Tractate Taanit deals with all kinds of fasts that Jews undertook: communal fasts and individual fasts, fixed fast days (like Tisha B’Av) and spontaneously-declared fast days, fasts that commemorated past tragedies, and fasts that were designed to avert present tragedies, such as famine, war and plague. Most of this tractate deals with drought — suggesting that lack of rain was perhaps the most regular tragedy to strike ancient Jewish communities. Conspicuous by its near absence is the most widely-observed Jewish fast, Yom Kippur. Unlike the other fasts that are the subject of this tractate, Yom Kippur is described as joyous. It is also covered at length in Tractate Yoma.

In general, fasting means abstaining from both food and drink and fasts were called on Mondays and Thursdays, the same days that Torah was read publicly, though they could not be held on certain joyous days. In some cases, additional restrictions applied, including refraining from bathing, anointing with oils and sex.

As this tractate makes clear, fasting is usually not enough to avert a disaster. Repentance and prayer are integral to moving God to forgiveness and mercy. The tractate has four chapters:

Chapter 1

Since most of this tractate concerns fasts that are declared in the event of a drought, this chapter begins by establishing the dates on which rain is needed (and expected) to ensure an adequate harvest. These dates, as described in the Mishnah, are specific to the land of Israel — the Gemara acknowledges a different need in Mesopotamia.

All Jews add prayers for rain to their liturgy between Shemini Atzeret and Passover. But if time wears on without rain, then scholars start observing fasts in an effort to bring the rain. Should this fail, then the entire community fasts — initially observing three fasts days on consecutive Mondays and Thursdays. More and more severe fasts are added as needed. 

Chapter 2

In this chapter we learn that fast days entailed not just abstention from food but also focused self-reflection, repentance and prayer. The opening pages of this chapter describe many rituals that support fast days including additional prayers and readings and public acts of repentance. In extreme cases, other public displays of mourning are evoked, such as bringing the ark into the town square and covering it with ashes. In the Temple, they would blow the shofar between blessings. The chapter also deals with people who are exempt from fasting.

Fast days are not supposed to overlap with days of feasting and rejoicing. In ancient jewish times, there were a great many of these happy occasions, as recorded in a Tannaitic-era calendar called Megillat Taanit. Most of them had already fallen by the wayside by the period of the Gemara, with the exception of Hanukkah and Purim.

Chapter 3

This chapter considers the question of what makes an event dangerous enough to the community to warrant declaring a public fast. That seems to be up to the community in question. If a disaster is fairly localized, only the people in imminent danger fast, though the larger Jewish community prays to support them.

This chapter contains many famous stories of communities facing drought and other disasters, most notably that of Honi the Circle-Drawer.

Chapter 4

The final chapter of this tractate shifts focus to fasts that take place on fixed days, commemorating past tragedies that befell the community. The most well-known of these is Tisha B’Av which commemorates the destruction of both Temples (and several other disasters). This chapter ends by describing the celebratory occasion known as Tu B’Av (the fifteenth of Av) which is sometimes called the Jewish Valentine’s Day.

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So perhaps it is fitting that in the final sugya of this tractate, which began on the bottom of yesterday’s page, we turn from fixed days that commemorate tragedy to one that is celebratory: Tu B’Av (literally: the 15th of Av), which has come to be known as Jewish Valentine’s Day. As Rabban Gamliel teaches in a mishnah:

There were no days as happy for the Jewish people as the 15th of Av and as Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur was a day of joy because it afforded the entire nation a clean slate for the coming year (and, as the Gemara adds, because it was the day that Moses received the second pair of tablets after he hurled the first pair into the Golden Calf). But what made Tu B’Av so joyful? 

The rabbis attach several happy historical events to this date. First, it was the day the tribes were allowed to intermarry with one another after an initial ban designed to protect tribal integrity. Second, it was the day on which the tribe of Benjamin was readmitted into the fold after committing a crime so heinous it caused a war between the tribes. (The Gemara doesn’t spell it out explicitly, but we will: The Benjaminites threatened to gang rape a traveling Levite and he offered up his concubine in his stead for the brutal attack, which she does not survive. To warn the other tribes, the Levite then dismembers the concubine and sends pieces of her body to each and every tribe. See Judges 19–20.)

According to the Gemara, Tu B’Av also celebrates the end of the prolonged period during during which the first generation of the Exodus died off in the wilderness, King Hoshea’s removal of the evil king Jeroboam’s guards from the road to Jerusalem (allowing pilgrims through), the laying to rest of those massacred at Beitar during the Bar Kochba Revolt, and more. These joyful remembrances all have a dark side, recalling a time when a heavy societal burden was lifted.

Perhaps, though, there is no feeling more ecstatic than relief from a heavy burden. The buoyancy of Tu B’Av is best expressed by the ritual observed on that day. Unmarried women would don white clothes (all borrowed, so it would not be obvious if anyone did not own a white garment) and dance in the orchards. Young men would come out, looking for a marital match. The Gemara tells us that on that day all of the women — the beautiful, the well-connected and even the homely — were considered desirable.

It wasn’t just a holiday for the women, either. Tu B’Av, it turns out, was also a holiday for the trees. Exactly six months after Tu Bishvat (which Tractate Rosh Hashanah designated as the new year for trees) the trees also celebrated an end to a persecution of sorts because this was the date on which the season of chopping them down to secure fuel for the altar ceased. For fall and winter, the trees were safe from the axe, and therefore this was a day of rejoicing for them as well.

The Gemara leaves us with one more incredible image. We move from happy trees and whirling women to finish out the tractate with a cosmic dance party to take place at the end of days, hosted by none other than God:

Ulla of Bira’a said that Rabbi Elazar said: In the future, in the end of days, the Holy One, Blessed be He, will arrange a dance of the righteous, and God will be sitting among them in the Garden of Eden, and each and every one of the righteous will point to God with his finger, as it is stated: And it shall be said on that day: Behold, this is our God, for whom we waited, that He might save us. This is the Lord; for whom we waited. We will be glad and rejoice in His salvation. (Isaiah 25:9)

In this way, the tractate counterbalances the deep dive into communal tragedy by leaving us with an image of ultimate relief — basking in the Garden of Eden and dancing with God, who has been finally revealed and made accessible, allowing us to imagine, just for a moment, what it might feel like to know permanent security and joy.

Read all of Taanit 31 on Sefaria.

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On today’s daf, we find an additional restriction observed both on Tisha B’Av and when in mourning, but not on Yom Kippur:

It is prohibited to read from the Torah, from the Prophets, and from the Writings, or to study from the Mishnah, from the Gemara, and from midrash, and from collections of halakhot, and from collections of aggadot.

Among the practices unique to Tisha B’Av is a prohibition on the study of Torah. But immediately after sharing this ruling, the Gemara introduces some clarifications:

However, one may read from a place in the Bible that he is unaccustomed to reading, and he may likewise study from a place of the Talmud that he is unaccustomed to studying. And one may read from the book of Lamentations; from the book of Job; and from the evil matters in Jeremiah, i.e. his prophecies of doom. And schoolchildren interrupt their studies for the day because it is stated: “The precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart.” (Psalms 19:9)

As the prooftext from Psalms makes clear, Torah study is a joyous activity, and one is supposed to abstain from joyous activities on Tisha B’Av and during periods of mourning. As Rashi points out, the reason why one may study unfamiliar material on Tisha B’Av is because the learner will likely be confused and therefore distressed by the struggle to readily understand it, contributing to the overarching misery of the day. 

