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CHAPTER 1

Simon the Just and the Nazirite: Reflections of (Im)Possible Selves

The story is about a young shepherd who, looking into a pond, sees his reflection and falls in love with himself. This familiar scene is part of a complex rabbinic narrative, to which we will return shortly. And what better place to begin probing the enigma of self-reflexivity than with the classical myth of the beautiful boy ensnared by his own reflection—the Narcissus of Greek legend? While the rabbinic corpus contains comparatively few parallels to Greek myths, the story of a rabbinic Narcissus stands out not only in its very inclusion in rabbinic works but in the number of times that it is cited.¹ Its presence in both Palestinian (early as well as later) and Babylonian compilations attests to the emblematic quality and relevance that the story held for the entire rabbinic-canonic body of literature.

As Ovid, the Roman poet, tells it in his Metamorphoses, vanity causes the sixteen-year-old Narcissus (“just turn’d of boy, and on the verge of man”) to ignore all those who fall desperately in love with him. Instead, looking into a pool of water, he falls in love with his own image, not knowing that “it was himself he lov’d.” When he sees that the image in the water mimics him in every way, he cries out in despair: “It is my self I love, my self I see; the gay delusion is part of me.” His agonized words “I wish him absent whom I most desire” intimate his tragic fate as foretold by Teresias: “if e’er he knows himself he surely dies.”²

The psychological implications of the Greek tale have been made obvious, if only by the modern association of the story with a pathological condition (narcissism). By contrast, its epistemological-philosophical claims may be more obscure. But Shadi Bartsch insightfully situates Ovid’s narrative precisely in the cultural-intellectual practice of his day: Ovid’s version of the Narcissus tale “becomes one not only about love, vision and the self but also about philosophy: If it is erotic because the act of seeing leads to love, it is also philosophical because the gaze mirrored upon the self leads to self-knowledge…. Vision, Eros and self-knowledge might seem an unlikely trio in the discourse of modern philosophy, but for Ovid they were the essential elements in a tradition that he and other Roman authors would borrow, reflect on, and significantly alter.”³

Ovid’s narrative is thus situated within a long tradition in which self-knowledge, Eros, and vision are seen as key attributes of the philosopher, rendering it a reflective tale on the paradoxical nature of philosophy and its potential shortcomings. Clearly, the rabbis were not philosophers, nor was philosophy a pivotal rabbinic discourse. The salient rabbinic discourse was, in fact, midrash. I suggest that the rabbinic version of the Narcissus tale reflects on pivotal aspects of rabbinic cultural practices—specifically, midrash. For reasons that I hope will become clear, I see this tale as a meta-reflexive text in which the issue of (rabbinic) self-reflectivity is addressed. It encapsulates the three aspects of rabbinic self-reflexivity put forth in the Introduction to this volume: the reflected-upon midrashic self, the meta-poetic dimension of the text, and the interplay of possible selves. Self, projection, mirroring, sameness, and difference—all issues that form the core of the Narcissus character—are also implicated in the discursive and narratological aspects of the tale. The generative force of the character and that of the narrative as a whole are inextricably intertwined. If the fate of a rabbinic Narcissus is different from that of his Greek counterpart, it is in no small measure because of the discursive framework in which he is situated.

Simon the Just [Shimʿon haTsadiq] said: I have never eaten a guilt offering of a defiled Nazirite except for one. Once a Nazirite from the south came, and I saw that he had beautiful eyes and was good-looking and his locks neatly curled [qevutsotav sedurot lo taltalim].

I said to him: My son, why did you see fit to destroy this beautiful hair of yours?

He said to me: I was a shepherd for my father; I went to fill water from the spring and I looked at my reflection, and my evil inclination/desire [yetzer] made me rash [paḥaz] and sought to drive me from the world. I said to it: you wicked one, why do you take pride in a world that is not yours, etc. I swear that I will shave you for the sake of heaven.

