The idea of a person voluntarily relinquishing physical pleasure runs counter to societal norms

“If a man or woman makes a Nazirite promise to abstain from wine or grape products….”(Bamidbar 6:2)

A nazir accepts upon himself three prohibitions: not to cut his hair, not to consume grape products, and not to come in contact with the dead. While these seem like relatively minor restrictions, Rav Yehuda Zev Segal notes that there are lofty concepts associated with the nazir. The word nazir itself is derived from the root nezer — crown. What’s the connection?

Furthermore, one of the restrictions a nazir accepts is to avoid contact with the dead. The Baal HaTurim explains that the nazir may merit ruach hakodesh, and otherwise, people may attribute this to forbidden means such as communing with the dead.

Why does the nazir merit a crown and ruach hakodesh?

(Rabbi Ozer Alport, Parsha Potpourri)

P

osted prominently on my high school locker was a glossy photo of a basket of red apples and in the middle, one bright green one. The caption: Dare to be different!

I’m both amused and embarrassed to admit this was an important principle of mine as a teen. Why be like everyone else when clearly we’re each unique? No two snowflakes and all… (although I doubt it’s ever been scientifically proven).

I grew up, matured, and realized my shitah didn’t have value as a stand-alone principle, unless it was l’Sheim Shamayim. And boy, that’s much harder to pull off than wearing a pair of fun and funky earrings.

Rav Segal offers an answer from the Ibn Ezra. The pasuk uses the word “yaflei,” from the root “wonder,” to discuss the nazir’s commitments. Most people follow their earthly desires without thought. The idea of a person voluntarily relinquishing physical pleasure runs counter to societal norms, thus it’s a wonder.

Through the nazir’s willingness to defy societal pressures to curb his desires, he earns a spiritual crown, and may even merit ruach hakodesh.

The Darchei Mussar explains why such “minor” actions merit these lofty rewards. While human nature evaluates actions quantitatively — assuming that larger deeds are superior, Heaven judges actions by their qualitative purity. Thus, the nazir’s three “minor” restrictions, if done purely l’Sheim Shamayim, may bring even ruach hakodesh.

My parents raised us not to be afraid to be different if you’re acting for Hashem.

My Opa and Oma remained frum after surviving Nazi Germany, and sent my father to yeshivah, completely bucking the trend. My Zaidy was a strong Yerushalmi Yid despite living most of his life in Brooklyn.

And me? I like being a green apple. Oops, I did say I’ve matured. So maybe a “Tehillim-zugging” green apple? Or a green apple dipped in honey?

C’mon, who am I kidding? The child in me still values that individuality, but the adult me finds it difficult to channel it l’Sheim Shamayim.

This lesson is taught again at the end of the parshah. Why does the Torah repeat at length the offerings brought by each of the 12 nesiim if they’re all identical?

Rav Dovid Povarsky suggests that although each leader brought an identical offering, each decided the proper course of action for himself, without considering what the others were doing. The nazir and the nesiim teach us that if we do what’s right regardless of what other people may think, despite the smallness of the action on Earth, in Heaven we’ll be considered kings.

A few weeks ago my husband and I were driving down Highway 6 from the north. On the three-hour drive, we ran into standstill traffic. As we resigned ourselves to a long Waze-predicted wait, our fellow traffic mates were getting to know each other.

In the left lane next to us was a rowdy car of college-age students en route to that evening’s soccer game featuring Beitar Yerushalayim versus Maccabi Tel Aviv. These guys had clearly imbibed plenty of pregame “spirits.” One guy had most of his body outside the window as he slurred team chants, tying yellow streamers with the team’s logo to his car door handles. His friends echoed with drunken hilarity. On the right of us another car began beeping in solidarity, sparking a third car to call out support for the opposing team. Before we knew it, color war had erupted around us, with a circus of adults cheering and jeering, “Go team!” while we just sat there — the lone silent car.

Dare to be different.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 946)