In Tractate Moed Katan, which we will begin learning less than two months from now, we find a related passage about Torah study restrictions observed by a mourner, with one important exception: 

And he is prohibited from reading in the Torah, and in the Prophets, and in the Writings, and from studying in the Mishnah, in the midrash, and in the halakhot, and in the Talmud, and in the aggadot. But if the public needs him to teach them these things, he need not refrain from doing so. There was an incident that the son of Rabbi Yosei died in Tzippori, and Rabbi Yosei entered the study hall and expounded there for the entire day.

This related narrative begs the question: If Torah study is inherently pleasurable, and those in mourning are meant to refrain from pleasurable activities, why is there an exception carved out in the case of public need?

To understand this apparent disconnect, we need to appreciate that there is something fundamentally different between a community in mourning and an individual in mourning. 

Tisha B’Av, at its essence, is a communal mourning event — not a private one. For a community in mourning, pleasurable activities — including Torah study — are suspended for everyone. And if no one is studying Torah, there’s no reason for anyone to teach it either. 

But mourning a departed loved one is a private event. This makes it all the more surprising that a leader in mourning might be called upon to teach Torah to the community. But when a community needs guidance that can only be given by their rabbinic leader, their needs override the needs of a mourner. In this case, the public persona of the scholar supersedes the private persona of the mourner. 

While halakhah might be fixed, exceptions often occur, particularly in service of public need. That’s a particularly meaningful takeaway from our study of Tisha B’Av, a day on which we mourn the destruction of the Temple. While we might be grieving for that loss, our modern Jewish collective is still going strong, producing leaders, and studying Torah — just not on the ninth of Av. 

Read all of Taanit 30 on Sefaria.

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The rabbis are discussing a mishnah we read on Taanit 26, which lists five tragedies said to have taken place on the ninth of Av: (1) the decree that the generation of Israelites that wandered in the wilderness would not enter the land of Israel; (2) the destruction of the First Temple; (3) the destruction of the Second Temple; (4) the conquering of the Beitar fortress; and (5) the plowing under of Jerusalem by the Romans. 

How do we know these five tragedies occurred on the Ninth of Av? On today’s page, we find just three words concerning tragedy #4, the conquering of Beitar:

Beitar (was) conquered. (How do we know that date is correct?) It is a tradition.

And what of the fifth tragedy, the plowing of Jerusalem? The Ein Yaakov, a medieval collection of non-legal material from the Talmud, says explicitly: “That the city was plowed under [on Tisha B’Av] is also a tradition.” 

In other words, it may be more traditional than historical that the conquering of Beitar and the plowing of Jerusalem occurred on Tisha B’Av. A logical question follows: What is it about Tisha B’Av that motivated the rabbis to stack up tragedies on it? And what is it about these two final disasters that we consider them fundamentally tragic in the same way as the destruction of the Temple?

After the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, ancient Israel was no longer under sovereign Jewish control, but a vassal of Rome. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai had established the rabbinical academy of Yavneh, located about 60 kilometers from Jerusalem, as the new hub of Jewish learning. It seemed that the Jews were, if not content, at least resigned to subjugation by a foreign power. 

But then Jews throughout the Roman world began to revolt. In Judea, the rebellion was led by a messianic figure named Bar Kochba. Bar Kochba, whose real name was Shimon bar Kosiba, took his nom de guerre from a verse in Numbers 24:17: “A star rises from Jacob, a scepter comes forth from Israel.” The Hebrew word kochav, meaning star, is the root of Bar Kochba’s moniker, and this phrase is understood to refer to the messiah. 

Bar Kochba wasn’t an upstart. He was close with Rabbi Akiva, and all accounts point to Rabbi Akiva’s belief that Bar Kochba was indeed the messiah. So one can imagine the despair when the revolt collapsed spectacularly in the summer of 136 CE, with Beitar being its last holdout. Tens of thousands of people were massacred and ten of the leading rabbis — including Akiva — were martyred, an event we still recount as part of the Yom Kippur liturgy. 

It’s unclear whether the ploughing of the Temple occurred prior to the Bar Kochba revolt — which would indicate it was one of its causes — or after, which would indicate it was a consequence. Either way, these events — the failure of the revolt, the extreme loss of life, the murder of rabbinic leaders and the plowing of the Temple to create a center of pagan worship — were every bit as calamitous as the destruction of the Temple itself, leading to 2,000 years of non-Jewish control over the land of Israel. 

In the end, it makes sense that a rabbinic tradition arose to commemorate these last two events on the same day as the destruction of the First and Second Temple. After all, they effectively had the same outcome. 

Read all of Taanit 29 on Sefaria.

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Once, the evil kingdom issued a decree of apostasy against the Jews, that they may not bring wood for the arrangement of the altar and that they may not bring first fruits to Jerusalem. And they placed guards on the roads … so that the Jews could not ascend (to Jerusalem) for Sukkot.

For context, in his farewell speech in Deuteronomy, Moses tells the Israelites that when they enter the land of Israel, “You shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish his name,” and present it to the priests (Deuteronomy 26:2–3). This mitzvah is called bikkurim (literally first fruits), and there’s a whole tractate of the Mishnah all about how to do it right. So it’s a big deal if a hostile imperial government bans the ritual outright.

What did the worthy and sin-fearing individuals of that generation do? They brought baskets of first fruits, and covered them with dried figs, and took them with a pestle on their shoulders. And when they reached the guards, the guards said to them: Where are you going? They said to them: “to prepare two round cakes of pressed figs with the mortar that is down the road before us and with the pestle that on our shoulders.” As soon as they passed, they decorated the baskets and brought them to Jerusalem.

The righteous people pretend that they just want to press some figs, in order to slip past the guards and offer their first fruits in Jerusalem. They successfully circumvent the oppressive laws and fulfill the mitzvah. 

If we read the story carefully, we can see that the righteous people are lying outright. They could have pressed some figs into cakes on their way to offer their first fruits in Jerusalem so that their claim would be true, but they didn’t. In fact, the pressed figs and the pestles disappear from the story once they pass the guards. And while we might expect the Gemara to be surprised that people who are called righteous lie explicitly, it takes their lying as a matter of course. What matters to the story teller is why this particular group of righteous people did it — because of their profound commitment to fulfilling the commandment of bikkurim in the face of an unjust attempt to ban it. 

But it’s worth lingering a moment on the lies. After all, we have too many examples from history of unjust laws. Today’s daf acknowledges that sometimes being righteous and being law-abiding aren’t the same thing at all. Sometimes you can even lie to the authorities to break an unjust law. That’s a big idea which opens all kinds of cans of worms. After all, sometimes the injustice of a law is obvious (such as banning bikkurim), while other times, it’s less clear. 

