Shabbat VaYikra: Calling It

וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו מֵאֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד לֵאמֹֽר׃ 

יהוה called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying (Lev. 1.1)

Vayikra is the first word of our parasha, and of the third book of the Torah, called Leviticus in English.  It comes after the customary gap in the Torah scroll of several blank lines which serve to separate book from book.  Suddenly, out of intertextual nothingness, vayikra – G*d calls to Moshe, and speaks. This is the first verse of the third book: ויקרא אל משה וידבר ה אליו Vayikra el-Moshe vayedabber HaShem eylav. 

This literally means, “he called to Moses, and HaShem spoke to him”.  Who is the one who called?  To “call”, it seems, is not necessarily to “speak”, or even, perhaps, to communicate.   Since the text refers to G*d in conjunction with the second verb, shall we assume, as translators do, that the first verb also refers to G*d?  How else might we interpret it?  Who, or what, called, and for what purpose?  

The verse uses two verbs: “called, and…spoke.”  In the creation account there is a similar pairing of verbs. In Genesis 1:3, G*d says “let there be light”:  vayomer Elohim yehi or. And then, in contrast, “G*d called the light ‘day’, vayikra elohim la’or yom”.  That which already is, is called, comes fully into being by the simple – and profound – act of naming it.  “G*d saw that the light was good…G*d called the light day” (Genesis 1.4-5).  The first earthling, the adam, reflects that power as it names all the animals in Genesis 2.5, using the same word, vayikra.  In both these instances, naming is the act of definition which gives a final reality to the creation:  the light’s creation is complete when it is called “day”, and the animals, too, are completed when they are called by their names.  

We, too, feel the need to be named in order to fully assert our existence. 

For Jewish tradition, to “call something by its name” is an act of empowerment.  So, perhaps, to give a name to one’s fear helps to control it.  Certainly, to give a name to one’s child, in Jewish tradition, is a loving and hopeful “wishing” of traits upon the child, a way to transmit values and express the depth of family ties.  To give a name is to give of oneself in the process; it is the first step toward entering into relationship with the named.

In our parashah, something is calling to Moses to name and thus bring fully into being that which is being born. The Israelites were in a chaos not dissimilar to that of creation; having left Egypt, we found ourselves in an undefined place and time. Now at the beginning of the book of VaYikra, the mishkan has been built, the covenant has been enacted, and in these two significant ways our ancestors bring order to the tohu vavohu, the unordered universe of their lives, just as G*d does at the very beginning of time. “Before every act of revelation,” our tradition teaches in a book of legends called Sifra, “G*d would call ‘Moses, Moses!’ as at the burning bush.  It was an expression of affection and of urgency.  And each time Moses would respond, ‘Here I am’.”

In these days of chaos and undefined reality, how are we being called? What is in need of being named? If we are living through a time of profound transition, what is being born?

Vayikra:  who, or what, is calling?  In a Torah scroll, the word vayikra is written with a smaller alef at the end; classic commentaries see in this a reflection of the humility of Moshe, who wrote the alef small as an expression of his own sense of unworthiness in the relationship with G*d.  

Humility is, of course, necessary if we are to stay aware of the nuances, the shadows and unrevealed corners of our unfolding reality. We are, certainly, a small alef compared to the Source of Life that we reflect.

How else might we interpret this small, shy alef?  Perhaps in the sense of the incompleteness of our understanding –  what might we “hear” as the voice of G*d calling us?  Most of us are not so lucky as to hear a voice from G*d clearly and distinctly telling us what path to take to solve our dilemmas and make the correct decisions.  Though we might harbor a sense of conviction on this or that ethical issue, most of the time these days we are far from any sense of light and clarity, of order, for our lives and our choices.

This small alef is, for us as well as Moses, a hint of the imperfect relationship we experience with our lives – with each other, with ourselves and with whatever we might call the greater whole of which we are a part. We are no where near occupying the full potential of our lives – but each of our lives is a promise of that potential. Each of us is a small part of the whole – yet a necessary part, even as the alef is a necessary part of spelling the word “call”. 

We are, each of us, a necessary part of naming the reality toward which we, as a kehillah kedoshah,  a holy community, walk. May we find our strength with each other as we go.