Immediately I [Simon the Just] stood and kissed [the Nazirite] on his head. I said to him: My son, may there be many Nazirites such as you in Israel. Of you, scripture says: “When either a man or a woman shall perform the wonder of vowing a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God” [Num. 6:2].⁴

Biblical and Rabbinic Contexts

Simon the Just, a renowned high priest of the Second Temple period, recounts the story of a Nazirite who presents him with a guilt offering. Simon tells us that, in this case only, he made an exception to his rule by accepting the lad’s ritualistic gesture.⁵ This is clearly a culturally specific rabbinic version of the Narcissus myth, one that offers a way out of what the Greek myth presents as a doomed fate. Its resolution is contingent on culturally specific elements: it involves a high priest of the Second Temple period, and it relies on the biblical concept of Nazirite vows and on the rabbinic notion of the yetzer (evil inclination). Likewise, the culminating moment of the tale is a rabbinically marked discourse. In a narrative where sight, self-knowledge, and the telling of a story, as well as the intersection and action of different characters, are brought together in an intensified manner, this midrashic ending is no trivial matter and addresses the very notion of a rabbinic and textual self. With that, the issues of self and other, sameness and difference, associated with the crux of the Narcissus plot, permeate all aspects of the tale, rendering it a text that reflects on the very notion of rabbinic discourse formation.

The conceptual framework of the narrative and the underlying practice to which it relates are provided by the laws of Naziriteship. What was a guilt offering in the context of the Nazirite laws? How is it to be understood in the sequence of events of this tale? And why, as David Weiss Halivni—one of the story’s modern readers—put it, did “Simon the Just refuse to partake of guilt offerings brought by Nazirites, and why did he make an exception in the case of the shepherd?”⁶ Before addressing these questions, we must turn to the biblical source text and to later rabbinic discourse on the institution of the Nazirite (in the context of which the text is introduced).

Num. 6:1–21 defines a Nazirite (Heb., nazir) as a person who has taken a vow of abstention. Nazirites are forbidden to consume wine or any product of the vine and other intoxicating liquors (shekhar), and they are also forbidden to cut their hair or to come into contact with a corpse.⁷ The vow of abstention as stipulated in Numbers 6 is for a limited time (in contrast to a lifelong Nazirite) and is undertaken by the person himself (and not predetermined by God or by a parent).⁸ The text in Numbers also lays out the ceremony undertaken when the term is completed, involving an elaborate sacrifice and the shaving of the Nazirite’s hair. But before the text provides this climactic ending, it addresses possible disruptions of the normal process—namely, defilement by a corpse. It is at this point that the Nazirite is ordered to undergo seven days of purification, at the end of which he shaves his head, offers sacrifices—including a guilt sacrifice (asham)—and begins the term of his vow over again.

Read against the backdrop of the biblical model, the rabbinic tale is far from clear.⁹ But a reasonable inference from Simon’s reference to the boy’s hair, and the boy’s own condemnation of what he saw in his reflection, is that his beautiful hair was the trigger for the arousal of his yetzer and that it is at this point that the lad decides to become a Nazirite. According to this prevalent reading, he chooses to take the Nazirite vow because this would require him, at the end of his vow (or after becoming impure during its term), to shave his head. The symbolic act of cutting his hair, as prescribed by Nazirite ritual, would thus be a way of acknowledging the improper vanity that his hair caused. Even though his hair would subsequently grow back, leading him again to be prone to vanity, the symbolic-ritual act that he engaged in would caution him against vanity.

Rabbi Yonah and Rabbi Mane (fourth-century Palestinian rabbis) explain that most Nazirite vows were not undertaken in a clear state of mind and were subsequently regretted.¹⁰ After defilement, which requires bringing a guilt offering and prolonging the term of the vow, the Nazirite is even more likely to regret his original commitment. That, according to those two rabbis, renders the sacrifices unconsecrated. According to R. Yona and R. Mane, this is why Simon generally refuses to accept them.¹¹ Halivni concludes from their position that Simon did not oppose asceticism in general (as exemplified by the Nazirite vow),¹² nor did he oppose the institution of the Nazirite categorically (how could he possibly second-guess such a revered biblical practice?).¹³ Instead, Halivni posits, he objected to “the practice prevalent in his time, and even more common in subsequent times, of vowing to be a Nazirite for primarily nonreligious reasons, and in some cases for no other reason than to prove an argument.”¹⁴ Accordingly, we may imagine that Simon’s a priori suspicion toward his contemporary Nazirites grows when their term is unexpectedly extended—an extension signified by the very same guilt offering that he refuses to accept.

