Chapter 1

This chapter is devoted to a discussion of which labors are permitted on hol hamoed and which are forbidden. In the opening mishnah, there is an analogy to the agricultural laws of the shmita (sabbatical) year. The underlying principle is that festivals are sacred occasions and should not be treated like ordinary work days, and onerous work that would ruin the experience of the festival is best avoided. At the same time, in a largely agrarian society, workers cannot neglect their fields during these pivotal times of year and certain kinds of labor that are not too onerous and/or are designed to prevent major financial loss are permitted. But difficult labors, especially those designed to significantly improve profits over what would normally be expected, are forbidden. The reason, at least in part, is to maintain the joy of the festival. The joy of the festival is also cited as the reason that priests do not examine people for tzaraat (leprosy) — so that they are not declared lepers during the joyous time of the festival. It is also ruled that one may not eulogize the dead during these days, which would dampen the joy of the festival, or get married, a celebration that would compete with the joy of the festival.

Chapter 2

This chapter continues the discussion about which labors are forbidden and which are permitted on the intermediate days of a festival. The sages determine that labor is permitted to prevent financial loss — even a small one. In addition, people may prepare meals (which, as we learned in Tractate Beitzah, is permitted even on the first and final days of the festivals), purchase food for the festival and even work to earn the money that will be used to purchase special food for the festival. Likewise, stores may open to sell food during this week, even food that is shelf stable and would not necessarily expire before the end of the festival. It is also permitted to perform labors that benefit the community during hol hamoed, though labors designed to simply enrich oneself are still forbidden.

Chapter 3

This chapter opens with a ruling that one whose circumstances did not allow them to “freshen up” ahead of the festival — enjoy a bath and a haircut — may do so on the intermediate days of the festival. 

The mention of those who are unable to obtain a haircut before the festival naturally leads into a discussion of those who are excommunicated or those who are just ostracized, a more lenient and temporary form of excommunication usually imposed on rabbis who refuse to accept majority rulings. The laws that attend both kinds of social isolation are discussed.

The latter part of this chapter is devoted to the halakhot of mourning. Here we find rules about eulogizing, kria (tearing one’s clothes as a sign of mourning), meals made to comfort mourners, learning Torah while mourning, degrees of mourning, length of mourning, and the rules for mourning a death that took place a long time ago but which one has only recently learned of.

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Yesterday, when the rabbis asked whether death was painful, Rava reported, via intelligence he received in a dream from the recently deceased Rav Nahman, that it feels like skimming a hair from the surface of milk. In the end, he reassures us, death is gentle.

But that doesn’t mean it is easy. According to Rabbi Hanina, the soul is reluctant to depart from the body, stubbornly clinging to life like a knot that refuses to squeeze through the eye of a ship’s rigging. Some commentators read the word for knotted rope (tzippori) as bird and the word for the eye of a ship’s rigging (veshet) as esophagus. Death sticks in the craw.

Nonetheless, however reluctant, the soul eventually departs. When it does, we offer our last earthly goodbyes to the dearly departed. What should we say?

Rabbi Levi bar Hayyata said: One who departs from the deceased should not say to him, “Go to peace,” but rather, “Go in peace.” One who departs from the living should not say to him, “Go in peace,” but rather, “Go to peace.”

It is not clear exactly why we should wish for someone who is alive to “go to peace” but change prepositions and wish the person who has died to “go in peace.” When David tells Absalom to “go in peace” (2 Samuel 15:9), the latter ends up dead in very short order. On the other hand, when Jethro blesses Moses to “go to peace,” Moses leaves to successfully initiate the redemption from Egypt (Exodus 4:18). The commentators offer some insight into this prepositional particularity. The Ran suggests that we do not use “to” for the dead because we do not wish to draw attention to their ultimate destination.

