Sukkot is unique among the Jewish holidays in many respects. Unlike Passover, which commemorates the dramatic exodus from Egypt, and Shavuot, which celebrates the arguably even more dramatic revelation at Sinai, Sukkot reenacts the strenuous and more prosaic wandering of the Israelites through the wilderness for 40 years. Perhaps for this reason, its agricultural dimensions, celebrating the harvest and praying for the next season of rain, feel more pronounced. It also takes on a more universal dimension than other holidays because those prayers for rain, as the rabbis note, do not just benefit Israel, but the entire world.

The Torah refers to Sukkot as z’man simchateinu, the “season of our rejoicing,” and the rabbis describe a celebration at the end of the festival in the Temple that lived up to this label — a final night time carnival of music and dancing, illuminated by enormous torches that lit up the whole city. A mishnah toward the end of the tractate declares: “One who has not seen the rejoicing of the place of water-drawing has never seen rejoicing in their life.”

The first chapter of Tractate Sukkot describes the rules for building a kosher sukkah. A sukkah should be durable enough to dwell in, but flimsy enough to be considered a temporary structure. It must be tall enough that one can actually fit into it, but not so tall that its occupants are not sitting in the shade of the s’chach, the branches that cover its roof. In this chapter and the next, it becomes clear that the s’chach is the essential part of the sukkah, with both significant spiritual force and special practical requirements (for instance, s’chach must be made from organic matter that is no longer rooted in the ground, so it is not susceptible to impurity).

The second chapter deals with the biblical requirement to dwell in the sukkah for seven days. The rabbis determine that this means both eating and sleeping in the sukkah, but they are lenient in many respects — allowing people to leave their sukkah if they need to travel for work or even if a sudden rainstorm ruins their meal. The requirement to dwell in the sukkah is found to be a positive, time-bound mitzvah, which means that it is incumbent only on adult Jewish men (not women, children or slaves). But there are some voices in the text that push against this idea and seek to include women and children in the obligation.

Chapter three deals with the four species, whose precise identity is unclear from the biblical text. The rabbis identify the pri etz hadar, the “fruit of the tree of beauty,” as an etrog, a fruit completely foreign to the land of Israel that originally hails from China. True to the name, the four species are meant to be beautiful and the rabbis spend time determining what this means in terms of size, color and blemishes.

In the fourth chapter, we move into a description of Temple practices, beginning with two rituals that are not found in the Torah. The first is the ritual of surrounding the altar with willow branches, which means both positioning branches upright around the altar and also parading them in a circular pattern. The second was the pouring of water on the altar as a libation. As this chapter describes, it was drawn from the nearby Siloam pool with great fanfare (literally: trumpet blasts).

Finally, the fifth chapter concerns the ecstatic celebrations in the Temple that capped off the festival and the enormous number of offerings the festival required — 70 bulls in all, which commentators suggest are given on behalf of the 70 nations of the world.

With its interplay between historical and agricultural commemorations, particular and universal themes, exploration of liminality and fragility side-by-side with uncontrolled joy, the Sukkot festival this tractate describes is truly unique among Jewish celebrations.

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What on earth does all of this mean? 

First, priestly watches: The priests were divided into 24 familial groups that took turns carrying out the Temple duties. The Bible describes this division of labor, but the Talmud elaborates: Each of the 24 watches, which lived throughout the land of Israel, was assigned to work in the Temple for a week at a time (Taanit 2:4). (Likewise, the Levites were divided into 24 watches that rotated through service, and even the Israelites were divided into watches that were supposed to send representatives to offer Temple sacrifices.) 

During their week on duty, each watch would offer the daily sacrifices. The changeover would happen on Shabbat, with the outgoing watch offering the morning and afternoon sacrifices, and the incoming watch overseeing the evening sacrifices and replacing the showbread for the new week (Tosefta Sukkah 4:24–25). On major festivals, the first mishnah on today’s page suggests, all 24 watches would work together in the Temple. Each watch also received a portion of the old showbread, the division of which was a matter of complex negotiation — another discussion on today’s page!

One of these watches was in perpetual disgrace. At the beginning of their week of service, the family of Bilga was required to divide their showbread in the south of the Temple, the location ordinarily used by the outgoing watch, not the incoming watch, which divided in the north. This seems to have symbolically labelled them as “on their way out” in perpetuity. In addition, their niche — the place they were given to store their kit — was sealed, and their ring for performing sacrifices was bolted down, rendering it useless. These too were signs of disgrace. 

Why these harsh measures? The Gemara offers two possibilities. One is that the family of Bilga was perpetually late, forcing the priestly shift that preceded them to work overtime. But the more evocative explanation comes in the form of a story at the very end of today’s daf:

There was an incident involving Miriam, the daughter of Bilga, who apostatized and married a soldier of the Greek kings. When the Greeks entered the Temple, she entered with them and kicked the altar with her sandal, saying: “Wolf, wolf, how long will you consume the property of the Jewish people, and yet you do not stand with them when they face exigent circumstances?”

If you remember the story of Hanukkah, you know that the Greek king Antiochus ordered his troops into the Temple where they defiled the altar by pouring pig blood on it and setting up an idol of Zeus. Perhaps because she was looking to impress her new husband, Miriam charged into the Temple with them and, adding her own bit of insult to this affront, kicked the altar (I love that the text reminds us she would have been wearing sandals — that must have hurt!) and called it a hungry wolf because it “devoured” the sacrificial sheep of the Israelites yet could not save them from Greek conquest.

Of course, from the perspective of the Talmud, the joke is on Miriam. The Maccabees recaptured the Temple, rededicated it, and then eventually Herod built it to be even more magnificent than before — a wonder of the ancient world (as we read on Sukkah 51). But her betrayal, impotent as it was, cast a dark shadow on her clan forever.

It’s a somber denouement for a tractate that has been in many ways a crescendo of joy (recall that one of the names for Sukkot is z’man simchateinu — “season of our rejoicing”). We began by discussing the construction of the sukkah, a temporary dwelling that evokes the wandering of the Israelites in the wilderness, a place that is both a permanent residence for the week but also avowedly temporary; a place where the roof is the most important component, and also the leakiest; a place where the people can meet the divine presence. The tractate progressed through discussions of the four species, the lulav and etrog, the remarkable foreign fruit that became a central symbol of Judaism in antiquity. And finally, we came to Temple practice on Sukkot, including the raucous and ecstatic celebrations accompanying the water-drawing festival, filling Jerusalem with light and music. 

