<\/span><\/p>\nLong before my career in the rabbinate, in fact even quite early in my childhood, I was acquainted with Christians and fascinated by both the differences and similarities between our faiths and our lifestyles. I may have shared with readers of this column my family’s exposure to a devout Irish Catholic family. When my siblings and I were quite young, we spent our summers in a cottage in Rockaway Beach that was owned by an elderly Catholic couple. We became familiar with their entire family and indeed my mother, whose yahrzeit<\/i> we commemorated just a few days ago, maintained a lifelong correspondence with the couple’s daughter, Mrs. Eleanor McElroy.<\/span><\/p>\nMuch more recently, I have been representing the Orthodox Union in a regular forum in which leaders of the Jewish community meet with their counterparts in the Catholic community to work on various social issues in which we have common interests. Following the guidelines of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik regarding interreligious dialogue, we carefully avoid discussing theological matters, and confine our discussions to ways in which we can cooperate in achieving various shared goals.<\/span> <\/span><\/p>\nOften, we encounter striking similarities in the problems that we face; for example, difficulties in funding our respective parochial schools. Then, we speak the same language. But quite frequently, we discover that even when we use the same terminology, we are referring to very different experiences. Indeed, these differences frequently make it almost impossible for us to understand each other.<\/span><\/p>\nIn a recent such forum, for example, the Catholic group, having read so much about the “Charedim” and their involvement in Israeli politics, asked me to define for them just who the Charedim were. I tried my best to do so, but they remained confounded as how a group of fervently pious believers in the literal meaning of the Bible could be anti-Zionist in their politics.<\/span><\/p>\nJust as the Catholic group had difficulty understanding such Jewish phenomena, so the members of our Jewish group found some Christian religious concepts practices alien, and even unacceptable. Thus, in one of our conversations, one of the Catholic clergymen wished aloud that he could retreat from the pressures of contemporary society and spend the rest of his years in a monastery. I was just one of our group who immediately protested that for us Jews there were no monasteries, and that we did not see the monastic life as a positive religious alternative.<\/span><\/p>\nThe response of members of the Catholic group to that remark finally bring us to this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Naso<\/i> (Numbers<\/i> 4:21-7:89). “How can you not view monasticism positively? After all, the practice has biblical roots, in the Hebrew Bible,” they insisted.<\/span><\/p>\nThey were referring to the following verses in this week’s parsha<\/i>: “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying\u2026If anyone, man or woman, explicitly utters a Nazirite’s vow, to set himself apart for the Lord, he shall abstain from wine\u2026He may not eat anything that is obtained from the grape vine\u2026 No razor shall touch his head\u2026He shall not go in where there is a dead person” (Numbers<\/i> 6:1-7).<\/span><\/p>\nOf course, any one of the Jewish members of the group could easily have referred to the numerous opinions, already recorded in the Talmud, as to the non-desirability of the practice of nezirut<\/i>. There are certainly forceful statements against taking the Nazirite vow, and even those who consider it a sin.<\/span><\/p>\nBut I found myself taking a different tack in this discussion. “It is wrong to equate the Nazir with the monk” I said. “Granted, the Nazir must be guided by certain very stringent prohibitions. But he does not absent himself from society. He is neither a hermit, nor a member of some ascetic sect. This is very different from one who undertakes monastic vows, as I understand them.”<\/span><\/p>\nOne of my companions rallied to my side after reaching for a volume of the set of encyclopedias, which was in easy reach in the library where the meeting was taking place. He read out this definition of “monasticism:”<\/span><\/p>\n“It is an institutionalized religious practice whose members live by a rule that requires works that goes beyond those of the laity\u2026The monastic is commonly celibate and universally ascetic, and separates himself from society either by living as a hermit or by joining a community of others who profess similar intentions.<\/span> <\/span><\/p>\nAnother good friend simply consulted his pocket dictionary which stated: “The word ‘monasticism’ is derived from the Greek monachos<\/i>, which means ‘living alone.'”<\/span><\/p>\nOur Jewish group, which consisted of several diverse individuals who regularly disagree vociferously with each other, were united in our response to the Catholic gentlemen on that day. The Nazirite was not a monk, certainly not in the common understanding of that term.<\/span><\/p>\nThe interreligious group did not persist in this particular discussion. Afterwards, however, some of us from the Jewish group continued our discussion over coffee.<\/span><\/p>\nWe were struck by the fact that three individuals are understood by our tradition as having been Nazirites, or at least partial Nazirites. They include the heroic warrior Samson, the prophet Samuel, and Absalom, the son of David who rebelled against his father. No question about it: these men were not celibate, not hermits, and not men who refrained from the legitimate pleasures of life. Quite the contrary, they played active roles in the life of the Jewish people, albeit each in very different ways.<\/span><\/p>\nThe distinct difference between our Torah’s concept of the Nazirite and the Christian concept of the monastic is perhaps best expressed in a passage in the third chapter of Maimonides’ Hilchot De’ot<\/i>, which I will allow myself to paraphrase:<\/span><\/p>\n“Lest a person mislead himself into thinking that since envy, lust, and vainglory are such negatives, I will therefore separate myself from them; forcefully distance myself from them to the extreme; eat no meat and drink no wine; practice celibacy; shun a finely furnished home; desist from wearing attractive clothing, and instead don sackcloth and coarse wool, and similar such ascetic practices. Let him be aware that this is the manner of Gentile priests<\/span> <\/span><\/p>\n“Let me make clear that a person who pursues such a path is a sinner. Even the Nazirite, who merely refrains from products of the vine, requires atonement. How much more so the one who deprives himself of the many pleasures of life, which are not prohibited by the Torah. He is simply misguided.”<\/span><\/p>\nAlmost nine hundred years ago, Maimonides recognized the distinct difference between the concept of holiness as practiced by the Gentile priests whom he knew and the model of holiness which is held up to us by our Torah. The Nazirite, in Maimonides’ view, is not the paradigm of holiness. The truly holy man must not refrain from living a normal family life, must share in the joys and woes of his friends and neighbors, and must exercise the leadership skills with which he has been uniquely blessed.<\/span><\/p>\nIt is doubtful, given the sacrificial Temple rituals which conclude the Nazirite’s term and which are detailed in this week’s parsha<\/i>, that one can practically be a Nazirite nowadays. But the lessons of this week’s Torah portion are clear: there are guidelines for those who wish to be holier than the rest of us. But those guidelines rule out separating oneself from family and community.<\/span><\/p>\nIn this regard, we cannot speak of a common Judeo-Christian norm. The Jewish norm and the Christian norm are distinctly different.<\/span><\/p>\n
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