Chapter 1

The megillah is read on the 14th of Adar in most towns, but in cities that were walled in the time of Joshua, it is read on the 15th. The reason is that most Jewish communities in the Persian empire beat back their would-be killers on the 14th, but in the capital Shushan it took an extra day. As we learn at the start of this chapter, the sages at one time allowed for early megillah readings on the market day that falls before the 14th or 15th of Adar as well. This chapter also discusses what constitutes a city walled in the time of Joshua. 

The megillah may not be read on Shabbat, for fear that someone might carry it on the day of rest, but fortunately the Jewish calendar has been fixed so that the 14th of Adar cannot coincide with Shabbat. The 15th of Adar, however, can fall on Shabbat and in such cases cities that were walled in the time of Joshua read megillah a day early, on the 14th, with the rest of the Jewish world.

This chapter also details the obligations of creating a festive meal, giving gifts and charitable contributions — the other mitzvot of Purim.

Finally, chapter 1 explains that while the Scroll of Esther dates much later than the Torah, as do the purported events it reports, the rabbis understood the obligation to read the scroll aloud to fall under the Torah obligation to remember and blot out the name of Amalek, enemies of Israel for whom the Torah reserves a distinct hostility. The connection is the character of Haman, who is described as an Agagite, Agag being a descendant of Amalek.

Chapter 2

This short chapter describes some of the rules for composing a megillah, which should be written on a scroll like a Sefer Torah. It is also required that the megillah be read in its entirety on Purim — twice (both evening and morning).

Chapter 3

Turning now from the laws of Purim to those of public Torah readings, many positions in this chapter are likely familiar to regular synagogue attendees. On Shabbat, the Torah reading is divided into seven aliyot. On Monday and Thursday, the weekdays established for Torah readings (because they are ancient market days), the reading is only three aliyot in length.

We see also that there were debates about how exactly to read the Torah. In the land of Israel, it was read over a 3.5 year cycle, while in Babylonia it was read in a single year. (Today, some congregations read the entire Torah in a single year, and others have adopted a triennial calendar in which they read one-third of the Torah portion each week and hear the whole Torah over the course of three years.) Most weekday readings anticipate the portion that will be read on Shabbat, but on festivals special readings supersede the regular Shabbat reading.

Torah is read in a quorum of ten (minyan) and ritual readings are preceded and concluded with special blessings. Initially, it was one blessing before the entire set of aliyot and one after, but then it was changed so that there were blessings bracketing every aliyah. The person who reads the Torah must be someone who upholds the dignity of the congregation. This is the reason that, for much of Jewish history, women did not read Torah publicly. However, the reasoning here has also allowed for reinterpretation by some Jewish groups in recent decades. 

The sages also instituted that some portions of the Torah are to be read but not translated, as they were considered dangerous without expert interpretation.

Chapter 4

This chapter gives us a window into the ancient synagogue. It tells us that a synagogue, a place where Jews join together for prayer and study, is an inherently sacred place — though not as sacred as the Torah scrolls it houses. Because of this sanctity, selling the synagogue is a complicated procedure, though not impossible.

This chapter also discusses the four special Torah portions which are read in the month of Adar, portions which anticipate the holidays of Purim (which takes place midway through Adar) and Passover (which begins two weeks after Adar ends, on the 14th of Nisan). These portions describe (1) the collection of shekels for the Temple (which was done in Adar — see Tractate Shekalim), (2) the obligation to remember Amalek (which anticipates Purim), (3) preparations for Passover, and (4) the ritual of the Red Heifer. The Gemara then also discusses the special Torah portions read on other festivals throughout the year — with some wiggle room.

The chapter concludes with rules for physically managing a Torah scroll: rolling, dressing and pointing (without touching), which must all be done with the utmost care and respect.

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Perhaps most importantly, one should never touch the parchment of the Torah scroll directly. As Rabbi Parnakh rather sternly reminds us, in the name of Rabbi Yohanan, one who places grubby fingers directly on the Torah scroll will be “buried uncovered.” It’s an arresting image — the idea that one who touches the parchment will, when the time comes, be shunted naked into the grave, without the dignity of a shroud.

If there is a single image we usually associate with the Torah scroll, it is the etz hayim, the Tree of Life. Counterintuitively, this teaching compares the Torah scroll to a human corpse — fragile and defenseless, requiring the utmost care and respectful handling. (Unsurprisingly, other sages immediately suggest that we should read this punishment metaphorically; that the person who touches the scroll is buried without the merit of mitzvot.)

Many of these rituals will look familiar to those who attend synagogue regularly. We always cover the Torah with a garment and touch the scroll with a yad, a special pointer, and we roll it carefully. Though in my synagogue, people usually roll the scroll from side to side rather than from front to back. 

We also chant the words of Torah when they are read aloud for the congregation. On today’s daf, we find a source for that practice as well:

And Rabbi Shefatya said that Rabbi Yohanan said: Concerning anyone who reads from the Torah without a melody or studies the Mishnah without a song, the verse states: “So too I gave them statutes that were not good …” (Ezekiel 20:25)

Notice that this applies not only to Torah, but also to the Mishnah, which is studied in a sing-song in many yeshivas. The Gemara does not tell us why the rabbis thought Torah should be chanted rather than spoken. Steinsaltz suggests that singing expresses fondness for the text, or that the tunes can be a helpful memory device. In a world where few people had access to written texts and their encounters with the holy word were largely auditory, it makes sense that a melody would help with memorization and parsing. Plus, it also serves to beautify the holy words.

If you are one of those people who cannot carry a tune or dreads singing in public, fear not, Abaye has your back. He immediately counters that the condemnatory verse from Ezekiel applies to Torah scholars who live in the same city and cannot get along, not someone who cannot or does not chant Torah. Those who were not blessed with singing talent are not condemned for it.

We’ll close our reading of today’s daf with a different voice — God’s voice. Again Rabbi Shefya teaches in the name of Rabbi Yohanan:

From where is it derived that one may make use of a bat kol (divine voice)? As it is stated: “And your ears shall hear a word behind you saying: This is the way, walk in it.” (Isaiah 30:21)

While the prophets heard God’s voice directly, the rabbis could only hear it one step removed, the “daughter” of God’s voice — a bat kol. Curious to know what it sounds like and how you can confirm it is real?

This applies only when one hears a male voice in the city, or when a female voice is heard in the fields. And when the voice repeats its message and says: Yes, yes. And also when the voice says: No, no.

The bat kol is distinguished by two features. First, it sounds different from other nearby voices. When one is in the fields, mostly populated by men, it sounds like a woman’s voice. When one is in the city, mostly teeming with women, it sounds like a man. The bat kol is also recognized by its firm repetition of the message, followed by an affirmative “yes, yes” or an emphatic “no, no.” 

Maybe we simple humans just need to hear things, especially divine messages, more than once. After all, as we learned in this tractate, the megillah is read twice on Purim, and the Torah is read three days of the week. All sacred texts are also read and studied over and over, year after year. And, of course, we end each tractate with the following blessing: Hadran alakh massechet megillah — We will return to you, Tractate Megillah.

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Today’s daf tells us something else: With ultimate power comes ultimate humility. How ultimate? We’re talking about God. 

Rabbi Yohanan said: Wherever you find the might of the Holy One, Blessed be He, you find his humility. This fact is written in the Torah, repeated in the Prophets, and stated a third time in the Writings.

Rabbi Yochanan notes that when the Hebrew Bible mentions God’s ultimate power and authority, the next verse in some way demonstrates God’s humility. And this is found in all three sections of the Hebrew Bible: Torah, Prophets and Writings. 

