Some labors that are prohibited on Shabbat are permitted on festivals if they allow people to prepare food, in keeping with the Torah’s dictum regarding Passover: “You shall celebrate a sacred occasion on the first day, and a sacred occasion on the seventh day; no work at all shall be done on them; only what every person is to eat, that alone may be prepared for you.” (Exodus 12:16) Allowing food preparation was also a way to increase the joy of the festival, as the Torah explicitly commands (e.g. Deuteronomy 16:14–15). In addition, working on a festival was a less severe violation than working on Shabbat. This tractate teases out the details of these differences, while also dealing with other festival-related concerns, such as what happens when a festival falls adjacent to Shabbat. It has five chapters.

The first chapter of Tractate Beitzah clarifies the laws of muktzeh, items that may not be moved or perhaps even handled on a sacred day, for festivals. The first case discussed involves eggs, giving this tractate its name. This chapter contains a number of debates between Hillel and Shammai.

Chapter two of Tractate Beitzah continues to present debates between Hillel and Shammai, this time introducing the concept of eruv tavshilin, which allows one to prepare food on Shabbat for a festival that falls on the next day. This chapter also considers the rules of immersing objects or bringing sacrificial offerings on a festival.

The third chapter of Beitzah moves on to questions of trapping animals on festivals (OK if they’re domesticated animals, not OK if they’re wild), judging firstborns for blemishes on a festival (acceptable if the procedure is started before the festival), and also explicitly buying and selling animals on a festival — though there are work-arounds to ensure everyone has a nice festival meal.

Chapter four reminds us that some labors permitted on festivals should still be done in a different manner than they are performed on ordinary days so as not to mar the sanctity of the festival — though these modifications are not designed to be overly cumbersome, which could detract from the joy of the festival.

The fifth and final chapter of this tractate covers primarily laws of physical boundaries (how far one may travel), muktzeh (again), and finally leftovers.

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One of my favorite things about the Jewish holidays is all the delicious food. Many of us have been guests (or hosts) at tables groaning under the weight of delicious holiday food, more food than guests can reasonably eat. Of course, leftovers cause their own problems — even more so in the days before refrigeration. Today’s daf therefore asks a very important leftover-related question: Given that carrying over long distances is not permitted on festivals, if one is invited to someone else’s house for a holiday meal, can they carry home leftovers? 

The mishnah at the top of today’s daf tells us that:

One who invited guests, they may not carry any portions (of the food) in their hands unless he transferred ownership of their portions to them on the eve of the festival.

We’ve already learned that there are strict limits to how far anyone can travel on Shabbat and festivals. We’ve also learned that those distances are calculated individually, for each specific person relative to their home, their personal property, and their regular routine. According to the Gemara, then, the only way that these guests can take home leftovers is if the host intentionally designated them owners of their portion of the feast before the holiday started.

But, you may be thinking, even if the host designates these portions for their guests to take home, they are actually still in the host’s house and need to be carried. And doesn’t their physical location matter? The Gemara asks and answers this same question:

It is considered as a case of one who designated a corner for him.

The Gemara concludes that the host actually designates not just the food but even the part of the house where the leftovers are kept as belonging to the guests, so they can in fact take possession on the holiday, and carry the leftovers away.

What will you carry away from this tractate? Jews traditionally end every tractate by ritually declaring “Hadran alach Massekhet [insert name of tractate]” – we will return to you, Tractate X. We hope to return to each tractate because there is still much for us to learn from them. Though I know we have all taken much wisdom from this tractate, the sages remind us that there is still plenty left over (pun intended) for us to take. And if today’s daf is a sign, that wisdom was already designated as ours before we even showed up to learn. Hadran alach Massechet Beitzah!

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A cistern of an individual, water drawn from it is as the feet of the individual.

And water drawn from a cistern belonging jointly to all the people of a particular town is as the feet of the people of that town.

And water drawn from a cistern of those who come up to the land of Israel from Babylonia (i.e., a public cistern) is as the feet of whoever fills it.

The first two cases that the mishnah offers tell us that the permitted range of motion for the water in a cistern is tied to the location of the cistern’s owners, whether it be an individual or a community. The third case is somewhat different. Here the water source is a public good, available to locals and travelers. In this case, there is no owner to serve as the anchor for our calculation about the water’s permitted range of travel and instead the math centers on whoever draws the water for their own use. 

The Gemara raises a question about this third case. Everyone agrees that if one draws water from a public cistern for themselves, they serve as the anchor — the water can travel as far as they can. But what if they are drawing water for someone else? Is the person drawing the water or the intended recipient the anchor?

Rav Nahman said: The water is as the feet of the one for whom they were filled. Rav Sheshet said: It is as the feet of the one who filled it.

Rav Sheshet says we calculate the water’s permissible range of motion according to the one who draws it; Rav Nahman says we calculate according to the one who receives the drawn water. What is at the heart of Rav Nahman and Rav Sheshet’s disagreement? The Gemara suggests that these two rabbis dispute how we understand the “public” nature of a public cistern:

One sage (Rav Sheshet) holds that a public cistern is ownerless.

And one sage, Rav Nahman, holds that a public cistern is considered jointly owned by all its partners.

If a public cistern is ownerless, whoever takes possession of the water first becomes its new owner immediately. Therefore, we would calculate the range of motion based on that new owner — the water drawer. If, however, a public cistern is owned by everyone, then everyone is already a partner in the item and one partner can take some of it for another, the intended recipient. 

On the one hand, this discussion seems like a very theoretical dispute on the nature of public goods. Are they owned by no one or everyone? On the other hand, we see that this theoretical dispute has real practical implications for travelers who are on the road during Shabbat and festivals. After all, water is a necessity; Jewish travelers would absolutely need to know how far they can travel with the water that they’ve drawn.

So which rabbi is right? The Gemara doesn’t tell us on today’s daf. I’ll be honest — I was rooting for Rav Nahman. Cisterns are not naturally occurring sources of flowing water. They are filled by rain or, when rains are few, by hand. And if no one owns it, no one is likely to take responsibility for it being filled, clean, or safe. So I prefer the interpretation that they are jointly owned. But both the medieval Maimonides (Mishneh Torah, Rest on a Holiday 5:14) and the 16th century law code the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chayim 397:16) side with Rav Sheshet — public goods are owned by no one. Perhaps, in their minds, this is what makes them truly public.

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The word bereira simply means “choice” or “selection” but it has several meanings when it comes to the laws of Shabbat and festivals. For one, it is used to describe the forbidden labor of sorting. For example, one should not pick out edible food from the inedible, such as bones from fish (though not every authority agrees with this example once the food is in a person’s mouth).

On today’s page, however, bereira refers to the notion that a choice or selection can be applied retroactively. One of the wildest examples of this occurs on Gittin 25a where the rabbis consider the case of a husband who told a scribe to write a bill of divorce for him, but instead of writing the name of the woman to be divorced (as normally required), he asked the scribe write it to “whichever of my wives leaves the house first.” (One wonders that they weren’t all flocking to the exit!) In any case, the rabbis disagreed over whether the divorce contracted this way was valid. Must one designate the wife to be divorced explicitly in the bill, or can she be designated post facto?

On Beitzah 37 (yesterday’s daf), the idea of bereira, again meaning retroactive designation, continues to be a point of contention. We are told that Rabbi Hoshaya holds by bereira, whereas Rabbi Yohanan does not. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Perhaps Rabbi Yohanan holds by bereira, but not in matters of Torah law, only in matters of rabbinic law? 