In some ways, this story — which on the surface is simply a digression engendered by the fact that Sukkot required so many sacrifices that it made extra work for all 24 priestly watches, which in turn inspires a story about one of those watches — cuts against the grain of the whole, a tale of one symbolic betrayal by an otherwise unknown woman pitched against images of an entire people engaged in rapturous celebration. Perhaps wishing to recapture that sense of joy, the Gemara artfully shifts gears in the final line:

And due to Miriam’s father and mother (who may have educated her to turn away from her people) do we penalize the entire watch? Abaye said: Woe unto the wicked, woe unto his neighbor. But good for the righteous, good for his neighbor, as it is stated: Say of the righteous that it shall be good for him, for they shall eat the fruit of their doings. (Isaiah 3:10)

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Why so many bulls? Today’s daf offers an explanation: 

Rabbi Elazar said: These 70 bulls, to what do they correspond? They correspond to the 70 nations. And why is a single bull sacrificed on the Eighth Day of Assembly (Shemini Atzeret — a one day holiday that immediately follows Sukkot)? It corresponds to the singular nation, Israel.

Rabbi Elazar tells us that one bull is sacrificed on Sukkot for each and every nation of the world. The medieval commentator Rashi connects the 70 sacrifices for the nations of the world to another major theme of the holiday — prayers for rain. He explains that the 70 bulls “atone for them (the nations of the world) so that rain will fall across the world because we are judged on this holiday for water.”

On Yom Kippur, God decides who will live and die in the coming year. In Tractate Rosh Hashanah (16a), we will see a similar idea that on Sukkot God decides how much rain the world will receive in the coming year. Here, Rashi is suggesting that because the whole world is connected through God’s judgement on Sukkot, Israel spends the holiday atoning for the entire world. 

On Sukkah 35, we discussed how one of the four species — the etrog — was of foreign origins but became a crucial symbol of Jewish identity. Today’s daf highlights another important way that the holiday of Sukkot integrated the global community into the holiday. 

But it also offers us an evocative challenge to this idea. The Gemara ends its discussion of the 70 sacrifices that correspond to the 70 nations with a lament: 

Rabbi Yohanan said: Woe unto the nations of the world that lost something and do not know what they lost. When the Temple is standing, the altar atones for them. And now that the Temple is destroyed, who atones for them? 

The irony is palpable. When Rome destroyed the Temple, they were destroying the very rituals that ensured adequate rain and a healthy harvest. Their obliviousness to Israel’s vital role in in securing the global weather  ended up hurting them — and the whole world. 

Whether we realize it or not, we are all part of many communities — familial communities, local communities, religious communities, ethnic communities, national communities and global communities. These communities are interconnected in ways that can work to provide health and abundance for all, or not. Today’s daf challenges us to reflect on the kinds of communities we might be a part of without even realizing it. And to think about what we might be losing because we don’t. 

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The Jewish calendar is lunar; new months begin with the appearance of a new moon. Because the lunar cycle is about 29.5 days, some months are 29 days, others are 30. As we’ll learn when we get to Tractate Rosh Hashanah, eyewitness testimony was originally used to confirm the arrival of a new moon. Under this system, the day of the week on which the holidays fell was not known in advance — it depended on when the new moon was spotted in the sky.

Over time, this practice of declaring a new month according to witness testimony fell by the wayside and the calendar was established ahead of time based on the predictable appearance of a new moon. But there was still disagreement about how this should be done.

The Gemara shares a proposal by a group of rabbis (labeled aherim, “others,” which often implies that their view will not ultimately be accepted) who advocate for a fixed cycle of months that alternate between 29 and 30 days. It’s a reasonable plan — straightforward, easy to remember, and it creates a balanced calendar.

If implemented, this system would create a fixed 354 day year (six 29-day months and six 30-day months) and it would be possible for Jewish holidays to begin on any day of the week, and the day of the week would shift by four each year. So if Rosh Hashanah were to fall on a Thursday one year, it would fall on a Monday the next, Friday the next, and so forth. Since 4 and 7 share no prime factors — since they are, in math speak, “relatively prime” — eventually Rosh Hashanah would fall on every day of the week. But some days are really inconvenient:

When the first festival day of Sukkot would happen to occur on Shabbat eve (i.e. Rosh Hashanah falls on a Friday), we postpone it by adding a day to the month of Elul (which precedes Rosh Hashanah) and observing both Rosh Hashanah and the first day of Sukkot on Shabbat. What is the reason for doing so? The reason is this: If the first festival day occurs on Shabbat eve, when is Yom Kippur that year? It is on Sunday. 

If Rosh Hashanah were to fall on Friday, then Yom Kippur would fall on a Sunday — and that is the real problem. If Yom Kippur were to fall on a Sunday (or Friday), there would be two consecutive days when there is a severe prohibition against performing labor (festival labor prohibitions are less severe than Shabbat labor prohibitions) and it would be difficult to observe the first day and prepare for the next.

To prevent this from happening, the rabbis suggest, we adjust the number of days in the prior year (and deviate from the pattern suggested by the aherim).  Nowadays, we make this adjustments by adding an extra day to Heshvan, the second month (making it 30 days long) or by deleting one from Kislev, the third month (making it 29 days long). As a result, a regular Jewish year can be 353, 354 or 355 days. 

Of course, none of this quite aligns with the approximately 365.25 days in a solar year. To solve this problem, the rabbis also instituted a rotation of leap years that contain an extra 30-day month, another Adar; these years are 383, 384 or 385 days.

By the way, in addition to fixing Rosh Hashanah so that it does not fall on Friday or Wednesday so that Yom Kippur is not adjacent to Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah is also prevented from falling on a Sunday so that Hoshanah Rabbah, the last day of Sukkot, does not fall on a Shabbat — but that’s a story for another day.

If you are interested in taking a deep dive into the Jewish calendar, check out Sacha Stern’s Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar, 2nd Century BCE to 10th Century CE. If you just want to know what day it is on the Jewish calendar or when the holidays fall, hebcal.com (or My Jewish Learning’s holiday calendar) will do the trick.

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Regarding those celebrations, Hillel gives one of his pithy proverbs: 

When Hillel the Elder was rejoicing at the celebration of the place of drawing water he said this: If I am here, everyone is here; and if I am not here, who is here?

What on earth does this mean? Rashi and Tosafot, early medieval commentators on the Talmud, disagree about who is speaking. Is it Hillel? Or is it God? 

According to Rashi, it is God who says “If I am here, everyone is here…” — meaning, if people show up and take God seriously, if people are not sinning and do what God requires of them, then God will be present. If we continue in the Gemara, we see that Hillel makes a second statement, apparently also in God’s voice, that echoes this sentiment: 

He would say this: To the place that I love, there my feet take me. If you come to my house, I will come to your house; if you do not come to my house, I will not come to your house, as it says: In every place that I cause my name to be mentioned, I will come to you and bless you. (Exodus 20:20)

Rashi’s interpretation focuses on the element of sin and repentance: Sin causes God to retreat, making a relationship impossible. Not sinning, or repenting for one’s sins, allows God to come close and form a relationship.

Tosafot, on the other hand, understand Hillel’s first statement as being spoken not by God, but by Hillel himself. “If I am here everyone is here” — he is essentially saying that if we are present, if we praise God in a serious way, we can establish a strong relationship with God.

