This tractate has borne that out. We worked our way through many discussions mired in the minutest details of the paschal sacrifice before we finally reached more familiar ground — seder rituals — in this tenth and final chapter. (Though who knew there were going to be pages bristling with demons too?) We hope that our extraordinarily talented authors have brought these discussions alive for you. 

Today, as we finish the tractate, we return once again to the sacrifice. Specifically, the rabbis close the page by discussing the blessing one says after consuming the paschal lamb, because you cannot put Passover to bed without saying the final blessing. And so we have come full circle.

Or maybe the sacrifice was there all along? Though many of the rituals documented in this last chapter — four cups of wine, matzah, maror, Hallel, and more — are hallmarks of the contemporary Passover seder, this chapter has looked nothing like a Haggadah. (The first full Haggadah, along with the first full Jewish prayer book, was actually penned by Saadya Gaon in the ninth century — hundreds of years after the Talmud.) That’s because the rabbis were not, in this chapter, scripting a seder as a replacement for the paschal offering. What they were describing is the ritual meal one makes to eat the paschal lamb. The truth is, we never really left the sacrifice at all.

The rabbis didn’t inflate the significance of the paschal sacrifice — it was baked into Jewish tradition from the very beginning. Indeed, knowing the rabbinic obsession with the paschal sacrifice can help us to read the biblical story of the Exodus with new eyes. 

If you look carefully at the prolonged negotiations between Moses and Pharaoh in the Book of Exodus, you see that Moses doesn’t begin by demanding the Israelites’ freedom. “Let my people go” is not even close to his first line. Instead, he begins by asking permission to take them into the wilderness to celebrate a festival — language that implies they will offer a sacrifice to God (Exodus 5:1–3). Why would he do this? The text explains: the Israelites couldn’t offer sacrifices to God in Egypt because doing so was an affront to Egyptian religion. The problem with slavery, from the Bible’s perspective, was not primarily a lack of personal freedom — it was the fact that the Israelites could not properly make sacrifices to God. 

When Pharaoh denies this request for an out-of-town festival, Moses escalates his demand to complete freedom. But every time he makes this demand, he indicates that the Israelites must be freed to serve the Lord (see Exodus 7:16, 8:16, 9:1, 9:13, and 10:3). This language of “to serve” means specifically to bring sacrifices to God.

Of course, as many will remember, Pharaoh refuses to let the Israelites take their requested worship holiday, God brings plagues and hardens Pharaoh’s heart, further refusals ensue, and Moses escalates his demands to nothing less than complete liberation. Nine plagues later, the climax comes on the eve of the Exodus. Israel is told to slaughter a lamb and mark the doorposts of their homes with its blood. Then the slaves huddle inside and wait for the Angel of Death, who is coming to kill the firstborn Egyptians, to pass over their homes.

Except, that’s not what the text says. God tells Moses that the paschal offering will be an ot lachem, a sign for you. It’s not a sign for the Angel of Death at all! (This actually makes sense: If God could target the first nine plagues at the Egyptians, certainly God knows how to make the tenth a precision strike as well.) No, the paschal offering is a sign for people. For the Israelites, it’s a public declaration of faith in God. For the Egyptians, it is a deliberate affront to their cult and gods. The offensive blood of the paschal offering is boldly smeared up, down and around the entrance of every Israelite house even as the Egyptian homes witness the horror of spilled human blood — deaths that their gods cannot prevent. By performing the paschal offering in Egypt before the Exodus, the Israelite slaves stage the ultimate act of defiance and victory. This is the real redemption — and they do it themselves.

Tuning our attention to the paschal sacrifice allows us to understand a critical dimension of the Passover story. Yes, the redemption would not have happened without God’s might or Moses’ leadership; but it also would not have happened without the Israelites’ decision to enact their own liberation, despite the dangers. As we celebrate Passover in the modern day, and as we sit down to seders that move from commemorating that first redemption to looking forward to the future messianic redemption, we can remember that no redemption, past or future, takes place without us.

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If some of the participants at the seder fell asleep, thereby interrupting their meal, they may eat from the paschal lamb when they awake. If the entire company fell asleep, they may not eat any more. 

According to the mishnah, as long as some participants stay awake, those who fall asleep can rejoin the meal when they awaken. But if everyone falls asleep, the meal is over. (It’s reminiscent of this teaching about jumping up from the table to greet a bride or groom.) The commentators suggest that this is because reconvening the meal after sleeping is like eating in a new place and the Passover offering must be eaten in a single location.

The mishnah continues with a teaching of Rabbi Yosei:

Rabbi Yosei says: If they dozed they may eat from the paschal lamb when they awake, but if they fell fast asleep they may not eat from it.

Rabbi Yosei distinguishes between dozing and sleeping. How exactly is dozing different from sleeping? The Gemara gives us this great description:

Rav Ashi said: One is asleep but not asleep, awake but not awake, when, if they call him, he will answer, but he is unable to provide a reasonable answer. And when they later inform him of what happened, he remembers it.

Now the question is: how do the two halves of this mishnah work together? How does Rabbi Yosei’s teaching about dozing and sleeping soundly inform the original teaching about some people falling asleep versus all people falling asleep? Is he talking about the first scenario, when just a few people fell asleep? Or the second, in which the whole party falls asleep? Take a minute and reread the two halves of the mishnah and see what you think.

Finished? Ok now take another look and see if it makes sense the other way. 

It turns out that it does.

Some commentators connect Rabbi Yosei’s comment to the first clause of the mishnah. Whereas the anonymous opinion in the mishnah allows individuals who fall asleep at the seder to return to the meal as long as someone else stays awake throughout, Rabbi Yosei seems to be saying that they can only return to the meal if they were dozing. If they fall asleep completely, they cannot return to the meal no matter what. 

Other commentators suggest that Rabbi Yosei’s statement refers to the second clause of the mishnah, and whereas the first opinion in the mishnah forbids further eating if the entire party fell asleep, Rabbi Yosei applies this rule only when they fell completely asleep. If they all merely dozed off, they can resume the meal.

It’s not totally clear what Rabbi Yosei meant because, well, the text is not fully clear. In fact, it’s even a possibility that Rabbi Yosei’s statement was taught independently from the other opinion until they were juxtaposed by the editors of the Mishnah. While the lack of clarity may be frustrating to some, it is the characteristic of the Mishnah that creates the opportunity for talmudic discourse — and for two millennia, students of the Talmud have taken the bait.

Just as some stay up into the wee hours of the night telling the story of our passage from slavery to freedom, others have burned the midnight oil in the beit midrash debating the merits of alternative readings of the Mishnah. Both endeavors have nurtured the Jewish people and brought us, albeit sleepy-eyed at times, to this day.

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This ritual will, no doubt, be familiar to many readers. But, how did it originate? The mishnah on Pesachim 119b states:

One does not conclude after the paschal lamb with an afikomen.

That’s right — NO afikomen. So how did this become an iconic ritual of the seder?

If you’re familiar with Hebrew, you can probably tell that the word afikomen is foreign. The Gemara immediately asks: 

What is the meaning of “afikomen”?