The Gemara brings an example drawn from the quintessential example of rabbinic law: the eruv. Suppose a rabbi is coming to a place near one’s town to deliver a lesson on Shabbat. A person who wants to travel more than 2,000 cubits outside the town to hear the rabbi must construct an eruv techumim. Unfortunately, this person is unsure where the lecture will take place, so he cleverly places two eruvs on Shabbat eve in two different directions, while stipulating that only one eruv — the one on the side where the rabbi will teach (which he will not know until later) — will take effect. Not only this, but if he hears that two rabbis will be coming to two different locations, he might also place two eruvs and stipulate that he will decide on Shabbat which rabbi he prefers, and consequently which of the two eruvs will take effect. 

Does that sound a little crude? Rabbi Yohanan seems uncomfortable too, though not necessarily for the same reason. He permits the first double eruv, but not the second. Here’s the Gemara again:

And Rabbi Yohanan said in explanation: This first case is referring to a situation in which the rabbi had already arrived before the eruv was placed.

In the case of one rabbi and one lecture, the location had already been determined, it’s just that the person did not know which location it was. This, according to Rabbi Yohanan, is completely different from the case where there are two rabbis and the only thing not determined was which lecture to attend — this truly was determined (inappropriately, according to him) on Shabbat. In the end, he accepts the first behavior and not the second which proves that he does not accept bereira, retroactive designation, after all. 

The Gemara concludes that it is therefore surely Rabbi Hoshaya, and not Rabbi Yohanan, who accepts the concept of bereira, though Rabbi Hoshaya too applies it only to cases of rabbinic law, not Torah law.

The fact that the Gemara struggles to determine who holds by this principle, and then states that this rabbi in fact holds by a limited version of it, perhaps demonstrates rabbinic discomfort with this particular legal fiction. And we can probably all agree that it is probably best to decide ahead of time which wife you want to divorce.

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We have already learned (Eruvin 38, for example) that it is prohibited to travel more than 2,000 cubits outside of a settlement on Shabbat and festivals. The mishnah on today’s daf extends this rule to animals:

The status of animals and vessels on festivals is as the feet of their owner.

This means that it is prohibited for one’s animals or objects to travel more than 2,000 cubits as well. So far so good — after all, if you are watching your sheep, the mishnah doesn’t want you to have to go chase them outside the limit on Shabbat and festivals.

But what if you’ve asked someone else to watch your sheep on Shabbat and festivals? How far can they travel under that person’s care? The mishnah continues:

One who delivers his animal to his son or to a shepherd, they are as the feet of the owner.

Even under the care of a son or shepherd, the animals are like an extension of the owner’s feet — and they can travel no farther than the owner himself.

The anonymous voice of the Gemara questions this teaching, pointing out that a beraita, another early teaching, in the name of Rabbi Dosa (and some say Abba Shaul) appears to teach the exact opposite:

And one who delivers his animal to a shepherd, even if he did not deliver it to him until the festival itself, it is as the feet of the shepherd.

In this teaching, the animal is an extension of the shepherd’s feet — not the owner’s. So what are we to make of this apparent contradiction? 

The Gemara offers two resolutions. The first insists that each teaching applies to a specific and distinct situation so there is actually no contradiction at all! The beraita applies to the case where there are two or more shepherds in town, and the mishnah to the case where there is only one potential sheep babysitter. If there is only one shepherd in town, then the animal’s owner knows with certainty to whom they are going to deliver the animal. From the very beginning, they have in mind that the animal will be attached to the shepherd and that its range of motion will be calculated according to that of the shepherd. But if there is more than one shepherd it is not necessarily certain ahead of time which shepherd would ultimately be watching the sheep, in which case its range of motion is calculated according to the owner.

This is a clever solution — honoring both sources and harmonizing them to show there is no true conflict. But over the course of its discussion, the Gemara also offers another attempted resolution — one which argues that there is in fact a conflict between the mishnah and the beraita and picks a winner:

Rabba bar bar Hana said that Rabbi Yohanan said: The halakhah is in accordance with Rabbi Dosa (i.e. the beraita).

Rabba bar bar Hana taught in the name of Rabbi Yohanan that the beraita, which makes the animal an extension of the shepherd’s feet, and not its owner’s, is the winner. This statement, however, is immediately challenged:

And did Rabbi Yohanan actually say this? But didn’t Rabbi Yohanan state a general principle that the halakhah always follows an unattributed statement in a mishnah (as we have in the mishnah under discussion)? And we learned in the mishnah: Animals and vessels are as the feet of the owner.

Rabba bar bar Hana teaches that Rabbi Yohanan adjudicated between these two sources and chose the beraita. But, the Gemara argues back, we also know that Rabbi Yohanan always follows the halakhah without attribution in the mishnah (which is assumed to be the opinion of the sages). For this reason, we would expect Rabbi Yohanan to follow the mishnah. 

Ultimately, we don’t need to decide which side Rabbi Yohanan chose, because the Gemara returns to its original resolution: The mishnah is talking about a settlement with more than one shepherd, while the beraita applies to a settlement that has only one. 

Though what Rabbi Yohanan has to say, one way or another, is not part of the Gemara’s solution on this issue, let’s pause and consider  his interest in creating general principles to determine the winners of rabbinic disputes. His idea that we should always follow the anonymous opinion in the mishnah is a good one, but runs into trouble when his own ruling appears to conflict with it. 

The sheer number of opinions and disputes in the Talmud can be overwhelming. It makes sense that ancient rabbis and modern readers would want to determine general principles to help us navigate these texts. Today’s daf reminds us, however, that general principles are no substitute for a careful and close reading of the text itself. Such a significant and complex project as determining Jewish law requires a degree of nuance and flexibility that blunt general rulings cannot always provide.

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Today, we are going to concentrate on the first category. Shevut refers to actions that have nothing to do with the performance of a commandment and were prohibited by the rabbis on Shabbat. The mishnah gives several examples:

And these are the acts (prohibited by the sages) as shevut: One may not climb a tree (on Shabbat), nor ride on an animal, nor swim in the water, nor clap his hands together, nor clap his hand on the thigh, nor dance.

The Gemara goes on to clarify why these non-mitzvah activities are prohibited on both Shabbat and festivals. Climbing trees? That might lead to ripping something off the tree, which is effectively harvesting. Or it might lead to someone breaking off a stick to use as a whip for riding animals, which is itself a prohibited activity lest someone go riding beyond the acceptable boundary of Shabbat movement that we learned about in Tractate Eruvin. And swimming? That might lead you to build a tube or some other flotation device. 

Yesterday, we again encountered the phenomenon of building fences around the Torah — prohibiting something that itself isn’t objectionable, but might lead to an action that is. That same sentiment is at work here. All these activities would seem to be permissible on Shabbat, except for the fact that they may well lead to prohibited outcomes. 

Except for the last ones: clapping, thigh-slapping and dancing. What prohibited action might that lead to? The Gemara has an answer for that: 

All of these are prohibited due to a decree that was made lest one fashion a musical instrument (to accompany his clapping or dancing).

In other words, clapping, slapping and dancing are banned because they might involve the use of musical instruments, which in turn might lead to crafting or repairing those instruments. But that doesn’t actually make sense. 

On Sukkah 50, we learned that raucous music, including copious use of instrumentation, was not only permitted on festivals (particularly Sukkot) during Temple times, but was a focal point of the celebration. Earlier in this tractate, on Beitzah 30a, the Gemara notes this as well and adds this comment. 

Rava bar Rav Hanin said to Abaye: We learned in a mishnah: The rabbis decreed that one may not clap, nor strike (a hand on his thigh), nor dance (on a festival, lest he come to repair musical instruments). But nowadays we see that (women) do so, and yet we do not say anything to them.

