Holier Than Thou
Ilana Kurshan
To be like everyone has never been.
Enough. I longed for holier-than-thou.
I wanted to draw close to God, to rise
Above. And so I took a sacred vow.
A Nazirite, I vowed. For thirty days,
I’d keep away while others drank and dined,
No party kegs for me, no revelry,
No raisins, grapes. No chalice filled with wine.
No cemeteries too. While others mourned
And comforted the grieving, I instead
Kept far away. I needed to stay pure,
I couldn’t come in contact with the dead.
Or cut my hair, or groom, or shave my legs,
Folks thought I was a hippie, or an ape.
Unsocialized, I seemed. My wild hair
Attracted stares. Kids looked at me and gaped.
No razor touched my skin. No wine my lips.
I kept away from death, but also life—
When thirty days elapsed, I shaved and brought
To Temple grounds my ewe and ram and knife.
So now that I’m a Nazirite no more,
I wonder: Am I different than before?
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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