Today’s daf is a helpful reminder that we have to at least ask the question about whether laws are just and on the side of righteousness. And if we determine that they aren’t, what are we going to do about it? 

Read all of Taanit 28 on Sefaria.

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The mishnah we read yesterday adds another element to this rotation: watches of non-priests (“Israelites”) who rotated through their own Temple service. We know that the priestly watches would have performed the sacrifices and the Levite watches would have musically accompanied their work. What kinds of work were the Israelite watches expected to do?

Today’s daf offers two different answers to this question, depending on where one lived.

Israelites who live in Jerusalem were expected to be present at the Temple in Jerusalem when sacrifices were offered during their watch week:

Since it is stated: “Command the children of Israel and say to them: My offering of food, which is presented to me made by a fire, of a sweet savor to me, you shall guard the sacrifice to me in its due season” (Numbers 28:2), but how can a person’s offering be sacrificed when he is not standing next to it? The early prophets instituted 24 priestly watches. For each and every priestly watch there was a non-priestly watch in Jerusalem of priests, Levites and Israelites.

The mishnah reads the verse from Numbers as insisting that the entire community of Israel must offer the daily sacrifice and that in order for the sacrifices to come from all of Israel, all of Israel must be represented at the Temple at the moment of sacrifice.

Israelites who live outside of Jerusalem and cannot be present in the Temple are given a different assignment — they are expected to stay home and read the Torah, specifically the story of creation in Genesis. Given that the watches are about the division of labor in offering sacrifices, you would think that they would be required to read the biblical texts about sacrifices found in Leviticus, but the mishnah is quite clear that it’s actually the stories of creation that are required. The Gemara next explores the connection between creation and sacrifices:

Rabbi Yaakov bar Aha said that Rav Asi said: Were it not for the non-priestly watches, heaven and earth would not continue to exist, as it is stated: And he (Abraham) said: Lord God, by what shall I know that I shall inherit it? (Genesis 15:8) 

Abraham said: “Master of the Universe, perhaps the Jews will sin before you. Will you treat them as the generation of the flood and the generation of the dispersion?” God said to him: “No.” 

Abraham said before God: “Master of the Universe, tell me, with what shall I inherit it?” God said to Abraham: “Take for me a three-year-old heifer, and a three-year-old goat, and a three-year-old ram, and a turtledove, and a young pigeon.” (Genesis 15:9)

This is one of the most famous ways the rabbis create midrash — by interpolating statements into biblical text. Here, Rav Asi adds a few lines to a conversation between God and Abraham found in Genesis 15 and reads God’s promise as contingent on Abraham (and his descendants) offering sacrifices. For Rav Asi, it is through sacrifices that the land (and all of creation) is maintained. And because sacrifices are humanity’s way of maintaining creation, the Israelite watches are required to read the story of creation and make that connection explicit.

We might think that those who work in the Temple, the priests and Levites, are most vital to its operations. And we might also suppose that those regular Israelites who can be physically present are the most crucial to communal sacrifice. But today’s daf inverts that idea. Instead, it is those who are most distant, the Israelites in cities across the land, who are credited with the biggest job of all — upholding the entire world. 

Read all of Taanit 27 on Sefaria.

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Five calamitous matters occurred to our forefathers on the seventeenth of Tammuz, and five other disasters happened on the Ninth of Av. On the seventeenth of Tammuz,the tablets were broken by Moses when he saw that the Jews had made the Golden Calf; the daily offering was nullified by the Roman authorities and was never sacrificed again; the city walls of Jerusalem were breached; Apostemos publicly burned a Torah scroll, and Manasseh placed an idol in the Temple.

Some of these will be more familiar to modern readers than others. The story of the Golden Calf — Israel’s original sin at the foot of Mount Sinai — is one many will know. And those familiar with the historical books of the Hebrew Bible will know that Manasseh is remembered as one of the worst kings of Judah — so enamored of idolatrous practice he might even have indulged in child sacrifice (2 Kings 21:6). Though whether he placed an idol in the Temple is less clear. 

But who was Apostemos and when did he publicly burn a Torah scroll? And furthermore, how do we know that all these things happened on the 17th of Tammuz? Indeed, in the Gemara, the rabbis debate and disagree about all these assertions. Why were the dates of destroying the tablets or the Golden Calf not specified in the Bible as days of mourning? And if it was the fast referred to by Zechariah as the fast of the fourth month (8:19) why not call it the 17th of Tammuz? And were the city walls of Jerusalem really breached on the 17th of Tammuz? Jeremiah (39:2, 52:6-7) states that this happened on the Ninth of Tammuz, though the Jerusalem Talmud (Taanit IV, 5) concurs that the breach occurred on 17th of Tammuz; the rabbis claim the biblical record was “distorted,” apparently due to the troubled times. The prophets Zechariah, Haggai and Ezekiel all disagree on the precise dates of the destruction of the First Temple, too.

As for who Apostomos was, the rabbis don’t comment and so in our day, it is difficult to know. Experts argue as to whether his name was Greek or Latin or even Hebrew. Here are some theories: (1) he was a Syrian Greek of the time of the Hasmoneans, (2) he was the renegade Jewish priest Alcimus, (3) he was the Roman procurator Cumanus, (4) he was a Roman soldier called Stephanos. 

Similar issues apply to the Ninth of Av (Tisha B’Av — still a major fast day on the Jewish calendar) which the rabbis also commemorate as the anniversary of five disasters:

On the Ninth of Av it was decreed upon our ancestors that they would all die in the wilderness and not enter the land of Israel; and the Temple was destroyed the first time, in the days of Nebuchadnezzar; and the second time, by the Romans; Beitar was captured; and the city of Jerusalem was plowed, as a sign that it would never be rebuilt.

It is unlikely that all these events happened on the same day. But it was common talmudic practice to combine several events at the same time, both to give fewer dates of mourning greater significance and so as not to impose too heavy a burden on the community.

The mishnah goes on to outline a practice that will be familiar to Jews who observe Tisha B’Av today: From when the month of Av begins, one decreases rejoicing. And during the actual week in which Tisha B’Av falls, one does not get a haircut, launder clothes, eat two cooked dishes in a single meal, consume meat or drink wine. Rabbi Yehuda even suggests sleeping on the floor as a more overt way of being uncomfortable and externalizing the mourning, but his colleagues disagree. 

These days, many Jewish communities have expanded this window of mourning to three complete weeks, some starting already on (you guessed it) the 17th of Tammuz. 

Read all of Taanit 26 on Sefaria.

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In fact, there is a story on today’s page in which the sages themselves don’t even understand exactly why one prayer was answered while another was not. It also happens to be a story that explains the origins of one of the most iconic prayers of the High Holidays.

There was another incident involving Rabbi Eliezer, who descended to serve as prayer leader before the ark on a fast day. And he recited 24 blessings, but he was not answered. 

Rabbi Akiva descended before the ark after him and said: Avinu Malkeinu — our Father, our King — we have no king other than you. Our Father, our King, for your sake, have mercy on us. And rain immediately fell.

As the sages were whispering, a bat kol (divine voice) emerged and said: It is not because this one is greater than that one, but that this one is forgiving, and that one is not forgiving. 

