Why Deny?

Hello again!  I decided I needed a little breather in the wake of my Omer-marathon leading up to Shavuot, but last week's parasha (Nasso) sparked a little fire inside me and I have been mentally formulating this blog post since then.  I realize that Nasso is chock-full of material ripe for discussion (perhaps we will come back to the sotah issue another day), but what I want to focus on is the nazirite.  Simply put, a nazirite (in the time of the Temple) was an individual who took on vows of asceticism in an effort to achieve a higher level of holiness.  Specifically, the vow was to abstain from wine and all grape products, to refrain from cutting one's hair, and to avoid contact with the dead and with graves.  It would be a reasonable assumption that Judaism, with its famously stringent laws of kashrut and Shabbat prohibitions, would proclaim virtuous any person who is willing to be even more restrictive than the religion demands.  Interestingly, this is not the case.  When it comes to the nazirite, the Sages are split in their opinions.

Because I think many of us with histories of eating disorders know all too well how seductive and appealing the practice of self-denial can be, I am going to bypass the Talmudic commentary that looks favorably upon the nazirite (although, to be clear, it certainly exists and is easy to find, if you're motivated to do so).  What I find much more fascinating are the words of Sages who clearly do NOT approve of the nazirite vow.

When an individual ends his/her term as a nazirite, that person is required to make a sin offering to Hashem.  If a nazirite is so holy, what purpose could there be for a sin offering?  Rabbi Eliezer Hakappar argued that a nazirite was required to make atonement because, by practicing extreme self-denial, he had "sinned against the soul."  Despite all its laws and regulations, Judaism values the enjoyment of life and does not encourage people to be more restrictive than necessary.  As the Sages asked, "Is it not enough what the Torah has forbidden you, but you wish to forbid yourself more things?" (Nedarim 9:1)

This resonates deeply with me because for so long, my guiding principle was Restrictiveness.  Forget the fact that I was deeply miserable--there was something about self-denial that also gave me a feeling of superiority, of separateness, of virtuousness.  I thought I was special because I could resist what others could not.  In that mindset, I never once thought of my vigorous suppression of appetite as "sinning against my soul."  But now I think that's exactly what it was.

The Talmud teaches,

"In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat."  (Kiddushin 4:12)  Rabbi Elazar believed this so strongly that he regularly set aside money so that he could taste every kind of food at least once a year.

When I think about that, it almost brings tears to my eyes--that kind of dedication to pleasure and value of delicious experiences.  What would it be like to live in that way, to prioritize and savor the enjoyment of food?  How can we shift our paradigm from the societal messages of, "Avoid x, y, and z if you don't want to get fat," to the much more nurturing perspective of, "What am I hungry for?  What would be yummy?  How can I be good to my soul in this moment?"  Perhaps just asking the questions--and listening to the answers--is a solid place to start.