Commenting on this passage, the medieval commentary Tosafot notes that, already in their time, people were unlikely to create or repair musical instruments because they did not know how to do so. Therefore, say Tosafot, these activities should be permitted. The Mishnah Berurah, an early 19th century commentary, agrees. 

Today, many liberal Jewish communities use instrumentation, even on Shabbat. In Orthodox and other more strictly observant settings, that doesn’t happen. But clapping, thigh-slapping and dancing — these are regular features of festival and Shabbat worship even in Orthodox communities. So while the ethos behind creating a fence around the Torah stands, the practicalities change over time — which is great news for those of us that like to infuse our Shabbat and holiday celebrations not only with singing, but with more active expressions of joy as well. 

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Most roofs in biblical and talmudic times were flat. The Torah (Deuteronomy 22:8) sets out the requirement for a parapet — a fence around the roof — to prevent people from falling off. We’ll see more about parapet rules and regulations in Tractates Bava Kamma and Bava Batra, about two years from now, including creative ways of extending these rules to prevent other forms of harm. Flat roofs also feature in several biblical accounts, one of which provides a useful example for our discussion today.

In the second chapter of the Book of Joshua, we learn about the spies sent by Joshua to scout out the land of Israel following the death of Moses. A woman named Rahab, who was either an innkeeper or a prostitute (or maybe both), hid the spies on the roof of her inn, which was set into the city wall of Jericho, in exchange for protection for herself and her family during the upcoming military incursion. In Joshua 2:6, we read about how Rahab put her flax on the roof to dry, and there was enough of it to provide cover to hide two grown men from their pursuers. 

Keep this image in mind as you read the mishnah on today’s daf:

One may lower produce, (which had been laid out on a roof to dry, into the house) through a skylight on a festival (in order to prevent it from becoming ruined in the rain. Although it is a strenuous activity, it is permitted to do so on a festival in order to prevent a financial loss). However, one may not do so on Shabbat. 

According to the mishnah, it’s acceptable to save produce from destruction by moving it from a roof into a house through a window on a festival. In the Gemara, the rabbis want to know how much produce can be lowered and still stay within the boundaries of strenuous activity on a holiday. The concern with financial loss is curious, though. After all, that’s not a reason to be lenient with halakhah — or is it? 

With regard to the first question, the Gemara compares this scenario with a ruling we have seen before, on Shabbat 126b, about the permissibility of moving four or five sacks of hay or grain to clear space for more people to fit in the study hall on Shabbat. Just as only a few sacks were allowed to be moved to make more room, only a comparable amount of produce should be permitted to be lowered. 

We then hear a threefold challenge to this comparison. First, the Gemara suggests that in the case of the study hall, there’s a mitzvah opportunity that the items prevent: allowing more people to study Torah. As a result, maybe fewer than four or five sacks of produce should be permitted to be moved to prevent water damage.

Second, the Gemara says that because people are typically more careful about Shabbat observance than festivals, allowing one leniency on a festival may lead to other prohibited activities. This kind of thinking — that we disallow one act in order to forestall others — is referred to as building a fence (maybe a parapet?) around the Torah. In this case, the fence is limiting the amount of produce that can be saved from rainfall. 

And third, the Gemara suggests that four or five sacks could be moved on Shabbat to make room for students because there was no monetary loss involved. But here, where there is monetary loss if the produce is not moved, one may carry an even larger amount than four or five sacks.

Ultimately, the Gemara does not reach a resolution on this matter. The dilemma stands unresolved — teyku, in the language of the Talmud. In modern Hebrew, that word can mean a draw, as in a sporting match that ends in a tie. Which will just have to suffice … as long as nobody falls off the roof.

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The rabbis of the Talmud may well have agreed. On today’s daf, the Gemara cites a teaching that, on first glance, bears no connection to the larger topic under discussion in this tractate. 

Jewish law states that if an animal is to be slaughtered for food, it cannot have certain defects or serious injuries. Such an animal is known as a tereifa. But a mishnah in Chullin 52a states that if a person trampled a bird, or threw it against a wall, or crushed it so that it cannot stand, the bird can still be slaughtered for food if it survives for 24 hours. A second opinion, attributed to Rabbi Elazar bar Yannai in the name of Rabbi Elazar bar Antigonus, says the bird is only kosher if it is also inspected after the slaughter to ensure it has no further defects.

The Gemara then records a question that brings this teaching home for the purposes of the larger topic addressed in our tractate:

Rabbi Yirmeya inquired of Rabbi Zeira: What is the halakhah with regard to slaughtering it on a festival? Do we assume on a festival that it has a flaw or not? 

Rabbi Yirmeya wants to know what happens if the 24-hour waiting period expires on a festival. Can one assume, as the first opinion suggests, that a bird that survives that long after suffering one of those three injuries is fit to eat? If so, there should be no issue slaughtering it on a festival. But if there’s concern the bird might be discovered to have a defect after the fact, then maybe slaughtering it on a festival should be prohibited, since slaughtering a bird that cannot be eaten would constitute an act of forbidden labor. 

To answer this question, the Gemara tries to make an analogy between the suspect bird and a teaching in the last mishnah that barred the “whitening” — i.e. heating with white-hot heat — of tiles on a festival. On first glance, this law doesn’t make sense. Cooking is permitted on a festival, so what’s the problem with heating tiles that would then be used as a cooking surface?

On yesterday’s daf, the rabbis gave the answer: The mishnah is referring only to new tiles. What’s the issue with new tiles? There are two possibilities. One is that new tiles haven’t been tested yet and we don’t know if they’re sturdy enough to withstand the heat. If they’re not, and they break, a prohibited action was performed. Alternatively, new tiles have to be hardened at high heat before use, and that act of preparing a vessel for use on a festival isn’t allowed. 

In attempting to answer Rabbi Yirmeya’s query, Rabbi Zeira makes an analogy between the suspect tiles and the suspect bird. Since we don’t allow burning of new tiles on a festival because we’re unsure if they are going to break, we also shouldn’t take a chance and slaughter an injured bird on a festival that might turn out to be unkosher. 

Sounds like some sound logic. Except Rabbi Zeira’s position is only viable if we follow the first reason for why whitening tiles is barred on a festival. If it’s because they have to be hardened first, then there’s no basis from that teaching to prohibit slaughtering the suspected tereifa on a festival. 

We’ve seen digressions of this sort again and again in the Talmud — and in secular law too, for that matter. Analogizing between different bits of law isn’t a simple matter, and often involves answering a host of possible objections to ensure the comparison is a valid one. 

The rabbis are masters at this type of thinking, even if their logic and finely grained distinctions can be dizzying at times. (There’s a reason “talmudic” has a dictionary entry.) Their commitment to deriving the proper conclusions, as we know, ran deep. And getting their conclusions right required, among other logical tools, making finely tuned analogies. Without that, the whole talmudic enterprise collapses. 

Critics of the SAT change made much the same argument about societal discourse. They would likely have found a receptive audience for their claims among the ancient rabbis — if not among SAT test takers of the future. 

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Well, it depends if you read the text this way: “Private! No Visitors Allowed.” Or this way: “Private? No! Visitors Allowed.” 

If you’re familiar with signs, you probably read it the first way. If you’re familiar with Talmud, you might think hard about the validity of the second, even if you choose to go with the first in the end.

Like our sign, the Mishnah originally lacked punctuation and vowels, and is thus open to a range of possible readings. And while the grammatical marks that appear in modern printed editions can often represent the consensus about how the text is meant to be read, they are a form of interpretation in their own right. 