From Self-Reflectivity to Midrash: Resolving the Hermeneutical Dilemma

The story is unclear regarding the meaning of the Nazirite’s guilt offering. While the narrative leaves the question of the guilt offering and the context of the lad’s defilement obscure, the text offers clues regarding the circumstances that drove the lad to become a Nazirite in the first place.¹⁵ Some modern readers suggest that the lad was already a Nazirite at the time of his encounter with his reflection in the water.¹⁶ However, it seems more likely, as suggested above, that it was precisely that encounter that drove the lad to take the vows and renounce his head of curls for “the sake of heaven.”¹⁷ Viewing the self-reflective scene as the trigger to the boy’s decision to become a Nazirite (and as the instant at which he explicitly utters the vow) provides a richer basis for the narrative’s complexity and the relationship between the characters involved, as well as for understanding Simon’s acceptance of the offering. Simon thus accepts the guilt offering because of the pure intention encapsulated in the lad’s decision to become a Nazirite and because of the explicit negation of vanity that he conveys. The lad’s story, where pure intention and the conscious negation of vanity play a key—and an explicit—role, answers Simon’s implied general critique of a practice that, to his mind, is too often followed out of vanity. If it was his beautiful locks that alarmed the shepherd to begin with, then by allowing his hair to grow wild for the prescribed term, and even for its unexpected extension because of defilement, his act becomes a deliberate self-reflective act aimed at mastering his vanity. Moreover, it is the shepherd’s conscious recognition of the seductive power of his hair that enables Simon to see him as a kindred spirit: they both recognize the dangers of vanity, and both seem excited by an erotic head of curls.

As Simon emphasizes, he is about to recount an exceptional tale, one that alludes to the apprehension with which he regards the practice of Naziriteship—at least, certain of its manifestations.¹⁸ The dissonance between practice and prescribed rules suggests that the Torah is flawed as a signifying corpus: it fails to produce the kinds of human beings it envisions. The Nazirite, then, exists in the text but not in the world outside the text. But this creates incoherence between the sacred law and its core assumptions regarding human action. Simon offers a moment of congruence between these two disparate elements by progressing from the (literally) self-reflective scene in which the shepherd is moved to become a Nazirite to Simon’s (self-reflexive) midrash. By midrashically identifying the boy with the general rule stipulated in Numbers, and not the common practice that he sees around him, he resolves his semiotic-hermeneutic dilemma by finding in the young Nazirite a particular signified person to whom the signifier—that is, the Torah—corresponds.

Narratological Reflections of the (Im)Possible Self

The rabbinic tale, like the Greek versions of the myth, is concerned with primal issues of knowledge, self-knowledge, and their epistemological premise. It also, as psychological theories have claimed, points at the fragmented, ambivalent qualities of what might otherwise be mistaken to be an all too coherent notion of the self. The self, the story tells us, must invariably rely on representation, on an externally projected image, to form a notion of itself. Narcissus, caught in the imaginary illusion of an unfragmented, undivided self, fails to recognize the reflection in the water for what it is—a representation, a mode of signification, of himself. The representational aspects of the self, of subjectivity,¹⁹ imply an inherent estrangement of human experience, in which the self is never identical to itself (to its represented self). Hence identity is, by its very nature, fractured.²⁰

The “Other Within”: From Human to Textual Representation

Unlike the Greek doomed hero, the Nazirite from the south is saved at the exact moment of reflection, of self-reflectivity. What exactly happened at that instant, according to the doubly mediated recounting of Simon the Just? Simon tells us that the shepherd told him that, having seen his reflection in the water, he was attacked from within. His yetzer—the rabbinic term for the evil inclination that resides within every man²¹—sought to overcome him and remove him from this world.²² The manifestation of the yetzer thus, paradoxically, signals both the character’s downfall and his ultimate redemption. The yetzer is a remarkable rabbinic innovation. It should be viewed in light of the shift in rabbinic thought, in its treatment of biblical writings, from external to internal conflict in seduction narratives, and in light of the tendency in rabbinic writings to expand the internal human realm of conflict and intention.²³ The psychological aspects of the rabbinic tale of Narcissus should be considered in the context of rabbinic notions of subjectivity in general.

