The word “Yoma” means simply “the day” and this hints to the significance of Yom Kippur. It is an annual opportunity for the entire community of Israel to perform teshuvah (repentance) and bring themselves into right relationship with God and one another. The awesome potential this day holds cannot be overstated. When the Jewish people has squandered its relationship to God it becomes lost and in grave danger. By coming back into divine favor, the people stand to flourish. Yom Kippur is therefore literally a matter of life and death.

The basis for the Yom Kippur ritual, as exposited by the Talmud, is Leviticus 16, which describes an expiation ritual that Aaron, the first high priest, performed after his two sons committed a sin so heinous that God smote them. It involves the sacrifice of a bull and two goats, one of which is offered as a sin offering while the other is given “to Azazel.” (The tractate discusses who or what Azazel might be.) It also involves offering burning incense and the blood of those sacrifices inside the Holy of Holies, the most sacred chamber of the Temple, which is entered only on Yom Kippur and only by the high priest.

Yom Kippur is arguably the most ahistorical of the Jewish holidays. It does not relive a grand moment from the past like the Exodus from Egypt (Passover), the revelation at Sinai (Shavuot), narrow escape from genocide (Purim), purification and rededication of the Temple (Hanukkah), or the creation of the world (Rosh Hashanah). Nor does it commemorate a communal tragedy (Tisha B’Av). It’s not even an obscure tax deadline turned festival (Tu Bishvat). Though Yom Kippur perhaps began when Aaron first made expiation for the sins of his sons, Yom Kippur is not liturgically tied to an historical event. It falls on neither the new moon nor the full moon, like most other Jewish celebrations, but on the tenth of the lunar month. It always looks forward, from the present moment to the coming year.

What makes Yom Kippur remarkable is the idea that on this one day each year the Jewish people should muster all the sanctity it can to inspire God’s favor. This was accomplished by what Rabbi Adin Steinstaltz refers to as a confluence of three kinds of sacredness: person, place and time. On this most sacred of sacred days (Yom Kippur is called Shabbat Shabbaton, the Sabbath of Sabbaths) the high priest (the most sacred of sacred officials) enters the Holy of Holies (the most sacred space in the Temple and therefore the world). There, under the prospect of great danger, he performs the rituals that will atone for the entire community.

Tractate Yoma is a guide to this ritual. Its focus is predominantly on the high priest and his duties for that day. In the first chapter, we learn how the high priest spends a full week preparing for this duty, including careful training, and what contingencies are drawn up in case he is unable to perform this awesome task. In the second and third chapters, the Talmud pivots to ordinary tasks that were performed every day in the Temple, including Yom Kippur, and the lottery that was used to assign priests to these tasks. In chapter four, the Talmud begins to delve into the special services just for Yom Kippur. This starts with the selection of two goats, one of which will become a sin offering and the other designated for Azazel and sent off into the wilderness. Which goat is assigned to which fate is determined by a lottery, as described in detail. This chapter also deals with the sacrifice of the bull and collecting coals for incense and transporting them to the Holy of Holies.

Chapter five brings us deeper into the Holy of Holies, discussing the way that the high priest offered incense and sprinkled the blood in that chamber. The rabbis explain what was found there. In the First Temple, the Holy of Holies housed the ark of the covenant, which was lost by the time of the Second Temple — this Holy of Holies had only a foundation stone. In addition to offering incense, the high priest sprinkles blood (what some scholars refer to as “sacred detergent” because it cleans and purifies) from the Yom Kippur sacrifices.

In chapter six, we return to the laws of the scapegoat which is ultimately sent into the wilderness. Chapter seven deals with public Torah reading on Yom Kippur and other sacrifices brought that day as well as the high priest’s ritual immersions and garment changes throughout the festival.

In the eighth and final chapter, the tractate finally broadens its focus from the high priest and the all-important Temple ritual to consider mitzvot of Yom Kippur relevant to all Jewish people. In particular, work is forbidden and people are supposed to afflict themselves on this day. The rabbis understand “self affliction” to mean fasting from food and drink as well as abstention from such comforts as wearing leather, bathing, anointing with oils and sex. This chapter also considers the effectiveness of the Yom Kippur ritual, broadly concluding that personal repentance is necessary in addition to the once-a-year sacrificial rites. To that end, five recitations of the Amidah, the central prayer of Judaism, are prescribed for this day (ordinarily there are three) as well as repeated communal confessions.

Yom Kippur, as described in this tractate, presents the terrifying prospect of divine disfavor, the awesome possibility or righting all wrongs and a monumental task of securing forgiveness —  particularly for the high priest representing the people but also for all people required to participate in true self-affliction and teshuvah. But the payoffs were extraordinary — a clean slate with the Almighty and the promise of another year of life.

If you would like to study Tractate Yoma in depth, we have a fun, informative and free email series that will take you through, page by page, one day at a time. Sign up here.

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A Tanna taught Rav Nahman: One who sees a seminal emission on Yom Kippur, his sins are forgiven.

In the course of Yoma, we’ve spent countless hours poring over the details of a complicated, high-stakes Temple ritual with the very life and death of the entire community as well as its individual members at stake. We’ve pondered what effort it takes to get this ritual right, whether it’s assigning the high priest an emergency back-up wife or building a miles-long aqueduct to bring live waters across the desert to build a mikveh on top of a gate, and we’ve delved into the meaning of such ponderous topics as self-affliction and personal atonement.

So it’s difficult to keep a straight face when we come to the end of three months of study only to learn that a man who accidentally ejaculates in his sleep on the most solemn day of the year should take it as a sign that his sins have been forgiven. Rabbi Yishmael and his school, at least, have what seems a more intuitive take:

The school of Rabbi Yishmael taught: One who sees an emission of semen on Yom Kippur should worry the whole year. But if he survives the year, he can be assured that he has a share in the World to Come.

One might think that after a long day of fasting, praying and watching goats meet unfortunate fates, a seminal emission — even an accidental one — is not a sign that you’re doing it right. But the rabbis disagree. Rather pointedly, Rabbi Yishmael’s school is rejoined by Rav Dimi, who shares the final and conclusive teaching that not only does an accidental emission on Yom Kippur signal likely divine forgiveness, it also assures long life and progeny.

This is on brand for the rabbis. Accidental emissions are a fact of life, and human beings are not robots. Refusing to shame people for having human bodies that do human things, even at inopportune times, is their way.

The more revealing question is how we got onto this subject in the first place. On the bottom of yesterday’s page, the rabbis began a discussion of the final prayer of Yom Kippur, Neilat Shearim, “the locking of the gates.” Today, we know this as simply Neilah, the fifth and final service of Yom Kippur, recited as the sun sinks to the horizon. Neilah affords us one last opportunity to secure God’s forgiveness before the gates of repentance swing shut and our fates are decided for the coming year. 