How so? Let’s take a look at an example from today’s daf, where a mishnah teaches:

One may not prop a pot (that does not stand straight) with a piece of wood (in order to prevent it from falling). 

The mishnah rules out using a piece of wood to prop up a pot on a festival. Wood, as we have seen, is muktzeh, since it is used for activities prohibited on Shabbat and festivals, and therefore cannot be used to prop up a pot — or moved at all.

The mishnah continues: 

And similarly, with a door.

Now we face an interpretive dilemma. Should we read that line as “similarly, we do not use a door to prop up a pot”? Or should it read “similarly, we do not use wood to prop open a door”?

By using the preposition “with” (the letter bet in Hebrew) twice, the mishnah sets up “wood” to be parallel with “door,” supporting the first reading. But is it possible to prop a pot by means of a door? It wouldn’t seem so. 

The Gemara shares this objection. Given that talmudic-era pots were mainly pottery, they could easily be broken by a door. Instead, the Gemara suggests replacing the preposition “with” with the article “the” (the letter heh). Doing so renders the text in the second manner described above, as barring using wood to prop open a door too. 

As support for this change, the Gemara cites a beraita (early teaching) that uses similar language:

The sages taught: One may not prop a pot with a piece of wood, and similarly a door, as wood is to be used only for kindling. With regard to any use other than kindling, wood is considered muktzeh. And Rabbi Shimon, who does not accept the prohibition of muktzeh, permits it.

In the beraita, not only does the language point to the second explanation, but so does the context, which makes clear that we are talking about the permissibility of using wood for non-kindling purposes, like propping up pots or doors. 

While ultimately the Gemara concludes that this reading of the mishnah is the correct one, Rashi says the language of the mishnah actually means that we should not prop up a pot with a door, though he notes that the Gemara will object to this understanding. In contrast, most commentators explain the mishnah to say what the Gemara eventually says it means — not what it seems to be saying in its original form.

So what did the mishnah originally mean to say? It’s an interesting question, but not necessarily the most relevant one for Talmud study, which is more concerned with how the mishnah was interpreted over the centuries.

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Rav Natan bar Abba said that Rav said: The wealthy Jews of Babylonia will descend to Gehenna because when Shabbetai bar Marinus happened to come to Babylonia, he requested work, and they did not give it to him. He asked them to sustain him with food, they likewise refused.

From his father’s Latin-sounding name, we can surmise that Shabbetai bar Marinus came to Babylonia from the Roman Empire. He first asked the community to help him find a job and was turned down. Without the means to make money, he was then forced to beg for food and was again rejected. Rav Natan condemns these callous Jews to Gehenna, then goes even further: 

He said: These came from the mixed multitude as it is written: And show you compassion, and have compassion upon you. (Deuteronomy 13:18) Anyone who has compassion for God’s creatures, it is known that he is a descendant of Abraham, our father, and anyone who does not have compassion for God’s creatures, it is known that he is not a descendant of Abraham.

As the Jews left Egypt, the Torah tells us, many Egyptians left with them and, presumably, later assimilated into the community. According to Rav Natan, those who failed to assist Shabbetai bar Marinus more than a thousand years later in Babylonia were descendants of Egyptians, and not Abraham.

This text is difficult on multiple levels. I think it is profoundly dangerous to reject the callous, the wicked, the problematic in our communities as “not real Jews.” After all, insisting that those whose behaviors trouble us are not really part of our community absolves us of responsibility for their behavior. It means we don’t have to look deep into our community’s educational systems, values and attitudes to understand how they produce or protect these kinds of people. Defining Jewishness in a way that excludes these people does not lead to communal growth. Recognizing that these people are real Jews is a necessary first step on the path to making our communities more compassionate and welcoming. 

Moreover, we have seen that both the Hebrew Bible (especially the Book of Ruth) and the Talmud can be very welcoming of those who convert to Judaism. But this passage strikes a different note, a kind of blood tribalism that sees Jews descended from Abraham as inherently different from those who are not. To me it is ugly, but it is a teaching of Rav Natan that got preserved in the Talmud.

We can’t ignore these difficult ideas in the text, though we can hope to have grown more in the direction of Ruth and less in the direction of Rav Natan on this issue. And we can at least note the irony: Rav Natan makes these remarks in the context of condemning a Jewish community that did not welcome a stranger into its midst.

Here’s something else we can do: We can, in true rabbinic fashion, reinterpret through a very literal reading of Rav Natan’s words. He says: “Anyone who has compassion for God’s creatures, it is known that he a descendant of Abraham, our father.” We could (somewhat subversively) reinterpret this second part of Rav Natan bar Abba’s statement to open up a radical approach that invites Jews to regard all who behave compassionately as family, regardless of what is known of the circumstances of their birth. 

So what does it mean to be a Jew? Today’s daf reminds us that the answer depends on who we ask, what texts we look at, and how we read them — and that we don’t always agree. And after all, what’s more Jewish than that? 

Read all of Beitzah 32 on Sefaria.

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A mishnah on today’s daf reads as follows:

One may not chop wood (on a festival) neither from beams (intended for construction) nor from a beam that broke on a festival (although it no longer serves any purpose). And one may not chop (wood on a festival), neither with an ax, nor with a saw, nor with a sickle, (as these are clearly craftsman’s tools used on weekdays). Rather, one may chop only with a cleaver. 

This mishnah teaches that one may not chop wood which had not been previously designated for use on a festival. It also tells us that one cannot use the typical implements for chopping wood — an axe or a saw or a sickle — but only atypical ones, like a cleaver. One can assume from all this that the act of chopping is permissible so long as the wood had been previously designated for festival use and it is chopped in a different manner than is normal. (We’ve already seen this principle a few times in this tractate, most prominently in Beitzah 14.)

Yet the subsequent discussion in the Gemara briefly entertains the idea that the act of chopping itself is the problem here, as chopping is clearly a form of work. The rabbis quickly conclude that the mishnah cannot possibly intend a blanket prohibition on chopping wood, as it only forbids chopping wood that has not been designated for use and it tells us explicitly which implement may be used for such chopping. 

So why does the Talmud even bother to suggest such a ludicrous reading of the mishnah? Why even raise the possibility that chopping is forbidden just to quickly shoot it down? 

In truth, when we consider the act of chopping wood in the broader picture of Shabbat and festival regulations, it is astonishing that gathering and chopping firewood — both labor intensive activities that could easily be done in advance — are permitted at all. The 39 categories of labor prohibited on Shabbat were derived from the building of the Tabernacle and the actions later performed in the daily Tabernacle service. Chopping wood was an essential element in both of these. The Tabernacle was made almost entirely from wood and fire was required for the making of the dyes of the cloths. The ensuing service required daily sacrifices on an altar of fire. 

Furthermore, the Torah names very few specific actions which are forbidden on Shabbat, but one of those is the gathering of wood. In Numbers 15:33-37, we find the dramatic story of the mekoshesh eitzim, a person who was found gathering wood on Shabbat and was stoned to death for it at God’s instruction. The sages disagree as to the exact nature of the violation. A plain reading of the text suggests it’s the gathering of wood, but it also may have been the chopping. Either way, both this story and the underlying logic of Shabbat prohibitions would seem to make clear that gathering and chopping wood are forbidden.

Yet today’s daf makes no mention of any of this. There is no discussion about the severity of the prohibition of chopping (or gathering) wood on Shabbat. There is no mention that chopping wood was a basic part of life in the Tabernacle and therefore should be forbidden. Instead, the rabbis seem oblivious to the context in which they are permitting one to chop and possibly even gather firewood.