The yetzer is an adversary that is the source of the narcissistic impulse. Yet it is also, almost paradoxically, the remedy to the very malady that it seems to provoke: the existence (or the identification) of the yetzer as a separate internal entity, one that facilitates articulation of an internally divided discourse, is the way out of narcissistic entrapment. The yetzer connotes, in this specific narrative, sexual transgression (presented here as Eros’s counterimage, Thanatos). The phrase paḥaz yitzri (my yetzer made me rash) clearly points to the Nazirite’s autoerotic fascination.²⁴ In this highly intensified model, it is the recognition of that fascination as a reified entity that sets the beholder free. The victory is won in an internal battle and through an internal staged dialogue (although the yetzer is not allowed to speak for itself).

The recognition of an other within, a recognition that is effected by an internal quasi-dialogue, prevents the future Nazirite from misconstruing an image of himself to be an other, external to his unified self.²⁵ Language, the archetypical signifying (or symbolic) system, provides a way out of an illusionary and fatal conflation of identity and sameness. Looking at the water, the shepherd understands that sameness is the ultimate fate that awaits all humans, when the very (external) features that mark the differences between them are erased by death. He then decides to become a Nazirite, which will require him to let his hair grow wild and, at the end of the term of his vow, to shave it off—a symbolic renunciation of power and control²⁶ over that part of his body that is not eaten (at least at first) by maggots and worms. But his emancipation owes its success not only to the linguistic signifying system in general, and not only to the symbolic act of shaving his hair. More specifically, it is the legal (halakhic) discourse in which the words “I swear, I shall shave you” (agalḥakha) count as a Naziriteship vow.²⁷ They provide the shepherd with a definite course of action. True, he could just as well have shaved off his hair without becoming a Nazirite.²⁸ Yet he chooses the ritualistic avenue—to do things with both words and actions—underlining God’s role as the addressee and as the opposite of the yetzer. The yetzer, here a metonym for sexual transgression, is thus rendered synonymous with the yetzer as a symbol of mutiny against God.²⁹ Moreover, the accusation that the yetzer takes pride in what does not belong to him alludes to the One who is the ultimate proprietor. The internal other is seen as the opposite image to, and as the condition for recognizing, what Rudolf Otto termed “the wholly Other.”³⁰

Otherness within characterizes the Nazirite’s self, corresponding to rabbinic notions of subjectivity, and it is also a poetic aspect of the textual self, since the tale as a whole is a tale within a tale, a text within a text. The story of the Nazirite is part of a bigger story: it is framed within a first-person narrative told by Simon the Just. Like his beautiful projected hero, he is transformed (if only momentarily, making an exception that proves his rule), and, like him, his transformation has to do with sight (“I saw that he had beautiful eyes and was good-looking,” “why did you see fit”). Sight is what drives the story as a whole—both the Narcissus tale and Simon the Just’s framing narrative—to its happy ending.³¹ While the Nazirite realizes the sameness/otherness of his reflection, Simon is granted the utmost gratification of semblance between scripture and reality: “of you, scripture says,” he tells the boy as he finds the missing referent. His apprehension of Nazirites in general, we must remember, stems from what he experiences as a discrepancy between a signifying system and its referents in the world.³² The Nazirite might have been liberated by the recognition of the representational or signifying aspects of his identity; Simon the Just’s quest for an embodiment of the signifying model—scripture—in his contemporary surroundings is only briefly satisfied. Significantly, this ad hoc resolution is expressed in hermeneutical terms as the story ends, when Simon the Just offers a mini-midrash: he now reads the scriptural words yafli lindor literally. The word combination yafli lindor ordinarily, and as it appears in Numbers, means “to vow,” but Simon puts the emphasis on the verb yafli, to perform a wonder.³³ Simon’s words transform the shepherd’s experience into midrash: the shepherd’s vow to shave his head indirectly alludes to the Torah’s words “to separate themselves unto God,” but he does not explicitly quote the verse. The narrative draws an analogy between scripture and the Nazirite’s actions and words as he turns to the yetzer and proclaims that his hair (as a metonym of the body) is not his and that he will “shave it for the sake of heaven.” In doing so, the Nazir performs a subtle reading of the verse “to vow a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God” (Num. 6:2), which explains the consecration to God as the answer to lurking hubris, in light of other potential beneficiaries (for example, the yetzer). Thus his realization that his hair is not his and should be consecrated to God corresponds to the biblical decree to make a vow to God (and not to another entity).³⁴ I will come back to the narrative’s midrashic grand finale—in keeping with my claim that midrash should be regarded as a rabbinic self. What need to be emphasized at this point is that Simon’s recognition of the Nazir, via midrash, echoes the Nazir’s own practice.