This somber talk of ultimate goodbyes feels like a fitting way to close out our tractate. (Yes, this is the last page!) What began as a discussion of the rules for hol hamoed — the intermediate festival days of Passover and Sukkot during which some but not all work is permitted, in order to preserve the sanctity and joy of the festival but not totally disrupt people’s lives and livelihoods — pivoted in this last chapter to the rules of death, burial and mourning. But instead of leaving us here, bidding farewell to those we have lost, at the last moment the rabbis turn us back from the grave to the center of Jewish religious life. 

And Rabbi Levi said: Anyone who leaves from the synagogue and goes to the study hall or goes from the study hall to the synagogue, merits to receive the Divine Presence, as it is stated: “They go from strength to strength, every one of them appears before God in Zion.” (Psalms 84:8)

It’s a blessing used commonly among Jews today — may you go from strength to strength. According to Rabbi Levi, the study hall and the synagogue are the two great sources of Jewish strength — the houses of worship and learning. It is by toggling between these that we strengthen ourselves and our community.

And just maybe we will get to keep that up, even beyond this life, as Rav Hiyya bar Ashi, speaking in the name of Rav, offers us the last word in this tractate:

Torah scholars have no rest, even in the World to Come, as it is stated: “They go from strength to strength, every one of them appears before God in Zion.” (Psalms 84:8)

Leaning into the second half of the quotation from Psalms, this final teaching in Moed Katan imagines what the afterlife might be — unending opportunities to learn and grow and continue going from strength to strength, this time in the very presence of God. Perhaps the study of Talmud, as we go from page to page, tractate to tractate, might just be a foretaste. Hadran alach Massechet Moed Katan — we will return to you, Tractate Moed Katan. And may we go from strength to strength.

Read all of Moed Katan 29 on Sefaria.

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If you want to know what it feels like to die, you have to ask a dead person. That’s exactly what Rav Seorim asks his dead brother, Rava, who visits him in a dream. Rava answers that death feels: 

Like the prick of the knife when letting blood.

Presumably letting blood was a common enough practice that it was not feared, even if it hurt a bit. This is as if to say: pain of death hurts, but not a lot. 

Next, we get an even more soothing answer. We learn that, before he died, Rava had harbored the same question, and asked it of Rav Nahman who predeceased him and also appeared to him in a dream. Rav Nahman told him that death felt: 

Like the removal of hair from milk.

It’s a comforting image — the idea that removing the soul from the body is akin to gently skimming a hair from the surface of a glass of milk. This suggests a practically painless experience. And what’s even more reassuring is Rav Nahman’s insistence that the fear of death is far worse than the actual experience, as he tells Rava:

Were the Holy One, Blessed be He, to say to me: “Go back to the physical world,” I would not want to go, for the fear of the Angel of Death is great.

Rava assures us that though fear of death is great, actually dying and being dead is not so bad.

Still, life-loving humans — including the rabbis — would rather avoid it. Next the Gemara details six cases of rabbis actively trying to avoid death. First, Rabbi Elazar admonishes the Angel of Death who comes to take him as he’s eating the holy food of terumah. To the Angel of Death, he says:

I am eating terumah; is it not called sacred?

By scolding the Angel of Death for coming at such an inopportune time, the Angel of Death is put off and, the Gemara reports, Rabbi Elazar escapes death in that moment.

Rabbi Elazar lived to see another day — and he wasn’t the only one. Rav Sheshet also shamed the Angel of Death by scolding:

In the market like an animal?! Come to my house!

Rav Ashi likewise bought himself more time on earth. Also approached by the Angel of Death while in the marketplace, he asks for 30 days to review his learning. The Angel of Death acquiesces and, 30 days later, Rav Ashi meets him again. Once again, Rav Ashi asks for an extension, at which point the Angel of Death responds:

The foot of Rav Huna bar Natan is pushing you, as he is ready to succeed you as the leader of the generation, and one sovereignty does not overlap with its counterpart, even by one hairbreadth.

With Rav Huna bar Natan ready to take over leadership, Rav Ashi’s time has come. This is a theme we have encountered elsewhere in the Talmud — the notion that older rabbinic leaders must pass away to make room for younger leaders (see Megillah 28).