If you have ever stood in a synagogue on the High Holy Days (or perhaps listened to Barbra Streisand’s classic rendition or this cult favorite interpretation by Phish) Rabbi Akiva’s words likely sound familiar to you. Avinu Malkeinu is one of the iconic prayers of the season of atonement. Avinu Malkeinu (our parent, our sovereign), we cry out, asking for a good year, for forgiveness, to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life. 

In our story, God’s response was immediate. The rain began to fall. Notice that the rabbis themselves did not know why this was. When Rabbi Akiva’s prayer was answered, the assembled sages began to murmur among themselves in surprise. Why, they wondered, did God answer Rabbi Akiva, but not Rabbi Eliezer? Is he wiser? More pious? Did he say more blessings? (It was seem not! Rabbi Eliezer offered 24 to Akiva’s 1!) Initially, they did not know why Rabbi Eliezer’s prayers failed. But thanks to the bat kol, the heavenly voice, they (and we) come to understand: Rabbi Akiva was answered because he was the most forgiving. It is clear that God is responding not to the words themselves, but to the character, and behavior, of the person speaking them.

How Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer prayed in that moment of crisis, it seems, did not matter at all. God’s decision to answer Rabbi Akiva was based entirely on his behavior outside of prayer. Rabbi Akiva was not answered because he was the most learned, or the most pious. He was answered because he was the most forgiving. God was less concerned about how these supplicants approached the divine than about how they interacted with other humans. In the end, that is how their merit was measured. What God most wants is that we treat one another well.

These words worked out for Rabbi Akiva, and so have become an indelible part of Jewish liturgy. We use Rabbi Akiva’s words to this day every year when we pray Avinu Malkeinu. But when we offer these words on the High Holy Days, we close with this plea: Avinu Malkeinu! Favor us and answer us for we have no accomplishments; deal with us charitably and kindly and deliver us. We recognize that we may not deserve forgiveness, and we say this to God, but we are asking for it anyway, and we are counting on divine kindness and mercy to come through.

Read all of Taanit 25 on Sefaria.

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Except when it doesn’t.

On today’s daf we read a number of examples about times when activating rabbinic protocols fails to bring about the rains. In some cases, standout individuals can accomplish what the entire people fasting does not. For example, the Talmud reports that:

Rabbi Yehuda Nesia decreed a fast and prayed for mercy, but rain did not come. He lamented: How great is the difference between the prophet Samuel, for whom rain fell even when he prayed for it in summer, and myself, Yehuda ben Gamliel. Woe to the generation that is stuck with my leadership. 

While Rabbi Yehuda, who rabbinic tradition tells us served as the head of the Sanhedrin like his grandfather, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, follows the steps outlined in the mishnah, his actions are not sufficient. More is needed. How much more? Well, in this case, the Gemara reports:

He grew upset, and rain came.

Rabbi Yehuda is distressed that he cannot do what Samuel the prophet did for the people. The Aramaic phrase used by the Gemara here (chalash da’tei) often indicates not only emotional distress, but also a reduced mental capacity that makes him unable to function in his role as teacher, scholar, and judge.

While fasts and prayers were not enough to end the drought, Rabbi Yehuda’s anguish appears to be and, in response, God is moved to action.

We see this same motif presented in a much stronger way in a story about Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa that follows:

Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa was traveling along a road when it began to rain. He said before God: “Master of the Universe, the entire world is comfortable, because they needed rain, but Hanina is suffering, as he is getting wet.” The rain ceased. When he arrived at his home, he said before God: “Master of the Universe, the entire world is suffering that the rain stopped, and Hanina is comfortable?” The rain began to come again.

In contrast to Rabbi Yehuda, Hanina ben Dosa’s prayers have immediate impact. He seems to have, as we might say colloquially, the magic touch. God even stops the rain to allow him to get home without getting drenched and restarts it after Hanina calls to share his safe arrival.

The rabbis understand why people who are on the road would ask for a cessation of rain until they arrive safely at home. However, when it comes to rainfall, communal sustenance clearly outweighs individual comfort. In fact, the Gemara relates that when the Temple stood, the high priest would beseech God not to heed travelers who pray for a rain free journey.

So why are Hanina’s prayers answered? Because, as Rav reports, of his unique relationship with God:

Each and every day a Divine Voice emerges from Mount Horeb (Sinai) and says: The entire world is sustained by the merit of my son Hanina ben Dosa.

While the mishnah suggests that the proper response to drought is a public communal atonement, today’s daf suggests that it is the merit of particular individual people that ultimately relieves communal suffering. Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa is in a class by himself (or, perhaps, with Honi) in bending the ear of heaven. His power to do so is almost too great — God will stop the rain just to convenience him on a journey. But others, like Rabbi Yehuda Nesia, can also get God’s attention — particularly if they are in deep distress.

Read all of Taanit 24 on Sefaria.

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In the mishnah that we read a few pages back, we learned that the community calls a fast on account of any communal tragedy except for an overabundance of rain. This comment occasions a story. 

Jerusalem is experiencing a severe drought. Instead of blowing a shofar and declaring a fast, as the rabbis prescribe, the residents call in Honi the Circle Drawer, a man known for speaking directly to God and working miracles. Honi agrees to help, but when he finds that ordinary prayer does not succeed, he sets about performing his signature brand of supplication — he draws a circle on the ground and declares that he will not move until God brings the rain.

The ploy works. But as if to tease Honi, God sends the lightest rain possible. Standing firm in the circle, Honi unabashedly addresses God again and demands rain that is strong enough to fill the cisterns, ditches and caves. Abruptly, the rain comes down in a torrent — the kind that causes flash floods and devastation. Again, Honi is unperturbed, and once again addresses God, asking for a moderate rain of “benevolence, blessing and generosity.” Immediately, God grants it. The drought is over and, for a brief moment, it looks like Honi has succeeded.

Except the moderate rain does not stop. It continues to fall until Jerusalem is underwater and the residents must take shelter on the Temple Mount, the high point of the city. The people beg Honi to pray for the rain to cease, but he heartlessly refuses, saying he will not pray for the end of rain until the Claimants’ Stone — an ancient rock used as a lost and found on the Temple Mount — has been washed away. (Recall: We began with a rule that the community does not pray for rain to cease, but Honi does not cite that as his reason for refusing to help. And Honi has already proven that he is not interested in rabbinic methods of supplication — otherwise he would have followed the proper procedure for a drought and initiated a fast.) 

At this point, Honi’s true colors are impossible to ignore. He loves the power, the prestige, the showmanship, the drama. But he does not love the people or truly care for their wellbeing. It is at this moment that Shimon ben Shetach, one of the rabbinic leaders of the community, offers a bitter imprecation:

Were you not Honi, I would have decreed that you be ostracized, but what can I do to you? You nag God and he does your bidding, like a son who nags his father and his father does his bidding.

Honi has bucked the rabbinic method of dealing with drought, and though his methods initially work, bringing the rain that is so desperately needed, the ultimate results are disastrous. The rabbis are appalled, but because they recognize Honi’s extraordinary relationship with God, they stop short of excommunicating him.

