The Nazir is a holy man or woman—temporarily.
Unlike the Priest or Levite, the nazir takes a voluntary vow, and dedicates himself to God for a certain period. Through that vow the nazir is set apart. He or she takes no drink or intoxicant, no razor touches their head; they have no contact whatsoever with the dead. “Throughout their term as Nazirite they are consecrated to YHVH.” (Numbers 6:8)
Anyone can become a nazir or n’zirah—and he or she sets the time period, from thirty days, to several years, to a lifetime. Someone might do so if God fulfills his prayer, for example returning a son safely from war. Or one might seek a period of consecration, of dedication in her life. The nazir sets the period of time, but then must fulfill the vow.
In the section of Parashat Nasso that I read this morning, the Nazir’s time of dedication has ended. He is brought to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, an offering is made, and the consecrated hair is shaved off. He may then resume his previous life.
What’s missing from this account is any description of the nazir’s internal experience of consecration, of dedication. What did the nazir learn? How is he changed?
As I conclude my time here at Beth Shalom, these are the questions I ask myself. What have I learned from this experience? How am I changed?
I have learned the meaning of community. In the US, it seems, Jews often attend the closest synagogue that’s not distasteful to them—if they go at all. Community is an accident of proximity, and while you might look to a synagogue for friendship, you don’t look to it for substantial support, close bonds, commitment--that’s what friends are for. Before arriving in New Zealand, I thought “community” meant merely a group of people. Here, by contrast, community is deep, real, palpable. You are people who are bound together by ties strong enough to last generations, and flexible enough to include recent arrivals. You are people devoted to each other, who stand with and by each other. You are present for each other in ways that have continually touched me, and have shown me what a community can really be—alive, supportive, caring, nurturing, deep and true. Thank you for this vision. It’s one I will bring with me wherever I go. And thank you for including me and my family in this loving community.
In three years here, I have also learned how to listen. Winston Churchill said that Americans and English are “two people divided by a common language.” The same is certainly true for Californians and Kiwis. I will never forget the phone call I got when I was here as a rabbinic student:
Living here, speaking a language so nearly but so clearly not my own, I have never been able to take what you’ve said for granted. I have tried never to assume I know what you mean. I’ve tried instead to ask questions, to clarify, to listen hard, to consider the question behind the question. I might have learned this at an American synagogue, but I doubt it. I would simply have assumed that I knew what the other person was talking about, and that’s a shame. Here, especially in the intimate conversations many of us have shared, you taught me not to jump to conclusions, to withhold judgment, to clarify until I was absolutely sure I understood. I’m certain I failed often, but I’ve tried and I think I’ve gotten better. Thank you for teaching me to listen—it is the very heart of a rabbi’s work and, I hope, has helped me become a better man.
When I worked in business, I carried a lofty title: Senior Vice President, International Sales and Marketing. My territory was literally the entire world, and the deals I closed were for countries, or regions, or the globe. I dealt with people, but these individuals were representing their countries--Mexico, say, or Japan, or Benelux (Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg), or Australia + New Zealand. One person stood for millions, and sales figures were in the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions and, once, even hundreds of millions. It was heady.
But I have learned that there is something even more powerful than dealing with tens of thousands of people. And that’s dealing with one person. One person—you, with one person—me, sharing ourselves with each other: our questions, our worries, our hopes and dreams, our stories. Teaching each other, finding the light in each other’s eyes. There’s nothing more powerful, more beautiful, more important than that.
So now I carry an even loftier title: Moreinu HaRav--Our teacher, the rabbi. Smicha—rabbinic ordination—was bestowed upon me by Rabbi David Ellenson, head of Hebrew Union College and acting on behalf of the institution. But the title Moreinu HaRav can only be bestowed by the ones who say “our—our teacher”—and that is the People Israel. You have honoured me by making me yours, by making me your rabbi and by making me a rabbi, and so I am very grateful.
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