Rav Hisda avoided the angel of death by studying constantly — similar to the technique that Rav Ashi employed. On today’s page, we read that“his mouth was never silent from study.”That is, until one day when a cedar column of the study hall cracked and, for just a moment, Rav Hisda was silent, and the Angel of Death was able to take him.

This collection of stories of rabbis temporarily getting the better of the Angel of Death are then contrasted by the story of Rabbi Hiyya who was so righteous that death couldn’t come for him. So how did he die?

The Angel of Death could not come near Rabbi Hiyya (to take him). One day, the Angel of Death appeared to him as a poor person. He came and knocked on the door and said to Rabbi Hiyya: “Bring out bread for me.” And he took out bread for him.

The Angel of Death then said to Rabbi Hiyya: “Master, do you not have mercy on a poor person? Why, then, do you not have mercy on me, and give me what I want?” The Angel of Death then revealed his identity to him, and showed him a fiery rod. Rabbi Hiyya surrendered himself to him.

Rabbi Hiyya was so righteous that he didn’t need to do anything special to ward of death — his greatness was such that the Angel of Death needed his cooperation. And perhaps because he was so great, when the Angel of Death told him it was time, he submitted.

Fear of death and avoidance of death can be, as today’s page readily acknowledges, utterly exhausting. And ultimately, as we all know, futile. No wonder Rabbi Elazar said that even if he could come back to life, he wouldn’t — if only to avoid the constant fear of death.

Read all of Moed Katan 28 on Sefaria.

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A common thread on today’s page is the concern that everyone should be treated with dignity at the end. Since the poor could not afford expensive biers and burial clothes, the rabbis instituted that all, even the rich, should be carried on plain biers and buried in simple linen shrouds. Similarly, since famine blackened the faces of those who died of starvation, the rabbis instituted that all faces were covered in death, so no one would see whose face was disfigured by malnutrition. Those who died of intestinal disease smelled terrible so their bodies were accompanied by incense — and therefore so was everyone else. And so on. All were equal in death.

These practices — that honor the dead and the dignity of all — make sense to me. But there’s a story on today’s page that I found much more difficult to understand. It is brought as a warning against grieving too much.

A certain woman who lived in the neighborhood of Rav Huna had seven sons. One of them died and she wept for him excessively. Rav Huna sent a message to her: “Do not do this.” But she took no heed of him. He then sent another message to her: “If you listen to me, it is well, but if not, prepare shrouds for another death.” And they all died. In the end, he said to her: “Prepare shrouds for yourself” — and soon thereafter she died.

Jewish mourning practices — which take the mourner through several stages, from acute grief to less intense mourning and, finally, full reentry into the world — are renowned for their psychological sensitivity. Mourning is a process, these practices remind us, and has many stages. Mourners must be given time.

But according to the rabbis, there’s such a thing as too much time — and the woman in this story has entered that territory. Rav Huna encourages her to wind down her grief and rejoin the living, but she either will not or cannot. Rather than offer comfort, he issues a terse warning that proves prescient. In the end, she is punished for grieving too long: first with the death of her other sons, and then she herself dies.

At first, I was struck by the callousness of Rav Huna. Why shouldn’t a woman who has lost a child mourn indefinitely? And moreover, why should she be punished in the most heinous way — by losing her other children — for her understandable grief? It’s almost too awful to contemplate. Is Rav Huna that cruel? Is God?

The answer, I believe, is not to read the story literally. Often in rabbinic stories, death is used as a narrative device. The woman who cannot escape her own grief does not literally kill her other children and herself, but by being so consumed by grief for the one who passed away, she effectively abandons them. Their relationship dies. And ultimately, she cannot be herself. Indefinite mourning becomes its own kind of death. 

In the list of ways that all mourners are treated equally — buried in simple shrouds, faces covered, incense masking any potential scent — is another rule that we treat all dead women as menstruants (by purifying the utensils they used at the end of their lives), so as not to embarrass those who are. This rule is a stark reminder that life in antiquity was short. Most women did not expect to live to see menopause. Life was (and even today, still is) too short to spend it all in mourning.