This is where the mishnah’s story, related back on Taanit 19, ends. In the Gemara we read today, the rabbis seem eager to redeem Honi’s character. They understand his circle drawing not as some foreign magical act, but as an imitation of the biblical prophet Habakkuk. Instead of painting him as a lone actor, they surround him with a bevy of disciples who urge him on at every turn. And when the rain begins to overwhelm the city, Honi does not express haughty disinterest in the plight of the people, but regret that the tradition does not allow him to pray for the rain to end. And then, seeing the devastation around him, he thinks the better of blindly following that law and says something to his students that is wholly different from anything we have in the mishnah:

Nevertheless, bring me a bull. I will sacrifice it as a thanks-offering and pray at the same time.

They brought him a bull for a thanks-offering. He placed his two hands on its head and said before God: Master of the Universe, your nation Israel, whom you brought out of Egypt, cannot bear either an excess of good or an excess of punishment. You grew angry with them and withheld rain, and they are unable to bear it. You bestowed upon them too much good, and they were also unable to bear it. May it be your will that the rain stop and that there be relief for the world.

Immediately, the wind blew, the clouds dispersed, the sun shone, and everyone went out to the fields and gathered for themselves truffles and mushrooms that had sprouted in the strong rain.

In this version, Honi is a hero. He saves the city from drought, and then from flood. No longer portrayed as a lone wolf wonder worker who shows no regard for rabbinic law, he is domesticated as a student of the rabbis and the prophets. He is surrounded by disciples and knows how to follow the law, and even when to break it. And his story is no longer a tragedy but a comedy, ending with the people gathering truffles after the rain. In rewriting Honi this way, the rabbis transform him from someone with a dangerous power into one of their own. And in so doing, they claim his power for themselves.

Read all of Taanit 23 on Sefaria.

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Our story of secret identities is set in Bei Lefet, a city in the Sasanian province of Khuzistan. The Gemara opens with an air of legend and romance, telling us that Rabbi Beroka Hoza’a and Elijah the prophet himself would regularly hang out together in the city market. As so often happens when friends get together, their conversation would turn to discussing the people around them. Rabbi Berkokah said to Elijah:

Is there anyone in this market worthy of the World to Come?

He (Elijah) said to him: No.

In the meantime, he saw a man wearing black shoes, and who did not place the sky-blue thread on his tzizit. Elijah said to Rabbi Beroka: That man is worthy of the World to Come.

We learn from this story that apparently Jewish men did not usually wear black shoes and included a blue thread in their tzitzit. This man is not dressed as a Jew and yet, of all the people bustling around in the marketplace, he is identified as the only one worthy of the World to Come. Rabbi Beroka, full of questions, ran after the man to ask his occupation. But the man responded, “Go away, but come back tomorrow.”

The next day, Rabbi Beroka met the man in the market and got some answers from the mysterious figure in black shoes:

I am a prison guard, and I imprison the men separately and the women separately, and I place my bed between them so that they will not come to transgression. When I see a Jewish woman upon whom gentiles have set their eyes, I risk my life to save her. One day, there was a betrothed young woman among us, upon whom the gentiles had set their eyes. I took dregs of red wine and threw them on the lower part, and I said: She is menstruating.

The man tells us that he works for the Sasanian government in the prison system, but tries to ensure that those who are imprisoned are able to live in as much safety and dignity as possible. The text doesn’t tell us why these people are imprisoned, or whether they are guilty of a crime. What matters to our storytellers is that the guard is sensitive to the vulnerability to sexual assault of those who are imprisoned.

The Sasanian government was Zoroastrian, and like rabbinic Judaism, Zoroastrianism has numerous rules regulating purity, menstruation and physical intimacy. Here the guard uses a common taboo to the Jewish woman’s advantage, feigning menstruation to keep her attackers at bay.

If he’s so dedicated to the Jewish people, then, why is he dressed in a decidedly non-Jewish way? The man goes on to explain the power of his disguise:

I come and go among gentiles, I dress this way so that they will not know that I am a Jew. When they issue a decree, I inform the sages, and they pray for mercy and annul the decree.

He keeps his Jewishness a secret so that he can be best positioned to learn about the government’s rulings and attitudes. Though he isn’t himself a rabbi, he recognizes the rabbis’ profound relationship with God and uses them to intercede and save the Jewish people.

He is also well-versed in the art of triage. Rabbi Berokah asks him why he was in such a rush the day before and was unable to talk. The man replies:

At that moment, they issued a decree, and I said: First I must go and inform the sages, so that they will pray for mercy over this matter.

This Jew, dressed as a gentile, looks out for his whole community — from the rabbis to the general populace to those who have been imprisoned. 

There’s a common saying: “If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.” Today’s daf is a good reminder that something that looks like a duck might actually not be a duck! Sometimes a Sasanian prison guard is actually a heroic Jew in disguise. And sometimes a person who is rushing through the marketplace is actually worthy of the World to Come.

Read all of Taanit 22 on Sefaria.

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Today’s daf speaks to this moment by asking the question: How do we decide when disaster is sufficiently proximate that immediate action becomes necessary? When does a far-off concern become an imminent calamity in the making, compelling us to respond?

Let’s start with locusts:

They said to Rav Yehuda: Locusts have come to our region. Rav Yehuda decreed a fast. They said to him: They are not destroying anything (as they are eating only a little). He said to them: Have they brought provisions with them (that they have something else to eat? Even if they are not damaging your crops now, they will certainly eat them soon)?

I love Rav Yehuda’s sassy response: The locusts aren’t on an outing and didn’t bring a picnic basket with them. They might not be eating your crops yet, but we know the nature of locusts and what their food needs are. Eventually, they’re going to start in on our food supplies, so best to anticipate and respond to that eventuality.

Next up, pigs:

They said to Rav Yehuda: There is pestilence among the pigs. Rav Yehuda decreed a fast. The Gemara asks: Let us say that Rav Yehuda maintains that a plague affecting one species will come to affect all species, (and that is why he decreed a fast). The Gemara answers: No, (in other cases there is no cause for concern). However, pigs are different, as their intestines are similar to those of humans. (Consequently, their disease might spread to people.)

Now, I’m no biologist, so I can’t comment on the similarities of human and porcine intestines. But if we accept as true that such similarities exist and that they facilitate the transmission of diseases from pigs to humans, the presence of a pestilence among pigs demands a response.  

There’s another layer to this: Given the traditional Jewish disdain for pigs, mentioning them specifically seems strange. Jews don’t typically raise pigs. So what is the situation Rav Yehuda was asked about?

The Meiri, a medieval Catalan talmudist, posits that this passage applies to Jews living among non-Jews who did own pigs and could potentially contract a pig disease and pass it on to their Jewish neighbors. In a similar vein, the Tosafot states that if “one decrees a fast on account of a plague among pigs because their intestines are similar to human beings, all the more that one should do so if there is a plague among non-Jews, who resemble Jews.”

Finally, distance:

They said to Shmuel: There is pestilence in Bei Hozai, (which is quite a distance from Babylonia). Shmuel decreed a fast. They said to him: But it is far from here. He said: There is no crossing here that will stop (the pestilence, and therefore there is cause for concern that it will reach us).

