By Marco Del Monte
The Call
The Torah opens the Sefer Vayikra with a word that expresses a Divine declaration of intent: "And He Called". It does not say "spoke", it does not say "commanded". It says "called". To call means to seek contact, to desire closeness, to open a space for relationship.
As Rashi teaches, this language is an expression of affection, of proximity. Vayikra is not the book of sacrifices: it is the book of the call, of the bond, of the relationship. Hashem calls out to man, and the whole parashah is the response to that voice. That response has a name: korban-sacrifice. However, the root קר״ב also means to draw close. It is not just about offering something, but about reducing a distance. This is why the Torah phrases it in a surprising way: "When a human being brings a sacrifice, from among you (from himself)", which is also read as: "When a human being draws close". The offering is not something that man gives outside of himself, but something he takes from himself. The Masters explain that man, by observing the korban, must understand that what happens on the altar is a language concerning his soul: fire, blood, and fat are symbols of an inner process. The true korban is man returning, realigning himself, stopping living at a distance. Salt was placed on the korban, a symbol of eternity: one strives not only to build a relationship but also to keep it stable. This dynamic does not belong solely to the past. It is the very structure of Jewish life. The mitzvah, in its simplest sense, is a commandment; but in its deeper reading, it is also termed "Tzivvtà" צוותא, connection, union; Tzevet also means team. Every mitzvah is a thread binding man to his Creator. And the opposite of this bond is expressed with a precise and harsh word: "Karet", excision: the most severe punishment for us is that of being distant, totally separated from Hashem. The Torah thus sketches a true geography of the soul: either one draws close, or one moves away; either one builds a bond, or one cuts it. There is no neutral space. This dynamic manifests itself every day in the very structure of our tefillah. Even before reaching the Amida, the world of Atzilut, the highest moment of prayer, we begin with the korbanot, the world of action, corresponding to the basic part of the soul called Nefesh. Tefillah is an ascent, Jacob's ladder, but one cannot ascend without first working on the foundation. Before elevating the word, one must transform the matter. The initial work is upon the nefesh behemit, the instinctive-animalistic dimension of man. The korban represents precisely this: taking that which is raw, material, animal — and directing it towards Hashem. Only after this step can prayer truly ascend. And when the Bet HaMikdash is no longer there, this process does not stop. The Gemara (Berakhot 17a) recounts that Rav Sheshet, at the end of a fast, would say: "When the Temple was standing, the fat and blood of the animal were offered on the altar; now, through fasting, my own fat and blood have diminished, and may this count as a korban." The altar has not disappeared: it has been internalised. Man himself has become the place of the offering. But the truth, if we are to be honest, is that our generation is fragile. Fasting is not always sustainable, and the Torah does not ask man to break himself. It asks him to transform himself. This is why the Masters have left us an extraordinary key, enclosed in three words: צום, קול, ממון — fast, voice, money. Three paths, three modalities through which man can offer himself. Tradition notes that these three words share the same gematria of 136, teaching that spiritual work can express itself in different but equivalent forms. If fasting is not accessible, the path of mamon remains, tzedakah, through which man transforms matter into relationship; thus is also born the practice of pidyon taanit, in which one gives the value of the unconsumed meal to tzedakah, as a concrete transformation of one's nourishment into a gift. And above all, the path of Kol, of the voice, remains. The voice of tefillah, certainly, but also and perhaps even more so the voice of study. The study of Torah is not a neutral intellectual exercise: it is labour that consumes, that demands energy, that transforms. Tradition recounts that the great masters, immersed in the effort of understanding, would sweat, spending themselves in the search for truth. The principle is clear: the Torah is acquired with toil, with commitment, with a form of inner offering that, in a different but real way, replaces the korban. And so Vayikra reveals itself for what it truly is: not a distant guide, but a guide for every generation. Hashem continues to call. And the question is not whether the voice exists, but whether we are willing to listen to it and to respond. Because every gesture, every word, every thought is a response to that call. Every moment is a movement: towards the altar or away from it. And perhaps it can all be summarised thus: Kedushah is not born when man accomplishes something extraordinary, but when he stops being distant and chooses, day after day, to truly draw close. Good Conversation! Shabbat Shalom
Translated from the Italian with Google Gemini. The Italian text is the original.