The rabbis follow up the story of the woman who grieved her children and herself into the grave with biblical verses that prove mourning must be limited, and a reiteration of the appropriate timeline for mourning. It can be tempting to lose ourselves to grief, they warn, but we mustn’t. After all, we are not yet dead. And we must keep living.

Read all of Moed Katan 27 on Sefaria.

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Curiously, the Talmud then enumerates a number of additional situations in which one tears kriah: 

Upon hearing evil tidings; or hearing God’s name being blessed (a euphemism for hearing God’s name being cursed); or when a Torah scroll has been burned; or upon seeing the cities of Judea (that were destroyed) or the (destroyed) Temple, or Jerusalem (in ruins).

Today, most people don’t have a custom of tearing our clothes upon seeing a burned Torah or witnessing the ruins of the Jerusalem Temple, though there is a custom of fasting if we have the misfortune to witness a Torah scroll being dropped. But a burned Torah scroll impacts us on such a visceral level that, according to this teaching at least, we mark the occasion as if we have lost a parent.

Thankfully, I have never seen a Torah scroll on fire. But my synagogue does own a rescued Holocaust-era Torah with burn marks starkly evident. Many of us have surely read about the burning of Torah scrolls throughout history (pogroms, the Holocaust, and more) as well as in modern acts of antisemitism. Even just reading about such events without witnessing them is terribly heart rending. That said, why does the Talmud describe the response to it as tantamount to the way we mourn a parent or a teacher? A Torah scroll is sacred, yes, but it’s still an object.

Drawing on Rashi’s commentary, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz described three ways that a Torah scroll does, in fact, resemble a person. First, Proverbs describes both a Torah scroll (Proverbs 6:23) and a human soul (Proverbs 20:27) as the “candle” of God, so the loss of either deserves a display of mourning. Second, the potential Torah study that is lost when a person dies can be likened to a burning Torah scroll. And third, because every Jew is filled with the mitzvot they performed during their lifetime, they are comparable to a Torah scroll, which itself contains all the commandments. 

This commentary does a good job of explaining how a Torah scroll is like a person and worthy of mourning rituals, particularly if it has been set on fire. But I think we can also learn something profound from the inverse: that a person is like a Torah scroll.

Go into any synagogue around the world during the Torah service and you will see participants treating the Torah with utmost respect. We kiss the scroll, we dress it in finery, and we parade it through the congregation with songs. Now imagine that we treated every single person this way — with utmost reverence. Perhaps that’s what the sages of the Talmud, Rashi and Rabbi Steinsaltz — commentators from three different eras — are trying to teach us: that we should accord our fellow humans (especially our parents) the same level of respect in life and in death. With this teaching, it’s easier to understand why we rend our clothes at the sight of a burning Torah. 

Read all of Moed Katan 26 on Sefaria.

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Because of his great status, Rav Huna’s students sought to honor him by placing a Torah on his funeral bier. But Rav Tahlifa stopped them by citing an example from Rav Huna himself:

I saw Rav Huna, who wished to sit on his bed, and there was a Torah scroll placed on it. And he turned a jug over and placed the Torah scroll on it. Apparently he holds that it is prohibited to sit on a bed upon which a Torah scroll lies. 

Because Rav Huna held that one should not sit on a bed with a Torah scroll, Rav Tahlifa posits that it would be inappropriate to honor him in that way after he died. But this was not the only miscue by Rav Huna’s mourners. When removing his body from the house, they discovered that the bier wouldn’t fit through the door. So they tried to lift it out through an opening in the roof. That is, until Rav Hisda related another teaching from Rav Huna:

This I learned from him: A scholar’s honor is for him to be taken out through the main opening.

In response, Rav Huna’s body was transferred to a smaller bier that would fit through the door. But Rav Hisda intervenes again with yet another teaching from Rav Huna. 

I learned from him as follows: A scholar’s honor is for him to be taken out on the first bier.

Not having so many options left, the doorway was broken down so the first bier could be carried out. 