So perhaps this brief entertaining of the possibility that chopping wood might be forbidden on festivals is not a genuine reading of the mishnah, but rather a hint to the fact that the rabbis weren’t entirely comfortable with the idea of chopping or gathering wood on a festival, even though the plain meaning of the mishnah is that such actions are permitted. Yet the rabbis quickly brush this possibility aside, for how can one truly experience the pleasure of fresh food on festivals without maintaining a fire? On festivals, even the most basic of Shabbat prohibitions are put aside to make room for the joy that comes from feasting.

Read all of Beitzah 31 on Sefaria.

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But did the sages themselves know this is how it would work out? Did they even dare dream it? In their own day, did they enjoy the reverence that later generations came to ascribe them? 

It’s hard to say. In many cases, the sages of the Talmud write and speak with great confidence in their own authority — especially over the priests. They considered themselves fully authorized and equipped to instruct the divinely appointed caretakers of God’s house in the smallest aspects of their jobs. One of the most famous examples of this is the beginning of Tractate Yoma, in which the rabbis describe a Yom Kippur ritual performed by the high priest but completely orchestrated, in every detail, by themselves.

But when it comes to their fellow Jews — regular, ordinary, everyday Jews — sometimes we can sense more hesitation to wield authority. One doesn’t have to read too carefully between the lines of today’s daf to see that some of these ordinary Jews were not entirely receptive to all rabbinic dictates. 

The first sugya (halakhic discussion) on today’s page deals with carrying on a festival. It is permitted, as long as it is done in a modified manner to make that carrying experience different from normal weekday schlepping. The mishnah says, for instance, that instead of dumping several jugs of wine into a tub as one ordinarily might on a weekday, it is better to bring the jugs by hand, one or two at a time. Likewise, other examples suggest that shifting a burden from hand to shoulder, or from pitchfork to carrying pole (strung across the shoulders of two people), can accomplish this goal. The point is: Whatever you normally do, do something else. Beyond that, the rabbis don’t seem too fussy.

In fact, we even get this concession: In cases when you can’t reasonably modify the way you carry an object, you may still transport it on the festival. It’s the kind of rabbinic leniency we’ve become accustomed to — a leniency that keeps the halakhah practical and manageable.

By way of example, it is pointed out to Rav Ashi that women who carry water on festivals apparently make no effort to modify the manner in which they carry it. Rav Ashi is not ruffled. In fact, he defends the practice: Switching from a large jug to a small one, or vice versa, could create problems for the woman who is hauling water. In fact, he reasons, it might lead her to violate other halakhot. So we leave her alone. 

Here’s another example, this time not about carrying: We are told that the early rabbis decreed that one may not clap, slap a thigh or dance on a festival. But, the Gemara concedes, nowadays many people do it  and we don’t say anything to them. We leave them alone.

In fact, this principle is codified explicitly on today’s page, as follows:

Leave the Jews alone, it is better that they be unwitting sinners and not be intentional sinners.

The talmudic rabbis understand that the people will not always go along with the rabbinic ideal of halakhic practice. Women will not concede to carry water for their families in a manner that is too awkward. People will not give up the joy of making music by clapping their hands and slapping their thighs. And trying to make them conform to these rabbinic ideals will not work. In fact, it might backfire. This is why the rabbis say it is better they be “unwitting sinners” — were the rabbis to chide them, they wouldn’t listen anyway, and then they’d be “intentional sinners.”

At first glance, one might read this as a rabbinic weakness. In their own generation, the rabbis were unable to enforce the halakhah. That’s because the people wouldn’t always listen to them. One might think this is an embarrassment for the rabbis. 

Or maybe this is the secret to great governance — knowing when to exercise authority, and when to leave the Jews alone.

Read all of Beitzah 30 on Sefaria.

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A person may not say to a butcher on a festival: Weigh for me a dinar’s worth of meat. But the butcher may slaughter an animal and apportion it without stipulating a price.

As has been well established by our tractate so far, the rabbis were fairly permissive when it came to acquiring and preparing food on a festival. But they drew a firm line at commercial transactions. While purchasing meat from a butcher on a festival is a clear no-no, one could take the meat on a festival and pay up later — provided, as this mishnah makes clear, the exchange of meat on the festival itself doesn’t appear like a regular sale. Hence, the prohibition on talking price. 

On today’s daf, the Gemara inquires how this actually worked in practice. How did people order meat on a festival from a butcher if they couldn’t stipulate the worth of the meat they wanted to buy?

As they would say in Sura: (Give me that cut of meat called a) tarta or half a tarta (without naming a price). In Neresh they would say: A part or half a part. In Pumbedita they would say: An uzya or half an uzya. In Nehar Pekod and in Mata Mehasya they would say: Give me a quarter or half a quarter.

Essentially, the workaround hinged on ordering by the particular measure of animal that was wanted — not its cost. Which might not seem like much of a workaround at all, since that’s precisely how most of us typically order food at the deli counter today — we usually ask for the poundage or volume we want, not the dollar amount we want to spend. But that seems not to have been the practice in the days of the rabbis. And yet, the practice is still a curious one. Regardless of how the specific quantity is denoted, the rabbis are still allowing a practice that looks an awful lot like the purchase of meat on a festival. 

And as we know, appearances matter. Marit ayin is the principle that certain otherwise permissible actions may be barred solely because they might appear to be impermissible. Apparently for the rabbis, going to pick up meat from the butcher on a holiday doesn’t create a marit ayin issue, but mentioning the price to be paid when you do skirts too close to the line. 

We also know that intention matters. Earlier in this tractate, we encountered the rule that if someone designates a bird prior to a festival to be eaten on the festival, one has to be sure it’s the exact bird that eventually becomes lunch. Which bird you intended to eat matters. The very permissibility of eating it on the festival rests on that intention. And there are literally countless other comparable examples. As we saw back in Tractate Sukkah, some rabbis argue that intention is critical to the proper performance of any mitzvah. 

Here we find something sort of like the opposite. For all intents and purposes both parties to the transaction know precisely what’s going on — they know the intention is a sale, even if only one half the exchange occurs on the festival. But in this case, the rabbis allow it provided some verbal vagueness is maintained. (A cynic might call it plausible deniability: Money? What, money?) Everyone knows what’s transpiring, but because no money exchanged hands — indeed, money isn’t even mentioned — we can all pretend that what transpired isn’t technically part of an act of commerce.

Of course, it’s meaningful that the case here is a butcher. Food is a special category of leniency on festivals. Surely, the rabbis wouldn’t have allowed transactions of non-foodstuffs on festivals even if the cash exchanged hands only after the festival was over and no price was mentioned. But the case does draw attention to the fact that there’s some flexibility around when intention truly matters — and when it doesn’t.

Read all of Beitzah 29 on Sefaria.

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We first meet Rabbi Malkiyu, a fourth-generation Babylonian Amora (later rabbi) in a discussion about whether one can move a skewer on a festival once it has already served its purpose — and therefore using it is not necessary for the festival itself:

Rav Yehuda said that Shmuel said: With regard to a skewer upon which one roasted meat, it is prohibited to move it on a festival.

Rav Adda bar Ahava said that Rav Malkiyu said: He may pull the skewer out and place it in a corner.

Can we clean up after ourselves on the holiday if it won’t help with our observance of the holiday? Rabbi Malkiyu says yes.