Shmuel responds to those who challenge his decision by noting that there is nothing standing between them and the pestilence, so its arrival is completely foreseeable and warrants action now. 

Our present societal dangers might not present us with such clarity. That said, today’s daf gives us some useful factors to consider.

Read all of Taanit 21 on Sefaria.

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It’s an interesting idea — that the strength of the Torah would come from something so seemingly flimsy. But, as the rabbis remind us on this page, flexibility is a sign of strength. 

Today we encounter a rabbi who studied much Torah, and was puffed up with pride. Walking along the side of a river, he encounters a man. When the man extended pleasantries to him, the rabbi pompously returned:

Worthless (literally: empty) person, how ugly is this man? Are all the people of your city as ugly as you?

Without missing a beat,

The man said to him: I do not know, but you should go and say to the craftsman who made me: How ugly is the vessel you made!

Many of us find it difficult, especially when we are insulted, to find a perfect response. But this man did exactly that, reminding the rabbi that by insulting him, the rabbi was insulting his Creator — God. 

To his credit, the rabbi immediately realizes his error and apologizes. No longer stubborn or prideful and having fully acknowledged the accuracy of the man’s observation, he repents. This is a quality that the townspeople who have witnessed the encounter (and also been insulted) recognize as worthy, and they beseech the man to accept the rabbi’s apology. In another act of bending, the man yields to the townspeople’s request and forgives the rude rabbi. 

There is certainly a lesson here in humility, but the rabbis focus on the quality of flexibility. Because of these two demonstrations of flexibility, the relationship between the rabbi and the man is repaired. The town is not divided by taking one or the other’s side. The community is held together because neither side defensively doubled down on their position. Both chose to be elastic and pliable. Being soft in this way — or soft-hearted, we might say — makes positive change possible. 

Recognizing this teachable moment:

Immediately, Rabbi Elazar, son of Rabbi Shimon, entered the study hall and taught: A person should always be soft like a reed and not be stiff like a cedar, as one who is proud like a cedar is likely to sin. Therefore, due to its gentle qualities, the reed merited that a quill is taken from it to write with it a Torah scroll, tefillin and mezuzahs.

Softies for the win!

Read all of Taanit 20 on Sefaria.

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One thing we learn from this mishnah is that there are in fact many ways that rain can be insufficient. For instance, you can have rain that:

Fell for the vegetation but didn’t fall for the trees.

This is a gentle rain that serves small plants well, but doesn’t adequately soak the ground to supply the needs of large trees. 

Likewise, you can have rain that falls:

For the trees but not for the vegetation.

This kind of substantial rain penetrates deeply into the earth and nourishes tree roots, but overwhelms smaller and more delicate plants. Both kinds of rain — light and heavy — are needed to properly water the plants that feed people with grains, vegetables, fruits and nuts.

There’s more. The mishnah also notes that sometimes there have been rains that satisfy both trees and vegetation but:

Not cisterns, ditches, and caves.

How might this be the case? If there isn’t an abundance of rain that properly accumulates into both natural and human-made reservoirs, then there will not be adequate drinking water.

Our Gemara notes, by way of a beraita (early teaching), that it could also happen in the reverse: rain would fall and fill the cisterns, ditches and caves, but not be good for the plants. As the sages explain, this is what happens when the rain falls in a downpour. Picture a flash flood; this kind of heavy abundance of rain washes quickly over the earth and rapidly fills these reservoirs but can do significant damage to crops and other plants. 

These rain alarms are sounded at different times depending on the need. So, for instance, the sages worry about rain for trees leading up to Passover, because as they begin to bud in early spring is when trees need rain the most. But they cry out for the rain that fills cisterns and caves at any time when drinking water is needed.

Likewise, the alarm is sounded only in locations that are in need. Towns experiencing drought blow a shofar and declare a fast — towns with sufficient rainfall do not. This practice is clearly meant to be performed as needed, by those who need it, and not more than that.

The sages also explore the interesting question of whether or not the alarm is raised when rain is insufficient in shmita (sabbatical) years — years during which the land is not farmed and allowed to rest. One opinion holds that in those years the community only prays for rain to fill the cisterns, but not to grow produce. However, Rabban Gamliel disagrees, stating that even in sabbatical years the alarm is sounded if there is insufficient rain for the produce in the field, because this helps along the crops that grow spontaneously and feed the poor.

This page reminds us that the sages clearly lived in tune with the rhythms of the natural world — including the different kinds of rain that fall and the knowledge of how they will affect crops and also the water supply. This knowledge is important, because sometimes the most severe consequences of too little rain are not felt for some time. They also understood that weather conditions are local, and each community must decide for itself when it is in danger.

Read all of Taanit 19 on Sefaria.

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What is the origin of Nicanor’s Day? As it is taught: Nicanor was one of the generals in the Greek army, and each and every day he would wave his hand over Judea and Jerusalem and say: When will this city fall into my hands, and I shall trample it? 

And when the Hasmonean monarchy overcame the Greeks and emerged victorious over them, they killed Nicanor, cut off his thumbs and big toes, and hung them on the gates of Jerusalem, saying: The mouth that spoke with pride, and the hands that waved over Jerusalem, may vengeance be taken against them.

The battles between the Hasmoneans and Nicanor’s army take place just after the events connected to the holiday of Hanukkah. The story preserved here is brief and focuses upon Nicanor’s defeat and dismemberment, but a more elaborate version is found in Maccabees II.

There we learn the story of Alcimus, a former high priest who is looking to regain his position in the Temple. To accomplish this, Alcimus seeks the favor of Demetreus, the successor to Antiochus (the ruler of the Syrian-Greeks and the villainous king of the Hanukkah story). When asked by Demetreus about the intentions of the Jews in Judea, Alcimus reports that the Hasmoneans “are keeping up war, stirring up sedition, and will not let the kingdom attain tranquility.” 

So Demetreus sends Nicanor, a commander of the elephant cavalry, to defeat Judah Maccabee, restore the peace and serve as governor of Judea. Nicanor goes to Judea, but instead of making war with Judah, whom he fears to confront in battle, he seeks a truce with him. This serves Nicanor well, but not Alcimus, who hopes that a Syrian-Greek victory will return him to his role as high priest.

Alcimus sends word of the truce to Demetreus, who orders Nicanor to capture Judah and send him to Antioch, the seat of Demetreus’ empire, as a prisoner. Left with no choice but to obey the king’s order, Nicanor leads his troops to battle and is defeated by Judah. 

Just as they celebrated the restoration of the Temple, Judah and his followers celebrated Nicanor’s defeat and established their day of victory as a holiday for all of time. As Maccabees II relates: 

And they all decreed by public vote never to let this day go unobserved, but to celebrate the thirteenth day of the twelfth month — which is called Adar in the Aramaic language — the day before Mordecai’s day [i.e. Purim]. 