When we think about humility, we often think of people downplaying their accomplishments, having no need to brag. But the examples that Rabbi Yohanan now brings highlight a different aspect of the term: 

It is written in the Torah: “For the Lord your God is the God of gods and the Lord of lords,” (Deuteronomy 10:17) and it is written afterward: “He executes the judgment of the fatherless and widow.” (Deuteronomy 10:18)

It is repeated in the Prophets: “thus says the High and Lofty One that inhabits eternity, whose name is sacred,” (Isaiah 57:15) and it is written afterward: “In the high and holy place I dwell with him that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones” (Isaiah 57:15). 

It is stated a third time in the Writings, as it is written: “Extol Him who rides upon the clouds, whose name is the Lord,” (Psalms 68:5) and it is written afterward: “A father of the fatherless, and a judge of widows.” (Psalms 68:6)

In a world where land and wealth were largely held by men and passed down to men, the fatherless and the widow were particularly economically vulnerable — after all, if you don’t own land and land equals wealth, then you are dependent on the support of others. In these verses, the all-powerful God explicitly (and exclusively!) works on behalf of these vulnerable populations. Humility here isn’t a downplaying of God’s accomplishments but God’s commitment to justice for those who are vulnerable.

The editors of the Talmud bring this teaching of Rabbi Yohanan in connection with their discussion of which Torah readings and haftarahs are read on which holidays — the text from Isaiah 57 being the haftarah for Yom Kippur. This is the connective tissue which leads the editors to cite Rabbi Yohanan’s teaching about this verse. 

The medieval commentator Rashi suggests that the haftarah from Isaiah was chosen for Yom Kippur because it discusses both repentance and fasting. Of course, when we read the passage from Isaiah ourselves, we likely notice that the prophet actually rejects the efficacy of fasting, and argues instead that we need to commit ourselves to justice for the economically vulnerable:

No, this is the fast I desire:

To unlock fetters of wickedness,

And untie the cords of the yoke

To let the oppressed go free;

To break off every yoke. 

It is to share your bread with the hungry,

And to take the wretched poor into your home;

When you see the naked, to clothe him,

And not to ignore your own kin. (Isaiah 58:6-7)

This kind of commitment takes effort and profound empathy. Rabbi Yohanan’s teaching connects this commitment to the greatness of God. After all, with great power comes great responsibility, and with great might comes (or should come) great humility. 

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Shekalim (“shekels”) highlights the obligation of the Jewish people to contribute a half shekel to the Temple upkeep. Zachor (“remember”), read on the Shabbat before Purim, tells us to remember the villainy of Amalek, the biblical nation that attacked the Israelites in the wilderness after the exodus from Egypt. Parah (“cow”) describes the ritual of the Red Heifer, whose ashes are necessary for Temple purification rituals. And HaChodesh (“the month”), is read just prior to the beginning of the month of Nisan, when Passover occurs. 

On today’s daf, we learn about a dispute concerning the reading of Zachor:

The mishnah states: On the second (Shabbat of Adar, the Shabbat prior to Purim, they read the portion of) “Remember [Zachor] what Amalek did” (Deuteronomy 25:17–19). With regard to this, an amoraic dispute was stated: With regard to when Purim occurs on a Friday, Rav said: The congregation advances the reading of the portion of Zachor to the previous Shabbat. And Shmuel said: They defer it to the Shabbat following Purim.

To understand this disagreement, we need to remember that when the Gemara talks about Purim on a Friday, it has in mind Shushan Purim, the celebration of the holiday in walled cities that takes place a day later, on the 15th of Adar. If regular Purim falls on a Friday, Shushan Purim would then occur on Shabbat.

Why would that be an issue? To understand that, we need to look at the verses describing the observance of Purim toward the end of the book of Esther. There, we read this: “Consequently, these days are recalled and observed in every generation: by every family, every province, and every city. And these days of Purim shall never cease among the Jews, and the memory of them shall never perish among their descendants.” (Esther 9:28) 

Rashi comments on this passage that “commemorate” means reading the Book of Esther while “observe” means doing the other mitzvot integral to the holiday: enjoying a festive meal, giving and receiving gifts of food and giving charity to the poor. But Rav seems to read “commemorate” to mean reading Zachor. After all, the Hebrew word for commemorate, nizkarim, comes from the same root as Zachor; according to Jewish tradition, Haman, the villain of the Purim story, was a descendant of Amalek, so the reading of Zachor is in a way a commemoration of the Purim story. Therefore Rav maintains that the reading of Zachor must take place prior to Purim because commemoration is mentioned prior to observance in the verse from Esther. 

Shmuel, though, hangs his position on the fact that when Shushan Purim falls on Shabbat, the reading of the megillah takes place on the evening before, on the 14th (satisfying the commemoration piece) and the festive meal and giving of gifts take place on the 15th (satisfying the observance piece). Since commemoration has already occurred with the reading of the megillah, Shmuel has no issue with reading the additional commemorative passage of Zachor on Shushan Purim, even though it will be concurrent with rather than preceding the holiday.

The contradiction seems to be resolved, finally, as follows: 

Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said that Rabbi Abba said that Rav said: If Purim occurs on Shabbat, one advances and reads the portion of Zachor on the previous Shabbat, as Rav Nahman understood Rav’s opinion.

In other words, Rav’s argument wins the day.

Today, when Purim falls on Friday and Shushan Purim is on Shabbat, some parts of the holiday are deferred to Sunday in walled cities, prompting a three-day celebration in Jerusalem and other walled cities, with various aspects of the holiday marked on the 14th, 15th and 16th of Adar. But however the dates fall out, we read Zachor on the Shabbat preceding Purim everywhere, in both walled and unwalled cities, setting up our week just as Esther intended: first we remember, and then we celebrate.

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Today’s daf begins with a twofold exception to this rule: 

One interrupts Torah study to carry out the dead (for burial) and to escort a bride (to her wedding). They said about Rabbi Yehuda, son of Rabbi Elai, that he would interrupt his Torah study to carry out the dead (for burial) and to escort a bride (to her wedding). In what case is this statement said? Only where there are not sufficient (numbers of other people available to honor the deceased or the bride appropriately). However, when there are sufficient numbers, additional people should not interrupt (their Torah study to participate).

According to the initial teaching, one can take a break from learning Torah only to accompany a person to their burial or to their wedding. But the Gemara then narrows the ruling by stating that this is so only if there isn’t a crowd of sufficient size to honor the bride or the deceased. 

How many people are enough to provide honor at a funeral? (We’ll leave the question of the bridal procession for its turn in Tractate Ketubot.) As it turns out, the answer is a lot: 12,000 mourners and 6,000 shofar blowers (or possibly 12,000 mourners, of whom 6,000 are also blowing shofars). In the case of a Torah scholar who has died, that number increases to 600,000, or the number of men presumed to have assembled at the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.

And what if the deceased wasn’t just a scholar, but also a teacher? In that case, the Gemara notes:

For someone who taught others, there is no limit (to the honor that should be shown to him).

So while the Gemara starts by saying that a student of Torah may only interrupt her studies to attend a funeral if she is needed to help swell the crowd, the numbers given for sufficient honor are so high that it would mean that one’s presence is presumably always necessary. If that’s the case, listing an actual number of required attendees hardly makes sense. So what’s really going on?  

A clue can be found in the moving manner in which Rav Sheishet explains the significance of the number of 600,000:

As the Torah was given, so it should be taken away. Just as the Torah was given in the presence of six hundred thousand men, so too its taking should be done in the presence of six hundred thousand men.

In other words, the same honor that was provided when the Torah was given at Mount Sinai should be provided when the Torah is taken through the passing away of a Torah scholar.