The relationship between Simon’s framing narrative and the Nazir’s internal story involves “the thematizing within the story of its storytelling concerns.”³⁵ Accordingly, one could argue that the mere fact that we are presented with a story within a story is a sign of the text’s metafictional quality. That being the case, it should tell us something about telling stories, about the mediation and representation that this invariably involves, even about the problematic privileged position that the narrated (as opposed to the narrating) event might be granted. More specifically, if Simon’s personal experience is couched in similar terms to those of his hero’s, in what hierarchical order do the two stories stand? Did the internal story generate the framing narrative, or did Simon’s experience project itself onto the other tale? Which of the tales is the source of reflection? Does each story hold a separate identity, or are their identities determined by a same/other relationship that they bear with regard to each other? These narratological issues, relating to a narratological self, become tied up with issues of human self-reflectivity as they are explicitly played out in this text.

Simon the Just: A Possible Self

The story of Simon the Just is not only his own. It is a story told about Simon the Just telling a story. What might be associated with his character as the storyteller does not stand beyond the imagined borders of the tale; it is part of its very fabric. From a different perspective, narratives that are associated with the figure of Simon the Just constitute an identifiable rabbinic discourse, which is defined by having this character as its focal point. It may be the case, as some have argued, that the tale of Simon the Just and the Nazir is an ancient one originating in the Second Temple period, or at the end of the first century CE.³⁶ However, by the time the tale was retold in the Babylonian Talmud, it had become part of a larger tradition, of a discourse centered on Simon the Just (which may very well contain later material). Can one assume, on strictly philological grounds, that the Bavli storyteller knew (let alone made conscious use) of other traditions concerning Simon the Just? Obviously not. Yet the traditions—and here I limit them to the ones recorded in the Bavli—provide a general profile of a towering pre-rabbinic, priestly figure, associated with the glory of the Temple.³⁷ That these (as well as other) traditions abound also in earlier Palestinian compilations, where a version of the Nazir tale appears (e.g., in the Tosefta), further suggests that the story of the Nazir from the south should be construed in the context of a wider discourse regarding Simon.

Simon the Just, as the chain of tradition in tractate Avot tells us, was of the last surviving members of the legendary Keneset Gedolah, the Great Assembly.³⁸ He is the first individual in the ancestral chain of tradition to be quoted (“on three things does the world stand: on Torah, and on the Temple service [ʿavodah], and on the practice of kindliness [gemilut ḥasadim]”). The conspicuous role allotted to him in this genealogy of knowledge corresponds with his imposing presence elsewhere in rabbinic legends.³⁹

Simon the high priest’s connections with Alexander the Great are recounted in a few sources, including rabbinic sources.⁴⁰ When the Samaritans conspire to destroy (or take over, in other sources) the Temple, Simon the Just dons his priestly attire and makes his way at night—accompanied by other dignitaries bearing candles—to meet Alexander. The Greek leader, having witnessed the delegation heading his way at night, is informed by his counselors that it is composed of Jewish rebels. However, when morning breaks and they reach Antipatris, Alexander sees Simon the Just. Alexander descends from his chariot and bows before him. His counselors are bewildered. “A great king like you bows before this Jew?” they ask. Alexander replies: “I see his image when I go into battle and I win.” This is the appropriate ending for a political-theological fantasy,⁴¹ a genre associated in rabbinic literature with figures such as Vespasian,⁴² Hadrian,⁴³ and Antoninus.⁴⁴