The resulting discussion makes it clear that the afikomen with which we are familiar — the half of the middle matzah broken during the yachatz portion of the seder — is not what the rabbis of the Talmud have in mind. They are referring to dessert (afikomen is likely a Greek word): any of the typical delicacies used at the time to end the meal, from mushrooms (Shmuel) to chicken (Rav) to dates, roasted grain and nuts (Rav Hanina bar Sheila and Rabbi Yochanan). Today, we might add fruit, Passover brownies and meringues to this list. One is supposed to conclude the meal not with ordinary treats, but with the paschal lamb itself.

But today, we actually do conclude the festive meal with an afikomen, by which we mean the last bite of matzah we eat before reciting Birkat Hamazon (Grace After Meals) and continuing with the third cup of wine and the rest of the seder. How did we get from the Gemara’s understanding of afikomen (dessert) to our understanding of afikomen (matzah)?

It probably has to do with this tradition found at the bottom of today’s daf:

With regard to unleavened sponge cakes, cakes fried in oil and honey, and honey cakes (all presumably unleavened), a person may fill his stomach with them on Passover night, provided that he eats an olive-bulk of matzah after all that food. 

In the absence of the paschal offering, matzah, the bread of affliction, has become the emblem of the seder. So no matter what other delights we consume, we conclude with matzah. It is the afikomen — the final course.

Modern commentaries take this a step further. After we have been symbolically (and literally) freed over the course of the seder, and after we’re stuffed from the sumptuous seder meal, we need that final taste of matzah to remind us that we once were slaves and that there is still work to do. The shattered crumbs of matzah serve as a reminder of the need for tikkun olam – repairing our broken world. Even amidst the great freedoms we as Jews have gained, both in the time of the Exodus and today, injustice and persecution are still rampant throughout the world. Our work is unfinished.

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But I’m going to draw our attention to a different midrash today. On the first side of the page, the rabbis explore the idea, found in Hallel, that God sustains the world. This leads to a meditation on the challenges of feeding oneself and one’s family. This was a tough thing to do in antiquity; people had to scratch their living out of the dirt without the benefit of modern agricultural techniques, and were subject to the whims of weather and other natural disasters. Listen to the rabbis describe how hard it is:

Rabbi Yohanan said: The task of providing a person’s food is twice as difficult as the suffering endured by a woman in childbirth. While, with regard to a woman in childbirth, it is written: “Toiling (be’etzev) you shall bring forth children” (Genesis 3:16), with regard to food, it is written: “In toil (be’itzavon) you shall eat of it, all the days of your life” (Genesis 3:17).

Umm … really? Let me first explain how the midrash works, then we’ll get back to the claim it makes.

Both verses come from the chapter in Genesis in which Adam and Eve are kicked out of the Garden of Eden and given the bad news that life will now be hard. Eve will suffer in childbirth; Adam will suffer to cultivate the land. The Hebrew word used for the pain or toil each will experience is essentially the same, etzev. But, says Rabbi Yohanan, the grammatical form of the word in the verse applied to Adam implies that his pain is greater — twice as great.

It is no secret that the Talmud is male-oriented. But I can’t help but chuckle (or grimace, depending on my mood) at the idea that farming is more painful than childbirth. I’ve never farmed, but I’ve done the latter three times. Even with the support of modern medicine, it’s a doozy — though the results are adorable.

As a modern female reader of Talmud, I find myself often moved by the thoughtful empathy of the rabbis and their emotional depth and vulnerability — traits not always considered “masculine” by our current culture, to its detriment. And I am also sometimes dismayed by their myopia, especially with regard to women. 

Reading this midrash in its full context helps a bit. The rabbis go on to assert that the task of providing food for a family is not only more painful than giving birth but also more difficult than splitting the Red Sea and redeeming a people. They don’t just toil more than women — they toil more than God?

There’s one more surprising turn in this unlikely set of midrashim:

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya said: A person’s orifices (when he cannot properly relieve himself) are as difficult for him as the day of death and the splitting of the Red Sea, as it is stated: “He who is bent down shall speedily be loosed; and he shall not go down dying into the pit, neither shall his bread fail” (Isaiah 51:14). And afterward it is written: “Who stirs up the sea, that its waves roar” (Isaiah 51:15) (implying a comparison between the first concern and the splitting of the sea).

It turns out that there is one thing even more difficult than childbirth, splitting the Red Sea, redemption and even feeding a family: struggling with a bodily orifice that will not open at the opportune moment. That is like death.

Are they serious? Or have we just been punked? Too bad Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya isn’t here to tell us.

Read all of Pesachim 118 on Sefaria.

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given by God

and given by our parents

Each of us has a name

given by our stature and our smile

and given by what we wear

Each of us has a name

given by the mountains

and given by our walls

One of the best known compositions by the Israeli poet Zelda, “Each of Us Has a Name” calls our attention to the many literal and metaphorical names — Moses, Moshe Rabbeinu, Moishe, etc. — that define each of us and reflect who we are, how we’re seen and what we do.

On today’s daf, a conversation about Hallel (the psalms of praise recited at the seder) gives way to a discussion of names. Here’s how it happens: Rav and Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi begin an argument over the meaning of the word halleluyah. Is it really two words — hallelu (“praise”) and yah (“God”) — as Rav argues? Or one word meaning “praise God with many praises,” as Rabbi Yehoshua asserts?

As is its wont, the Gemara finds a problem. Elsewhere, the Gemara notes, Rabbi Yehoshua seemed to think that halleluyah is in fact two words! So why does he now say it’s only one?

This statement of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi disagrees with another ruling that he himself issued, as Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: The Book of Psalms is said by means of ten expressions of praise: By nitzuah (glorification), niggun (tune), maskil (didactic psalm), mizmor (hymn), shir (song), ashrei (an expression of happiness), tehilla (praise), tefilla (intercession or pleading), hoda’a (confession), and halleluyah. He continues: The greatest of them all is halleluyah, as it includes God’s name and praise at one time. (None of these other words includes the name of God.) 

This second teaching of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi collects all ten different Hebrew words for praising God found in the Book of Psalms. It is clear from his remarks that here he thinks the word halleluyah is derived from two words.

In his commentary on this passage, the Hasidic master Rabbi Nachman of Braslov notes that these ten words each connect to a different type of psalm, and that reciting all ten types together has enormous power to affect repentance. In fact, he famously gathered a collection of ten representative psalms (one of each type) called the Tikkun Haklali and encouraged his followers to recite it daily — to this day, many people around the world do.

This isn’t the only place rabbinic texts gather up a bounty of synonyms for a significant concept, and then explore the different nuances between those synonyms. A similar enumeration, this one cataloging ten words for “happiness”, is found in Avot d’Rabbi Natan, a minor tractate of wisdom and commentary composed sometime during the second half of the first millennium C.E.:

There are ten words for happiness, and they are: sasson (joy), simcha (happiness), gila (rejoicing), rina (songfulness), ditza (amusement), tzahala (exuberance), aliza (felicity), hedva (delight), tiferet (splendor), alitza (cheer).