Whichever interpretation you accept, it is clear that Hillel emphasizes that though simchat beit hashoeva, the water drawing ceremony, may have elements of levity, it is in at least one essential respect quite serious: it strengthens and maintains Israel’s relationship to the Divine. 

There is one final statement of Hillel found in our daf that drives this idea home. It too is cryptic:

Additionally, he saw one skull floating in the water and he said to it: Because you drowned others, they drowned you, and those that drowned you will be drowned. 

This third and final statement is perhaps a warning about a world without relationships — a dystopian vision of a world without proper praise of God and respect for God’s creations. Without relationships, and specifically a relationship to God, we are like drowned people — no air in our lungs, no life at all.

But what exactly is the nature of our mysterious relationship with God? According to Rashi’s reading of Hillel, our relationship with God is mostly in God’s hands, as it were. Our correct behavior inspires God’s closeness and affection. In contrast, Tosafot’s interpretation bases our relationship with God less on obedience and more on praise, suggesting more of a reciprocal relationship. In this view, the praise must originate spontaneously with us — not as a response to God’s demands, but as an organic gesture, a natural response to how we encounter God’s presence in the world.

Read all of Sukkah 53 on Sefaria.

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The rabbis begin by identifying seven different names for the evil inclination, with a variety of biblical prooftexts:

Rabbi Avira, and some say Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, taught: The evil inclination has seven names. The Holy One, Blessed be He, called it “evil,” as it is stated: For the inclination of a man’s heart is evil from his youth. (Genesis 8:21)

Other names for the yetzer hara are “uncircumcised,” “impure,” “enemy,” “stumbling block,” “stone,” and “hidden one.” Each of these clearly comes with its own connotations or implications: antipathy toward the Gentile world and adversaries; concerns about ritual purity; obstacles to growth, progress, or forward movement; or a talent for stealth. As you can see, there’s no love lost between the talmudic rabbis and the evil inclination.

But don’t worry! Rabbi Yishmael offers a practical way of getting rid of the evil inclination:

The school of Rabbi Yishmael taught: If this scoundrel, the evil inclination, accosted you, seeking to tempt you to sin, drag it to the study hall and study Torah. If it is like a stone, it will be dissolved by the Torah. If it is like iron, it will be shattered.

The key to suppressing an evil urge, as we see here, is to go to the beit midrash, the house of study (one commentary sees this as a response to the evil inclination’s urgings to romp through fields and eat sweets) and study Torah. Torah, our very lifeblood for the rabbis, serves as a panacea for suppressing the evil inclination when it arises.

Though today’s page is fairly uniform in its condemnation of the yetzer hara, curiously not all rabbis of this era agree that the evil inclination is, well, evil. In a collection of rabbinic midrashim called Genesis Rabbah, one rabbi brings a more balanced perspective, using God’s comment that creation was “very good” (Genesis 1:3) as a springboard:

Rabbi Nahman said in Rabbi Shmuel’s name: “Behold, it was good” refers to the yetzer hatov, the good inclination; “And behold, it was very good” refers to the yetzer hara, the evil inclination.

Rabbi Shmuel notes that as God is creating the world in Genesis 1, after the creation of each element — light, dark, heavens, earth, plants, animals — God notes that each is “good.” But after creating humans, God says they are “very good.” Since only humans have the yetzer hara, the “very good,” shockingly, must be referring to that aspect of human nature. Indeed, this interpretation is immediately questioned. The midrash continues:

Can then the evil inclination be “very good”? That would be extraordinary! But without the evil inclination, no one would build a house, take a wife or beget children; and thus said Solomon: Again, I considered all labor and all excelling in work, that it is a man’s rivalry with his neighbor. (Ecclesiastes 4:4)

Rabbi Shmuel and Rabbi Nachman agree that the evil inclination serves a purpose: Without it, no person would undertake endeavors to improve their own lives and the lives of their families. We’d all be satisfied, but listless and unproductive.

While this pair may have more sympathy for the evil inclination and the role it plays in human development, clearly the evil inclination has more detractors than supporters, especially on our page today. But perhaps it is a comfort to know that it is a universal trait — we are all plagued by it. So common, indeed, the rabbis say it goes by seven different names. And they also provide us with an antidote: the study of Torah.

Read all of Sukkah 52 on Sefaria.

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One who did not see the celebration of the place of the drawing water never saw celebration in his days.

That’s right, you haven’t partied until you’ve partied in the Temple on Sukkot. The mishnah then describes the bash in lengthy detail:

At the conclusion of the first festival day the priests and the Levites descended to the women’s courtyard (a lower courtyard open to the Israelite public) … There were golden candelabras atop poles there in the courtyard. And there were four basins made of gold at the top of each candelabrum. And there were four ladders for each and every pole and there were four children from the priesthood trainees, and in their hands were pitchers with a capacity of 120 log (about 15 gallons) of oil that they would pour into each and every basin … And the light from the candelabras was so bright that there was not a courtyard in Jerusalem that was not illuminated.

The pious and the men of action would dance with flaming torches that they would juggle in their hands, and they would recite passages of song and praise to God. And the Levites would play on lyres, harps, cymbals, and trumpets, and countless other musical instruments. The musicians would stand on the fifteen stairs that descend from the Israelites’ courtyard to the women’s courtyard, corresponding to the fifteen Songs of the Ascents (Psalms 120–134) and upon which the Levites stand with musical instruments and recite their song.

Candelabras (the Gemara says they were 50 cubits — about 75 feet high) on poles to illuminate not just the courtyard but the whole city! Pyrotechnics! Dancing! Juggling! Instruments! Chanting! Can you even imagine?

The mishnah’s claim that one who never saw this Sukkot blowout at the Temple had never really experienced a celebration at all turns into a game of “you’ve never lived until…” in the Gemara. Here are a few other superlatives to be found on today’s page:

One who did not see Jerusalem in its glory, never saw a beautiful city. One who did not see the Temple in its constructed state, never saw a magnificent structure.

The Gemara specifically describes the Second Temple which, we are told, Herod built out of differently colored marble intentionally offset to resemble the appearance of waves of the sea. Stunning!

Jerusalem doesn’t get all of the praise here. Listen to Rabbi Yehuda’s thoughts about the great synagogue in Alexandria, Egypt:

Rabbi Yehuda says: One who did not see the great synagogue of Alexandria in Egypt never saw the glory of Israel. They said that its structure was like a large basilica with a colonnade within a colonnade. At times there were six hundred thousand men and another six hundred thousand men in it, twice the number of those who left Egypt. In it there were 71 golden chairs, corresponding to the 71 members of the Great Sanhedrin, each of which consisted of no less than twenty-one thousand talents of gold. And there was a wooden platform at the center. The sexton of the synagogue would stand on it, with the scarves in his hand. And (because the synagogue was so large and the people could not hear the communal prayer) when the prayer leader reached the conclusion of a blessing requiring the people to answer amen, the sexton waved the scarf and all the people would answer amen.