Neilah, as we experience it today, is a much more fleshed-out service than what the rabbis are talking about, including a final recitation of the Viddui confession, a final Avinu Malkeinu, a final Shema, followed by a triplicate declaration of baruch hu u’varuch shemo — the response line of the Shema that is said aloud only on Yom Kippur. Then a declaration of God’s dominion, Adonai hu ha’Elohim, is repeated seven times. And finally, one long blast of the shofar. 

In contrast, for the rabbis, Neilat Shearim is neither a full service nor something unique to Yom Kippur. For instance, it is also recited at the end of spontaneous fasts that are called in the event that the community is experiencing a drought. (We’ll explore these kinds of as-needed fasts, which were common in the ancient world, in Tractate Ta’anit.)

After some debate, the rabbis decide that Neilat Shearim is an additional Amidah said toward the close of Yom Kippur. But if that’s the case, does saying Neilat Shearim exempt one from saying the regular evening Amidah (Maariv) that follows the holiday? Or does it mean we can at least abbreviate that evening Amidah?

Those seminal emissions come in to help us answer this question. Here’s how it works: Though bathing is prohibited on Yom Kippur, if one has a seminal emission he may immerse — indeed should immerse — because according to a decree of Ezra, purification is necessary to pray. (This is not actually so strange. As you may recall, the high priest immerses multiple times over the course of the holiday.)

On the other hand, if you’ve already done all your praying and only then realize you’ve experienced an emission, perhaps you should wait until sundown to complete this purification ritual. Because though purification through immersion is permitted, bathing is still prohibited. 

What emerges from this discussion is that sometimes a person might immerse after the Mincha (afternoon) Amidah in order to recite Neilat Shearim, providing proof that Neilat Shearim is recited during daylight hours (because otherwise you would wait until nightfall to immerse). And this, in turn, shows that Neilat Shearim does not exempt one from reciting the evening prayers — nor even allow one to abbreviate them. Indeed, to this day, after the shofar is blown to mark the end of Yom Kippur, congregations around the world turn immediately to praying a full, 18-blessing evening Amidah, including an extra line for Havdalah, which separates the sacred day from the mundane day. 

On the one hand, the tractate ends with this discussion for entirely practical reasons. The rabbis are simply illuminating detailed halakhic points about the final ritual of Yom Kippur. But if you find the whole idea that accidental emission on the Day of Atonement proves one has a share in the World to Come somewhere between befuddling and lurid, then consider this: The rabbis are grappling with the real problem of human sin, which is universal and brings unimaginable suffering into this world. Yom Kippur asks all of us to look that reality straight in the face, own up to our own part, and make real, true progress. To end on a discussion of life, death, prayer and sex seems appropriate — pointing up the tremendous magnitude and all-encompassing nature of the conversation. At the same time, by not only forgiving the accidental emission but converting it into a sign of merit, the rabbis remind us not to go too far in our eagerness to root out evil. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and not a sin.

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All of these are powerful ideas can help us understand why Yom Kippur has had such staying power even among less observant Jews. After all, it was the power of a Yom Kippur service in Berlin in 1913 that convinced German philosopher Franz Rosenzweig not to leave Judaism and led to his deep engagement with Jewish learning. He ultimately became one of the preeminent Jewish thinkers of the 20th century.

The last 87 pages have provided us with the choreography of the Yom Kippur rituals and its indelible teachings, largely as regards the high priest and the complex Temple ritual, but today we focus on the main individual mitzvah of the Viddui, the public confession. While the Temple practice is no longer observed in our day, the Vidduiremains an emotional cornerstone of Yom Kippur. 

The Gemara explains that an individual recites the Viddui on Erev Yom Kippur, during the evening service, after their Amidah prayer (and the prayer leaders offer it in the middle of their Amidah prayer). Today, it is recited throughout the holiday.

You may be familiar with the modern text of the Viddui, an alphabetic acrostic of wrongdoings that it is assumed members of the community have succumbed to in the previous year: Ashamnu (aleph), bagadnu (bet), gazalnu (gimmel), dibarnu dofi (dalet). We have sinned, we have betrayed, we have stolen, we have slandered. It goes on and on as the congregation beat their breasts with each sin recited.

In the rabbinic period, the text of the Viddui was not yet fixed. As we have seen in Tractate Berkahot and elsewhere, the rabbis often do not have a completely fixed text in mind and offer multiple versions of a given prayer. On today’s page, Rabbi Yehuda offers a short prayer that can serve as the Viddui that gets straight to the point:

For our iniquities are too many to count and our sins are too great to number.

Rav Hamnuna provides something longer which highlights individual insignificance:

My God, before I was formed I was unworthy. Now that I have been formed, it is as if I had not been formed. I am dust while alive, how much more so when I am dead. See, I am before You like a vessel filled with shame and disgrace. May it be Your will that I may sin no more, and as for the sins I have committed before you, erase them in your compassion, but not by suffering.

But it’s Mar Zutra, a 5th-century rabbinic sage in Babylonia, who offers the simplest version:

We said only that one must follow all these versions when he did not say the words: aval anachnu hatanu — but we have sinned.

Tractate Yoma includes thousands of words, countless images, endless ideas and digressions. But these three words from Mar Zutra — aval anachnu hatanu, but we have sinned — manage to sum everything up. 

As Shakespeare, a bard of a very different era, quipped: “brevity is the soul of wit.” Mar Zutra’s words manage to capture the core, Yom Kippur on one foot, without the flowery embellishments. At its core, Yom Kippur, like many things in Judaism, is a communal experience. “We” stands out as a key part of this phrase. “We” are bound together as a people across space and time. “We” are not islands, but are responsible for the fates of others whether they sit next to us in synagogue or if they are on the other side of the world. Mar Zutra reminds us that “we” are all in this together. It is not easy for each of us to individually admit that we have failed. But when we understand that we shoulder this failure together, it becomes an easier burden to bear.

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Today’s daf deploys this same formula to extol the virtues of teshuvah — repentance. “Great is repentance,” agree four rabbis, but for different reasons. Let’s start with Rabbi Yohanan:

Rabbi Yohanan said: Great is repentance, as it overrides even a prohibition of the Torah. How so? It is stated that God said: …If a man sends away his wife and she goes from him and becomes another man’s, may he return to her again? Will not that land be greatly polluted? But you have committed adultery with many lovers; and yet you return to me. (Jeremiah 3:1)

The biblical prophet Jeremiah often and loudly bemoaned that Israel had turned away from God, frequently employing a marriage metaphor — God being a spurned husband and Israel a wayward wife. In this passage, Jeremiah reminds us that Deuteronomy 24:4 explicitly prohibits a former husband and wife from reuniting as a couple if the wife has since married another man. And yet, Israel does return to God — an act that would override the law of Deuteronomy, were we to take this metaphor to its logical conclusion. That, says Rabbi Yohanan, is the power of repentance: It overrides even biblically mandated constraints, allowing God and the people Israel to recommit to each other.