The passage goes on to list ten names for idol worship, ten names for prophets, and ten names of God, among others. This last set receives additional attention in Exodus Rabbah, which details when each of these names is appropriately invoked. For example, “Elohim” implies judgment, “Tz’va’ot” implies waging war against the wicked, and “YHVH,” God’s four letter proper name, implies mercy.

So what’s in a name? Our names are many, and ever-changing. Each different name by which we are called impacts us: how we see ourselves, how others see us, how we feel and how we are remembered.

Zelda concludes her poem as follows:

Each of us has a name

given by our celebrations

and given by our work

Each of us has a name

given by the seasons

and given by our blindness

Each of us has a name

given by the sea

and given by

our death.

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While the paschal sacrifice is all about serving God, the recurring and most essential theme of the Passover meal is the education of the next generation. Here’s the mishnah on today’s page:

They pour the second cup and here the son asks his father.

And if the son does not have the intelligence, the father teaches him.

Notice that the mishnah does not have in mind a fixed set of questions. Instead, it imagines that the child spontaneously asks his father to explain this unusual meal and strange foods. But even if the child doesn’t automatically ask, the father teaches him anyway.

Rabbi Sholom Mordechai Schwadron, known as the Maharsham, explains that the purpose of seder is to retell the story of the Exodus (other rabbinic texts seem to think the purpose is to explain the laws of Passover). Asking questions, for him, are a means to that end. There is no need, therefore, in this moment, to force them. If the child doesn’t ask, the father just launches into the story anyway.

But the Gemara offers a different script for the second cup, based on a beraita, an early rabbinic teaching from the same period as the Mishnah:

The sages taught: If his son is wise, he asks him (the father). And if the son is not wise, his wife asks him. And if even his wife is not capable of asking (or if he has no wife), he asks himself. And even if two Torah scholars who know the halakhot of Passover are sitting together (and there is no one else present to pose the questions) they ask each other.

Here, the questions become as important as the telling — perhaps even more important. If the son does not ask the questions, someone else — a wife, a colleague, the seder leader himself — must. Teaching alone is not enough, asking is an essential part of the ritual. 

The origin of this perspective is likely scriptural. Exodus 12:26–7 reads: And when your children ask you, “What do you mean by this rite?” you shall say to them …  The rabbis understand from this that asking, not just telling, is required.

But the rabbis don’t go so far as to script the questions. In fact, if you read carefully, the so-called Four Questions that we recite as part of the seder, a version of which are found on this page, are not even questions — they’re prompts, designed to elicit questions. The actual questions are meant to change from household to household, from year to year, from generation to generation.

Dr. Erica Brown sees the seder table as the ancient classroom in Jewish history, and in her book Spiritual Boredom, she explains the wisdom of this approach:

“The purpose of Passover is not to tell our children the story of Jewish peoplehood; it is to make the evening interesting enough for them to ask questions. Telling, especially repeated telling, leads to a flat story with a dull landscape. Asking leads to exploration, further questioning, engagement, creativity.”

It is not enough to tell the story, to simply read or repeat what you’ve known. Because far less than answers, the questions themselves, whether about double dipping or freedom, inspire us.

Read all of Pesachim 116 on Sefaria.

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In the time of the Talmud, however, the communal seder plate hadn’t been invented yet, and so the rabbis on today’s daf debate whether or not each participant needs their own set of ritual foods, or whether the foods can be placed solely before the person leading the seder:

Rav Shimi bar Ashi said: There should be matzah before each person, maror before each person, and haroset before each person. But we only remove the table in front of the person who recites the story.

Rav Huna said: So too all of these things need only be before the person who recites the story.

And the law is according to Rav Huna.

Rav Huna’s ruling wins out. By Rashi’s time, the understanding is that these foods are set on a plate, and that what the Talmud refers to as “removing the table” is a more symbolic action, as Rashi explains: “We only need to lift the plate in front of the eldest of the group who is leading the seder and reading the story.” 

According to the Talmud’s explanation of this practice, however, the removal of the place setting may have originally been intended as a much more disruptive act than simply raising a plate.

Why do we remove the table? The school of Rabbi Yanai said: In order that the children will notice it and ask.

According to the school of Rabbi Yanai — whose theory fits with statements elsewhere in this chapter suggesting that the seder is primarily intended as a pedagogical tool — the leader’s place setting is removed precisely because it is a weird thing to do, and will therefore provoke the interest and curiosity of young seder attendees. In fact, doing weird things at the seder and getting children (or other seder participants) to ask about them is not only a goal of the seder, but is one of its required components: the Four Questions.

Abbaye was sitting before Rabbah. Abbaye saw that Rabbah was lifting the table in front of him. 

Abbaye said to him: We have not yet eaten, and you are removing the table from before us?!

Rabbah said to him: You have acquitted us of our obligation to say Mah Nishtana (the Four Questions).

He began the recitation and said: We were slaves in Egypt …

According to this story, a young Abbaye is at seder with his teacher, Rabbah. Rabbah removes the table, at which Abbaye expresses confusion. Rabbah responds by saying, essentially, “Good job getting confused — that takes care of the point of the Four Questions! Let’s skip straight to the story.” He also implicitly answers Abbaye’s question: the point of lifting the table was, essentially, so that Abbaye to ask what the point was.

From this anecdote, we see that the Four Questions — which we’ll learn more about on tomorrow’s daf — are really just the minimum, standardized version of what much of the seder is ultimately meant to achieve: establishing a conversational dynamic in which children and adults alike are encouraged to learn by asking questions.

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They brought it (the first course) before him and he dips the hazeret, to taste some food before he reaches the breaking of the bread (precise meaning here uncertain).

They brought before him matzah and hazeret and haroset, and at least two cooked dishes in honor of the festival.

The use of hazeret for the dipping of the first course and for the second dipping (bitter herbs in haroset) which occurs at the start of the main meal draws the attention of Reish Lakish:

Since one does not eat the hazeret at the time of his obligation to eat bitter herbs, he eats it after reciting only one blessing, “who creates fruit of the ground.” Perhaps, at that time, he did not intend to fulfill his obligation to eat bitter herbs. Therefore he needs to dip it again for the purpose of bitter herbs. For if it could enter your mind that mitzvot do not require intent, why would you need two dippings? He has already dipped the lettuce once.

Now, you may recall that we learned on Pesachim 39 that hazeret can serve as the bitter herb — in fact, it is the preferred species for bitter herb. In Reish Lakish’s understanding, the mishnah indicates that it serves this purpose only when it is eaten with the intention of fulfilling one’s obligation to eat bitter herbs. In the first course, it is just an hors d’oeuvre which is why you only say the general blessing for vegetables, and not the blessing for bitter herbs at this time. This leads Reish Lakish to extrapolate that just eating a bitter herb is not enough — one must have the intention to fulfill a mitzvah in order to fulfill the mitzvah.