In his Daf Shevui commentary, Rabbi Joshua Kulp, commenting on an identical passage in Ketubot 17b, writes: “It sounds to me like what these rabbis are basically saying is that there is no such thing as ‘enough’ people at a funeral procession. At the conclusion of this passage, the soul is compared with the giving of the Torah — just as the Torah was given in front of 600,000 people, so too the soul, the inner Torah, should be taken away in the presence of 600,000 people. This is a beautiful image — our neshamot [souls], our inner spirits and life force, are our own personal Torah.”

If an individual’s soul contains an entire Torah, then perhaps setting aside one’s studies to attend a funeral isn’t pausing Torah learning so much as it is turning one’s attention to a different “passage” — that of a person from their earthly life. The day of burial is a unique opportunity to pause our Torah in exchange for the opportunity to learn their Torah — the lessons borne of a person’s life that remain after their soul has returned to its creator. And so inspired, we can then return to our own learning. 

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Today’s daf presents the cases of rabbis who were known for living until they were very old. Each rabbi explains why he was so blessed. 

Rabbi Nehunya ben Hakana was asked by his disciples: Why were you blessed with longevity? He said to them: In my days, I never attained veneration at my fellow’s degradation. Nor did my fellow’s curse go up with me upon my bed. And I was openhanded with my money.

Rabbi Nehunya bar Hakana explains what he views as his life-extending virtues: He was careful never to trample others for his own esteem, and he always solved interpersonal conflicts immediately — as the adage has it, he didn’t go to bed angry. He was also generous with his resources, which the Gemara explains as never asking for change in the marketplace. 

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korha also merited long life, as we learn in this humorous exchange:

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi asked Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korha: Why were you blessed with longevity? He said to him: Why do you ask me, are you wearied of my long life? Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi said to him: My teacher, it is Torah and so I must learn it. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korha said to him: In all my days I never gazed at the likeness of a wicked man.

An old and apparently charmingly self-deprecating Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korha ascribes his good fortune to shunning those who are evil. But later in the Gemara, we learn that he actually has mixed feelings about living so much longer than many of his peers — offering us a chance to meditate on the difficulties of living an exceedingly long life. He blesses his student Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and prays for his life to be only half as long — explaining that the old must pass away to make room for the younger generations. Perhaps his query — are you wearied of my long life? — was more in earnest than playful jest. If long life is the reward for righteousness, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korha thinks it’s actually a rather mixed blessing.

Another sage, Rabbi Zeira, cites other virtues as the source of his good fortune to grow quite old:

Rabbi Zeira was asked by his disciples: Why were you blessed with longevity? He said to them: In my days, I was never angry inside my house. Nor did I ever walk ahead of someone who was greater than me. Nor did I meditate upon words of Torah in filthy alleyways. Nor did I walk four cubits without Torah or without tefillin. Nor did I sleep in a study hall, neither a deep sleep or a brief nap. Nor did I rejoice when my fellow stumbled. Nor did I call my fellow by his derogatory nickname (hanikhato). And some say: by his nickname (hakhinato).

On the one hand, we can read these aged rabbis’ statements as offering us a list of meritorious behaviors that will lead to a long life: respect for Torah, a commitment to mitzvot and a profound commitment to honoring our fellow human beings. We can create a checklist and make sure that we are crossing each of these actions off of it, to ensure our own long lives. 

On the other hand, it doesn’t take a prophet or sage to look around the world and see that in fact lots of people who perform all of these things still die tragically young. The Amora Rami bar Hama, renowned for his wisdom and ethics — he opposed gambling (Sanhedrin 24b) and forcing one’s wife into relations (Eruvin 100b); he also championed orphans (Gittin 37a) — famously died young (see Bava Batra 12b and Berakhot 47b). In the latter of those two citations, the rabbis desperately cast about for a reason. I wouldn’t go so far as to agree with Billy Joel, but looking at the world makes it clear that righteousness just doesn’t promise long life. So what are we to make of these rabbis’ statements? 

Whether or not the rabbis can offer us a guide to a long life, their statements offer us a model for how to live a kind life — not getting ahead at the expense of others, not calling people by derogatory nicknames, not taking more honor than we have earned, respecting and honoring the Torah, being generous with our money. Today’s daf suggests that, at the very least, those are the things that make life worth living. 

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Today, the Gemara entertains a question that sounds like it comes straight from the smart aleck in the back of the classroom: Oh yeah? What if you want to use the proceeds from the sale of a Torah scroll to buy another Torah scroll? What then?

The question isn’t as snarky as it might sound (or as I rendered it to sound). On the one hand, we have the general rule we learned yesterday, that proceeds from the sale of a sacred item can only be used to buy items of greater sanctity. Since there’s no object more sacred than a Torah, buying a Torah with proceeds from the sale of another Torah would violate that rule. But maybe since the rule is impossible to follow in this case, a Torah should be an exception. After all, what else could a community do with the proceeds from the sale of a Torah? If the answer is nothing, that would imply that selling a Torah scroll is itself impermissible.

The Gemara makes a few efforts to resolve the dilemma and rejects each one in turn. We won’t review them all, but here’s one to give you a flavor. 

Come and hear a resolution to this dilemma: As Rabbi Yohanan said in the name of Rabbi Meir: A Torah scroll may be sold only if the seller needs the money in order to study Torah or to marry a woman.

The Gemara attempts to infer from Rabbi Meir’s teaching that selling a Torah scroll to buy another scroll is permitted. The logic here is that since, per Rabbi Meir, one kind of Torah (the scroll) can be exchanged for another kind of Torah (Torah study), it should be allowed to sell one scroll to purchase another. But the Gemara rejects this logic. Perhaps Torah study is only in a special category because study is what leads to the fulfillment of the commandments. Ergo, we cannot conclude from Rabbi Meir’s teaching that selling a scroll to buy another scroll is permitted. 

That marks the Gemara’s final attempt to resolve the matter. What comes next is its last word on the subject: 

On the same topic, the sages taught: A person may not sell a Torah scroll, even if he does not need it. Furthermore, Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said: Even if a person has nothing to eat, and out of his need he sold a Torah scroll or he sold his daughter to be a maidservant, he never sees a sign of blessing (from the proceeds of either sale). 

The Gemara’s bottom line is that Torah scrolls should never be sold. And if you have to because you’ll starve to death otherwise — recall: selling a Torah scroll is not one of Judaism’s three cardinal commandments that one is required to die rather than transgress — the sale will not lead to blessing. In fact, it’s tantamount to selling one’s own child into servitude. 

Interestingly, Rabbi Meir’s position is generally understood to be the rule today. According to the Shulchan Aruch, selling a Torah scroll is prohibited except to support Torah study or to marry off orphans. There may be more leniency with respect to a privately owned Torah, but even then some say that it may only be sold except for these two cases. Maimonides goes even further, writing that these two exceptions apply only if the seller has nothing else to sell. 

It’s surely no surprise to see that, for the ancient rabbis, Torah was of supreme importance — an importance reflected not only in their dedication to its study, but also in their reverence for the scroll itself. So if you do plan on buying a Torah scroll someday, be forewarned: It’s probably going to be with you for life. 

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Residents of a town who sold the town square may purchase a synagogue with the proceeds of the sale. If they sold a synagogue, they may purchase an ark (in which to house sacred scrolls). If they sold an ark, they may purchase wrapping cloths (for the sacred scrolls). If they sold wrapping cloths, they may purchase scrolls (of the Prophets and the Writings). If they sold scrolls (of the Prophets and Writings), they may purchase a Torah scroll.