Simon the Just’s statesmanship, as we learn from the Alexandrian episode, derives its power from his priestly office. When Simon appears before him, clothed in his white priestly vestments, Alexander acknowledges the superiority of the God that Simon represents. The nature of the knowledge and power entailed in his specific embodiment of that institution is further exemplified in other traditions about Simon. For example, in a large segment in the Babylonian Talmud (Yoma 39a–b), he appears as a metonym for the Second Temple in its glory, and his death signals its decline and corruption. As long as he lived, we are told, the “western candle” (in the Temple) always burned—a sign of the abiding presence of the Shekhinah (divine presence). Similarly, the maʿarakhah, the fire of the great altar, sustained itself from morning to evening. Once he died, the candle ceased to burn, and the fire of the maʿarakhah dwindled and required constant rekindling. In his lifetime, the showbread was sufficient and equally divided among the priests. Once he died, the meek did not receive any bread while the gluttonous got double their share.⁴⁵ As an exceptionally virtuous character in rabbinic literature, he is imparted with the knowledge of his own demise.⁴⁶ Simon the Just learns of his impending death from the disappearance of an old man, dressed in white, who used to accompany him annually to the Holy of Holies. When, instead of that man, appears an old man dressed in black who accompanies him while he enters but stays behind when he leaves, Simon knows that his days are numbered.⁴⁷ It is important to emphasize the locus of his wisdom. The contrast with another rabbinic character, Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai, whose ability to predict the approaching death of the Roman emperor is attributed to his exegetical-midrashic skills (thus legitimizing the foundation of the rabbinic academy in Yavneh), is telling.⁴⁸ Simon the Just’s knowledge stems from, and is inextricable from, his access to the Temple’s innermost sanctum. The presumption is that there he stood close(r) to God. Yet the text is quick to point out that priesthood in and of itself does not guarantee divine proximity. Simon’s death is followed by deterioration in the priestly ranks.

The characters of Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai and Simon the Just are reflections of the Sages: they are what the rabbis think about such figures and, indirectly, about themselves. As self-reflections, they walk a tightrope, juggling the narcissistic fantasy of identity and the lack of identity-sameness between the subject (Sage) and its representation. Again, it should be emphasized: the lack of sameness is implied in the actual multiplicity of possible reflections. Note also that reflective representations vary in their specific contents, forms, and functions: the discourse surrounding Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai is part of the Yavneh foundation legend.⁴⁹ The ancestral figure and the foundational institution are imagined accordingly as identical—albeit not entirely—to the Sages who were the authors of rabbinic texts. Moreover, in this imaginative landscape, Rabban Yoḥanan and his academy are not only models; they are imagined as the generators of rabbinic identity in the present. Indeed, a different kind of reflexivity manifests itself in the discourse of Simon the Just, a legendary figure whose death marks the beginning of an end.⁵⁰ Reflecting on and with this figure means reflecting about a time in which the mere presence of a unique individual was sufficient to keep the flame of the Temple alive and to appease a mighty king, a time in which knowledge was bestowed by proximity in the inner chambers of the Holy of Holies. It also means reflecting from and about a time when there is no Temple and no Holy of Holies. Reflecting at times when scriptural—and later, textual—exegesis constitutes the backbone of rabbinic hermeneutics, and at times when priesthood has lost its past claim to authority and leadership lies in the hands of rabbinic dynasties.⁵¹

As the traditions of Simon—including the story of the Nazirite—suggest, the past, or the imagined past, is not obliterated so as to form an identical image of the self in the present. On the contrary, figurative images that are reflected throughout the rabbinic corpus might be termed “internal strangers.” Simon the Just, in our text, is exactly that: he is conceived (as manifestly indicated in tractate Avot) as a rabbinic forefather, a link in a reproductive chain leading up to the rabbinic present(s). The story even ends with a projected sameness, when Simon engages in a typical rabbinic practice: midrash. Yet, as many other rabbinic traditions emphasize, Simon is different. This difference cannot be erased even in our story: the story revolves around sight as an epistemic paradigm as both characters (Simon and the Nazirite) are awakened and stirred to action by what they see. An epistemology based on sight appears elsewhere in rabbinic literature vis-à-vis textually based hermeneutics.⁵² Although that points to the multifaceted aspects of rabbinic hermeneutics (and the epistemologies to which they correspond), it is possible to argue for the supremacy allotted in rabbinic literature as a whole to a text-oriented epistemology. But, as the story of Simon the Just and the Nazirite shows, this supremacy is not uncontested, and the contest is embodied in other or “semi-other” characters.

