmud teaches: “If a word is worth a sela (a coin), silence is worth two”.
In a world full of words, immediate reactions, and impulsive responses, the Torah teaches us a more difficult and higher path: holding back, listening, containing. Because not everything that can be said must be said. And not everything that is silent is empty. Sometimes silence is the place where stones are not thrown,
but held in one's hands until they become foundations.
And it is precisely there, in the silence, that the Mishkan is inaugurated, where man begins to build himself and the world around him.
Translated from the Italian with Google Gemini. The Italian text is the original.