According to the mishnah, a community may sell something sacred and use the proceeds only to purchase something of greater holiness. But as the mishnah further describes, the proceeds from a sale of a Torah scroll may not be used to purchase scrolls of the Prophets and the Writings, which are of lesser sanctity. The rule of thumb is a community may use money from the sale of an object to buy something of more significance, but not less.

This mishnah deals with the relatively prosaic question of a synagogue selling off its assets amidst a period of change — moving from one location to another, say, or maybe even closing down. However, these rules also raise a larger question about the nature of holiness itself. 

The Torah appears to generate the initial holiness. Objects decline in stature as they move outward from the Torah: wrappings that directly touch the Torah scrolls, followed by the ark that houses them, then the synagogue building itself, and finally the town square. This last item, the town square, is the most interesting on the list. Why can’t a city sell a public square and use the funds to build a park? Only a synagogue can be built with the proceeds?

The Gemara immediately raises this very question. The position in the mishnah, we are told, is that of a single rabbi, Rabbi Menahem bar Yosei, who believes that since people sometimes pray in the town square, it is a sacred place. The majority of rabbis disagree and maintain that since the town square is only occasionally used for prayer, consequently it has no sanctity.

This debate provides us a fascinating insight into the powers that create holy space. The rabbis maintain that only a place where people come to pray day in and day out has the power to constitute holy space. But Rabbi Menahem bar Yosei disagrees, citing two particular times when the town square is used for prayer to justify his position. 

The first is public prayer during communal fasts, which were declared when there was not enough rain. Held in public, passersby joined who might not usually enter the synagogue. The anxiety of impending drought engendered the most intense of prayers. And the outdoor setting created a direct line of sight to the heavens. Presumably, these gatherings had a degree of heartfelt communication with the divine that was more elevated than normal prayers.

Rabbi Menahem bar Yosei also mentions the non-priestly watches. We’ve learned about these before. Every town had an appointed day when it was responsible for providing the Temple with the daily sacrifice. On those days, the townspeople would go into the streets and pray at the time of offering. Here, the town square enables a sacred connection that defies distance, linking the community to events in the Temple.

While the first side of our daf treats holiness, once generated, as everlasting, like an invisible force that can’t be left untended and must be properly directed, on the second half of the daf we learn something very different:

Rava said: They taught (that there is a limitation on what may be purchased with the proceeds of the sale of a synagogue) only when the seven representatives of the town (who were appointed to administer the town’s affairs) had not sold the synagogue in an assembly of the residents of the town. However, if the seven representatives of the town had sold it in an assembly of the residents of the town, then even to drink beer with the proceeds seems well and is permitted. 

According to Rava, if a community unanimously decides to sell a synagogue, they may buy anything, even booze, for there is no lasting holiness inherent within walls or funds. At the end of the day, holiness inheres in the community and lasts within the synagogue only while a community continues to think of a place as holy. When a community gathers to learn and pray, their spiritual force is present and tangible in the synagogue building. But if it chooses as a group, it may disband the community or transition to a new location with no lingering holiness to steer.

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The Talmud discusses three categories of biblical text: sections that are read and translated, sections that are read but not translated, and sections that are neither read nor translated. By “read,” the Talmud means read out loud in a public forum. In ancient times, public Torah readings included a meturgaman, a person who translated the Hebrew text into the vernacular. But according to the rabbis, not every word of the Bible needs to be publicized to the masses.

The rabbis were not heavy censors. The first category, texts read aloud and translated, encompasses almost everything in the Bible. But, the rabbis comment, some sections that are singled out for public translation might have reasonably fallen into one of the more limited categories. One of these is the story of creation. But isn’t it obvious, asks the Gemara, that creation should be read out loud? What is the potential issue? 

Lest you say that people will come to ask: What is above and what is below? What was before creation and what is after?

The Talmud explains that we might have thought that translating this section would invite difficult questions about the origins of the universe — questions that are better not asked. (Yes, despite their enthusiasm for asking questions, the rabbis do have limits.)

Another example is the story, related in chapter 19 of Genesis, in which Lot’s daughters, having witnessed the destruction of their home city and now hiding in a cave with no potential suitors, have sexual relations with their father in a misguided effort to continue his lineage. One might have thought that since Lot is Abraham’s nephew, the story would bring shame to the Jewish patriarch. But the Talmud assures us that Abraham’s reputation is not soiled by association.

However, there’s no getting around the fact that the story of the Golden Calf does bring shame to Israel. Nonetheless, it is both read and translated, despite this fact — at least in part. (The second half of the story, in which Aaron recounts the events, is not translated.) Indeed, argues the Talmud, we intentionally translate it so that our collective shame can lead to atonement.

The second category comprises sections that are read out loud but not translated. One of these is the story of Reuven, who has sex with his father’s concubine. A more surprising inclusion is the priestly blessing. The Talmud explains that we do not translate the priestly blessing for fear that listeners might interpret it as divine favoritism shown toward God’s chosen people. The rabbis themselves may indeed have understood these verses as divine favoritism, but there’s no need for other nations to resent the Jews for it.

The final category is sections that are neither read nor translated. The result is what we refer to as a kri/ktiv — words in the Bible that are read (kri) differently than they are written (ktiv). Most of these are grammatical in nature, such as a word written in the plural but read in the singular because the latter simply makes more sense in context. (For example, Exodus 32:19 reads “[Moses] hurled the tablets from his hand” which is changed, when read, to “from his hands.”) But some are words that the rabbis considered too crude for the average ear. Torah readers may be familiar with some of these examples, which are still adhered to, including replacing the word yishgalena (“he revealed her”) with the more gentle yishkavena (“he slept with her”) (Deuteronomy 28:30) and replacing the word afelim with tehorim, a more palatable term for hemorrhoids (Deuteronomy 28:27).   

The rabbis seem to be implying that the better versed you are in the Bible, the less likely you are to be offended by it. But they’re really protecting the text more than they’re protecting the people. They see a danger in people jumping to conclusions about the whole while only having familiarity with the part. And so instead of trusting that people can handle the truth, the rabbis fall back on the idea of hamavin yavin: those who know, know. And those who don’t know, don’t need to.

Read all of Megillah 25 on Sefaria.

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These words are said as part of the blessing that precedes the recitation of the Shemaduring the weekday morning service. As we learned in Tractate Berakhot (9b), the ideal time to say this blessing coincides with the rising of the sun as a new day opens and the world is filled with light.

As part of a discussion about the qualifications that make one eligible to lead the blessings of the morning service, a mishnah on our daf presents the following makhloket (difference of opinion):

One who is blind may recite the introductory prayers and blessing before Shema. 

Rabbi Yehuda says: Anyone who has not seen the luminaries — the sun, moon and stars — in his life may not recite the introductory prayers and blessing before Shema.

Must one have the ability to see the heavenly bodies through which God brings light to the Earth in order to be able to recite these words on behalf of the community? Rabbi Yehuda says yes, the Tanna Kamma (the anonymous first opinion) says no.

Rabbi Yehuda’s opinion, which would exclude people blind from birth from saying this prayer, is challenged in a beraita (another early source not found in the mishnah):

Many have seen enough with their mind to expound upon the divine chariot, although they have never actually seen it.

The first chapter of Ezekiel describes the prophet’s vision of God’s supernatural chariot, a touchstone for early Jewish mysticism that is discussed at length in many ancient Jewish texts. This beraita points out that plenty of people who have never witnessed the divine chariot with their own eyes still provide commentary on it. So why should one be required to have sight in order to lead blessings extolling God’s creation of light?