Can you even imagine such beauty and extravagance? A synagogue so large and crowded one cannot hear the service and must rely on signals from colored scarves to know when to say amen? It seems that the synagogue was so large and bustling it was not just a place to praise God, but also a good place to network:

And the members of the various crafts would not sit mingled. Rather, the goldsmiths would sit among themselves, and the silversmiths among themselves, and the blacksmiths among themselves, and the coppersmiths among themselves, and the weavers among themselves. And when a poor stranger entered there, he would recognize people who plied his craft, and he would turn to join them there. And from there he would secure his livelihood as well as the livelihood of the members of his household.

The ancient world held many marvels, but so does our own. What would you say is on your contemporary list of “you haven’t lived until you’ve…”?

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On today’s daf, we learn in a mishnah that music was an essential part of the Sukkot festival — the flute was played in the Temple for five or six days over the course of the week (except on Shabbat). This mishnah inspires a fascinating debate in the Gemara over the essence of song. Which is more important: the vocals or the instrumentation? Cases can be made either way, after all: We can think of a capella songs (without instruments), and likewise instrumentals (without vocals). So which is primary? The sages taught:

The flute overrides Shabbat — this is the statement of Rabbi Yosei bar Yehuda.

And the Rabbis say: It does not override even a festival.

As will become clear in the Gemara further down the page, Rabbi Yosei bar Yehuda holds that the essence of a song is the instrumental component, so instruments play a crucial role in the Temple service and therefore override Shabbat. The rabbis, however, hold that the essence of a song is the singing and therefore playing instruments, even to celebrate Sukkot, is a practice that does not override Shabbat.

The question of instruments on Shabbat in general was a live debate in the rabbinic period. The Bible, after all, describes musical instruments as beautiful and sometimes essential components of divine worship — especially when words are inadequate to the task, such as at the moment of crossing the Red Sea when Miriam and the women took up their tambourines as they sang and danced (Exodus 15:20). Likewise, a mishnah in Arakhin 10a lists various instruments that were part of Temple worship throughout the course of the year.

Yet, in the rabbinic period, as the rabbis worked to delineate the details of sabbath observance, there was also a concern that playing musical instruments was a violation of Shabbat. In Beitzah 36b we learn that one may not play instruments on Shabbat for fear that one will break and someone will try to fix it (in violation of Shabbat’s work prohibition). Later commentators were concerned that instruments would lead to excessive noise-making on Shabbat, and unseemly joy that was not fit for a community still mourning the destruction of the Temple.

Over the centuries, Jewish tradition ultimately ruled like the rabbis, and Rabbi Yosei bar Yehuda loses the argument about flutes on Shabbat over Sukkot. This principle is extended to celebrating Shabbat in synagogues — singing was permitted, but instruments were not.

More recently, some movements, including the Reform movement dating back as early as 1810 in Seesen, Germany, began to integrate instrumentation into their Shabbat services. In fact, in the 19th century, one of the ways you could distinguish a Reform synagogue was by its organ — something Rabbi Yosei bar Yehuda might have enjoyed hearing. 

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According to the mishnah on Sukkah 48, one should not dismantle their sukkah on the last day of the holiday, since it’s still Sukkot and eating in a sukkah remains obligatory. But one should begin removing utensils from the sukkah in the afternoon of the last day in anticipation of eating the evening meal in the house. 

The Gemara then asks what should be done if one doesn’t have any place to eat other than the sukkah. Two possibilities are floated. One is to take a small action that would render the sukkah unfit, thereby depriving it of its status as a kosher sukkah. The other is to perform an act in the sukkah that would be prohibited on the holiday. 

Both are great solutions. But there is a bigger problem the Gemara seems to ignore altogether: There are people who have nowhere else to go other than their sukkah! If so, they are living permanently in a structure that is meant to be temporary. Rather than focusing on how to avoid the appearance of extending the holiday, shouldn’t the Gemara instead focus on our obligation to ensure everyone has stable housing?

On today’s daf, we find a statement that I’d like to read as a response:

Rabbi Elazar said: One who performs acts of charity is greater than one who sacrifices all types of offerings, as it is stated: To perform charity and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than an offering. (Proverbs 21:3)

And Rabbi Elazar said: Acts of kindness, assisting someone in need, are greater than charity, as it is stated: Sow to yourselves according to charity, and reap according to kindness. (Hosea 10:12)

In general, the Talmud spills more ink debating ritual mitzvot, the acts we perform for God, than the mitzvot that govern our obligations to one another. In Hebrew, these two types of mitzvot are known as ben adam la’makon (“between a person and God”) and ben adam l’chaveiro (“between a person and their friend”). One might then conclude that the former is more important than the latter. But as Rabbi Elazar makes clear, it’s quite the opposite.  

While it may take the rabbis many chapters to detail the rules of what makes a lulav kosher, it doesn’t take nearly as long to explain that we have obligations to other people. Rabbi Elazar hits the nail on the head: Performing acts on behalf of others is a primary Jewish value. 

Let this be a wake up call to those who live in communities where there are people living permanently in sukkah-like structures. Helping them find pathways to secure shelter is one way to celebrate the holiday of Sukkot. This may in fact be even more important than determining when you are allowed to begin moving your dishes back into the house.

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Q: If God and the Israelites were to play Tic Tac Toe, who would be X and who would be O?

A: God would be X and the Israelites would be O. From where do we derive this? From Psalms 29:11, which says: “God gives strength (oz) to God’s people.”

This “midrash” is playful and punny and will earn you a well deserved groan if you tell it to the right crowd. But it’s not too dissimilar from interpretive methods we’ve encountered repeatedly in the Talmud. The Bible is the rabbinic playground. And as we have seen, the rabbis use their knowledge to construct creative midrashic readings of biblical verses all of the time. Some are easy to follow, others are far-fetched. But are there boundaries for midrash? Are there topics or techniques that are off limits? 

This may be the question underlying the following story on today’s daf.

There were these two heretics, one named Sasson (meaning “joy”) and one named Simcha (meaning “happiness”). Sasson said to Simcha: I am superior to you, as it is written: “They shall obtain joy (sasson) and happiness (simcha), and sorrow and sighing shall flee.” (Isaiah 35:10)

Sasson seeks to prove his superiority over Simcha by noting that his name appears first in Isaiah 35:10. Not to be outdone, Simcha responds with his own prooftext: 

Simcha said to Sasson: On the contrary, I am superior to you, as it is written: “There was happiness (simcha) and joy (sasson) for the Jews.” (Esther 8:17)

Sasson and Simcha employ a common midrashic technique: utilizing word order to establish priority. The pair are described as heretics, a label that places them outside the community. But how far out of the fold can they be if they are using biblical verses and accepted means of interpretation?

Some commentators suggest that Sasson and Simcha’s heresy is embedded in their midrashim: They read the verses as if they refer to themselves — a bold, self-centered and ultimately heretical approach.

