Hair today, gone tomorrow: Nazirites and hairstyle symbolism

The chapter of Judaism Reclaimed which relates to parashat Naso focuses on nezirut, a voluntary vow which requires a person to abstain from contact with the dead, drinking wine, and taking a haircut. We contrast the approaches of Ramban – who understands the sin offering at the conclusion of nezirut to be indicative of the nazir’s prior commendable abstention from ‘worldly contamination’ – with that of Rambam who is critical of the nazir for forgoing such pleasures.

It is a mistake, however, to suggest that Rambam places any inherent value upon indulging in worldly pleasures or activities. Rather he emphasizes the need for a person to strike the correct balance between extreme character traits, including the need to walk the middle path between overindulgence and abstinence. It is a repeated theme in Rambam’s writings, though, that this balance is not an end in its own right; it merely serves to facilitate and enhance the person’s ability to perceive and thereby connect with God.

Passages are explored from several of Rambam’s writings and his position is shown to be nuanced: a person who naturally overindulges in worldly pleasures should temporarily deprive himself in order to train himself towards the correct balance. The potential danger, however, is that “the foolish ones” will see their sages depriving themselves of pleasures and wrongly imagine that asceticism and self-denial is an end in itself and a method of achieving holiness. It follows that the Torah associates nezirut with sin in order to demonstrate that such behaviour does not represent an ideal state of being. As we proceed to show, Rambam in certain places registers his strong approval of vows and nezirut when “taken in a holy manner”, even going so far as to liken the nazir to a prophet – the highest rung on the ladder of human achievement.

Particularly fascinating is Rabbi S. R. Hirsch’s approach to nezirut. Employing his trademark technique of analysing the halachic details before constructing a symbolic framework, R’ Hirsch demonstrates the existence of a close parallel between the nazir’s prohibitions and the restrictions placed on all people who seek to approach God’s Mikdash. The key to nazir, meaning “separation,” is not abstinence and separation from the physical but rather a temporary spiritual separation for the purpose of focusing on God and spiritual development. By becoming a nazir, one dedicates his or her mind to spiritual pursuits and gains a status of permanent presence in the Mikdash.

Hair growth is explained to represent temporary insulation and separation of the intellect from the rest of society (the metzora, by contrast, must shave his hair, an act that represents the requirement that he must become more socially aware and sensitive). At the conclusion of nezirut, the nazir’s hair is cut—representing the end of his intellectual separation from society. The nazir, having been elevated and inspired by his period of social distancing and insulated contemplation, is now ready to approach the Jewish ideal of participating in and elevating the physical world.

R' Hirsch’s understanding of the profound symbolism underlying the presence and removal of hair may lend additional meaning to the passages dealing with the prophets Eliyahu and Elisha in the book of Melachim. In his superb two-volume analysis of Melachim, R’ Alex Israel highlights the deeply contrasting prophetic styles of the fiery and reclusive Eliyahu on the one hand, and the socially-sensitive and engaged Elisha on the other, tracing these respective traits throughout their respective careers. In one uncharacteristic scene however, Elisha reacts strongly to youths taunting him “Go up Baldhead, Go up Baldhead!”, his curse inciting severe divine retribution.

In examining what might have provoked Elisha to this uncharacteristic response, R’ Alex draws upon sources which contrast Elisha’s baldness with Eliyahu’s hairy disposition (“Ish ba’al se’or”). “Go up Baldhead” could be understood as a mockery of Elisha’s inadequacy when equated with his hairy predecessor. Combining this with R’ Hirsch’s nazirite analysis above, we can add an additional dimension: that the youths were rejecting Elisha’s socially-sensitive prophetic leadership style (symbolised by a lack of hair), respecting only the harsher and stricter style of Eliyahu – whose socially-distant approach indicated by his hairy disposition.

Before concluding, as a matter of hakarat hatov, I would like to thank R’ Alex for his examination of the book of Melachim which I draw upon in this post and which has guided me in my approach to studying Tanach. His analysis not only offers profound insights into the biblical narratives, but even more valuably for me it strikes a difficult balance between introducing ideas and techniques from modern scholarship while remaining fully respectful and loyal to traditional commentaries and other sources. I highly recommend his books to anyone looking to undertake a serious study of the prophetic works.

First posted to Facebook 24 May 2020, here.

The Sotah solution to a societal scourge

A central feature of Rambam’s approach to identifying reasons for the commandments is the recognition that they do not represent some form of lofty and sublime ideal. Rather they are to be viewed as a set of rules which God, in His wise understanding of human frailties and predilections, designed so as to guide individuals and societies towards the sort of justice, morality and spiritual goals that humans could ultimately aspire to.