This dispute leads the anonymous editors of the Gemara to a statement by Rav Hinnana, son of Rav Ika, which lists two other halakhic positions attributed to Rabbi Malkiyu: a halakhah about what kinds of work slaveholding women can be required to do by their husbands, and a halakhah about how we determine if a girl has gone through puberty. So far so good. 

But then Rav Hinnana, son of Rav Ika, offers an important clarification. While Rabbi Malkiyu taught these three halakhot, three other halakhot — a halakhah governing how Jews can cut non-Jews’ hair, a halakhah about not simulating a tattoo (even accidentally), and a halakhah about cheese made by non-Jews — were actually taught by Rabbi Malkiyah, not Rabbi Malkiyu. Recognizing that these two names are very similar, Rav Hinnana, son of Rav Ika, tries to head off any confusion. 

Rabbi Malkiyah was a third-generation Babylonian Amora, which meant he was a generation older than Rabbi Malkiyu. But the differences between the two are more than generational. Rabbi Malkiyu’s halakhot seem to be most interested in issues relating to women and cooking — issues internal to the Jewish community. Rabbi Malkiyah’s halakhot, in contrast, focus on social and professional relations between Jews and non-Jews. 

Rav Pappa offers another distinction between the two: 

The teachings mentioned above that relate to a mishnah or a beraita were stated by Rav Malkiya, whereas halakhot that are not related to a mishna or baraita were taught by Rav Malkiyu.

The Gemara even offers a mnemonic to remember Rav Pappa’s principle:

The mishna is a queen (malketa — which sounds similar to Malkiyah).

This teaching might lead one to attribute different halakhot to each, based not on theme but on their relationship to the Mishnah. 

Rav Hinnana, son of Rav Ika, and Rav Pappa are not willing to simply quote Rabbi Malkiyu’s halakhah about skewers in the context of the discussion about festival cooking and then move on. Instead they stop and delve deep into who Rabbi Malkiyah actually was and what he cared about. The Gemara is going to get back to questions about buying and cooking meat on the festival. But before it does, we get an important reminder that people’s names — spelled correctly — matter. What they teach matters. What they care about matters. And it matters that these names, teachings and interests are attributed to the right person.

Read all of Beitzah 28 on Sefaria.

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Here’s some background: Firstborn animals of kosher species were sanctified at birth and handed over to a priest to be sacrificed (Exodus 13:12 and 34:20, Numbers 18:15-17, Deuteronomy 12:6). However, if a firstborn animal had a blemish that disqualified it from being offered, it could be redeemed — meaning its monetary value was given to the priest and the animal was then free to be eaten by its owners.

The discussion on today’s page has to do with whether or not one could perform this inspection on — you guessed it — a festival. Rabbi Rabbi Yehuda permitted it, Rabbi Shimon did not. This disagreement between them led to some confusion about what to do if this unlikely situation were ever to arise:

Rabbi Yehuda Nesia had a firstborn animal (that acquired a blemish on a festival, and he wished to serve it to priests staying at his house). He sent it to Rabbi Ami (for inspection) and Rabbi Ami thought that he should not examine it (in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Shimon).

Rabbi Yehuda Nesia has a firstborn animal that he wishes to serve to some visiting priests on a festival, as it is considered sacred meat that only priests can eat. Unfortunately, the animal acquires a blemish on that day that might disqualify it, and so he sends it to an expert inspector to confirm whether or not it is still fit to serve. But Rabbi Ami is reluctant to inspect the animal out of deference for Rabbi Shimon’s view that such inspections should not be carried out on a festival.

Was it necessary for Rabbi Ami to refrain from inspecting? Not according to some of his colleagues:

Rabbi Zerika said to him, and some say it was Rabbi Yirmeya: When there is disagreement between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon, the halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda.

Rabbi Zerika (or perhaps Rabbi Yirmeya) tells Rabbi Ami that no, the halakhah doesn’t follow Rabbi Shimon, but rather Rabbi Yehuda as it always does when the two disagree. (Much as the halakhah generally follows Hillel when he disagrees with Shammai.) Therefore, he should have felt free to examine the animal.

This is the first litmus test for what to do when sages disagree: Determine which sage normally takes priority over the other.

Does this change Rabbi Ami’s mind? Apparently not, because the next we hear is that Rabbi Yehuda Nesia is looking for another inspector for his blemished animal:

Rabbi Yehuda Nesia then sent the firstborn to be presented before Rabbi Yitzhak Nappaha, who (likewise) thought that he should not examine it.

It seems that although Rabbi Yehuda normally takes precedence, the idea that Rabbi Shimon’s more stringent opinion is the correct one is fairly widespread, since Rabbi Yitzhak Nappaha also will not inspect the animal. The Gemara once again reports that Rabbi Yirmeya (or maybe it was Rabbi Zerika, we’re still not sure) also told this second inspector that the halakhah follows Rabbi Yehuda, implying he may go ahead with his inspection.

Now the Gemara asks a higher order question: How do we know that Rabbi Yehuda’s opinions are preferred to Rabbi Shimon’s? Rabbi Abba, a new character, poses it to Rabbi Yirmeya, who has now told two reluctant inspectors that Rabbi Yehuda supercedes Rabbi Shimon.

Rabbi Abba said to Rabbi Yirmeya: What is the reason that you did not allow the sages to act in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Shimon?

He said to him: And you, what do you have? 

What do you have? That is: Do you have a teaching that we should follow Rabbi Shimon? Such a teaching, suggests Rabbi Yirmeya, would be a reason to go against our general approach of favoring Rabbi Yehuda. 

This is the second litmus test. If sage A normally overrules sage B, we can determine that sage B actually has the authoritative ruling in a specific case if we have a tradition that says so.

And it turns out that yes, Rabbi Abba does have such a tradition:

Rabbi Abba said to him that Rabbi Zeira said as follows: The halakhah in this case is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Shimon.

This teaching in the name of Rabbi Zeira says that in this specific instance, the halakhah follows Rabbi Shimon. This might have settled the matter. But instead, the Gemara presses further with a story about a skeptical bystander:

A certain person in Babylonia said: May it be his will that I merit to go up there (to the land of Israel) and that I learn this teaching from the mouth of its master.

In other words, this person is not entirely trustful of Rabbi Abba’s report about what Rabbi Zeira said and wants to hear it from Rabbi Zeira himself. Lucky for him, he is able to do so. The Gemara continues:

When he went up there, he found Rabbi Zeira and said to him: Did the master (i.e. you) say that the halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Shimon? 

Rabbi Zeira said to him: No, what I said was that it stands to reason.

The skepticism of this anonymous observer is justified! In fact, Rabbi Zeira didn’t say Rabbi Shimon overrules Rabbi Yehuda in this case, he only said it makes sense to follow Rabbi Shimon instead of Rabbi Yehuda. He goes on to explain his reasons:

(I understand this) from the fact that it teaches in the Mishnah that Rabbi Shimon says: Any firstborn animal whose blemish is not perceptible while it is still day is not considered to be among the animals prepared prior to the festival for use on the festival. And a beraita taught the same ruling in the name of the sages (indicating that this is the majority opinion). One should therefore learn from this that it stands to reason that the halakhah is ruled in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Shimon.

Rabbi Zeira doesn’t give a logical argument for why Rabbi Shimon is correct. Instead, he gives a textual argument. Litmus test #3: Look for corroborating textual evidence that will tell us which opinion is favored by the sages. 

The discussion doesn’t stop there, and later down the page Rav Yosef summarizes: “Come and hear, as this matter hangs on great trees” — meaning it was a point of real dispute among the early sages. The later generations vigorously sought to determine who was right with no single method, but by relying on a mix of precedent, named teachings, intuition, interrogation of teachers and textual evidence. 