You might indeed argue that their playful read is a display of frivolousness, making light of the rabbis and their interpretive tools. If so, perhaps their heresy is using midrash, a serious tool used to interpret our most sacred text, for a game of personal one-upmanship.

But don’t the rabbis sometimes use midrash in playful ways? Haven’t we seen examples of rabbinic discourse that is silly, competitive and even frivolous? 

Maybe there is something else going on here. Let’s read on.

A certain heretic named Sasson said to Rabbi Abbahu: You are all destined to draw water for me in the World to Come, as it is written: “With joy (sasson) you shall draw water.” (Isaiah 12:3)

Sasson predicts that at the end of days the rabbis (or perhaps all Jews) are destined to serve him. Through this midrash he claims superiority over the entire rabbinic endeavor — a far greater claim than he made to his friend Simcha.

But Rabbi Abbahu beats him at his own game:

If it had been written: “for sasson“ it would have been as you say; but it is written “with sasson“ which means that the skin of that person, i.e. you, will be rendered a wineskin, and we will draw water with it.

That sounds painful! Rabbi Abbahu’s comeback turns Sasson’s midrash on its head. Noting that the verse uses the preposition “with” instead of “for,” he interprets the verse literally — Sasson himself will be used to draw water, a gruesome image but perhaps a fitting end for a heretic.

It seems unlikely that Simcha and Sasson are labeled heretics because they dared to be playful with midrash. Nor because they are products of a heretical world outside the rabbis’ sphere of influence. On the contrary — they are insiders who know the Bible and how to read it with midrashic eyes.

More likely they are reviled because Sasson uses midrash to degrade the rabbis — to suggst that their fate will be to serve him — and to assert that he will be rewarded in the World to Come. Given the sharpness of Rabbi Abbahu’s response, it’s not overreaching to suggest this is not the first time that Sasson has made such a claim. That he does so with midrash adds insult to injury, earning him Rabbi Abbahu’s rebuke.

So while the rabbi make room for a playful or lighthearted midrash, they are less tolerant of those who undermine their core beliefs.

Read all of Sukkah 48 on Sefaria.

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The Torah simply states that after seven days of Sukkot, we are to observe an eighth (shemini) day of atzeret, a word which means either stopping (work) or a solemn occasion. Why? Because it is a day of complete rest. Why? Because it is a solemn occasion. Why? Because it is the eighth day of a seven-day festival. Huh? 

Shemini Atzeret sounds like a holiday that a Jewish version of Bart Simpson would invent to get out of taking an exam.

The ambiguity over the nature and purpose of the day raised a number of questions for the rabbis, several of which are addressed on today’s daf. 

When we left off yesterday, the Gemara was beginning to address the question of how to observe the eighth day of the festival in the Diaspora, where the eighth day is treated as though it might really be the seventh day of Sukkot. 

Here’s the problem: If it’s actually the seventh day of Sukkot, then a) there would be an obligation to dwell in the sukkah and b) it would not be Shemini Atzeret, so certain liturgical additions specific to the holiday should not be said. But if it’s actually the eighth day, then it is truly Shemini Atzeret and a) there is no obligation to dwell in the sukkah, b) reciting a blessing over dwelling in the sukkah would constitute a blessing made for no purpose (a big no no for the sages!) and c) the special additions would be said. 

The Gemara then records the following dispute:

According to [Rav Yehudah in the name of Rav], who says that the status of the eighth day is like that of the seventh day with regard to the mitzvah of sukkah, we also recite the blessing: To dwell in the sukkah. But according to [Rabbi Yohanan], who says that its status is like that of the eighth day, we do not recite the blessing (for dwelling in the sukkah).

Rabbi Yohanan’s logic is sound: If we affirm the day’s status as Shemini Atzeret, it would be inconsistent to say the blessing over dwelling in the sukkah, because that is a mitzvah for the seven days of Sukkot only. After some back and forth, the Gemara agrees with Rabbi Yohanan, stating that the law is to dwell in the sukkah without saying the blessing.

The Gemara then cites another of Rabbi Yohanan’s statements:

Rabbi Yoḥanan said: One recites z’man (the Shehechiyanu blessing) on the eighth day of the festival (i.e. Shemini Atzeret) and one does not recite the blessing of z’man on the seventh day of Passover. 

The Shehechiyanu blessing, which celebrates firsts, is customarily recited only on the first day of a holiday. By drawing a distinction between the seventh day of Passover — which is obviously part of the Passover holiday — and Shemini Atzeret, Rabbi Yohanan teaches that even though it is called “the eighth day,” Shemini Atzeret is not a continuation of Sukkot, but rather a holiday in its own right and therefore warrants the Shehechiyanu blessing. After some discussion, the Gemara again concludes that the law follows Rabbi Yohanan: We say the Shehechiyanu on Shemini Atzeret. 

What does all this mean for us today? On a practical level, it means exactly what the Gemara teaches: We recite the Shehechiyanu on Shemini Atzeret. We make special insertions in certain prayers. And most Diaspora communities follow the practice of sitting in the sukkah, but without making a blessing. 

On a spiritual level, perhaps the Talmud is pushing us to find meaning in a festival that doesn’t seem to have much meaning ascribed to it by the Torah. After a month of holidays that take us on a guided spiritual journey, it would be easy to shrug off Shemini Atzeret as not all that important, to say that our spiritual work is done.

But by affirming that Shemini Atzeret is a distinct holiday in every way, I’d like to think that the Talmud is asking us to take one more step on the path — even if it’s not so obvious what that step is. It reminds us that the Torah need not articulate a holiday’s sacred purpose for it to be sacred. Sometimes, finding that sacred purpose, and making meaning of it, is up to us.

Read all of Sukkah 47 on Sefaria.

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The sages taught: If one had several mitzvot before him to fulfill, he recites: “Blessed (are you, Lord our God) who has sanctified us with his mitzvot.”

Rabbi Yehuda says: He recites a blessing over each and every one in and of itself. 

According to the sages, a person fulfilling multiple mitzvot can say a single catch-all blessing that covers all of them. Rabbi Yehuda disagrees — the person must recite an individualized blessing for each and every mitzvah.

We can imagine that this question would be especially relevant on Sukkot, when there are so many mitzvot that can be fulfilled one after the other — waving the lulav and etrog, sitting in the sukkah — on top of the usual mitzvot performed on any Jewish holiday (Hallel, Torah reading, plus blessings on wine and bread, and Grace After Meals). 

So, majority rules? Should we say the catch-all blessing, as the sages recommend? Not so fast!

Rabbi Zeira said, and some say that it was Rabbi Hanina bar Pappa who said: The halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda.

Stopping and marking every mitzvah with its own blessing takes time, energy and spiritual intention. Why can’t we save time and move on to other things?! Just think about how many more pages of Gemara we could learn if we weren’t taking so much time saying blessings! The daf explains that Rabbi Yehuda’s reasoning is also connected to time. 

