The verse "Speak to the children of Israel…" (Numbers 6:2) seems simple enough, but the Rabbis unpack it with incredible detail. The Midrash immediately points out that this vow is specifically for the Israelites, not for idolaters. It then extends the invitation, saying "And say to them" (Numbers 6:2), to include even slaves in the possibility of taking this special vow.
"A man, or a woman…" the verse continues. The Midrash highlights that this inclusion of "woman" is important: it renders women equal to men in their ability to take on the laws of nezirut (naziriteship). We learn that women, like men, can undertake this sacred commitment. According to some versions, even Samaritans – who sometimes had a liminal status in Jewish law – were excluded, their legal status equated to that of gentiles.
Interestingly, there were nuances in how nezirut applied to women and slaves. A man could compel his slave to break their vow, but not his wife (if he failed to nullify it on the day he heard it). Conversely, a husband could nullify his wife's vow (under certain circumstances), but not his slave's. It's a complex interplay of power, responsibility, and freedom. What does this teach us about the social structures of the time, and the different forms of obligation people lived under?
The Midrash asks: Why dedicate an entire section to the vow of a nazir? After all, people make vows all the time! The answer lies in the unique nature of this particular commitment. Usually, if you vow to abstain from something for a day, you're only obligated for that single day. But nezirut is different. Whether you vow for a day or an hour, you're bound by its restrictions – no wine, no contact with the dead, no haircuts – for a minimum of thirty days. It's a serious undertaking!
Furthermore, the very language of the verse, "nazir lehazir" – "a nazirite, to abstain" – invites interpretation. This repetition teaches us, the Midrash explains, that even substitutes for the term “nazir” are binding. If someone says, "Behold, I am a nazik, naziaḥ, paziaḥ," they are considered a nazir. Clever, right? The commitment is so significant that even near-misses count. But can one person make someone else a nazir? The verse specifies "nazirite" – indicating that while you can make yourself a nazir, you can't force it on someone else. However, there's an exception: a father can make his son a nazir, a halakha (law) transmitted directly to Moses at Sinai.
Now, let's turn to a fascinating story involving Shimon HaTzadik, a High Priest during the Second Temple period. He recounts that he had never eaten the guilt offering of a nazir – that is, until he met a man from the south. This man was strikingly handsome, with beautiful eyes and carefully arranged curls. Shimon HaTzadik, curious, asked him why he would destroy such fine hair, since a nazir shaves upon completing their vow (Numbers 6:18).
The man's response is truly moving. He explained that he was a shepherd and, upon seeing his reflection in the water, his "evil inclination" (yetzer hara) tempted him to pride. He realized that his beauty was fleeting, merely "dust, worms, and maggots." So, he vowed to consecrate his hair to Heaven and shave it for the sake of God.
Shimon HaTzadik was so impressed by the man's sincerity and devotion that he kissed him and declared, "May there be many like you in Israel, who perform the will of the Omnipresent!" This man, he believed, truly embodied the verse "To abstain for the Lord."
Rabbi Mona then asks a pointed question: Why would Shimon HaTzadik avoid eating the guilt offering of a nazir? Was it because he viewed nezirut as a form of self-affliction, akin to sin? But Shimon HaTzadik partook of sin offerings for forbidden fats and blood – so what was the difference?
The answer, according to the Midrash, is that Shimon HaTzadik believed most people took the vow of nezirut in a moment of anger or impulsivity, leading to regret when they inevitably became ritually impure and had to restart their nezirut. But this shepherd, who vowed after careful consideration, with his heart and mouth in harmony, was different. His offering was pure, a true act of devotion.
So, what can we take away from this deep dive into Bamidbar Rabbah 10? Perhaps it's a reminder that vows are powerful things, demanding careful consideration. Or maybe it's a lesson about the importance of intention, of aligning our actions with our deepest values. And perhaps, just perhaps, it's a glimpse into the complexities of human nature, the constant struggle between our impulses and our aspirations, and the enduring power of seeking holiness in the everyday.