Judaism Reclaimed (both the book and previous posts on this group) examines how this perspective can be applied to laws regarding korbanot, slavery as well as the challenging law of Yefat To’ar. It also notes the power of the Sanhedrin to advance further legislation, in accordance with their received tradition, in order to maximise the applicability and relevance of these laws as societies evolved.

In the post below, Daniel Abraham presents a similar approach to the ritual of Sotah, a set of laws which appears/ed in this week’s parasha (depending where in the world you are reading this!) – and which many have just finished studying as part of the Daf Yomi cycle.

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I think it is important to understand that even in our so called enlightened times today, three or more women are killed by their boyfriends or husbands each day in the US – and domestic violence is also reported to be rising in Israel. One can only imagine how many women were killed by their partners in ancient times. The Sotah ritual involved a man telling his wife that she should not be alone with a specific suspected man, likely because he was concerned that she was being unfaithful with him.

If the wife were subsequently to seclude herself with this man, she was on the one hand showing that she really did not care about the feelings and fears of her husband, while also showing that she didn't mind risking her marriage and/or her life. If two witnesses then saw her seclude herself with this man, she was given two options. She could either agree to divorce her husband and thereby conclude the matter. Alternatively, she could choose to participate in the Sotah ritual to dispel the deep angst of her husband who believed he was being cheated on.

As explained in the Talmud, therefore, the Sotah ritual is not to be seen as an ordeal or trial in which the woman is forced to participate. Furthermore, Rabbi S. R. Hirsch argues that the Sotah ritual is likely to have been conducted “only where a husband wishes to vindicate his wife; he wants her to remain his, if she still is his. This intention is made clear by the fact that he brings her before God for a decision. If he were interested in dissolving the marriage there would be no need for him to take this action since she is already forbidden to him…”.

Thus the message of the Sotah process, as emphasised in rabbinic teachings, focuses on God allowing His name to be erased in the waters in order to bring peace between man and wife – to help repair a troubled marriage which both parties ideally would like to continue.

Having some kind of believable supernatural mechanism to prove whether someone is being unfaithful could definitely offer practical benefits in a society in which men commonly beat and murdered their wives out of jealousy. Recalling the introduction to this post, these laws do not necessarily represent an ideal – but rather they recognise the flawed state of society as it is and seek to guide it towards improved and ultimately moral and spiritual perfection.

In this light, it can be noted that this entire process seems unfair given that men who are unfaithful within their own marriages are not required to drink the bitter waters. That said, if a male had relations with any married female, and that married female drank the bitter waters at any later point in her life this paramour would die if she ever drank the bitter waters (Sotah 47b). The paramour had no control over whether this woman would ever choose to drink the waters, and would therefore have to live his life in fear that she could drink them at any time.

It's also important to fully appreciate the realities of the Ancient Near Eastern societies in which the Torah was transmitted and initially observed. In such ancient patriarchal societies (and for the vast majority of world history), women married young, were largely uneducated, were entirely dependent on their husbands, faced violence and rape on a regular basis and in many eras couldn't leave the house safely without a male protecting them. This meant that they often had a relationship with their husbands that more resembled a child to a parent than a man and wife who were educated equals. What's more, there was a necessity in ancient times to allow men to marry multiple wives, if only due to the fact that war could wipe out half the male population, thus leaving half the women of the time without the ability to have children or attain the benefits and protections that were afforded to married women. And again, men held so much power in their relationships, that even if a woman warned a husband about infidelity, she would not have been in a position to enforce any disciplinary measures against her “protector”.

The laws of Sotah must be seen therefore within the realities of the societies which have persisted for most of human history (and to a some extent may still bear relevance today). Societies in which male violence disempowered and limited the true potential of women. The laws of the Torah often had to work within the deeply entrenched flaws of society in the hopes of limiting the scope of evils and injustices that permeated the ancient world by providing imperfect but workable solutions to impossible situations which had no real good answers.

The Torah's unique quality was that it gave basic guidelines that it hoped would be implemented by the Sanhedrin to the wider society as time passed. Do justice. Do not wrong the stranger. Do not covet. Love your neighbor as yourself. Those teachings were the underlying foundation of Judaism which slowly overtime helped shape and evolve the religion into a more civilized and just society.

Using those very principles, rabbis forbade things that were once permitted (such as cancelation of a divorce) and passed various Takanot (such as Ketubah and its accompanying rules) to try to make society more fair and equal. The Sotah ritual itself was suspended a generation before the Mikdash was destroyed. Even within the subsequent limitations of exile, in which we lack any form of binding Sanhedrin-type court, edicts of Rabbeinu Gershom sought to prohibit practices such as polygamy and divorcing a woman without her consent. We anticipate that a future Sanhedrin will have a busy agenda when it first sits to consider the extent to which it is empowered to continue pursuing these goals.

First posted on Facebook 28 May 2023, here.