The Gemara objects: perhaps mitzvot do not require intention and your first consumption of hazeret will automatically fulfill your obligation (Exodus 12:8) to eat bitter herbs, whether you intended to or not. And if so, why the second dipping? Answer: So that children at the table will notice something out of the ordinary and ask about it. (Sound familiar? Generating questions that provide adults opportunities to explain the story of Passover is, as we will learn more in the pages that follow, a key characteristic of the rabbinic design of the seder.)

The conversation continues with the Gemara providing a counterfactual: If in fact mitzvot do not require intention, Reish Lakish could argue that the mishnah should have included language to explain why if hazeret is used for the first course, one dipping is sufficient since this first course would fulfill the obligation of bitter herbs. Only if a different (non-bitter) vegetable is used in this first course is one obligated to have a second dipping (to cover the obligation of bitter herbs). However, the mishnah was not written this way, and so, we can conclude that mitzvot do indeed require intention.

Are we done? Nope! This line of argumentation is off the mark, says the Gemara. If the mishnah had been written like this, it would be suggesting that there exists a situation in which there is only one dipping — but this is never the case. Our mishnah is written as it is, says the Gemara, because two dippings are required no matter what vegetable(s) are used and regardless of whether mitzvot require intention or not. Why? To stimulate the curiosity of the children at the table.

So, concludes the Gemara, our mishnah does not take sides on the matter of whether mitzvot require intention or not. In fact, this question is not settled in the Talmud. Whenever it comes up, both positions are presented as plausible. It is only after the close of the Talmud that rabbinic authorities who declare that mitzvot require proper intention.

By the way, that first course is what we today call karpas — and it is generally something green and leafy. Many use parsley and in Eastern Europe, where there was little green produce to be had this time of year, they used potatoes. These folks are also known to use horseradish root as the bitter herb. Nonetheless, a place is reserved on the seder plate for hazeret.

If you’re making your Passover shopping list, most authorities say you should plan on using a different vegetable for karpas than you do for maror (so don’t just pop romaine lettuce into your cart, though it can technically serve both purposes). However, if this is unavoidable, rabbinic authorities conclude that you say two blessings (for eating vegetables and for eating bitter herbs) at the first dipping and at the second you dip the bitter herb in the haroset and eat it without blessing. If you do the latter, those paying attention will be sure to ask questions — which is the point of the dippings in the first place!

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Much of the advice offered is framed as a father speaking to his son.

Rav said to Hiyya, his son: Do not drink medications. And do not leap over a ditch. And do not pull out a tooth. And do not provoke a snake. And do not provoke a gentile.

Rav gives his son Hiyya advice aimed at fostering physical health. After all, no one wants to fall into a ditch and break something, or be bitten by a snake! Hiyya would grow up to be a great Torah scholar himself, and we can imagine that Rav’s advice is designed to make sure he stays healthy and safe while he does so. But Hiyya isn’t Rav’s only son, and he’s not the only son to whom Rav gives advice. Later on in today’s daf, we read:

Rav said to Ayvu, his son: I struggled to teach you halakhah but my efforts did not succeed. Come and I will teach you about mundane matters: Sell your merchandise while the dust from the road is still on your feet. Anything you sell might later cause you to regret the sale, except for wine, which you can sell without regret. Open your purse to accept payment, and only then open your sack. It is better to earn a kav from the ground than a kor from the roof. If there are dates in your storeroom, run to the brewery.

Because Ayvu does not seem to have the capacity or temperament to learn Torah as Rav had hoped, the father’s advice here is all about how to succeed in business: what to invest in, how to close a sale and what kinds of inventory last. It’s a different form of wisdom — and one that will hopefully benefit this child.

Not all of this business advice has aged so well — at least not in the specifics. Most of us don’t do business on foot and the dust of the road isn’t a helpful measure for us. We have refrigeration and don’t have to worry that dates will go bad quickly.

But many of us do still have children, and sometimes those children aren’t interested in or likely to thrive by pursuing the dreams we initially had for them.

Rav initially wanted the same things for both his sons: to become great Torah scholars. For the rabbis, shaping future generations of Torah scholars was one of the most important things they could do. But Rav eventually recognized that this dream isn’t Ayvu’s path. Rav offered his second son a different avenue to stability and success — one in which he might more naturally thrive.

Rav loved Torah, and wished all his sons would follow that path — he didn’t pretend otherwise. But he also wisely knew there are many ways to measure success and to live a good life.

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Today’s daf raises the specter of a different danger inherent in going out alone at night. You guessed it — demons. We read:

Do not go out alone at night, neither on Tuesday nights nor on Shabbat nights (i.e., Friday nights) because the demon Agrat, daughter of Mahalat, she and 180,000 angels of destruction go out at these times. And each and every one of them has permission to destroy by itself.

We’ve already met Ashmedai, the king of the demons. Now, we’re introduced to another member of the demonic nobility, Agrat daughter of Mahalat, and her enormous entourage. Here, rather than having women be particularly at risk of danger, it is the woman (or, rather, demoness) who is particularly dangerous. She and her entourage are empowered to act independently, and can cause massive destruction.

Why only two nights a week?

The Gemara continues:

Initially, these demons were present every day.

Once Agrat, daughter of Mahalat, met Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa and said to him: Had they not announced about you in the Heavens, “Be careful of Hanina and his Torah,” I would have placed you in danger.

He said to her: If I am considered important in Heaven, I decree upon you that you should never travel through inhabited places.

She said to him: I beg you, leave me a little space.

He left for her Shabbat nights and Tuesday nights.

Across the Talmud, Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa is depicted working miracles and controlling powerful dangers (we met him back in Berakhot and will again). He also appears in a number of Babylonian incantation bowls, bowls with texts written on the inside that Drs. Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked have suggested might have functioned as demonic “mouse-traps.” Several of these bowls include a story in which Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa compels the demon Agag daughter of Baroq to stop causing harm to unsuspecting humans. Importantly, these bowls were likely not written by the rabbis themselves — and so they testify to Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa’s fame across genres and communities.

In the story on today’s daf, Rabbi Hanina doesn’t use any kind of magical power to control Agrat. Instead, it is the fact that his Torah-expertise is renowned in Heaven that forces Agrat to comply with his commands and limit her roaming to two nights a week. And indeed, the story continues with another encounter between Agrat and a rabbi, very similar to the first:

And furthermore, once Agrat, daughter of Mahalat met Abaye and said to him: Had they not announced about you in the Heavens: “Be careful of Nahmani (Abaye’s given name) and his Torah,” I would have placed you in danger.

He said to her: If I am considered important in Heaven, I decree upon you that you should never pass through inhabited places.

Whereas Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa’s fame is due to his wonder-working, Abaye’s fame is almost entirely linked to his Torah knowledge. Here too, Heaven’s recognition of Abaye’s Torah expertise compels Agrat and her evil minions to avoid inhabited places. And so, according to this story, a powerful demonic leader knows of these two rabbis’ Torah expertise, and is compelled by them to avoid human habitation — at least most of the time.

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Today’s daf imagines the world is full to the brim with demons. Demons lurk behind or inside trees and bushes. Demons dwell also within shadows cast by trees, plants and outhouses. And because of their ubiquity, we have to be constantly aware and careful of them.