According to our daf, the celebration of Nicanor’s Day is negated by the deaths of Shemaya and Ahiya, two brothers killed on the same date as Nicanor yet whose story is lost to the fog of time. Ultimately, the story of Alcimus, Demetreus and Nicanor faded away, too. The First and Second Books of Maccabees were excluded from the Hebrew Bible by the rabbis for reasons we can’t totally be sure of, and their contents are not widely studied. Yet these books remain important source documents, offering (among other things) the most detailed accounts of Hanukkah’s origin story. Some have even made the case that it might be meaningful to revive the celebration of Nicanor’s Day. 

Read all of Taanit 18 on Sefaria.

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Priests were not allowed to serve in the Temple while intoxicated, so the families on duty were forbidden from drinking during their 24 hours of service. The rest of the watch could drink at night, but were prohibited from doing so during the day, in case their help was needed.

Today’s daf suggests that these rules should be in effect in perpetuity:

Any priest who knows his priestly watch and the watch of his family, and he knows that the family of his forefathers was established as fit for the Temple service, it is prohibited for him to drink wine that entire day. 

In the case of a priest who knows his priestly watch and does not know the watch of his family, and he knows that the family of his forefathers was established as fit for Temple service, it is prohibited for him to drink wine that entire week.

If he does not know his priestly watch or the watch of his patrilineal family, but he knows that the family of his forefathers was established as fit for temple service, he is prohibited to drink wine that entire year.

In other words, if you know you are from a family that served in the Temple, you cannot drink during your week of service on the specific day to which your family was assigned. If you do not remember which day that was, you cannot drink for the entire week. And if you don’t know the week to which your ancestors were assigned, you can’t drink all year. 

While logic is often the foundation of talmudic arguments, this one also appears to rest upon hope. As the sages explain:

May the Temple be speedily rebuilt, and we will require a priest who is fit for the Temple service, and there will be none available.

It is reasonable to assume that the reconstruction of the Temple would take longer than it does to sober up. Yet the rabbis want us — or more specifically, the priests who would be called into service — to be ready, just in case. So they forbid priests from drinking when their family was to have served, and if they can’t remember when that was, they have to take a pass all of the time.

Lucky for the priests who enjoy a sip of scotch from time to time, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi has a different perspective. 

What can I do? His misfortune is his advantage.

What does this mean? 

As Rashi explains, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi acknowledges that not only has it been more than a century since the Temple was destroyed, but it does not appear that the Temple will be rebuilt anytime soon. As a result, the priests will not soon be called back to duty. While this is unfortunate for them, their misfortune has a silver lining: There is no need to preserve the prohibition on alcohol. And so, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi sees no other option than to allow priests to drink.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi offers a pragmatic approach. While he, like his colleagues, longed for the restoration of the Temple service, he was not willing to ban priests from drinking on the basis of hope in an improbable future. While the opinion of the sages is grounded in logic, it’s a bit far-fetched. Ultimately, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s more reasonable opinion becomes the law.

Read all of Taanit 17 on Sefaria.

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Rabbi Zeira said: At first, when I saw the sages place burnt ashes upon the Ark, my entire body trembled.

It is often difficult to access the emotional qualities of ancient rites, but Rabbi Zeira offers us a glimpse. A public calamity would have been exceptionally terrifying. If rains did not come, if wars did not end, people would surely die. The rituals of the fast were designed to visually represent the mortal peril the entire community faced. At these times, the Ark — the vessel that glorifies God and houses the sacred scripture — was turned into a humiliated public mourner. Such a reversal manifested the terrible danger the entire community faced.

Today’s page describes other measures that were used to direct God’s attention to the suffering of the people. For instance, they would sometimes visit the cemetery, signalling to God: “We are like the dead before you.” (There was also an idea that the dead might intercede with God on the community’s behalf.)

And then there were the rebukes. Once the community was gathered in the town square, their lives hanging in the balance, the elders of the community would begin to rebuke them for not behaving better. A beraita (early rabbinic teaching explains):

The sages taught: If there is an elder, then the elder says the admonition, and if not, a sage says the admonition. And if not, a person of imposing appearance says it. 

Ideally, these words of rebuke would come from an elder or scholar. But if there was no one of that stature available, a person of imposing appearance could achieve a similar effect. Rabbi Yehuda explains further that the person leading the prayers should be someone who was well regarded in their youth, attractive, humble and accepted by the people. In addition, it had to be someone who was familiar with songs and had a pleasant voice — an expert in reading the Torah, the Prophets and the Writings (also known collectively as the Tanakh). He also had to have studied midrash, halakhah and aggadah. And be an expert in all of the blessings. 

It is interesting to note that the qualifications for the role of “rebuker in chief” in a time of public emergency include both deep learning and experience, as well as what we might consider a more superficial characteristic of distinguished appearance. Someone with gravitas in the town square would have a better chance of prodding those assembled into the right frame of mind to do the work of repentance.

As a side note, we also happen to have preserved here an encapsulation of what the rabbis (or at least, Rabbi Yehuda) believed to be a well-rounded curriculum for a scholar. Such a person must be fully versed in all three parts of the Hebrew Bible (Torah, Nevi’im and Ketuvim) as rabbinic teachings, which are sorted into three categories — biblical interpretation, legal teachings and rabbinic teachings — and blessings.

Returning to the leader who would rebuke the people in the square — even more is required of this person. Beyond great learning and presence, he must have an enormous stake in the proceedings. Rabbi Yehuda says he must have children who are financially dependent on him and be unable to support them unless the rains come. In other words, his whole life — and that of his children — must ride on the success of this fast. This will, presumably, make it difficult to question his devotion to the somber task at hand. 

These requirements for the leader who can stand in the center of the square and rebuke the people so they repent and end the calamity were incorporated into Jewish law and handed down in the codes of Maimonides and Rabbi Yosef Caro as conditions of appointing a cantor. With later additional requirements of modest dress and a full beard, they are technically still in force today, even if in practice they are rarely followed.

Even if most Jewish cantors don’t regularly hold the lives of an entire congregation in their hands, we are reminded that their job requires far more than being able to render the prayers beautifully — their gravitas as communal leaders demands respect.

Read all of Taanit 16 on Sefaria.

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The mishnah itself is too long to quote in its entirety, but the basic framework is as follows: First, the Holy Ark would be brought into the public square, after which burnt ashes would be placed upon it and the heads of community leaders and then on the heads of the other members of the community. Next, an elder would recite biblical “verses of reproof,” followed by prayers that included an elongated Amidah with 24 blessings, including additional passages from the High Holiday liturgy. Then, with some exceptions, the fast would continue for the rest of the day.

An interesting question arises about the first of these requirements: bringing the Torah ark into the public square. Normally, the ark is kept in the synagogue. Broadcasting the calamity of drought by taking it out of the synagogue, setting it up in the town square and sprinkling it with ashes surely emphasized the gravity of the disaster. But a statement at the top of tomorrow’s daf suggests a deeper reason for this ritual.

And why do they remove the ark to the city square? Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: This is done as though to say: We had a modest vessel (which was always kept concealed) but it has been publicly exposed due to our transgressions. 

The 15th-century Italian commentator Bartenura expands on this idea: “The ark which the Torah scroll is placed in is a modest utensil which was despised by our sins. And why is it brought to the city street? To say, we cried out in private in the synagogue and we were not answered; we will despise ourselves in public in the city street.” 