The Nazirite: A Possible Self

The Nazirite sets him- or herself apart,⁵³ albeit temporarily. It is the ambivalence of the Nazirite’s position as an every-person/different that thematizes a same/other tension in his character. This tension is endemic to the Nazirite in general and is characteristic of the Nazirite shepherd of our story as well. After all, he is referred to by his title alone.

The Nazirite of our story should be seen in yet another general framework: the discursive context from which he derives his title, the laws pertaining to the Nazir. One key question is the relevance of these laws in the rabbinic period. Why are the rabbis discussing a practice that has, on the face of it, no direct consequence for their own time? This question—along with its possible answers—applies to a whole range of rabbinic discussions addressing Temple and cult practices.⁵⁴ It seems that, at least in the early rabbinic period, the practice of Naziriteship persisted, albeit, obviously, without its sacrificial component and the purifying rite from corpse impurity (which required the ashes of a red heifer).⁵⁵ It has also been suggested that Naziriteship represents for the rabbis matters of asceticism in general—a discursive site in which issues of abstention, self-control, and intention are addressed.⁵⁶ Accordingly, if the Nazirite is referred to as both a sinner and a holy person,⁵⁷ it attests to the ambivalence that rabbinic culture(s) held toward a pivotal component of its identity (asceticism), a component defined and redefined vis-à-vis the place it comes to occupy in neighboring cultures and religions (paganism and Christianity).

A Samson-Like Self

The Nazirite shepherd of our story operates within a general discursive framework. But he is also a particular Nazirite, implying that reflecting with him and about him may allow for further specifications. He could even be, as noted earlier, a Nazirite whose pure intention is paradoxically manifested in his self-defilement, thus embodying a subversion of the underlying notions of purity and defilement that are essential for the category. Other components render him exceptional. First, we should recall that hair plays a critical role in the story of Samson, the only biblical character explicitly identified as a Nazirite. The story, related in the Book of Judges, has erotic overtones and takes place in the south, between Tsorah and Eshta’ol and in the land of the Philistines. Our story’s shepherd, who also hails from the south, seems to have absorbed something of the erotic vitality associated with his biblical predecessor, especially if we take into account the prominence of Samson in rabbinic discourse on Naziriteship and its emphasis on the key role that sight plays in his destiny.⁵⁸ Something of the power (and maybe potential hubris) that the rabbis attributed to Samson—and his hair—is echoed in our story.

A David-Like Figure, a Lover, and a Sage

The figurative echo chamber of the Nazirite from the south includes not only a biblical Nazirite, Samson, but also a king. Like the David described in 1 Sam. 16:10, the Nazirite from the south is a comely shepherd with beautiful eyes. The high priest therefore finds himself face-to-face with a King David figure.⁵⁹ A priestly encounter with a David-like figure in the context of rabbinic and Christian discourse is hardly a trivial matter. After all, Davidic origin, priestly status, and the identity of the messiah are a pivotal triad through which both Judaism and Christianity reflected on themselves vis-à-vis each other.⁶⁰

Furthermore, the shepherd is described as having a head of curls (qevutsotav taltalim)—an allusion to the famous description of the lover in the Song of Songs (5:11). That the young shepherd should be depicted by Simon the Just in terms of an iconic lover seems hardly surprising, given the overall erotic tone of our story and Simon’s attraction to the boy. Clearly, it is first and foremost the Eros of the biblical lover that is at play here. Yet if we take into account rabbinic associations with the specific scriptural phrase—qevutsotav taltalim—the beautiful lover may take on additional traits. He may even resemble a Sage. Rabbinic traditions of Song of Songs 5:11 replace the lover’s physical beauty with exegetical skills: “‘His locks are curled [Heb., taltalim]’: that [Solomon] used to expound [doresh] ‘curls and curls’ [tille tillim, lit., hills and hills] of laws on each and every portion or verse in the Torah.”⁶¹ The lover’s locks (qevutsotav) are the Torah; his curls are his legal-exegetical practice.

The shepherd is the missing referent that provides Simon with an answer, albeit a temporary one, to his scriptural or semiotic crisis; he is also a representation of scripture itself. But the depiction of the Nazirite as a personified Torah is also reminiscent of the depiction of the Sages, who are referred to as a Torah scroll and the ark.⁶² Again and again, the implied addressee of the text, presumably a rabbi, faces the Nazirite and sees a reflection that is quite familiar. While the story engages priesthood, it introduces “the Sage” as an overriding force. Simon, who is himself “rabbinized,” meets a Nazirite who bears rabbinic traits. The encounter between the high priest and the shepherd is marked, as are all other reflective processes that the text conjures, by fragmented mirroring.