As the page continues, other rabbis continue extolling repentance. Rabbi Yonatan tells us that repentance will hasten the final redemption, the messianic era. Reish Lakish offers a beautiful midrash that says repentance has the power to convert intentional sin, which carries the weight of heavy punishment, into unintentional sin — a mere “stumbling” — and thereby soften the punishment. The Gemara also knows of a different version of Reish Lakish’s teaching in which repentance carries an even more potent power — it can convert intentional sins into merits. It’s as if repentance has the power to downgrade a speeding ticket, which gives you negative points on your license in addition to a sizable fine, to a summary offense for not wearing your seatbelt — or even convert it to a Most Improved Driver award. 

The final teaching comes from Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahmani, who quotes Rabbi Yonatan as follows:

Great is repentance, which lengthens the years of a person’s life, as it is stated: When the wicked man turns from his wickedness that he has committed, and does that which is lawful and right, he will preserve his life. (Ezekiel 18:27)

So there you have it: Repentance is great. It breaks down seemingly impossible boundaries, it converts sins into merits, and it lengthens one’s life. For this reason, Yom Kippur is not just one of the most solemn and awe-filled days on the Jewish calendar; it’s also one of the most ecstatically joyful.

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Lest you thought these were strictly modern questions, today’s daf takes up exactly these concerns:

Death and Yom Kippur atone for sins when accompanied by repentance. 

Repentance itself atones for minor transgressions, for both positive and negative mitzvot.

And repentance places punishment for severe transgressions in abeyance until Yom Kippur comes and completely atones for the transgression.

According to this mishnah, Yom Kippur does actually do something. It accomplishes a kind of atonement for large sins that can otherwise only be achieved by death. Some Jews view Yom Kippur as a rehearsal for death — and this mishnah makes clear why. It is a big deal and the rituals are enormously powerful.

But it’s not a blank check. The awesomeness of the day of Yom Kippur only works to enact atonement for serious sin when it is accompanied by sincere repentance.

Which sins require repentance? The mishnah continues:

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya taught: From all your sins you shall be cleansed before the Lord. (Leviticus 16:30) For transgressions between a person and God, Yom Kippur atones; however, for transgressions between a person and another, Yom Kippur does not atone until he appeases the other person.

According to Rabbi Eleazar’s reading of the verse in Leviticus, Yom Kippur by itself atones only for sins that are directed “before the Lord” — but sins that are directed against human beings require active repair with the victims. God has the graciousness to forgive transgressions directed against heaven, but human relationships require personal repair. God alone does not fix them.The Gemara juxtaposes this mishnah with a beraita (a rabbinic teaching of the same era) attributed to Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi which appears to suggest the opposite:

It was taught: Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi says that for all transgressions in the Torah, whether one repented or did not repent, Yom Kippur atones, with the exceptions of: rejecting the yoke of Torah and mitzvot, interpreting the Torah falsely, and violating the covenant of the flesh (circumcision). In these cases, if one repents Yom Kippur atones for his sin, and if one does not repent Yom Kippur does not atone for his sin.

According to Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the sins for which active repentance is required are not those between two people, but three specific sins between a person and God; the beraita seems to suggest that Yom Kippur does atone for sins between people even if the perpetrators don’t work to repair the harm. In this view, Yom Kippur is a holiday oriented firmly toward heaven, and human beings bring themselves back into right relationship with God through a combination of rituals and true repentance.

So which is it? Do transgressions against God require active repentance? How about transgressions against fellow human beings? And what do the rituals of Yom Kippur “automatically” atone for?

The Gemara lands firmly on the side that humans need to make matters right with other human beings. And it assumes that even Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi would agree that sins between human beings require active repair:

Even if you say that the mishnah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the mishnah can be understood as follows: Repentance still requires Yom Kippur (in order to complete the atonement) whereas Yom Kippur does not require repentance (but atones even without it).

The Gemara’s reading assumes that Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi disputes only the question of whether or not repentance, by itself, can ever effect atonement without the power of Yom Kippur. He never questions the notion that people must personally address the wrongs they have committed toward others. All agree there is no ritual shortcut around this difficult and essential component of repentance.

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For example, the Talmud tells us that one may cast a net to rescue a child who fell into the sea on Shabbat, even though by doing so one is also engaging in the act of fishing. One may dig and build a step in order to rescue a child who fell into a pit, even though one may not ordinarily build a step on Shabbat. One may also break open a door on Shabbat if a child has been accidentally locked behind it, even if this results in the creation of boards that the door-breaker intends to use after Shabbat. 

The Talmud then preempts a question that many readers may have at this point: Is it necessary to tell us all these specific cases? Someone — maybe even you — might have thought it was enough to tell us that saving a life takes precedence over observing Shabbat. Why bother mentioning each of these specific scenarios? 

The Talmud explains that it is necessary to list all of them because each offers its own lesson:

If it had taught us only the law of the child who fell into the sea, we might have thought the ruling was only because one must act quickly in that case because otherwise the child will be swept away by the waves. But in the case of a child who fell into a pit, we might have thought the ruling doesn’t apply because there is no immediate danger. Therefore it is necessary to teach both cases (to show that even regarding this lesser danger, it is still more important to save the life than to observe Shabbat). 

And if it had taught us only the case of the pit, one might have thought it is permitted because the child is scared, but in the case of a locked door, perhaps the child would just sit on the other side of the door and play with nuts until Shabbat is over (apparently, a common toy for children).  Therefore, it is necessary to teach this case too. 

The rabbis are emphasizing how each hypothetical case introduces a new leniency. The principle that saving a life takes precedence over Shabbat applies not only when the someone is in an obviously life-threatening situation, but even when someone is in a position that is scary enough to feel life-threatening, and in fact even when someone is in a position that is likely not life-threatening or scary at all, but still bears some potential risk of harm. 

As much as the rabbis elsewhere are meticulous in their descriptions of how mitzvot such as Shabbat must be observed, here they demonstrate that people’s well-being will always be the more important consideration.

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But as we saw yesterday on Yoma 82, there are circumstances where it’s not only permitted but obligatory to eat — particularly if a life is at stake. So how sick would you have to be in order to eat? Would you seek out advice? From friends and family? A rabbi?

The Talmud addressed this question in a mishnah that we read a few days ago:

If a person is ill and requires food due to potential danger, one feeds him according to the advice of medical experts who determine that he indeed requires food. And if there are no experts there, one feeds him according to his own instructions, until he says that he has eaten enough and needs no more.

Makes sense. If you are sick on Yom Kippur, you can eat if your doctor says you can. And if you are unable to consult with a medical professional, you can use your own discretion. Sounds like we are ready to move on to the next topic.

Not so fast. On today’s daf, the Gemara cites another source for us to consider: Rabbi Yannai teaches that if a sick person feels the need to eat, they can eat even if their doctor says it is OK for them to fast. Why? Because of the verse in Proverbs 14:10, which states: “the heart knows the bitterness of the soul.” That is, a person understands their own condition even better than a doctor.