Rabbi Yehuda responds by doubling down on his view: Blessings about the sun are different. While anyone can derive insight from Ezekiel’s heavenly vision, only those who actually benefit from God’s light can lead the blessing praising it. Since the blind do not make use of the light, he argues, they are not eligible to lead the blessing.

Rabbi Yehuda’s view is not the final word on this matter as the Gemara cites another beraita in the name of Rabbi Yosei:

All of my life I was troubled by this verse, which I did not understand: “And you shall grope at noon as the blind man gropes in the darkness.” (Deuteronomy 28:29) I was perplexed: What does it matter to a blind person whether it is dark or light? He cannot see in any event, so why does the verse speak about a blind man in the darkness?

I continued to ponder the matter until the following incident occurred to me: I was once walking in the absolute darkness of the night, and I saw a blind man who was walking on his way with a torch in his hands. I said to him: My son, why do you need this torch if you are blind? He said to me: As long as I have a torch in my hand, people see me and save me from the pits and the thorns and the thistles.

Rabbi Yosei reminds us that each of us benefits from the world in our own way. Those who do not have the ability to see light with their own eyes can still benefit from the vision of others. And so, they too should be able to take their turn in blessing God for the gift of the light that sustains us.

May the light of Rabbi Yosei’s teaching brighten the worldview of Rabbi Yehuda and inspire us to build a world in which everyone is given an opportunity to lead the community in prayer and express gratitude for the unique way in which they experience the glory of God.

Read all of Megillah 24 on Sefaria.

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The sages taught: All people count toward the quorum of seven readers, even a minor and even a woman. However, the sages said that a woman should not read the Torah, out of respect for the congregation. 

The discussion quickly moves on, but this principle continues to effectively preclude Jewish women’s participation in Torah readings in most Orthodox communities, where only men are called to the Torah to receive an aliyah. This prohibition is not on account of Jewish law, which clearly permits women to be called to the Torah, but because of the elusive principle of respect for the congregation — k’vod tzibur in Hebrew. 

What then is k’vod tzibur?The phrase is mentioned in just a few places in the Talmud in connection with Torah readings. Sometimes it simply refers to not inconveniencing the congregation. In Tractate Yoma (70a), we learn that one may not furl a Torah scroll in public due to k’vod tzibur. In Tractate Sotah (39b), we find a teaching that bars a prayer leader from removing the covering of the ark in public for the same reason. 

Both these actions are disallowed because they would keep the congregation standing for an uncomfortably long time. Perhaps having a woman called to read Torah would occasion a similar inconvenience, as the men would have to wait as a woman made her way from the women’s section, or even from outside the synagogue, to the Torah. 

But in other places in the Talmud, k’vod tzibur has a different connotation. On tomorrow’s daf, for instance, we find this teaching: 

What is the reason that a minor whose limbs are exposed may not read the Torah? It is due to respect for the congregation. 

And in Tractate Gittin, we find this teaching:

Rabba and Rav Yosef both say: One does not read from chumashim in the synagogue out of respect for the community. 

These latter examples suggest that k’vod tzibur has less to do with convenience and more to do with the dignity of the community as it gathers to read the Torah. But why would women’s participation in the Torah reading detract from that dignity? A number of early commentators suggest that women reading Torah indicates that the men of the congregation are not able to read Torah for themselves. 

Today, most Orthodox congregations continue to give aliyot only to men, while other Jewish denominations offer them equally to women. In recent years, however, some Orthodox rabbis have allowed women to participate in the Torah reading through the context of partnership minyanim, a style of prayer service that seeks to maximize women’s participation within the confines of Orthodox Jewish law.

Their rationale is that k’vod tzibur is either a relative concept and is thus culturally adaptable, or it can be relinquished by the community. Rabbi Daniel Sperber, a prominent Orthodox rabbi and winner of the Israel Prize, has written that Orthodox synagogues that are ready for such changes within a halachic framework must balance k’vod tzibur with the more salient Jewish value of k’vod habriyot, or human dignity, a concept we encountered earlier in this tractate, on Megillah 3. In his view, k’vod tzibur is a loose category that might be waived or changed as sensibilities evolve. But human dignity is a central Jewish value. 

In an age when a woman can be a prime minister or president, many would argue that it’s no longer undignified for a woman to have an aliyah. For many women, participating in the Torah reading increases their feeling of dignity and religious fulfillment and should be allowed — k’vod tzibur notwithstanding.

Read all of Megillah 23 on Sefaria.

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As regular synagogue goers will know, a long portion of the Torah is read on Shabbat mornings and is divided between seven aliyot. But on Monday and Thursday mornings and Shabbat afternoons, a shorter section of the Torah is divided among three aliyot. As a general rule, each aliyah must be at least three verses long. On today’s daf, the rabbis consider what to do if there aren’t enough verses in the reading to ensure that each aliya is long enough. Predictably, the rabbis disagree.

Rav said: The second reader repeats the last verse that the first reader had recited, so that each of them reads three verses. And Shmuel said: The first reader divides the third verse and reads half of it, and the second reader begins with the second half of that verse, as though each half were its own verse.

Today, the common practice is for the person called to the Torah to recite two blessings and for a Torah reader to do the chanting from the scroll. But in talmudic times, those called to the Torah did the chanting themselves, which is why the Gemara here refers to them as “readers.” According to Rav’s opinion, if there aren’t enough verses to go around, the second reader repeats the last verse read by the first reader. Shmuel says the two readers split the verse between them.

What is the basis of this dispute? The Gemara tell us: 

He [Rav] holds that any verse that Moses did not divide, we may not divide. 

Although the written Torah does not indicate when individual verses begin and end, we have a tradition from Moses that indicates these starting and stopping points. Rav says we may not deviate from this tradition.

There is one exception, though: when we are teaching schoolchildren:

Didn’t Rabbi Hananya Kara say: I had great distress with Rabbi Hanina the Great; (there were many times I had to ask his permission to divide a verse), and he permitted me to divide it only for the benefit of schoolchildren, since they need to be taught in this manner.

If this passage sounds familiar, it’s because we encountered it verbatim just a few weeks ago, on Taanit 27. Throughout our study of Daf Yomi, we will find similar repetitions when a passage making a point in one place is used to make a similar point in another. Both in Taanit and here, the discussion centers around splitting up Torah verses. A specific exception to the prohibition against doing so is granted when teaching children. Rashi affirms that the reason for allowing students to divide verses is to assist them in their learning. 

Jewish tradition is rife with examples of creating learning environments that allow children to succeed in their studies. Here, we allow for division of otherwise indivisible verses. In Tractate Pesachim, we learn how to create a child-friendly seder. In Pirkei Avot, we learn about ideal teacher-student relationships. And it’s no wonder — Jewish learning is the key to perpetuating Jewish tradition. 

The models of Jewish teaching and learning showcased throughout the Talmud bring examples of ideal pedagogy employed to ensure student success. Breaking up content into shorter segments so that schoolchildren can learn without becoming overwhelmed with frustration is just one element of what teachers today would call best practices — and one that is still employed in our time.  

So, if you’re ever frustrated with mastering a long Torah reading, just do what the Talmud suggests: Split the verses up into smaller portions while you’re learning them.

Read all of Megillah 22 on Sefaria.

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In the Gemara, the rabbis note that the first rule — that both standing and sitting are permitted for megillah reading — applies only to megillah reading. 

It was taught: This is not the case with regard to the Torah. The Gemara asks: From where are these matters derived? Rabbi Abbahu said: It is as the verse states: “But as for you, stand here with Me, and I will speak to you all the commandments and the statutes” (Deuteronomy 5:28), (which indicates that the Torah must be received while standing). 