As today’s daf points out:

With regard to one who relieves himself between a palm tree and a wall, we said that he places himself in danger only when there are not four cubits of space between the two objects. However, if there are four cubits, we have no problem with it.

Remember, as we learned recently, relieving oneself makes one more vulnerable to demon attack. Especially at such a moment, we must always know how close or far we are from the trees around us, which might harbor these unseen creatures.

Why four cubits? Four cubits is the Talmud’s standard marker of personal space. And whose personal space is at stake here? The demon’s! Apparently (and, when you think about it, unsurprisingly) demons do not appreciate being on the wrong end of a stream of urine.

And yet, the Gemara continues:

Even when there are not four cubits, we said there is a problem only when the demons have no other route besides that one. However, if they have another route, we have no problem with it.

Demons would prefer to avoid humans, and will flee rather than attack where possible. If they can escape that stream of urine, they will. While the demons don’t seem to want to attack humans, it is on humans to be aware of where demons live and to leave them alone.

In addition to having favorite hangouts (the aforementioned trees, shadows, outhouses, etc.) today’s daf also tells us that demons are more prevalent at particular times of the day, month and year! One must be aware of whether it is morning or evening, the phase of the moon, and the season. For example, during the first 16 days of the month of Tammuz, demons are prevalent, but perhaps not for the rest of the month.

And beyond these dates and times that can be found on a clock or a calendar, one must also be aware of one’s own personal time — and whether it is a propitious time for you or not! As one story on today’s daf states:

Abaye was coming and walking along the street and Rav Pappa was walking on his right and Rav Huna, son of Rav Yehoshua, was on his left. Abaye saw a certain ketev meriri (a kind of demon) coming on his left side and he switched Rav Pappa to his left and Rav Huna, son of Rav Yehoshua, to his right. Rav Pappa said to Abaye: And I, what is different that you were not concerned about any possible harm to me? Abaye said to him: The time is in your favor.

In this story, Abaye swung his colleague Rav Pappa around to meet the demon and shield the other two, knowing that Rav Pappa was at that time more “immune” from demonic attack.

For the rabbis, simply going on a walk becomes a fraught dance of demon avoidance. The rabbis expect pedestrians to expend a substantial amount of effort to avoid provoking demons. This constant vigilance seems like it would have been exhausting, and honestly, at that point, many of us would choose to just stay home­. But it also would have fostered a uniquely rabbinic way of moving through the world, constantly aware of those, seen and unseen, who are around us, and putting the onus of responsibility on us to avoid causing them discomfort.

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The Gemara first allows someone to drink two cups of wine if they go for a walk between cups. Other rabbis then permit drinking in pairs if one is intending to stay home, but not if they are going to go to sleep or to the bathroom — activities that make one more vulnerable to demon attack. Then a number of rabbis explore the question of whether it is all even numbers, or just doing something twice (and twice alone) which is harmful. Creatively interpreting the priestly blessing in Numbers 6:24-26, the Talmud eventually limits the danger to doing something twice.

To support this claim, the Talmud then cites a remarkable set of teachings:

Rav Yosef said: Yosef the Demon said to me: Ashmedai, the king of the demons, is appointed over all who perform actions in pairs, and a king is not called a harmful spirit (a pun on the word for “demon,” mazzik, which means “harmer”) . Some say this statement in this manner: On the contrary, he is an angry king who does what he wants, as the halakhah is that a king may breach the fence of an individual in order to form a path for himself, and none may protest his action.

Yosef the demon (speaking to Yosef the rabbi) tells us that the demons are organized into a monarchy, with their King Ashmedai, who has the power to set the tone for how demons react to even numbers. Rav Yosef’s informant should be familiar to us — we’ve already met him in Eruvin 43. There, Yosef the demon is a rabbinic teacher who teaches Torah in the major rabbinic centers of Sura and Pumbedita on Shabbat. Today too he is teaching the rabbis, this time about how the demons calculate danger. After all, who better to teach us about how demons think than a demon himself?!

Yosef the demon continues, this time talking to Rav Pappa:

Rav Pappa said: Yosef the Demon said to me: If one drinks two cups, we kill him; four, we do not kill him. Four, we harm him. With regard to one who drinks two, whether he did so unwittingly or intentionally, we harm him. With regard to one who drinks four, if he does so intentionally, yes, he is harmed; if he does so unwittingly, no, he will not be harmed.

This teaching is even more remarkable. The idea that liability changes depending on whether one’s behavior is intentional or accidental is rooted in the Torah’s teachings about both ritual and criminal law. Thus, for example, according to Numbers 35, one who murders someone is put to death, but one who accidentally kills someone may flee to a city of refuge and be spared. What do you know, demons think in exactly this way too!

The Talmud also tells us what demons think. Demons, according to today’s daf, are capable of keen observation and can discern our intentions — whether to go for a walk, go to sleep, or even to go to the restroom. They know when we are doing something on purpose or by accident and can take these legal complexities into account when deciding how to react. And they seem to be relatively unwilling to actually kill human beings — otherwise, why would Yosef the demon bother telling the rabbis all their secrets?

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A person should not eat pairs (i.e., an even number of food items) and he should not drink pairs (of cups) and he should not wipe himself with pairs and he should not attend to his sexual needs in pairs.

The Talmud goes on to explain that doing things in pairs may provoke demonic attack. Really. So if you want that second cup of wine, be prepared to pour a third. Ditto that second round in the sack.

Today’s daf kicks off a discussion on demons that will continue for the next four pages. Though there are many Jewish communities today that do actively believe in demons, likely many of the people reading this do not. It can be hard for some of us to read these pages and really get inside the minds of the rabbis of the Talmud. So it’s a good time to take a step back and ask: are the rabbis … serious?!

It is easy to take rabbinic teachings seriously when they are talking about the beauty of the Torah, the ways human beings are meant to relate to each other and the gifts that we can bring to the world. It is harder when they are talking about things which — to many of us — seem weird. In fact, depending on whether you are reading the daf in a variety of English translations, in Hebrew and Aramaic, or together with the medieval commentators Rashi and Tosfot, you’re going to see very different approaches to the Talmud’s demons.

Many modern commentators interpret the demons of the Talmud as metaphors or symbols for phenomena (like disease, poverty, etc.) the rabbis didn’t have the scientific language for. But as you read these pages, if you try to map where the rabbis identify demonic dangers with modern understandings of danger, you are doomed to fail. In the case of the four cups of wine on the first night of Passover, for example, the issue is clearly not one of drunkenness and alcohol poisoning; indeed, the rabbis suggest, one solution to the demonic danger might be to just drink a fifth cup of wine!

Taking another approach to the weirdness of these demons, 19th century German-Jewish historian Heinrich Graetz dismissed all the demon talk in these pages as foreign corruptions of authentic Jewish teachings, the negative effects of living in the Babylonian exile. It was all so weird to Graetz that he decided it could not really be rabbinic. But in fact, though demons were prevalent in the ancient world, many of the beliefs about demons that the rabbis describe have no parallel in any of the other religious traditions in late antique Babylonia. These really are rabbinic demons.