Rabbi Yannai goes on to say that if a doctor says a person should eat and they choose not to, we feed the person anyway based upon the doctor’s advice. Why don’t we listen to the sick person in this case? Because illness clouds judgement, so we rely on medical advice and insist that the person eats.

For the Gemara, it’s problematic that Rabbi Yannai seems to be contradicting the mishnah by allowing a sick person to eat based on their own assessment even when doctors are present. So the Gemara suggests that the mishnah is talking about a case when a sick person wants to fast. In such circumstances, experts can overrule the patient and require that they eat. 

“But isn’t this obvious?” asks the Gemara. In matters of life and death we are lenient, so we don’t need the mishnah to teach us that a doctor can instruct someone to eat if they are sick on Yom Kippur.

So maybe the mishnah is talking about a case where a sick person wants to eat and its purpose is to teach that experts, when they are available, are required to make eating permissible. But this doesn’t sit well with the Gemara either, which cites an opinion that rejects this approach in even stronger terms than Rabbi Yannai:

Any instance where an ill person says: I need to eat, even if there are a hundred expert doctors who say that he does not need to eat, we listen to his own option and feed him, as it is stated: The heart knows the bitterness of its soul. (Proverbs 14:10)

This conversation emerges, in part, from the fact that the mishnah differentiates between cases when experts are present and when they are not, while Rabbi Yannai focuses on whether the sick person wants to eat or fast. The Talmud is trying here to square two sources that are speaking about related, but not identical, things. At the same time, the Talmud is motivated to codify into law that which the mishnah does not specifically allow — permission for a sick person to self-determine when they are too sick to fast.

In the end, the Talmud applies the first part of the mishnah to a case where the sick person wants to fast and the latter to a case where a sick person wants to eat. Doctors can intervene in the former, but the patient can determine the best course of action in the latter — no matter how many experts weigh in on the matter.

So if you are sick on Yom Kippur and feel the need to eat, don’t worry about what others say. You are free to do what you think is best. But if you choose to fast and a doctor instructs you otherwise, listen to your doctor.

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The sages taught: If a pregnant woman smelled consecrated meat (meat designated for a Temple offering that is forbidden for normal consumption) or pork, one should insert a reed in the gravy on her behalf and place it on her mouth. If her mind is settled, good; if not, one feeds her the gravy itself. If her mind is settled, good; if not, one feeds her the fat itself.

The sages go on to explain that one may help a pregnant woman eat the forbidden meat — and indeed, must do so — because apparently the rabbis believe her craving may be a sign that her body needs the nutrients. And saving a life takes precedence over nearly all the commandments. (There are three exceptions to this rule — idol worship, sexual immorality, and murder — which we’ll deal with at greater length in Tractate Sanhedrin, coming up for Daf Yomi readers in about three years’ time.)

The Talmud goes into striking detail about the steps that should be taken to ensure that the pregnant woman’s needs are being met while also preventing her, if possible, from breaking Jewish law. As Ayelet Libson points out in her book on subjectivity in talmudic law, the Talmud’s vision of how to deal with the dilemma of the pregnant woman’s cravings differs from the mishnah not only in its greater leniency about pork, but in its acknowledgment that only the pregnant woman knows how she is feeling and what she needs. It is up to her, and only her, to decide at what point her mind is settled. If she says it is not, the Talmud tells us that we must take her at her word, even to the point of enabling her to commit a major transgression. 

As more information comes to light about women’s experiences of their own bodies not being taken seriously in medical settings today, perhaps this carefully constructed procedure can serve as a helpful counterexample.

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As we saw on Yoma 74 and elsewhere, the rabbis locate the obligation to fast in the Torah’s language of self-affliction: “Mark, the tenth day of this seventh month is the Day of Atonement. It shall be a sacred occasion for you: you shall practice self-affliction.” (Leviticus 23:27) But it’s a difficult derivation and the rabbis wonder: How could that have been more clearly communicated? Surely, the Torah could have found a better way to tell us! And then they give suggestions. In other words, on today’s page, the rabbis serve as God’s editor. 

First, the anonymous voice of the Gemara suggests this very practical and straightforward formulation:

How could the Merciful One write it? Let the Merciful One write: “One shall not eat on Yom Kippur.”

This seems like an air-tight formulation, but the Gemara immediately finds fault with it. The term “eat,” in rabbinic understanding, specifically prohibits “eating the amount of an olive-bulk.” But as we learned on Yoma 79, the minimal amount one may eat on Yom Kippur is actually slightly larger. 

So, the anonymous voice suggests a different formulation:

“Do not be afflicted.”

But this formulation might lead people to think that they are actually required to eat on Yom Kippur. Next, a series of named rabbis chime in, offering their own attempts at a biblical rewrite:

Rav Hoshaya strongly objects to this: Let the Merciful One write it in this manner: “Guard yourself lest you not be afflicted…”

Rav Beivai bar Abaye strongly objects to this: Let the Merciful One write: “Guard yourself in the mitzvah of affliction.”

Each of these attempts is then rejected. Finally, Rav Ashi offers a final attempt at a rewrite:

Let the Merciful One write: “Do not stray from afflicting yourself,” which implies a negative mitzvah — a prohibition against doing something — in this case, eating and drinking!

Amazingly, the Gemara concludes that Rav Ashi’s formulation would in fact be more clear than the Torah’s own phrasing. 

So, is it time to whip out a quill and amend the scrolls? Not so fast! The rabbis believed that God wrote the Torah — in its current form and to demonstrate eternal truths. This belief only emphasizes the charm and chutzpah in their assumption that they (or at least Rav Ashi!) could have written the Torah better than God. They do not actually advocate changing its words, which is why today’s argument ends with the term kashya — it is difficult.

If you’ve been reading along with us for a while, you’ve probably noticed that the rabbis really take to heart the notion that the Torah is meant for human beings to interpret and engage with — in ways that are on the surface consistent with the text, and in ways that appear profoundly at odds with a plain reading of the text. But they have limits. As today’s daf concludes, even when the rabbis can and do come up with a clearer (and to their mind better) formulation of a biblical verse, they do not advocate rewriting God.

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Normally, a minimal unit of food, according to the rabbis, is an olive’s bulk — meaning the volume of an olive (a small bite, essentially). In the case of Yom Kippur, however, the sages understand it to be a different measure — the volume of a large date — because the Torah doesn’t use language of “eating” but rather “self-affliction” (as we discussed on Yoma 74). The language shift serves as a subtle clue that a different minimal volume is required for transgression. 

The most common measures of food volume in the talmudic era were an olive, an egg, a dried fig or date — and a revi’it, a mouth or cheekful of drink. In modern measurements, an olive, egg and revi’itare considered about 1, 2.5 and 4 fluid ounces, respectively. It should come as no surprise that authorities have argued about these measurements and most notably the Chazon Ish (1878-1953) controversially increased all the measurements by at least a third.