One would hope things would have gone smoothly from here on out. If only!

At the funeral, a eulogy was delivered by Rabbi Abba, who began by saying:

Our rabbi was so worthy that the divine presence should rest upon him, except for the fact that Babylonia caused it not to. 

In other words, Rav Huna would have merited having God’s presence reside with him during his lifetime, but for the fact that he lived in Babylonia. We’ve seen these sorts of piquant slights exchanged by the rabbis of Babylonia and Israel before in Daf Yomi, but still this is a curious way to open a eulogy and a voice from the crowd objects. This time, instead of Rav Hisda, it is one of his sons:

Is it not stated: “The word of the Lord came [hayo haya] to Ezekiel the priest, son of Buzi, in the land of the Chaldeans” (Ezekiel 1:3)?

The questioner asserts that it’s possible for God’s presence to rest upon a great figure outside the land of Israel and that Rabbi Abba was wrong to suggest otherwise. But the Gemara rejects this, noting that the doubling of the verb in the verse, hayo haha, suggests that God’s presence came to Ezekiel first in Israel and stayed with him as he travelled to the land of the Chaldeans. 

Rabbi Abba’s opening, in other words, has merit. But Rav Hisda is nonetheless embarrassed by his son’s interruption and slaps him with his sandal: “Have I not told you not to trouble everyone (with questions in the middle of a eulogy)?”

Based upon Rav Huna’s words, this may not have been an isolated incident. It seems Rav Huna’s son may have been a blurter or struggled with impulse control. Either way, the scolding created an additional interruption to the funeral service, adding to the chaos of the day.

Why would all these incidents have been entered into the talmudic record and preserved for posterity? From the Talmud’s perspective, everyday occurrences in the lives of the rabbis — or, in this case, at their funerals — are also Torah, and we record them so that future generations can learn from them.

In this case, we learn that treating a scholar respectfully after they die includes adhering to their teachings about ritual performances. And from the behavior of Rav Hisda’s son at the funeral, we learn that while it may be OK to challenge a colleague in the beit midrash, we shouldn’t give voice to our objections during a funeral. These incidents too are Torah — and we should learn from them.

Read all of Moed Katan 25 on Sefaria.

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Mourning plunges the individual into a profound period of liminality — a time when they must negotiate between the world they knew with their loved one, and the new world without; and a time when they must balance their unique obligations as mourners and their other commitments. Today’s daf today brings this theme to the fore in a discussion of kriah, the ritual in which a mourner tears one of their outer garments as a physical sign of their bereavement. 

To help define the parameters of this new and uncertain time, Shmuel states that the tearing should happen at the moment of peak grief. In this way, it is a ritual to mark a turning point. He says that if the garment is not torn at that moment, it does not fulfill the mourner’s obligation.

But how can we know when the peak of grief has hit? Indeed, the Gemara then leads into a curious story about Shmuel’s own experience of mourning that seems to contradict his teaching:

But when they said to Shmuel that Rav had passed away, he rent twelve garments on account of him, and said: The man of whom I was in fear, owing to his great learning, has gone and died.

Similarly, when they told Rabbi Yohanan that Rabbi Hanina had passed away, he rent thirteen expensive wool garments on account of him, and said: The man of whom I was in fear has gone.

Whereas traditionally one rends a single garment, Shmuel and Rabbi Yohanan tear multiple and, in Yohanan’s example, expensive garments. Why? The Gemara’s answer is profound:

The sages are different. Since their teachings are mentioned all the time, every time they are mentioned is like the time of most intense grief, as the pain over their death is once again renewed.

Though the text refers specifically to the sages, it shows keen insight into a common experience of mourning. Mourning can be a lasting experience with no clear time boundaries — grief does not necessarily hit a single peak moment and then decline, but can linger, wax and wane, and return, unexpected and uninvited. We might think we know when the moment of peak mourning has hit. And we might very well be wrong — a dozen times or more.

Read all of Moed Katan 24 on Sefaria.

