Parshas Nasso: The Missing Backstory
I was learning Shaar HaBitachon Wednesday afternoon when someone in the group stopped at a line from the Baal Shem Tov (Fellig Edition p. 119-120).
He asked: what’s the chiddush? A person wakes up, says Modeh Ani, washes negel vasser, puts on tefillin. Obviously they’re doing something.
My first reaction was: not every Jew does even one mitzva every day. There are lots of non religious people, and the Baal Shem Tov likely wasn’t making statements only for the people in the room with him.
But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that wasn’t actually the Baal Shem Tov’s point.
What struck me was that the Baal Shem Tov wasn’t describing a deficiency in the mitzvah. He was describing a difference in the person.
Two people can do the exact same thing and have completely different experiences of it. One is present. One is on autopilot. The action may be identical, but only one of them truly showed up for that day.
Which made me wonder if the Torah ever talks about that kind of awakening — the moment when someone decides to show up that way, not just for a mitzvah, but for their actual life.
That evening, learning Chitas, when I got to the part about the Nazir, it clicked.
This year, due to the kevius of Shavuos, we went through Nasso twice. Coming back to it so soon — and right after that comment from the shiur — something I had passed over last week suddenly wouldn’t let me go.
The Torah tells us almost everything about the Nazir except the part I’m most curious about: how did he get here?
Why?
A man or a woman decides to become a Nazir. What happened the day before? Were they inspired by something? Running from something? Did they simply wake up one morning and feel the distance between where they were and where they wanted to be?
The Torah doesn’t say.
It tells us what a Nazir may drink and what he may not. What happens to his hair, how the vow ends, what korbanos are brought. But the beginning of the story is left almost entirely blank.
The Torah could have told us who should become a Nazir. It could have given us warning signs, a profile, a type.
Instead it simply says: איש או אשה.
A rabbi, a business owner, a parent, a student, someone quietly struggling, someone seemingly thriving. The Torah doesn’t draw any distinctions.
Even Rashi’s classic comment connecting the Nazir to the Sotah story doesn’t fully answer the question. Rashi notes that someone who witnesses a Sotah in her downfall should abstain from wine.
But the Sotah’s trial wasn't conducted in secret. It was a public, sobering spectacle. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people saw the exact same breakdown of boundaries. Most of them probably shook their heads, felt a momentary shudder of discomfort, and then walked right back to their lives and their regular routines. Only this person changed.
The external event was the same for everyone. What the Torah never explains is the internal moment that made one person keep walking and another alter the course of their life.
Maybe the person themselves couldn’t fully explain it either.
They just knew.
I’ve lived some version of this.
The noticing came quietly, before any decision. And I certainly wasn’t looking into a sefer for guidance. The changes followed later — some I’ve written about, some I haven’t. Choosing to return more consciously to God. Stepping away from alcohol. Letting my beard grow. Not as “I want to be a Nazir and that’s what the book says” (and I still eat grapes / grape juice and get haircuts). Just making those changes felt aligned with parts of my story.
The path only became visible looking back.
I wonder if that’s why the Torah says so little.
The moment you create a profile, people start measuring themselves against it.
And if it tried, it would poison the very thing it’s protecting. A Nazir who became a Nazir because the Torah nudged him isn’t really a Nazir at all.
The vow has to come from somewhere real.
So the Torah steps back. It doesn’t convince. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t even hint. It doesn’t tell us whether this is a particularly good idea or a bad one. It simply recognizes that this path exists. And when a person arrives there, the Torah is ready to walk with them.
The Torah says it in just a few words:
אִישׁ אוֹ אִשָּׁה כִּי יַפְלִא לִנְדֹּר נֶדֶר נָזִיר לְהַזִּיר לַה׳
The teaching says that a person should ensure that no day goes by without fulfilling a Torah commandment.
He asked: what’s the chiddush? A person wakes up, says Modeh Ani, washes negel vasser, puts on tefillin. Obviously they’re doing something.
My first reaction was: not every Jew does even one mitzva every day. There are lots of non religious people, and the Baal Shem Tov likely wasn’t making statements only for the people in the room with him.
But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that wasn’t actually the Baal Shem Tov’s point.
What struck me was that the Baal Shem Tov wasn’t describing a deficiency in the mitzvah. He was describing a difference in the person.
Two people can do the exact same thing and have completely different experiences of it. One is present. One is on autopilot. The action may be identical, but only one of them truly showed up for that day.
Which made me wonder if the Torah ever talks about that kind of awakening — the moment when someone decides to show up that way, not just for a mitzvah, but for their actual life.
That evening, learning Chitas, when I got to the part about the Nazir, it clicked.
This year, due to the kevius of Shavuos, we went through Nasso twice. Coming back to it so soon — and right after that comment from the shiur — something I had passed over last week suddenly wouldn’t let me go.
The Torah tells us almost everything about the Nazir except the part I’m most curious about: how did he get here?
Why?
A man or a woman decides to become a Nazir. What happened the day before? Were they inspired by something? Running from something? Did they simply wake up one morning and feel the distance between where they were and where they wanted to be?
The Torah doesn’t say.
It tells us what a Nazir may drink and what he may not. What happens to his hair, how the vow ends, what korbanos are brought. But the beginning of the story is left almost entirely blank.