The rabbis justify a tradition that sitting is not permitted for Torah study by citing a verse in Deuteronomy in which Moses, in the midst of his long recounting of the laws revealed at Sinai, quotes God telling him to “stand” with God (the word could also be translated as “remain”) and receive the Torah. On that basis, the rabbis hold that Torah should only be taught while standing. 

Of course, we know this is not the practice today — and probably wasn’t in the time of the rabbis either. Walk into any institution of Jewish learning, and people will be sitting around while studying. Indeed, as the Gemara will note shortly, the word for a school of Jewish learning is a yeshiva, whose root literally means sit (or dwell). And while it is the universal practice for the Torah reader to stand when chanting from a Torah scroll in the synagogue, in most communities the rest of the congregation remains seated. 

This discrepancy was not lost on the rabbis, who relate this teaching by way of explanation:

The sages taught: From the days of Moses until the time of Rabban Gamliel, they would study Torah only while standing. When Rabban Gamliel died, weakness descended to the world, and they would study Torah while sitting. And this is as we learned in a mishnah (Sota 49a): When Rabban Gamliel died, honor for the Torah ceased.

According to this tradition, Torah was in fact studied only while standing from the time of Moses until the death of Rabban Gamliel in the first century of the Common Era. But after Gamliel’s death, they just didn’t make Torah students like they used to. Scholars could no longer muster the strength to stand for long stretches as Moses did.

Except maybe Moses wasn’t standing either. The Gemara goes on to cite two verses from Deuteronomy, one of which confirms the earlier claim that Moses was standing when God taught him the Torah, and another which indicates the opposite. 

One verse says: “And I sat (va’eshev) on the mount” (Deuteronomy 9:9), and another verse says: “And I stood on the mount” (Deuteronomy 10:10).

So was Moses standing on Mount Sinai or sitting? The rabbis have a classic biblical contradiction on their hands, and they float a couple of possibilities to resolve it. Maybe Moses stood while God taught him, but sat while he reviewed his learning. Or maybe Moses was neither standing nor sitting but bowing. Or maybe yeshiva doesn’t mean sit in the strict sense, but merely to remain in place, which clearly Moses did for 40 days on Mount Sinai. Or maybe he studied only the easy parts of the Torah while standing and sat for the hard stuff. 

Whichever it is, the bottom line for the rabbis, and for us today, is clear: You can sit while you study Torah, whether learning new stuff or reviewing the old, whether difficult or hard. And maybe fortuitously for those of us who like to enjoy a beverage (or several) on Purim, while hearing the megillah too. 

Read all of Megillah 21 on Sefaria.

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The Gemara’s discussion of this question opens up an opportunity to think about rabbinic learning more generally by first offering an explanation and then a discussion of this question. First, the explanation: Why does the mitzvah to read the megillah have to be fulfilled during the day? The Talmud points to the Book of Esther, and the statement that the events there described be commemorated in future generations:

As the verse states: “And that these days should be remembered and kept” (Esther 9:28) — during the day, yes, at night, no. 

The verse says “days,” so the Talmud reasons the story must be recounted and read during the day. 

Next, the discussion. It turns out that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi had already taught that one must read the megillah both at night and during the day. How does that fit our mishnah’s insistence that it be read during the day? Maybe it doesn’t. 

Let us say that this is a conclusive refutation of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, as Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: A person is obligated to read the megillah at night and then repeat it during the day.

The mishnah was recorded before Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi lived, so perhaps he was wrong in disagreeing with this earlier teaching. The Gemara rejects this interpretation: 

When the mishnah teaches that (the megillah must be read during the day, it was only referring) to the daytime reading.

According to the Talmud, the mishnah teaches us only that the daytime megillah reading must take place after sunrise. The mishnah doesn’t discuss the nighttime reading at all – which doesn’t mean that it isn’t also a mitzvah, just that it isn’t relevant to the discussion of which mitzvot must be performed after sunrise. Both Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi and the author of our mishnah are correct. 

While this is a relatively simple discussion, it models something that has broad applicability for how we learn today. The Talmud first explains the reasoning behind the mishnah’s teaching before potentially complicating it. It makes sure we are all on the same page about what is happening and why before going deeper into how it fits with other teachings.

Those of you who are teachers are probably familiar with Bloom’s taxonomy. At its most simple, it’s a way of pedagogically ordering learning outcomes so that they build on each other in complexity while ensuring the development of critical thinking skills. Bloom’s taxonomy lists six levels of learning outcomes. First comes knowledge, followed by comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis and evaluation. 

The discussion on today’s daf models exactly this kind of learning. First, we are told a statement in the mishnah. Then we learn to comprehend it and apply our knowledge of the Book of Esther to it. And then we analyze it and synthesize it with other rabbinic teachings, before finally evaluating whether those connections are even relevant. Only then can we ensure no one is left behind in the process of learning.

Read all of Megillah 20 on Sefaria.

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They are:

Rabbi Meir: One must read the entire Megillah from beginning to end. We’ll call this the gantza megillah option.

Rabbi Yehuda: One must read from Chapter 2, Verse 5, which begins: “There was a certain Jew” — i.e. Mordechai. 

Rabbi Yosi: One must read from Chapter 3, Verse 1, which begins: “After these things.” 

Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai: One must read from Chapter 6, Verse 1, which begins: “On that night.” 

What the rabbis are really asking here is: What is the essence of the story? What pivotal moment of the plot is necessary in order to understand its essence? If I arrive late to the movie and don’t see the tornado hit Dorothy’s house, have I missed the key to The Wizard of Oz? 

In the Gemara, Rabbi Yochanan explains that all four opinions are actually based on a single verse from the megillah itself. It’s just that — surprise! — the four rabbis interpret that verse differently. The verse in question is Esther 9:29: “Then Esther the queen, the daughter of Avihail, and Mordechai the Jew, wrote about all the acts of power to confirm this second letter of Purim.”

The rabbis understand that acts of power are the central piece of the “second letter of Purim” — i.e. the megillah — without which one hasn’t fulfilled the obligation of reading it. But which acts of power are we talking about?

According to Rabbi Meir, the acts of power refer to King Ahasuerus, and thus the first chapter — which gives context to his reign – must be read. According to Rabbi Yehuda, they are Mordechai’s power, and therefore we must read from Mordechai’s first appearance in the story in Chapter 2. According to Rabbi Yosi, they refer to Haman, and therefore we must read from the beginning of Chapter 3, when the king promotes him to be his top advisor. And Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai maintains that the acts of power are about the miracles that lead to the reversal of the king’s decree against the Jews, which begins in Chapter 6 when Ahasuerus recalls that Mordechai was never rewarded for saving his life from an attempted coup. 

Rav Huna agrees with Rabbi Yochanan that all four sages are looking to a specific verse to determine how much of the megillah must be read, but he disagrees about which verse it is. According to Rav Huna, it’s from Chapter 9: “Therefore, because of all the words of this letter, and of that which they saw concerning this matter, and that which had befallen them, the Jews ordained that they would keep these two days.”

The Gemara goes on to flesh out which specific events are referred to by the phrases “this matter” and “that which had befallen them.” Was it the Babylonian exile? Haman making himself an object of worship? Mordechai’s refusal to bow to him? Or was it Esther inviting Haman and the king to a banquet, leading to her revelation that she is Jewish and consequently, the saving of the Jewish people?

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what “the matter” is — at least halachically. The law as it’s observed today goes according to Rabbi Meir, which means that we are obligated to read the megillah in its entirety. Interestingly, the Talmud points out that even those who think we only need to read part of the megillah agree that the megillah must be written in its entirety, with ink on parchment. In this sense, at least, everyone is on the same page — or shall we say pages — of the gantza megillah.

Read all of Megillah 19 on Sefaria.

