From Sirens to Silence
Words of Wisdom with Rabbi Efrat Zarren-Zohar
This Dvar Torah was edited from one written by Rabbi Dr. David Harbater, a published author, Jewish educator and public speaker. To sign up to his newsletter, and to invite him to speak in your community, visit his website: https://davidharbater.com
In Israel today, there are sounds we have come to know all too well — the sharp, jarring alerts, followed by the rising and falling wail of sirens that send us rushing to safe rooms and bomb shelters.
These sounds rupture the rhythm of daily life, filling the air with urgency, fear, and vulnerability.
They remind us, again and again, that the danger is real, that our security is not to be taken for granted, and that we are still engaged in the struggle for continued existence in our land.
Against this backdrop, Parashat Vayikra introduces us to a radically different kind of sound — or perhaps, to the profound absence of sound.
The Torah opens: “Vayikra el Moshe…”—“The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him…” (Leviticus 1:1).
Yet Rashi draws our attention to something striking: this divine call was not overwhelming or thunderous.
It was measured, intimate, almost inaudible — a voice that Moshe heard, but no one else could.
This quiet is not incidental. It reflects something essential about the nature of the Mishkan [Tabernacle] itself.
The biblical scholar Israel Knohl famously described the priestly vision of the Mishkan as a “sanctuary of silence.”
Unlike other ancient religious systems, which were saturated with chants, incantations, and dramatic verbal performances, the service of the Mishkan is marked by restraint.
The Torah details actions — offerings, movements, precise procedures — but records almost no speech.
The encounter with God unfolds not through noise, but through stillness and silence.
Why?
Because in the world of the Mishkan, God is not something to be summoned, manipulated, or controlled through words.
There are no magical formulas, no frenzied invocations. Instead, there is awe, distance, and humility.
God is present — but not graspable; near — but not reducible to human language.
Silence becomes the medium through which one stands before that which infinitely transcends us.
Set against this, the sounds of our present reality take on new meaning.
The alerts and sirens that punctuate life in Israel are sounds of urgency.
They pull us outward — into motion, into action, into the immediate demands of survival.
They are the sounds of a people who must respond, defend, and protect.
The Mishkan, by contrast, calls us inward. Its silence invites attentiveness, awareness, and reflection.
And so the tension between siren and silence is not a contradiction, but a necessary balance.
There are moments when we must respond to the siren — to act decisively, to defend life, to ensure the safety of our people. Jewish sovereignty demands no less.
The Torah does not envision a passive nation, but one that takes responsibility for its own fate.
But if our world is filled only with sirens — only with urgency, reaction, and fear — we risk losing something essential.
We risk becoming a people defined solely by external threats, by the pressures imposed upon us from without.
Parashat Vayikra reminds us that alongside the noise, we must cultivate silence — an inner space of stillness and contemplation.
In that silence, we must remember that in every generation those who rose against us ultimately failed.
In that silence, we give thanks to God for the extraordinary privilege of Jewish sovereignty in our ancestral homeland, and for the strength to defend it.
And in that silence, we should allow ourselves to imagine a future when we will live in peace and harmony among ourselves and along with our neighbors.
Amen — may this be God’s will.