So, yes. The rabbis of the Babylonian Talmud do believe that demons exist and that demons interact with humans in a range of ways. And while you and I may or may not believe that demons exist, to fully understand how the rabbis thought about the world and their place in it, we have to take seriously even those parts of their thinking that seem most foreign to us today.

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One of the ways that we do this is by reclining at ritually significant parts of the meal, namely when we eat matzah for the first time and when we drink the four cups of wine. This reflects the culture of the ancient world in which the wealthy and notable reclined while eating (and according to more recent research, the less well-off as well from time to time). The rabbis incorporated this practice into the seder and expected participants to recline, regardless of their actual socio-economic status, as the Mishnah teaches:

Even the poorest of all Jews should not eat until he reclines.

On Passover, we are all free, we are all wealthy, and we all recline — except for those who don’t. At this point in the Daf Yomi cycle, it should be no surprise that there are exceptions to the rule.

Abaye said: When we were in the house of my master, Rabba, we reclined on each other’s knees. When we came to the house of Rav Yosef, he said to us: “You need not recline, as the fear of your teacher is like the fear of Heaven.”

Abaye recalls that students reclined at seders that were held in Rabba’s house, reporting that they had to lay on each other’s knees, perhaps because it was too crowded to spread out — or perhaps because the tone at this home was one of friendship and intimacy. But when attending a seder at Rav Yosef’s home, this practice was not accepted because a student was expected to feel the fear of their teacher as they do the fear of Heaven. Given how the rabbis felt about God, this makes for quite a radical statement! But Rav Yosef didn’t just say this about himself; he also related that when he heard his mother’s footsteps approaching, he would stand up to welcome her as a “Divine Presence” (Kiddushin 31b).

The Gemara objects, citing a beraita that all seder attendees recline, even students, no matter who is present (directly challenging the practice at Rav Yosef’s home). Then, to render the beraita compatible with Rav Yosef’s practice, the Gemara narrows the definition of student in this case to craftsman’s apprentices (who should not feel obligated to stand in the presence of their masters) and not to rabbis and their students.

So, if you’re keeping score, the rabbis require everyone to recline at the seder as a sign of their freedom, except for their own students who must show deference to their teachers at all times.

Correct, everyone must recline except for students — oh, and also married women. As the Gemara teaches:

A woman who is with her husband is not required to recline, but if she is an important woman, she is required to recline.

Just as students should not recline before their teachers, the rabbis assert that women should not recline in the presence of their husbands. That is, unless they are important and have a social status of their own — which was not the case for almost all women in rabbinic times.

This is not to say that the rabbis excluded women from the seder. Indeed, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi teaches that women are obligated to drink four cups of wine on Passover because they too were liberated from Egypt. There is no trace of irony in the assertion that while women are included (indeed, obligated!) in the celebration of freedom from slavery, they should not recline before their husbands, to whom they are subservient.

The rabbis of the Talmud have significant influence on how we live Judaism today. Significant, but not absolute. In some places where they had blind spots, we see more clearly. Judaism today is far more inclusive and egalitarian than it has ever been.

And we can still do better. Our awareness that the rabbis pushed some people away from the seder table should inspire us to ask if we have done the same. Let’s examine our own practice and identify our own blind spots. Doing so will help us take another step toward ensuring that everyone is granted the dignity to join in the celebration of our freedom — and to enjoy that freedom to the fullest.

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Today the rabbis discuss making Kiddush or Havdalah over beer. Both of these rituals traditionally include the blessing over “the fruit of the vine” (meaning wine), but it turns out this is only because they are usually made over wine. 

Havdalah and Kiddush are in fact meant to be recited over any beverages that are considered worthy of the ritual. For the rabbis, the beverage par excellence was wine, so this was what they used. But this didn’t mean they necessarily forbade other beverages. It all depended on the quality of those beverages.

The Talmud relates a story told by Mar Yanuka and Mar Kasisha who hosted their colleague Ameimar and, as was their custom, offered him beer over which to say Havdalah. Here’s what happened:

We brought him beer and he did not recite Havdalah, and he passed the night in fasting. The next day we troubled ourselves and brought him wine and he recited Havdalah and tasted some food.

The assumption is that one may not eat on Saturday night until Havdalah is made. Rather than make Havdalah over beer, Ameimar forgoes both Havdalah and his supper. The next day, his hosts go to a special effort to acquire some wine so that he can make Havdalah. He does so, and break his fast.

But then we get this twist:

The next year he (Ameimar) again happened to come to our place. We did not have wine and brought beer. He said: If so, beer is the wine of the province. He recited Havdalah.

On his next visit, Ameimar is once again offered beer for Havdalah, and concludes that beer is the customary beverage for Havdalah in this province. That is, it is the “wine” of that place. 

The Talmud offers two additional beer-related stories wherein the matter of halakhah hangs on personal taste. After we are told explicitly that one may not recite Kiddush or Havdalah over date beer, the Talmud then tells us about some exceptionally high quality date beer (a beer of thirteen soakings!) that Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi liked so much he declared:

Beer like this is fit to recite Kiddush over and to say upon it all the praises in the world!

(We told you this page is sloshy. This daf can feel a bit like a commercial break during a football game!)

This particular story ends on an odd note: Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi gets sick that night, and declares that the beer “pains and soothes.” One could perhaps imagine that the pain is the punishment for declaring any beer to be appropriate for Kiddush.

Further on, after Rava curses those who say Kiddush over beer by declaring that their regular drink should be beer (burn! beer was considered the drink of the poor), he finds Rav Huna doing exactly that and says:

Abba (a name for Rav Huna) has started to acquire coins with beer.

According to the medieval commentator Rashi, this means that Rav Huna has begun selling beer and so the beverage is now dear to him, and thus he can recite Kiddush on it because beer is essentially “wine” as far as he is concerned.

And therein, as any advertising executive knows, lies the rub. What people think of as a “worthy” drink is as idiosyncratic as we humans tend to be. The Talmud (as we know too well!) is not often in favor of this sort of personalized decision making around ritual, but it seems there can be space for taste to matter. If the whole point is to honor the ritual with a drink that is worthy of its grandeur, why not allow an individual to decide which beverage elevates the ritual, and which diminishes it? There is, it seems, no accounting for taste, even in the Talmud. One person’s wine is another’s thirteen-times-soaked date beer. And maybe, the Talmud suggests, at least in this case, that’s not so bad. Cheers to that!

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In today’s daf, we have such a scenario, concerning the proper way to recite Kiddush over wine on Shabbat day. The Talmud recognizes that reciting Kiddush on Friday night is intuitive — that is when the day is sanctified (mekudash). So why say Kiddush again the next day? After all, the day has long been sanctified!