What is the rationale for the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda? It is as it is written: “Blessed is the Lord, day by day.” (Psalms 68:20) The question arises: Is it so that one blesses (God) by day and does not bless him at night? Rather, the verse comes to tell you: Each and every day, give the Lord the blessings appropriate for that day. Here too, with regard to each and every matter, give him blessings appropriate to that matter.

Rather than trying to save time and be more efficient, Rabbi Yehuda’s reading of the verse in Psalms insist that we must take the time, and mark the time, to praise God for each and every mitzvah that we perform. 

In response to our culture of efficiency, a new “slow” movement has emerged in the last 30 years. The slow food movement pushes back against fast food, slow fashion pushes back against fast fashion and, most relevant to my own life, slow teaching challenges us to reshape education toward a deeper and more reflective engagement with ideas. Today’s daf reads as though it is adding another element to the slow movement — slow mitzvot. 

Each of these slow movements challenges us to be intentional about where we allow efficiency to take priority and where choosing to do things more slowly will lead to higher quality, more sustainability and deeper connection and meaning. And that’s certainly worthy of more blessings.

Read all of Sukkah 46 on Sefaria.

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The earliest mention of the 36 people whose righteousness surpasses all others appears right here on Sukkah 45b. The Gemara quotes Abaye who says that:

The world has no fewer than thirty-six righteous who greet the Divine Presence every day.

Greeting the Divine Presence is a big deal. In Tractate Yoma, we learned that the high priest was able to enter God’s presence only once a year on Yom Kippur. Yet these 36 righteous individuals that, as Jewish tradition later came to understand are found in each generation, greet God every day. 

Where does Abaye get the idea that the number of these people is consistently 36? Given that the number 18, the numerical value of the word chai (חי), meaning “life,” has significant value in Jewish tradition, one might suppose that he has posited 36 righteous souls because that is exactly twice eighteen. In fact, his derivation is unrelated to the word chai, though it does rely on biblical gematria (numerology):

As it is stated: “Happy are they that wait for Him (lo).” (Isaiah 30:18) The numerological value of lo (לו), spelled lamed vav, is thirty-six.

The two letters that make up the number 36 are lamed and vav, which is also the final word in the verse from Isaiah that points to God. It is for this reason that Abaye thinks there are exactly 36 exceptionally righteous individuals in each generation — individuals who later in Yiddish, and now English, are called by those two Hebrew letters: lamed-vavniks. 

In this earliest mention of the lamed-vavniks, what distinguishes them from everyone else is their ability to join in God’s presence every day. Eventually, Jewish tradition came to describe these 36 individuals as the hidden righteous of each generation who sustain the world. This idea becomes most prominent in Hasidic thought emerging out of Eastern Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries. 

Gershom Scholem, the most significant 20th-century scholar of Hasidism and Kabbalah, wrote of these 36 as they appear in Hasidic thought: “[T]he hidden just men belong to a higher order because they are not subject to the temptation of conceit which is virtually inseparable from public life. Some of them devote special effort to presenting their fellow men an image of themselves which is in the starkest contrast to their real nature. Others may not themselves be aware of their own nature; they radiate their holiness and righteousness in hidden deeds without even knowing that they belong to those chosen thirty-six.”

Scholem’s writings highlight two remarkable features of the lamed-vavniks. First, where the Talmud does not specify the gender of the thirty-six, the texts Scholem discusses assume they are men. Interestingly, the author Neil Gaiman seems to be aligned more closely with the original gender-neutrality of the Talmudic tradition. Second, Hasidic texts, as Scholem notes, imagine that the 36 are hidden, some of them intentionally hiding their gift from the world and others perhaps not even knowing they are part of this uber elite club.

It seems almost too simple to ask what it might mean to treat everyone we meet, regardless of social status or public religiosity, as though they might be one of the hidden 36 righteous people sustaining the world. But sometimes it is easier to be kind to others than it is to be kind to ourselves. So to me, the harder question that emerges from Scholem and the Hasidic interpretation of the lamed-vavniks first mentioned on today’s daf is this: What might it mean to treat ourselves as though we are one of the thirty-six who have God’s explicit permission to be in God’s presence every day, who sustain the world through their actions and presence?

Read all of Sukkah 45 on Sefaria.

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

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The Talmud doesn’t have much to say about air travel, but today’s daf does offer some guidance as to the factors that might influence your decision about whether to travel on the eve of Shabbat:

Aivu said in the name of Rabbi Elazar bar Tzadok: A person should not walk on Shabbat eves more than three parasangs. 

Rav Kahana said: We said that restriction only with regard to a case where he is returning to his house. However, if he is going to an inn, he relies on the food that he took with him.

Rabbi Elazar sets a Friday travel limit of three parasangs (about ten miles) to ensure a safe arrival prior to the onset of Shabbat. Rav Kahana limits this teaching to cases where the traveler is heading home and will need time to prepare for Shabbat after they arrive. But if an inn is the destination — a place that provides lodging but no food — it’s OK to depend upon the provisions you have with you. In other words, since there is no Shabbat cooking to be done upon arrival, the three-parasang limit doesn’t apply. 

Rav Kahana’s opinion makes Friday travel more of a possibility, taking into account not just the distance you have to travel but what you need to do when you arrive. But before booking that Friday flight, it’s important to know that some remember Rav Kahana’s teaching differently:

The restriction that one may not walk a distance of more than three parasangs on Shabbat eves was required even with regard to one traveling to his house, and all the more so with regard to one traveling to an inn, as he cannot assume that he will find food there. 

In this reading, it’s even more important to leave plenty of time to get to an inn on Friday night because there’s no guarantee of finding food there. But even if home is the destination, one ought to be careful, as this personal experience of Rav Kahana attests.

Rav Kahana said: There was an incident that happened with me where I traveled a distance to reach my home on Friday and I did not find even small fried fish to eat in the house. 

My advice? Travel on Thursday if possible. But if you have to travel on Friday, follow Rabbi Elazar bar Tzadok’s teaching: Only book flights on Friday whose flight times are shorter than the time it would take to walk ten miles. And, if you’re responsible for your own meals, consider bringing what you can in your carry-on.

Read all of Sukkah 44 on Sefaria.

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

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Back when the Temple stood, the four species, the lulav and etrog were paraded around the altar as part of the elaborate Sukkot celebrations. In addition, part of the celebration involved surrounding the altar specifically with the arava, or willow branches — either by positioning them around the altar or by carrying them around by hand. There was also a special water libation and musical performances. 

Today’s page teases out some issues around circling the altar with the lulav and circling it with the willow branches. In particular, both were supposed to happen on all seven days of the festival except, according to the mishnah, on Shabbat. The reason, the Gemara explains, is a concern that one will carry the lulav or willow branch on Shabbat. (This is also the reason one may not blow a shofar on Shabbat.) 

There are two notable exceptions to the exception. If Shabbat coincides with the first day of Sukkot, then the ritual of carrying the lulav around the altar overrides it. And if Shabbat coincides with the seventh day of Sukkot, then the ritual of the willow branch overrides. 