The Torah could have told us who should become a Nazir. It could have given us warning signs, a profile, a type.
Instead it simply says: איש או אשה.
A rabbi, a business owner, a parent, a student, someone quietly struggling, someone seemingly thriving. The Torah doesn’t draw any distinctions.
Even Rashi’s classic comment connecting the Nazir to the Sotah story doesn’t fully answer the question. Rashi notes that someone who witnesses a Sotah in her downfall should abstain from wine.
But the Sotah’s trial wasn't conducted in secret. It was a public, sobering spectacle. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people saw the exact same breakdown of boundaries. Most of them probably shook their heads, felt a momentary shudder of discomfort, and then walked right back to their lives and their regular routines. Only this person changed.
The external event was the same for everyone. What the Torah never explains is the internal moment that made one person keep walking and another alter the course of their life.
Maybe the person themselves couldn’t fully explain it either.
They just knew.
I’ve lived some version of this.
The noticing came quietly, before any decision. And I certainly wasn’t looking into a sefer for guidance. The changes followed later — some I’ve written about, some I haven’t. Choosing to return more consciously to God. Stepping away from alcohol. Letting my beard grow. Not as “I want to be a Nazir and that’s what the book says” (and I still eat grapes / grape juice and get haircuts). Just making those changes felt aligned with parts of my story.
The path only became visible looking back.
I wonder if that’s why the Torah says so little.
The moment you create a profile, people start measuring themselves against it.
That’s not really me. My situation is different. Maybe later. Maybe when things settle down.
Or they do the opposite. They decide they fit the profile and go through the motions because they think they’re supposed to.
Either way, something gets lost. None of it is real.
So the Torah seems content to leave the mystery alone.
Because real awakening doesn’t come from a command or suggestion.
I can only speak for myself. Anyone who knows me well knows that trying to convince me of something is usually the fastest way to make me dig in harder. Most meaningful changes in my life didn’t happen because somebody made a compelling case. They happened after I stopped making a case against myself.
After something I had been noticing for a long time finally became harder to argue with than to accept.
Maybe that’s what the Torah is protecting. It knows it can’t trigger this from the outside.
Or they do the opposite. They decide they fit the profile and go through the motions because they think they’re supposed to.
Either way, something gets lost. None of it is real.
So the Torah seems content to leave the mystery alone.
Because real awakening doesn’t come from a command or suggestion.
I can only speak for myself. Anyone who knows me well knows that trying to convince me of something is usually the fastest way to make me dig in harder. Most meaningful changes in my life didn’t happen because somebody made a compelling case. They happened after I stopped making a case against myself.
After something I had been noticing for a long time finally became harder to argue with than to accept.
Maybe that’s what the Torah is protecting. It knows it can’t trigger this from the outside.
And if it tried, it would poison the very thing it’s protecting. A Nazir who became a Nazir because the Torah nudged him isn’t really a Nazir at all.
The vow has to come from somewhere real.
So the Torah steps back. It doesn’t convince. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t even hint. It doesn’t tell us whether this is a particularly good idea or a bad one. It simply recognizes that this path exists. And when a person arrives there, the Torah is ready to walk with them.
The Torah says it in just a few words:
אִישׁ אוֹ אִשָּׁה כִּי יַפְלִא לִנְדֹּר נֶדֶר נָזִיר לְהַזִּיר לַה׳
“When a man or woman takes a Nazir vow, to set themselves apart for Hashem.”
(Bamidbar 6:2)
Those last two words feel like the whole story.
The Nazir isn’t defined by what he leaves behind. The wine isn’t the point. The restrictions aren’t the point.
The point is direction. A person is consciously choosing to turn toward Hashem.
How a person arrived there is their story. Whether through pain, inspiration, disappointment, or something they can’t fully explain yet — that’s between them and Hashem. The Torah doesn’t try to tell it for them.
Maybe that’s why the Torah introduces the Nazir with the words כי יפליא לנדור. The awakening itself remains a פלא — a wonder, a mystery, something deeply personal.
The Baal Shem Tov is talking about every Jew.
Those last two words feel like the whole story.
The Nazir isn’t defined by what he leaves behind. The wine isn’t the point. The restrictions aren’t the point.
The point is direction. A person is consciously choosing to turn toward Hashem.
How a person arrived there is their story. Whether through pain, inspiration, disappointment, or something they can’t fully explain yet — that’s between them and Hashem. The Torah doesn’t try to tell it for them.
Maybe that’s why the Torah introduces the Nazir with the words כי יפליא לנדור. The awakening itself remains a פלא — a wonder, a mystery, something deeply personal.
The Baal Shem Tov is talking about every Jew.
Every Jew has today. Every Jew has an opportunity to show up for it.
The Nazir is talking about any Jew.
The Nazir is talking about any Jew.
Any Jew can reach one of these moments. There is no profile, no prerequisite, no checklist. Just a person who has arrived at a place where they want to consciously turn toward Hashem.
The Torah doesn’t tell us who that person is.
It doesn’t have to.
The person knows.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
The Torah doesn’t tell us who that person is.
It doesn’t have to.
The person knows.
Good Shabbos,
Berke