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But human interaction is not only greetings — after all, greetings are usually the prelude to a longer conversation. Today’s daf articulates another rule of conversation relevant to a mourner:

“One may not speak about halakhah (Jewish law) or aggadah (biblical exegesis) in a house of mourning.

Often in moments of tragedy, we turn to our tradition for inspiration and solace — so why is discussing Torah prohibited in this moment of need?!

To understand this prohibition, we have to go back to something we read two days ago, on Moed Katan 21a. There, a beraita states:

The sages taught: These are the activities that a mourner is prohibited from: He is prohibited from working, and from bathing, and from anointing, and from engaging in sexual relations, and from wearing shoes. 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.

The study of sacred Jewish texts (and this list offers a handy description of what those were, for the rabbis) has for millennia been a way that Jews sustain ourselves — physically, spiritually and emotionally. The medieval commentator Rashi also points out that these texts bring us joy — something much lacking in this moment of grief. 

I’ll be honest — depending on what part of the great sea of written and oral Torah I’m reading, joy may not be the main emotion I feel. Torah is challenging, troubling, spiritually powerful and deeply intellectually engaging. I’m sure everyone who is doing the daily daf has numerous examples of times when the main emotion they felt was not joy (Tractate Eruvin, anyone?).

And yet the privilege of learning Torah, of being part of that great sea, is a cause for joy. Having enough access to our traditions to be challenged, troubled, spiritually uplifted and intellectually engaged is a joyful thing. 

Perhaps it is that very joy which the rabbis are thinking about two pages later, when they state that not just reading and studying but even talking about Torah is prohibited in a house of mourning. Even this verbal engagement is too joyful a prospect to be appropriate when trying to create space for true mourning. 

Many of the halakhot on today’s daf are designed to create silence, to require sitting quietly with one’s thoughts and feelings after a momentous loss. It’s not about filling that void, with joy or education or rationalization or even distraction. That can be really hard to do. We might think: Where better to shift our attention than the Torah? After all, it’s a mitzvah to study Torah! But today’s daf insists that we need and deserve real space — even from Torah — to mourn. 

Read all of Moed Katan 23 on Sefaria.

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And for how long is this restriction in place? Well, it depends for whom you are mourning:

When mourning for deceased relatives, a person may cut their hair after thirty days. In the case of one’s father or mother, one may not cut their hair until they are rebuked by their colleagues.

In most cases, the haircutting restriction ends with the close of sheloshim, the thirty days of mourning that follow a funeral. But when mourning the death of a parent, the most intense kind of mourning in Jewish tradition, the period of time for which one forgoes a shave and a haircut does not have a fixed endpoint. Instead, the Talmud teaches that mourners wait until they are rebuked by associates for being unkempt. Thereafter, they are free to visit their hairstylist and clean themselves up.

It might be that the Talmud’s intent is to leave this period of abstaining from haircuts undefined and allow for variance based on context and custom. At some point after sheloshim has ended, a mourner will begin to look eccentric enough that someone they know will be moved to comment. And, once they receive a “hey there, wild (wo)man,” they will know that it is time for them to move on from this ritual.

While some later legal authorities are comfortable with an undefined end date, others are not. Moses Isserless, a 16th century halakhist, reports that: “As to the time limit after which a rebuke should take place, there is a difference of opinion, and the common practice is to wait three months before rebuking.” He not only defines a time frame for hair-cutting, but suggests that close associates of the mourner are supposed to be watching the calendar and making sure they issue the rebuke that will allow the mourner to seek a trim.

The Jerusalem Talmud also contains a version of this rule:

The mother of Rebbi Samuel ben Eudaimon died eight days before the holiday. He came to ask Rebbi Mana about how the holiday impacted his mourning. Rabbi Mana told him: anything connected to the seven or 30 day periods of mourning is interrupted by a holiday. But here, the practice of refraining from cutting one’s hair continues until it becomes wild growth or until his colleagues offer rebuke.

While most other mourning practices come to an end if a major Jewish holiday intervenes, not so for growing one’s hair. The practice runs its normal course.