But given that the Torah does not specify these volumes at all, where do they come from? How does the Talmud “know” that accidentally consuming a large date’s bulk of food is the difference between fasting and not fasting? Our Gemaraquotes an early rabbinic teaching that explains:

It was taught: Measures of punishments (such as the amount of food that qualifies someone as no longer self-afflicting on Yom Kippur) are halakhah transmitted to Moses from Sinai.

Others say: These measures were instituted by the court of Yavetz.

The first opinion is that Moses received all the measurements not stated explicitly in the Written Torah on Mount Sinai and passed that information along as part of the Oral Law. But the second opinion says the measures were instituted later, by the court of Yavetz. Haven’t heard of Yavetz? He’s pretty obscure. The name is first mentioned in 1 Chronicles 2:55 where it is a place. But later, in 1 Chronicles 4:9, Yavetzis a person: “Yavetz was more esteemed than his brothers; and his mother named him Yavetz, ‘Because,’ she said, ‘I bore him in pain (otzev).’” So, how come the rabbis think he’s a halakhic expert?

To understand why Yavetz was considered an early halakhic expert, we need to dive into some biblical associations. The place Yavetz is called a place of scribes and known as the home to the Kenites, descendants of Yitro (Moses’ father-in-law who was known as a just and fair judge). This links Yavetzwith Moses and the law. In the Talmud, the character Yavetzis identified with another biblical character, Otniel ben Kenaz, who appears in the Book of Judges (3:9) and who is identified as the brother of Caleb and the conqueror of Kiriat Sefer (literally the City of the Book). The Talmud credits him with deducing all the laws — a total of 1,700 — that were forgotten after Moses died. Otniel is said to have restored them entirely through his logic. (Temurah 16a)

When our daf identified the minimum measure of food that, upon being accidentally consumed, breaks one’s Yom Kippur fast (a large date’s worth), and then asks whether this was a halakhah given to Moses at Sinai and passed down through the generations, or one of the forgotten halakhot that were re-derived by Yavetz (a.k.a. Otniel ben Kenaz) one thing it does not question is that this law, which is found nowhere in the Torah, comes directly from God. In fact, the Talmud is so serious about this idea, that it essentially reiterates it in the next few lines:

And isn’t it written: “These are the mitzvot which the Lord commanded Moses for the children of Israel at Mount Sinai” (Leviticus 27:34)? The word “these” underscores that a prophet is not permitted to introduce anything new from here on. Rather, the people forgot some laws, and the prophets later reestablished them.

On the part of the rabbis, it’s a large claim to authority — that their whole corpus comes directly from God.

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In the mishnah back on Yoma 73b, we learned that one who eats food that is equivalent to a large date, including its pit, on Yom Kippur, is liable for violating the prohibition of eating on the holiday. On today’s daf, the rabbis consider the question of how large a large date is.

The Gemara initially suggests this answer: 

Rava said that Rav Yehuda said: The volume of a large date that they said is larger than an egg-bulk. The sages have an accepted tradition that with this amount of food, the mind of the one who eats is settled, and he is not afflicted. Less than this amount, the mind is not settled.

Rav Yehuda suggests a date and its pit is large if it’s bigger than an egg. But true to form, the Gemara cites an incident that suggests that this statement may not be correct:

An incident happened on the festival of Sukkot. They brought a cooked dish to Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai to taste, and they brought to Rabban Gamliel two dates and a tankard of water. Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai and Rabban Gamliel said to them: Bring them up to the sukkah, and we will eat there. And a baraita was taught in that regard: They did not act this way because that is the halakha, that such food must be eaten in the sukkah. Rather, they wished to be stringent upon themselves and not eat anything outside of the sukkah.

An amount of food larger than an egg must be eaten in a sukkah. But according to this teaching, Rabban Gamliel ate his two dates in the sukkah not because he was required to, but because he was being more strict than necessary. This suggests that the volume of two dates is smaller than an egg. 

If both these teachings are correct, we can conclude that two dates are smaller than an egg which is smaller than one large date including its pit. The Gemara finds this hard to believe. Can the volume of a large date and its pit be greater than two pitted dates? 

According to the Gemara, it is. Date pits are so big that a large date and its pit holds more volume than two dates without pits. According to a well-known talmudic dictum: “In two kavs of dates there is one kav and more of pits.”  

Rav Zedid disagrees with Rav Yehuda, suggesting that the volume of a large date and its pit is less than that of an egg. This is based, in part, upon how Rabbi Yehuda (no relation to Rav Yehuda) reads Deuteronomy 8:10, the verse from which we derive the obligation to recite Grace After Meals: “You shall eat and be satisfied and bless the Lord your God.” For Rabbi Yehuda, it is the experience of satisfaction that triggers the obligation to bless. How much food causes one to be satisfied? According to Rabbi Yehuda, it’s an egg-bulk.

It’s logical to assume that the volume of food that yields satisfaction is greater than that which merely settles the mind. So according to this view, an egg must be bigger than a large date and its pit. 

In either case, both Rav Zedid and Rav Yehuda seem to agree that measurements of food are rooted in the effect they have on the one who consumes them. Is this a helpful approach? I’m not so sure. Living in a home with teenagers, I can attest that the amount of food needed to satisfy hunger, or even to settle one’s mind, varies widely by individual.

In the end, neither opinion helps us standardize rabbinic weights and measures. In fact, to this day scholars have a range of understandings of the rabbinic definition of the volume of a date, an olive, and an egg.

In any case, we are not talking here about particularly large quantities of food. My advice? Next Yom Kippur, if you are fasting, avoid food altogether. And if you are interested in the rabbinic conversation about volume specifically, or weights and measures generally, stay tuned — we’ll return to this topic many times before this Daf Yomi cycle is done.

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If the Mishnah explicitly forbids wearing shoes, then why does everyone come to synagogue in Keds instead of showing up barefoot? Just as yesterday’s daf explored some of the exceptions to the rules about bathing and using oil, today’s daf raises the question:

It makes sense that shoes are forbidden, but what is there to say about sandals?

The rabbis point out that sandals — think of a pair of flip flops — are not as sturdy as shoes and may come off in the water (another throwback to yesterday’s daf, which permitted walking through the water on Yom Kippur), and therefore don’t really count as shoes. In fact, the Talmud tells us that various rabbis would wear sandals made of all kinds of different materials on Yom Kippur: cork, reeds, palm fiber, even a sort of fabric sandal made of scarf wrapped around the foot — basically anything but leather! All of these non-shoe sandals allow people to get around on Yom Kippur without putting their feet too much at risk, but are still considered to be “afflictions” because they don’t provide shoe-level comfort and security.

Eventually, this distinction turned into the one we have today, in which all footwear made of non-leather fabric is considered acceptable for Yom Kippur. However, because the original prohibition targets shoes and not specifically leather, one contemporary rabbi has ruled that his students should avoid wearing Crocs to synagogue on Yom Kippur, on the grounds that they are too comfortable.