Read all of Beitzah 27 on Sefaria.

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An example of this arises on today’s daf where we read:

Hillel raised a dilemma before Rava: Is there a prohibition of muktzeh for half of Shabbat or is there no prohibition of muktzeh for half of Shabbat?

In other words, can the status of an item change in the middle of Shabbat so that it is set aside (prohibited for use) at the start of Shabbat and then becomes permitted for the rest of Shabbat, or vice versa? Or, does the muktzeh status of an item at the start of Shabbat determine its status for the entire Shabbat?

As I began to ponder this question and the subsequent discussion, I found myself more intrigued by the participants in the conversation than I was by the conversation itself.

Hillel has been a regular personality in Tractate Beitzah. Many of the mishnahs, and the ensuing conversations in the Gemara, have revolved around his disagreements with Shammai, so I was not surprised by his appearance.

But it struck me as odd that he was asking a question of Rava. Hillel is from the earliest generations of Tannaim (mishnaic rabbis) and, while the Talmud reports that he was of Babylonian origin, he rose to prominence in the land of Israel. Rava is also a prominent figure in the Talmud, but he is an Amora (a rabbi mentioned in the Gemara) who lived many centuries later in Babylonia. So, in terms of both time and place, something wasn’t adding up.

True, many of the talmudic dialogues that are presented as dialogues are really the products of the Gemara’s editors rather than actual conversations. However, the editor’s generational awareness should have prevented them putting these two characters into conversation with each other — shouldn’t it? Further, because the Talmud places more authority in earlier generations, even if it were possible for Hillel and Rava to speak, it would be Rava who was asking Hillel the question and not the other way around.

A footnote on the page led me to Hagahot HaBach, the marginal notes of Rabbi Joel Sirkis, a 16th/17th century talmudist who noted corrections that should be made to the printed version of the Talmud which are included in today’s standard editions. According to Sirkis, there’s a simple explanation for the strangeness on today’s page.

Sirkis notes that a word should be added to the text in front of Hillel’s name: Rav. Rav is the rabbinic title given to rabbis in Babylonia. 

In the Talmud, Rav Hillel is not Hillel the Elder (of the first century) but an entirely different person and one of Rava’s students. This means that Rav Hillel and Rava are contemporaries, living together in Babylonia. As the student, there is nothing surprising about Rav Hillel turning to Rava, his teacher, with a question.

It’s easy to see why this mistake might creep into a hand-copied manuscript. Especially in the midst of a text that so often records opinions of Hillel (the Elder), one can see how a copyist would accidentally convert Rav Hillel into simply Hillel.

The Soncino English translation of the Talmud adds the title Rav, following Sirkis, and adds a footnote, perhaps for the confused reader, identifying him as a fourth century Amora.

While translations and footnotes provided clarifying information, to some all this may have been clear from the context. This may be the case for the medieval commentators, who are silent on the matter; or, perhaps the manuscripts in their possession included the word “Rav” which fell out of the text some time later.

According to Modecai Margoliot’s Encyclopedia of Talmudic and Geonic Literature, there are five Hillels in the Talmud: Hillel the Elder, Rav Hillel from our daf, and three other Rabbi Hillels, Amoraim who all lived in Israel and are also identifies by their patronymic names. He notes that on Gittin 37 and Nazir 44 we will again meet an anonymous Hillel that many think is our Rav Hillel, as opposed to a sixth one.

Read all of Beitzah 26 on Sefaria.

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Keep your elbows off the tables.

Don’t begin eating until everyone’s been served.

Every community has its guidelines for proper manners. Today’s daf takes a breather from detailing halakhic requirements to consider some of these softer rules in rabbinic life.

Here is how the rabbis come to the discussion: A mishnah on today’s page considers the dilemma of an animal that seems likely to expire on a festival. If the animal dies naturally, it becomes carrion and cannot be eaten. So there is a strong incentive to slaughter it — but one is not supposed to slaughter animals on a festival except for the express purpose of eating them as part of the celebration. What to do?

According to the mishnah, one is permitted to slaughter the animal in danger of dying on a festival only if there’s enough time left in the holiday for the person to take and eat at least an olive’s bulk of the animal’s meat — making it as if the animal is slaughtered for the purposes of eating on the festival. Furthermore, the animal’s carcass can’t just be strung up on poles and hauled back into town. To distinguish the holiday from a normal weekday for those watching, it must be dismembered and butchered in the field and brought home “limb by limb.”

This awkward manner of slaughter and the rush to cook and consume an olive’s bulk of the meat leads to a related lesson in etiquette:

Rami bar Abba said: The mitzvah of flaying and cutting the animal into pieces is mentioned in the Torah with regard to the burnt offering, and the same is true for butchers. From here the Torah taught proper etiquette, that a person should not eat meat before flaying and cutting the animal into pieces.

The Torah requires us to completely butcher a burnt offering, hinting at proper etiquette for regular slaughter: It’s rude to lop off and eat part of an animal before properly butchering and dismembering it. It’s a little more stringent than the Noahide rule against removing and eating the limb of a living animal, but still, good to know.

From here, the rabbis offer other tips on manners:

A person should not eat garlic or onions from the side of its head, i.e., its roots, but rather from the side of its leaves. And if he did eat in that manner, he gives the appearance of being a glutton.

Similarly, a person should not drink his cup of wine all at once, and if he did drink in this manner, he gives the appearance of being a greedy drinker. The sages taught in this regard: One who drinks his cup all at once is a greedy drinker; if he does so in two swallows, this is proper etiquette; in three swallows, he is of haughty spirit, as he presents himself as overly delicate and refined.

In all of these cases — eating meat before the animal is butchered, chomping down on the head side an onion and gulping a glass of wine in one swallow — the concern seems to be the appearance of greed. Grabbiness then, as now, was rude. And taking too dainty sips of wine, apparently, was irritatingly high and mighty.

The Gemara offers no punishment for those who violate these expectations around gluttony and snottiness. Presumably the negative judgment of one’s peers is an adequate deterrent. But for those who eat an animal’s meat before completing the butchering process, our daf goes on to lay out punishment:

Similarly, young trees. (These kinds of violations) will cut off the feet of butchers and those who have relations with menstruating women. 

The Torah requires one to wait until a tree is three years old before eating its fruit, and for a woman to stop menstruating before having relations with her. The Gemara places those who gobble meat before an animal is properly butchered in the same category as those who violate halakhah in their eagerness to sink their teeth into fruit of a young tree or return to relations with their wives. 

Most of us won’t have an opportunity to take the rabbis up on their advice about butchering animals for food. But the general pressure to conform to standards of etiquette seems virtually universal. So too, more specifically, the idea that we should not be too grabby.

Read all of Beitzah 25 on Sefaria.

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An incident is related where a certain gentile brought fish to Rabban Gamliel, and the latter said: The fish are permitted, but I do not wish to accept them from him.

A logical question follows: Why not? Rashi, always helpful, says simply that Rabban Gamliel “hated him.” But this answer isn’t really complete. Why did Rabban Gamliel hate this unnamed gentile? Does “the fish are permitted” mean it’s okay to eat them or merely to accept them? And why did the gentile give Rabban Gamliel — of all things —  fish?

The Gemara goes on to explore the halakhic implications of Rabban Gamliel’s declaration that the fish are permitted, but we’re still left with the first question: What’s going on with Rabban Gamliel and this gentile? 

A fascinating article by David Farkas answers this question in a quite unexpected way. But to understand it, we need some background — both about Rabban Gamliel and the symbolism of fish in the rabbinic period.