The Nazirite and the Priest: Converging Sanctities

It is by now clear that the reflective process as it manifests itself in the story involves a labyrinth of identity formations as the characters turn out to be entangled in a web of hybrid—or fractured—identities. Furthermore, in addition to the rabbinic component, which Simon and the Nazirite have in common, the Naziriteship-priesthood relationship should be considered. Naziriteship is the highest form of nonpriestly sanctity that the Bible offers,⁶³ and its laws are, in some respects, more severe than priestly restrictions.⁶⁴ The affinity between the two forms of sanctity does not escape rabbinic eyes—the Mishnah explicitly compares the sanctity of the Nazirite and the priest.⁶⁵ The relationship between permanent priesthood and its pseudo-metonymy in the guise of a Nazirite might therefore point to the projective quality in Simon’s suspicion of Nazirites in general. Just as the Nazirite’s insight stems from his looking at his own projected image, the source of Simon’s newly acquired knowledge is a Nazirite—a (temporary) priest, an uncanny same/other, who is nevertheless dependent upon him: without a priest, a Nazirite cannot execute his Naziriteship. We should note that with this similarity, reflection is problematized from yet another, complementary, angle. Not only does the dubious unity of a subject stand in the way of reflection; identity itself is held suspect. The encounter of the priest and the Nazirite contrasts natural, genetic identity with one that is voluntary, constructed, and ethereal. While the distinction between the characters is blurred, the premise of identity that is implicated in their encounter is also left uncertain.

The End: The Narrated Rabbinic Self

Simon the Just ends his first-person narrative with a midrash when he says to the Nazirite: “Of you, scripture says: ‘When either a man or a woman shall perform the wonder of vowing a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God.’” His final words are not typically priestly. They could just as well—even more likely—have been uttered by a rabbi. What starts off as tale of cultic bygone days ends with the rabbinic discourse par excellence. Midrash is not only (literally) the ultimate defining trait of Simon. It is, as I suggest in the Introduction, a defining feature of the rabbinic self. It is through the story of the making of one specific self, Simon the Just, that we might learn something about the making of a larger cultural self. If Simon’s self is contingent on telling stories (his, as well as the Nazirite’s) and on permeable identity boundaries, the same could be said of the rabbinic self, which he comes to embody: the midrashic climax of the story is a fictionalized point insofar that it depends on, and is produced by, the narrative leading up to it. It is also, in light of the Nazirite’s own implied midrash, not exclusively Simon’s. The discourse of midrash is shown to be shared by different figures or groups.⁶⁶ Similarly, it is not exclusive in either figures who are, at least initially, motivated by a visual rather than a textual understanding.

Reflecting on itself, the rabbinic midrashic self produces—teleologically, one could argue—a selfsame image: the telos of the narrative is a scriptural-hermeneutical endpoint that defines, retrospectively, the process that generated it. Yet it is the exact narratological nature of this narcissistic story that discloses its fictionality. It tells us that the story of a unified self—a midrashic one, in this case—is the story of several selves and that the supposedly distinctive contours that define those selves are more like ripples in a reflective pool than harsh dividing lines. And it tells us that this form of narrativity—not unlike the yetzer—lays out a narcissistic trap, while preventing rabbinic identity from drowning in its deep waters.

The narrative ends with Simon’s midrash on Numbers, resolving, if only momentarily, the hermeneutic scriptural dilemma with which the tale began. But it does much more than that. It positions midrash as a culminating discourse that subsumes the self-reflected, mirroring aspects that had permeated the narrative all along. The semblance that Simon’s midrash implies, between scripture and a reality to which it refers, is thus granted further discursive qualities. Midrash, as I argued in the Introduction, is a self-reflective practice. By staging midrash as the story’s final discourse, it signals a discursive resolution in the most basic sense. It is the story’s—and Simon’s—last words. But given the intricate and even convoluted dynamics of self-reflexivity that the narrative demonstrates, it cannot but mirror the uncertainty that such dynamics entail.