Personally, as someone who once brought Crocs on an overnight camping trip and lost one of them forever to an especially squelchy deep mud puddle, I think they fit perfectly into the rabbinic paradigm of sandals that protect your feet but have the unfortunate disadvantage of coming off easily. They also provide the added affliction of looking a bit silly. Perhaps most importantly, they’re a widely available non-leather option that provides some support for those who are spending much of the day standing in prayer. And as the Talmud’s discussion of these afflictions continues to emphasize, it’s all about balancing what’s meaningful and what’s feasible.

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On today’s daf, the sages attempt to achieve this balance through a number of leniencies when it comes to the afflictions regarding bathing and using oil (think of this as the rabbinic version of lotion) on the body.

It is just as forbidden to bathe part of the body as it is to bathe the entire body. But if someone were dirty with mud or dung, they may wash normally with no concern.

It is just as forbidden to put oil on part of the body as it is to put oil on the entire body. But if someone were sick or had scabs on their head, they may put oil on normally.

In addition to making exceptions to the prohibition on bathing and anointing for those who are sick or truly filthy, the rabbis also allow people to wash their hands in order to feed their children — in fact, they mandate it so as to ensure that children are getting fed — and even to immerse their bodies in water up to the neck for the purpose of crossing a river to meet a parent or a teacher, or to protect the fruit in their fields. 

On the topic of this latter leniency, the Talmud brings a story that nicely summarizes the whole rabbinic attitude towards the subject. A teacher named Rav Yosef permitted his students to cross through water to attend his lecture on Yom Kippur, as per the exception above. However, in a further leniency, he also allowed them to cross through water again on their way home. When his student Abbaye asked why Rav Yosef would allow his students to do this, since it could risk transgressing the prohibition on bathing, Rav Yosef explained:

So they will not be obstructed from coming in the future.

One could read this statement in (at least) two ways. It could be that Rav Yosef meant that if the students knew that they wouldn’t be able to get home conveniently, they wouldn’t want to attend his lecture on Yom Kippur in the first place. But this explanation could also be a more general statement that if people feel that Jewish ritual practices — even the ones that are supposed to be somewhat difficult — can’t accommodate basic human convenience, then they might become alienated from the whole. Ultimately, says Rav Yosef, it’s important for a community leader to make the extra effort to be accessible, even if that means not being such a stickler about the rules.

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As we’ve seen them do many times already, the rabbis then inquire about the biblical source of two of these afflictions:

From where do we derive that abstaining from bathing and smearing oil on oneself is called affliction? The Gemara answers: As it is written “I ate no pleasant bread, neither did meat nor wine enter my mouth, neither did I anoint myself at all” (Daniel 10:3) … And from where do we derive that abstaining from the activities that Daniel describes is considered affliction? As it is written: “Then he said to me: Fear not, Daniel, for from the first day that you set your heart to understand and to afflict yourself before your God, your words were heard, and I have come due to your words” (Daniel 10:12). 

In seeking the source of these prohibitions, the rabbis look to Chapter 10 of the Book of Daniel, in which the prophet explains that he mourned for three weeks after King Cyrus reneged on his promise to allow the Jews to rebuild the Temple. Daniel describes the manner in which he mourned: He ate no tasty food and refrained from anointing himself. Later in the chapter, Daniel has a vision of a spectacularly adorned angelic being who tells him that because he practiced abstinence before God, his prayer has been heard. 

The rabbis understand that Daniel refraining from anointing is the abstinence referred to by the angel. And because the word for abstinence in the text (hit’anoot) comes from the same root as the Torah’s command that we afflict ourselves (v’initem) on Yom Kippur, this is proof that refraining from anointing has the status of affliction and is thus prohibited on Yom Kippur. In simple terms, if “affliction” means something specific in the book of Daniel, we can infer that it means the same thing elsewhere. 

This sort of argument by analogy, in which a word used in one place in scripture is understood to be equivalent to its usage elsewhere in scripture, is known as a gezerah shavah, and is an oft-used rule of rabbinic hermeneutics. (You may recall we saw this back on Pesachim 24.)

But what’s the big deal about anointing? The anointing of both people and objects with oil was widespread in the ancient world for practical and symbolic reasons. Anointing was used for cosmetic, medicinal, funereal and – as we saw earlier in this tractate – ritual purposes. In addition to kings and other dignitaries being anointed with oil to mark their ascent to leadership, we are told that the messiah will be anointed with oil. Ordinary men and women also rubbed scented oil and lotion on their bodies, much as we do today. In modern times, the prohibition against anointing has come to include such things as using deodorant, hair cream, perfume and the like on Yom Kippur. 

The inclusion of anointing within the five categories of Yom Kippur affliction makes sense for two reasons, again both practical and symbolic. The practical reason is that using these cosmetics makes us feel, smell and look nice. Since Yom Kippur is all about forgoing bodily pleasures so that we can instead focus on the serious work of connecting with God and asking for atonement on the holiest day of the year, it makes sense that we avoid it.

But the symbolic reason may be even more profound. On Yom Kippur, we do not come to God dressed up as kings or dignitaries. We come on our knees begging forgiveness — literally during the Aleinu prostration. We are impoverished, not royal. We can only be who we are, naked of all cosmetics, wearing white like a shroud, our deeds plain to see. We come before God, and each other, with only our hearts and our words: “Forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.”

Read all of Yoma 76 on Sefaria.

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Rabbi Yosei says: Just like the prophet would tell the Jewish people what was in the holes and what was in the cracks, so too the manna clarified for Israel what was in the holes and what was in the cracks.

Manna, according to Rabbi Yosei, had a way of shining light on hidden truths. How so? The rabbis explain that manna fell in quantities appropriate for each household. So by counting how much manna a certain household received, one could determine how many people were actually part of that household. This kind of determination could help resolve a number of conflicts. One example that is cited is the case of a widow or divorcee who quickly remarries and gives birth seven months later. Who is the biological father of the child? In the desert, the manna functioned as a kind of paternity test — if the infant’s portion of manna appeared at the tent of the first husband’s family, that was a divine sign that the infant was full term when it was born and so was the biological child of the first husband. If, however, it appeared at the tent of her second husband, that was proof that the infant had been born prematurely but was the offspring of the second husband. In this case, no one is trying to do the wrong thing, but they are missing the key information that they need to figure out issues like inheritance. 

Another example on today’s daf resolves a conflict in a “he said, she said” case:

A man and a woman came to Moses for a judgment, he saying: “She sinned against me,” and she saying: “He sinned against me.” Moses would say to them: In the morning there will be a judgment. The following day, if her portion was found in her husband’s house, it would be clear that she sinned against him. If her portion of manna was found in her father’s house, it would be clear that he sinned against her.

The rabbis imagine that, like a prophet, the manna can communicate to the court (in this case, Moses himself) what the facts of the case really are. 

But perhaps even more impressively, they also think that, like a prophet, the manna can communicate to each of us who we really are:

For the righteous, their manna fell at the opening of their homes. The average people went out of the camp and gathered what fell there. The wicked had to go about farther to gather.

