Shabbat Afternoon Teaching Nasso 5783
דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֲלֵהֶ֑ם אִ֣ישׁ אֽוֹ־אִשָּׁ֗ה כִּ֤י יַפְלִא֙ לִנְדֹּר֙ נֶ֣דֶר נָזִ֔יר לְהַזִּ֖יר לַֽיהֹוָֽה׃
Speak to the Israelites and say to them: If any men or women explicitly utter a nazirite’s vow, to set themselves apart for יהוה,
וְתִקּוּנוֹ שֶׁל הַפְלָאָה הַזֹּאת, הַיְנוּ שֶׁל סִלּוּקָן שֶׁל חֲכָמִים, תִּקּוּנוֹ, הַפְלָאָה שֶׁל נֶדֶר, בִּבְחִינַת (במדבר ו׳:ב׳): כִּי יַפְלִיא לִנְדֹּר נֶדֶר. כִּי עַל־יְדֵי הַנֶּדֶר, הוּא עוֹלֶה לַשֹּׁרֶשׁ שֶׁהַחֲכָמִים מֻשְׁרָשִׁים שָׁם, הַיְנוּ בְּחִינַת פְּלִיאוֹת חָכְמָה (ספר יצירה, ועיין זוהר בלק דף קצג:), וְיוֹדֵעַ וּמַכִּיר מַעֲלוֹת הַחֲכָמִים, וְעַל־יְדֵי־זֶה הוּא שָׁב וּמַאֲמִין בָּהֶם.
The rectification of this wonder—i.e., the passing of the sages—is the wonder of a vow, in the aspect of “if he wondrously expresses a vow” (Numbers 6:2). By means of the vow he ascends to the source in which the sages are rooted—i.e., the aspect of “wondrous wisdom”—and so he knows and recognizes the virtues of the sages. Through this he reverts to having faith in them.
Jewish asceticism, unlike many other forms of asceticism, does not seek to separate mind or soul from body, focusing instead on the mind itself, without the trappings of physical pain or deprivation. The Talmud specifically questioned why a nazarite did not abstain from food instead of wine and answered that not having food would weaken him. The goal of abstention is not to weaken the body’s constitution, but to free the mind from distraction or distortion such as would be caused by alcohol consumption. In the words of the sixteenth-century Italian exegete, Rabbi Obadiah Sephorno, the nazarite consecrated himself to God to “engage in His Torah, follow His ways and cling to Him.” The idea is neither to punish nor to weaken the body, but rather to enhance one’s capacity for transcendence.
The most curious aspect of the sacrifice is not how one explains its purpose, but how one explains its details. The traditional sacrificial elements are present: two lambs and a ram, unleavened cakes of choice flour, and unleavened wafers in oil, all of which are presented to the priest. However, in an often-neglected detail, the nazarite then himself contributes to the presentation of the offering: “The nazarite shall then shave his consecrated hair at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, and take the locks of his consecrated hair and put them on the fire that is under the sacrifice of well-being” (Num. 6:18). An integral part of transitioning the nazarite back to ordinary life was not only the cutting of his hair, but also the offering of his hair on the altar as part of the sacrifice itself. He had to watch his own hair, the most prominent aspect of his ascetic commitment, go up in heavenly smoke, creating the mental readiness to rejoin the world of distraction and mental static. Watching his hair burn created total recognition that his break from the often-banal world of human engagement was over. Similarly, God commanded Ezekiel to take a razor and cut the hair on his head and beard and then divide the hair into sections to mimic the takeover of Jerusalem which was to be segmented after a conquest: “Take also a few [hairs] from there and tie them up in your skirts. And take some more of them and cast them into the fire. From this a fire shall go out upon the whole House of Israel” (Ezek. 5:1–4). Like the nazarite, the prophet must burn his own hair to place himself in the drama of a moment. He set fire to part of himself. Burning hair creates an unpleasant stench. In the talmudic Tractate Shabbat, in a discussion of material that can serve as wicks for Shabbat lights, the use of hair is prohibited because it does not burn; it scorches. Thus, in sight and smell, the hair offering must have given the nazarite pause.

Folk Tales About Hair

But another useful intertext—albeit one that came much later—is the famous O. Henry story “The Gift of the Magi,” in which the heroine also examines her reflection and is struck by her hair: “Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass… Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length… Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.”

Della sells her hair so that she might have enough money to purchase a Christmas present for her beloved husband Jim; she buys him a fob for his watch, unaware that he has sold his watch to buy her combs for her rippling, shining hair.

By the end of the story, it is clear that Della and Jim have given each other the most meaningful gifts of all, because their gifts symbolize the sacrifices they are prepared to make for one another.

Perhaps we should not be surprised, then, that the Nazir is commanded to grow long hair and then offer it in sacrifice to God.

In the Torah’s synecdoche, the hair of the Nazir substitutes for the entire person, and thus the Nazir sacrifices his or her hair as a way of symbolically sacrificing himself or herself. Hair is a renewable part of our body; when we give it up, we are not endangering ourselves, but rather enacting the gesture of sacrificing something we value deeply for the sake of another ideal.

We might shave our hair to burn on the altar, or sell it to buy a present for a spouse; but we might also donate our hair to organizations that make wigs for cancer patients, thereby allowing someone else to feel beautiful again.

The Nazir challenges us to think about other creative ways we can give of ourselves, and how, in so doing, we might find ourselves transformed.

Ilana Kurshan, Talmud Scholar & Author