The Talmud says one must make Kiddush during the day because of the verse: “Remember the Sabbath Day” (Exodus 20:7). They note that the word “day” is superfluous in the text, since it could have simply read: Remember the Sabbath. So “day” comes to emphasize the need to mark Shabbat during the daytime. Still, it doesn’t seem that everyone knew what liturgy to recite in order to make this Kiddush during the day. Which brings us to the following story:

Rav Ashi happened to come to the city of Mehoza. The sages of Mehoza said to him on Shabbat day: Will the Master recite for us the great Kiddush? And they immediately brought him a cup of wine.

Imagine you are Rav Ashi. You have been invited to the great city of Mehoza, and you are handed the cup of wine to make Kiddush during the day (also known as: “the great kiddush” — this itself may be a euphemism for the lesser kiddush). But it turns out: You have no idea how they say Kiddush here in Mehoza! You could ask the host quietly: “Can you remind me how it goes?” But this is Rav Ashi, one of the greatest scholars of the generation. Is it possible he doesn’t know how to say Kiddush on Shabbat morning? So Rav Ashi decides to take an educated guess:

He thought: What is this great Kiddush to which they refer? He said to himself: Since with regard to all the blessings over a cup of wine, one first recites: “Who creates the fruit of the vine,” he recited: “Who creates the fruit of the vine” and lengthened it (to see if they were expecting an additional blessing).

Rav Ashi decides to wing it and use his common sense. Since all the blessings over wine start with “Blessed are You, Lord our God, who creates the fruit of the vine,” perhaps this one does, too! He recites it, and then he pauses to see if the assembled crowd expect him to say more. But then redemption comes from an elderly man in the crowd:

He saw a particular elder bending over his cup and drinking (and realized that this was the end of the great Kiddush). He read the following verse about himself: The wise man, his eyes are in his head (Ecclesiastes 2:13).

Once the old man drank, Rav Ashi knew he had finished the blessing. This is striking because in contrast to the full Kiddush said on Friday night, which concludes with the line “who sanctifies (mekadesh) Shabbat,” nowhere in the one line blessing over the fruit of the vine which here qualifies as Shabbat day Kiddush is the root word “holy” (kodesh) which gives its name to Kiddush! Nonetheless, this single line is the “Kiddush” for Shabbat day. Indeed, while many modern customs differ as to the opening verses recited on the daytime Kiddush, they all end the same way: “who creates the fruit of the vine” (with no mention of sanctifying).

Why did Rav Ashi risk winging it? Did he actually intuit the answer? Or was the old man cutting him a break, and letting him off the hook even though he didn’t do the correct liturgy? The Talmud doesn’t tell us.

Sometimes leaders need to take a risk instead of exposing their own ignorance. They might sacrifice too much standing if they admit their lack of knowledge. However, this isn’t the only model of what to do when one doesn’t know the answer.

Elsewhere in rabbinic literature, we learn the story of Rabbi Eleazar Hisma. He is asked to lead the Shema and the Amidah, but he admits he does not know how. The people say to him: They call you “rabbi” for nothing! Rabbi Eleazar Hisma, mortified, went to his teacher Rabbi Akiva, and told him what happened. Instead of berating his student, Rabbi Akiva simply asks: Do you want to learn? Rabbi Eleazar says yes, and Rabbi Akiva teaches him. Then he goes back to the place where he had failed; this time, he leads the prayers successfully.

Sometimes, admitting a lack of knowledge isn’t possible or advisable. But sometimes, admitting that one is ready to learn — even something one should already know — is the pathway to greatness.

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Unlike the chicken and egg riddle, today we are going to get an answer. It comes in the form of a story:

Rav Hananya bar Shelemya and other students of Rav were sitting at a meal (on Shabbat eve shortly before nightfall) and Rav Hamnuna the Elder was standing over them to serve them. They said to him: Go see if the day has become sanctified (i.e. if the sun has set and it has become Shabbat). If so, we will interrupt our meal by removing the tables and establish its continuation as the meal for Shabbat. Rav Hamnuna the Elder said to them: You do not need to do this, as Shabbat establishes itself.

In other words, Rav Hamnuna the Elder teaches that Shabbat happens — blessings or no blessings. We are bound to the rules — and gifts — of Shabbat whether we invoke them or not. 

Even though Shabbat comes regardless of the actions we take beforehand, we are still obligated, Rav Hamnuna continues, to recite Kiddush, to sanctify the moment. Kiddush doesn’t make it Shabbat begin, we make Kiddush because Shabbat has begun.

Likewise, Havdalah. Shabbat departs whether we make it or not; we cannot make Shabbat last longer by waiting to recite Havdalah. But we might want to delay Havdalah in any case:

They understood from it that just as the start of Shabbat automatically establishes the requirement to recite Kiddush, so its conclusion establishes the requirement to recite Havdalah. Rav Amram said to them: This is what Rav said: Shabbat establishes an obligation to recite Kiddush, but it does not establish an obligation to recite Havdalah.

In other words, it seems that while the entrance of Shabbat brings with it an expectation that we honor it immediately, by stopping whatever it is that we are currently doing and marking the moment, the end of Shabbat does not have the same urgency. But why?

He said to him: I am neither a scholar, nor a speculator, nor an important individual; rather, I teach and systematically arrange halakhic rulings, and the scholars instruct the students in the study hall in accordance with my opinion. I maintain that there is a difference for us between the arrival of the day of Shabbat and the departure of the day. With regard to the arrival of the day, the sooner we welcome the day by reciting Kiddush the better, and we thereby express how beloved it is to us. With regard to the conclusion of the day, we delay it so that Shabbat will not appear to be like a burden to us.

In the answer that Rava gives, we return to some of the beauty of yesterday’s daf, some of the yearning and the longing to remain in holy time as long as we possibly can, to hold it close to us, and not let go until the last possible moment. 

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Their answer, from a beraita, hearkens back to a principle that appears elsewhere in the Talmud:

One says statements of distinction (the core blessing of Havdalah) at the conclusion of Shabbat, and at the conclusion of festivals (meaning the pilgrimage festivals of Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot), and at the conclusion of Yom Kippur, and at the conclusion of Shabbat that leads into a festival, and at the conclusion of a festival that leads into the intermediate (less holy) days of that festival. However, one does not mention distinctions at the conclusion of a festival that leads into Shabbat. 

Havdalah is not just for Shabbat! It is also used to mark the end of the holy days of Passover, Shavuot, Yom Kippur and Sukkot. Havdalah is even used during the pilgrimage festivals, to mark the descent from the first portion of the festival which is chag (sacred) to the intermediate days which are not. When we are moving from a sacred time into the everyday, we need a blessing to mark the descent, to hold on to the holiness for as long as we can.

But what happens when we move back and forth between a festival and Shabbat — both of which are holy? According to this beraita, we only say Havdalah when transitioning from Shabbat to the festival, but not the other way around — because though both are holy, Shabbat is even more holy. Havdalah is reserved for moments when we step down in holiness, but not when we step up.

To help us understand the reasoning here, Rashbam suggests that we imagine the festival as an eparch, the title for the Greek governor of a province. The festival is a VIP, and if it is the only game in town, will be escorted out with all of the usual fanfare. But, Rashbam continues, imagine if the eparch was leaving and the king was arriving. All of the energy, all of the hoopla and the pomp and circumstance, would flow toward the king, because he is more important. In that case, says Rashbam, there would be no one left to say goodbye to the eparch because everyone is too busy greeting the king. In other words, Shabbat takes all. 