Outside of supervillain monologues in movies, few people see themselves as bad guys. Most of us are, in our own thinking, the good guys. This midrash explains that the manna told the Israelites exactly who they really were — that each person was confronted with their true nature every morning when they woke up and went to collect their portion. The manna was a mirror, reflecting the good, bad and ugly of each individual. 

But while this idea is scary, it’s also profoundly positive. Today’s daf also teaches that the manna was “white because it whitened Israel’s sins.” After all, seeing reality is a gift that allows us to see where we have room to grow. Honestly recognizing our full selves every day is meant to encourage us to continue to do better. 

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A teaching on our daf seeks to clarify the term through midrash:

The sages taught: “You shall afflict yourselves.” (Leviticus 16:29) Lest you think that this means one has to sit in the sun or in the shade in order to be pained, the verse states: “And you shall do no labor.” Just as the prohibition on labor requires one to sit and do nothing, so too does the affliction of one’s soul require one to sit and do nothing.

Rashi helps to explain how affliction on Yom Kippur is accomplished through sitting and doing nothing — it means refraining from the sorts of things we usually do: eating, drinking and bathing.

But we can see immediately that this is a rather unsatisfying way to understand how to afflict ourselves. Indeed, the Gemara itself raises the obvious objection:

Say that it means that when one sits in the sun and it is too hot for him we do not say to him: “Get up and sit in the shade.”

In other words, to afflict ourselves through doing nothing can mean myriad forms of self-abnegation or even self-harm that have nothing whatsoever to do with avoiding food and drink.

Perhaps in response to the relative weakness of this first effort to show that afflicting one’s soul means simply fasting, much of the remainder of the daf is given over to various interpretive efforts to prove the connection — some of them a bit overwrought, like a long beraita that seeks to show how all manner of foods from sacred to profane must be prohibited on Yom Kippur. As a reader, it is hard to escape the conclusion that our sages know that fasting on Yom Kippur is how we are meant to understand self-affliction, they just are not entirely sure how they know it.

Complicating matters further is the fact that biblical Hebrew has a perfectly good word for fast (tzom) that is simply not used in discussing Yom Kippur. B’yom tzomchem, the prophet Isaiah thunders in chapter 58: “On the day of your fast you see to business and oppress all your laborers!” Although this rejection of the Israelites’ empty ritual of fasting does not specify the day in question, Megilah 31a assigns these words to be read as the haftarah of Yom Kippur morning, bolstering the rabbinic idea that a core feature of the holiday is the affliction we cause ourselves by refraining from food and drink.      

But in strengthening the putative connection between self-affliction and fasting by means of Isaiah’s searing critique of the observance, the Talmud also reminds us not to imagine self-affliction (in whatever form) as an end in itself; as the prophet makes clear, our self-denial is merely a means to the improvement of our ethical and moral behavior. Paradoxically then, the lengthy rabbinic exegesis aiming to link affliction to fasting serves to enhance the sense that denying ourselves food and drink is indeed the proper form of observance of Yom Kippur, while simultaneously reminding us that simply “not doing something” is not nearly enough to make the holiday truly meaningful.     

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The text states: 

On Yom Kippur, the day on which there is a mitzvah by Torah law to afflict oneself, it is prohibited to engage in eating and in drinking, and in bathing, and in smearing oil on one’s body, and in wearing shoes, and in conjugal relations. 

The rest of the mishnah, and the Gemara discussion that follows, goes on to address the punishments for violating these laws and the specific amounts of food and drink consumption that would trigger a harsher punishment of karet (spiritual excising from God) or a more lenient rabbinic punishment of lashes. There are also exceptions for new mothers, kings and brides.

One of these exceptions is curious: 

A woman after childbirth, who is suffering, may wear shoes because going barefoot causes her pain. This is the statement of Rabbi Eliezer. The rabbis prohibit these activities [wearing shoes or washing] for a king, a new bride, and a woman after childbirth.

Why would not wearing shoes be considered an affliction? Why would Rabbi Eliezer assume that going barefoot would cause pain for a new mother and allow her to wear them? Why would the rabbis disagree? And how is it that almost everyone wears footwear today on Yom Kippur?

In considering these questions, we need to put ourselves in the shoes (or not) of a new mother living in the rabbinic period. While some might consider shoes to be prisons for the feet and take any opportunity to go barefoot, that would not have been the case throughout most of human history. Going barefoot might cause a woman in her delicate postpartum state to become ill from walking on cold ground (Rashi) or expose her to the danger of stepping on a scorpion (Maimonides). The Shulchan Aruch allows a new mother, anyone who is sick, or anyone who has a wound on their feet to wear sandals on Yom Kippur. Thus Rabbi Eliezer’s leniency, rather than the stringency of the rabbis, becomes the law.

And yet today, almost everyone wears shoes on Yom Kippur – just not leather ones. Why is this permitted?

For the answer, we need to jump ahead to Tractate Yevamot, which we will get to in our Daf Yomi cycle just about one year from now.  There, the Gemara is discussing halitzah, the ceremony releasing a man from the biblical requirement, described in Deuteronomy 25:5-10, to marry his dead brother’s childless widow and raise their offspring in his brother’s name. In this process, the widow makes a declaration, removes her brother-in-law’s shoe from his foot, and spits on the floor. (You may not have learned about this in Hebrew school.) The Gemara then spends some time discussing the definition of a shoe. According to the rabbis, only footwear made of leather are considered actual shoes. 

This is why, as we will see in a few days, even the rabbis of the Talmud wore cloth foot coverings on Yom Kippur. And it’s why many of us today wear canvas sneakers or rubber flip-flops on the holiest day of the year. 

Circling back to today’s daf, why would new mothers then be permitted to wear leather shoes when we now know that cloth is perfectly acceptable? To understand that, all we need to do is imagine what it would be like to walk to shul on Yom Kippur in the rain, on a gravel road, with cold, wet feet because we were wearing flimsy shoes. Leather offers better protection, and for a postpartum mom recovering from childbirth, her comfort and safety outweigh even the laws of Yom Kippur. 

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Hypocrisy and the struggle to match our inner and outer selves is a topic of deep interest to the rabbis of the Talmud, and plays a significant role in today’s daf:

The Torah states concerning the Ark: From within and from without you shall cover it. (Exodus 25:11)

Rava said: This alludes to the idea that any Torah scholar whose inside is not like his outside, is not a Torah scholar.

We all know or have heard of the outwardly pious religious person, Jewish or not, who secretly cheats in business, commits adultery or worse. Perhaps we know them, perhaps we even love them. They are not a new phenomenon of religious life, and the rabbis are acutely aware of, and sensitive to, the hypocrisy in a life lived this way. 

This concept, in Hebrew tocho k’voro (“its inside is like its outside”), is not a new one for the rabbis. But they see it as a two-edged sword: an ideal to be sure, but also a difficult standard that can be used to unfairly clobber others.