As we have seen, the rabbinic view of droughts was that they were brought about not by natural climatic changes, but by the sins of the people. The response, as Tractate Taanit describes, was to decree a public fast. But if no rain had come even after several cycles of fast days, more drastic action was needed. 

The ritual of bringing the Torah out of the private enclave of the synagogue was one of these drastic actions, undertaken only after days of prior fasting had not brought the rains. It was a public acknowledgement that the community’s private prayers had failed. It was seen as an act of humiliation, the public exposure of an otherwise “modest vessel,” much as uncovering one’s head or other body parts might have been. That humiliation was furthered by putting ashes on the ark, on the leaders and on the congregants. 

These days, we no longer sprinkle ashes on a Torah ark during times of drought. But several times in the past decade alone, rabbinic leaders in Israel have called for public fasts, prayers and Torah readings in the face of extreme weather conditions. To be sure, today’s solutions to a lack of rain include scientific advancements that were beyond the rabbis, such as desalination and drilling for underground water sources. But fasting, prayer and public Torah readings continue to be practiced right alongside them.

Read all of Taanit 15 on Sefaria.

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During the years of Rabbi Yehuda Nesia there was a trouble. He decreed thirteen fasts, but he was not answered.

ThisRabbi Yehuda Nesia was Rabbi Judah HaNasi’s great-great-grandson and led the Jews of Roman Palestine at the turn of the fourth century.The daf doesn’t tell us what “trouble” the Jews were experiencing, but whatever it was, it was serious enough to impose six and a half weeks of communal fasting (fasts were held twice per week). Unfortunately, the trouble was not resolved.

He considered decreeing more. Rabbi Ammi said to him that they said: One does not trouble the community excessively.

Rabbi Ammi appears often as an advisor to Rabbi Yehuda Nesiah.Here he suggests more fasts would just add more trouble to an already troubled community. Unfortunately, the Gemara doesn’t tell us what Rabbi Yehudah Nesiah thought about Rabbi Ammi’s advice. 

However, the Gemara isn’t shy about telling us what another rabbi, Rabbi Abba son of Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba, thought of Rabbi Ammi’s advice. The Gemara immediately quotes him as saying:

When Rabbi Ammi acted, he did so on his own. Rather, Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said that Rabbi Yohanan said as follows: They taught only for rain. However, other types of calamities, they continue to fast until they are answered from Heaven. 

According to Rabbi Abba, Rabbi Ammi’s ruling was a minority opinion that contradicted the rabbis’ broader position.Rabbi Abba distinguishes between two types of fasts: climate-related fasts and fasts related to other problems, such as political persecution. Whereas the number of fasts that can be imposed for climate-related problems is limited, Rabbi Abba believes that the leaders of a community can impose unlimited fasts on their community in the face of other kinds of trouble. 

Now, the Gemara ultimately follows Rabbi Abba and the other rabbis in suggesting that a leader can decree an unlimited number of fast days in response to political or social problems, but only thirteen fast days in response to weather-related problems. Rabbi Ammi’s position is rejected and the medieval commentator Rashi goes further, suggesting that Rabbi Ammi just didn’t like fasting and so wanted it to end, undermining the idea that he held a legitimate halakhic position.

But why would the rabbis agree that only thirteen fast days may be held for weather-related problems? All you have to do is open any newspaper and you’ll see the devastating impact that hurricanes, storms and droughts can have on communities. So why is the number of fasts limited? Is Rabbi Abba saying that somehow climate-related problems are less important or less serious than other kinds of problems?

To answer this question, the Gemara cites an earlier statement by Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, who says that in the case of weather-related fasting, a community can only observe thirteen fasts is because after that, “the time of the rainfall has passed.” Seasons change, and the time in which bountiful rain would be helpful is limited. After six and a half weeks of fasting (and keeping in mind that there must already have been weeks with no rain for a fast to be imposed in the first place), the moment has passed. 

Read all of Taanit 14 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on November 26th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The discussion actually started at the bottom of yesterday’s daf. Abaye lays out a precise routine for a community to follow when a fast day has been declared: 

Abaye said: From the morning until the middle of the day they examine the affairs of the town. From this point forward, for a quarter of the day they read from the Torah and the Prophets. From this point forward, they pray for mercy. 

According to Abaye, the community must first examine its own behavior, to see if their own behavior has caused the lack of rain. This examination takes up half the day. The next quarter of the day is spent reading from scripture. The last quarter of the day is spent in solemn prayer. Why in this order? The Gemara points to Nehemiah 9:3 which describes Israel following this same order when they rededicate themselves to the Torah:

“And they stood up in their place and they read in the book of the Torah of the Lord their God a fourth part of the day; and another fourth part they confessed, and prostrated themselves before the Lord their God.” (Nehemiah 9:3) 

Today’s daf points out that this order — examination, Torah, prayer — is a bit weird. After all, when you want something (for example, rain) why not start with prayer? Especially on a fast day, when your mind is likely to get fuzzier as the day goes on, shouldn’t you spend the sharpest part of the day in prayer? 

The Gemara rejects this possibility outright: “It should not enter your mind to say that!” To make its case, the Gemara then quotes from the Book of Ezra. A little context will be helpful here. 

When the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the First Temple, he exiled the ruling elite to Babylonia. When the Persian king Cyrus conquered Babylonia, he permitted Jews to return to the land of Israel and re-establish their own society there. The Book of Ezra describes the return of the Babylonian exiles from captivity, the efforts to rebuild the Temple, and the culture clashes which develop as the Jews try to establish a community in line with the Torah. One major point of tension that the book describes is the question of intermarriage. Ezra, one of the leaders of the community, was notified that some Jews had been marrying women from neighboring nations who were not related to the Jews and were not raised to worship God. When he heard this,“I rent my garment and robe, I tore hair out of my head and beard, and I sat desolate.” (Ezra 9:3) 

The author of the Book of Ezra thinks that this kind of intermarriage is an existential crisis, threatening the genealogical purity of Israel and the Jewish relationship with God. In the face of this crisis, Ezra assembles the people and goes through a very specific set of procedures:

“Then were assembled to me everyone who trembled at the words of the God of Israel due to the faithlessness of them of the captivity and I sat appalled until the evening offering. And at the meal-offering I arose from my fast, even with my garment and my mantle rent; and I fell on my knees and I spread out my hands to the Lord.” (Ezra 9:4-5)

To manage the existential problem at hand, Ezra begins by examining the problem, and only in the afternoon does he begin to pray. Likewise, says the Gemara, the first part of a fast day is spent in communal reflection, determining if the community has done something to merit divine punishment. Only after that process does the community turn to study and then finally prayer as the last part of the process.

Today’s Gemara stresses that communal introspection and taking responsibility are critical for the success of a fasting campaign. Only after the community has examined the problem and tried to fix it do they turn to Torah study and finally prayer. 

The take away is this: Want to maximize your community’s chance of divine forbearance? Remember that God forgives those who root out communal problems and atone before they even begin to pray.

Read all of Taanit 13 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on November 25th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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