Gamaliel I, sometimes called “the elder,” lived in the first half of the first century of the Common Era, towards the end of the Second Temple period. In addition to his frequent mentions in the Talmud, he also gets two shout-outs in an unlikely place: the New Testament. In Acts 22:3, he is identified as the apostle Paul’s teacher (presumably before Paul converted to Christianity). And in Acts 5:34-35, he encourages the Sanhedrin to treat the fledgling Christian church and its adherents with tolerance. 

But the Rabban Gamliel on today’s daf is most likely Gamaliel I’s grandson, Gamliel II, also known as Rabban Gamliel of Yavneh, the town in central Israel that was a center of post-Temple rabbinic learning. By the time Gamliel II became active in rabbinic circles, things had changed radically from his grandfather’s time: the Temple had been destroyed, the land was under Roman rule and relationships between Jews and gentiles were probably no longer as common as they once were. If that’s the case, why would a gentile give Rabban Gamliel a gift at all? 

Here’s where the offering of fish in particular becomes important. The symbol of the fish (specifically, the open-tailed Ichthys) was used by the earliest Christians as a secret way to identify themselves to one another. By Gamliel II’s time, Christianity was no longer just one sect among many; it was fast becoming a full-fledged religion — one that stood in direct competition to rabbinic Judaism. In fact, Berakhot 28b relates that Gamliel II instituted a 19th blessing of the Amidah (still known colloquially as the Shemona Esrei — literally “18 blessings”) that called out minim, or heretics, who are sometimes referred to directly as notzrim, or Christians. The text on Berakhot 28a shares several stories that highlight the adversarial relationship between Gamliel II and local Christians.

Could it be that the fish offered to Rabban Gamliel by this unnamed gentile was not a true present but a slight? Was it in fact intended to mock Rabban Gamliel’s beliefs, not to mention his leadership? If so, Rabban Gamliel might have had good reason to hate this person and reject the gift. 

Of course, we can’t be certain that this interfaith encounter is anything but what’s written on the page: a gentile offered some fish as a present to an important local rabbi who wasn’t thrilled with the gift — or the giver. However, the alternative explanation could shed light on both the uncertain setting of second-century Yavneh as well as Jewish-gentile relations over the ensuing centuries all the way to our own time.

Read all of Beitzah 24 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on September 24th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The mishnah that concludes chapter two of Tractate Beitzah is a case in point. At the bottom of today’s daf, we read:

A child’s wagon is susceptible to ritual impurity by treading. And this wagon may be handled on Shabbat. And it may be dragged (on the ground on Shabbat) only upon cloth.

Ah, it’s our old friend ritual impurity! Here, we learn that a child’s toy wagon is susceptible to impurity. We also learn that such a toy may be handled on Shabbat, but only dragged on the ground if there’s a cloth underneath it. We’ve actually seen this idea before, in Tractate Shabbat, where the rabbis discuss whether a wheeled cart can be dragged because it might create a furrow, typically a no-no on a day when farming is prohibited.

So, you may ask yourself, how did we get here? After all, the subject of both the chapter and the wider tractate is the laws of Jewish festival days — not Shabbat or ritual impurity. 

Following the thread backward, we return to the previous mishnah, which addresses the possibility that a pepper mill can contract ritual impurity. From the discussion of one household item (the mill) we moved seamlessly to another household item (the wagon). And we got on the subject of the pepper mill because of the mishnah before that, which relates three rulings from Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya about the permissibility of various actions on Shabbat and holidays — one of which concerns a pepper mill. 

Now that we know how we got to the matter of the child’s wagon, the more important (and interesting) question is: Why are we here? 

I think the reason the rabbis use the example of a child’s toy is because it is so ubiquitous. Two millennia or so after this mishnah was written, most of us can probably picture a child’s toy wagon. Maybe it’s painted red and made of natural wood (or, God forbid, plastic). Maybe it has a handle that needs to be pulled. Or maybe it has a running board and a steering wheel that a child can operate herself. 

Because it’s so familiar, it’s the perfect entry point into a discussion about the permissibility of playing with such toys on Shabbat and festivals. And indeed, a fascinating 2015 paper on the question of sports and exercise on Shabbat cites this mishnah while discussing the permissibility of riding a bicycle or a skateboard on Shabbat. In the paper’s summary, Rabbi Jonathan Lubliner affirms that enjoyment of Shabbat is a mitzvah — and as we have seen throughout this tractate, it is on festivals too. 

These days, Shabbat and holiday prep in observant Jewish households the world over includes spiriting electronic toys out of sight. Figuring out which toys are suitable for use on holy days was a concern for the rabbis of the Talmud as well. And it’s no wonder: Shabbat and holidays are days when school and work obligations are suspended, so there’s finally time to play! Family and recreational time is just as important a feature of the holiday’s enjoyment as the food. 

Wrapping up a chapter primarily about food preparation on holidays with a discussion about a child’s toy wagon is thus a logical conclusion — even if we took a convoluted route to get there. Same as it ever was.

Read all of Beitzah 23 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on September 23rd, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The second mishnah lists three ways Rabban Gamliel was lenient in his observance of festivals. He apparently swept his dining room floor (“room of the couches”) and placed incense on his coals. On Passover, he served an entire roasted goat (even though the sages forbade this because it gave the impression of improperly slaughtering a paschal sacrifice after the destruction of the Temple). All of these, one can’t help but notice, are leniencies that would have helped this wealthy and well-connected rabbi to throw a classy party. A festival banquet just isn’t the same with a dirty floor and stale air, is it? And who doesn’t want to serve an impressive main course?

But the Gemara wonders about some of these leniencies. Did Gamliel really do these things? An eye witness thinks not. According to the Tosefta (a rabbinic text of the same era as the Mishnah), Rabban Gamliel managed to present his guests with pristine floors without actually sweeping them on the festival:

Rabbi Eliezer bar Tzadok said: On many occasions I followed my father into Rabban Gamliel’s house, and they would not actually sweep the room of the couches on the festival, but rather they would sweep it on the eve of the festival and spread sheets over the floor so it would not become dirty. On the following day, when the guests entered, they removed the sheets, and it turned out that the house was cleaned on its own.

It’s not that Rabban Gamliel swept on a festival, says Rabbi Eliezer bar Tzadok, drawing on a childhood memory, but that he would sweep ahead of the festival and then protect the floor with drop cloths which were pulled up just before guests arrived — revealing a floor that was perfectly clean without the need to actually sweep.

Likewise, says Rabbi Eliezer bar Tzadok, Rabban Gamliel wouldn’t actually place incense on the fire during a festival (or, more likely, his servants wouldn’t), but he would burn incense in a special perforated coal pan just in advance of the festival. Then, by closing the slits on this pan, he would trap the fragrant smoke inside. The next day, the slits were opened just as guests arrived, and the smoke poured out, perfuming the house.

These are clever workarounds for the experienced host who wishes to create the right ambiance at his festival banquet. The Gemara wonders, however, how to reconcile the two sources. If Rabban Gamliel’s family followed these practices — spreading a sheet on the floor and burning incense in a special coal pan ahead of the holiday — why would they only do this on a festival? Couldn’t they also do these things on Shabbat? And yet, the mishnah says specifically that he was lenient in these respects on a festival. Perhaps he used the sheet trick on Shabbat, and went ahead and swept on a festival? It’s difficult to say. However he managed it, one can be sure it was a lovely party — fit to express the joy of the festival.

Read all of Beitzah 22 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on September 22nd, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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