Did you note the difference between the Jerusalem Talmud’s text and that on our page of the Babylonian Talmud? Instead of saying that one allows one’s hair to grow wild until one is rebuked, it says that one grows one’s hair until it becomes wild or one is rebuked.

The Jerusalem Talmud hands power back to the mourner — permitting them to get a haircut as soon their hair becomes uncomfortably long, without waiting for a rebuke. This gives the mourner full decision-making power independent of the reaction of their peers.

While some legal scholars suggest that the Jerusalem Talmud’s variation is the result of a scribal error, others rely on it to set the standard of practice. And so today there are a variety of practices followed by those who are mourning for the death of a parent.

For those who want to comfort mourners to the fullest extent possible, consider keeping track of when people you know are emerging from sheloshim. If you do, you’ll be well positioned to be the one who gently lets them know that they are ready for a haircut. (And this practice also has the benefit of charging those close to a mourner with staying in contact and keeping an eye on them — quite literally.) How often do you have an opportunity to tell another that they are beginning to look a bit shaggy and get mitzvah points at the same time?

Read all of Moed Katan 22 on Sefaria.

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Our rabbis taught: A mourner during the first three days after his bereavement may not go to another mourner’s house. From this point forward, he may go, but he may not sit among the consolers, but rather in the place of those being consoled.

Where one sits at a shiva house is highly regulated. We read in Moed Katan 15a that mourners should sit in low chairs or on the ground, while visitors sit near them but in standard chairs. This beraita states that after the immediate shock of his own loss, the mourner can visit their bereaved friend, but must sit with the mourners, not the visitors. 

But why? The Gemara doesn’t say but I’d like to propose two answers. 

First, the practical. The Gemara cites another braita immediately after this one: 

Our rabbis taught: A mourner, during the first three days, is prohibited from extending greetings. From the third day to the seventh day, he may respond, but he may not extend greetings to them. From this point forward, he may extend greetings and respond in his usual manner.

Mourners are prohibited from extending greetings to others during the entire seven days of their shiva. But human beings are social animals and greeting each other is a key social ritual; most of the time, not saying hello to someone is considered rude and it might be difficult to do. Perhaps one reason that the visiting mourner sits with the other mourners is to signal to others  what laws they are meant to follow, so they know why this non-family member is not saying hello.

Second, the emotional. To put it mildly, mourning is hard — emotionally and even physically painful. Sadness and grief can be suppressed or ignored, but those feelings will usually find a way to bubble up at some later date. Shiva gives people time to process, alone and in community, before moving forward with their lives. When a mourner hears of someone else’s loss and runs to comfort them, that abrupt and premature shift out of their own mourning could rob them of time they need to process their own grief. 

Airplane safety videos always warn passengers that in case cabin pressure drops and oxygen masks are deployed, one must “secure your own oxygen mask before helping others.” While this is an important safety rule for air travel, it also applies self-care: When times are really hard, the rabbis remind us, tend to yourself before taking care of others. 

Today’s daf offers an intelligent solution to this dilemma, a way for the mourner to care for themselves while also caring for others. You should put aside your own mourning, the rabbis counsel, but you have to keep your own oxygen mask on to be able to help others.

Read all of Moed Katan 21 on Sefaria.

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Today’s daf brings us a sadder version of that question: For mourning purposes, do you respond to an in-law’s passing the same way you would the loss of your own parent?

A a general matter, the Talmud states that a person should mourn for first-degree relatives:

The sages taught: All relatives mentioned in the passage referring to priests, for which a priest becomes impure, a mourner must mourn for them. And they are: His wife, his father, and his mother, his brother and his unmarried sister from the same father, his son, and his daughter. 

The passage in question is from Leviticus, which states that priests may “defile themselves” for close relatives. As a general matter, priests are to remain pure and avoid coming into contact with a dead body, but they may do so when mourning a particularly close relative: mother, father, son, daughter, brother and unmarried sister.