In the midst of this discussion, Abaye brings us a story:

One time, the seventh day coincided with Shabbat, and the people brought the willow branches (to the Temple) on Shabbat eve, and placed them in the courtyard.

Carrying willow branches through Jerusalem is forbidden on Shabbat — it violates the prohibition on carrying in public spaces. But since, according to the rabbis, circling the altar with willow branches overrides Shabbat, the people make a special arrangement: They bring their willow branches the day before and stash them in the Temple courtyard. This seems like a great solution — until something goes wrong:

The Boethusians noticed them and took them and concealed them under stones.

Who are these trouble makers with the difficult-to-pronounce name? In the late days of the Second Temple, there were many Jewish sects that interpreted Jewish law in radically different ways. The Boethusians, who are mentioned in other sources, clearly did not agree that the willow branches should be carried around the altar on Shabbat. It’s not a crazy position. After all, the evidence that this ritual even derives from the Torah is very thin.

Back on Sukkah 34, Abba Shaul told us that the ritual is derived from a very close reading of Leviticus 23:40, which lists the four species bundled in the lulav. In that list, all the species are mentioned in the singular except the willow branches, which are stated in the plural. This, he explains, means that in addition to being part of the lulav, the willow branches are a ritual all their own. But the sages reject this clever way of reading the ritual into the Torah and simply say that the ritual of the willow branches is a halakhah from Moses at Sinai. 

Either way, it’s not difficult to see why a non-rabbinic sectarian group like the Boethusians rejects the idea that this odd willow ritual is a mitzvah at all and so tries to prevent the Jews from performing it because, in their thinking, doing so would be a violation of Shabbat.

But it’s not just the Boethusians causing trouble for the rabbis. Reading on:

The next day, the idiots (amei ha’aretz) noticed (the hidden willow branches). And they extracted them from under the stones.

The implication in this passage is that the “idiots” knew that willow branches were meant to be carried around the altar that day, but they did not know they were not supposed to carry them in public. So they extracted the willows and carried them into the Temple, violating Shabbat. And the Temple priesthood went along with it!

And the priests brought them and stood them upright at the sides of the altar — because the Boethusians do not concede that waving the willow branch overrides Shabbat.

Instead of carrying the willow branches around the altar, the priests arranged them in a stationary display to appease the Boethusians, with whom they were likely more ideologically aligned. 

In our journey through the Talmud, we’ve encountered many cases when the rabbis depict themselves as the religious authorities in the Temple. Here, they relate a story where they have completely lost control — to a rogue sect, to Jews who are not knowledgeable about Jewish law and to the priesthood. Then again, we wouldn’t even know about the incident today if it weren’t for the rabbis, so in the end perhaps they got the last laugh.

Read all of Sukkah 43 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on August 19th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Let’s start by looking backward for a moment. Back on Eruvin 82, we learned that a child who no longer needs their mother is obligated to sit in the sukkah. What are the developmental signs that the child is ready for greater independence? The child does not call out for their mother when they wake in the middle of the night, nor do they need the mother to wipe their tuches. The Gemara suggests this happens around age four or five.

Here, in Sukkah 42, the sages describe more milestones by which children are ready for other mitzvot, but without pinning them to an age — instead, the child simply takes on the obligation when they show that they are ready:

A child who knows how to wave the lulav, is obligated in the mitzvah. 

A child who knows how to wrap himself in a garment is obligated in the mitzvah of tzitzit (ritual fringes). 

A child who knows how to preserve the sanctity of tefillin, his father buys him tefillin. 

A child who knows how to speak, his father teaches him Torah and Shema.

In case you thought teaching a tot all of Torah seemed ambitious, Rabbi Hamnuma clarifies that “Torah” refers specifically to a single verse of Deuteronomy 33:4: “Moses commanded us Torah, an inheritance of the congregation of Jacob.”  This single verse from Torah teaches what Torah is and what it means — a starting point for a child just learning to speak.

A consistent theme here is that children take on obligations not at an arbitrary age or an age when other children seem ready, but when they themselves show readiness.

In addition to listing personal milestones children achieve, today’s page also includes a list of milestones that indicate a child is ready to take on various communal responsibilities as well. It is noteworthy that it is incumbent upon the community to honor that child’s competency.

If the child knows how to protect his body from ritual impurity, it is permitted to eat ritually pure food that came into contact with his body. 

If the child knows to protect his hands from ritual impurity, it is permitted to eat ritually pure food that came into contact with his hands. 

When children demonstrate ability, not only do we trust them to perform their own mitzvot, we can rely on them for things like purity (and trust food that has come into contact with them). In this way, coming of age is consequential not only to the child or the child’s parents, but indeed to the entire community. 

That said, there are limits: 

If a child knows how to slaughter an animal, one may eat from animals that he slaughtered. But, warns Rav Huna: This is provided that an adult is standing over him.

Wielding a large knife? Even for a competent child, that still requires supervision!

Read all of Sukkah 42 on Sefaria.

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Originally (i.e. during the Temple era) the lulav was taken in the Temple for seven days, and in the rest of the country outside the Temple it was taken for one day.

Once the Temple was destroyed, Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai instituted an ordinance that the lulav should be taken even in the rest of the country for seven days, in commemoration of the Temple. 

Instead of waving the lulav on one day, we now wave it on seven — because that’s how it was done in the Temple. On the one hand, it makes sense that Jews would want to continuously remember the centrality of the Temple when celebrating major holidays and ritual moments. On the other hand, it’s a little weird that Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai can just add or change mitzvot, no? What made him think he could do that? The Gemara explains:

From where do we derive that we institute ordinances in commemoration of the Temple? Rabbi Yohanan said that it is as the verse states: “For I will restore health unto you and I will heal you of your wounds — says the Lord; because they have called you an outcast, she is Zion, there is none that seeks her.” (Jeremiah 30:17) From “there is none that seeks her” we infer that it requires seeking. 

The verse in Jeremiah describes Jerusalem post-destruction as a wounded outcast, completely forgotten by all who used to care for her. Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai reads this verse as requiring us to actively remember this destroyed outcast, in the hopes that it will hasten her healing. And so, for Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, at these moments of heightened Jewish ritual — Sukkot and Passover, among others — we modify the biblical practice to more actively remember Jewish life in the time of the Temple. 

So often, when we think about remembering the Temple, we think about loss, about pain and destruction. Even the verse in Jeremiah that Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai quotes is rooted in this depiction of Jerusalem. But Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai’s reading of the verse flips this depiction on its head — instead of reading the verse as saying that no one seeks Jerusalem, he reads it as a mandate to actively seek her. Instead of remembering the Temple by wallowing in its loss, remembrance becomes an opportunity to increase our ritual connections to God and each other. 