Perhaps the most well-known meditation on this idea is found in the famous story in which Rabban Gamliel is unseated as the nasi, the head of the rabbinic academy (Berakhot 27 and Berakhot 28). He is thrown out because he is too authoritarian and replaced by a young scholar named Elazar ben Azaryah who is wise, learned, well-connected and wealthy (pretty much everything you could want in this job). He is, however, quite young and his wife worries that his appearance is a liability. Miraculously, overnight God grants him distinguished white hair so that he looks the part of the head of the academy — tocho k’voro.

In this new role, the first thing that Elazar ben Azaryah does is throw open the doors of the beit midrash (the house of study) and add benches, allowing anyone who wants to come study. Rabban Gamliel, we are told, had permitted only those students whose tocho k’voro, whose inside was like their outsides. But Elazar ben Azaryah democratizes the study hall, for the better, as Rabbi Aaron Finkelstein explains: 

“In this regard, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah was the realist, Rabban Gamliel, the idealist. Ideally, said Rabban Gamliel, we would all be completely integrated, our inner essence matching our exterior, but the Talmud acknowledges that complete integration — to our internal character match our outward behavior — is not so simple.”

Of course, ironically, Rabban Gamliel, who had fully looked the part of the head of the academy, had displayed major failings in his leadership. Matching one’s insides and one’s outsides is complicated.

Let’s go back to today’s page and Rava’s idea that a Torah scholar’s insides should match their outward appearance. It seems that the idea of tocho k’voro is not a question of inclusivity or exclusivity; it is not about restricting access to learning and tradition, but rather asking us to examine ourselves — to ensure that we come to our study of Torah, or our commitment to Jewish life, with true intentions. Otherwise, Rava teaches the other sages:

I beg of you, do not inherit Gehenna twice.

If you come to Torah and its study as a hypocrite, or if you study Torah but do not live its lessons in the world, you are doubly-cursed: You are wasting your time in this world, and God’s time in the World to Come. And unlike the swan, it won’t matter how sweetly you sing.

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On today’s daf, the Gemara relates an incident that occurred on the way to the feast that caused a bit of a stir.

There was an incident involving one high priest who exited the Holy Temple and everyone followed him. When they saw Shemaya and Avtalyon, the heads of the Sanhedrin, walking along, in deference to them they left the high priest by himself and walked after Shemaya and Avtalyon.

Eventually, Shemaya and Avtalyon came to take leave of the high priest. He said to them, “Let the descendants of the gentile nations come in peace.”

Underlying Tractate Yoma is an assumption that it is the sages who are in charge and not the priests. This story reinforces that notion and shows that, at the close of Yom Kippur, the people in the streets honored rabbinic leadership over the priestly caste.

Out of anger (or perhaps frustration) at this, the high priest’s parting words refer to the fact that Shemaya and Avtalyon were both converts. This comment is especially sharp coming from the high priest, who comes to his position based upon his lineage. Language like this, especially when directed at converts, is expressly forbidden by both the Torah and the rabbis. 

The story continues:

Shemaya and Avtalyon said to him, “Let the descendants of the gentile nations, who perform acts of Aaron, come in peace; and let not the descendent of Aaron, who does not perform the acts of Aaron, come in peace.”

Aaron is Moses’s brother and the original high priest. In rabbinic literature, he is also described as a lover and pursuer of peace. In response to the insult, Shemaya and Avtalyon call out the high priest for not living up to the standards set by his ancestor.

The story reinforces a common rabbinic theme — it’s not where you come from, but what you have learned and how you behave that is the true measure of a person. These qualities earn you a spot in the halls of Torah, which ultimately, to the rabbis, is a far more honorable place to be than in the priesthood.

More than what it has to say about the relative honor due to rabbis and priests, this story also suggests something about human nature. You might think that the Day of Atonement would have had some impact on the way rabbis and priests interact, at least for the time it takes them to walk home. Lucky for them, they’ll all have an opportunity to atone for their actions — on the following Yom Kippur.

Read all of Yoma 71 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on June 21st, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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As Rabbi Titzhak Nappaha says on today’s daf:

When the new moon of Tevet occurs on Shabbat, we take out three Torahs: From one, we read the topic of the day (the weekly Torah portion), from one we read the portion of the new moon (Numbers 28:9-15) , and from one a portion for Hanukkah (from Numbers 7).

Why do we need a separate Torah for each reading? Because the different sections come from different parts of the Torah and we don’t want to impose upon the congregation to wait while the scroll is rolled. Instead, we read from multiple scrolls, each rolled to the correct spot in advance.

But there’s an exception to this rule, related at the end of yesterday’s daf:

One may skip sections when reading in the Torah when both sections read pertain to the same topic … but only when the section skipped is of such short length that when furling is completed the translator will still not have concluded his translation.

Today, congregants typically follow the Torah reading in books that include translations into the vernacular. But in ancient times, to ensure that the congregation understood what was being read, the reader would recite a single verse from the Torah and then pause while a translator relayed the verse in the vernacular.

So the exception related in the Gemara is that if the time it took to roll the Torah was less than the time the translator needed to render the last verse, it is permissible to roll to the next passage as long as the new passage shares the same topic as the first. 

We still follow this rule today. When we read Torah on minor fast days for which the first aliyah describes Moses securing God’s forgiveness after the sin of the golden calf, and the next two describe Moses fashioning a second set of tablets to replace the ones he smashed, we read from a single scroll. All three passages are near to one another in Exodus and are on the same topic. 

Why are these rules about Torah reading in the tractate that deals with Yom Kippur?  

During Temple times, the high priest read three passages from the Torah as part of the Yom Kippur proceedings. The first begins with Leviticus 16:1, the second with Leviticus 23:26, and the third with Numbers 29:7. All three passages pertain to the Yom Kippur rituals and sacrifices.

Following the rules described above, the first two passages, which are close together and related by topic, can be read from the same scroll. But the third, while also about Yom Kippur, is too distant in the scroll to allow for rolling without a delay in the action.  

But according to the mishnah, after completing the second passage, the high priest rolls up the Torah, holds it close to his heart and declares, “More than what I have read before you is written here.” Then he recites the final passage by heart.

Why not bring out a second Torah for the final passage? The Gemara suggests two possibilities: 

1) If the high priest were to switch scrolls in the middle of the reading, people may erroneously conclude that there was a flaw in the first scroll which necessitated the switch. 

2) If the high priest were to read from only one scroll, he would recite only one set of blessings. But the addition of a second scroll obligates the high priest to recite a second set of blessings. The rabbis are concerned that the new blessings are extra and would be considered a bracha l’vatala, an unnecessary blessing, which is to be avoided. Therefore, they prefer the use of only one scroll.

Neither of these concerns pertains today. It’s unlikely that a switch in scrolls would lead anyone to assume that the change is due to a flaw in the scroll. And since a different person is called up for each section and recites their own blessing, no one is reciting unnecessary blessings. Which is why today we do in fact read from two scrolls on Yom Kippur morning. 

Read all of Yoma 70 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on June 20th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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