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But today’s page of Talmud warns us against doing this. Have you ever thought about heaping more blessings of praise onto the nineteen blessings of the Amidah? Don’t, say the rabbis:

Declaring the praises of the Holy One, Blessed be God, beyond (the Amidah blessing) is prohibited.

Rabbi Elazar follows up this statement by citing Psalm 106:2, which rhetorically asks, “Who can utter the mighty acts of Adonai? Who can declare all God’s praise?” No one is capable of extolling God adequately for all that has been given, and so to even attempt it is not allowed. The Amidah, as scripted, must suffice.

Rabba bar bar Hanah joins the conversation stating that Rabbi Yohanan warned:

One who excessively declares the praises of the Holy One, Blessed be God, is uprooted from the world, as it is stated: “Shall it be told to him when I speak? If a man says it, he would be swallowed up.” (Job 37:20)

This creative reading of Job implies that a person would be swallowed up for the hubris of even implying that they were capable of expressing enough praise for all of the blessings God has brought forth.

Finally, the Gemara relates the words of Rabbi Yehuda (some say he was from Kefar Gibboraya and some say he was a man of Kefar Gibbor Chayil) who cited Psalm 65:2 which says “For You silence is praise,” which he understands to mean that it is better to praise God silently than aloud. To drive the point home, the Gemara shares an insight from Rav Dimi who says this is like a popular saying he knows of:

In the west, they say a word is worth a sela (coin), but silence is worth two! 

Sometimes overdoing praise is a mistake. The best way to give thanks when the usual channels have been exhausted is to be silent and hold unending gratitude in your heart. Silence is indeed golden, even when it comes to praising God beyond the requisite blessings of the Amidah.

Read all of Megillah 18 on Sefaria.

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We learn today that some of these same techniques were used to construct Judaism’s central prayer: the Amidah. The rabbis intentionally designed the Amidah — a cascade of blessings of praise, petition and gratitude — as a logical progression, with each blessing flowing from the next, or at least placed in a memorable position. This made the rhythm of prayer more natural, and made remembering the prayers easier. Or maybe it’s the reverse: Maybe the rabbis devised mnemonics to help people remember the order. It’s hard to say — see what you think!

The Amidah begins with three blessings of praise, which are built around the themes of patriarchs (avot), mighty deeds (gevurot) and holiness (kedushah) are each rooted in the opening of Psalm 29:

The sages taught:

From where is it derived that one says the blessing of the patriarchs? As it is stated: “Ascribe to the Lord, mighty ones.” (Psalms 29:1)

And from where is it derived that one then says the blessing of mighty deeds? As it is stated in the continuation of that verse: “Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.” (Psalms 29:1).

And from where is it derived that one then says the blessing of holiness? As it is stated in the next verse: “Give to the Lord the glory due to his name; worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.” (Psalms 29:2)

If you know Psalm 29 — and many people did memorize psalms then as now — you have a mnemonic to remember the first three blessings of the Amidah.

From there, the Amidah turns to a set of petitionary prayers, the first one asking for understanding (binah). Why is that? Again, it is biblical verses that suggest the progression, this time from two adjacent verses in Isaiah:

And why did they see fit to institute to say the blessing of understanding (Amidah blessing #4) after the blessing of holiness (Amidah blessing #3)? As it is stated: “They shall sanctify the Holy One of Jacob, and shall revere the God of Israel” (Isaiah 29:23), and adjacent to that verse it is written: “They also that erred in spirit shall come to understanding.” (Isaiah 29:24)

Likewise, another verse from Isaiah — “And they will understand with their heart, repent, and be healed” (Isaiah 6:10) — transitions us from the theme of understanding to repentance which is why — you guessed it — the fifth blessing of the Amidah is on the theme of teshuvah. 

You might suppose, based on that verse from Isaiah, that healing would come sixth in the order of blessings. After all, Isaiah says: understand, repent, be healed. But in fact, the sixth blessing of the Amidah asks for forgiveness and it is only the eighth blessing that asks for healing. The rabbis have a verse to explain that, too: Isaiah 55:7, which mentions repentance and then forgiveness. And really, this is a logical sequence all on its own as well.

After that, we learn that the seventh prayer of the Amidah is that of redemption (geulah), because the number seven features prominently with regard to the concept of redemption. As Rava explains:

Since the Jewish people are destined to be redeemed in the seventh year (of the sabbatical cycle), consequently, they fixed redemption as the seventh blessing.

The seventh year of the sabbatical cycle, the shmita year, is a year of release for the land — which is not farmed and allowed to rest — and for debts, allowing people to enter the next seven-year cycle with a clean slate. In keeping with this theme, Rava teaches, the ultimate redemption of the Jewish people will also come in the shmita year — and we will pray for it in the seventh blessing of the Amidah.

The eighth prayer of the Amidah is likewise remembered for its number. We pray for healing (refuah) in the eighth blessing because:

Rabbi Aha said: Since circumcision was assigned to the eighth day of life, and circumcision requires healing, consequently, they established healing as the eighth blessing.

And so on. We encourage you to explore the page to learn more. Nowadays, most of us don’t need these mnemonics to remember the order of the prayers — we can access the text in so many ways. But in antiquity, these may well have helped the Jewish people to all recite the Amidah in order — the same order that we use to this day.

Read all of Megillah 17 on Sefaria.

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Is there an exception for genocidal maniacs? Perhaps. Haman receives little appreciation today, but the Talmud finds a way of mitigating this gleeful attack by finding positive things to say about Haman’s entourage. We start with this verse:

And Haman recounted to Zeresh his wife and to all the people he loved everything that had befallen him. Then his wise men and Zeresh his wife said to him: “If Mordechai, before whom you have begun to fall, is descended from the Judeans, then you will not prevail over him, but you shall surely fall before him.” (Esther 6:13)

The rabbis, always close readers of text, note that at first Zeresh, Haman’s wife, is mentioned before his other “loved ones.” But then the text reverses the order, mentioning the “wise ones” first and Zeresh second. One way of understanding this is to suggest that Zeresh might have been beloved, but she was not wise. However, the Gemara has a different view of Haman’s advisors:

It calls them “his loved ones,” and in the continuation of the verse it calls them “his wise men.” Rabbi Yohanan said: From this we learn that whoever says something wise, even if he is from the nations of the world, is called a wise man.

Wisdom, it turns out, can exist among even the wicked nations. (Haman is thought to descend from the unforgivable Amalekite clan.) But, as the Book of Proverbs reminds us, wisdom is a path to righteousness. So can these wise advisees really be so wicked? Perhaps not. The Talmud reminds us that it was Zeresh who suggested that Haman build a scaffold to hang Mordechai on — not the wise advisors. The Talmud hereby acknowledges that there is indeed wisdom beyond the confines of the Jewish world — and perhaps even among the righteously reviled Amalekites. 

Moreover, the non-Jewish advisors are shown to be knowledgeable about Jewish history. Recall that they refer to Mordechai as a Judean, not a Jew. The word Judeanscan be used to refer to Jews, but it can also refer specifically to people descended from the tribe of Judah. As the rabbis explain, Haman’s wise men reasoned:

If Mordechai were descended from the other tribes, you could still prevail over him, but since he is from the tribe of Judah, Benjamin, Ephraim or Manasseh, you cannot prevail over him. 

How do the wise advisors know this? Because they can quote scripture:

Concerning Judah, the proof of this is as it is written: “Your hand shall be on the neck of your enemies.” (Genesis 49:8) 

This quotation is part of Jacob’s dying blessing to Judah at the end of Genesis, and it indicates that he will emerge victorious over his enemies. Therefore, Haman never stood a chance against a Judean. And the proof that Haman cannot prevail over the other three tribes mentioned?