Back on Shabbat 21, when the sages Hillel and Shammai were arguing about the order for lighting a hanukkiah (Hanukkah menorah), we learned that we add a light for each night of Hanukkah (rather than subtract) and were introduced to the principle that we are meant to ascend in holiness, not descend. Today, we see this principle at work again through the blessings of Havdalah. We need to mark the occasion only when we are forced to let go of sacredness, when we are forced to move “downwards.” Parting is such sweet sorrow, then — unless what’s coming next is even better, even holier, than what just was.

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On yesterday’s daf, in the context of discussing whether two different sanctifications can be performed over the same cup of wine, the Gemara asked what happens when a festival begins at sundown on Saturday and therefore immediately follows Shabbat. That’s right, we’re once again exploring the challenges that arise when the 14th of Nisan coincides with Shabbat.

Havdalah, the ritual that concludes Shabbat, ordinarily includes the following blessings: a blessing over wine (yayin), one over spices (besamim), another over a multi-wicked candle (ner), and a blessing of separation between the sanctity of Shabbat and the ordinary time that is experienced the rest of the week (havdalah). When Saturday night coincides with the start of a festival, the spices are omitted (the festival itself provides the spice). Havdalah is performed with a cup of wine, and so is Kiddush for the incoming festival. In the spirit of the Gemara’s inquiry over whether two santifications can be performed on one cup, the question becomes: how do we correctly merge these two rituals?

The Gemara records eight different proposals for this merger. Each rabbi presents their view as an acronym, using the first letter of the names of the blessings:

kuf (ק) = Kiddush (sanctifying the festival)

yod (י) = yayin (wine for Kiddush and Havdalah)

nun (נ) = ner (Havdalah candle)

heh (ה) = havdalah (separation between Shabbat and the rest of the week)

Here are the eight different positions:

Rav said the proper order of the blessings is yod, kuf, nun, heh.

Shmuel said the order is yod, nun, heh, kuf. ⁦

Rabba said the order is yod, heh, nun, kuf. 

Levi said the order is kuf, nun, yod, heh. 

The rabbis say the order is kuf, yod, nun, heh. 

Mar, son of Rabbana, said the order is nun, kuf, yod, heh. 

The sage named Marta said in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua the order is nun, heh, yod, kuf.

Rabbi Yishmael, son of Rabbi Yosei, said in the name of his father, who himself said it in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananya: The order of the blessings is nun, heh, yod, kuf.

If you’re interested (and brave), check out Rashi’s commentary. He gives an explanation that supports each of these positions.

The Gemara accepts Rav’s opinion (yod, kuf, nun, heh) which interposes the Kiddush right next to the blessing over the wine that is said as part of Havdalah (two sanctifications, one cup).

But we’re not done! The Gemara now presents a further disagreement about when the blessing for festive occasions (Shehechiyanu, which the rabbis call zeman) is inserted. A new set of acronyms is presented, this time with the letter zayin representing Shehechiyanu.

Abaye said that the proper order is yod, kuf, zayin, nun, heh. 

Rava said the order is yod, kuf, nun, heh, zayin. 

And, the Gemara concludes: The halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rava.

Yup, it doesn’t always happen, but in this case we have a winner: yod, kuf, nun, heh, zayin. When sitting down for a festival meal (Passover or otherwise) on a Saturday evening at the conclusion of Shabbat you can simply say the acronym “YaKNeHaZ” to remind yourself of the correct order of blessings. 

Hang on, you might be muttering to yourself, what about the rabbits? It turns out that not only is YaKNeHaZ hard to pronounce, it can also be hard to remember. That is where the rabbits come in. You see, there is a phrase in Old German, jag den has, and no, it’s not a brand of delicious ice cream. It means “hunt the hare,” and sounds a bit like YaKNeHaZ. These pictures of hare-hunting scenes often appear in the haggadah near Kiddush. As the theory goes, the illuminations of rabbit hunts in these medieval haggadot were meant to jog the memory of those leading the seder about the order of the blessings. 

Luckily for those of us who don’t speak Old German and who also can’t remember the acronym, most of today’s haggadot contain instructions about what to do when the seder falls on a Saturday night. 

You can see several examples of these rabbits — who are often depicted as clever Jews escaping their wicked captors — and explore other possible explanations for their inclusion in the Haggadah here.

Read all of Pesachim 103 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on March 4th 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Pesachim 103 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

In today’s daf, the rabbis are again considering what happens when an ordinary Friday afternoon meal extends into sundown and becomes a Shabbat meal. As we learned back on page 100, Rabbi Yehuda holds that you simply say Kiddush and continue with your meal — eventually completing the meal with Birkat Hamazon (the Grace After Meals).

Rabbi Yosei, however, requires that you say Birkat Hamazon to end the Friday afternoon meal and then make Kiddush in order to start a new meal for Shabbat. Two days ago, this led to a rather uncomfortable situation when both Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yosei found themselves at a Friday afternoon meal that extended into the evening.

On today’s page, the Gemara returns to that debate but with a new question: can you use the same cup for Kiddush and Birkat Hamazon? (Today, most Jews don’t make Birkat Hamazon over a cup of wine, but the rabbis did.) In other words, can you make that cup of wine multitask?

At first, the Gemara apparently makes the case for efficiency: Since we have two blessings that are back-to-back and require wine, why not just make it one glass of wine for both? 

Not so fast:

Rav Huna said that Rav Sheshet said: One does not recite two sanctifications over one cup. What is the reason? Rav Nahman bar Yitzhak said: Because one does not perform mitzvot havilot havilot — in bundles.

Rav Sheshet and Rav Nahman bar Yitzhak waltz in to dismantle our dreams of efficiency. Their reasoning is powerful and instructive. Though our inclination might be to combine obligations, we are not permitted to do so. There is a sympathetic psychological reading here: that generally when trying to go from place A to place B, we take the quickest possible route — or, if we are doing work, we calculate the most economical way to achieve our ends. The mindset for performing mitzvot, these rabbis remind us, should be different, and we must recalibrate. Only in taking each mitzvah individually are we able to develop a better sense of its place, meaning and relevance.

Kiddush and Birkat Hamazon are functionally distinct, as the Gemara will go on to explain. Kiddush comes at a specific time each week and connects to themes of creation and freedom. Birkat Hamazon is recited whenever specific types of meals are eaten and offers thanks for the food, land, Jerusalem and God’s goodness. The rabbis want us to honor each of these with the intentionality — and the cup — it deserves. 

Multitasking might accomplish more at once, but it can cause us to miss the uniqueness of individual moments. When we pause and focus on individual mitzvot, we can learn to see the world in a sharper way — one full of experiences, scents, individuals and more that we can cherish for what makes them unique.

Read all of Pesachim 102 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on March 3rd, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Pesachim 102 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.