Still: Can Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai really increase ritual requirements all by himself? Interestingly, today’s daf answers in the negative! But we do still wave the lulav for seven days? Yes. This is because, the Talmud insists, this reframing of the ritual isn’t Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai’s innovation at all — but a law required by the Torah itself. All Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai did was share these interpretations widely and require people to fulfill what the Torah already commanded them to do. In the end, today’s daf insists the text of the Torah itself anticipated and required this enriched Jewish practice after the destruction of the Temple.

Read all of Sukkah 41 on Sefaria.

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The biblical shmita is a sabbath for the land. Humans work six days and rest on the seventh; likewise, the land yields crops for six seasons, and then is allowed to rest in the seventh. Although purposely farming land in a shmita year was forbidden, one was permitted to glean the produce that grows on its own — and even sell it, subject to some restrictions. Namely, if you sell any produce that grew on its own during the sabbatical year, you must use the money from the sale only for the purchase of something you will consume in a short amount of time. Why? Because produce that grows on its own during the sabbatical year carries kedushat shevi’it, “shmita sanctity.” The sanctity of this produce transfers to the money used to purchase it in a sale — and therefore that money must also be used to purchase only specific consumable items.

The rabbis took all of this very seriously. If someone sold spontaneously grown shmita produce and then used the money for something that wasn’t a consumable good, trouble was expected to follow — as Rabbi Yose bar Hanina explains in a beraita (early rabbinic teaching) toward the bottom of today’s page:

Rabbi Yose bar Hanina said: Come and see how harsh is the dust of the shmita prohibition. For if a person does business with produce of the shmita year, in the end poverty will force them to sell their moveable property and utensils…

Selling shmita produce and then using those sacred funds for something forbidden was such a serious violation a person could expect to lose all their belongings within the year. The full text of the beraita, which appears in Arakhin 30b and Kiddushin 20a, goes even further, stating that if the person does not learn a lesson from this loss, they will then be forced to sell not just their stuff but also their house, land and even their family members and themselves into slavery.

This is an intriguing statement — not only because of the harsh punishment, but also because of the way it is phrased. What does Rabbi Yose mean by “the dust of the shmita prohibition”? 

Rashi explains that the “dust of shmita” refers specifically to the prohibition against doing business with shmita produce for the purpose of profit. We might assume that since the primary prohibitions of shmita are related to farming and eating — no planting, harvesting, eating of certain crops — these secondary laws about trading shmita produce are unimportant, like dust.

Rabbi Yose warns us against this perspective, teaching that even what we may think of as non-essential aspects of the shmita year — the dust — must be taken seriously. He teaches this idea not only by articulating a severe punishment, but through the image his language conjures. Dust may seem inconsequential, but enough particles of it can also be overwhelming — permeating the air and spreading over everything.

We tend to think of dust as something undesirable. But Rabbi Yose helps us see it in a new light: It is the teeniest elements, the most infinitesimal particles that constitute the environment we live in. In this case, Rabbi Yose is suggesting that we are actually meant to live in the dust of shmita in order to experience it as the all-consuming experience it is intended to be. These minute prohibitions — complex, apparently endless, and seemingly secondary or unimportant — swirl all around us, creating a spiritual atmosphere: a year spent creating and living in a culture that is not rooted in commerce, consumerism and profit.The shmita dust reminds us that God is the ultimate owner of all. 

Read all of Sukkah 40 on Sefaria.

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A mishnah offers the following legal loophole:

If one purchases a lulav from their fellow during the sabbatical year, the seller should give the purchaser an etrog as a gift, since one is not permitted to purchase it during the sabbatical year.

Easy enough — the seller can just throw the etrog in for free. This works well in theory, but as a mandatory practice for sellers to just give away fruit for free, it may not actually be all that effective. The Talmud offers a solution:

And what if the seller did not want to give it to the purchaser as a gift?

Rav Huna said: One includes the price of the etrog in the price of the lulav.

In other words, if a lulav costs $30 and an etrog costs $10, the seller could just say that the lulav is $40, and that it also comes with a “gift” etrog. This might seem like a bit of a ridiculous legal loophole. But it’s actually one that people still use in contemporary society, in totally secular contexts. 

As of this writing, in some states in the U.S. there are certain products that, like sabbatical-year produce, are legal to own but illegal to sell — for example, marijuana. Marijuana sellers in those states have employed some very creative legal loopholes to get around this restriction, including exactly the one discussed here. So, if someone in one of those states wanted to buy some marijuana, they might purchase a small decorative plant (let’s say a miniature jade plant, or a little cactus) from their dealer for the dramatically overinflated price of $150. The dealer would then throw in the indica or sativa strain of the seller’s choice as a “gift” — just as the four species seller does with the etrog.

Talmudic logic: It’s not just for nerds.

Read all of Sukkah 39 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on August 15th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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A passage on today’s daf focuses on whether it’s enough to simply hear someone recite Hallel or if it’s necessary to actually say the words out loud:

If one heard a passage recited and did not recite it himself, what is the halakhah? He said to them that the sages, and the schoolteachers, and the heads of the nation, and the homiletic interpreters said: One who heard a passage recited and did not recite it himself fulfilled his obligation.

The principle that hearing the words is adequate to satisfy one’s obligation say Hallel is a sound one, and the Gemara offers a biblical prooftext to support it:

From where is it derived that the halakhic status of one who hears a passage recited is equivalent to that of one who recites it? It is as it is written: “All the words of the book which the king of Judea has read” (II Kings 22:16). And did King Josiah read them? Didn’t Shaphan read them, as it is written: “And Shaphan read it before the king” (II Kings 22:10)? From here it is derived that the halakhic status of one who hears a passage recited is equivalent to that of one who recites it, and it is as though Josiah read the words himself.

All this is well and good, but there’s a bit of mystery in the first excerpt: Why specifically cite sages, teachers, political leaders and interpreters? Why is their wisdom on the sufficiency of hearing particularly salient here?

Rabbi Yosef Chaim, a 19th-century rabbi from Baghdad, offers a creative rationale. He posits that the four categories of communal professionals correspond to the four ways of interpreting sacred texts: Teachers are the plain textual meaning (p’shat), the heads of the nation are the allegorical meaning (remez), the interpreters are the midrashic interpretations (drash) and the sages are the esoteric and mystical approaches (sod). Seeing these professionals as representing the wisdom that flows from these four approaches reminds us of the different ways in which we listen and learn.

Rabbi Jacob Ettlinger, a 19th-century German Jewish leader, offered a different interpretation. Each of these professionals has a particular relationship with listening: sages listen to lectures in the beit midrash, or study hall; teachers listen to their students to gauge their degree of comprehension; national leaders listen to the opinions of the community so as to best lead; and the interpreters require the listening of an audience as a reminder that learning Torah isn’t something one can do only on one’s own.

Either way, the Talmud here is suggesting that listening isn’t a passive practice of casual absorption. Both the speaker and the listener are partners in the process, and both reap the benefits of their interaction, even if one of them doesn’t utter a word.  

For this reason, both the reciter and the listener to Hallel are good to go.

Read all of Sukkah 38 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on August 14th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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