As it is written about them: “Before Ephraim and Benjamin and Manasseh, stir up God’s anger might.” (Psalms 80:3)

As we can see, these advisors are not only wise and righteous, they are versed in Bible! Indeed, even their words are carefully chosen to reveal hidden meanings. As they say to Haman, going back to the verse where we started:

“But you shall surely fall (nafol tippol) before him.” (Esther 6:13)

Rabbi Yehuda bar Ilai interpreted this verse homiletically: Why the repetition of the word to fall? The wise men said to Haman: This Jewish nation is compared to the dust of the earth, and it is also compared to the stars in heaven. This teaches you that when they descend, they descend to the dust, and when they rise, they rise to the stars.

Haman’s wise advisors — in addition to being oriented toward greater good than we might expect and being able to quote the Bible — use the kind of rich language that conveys many layers of meaning. They double the word for falling (in the plainest sense of the verse, this is a grammatical device used purely for emphasis) to indicate just how far the Jews are capable of falling, as well as how high they can reach. If they err, they can descend to the dust. But if they choose what is right, the stars are quite literally the limit.

Read all of Megillah 16 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on December 28th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The sages begin by declaring that whatever else we can say about her, Esther was certainly beautiful — in fact, one of the most beautiful women in the world, as this teaching makes clear:

The sages taught, there were four women of extraordinary beauty in the world: Sarah, Abigail, Rahab, and Esther. 

Not all agree that Esther was a great beauty. In fact, this teaching, the Gemara quickly points out, contradicts an earlier statement (Megillah 13a) that Esther was green (like the iconic Wicked Witch?), meaning it must have been her sweetness and kindness that made her so attractive to Ahasuerus. So which is it? The Talmud suggests that if Esther was actually unattractive, as the one who stated she was green must believe, then she ought to be replaced in the list of four great beauties by Vashti, whom we also know was stunning (even if the rabbis were ambivalent about her for many other reasons, as we recently learned.) But it doesn’t resolve the dilemma.

Either way, Esther was certainly more than a pretty (or ugly) face, as the rabbis explain, citing this verse in which Esther trepidatiously prepares to enter the throne room of the king without an invitation: 

“And it came to pass on the third day, that Esther clothed herself in royalty” (Esther 5:1). 

It should have said: Esther clothed herself in royal garments (instead of just royalty).

Rabbi Elazar said, quoting Rabbi Hanina: This teaches that she clothed herself with a divine spirit.

Here, the rabbis have explicitly inverted the plain meaning of the megillah. A verse that suggests Esther dolled herself up in finery to please the king transforms the act of primping into something far more sacred: surrounding herself with a divine spirit. This Esther is certainly more than a dreamboat — she is both righteous and clever.

As is its wont, the Talmud goes on to quote other teachings that Rabbi Elazar espoused in the name of Rabbi Hanina, which also happen to stress the value of good character:

Rabbi Elazar said, quoting Rabbi Hanina: One should never regard the blessing of an ordinary person as unimportant in one’s eyes.

Rabbi Elazar said, quoting Rabbi Hanina: When a righteous man dies, the loss is felt by the rest of that generation. Similar to a man who has lost a pearl — wherever it is, it is still a pearl, only the owner is deprived. 

And one more:

Rabbi Elazar said quoting Rabbi Hanina: Whoever reports a saying in the name of the person who originally said it brings redemption to the world. As it is stated, “And Esther reported it to the king in the name of Mordechai” (Esther 2:22). 

Mordechai, those familiar with the story will recall, discovered the plot to assassinate Ahasuerus and quickly communicated it to Esther, who relayed it on to the king in the name of Mordechai. This chain of reporting led to Mordechai being elevated and, together with Esther, saving the Jews. In this way, we might say, reporting a teaching in the name of the person who first said it really did bring redemption.

What appears at first glance to be a scattershot list of teachings Rabbi Elazar brought in the name of Rabbi Hanina turns out to have more structure and coherence than these lists sometimes do. This last teaching, in particular, not only brings us full circle back to the megillah, but it preaches what it practices: always citing one’s sources.

Read all of Megillah 15 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on December 27th, 2021. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Those familiar with the Book of Esther will recall that after Haman hatches his genocidal plan to annihilate the Jews, he receives the ultimate sign of approval from Ahasuerus: The king removes his signet ring and hands it to his most trusted advisor. This act leaves no doubt about Haman’s authority, as Ahasuerus gives him his literal and figurative stamp of approval. 

This might not be the detail of the Purim story you remember best. Perhaps what sticks in your mind is the beauty contest Esther wins that earns her the title of queen, or the fasting she does in preparation to enter the king’s throne room, or the feast she throws for Ahasuerus and Haman where she reveals her true identity. Or maybe it’s when Mordechai refuses to bow to Haman, or when the king orders Haman to hang on the gallows constructed for Mordechai. But the rabbis understand this seemingly small act, of Ahasuerus transferring his signet ring to Haman, as not only a central element in the Purim story, but as an absolutely singular moment in the history of the Jewish people:

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana said: The removal of Ahasuerus’s ring was more effective than the 48 prophets and the seven prophetesses who prophesied on behalf of the Jewish people, as they were all unable to return the Jewish people to the right way, but the removal of Ahasuerus’s ring returned them to the right way.

This is a remarkable statement. Rather than view Haman’s elevation as a moment of tragedy in the Jewish saga, it is seen as a turning point, paving the way for the people to become better.

Various rabbinic authorities guess at who the 48 prophets are. (Today’s daf does list the seven prophetesses — ​​Sarah, Miriam, Deborah, Hannah, Abigail, Huldah and Esther — and describes their accomplishments). While there is disagreement about who makes the list of 48 male prophets, certain names appear everywhere: Moses, Aaron, Jeremiah, Isaiah and Ezekiel to name a few. But even these major league prophets, today’s daf suggests, were largely unable to convince the people to change their behavior and do right both by their fellow humans and God.

So why is this moment, when Haman receives Ahasuerus’ signet ring, more morally edifying than the prophesying of 55 of the most notable figures in the Tanakh?

The 16th century talmudist, kabbalist and philosopher Rabbi Judah Loew, better known as the Maharal of Prague, suggests that the transfer of the ring from Ahasuerus to Haman caused a crisis for the Jews because until that moment, they believed that God works through kings, for better or worse. Sometimes a king acts as an agent of punishment; other times, as an agent of redemption. 

But the passing of kingly authority to a singular individual represented a dramatic threat — one that was exacerbated by the fact that the individual is no friend of the Jewish people. No longer could the Jews be assured that God’s will, for their benefit or detriment, was being done through a king. It was now undeniable that history was in the hands of individuals. 

And this, says Rabbi Loew, was a key moment for the Jewish people. In the past, they had been able to ignore prophetic predictions and carry about their lives, trusting that things would work out according to God’s intention no matter what they did. But at the moment that Haman slipped Ahasuerus’ signet ring onto his own finger, they came to understand that individuals can make a significant impact on history — for better or much worse. But as dark as it was to contemplate that Haman could destroy the Jewish people against God’s will, the reverse was also possible: The Jewish people could assert control over their own destiny. And, as we know from the story, they did.

In the end, the rabbis suggest, the realization of crisis trumps the rhetoric of prophets. When we know and feel in our guts that it is in our hands to shift the course of history, we do not need a prophetic voice to encourage us. Ahasuerus passed the ring to Haman, and the people responded by repenting (in the rabbinic imagination), and then fighting their enemies. And we too as readers are reminded that we have the agency to make real historical change.

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