Based on this, the rabbis of the Talmud hold that Jews in general are required to observe mourning rituals for these close relatives. They even expand the list to include brothers and unmarried sisters from the same mother, married sisters (regardless of parentage), and second-degree relatives like a father’s father, a son’s son, or a brother’s son. Some of these distinctions (such as between maternal and paternal brothers) may seem arbitrary and the text gives no reason for them. 

What about in-laws? Leviticus specifically states that a priest “shall not defile himself as a kinsman by marriage, and so profane himself.” And while the talmudic rabbis look to the surrounding biblical verses to anchor their decisions on who’s a close enough relative to warrant mourning, they ignore this point. Instead, they quote the instructions both Rav and Rav Huna gave to their respective sons when each one’s wife was in mourning for her own (unspecified) close relative:

In her presence practice mourning, but out of her presence do not practice mourning.

The Talmud then presents a series of teachings about mourning in-laws, with two of them appearing to contradict each other. The first directs both husband and wife to mourn the loss of the other’s parents:

One whose father-in-law or mother-in-law died may not force his wife to paint her eyelids or put rouge on her face. Rather, he should overturn his bed, and observe mourning with her. And similarly, when her father-in-law or mother-in-law dies, she may not paint or put on rouge. Rather, she should overturn her bed and practice the rites of mourning with him.

The second teaching permits a wife to engage in her own personal mourning for a close relative, but appears to allow her husband to continue his life as usual:

Even though the sages said that a husband may not force his wife to paint or put rouge (when she is in mourning), actually, they said she may pour his cup, make his bed, and wash his face, hands, and feet. 

We can see the tension between these two teachings. The first requires each spouse to mourn their in-laws as if they were their own parents. The second suggests that even as a wife is mourning her parents, her husband may continue his regular activities — and the mourning wife may even attend to his needs. 

The Talmud resolves this by determining that the first case refers to a spouse mourning for a parent and the second refers to a spouse mourning for a non-parental relative. The upshot? You join a spouse in mourning when they are grieving the loss of a parent, but not for other relatives. 

In other words, your parents-in-law are, in fact, like your parents — at least in the context of mourning — regardless of what you might call them.

Read all of Moed Katan 20 on Sefaria.

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On today’s daf, Rabbi Yehuda offers a seeming contradiction to his earlier statement, employing a wink-wink type of workaround for someone wishing to sell such items:

Rabbi Yehuda says: If he initially made them for himself, he may employ artifice, sell his own and go back and write new ones. 

Rabbi Yehuda describes a method by which a scribe could in fact sell tefillin or mezuzahs on hol hamoed. He simply sells his own tefillin or mezuzah and then creates new ones for himself. Sneaky!

Along comes Rabbi Yosei, who cuts through the subterfuge entirely and states: 

He may write and sell them in his usual manner, enough for his livelihood. 

According to Rabbi Yosei, the ruse described by Rabbi Yehuda is unnecessary. The scribe can sell his items in a normal fashion on hol hamoed if he needs to make a living. 

We’ve seen already in this tractate that activities normally prohibited on holidays are permitted on hol hamoed if they are necessary for a person’s sustenance. Why then would Rabbi Yehuda suggest a scribe must employ artifice to sell his wares?

Imagine you are a scribe and don’t have enough money to celebrate the holidays properly. The special meals with wine and delicacies are just not in the cards for you this year. Maybe even a basic amount of food is beyond reach. And what if, on top of that, you can’t work without violating rabbinic law? That could prove quite an embarrassing — not to mention hunger-inducing — situation.  

Rabbi Yehuda offers a workaround to save your dignity while ensuring your family has enough to eat. You can simply offer your own tefillin or mezuzah for sale and then make yourself new ones after they sell. 

Why would Rabbi Yehuda have suggested this? Perhaps because he himself lived in abject poverty.

According to Tractate Nedarim (49b), Rabbi Yehuda was so poor that he shied away from public events because he didn’t own dignified clothing. Rabbi Yosei was not impoverished, and therefore may have lacked Rabbi Yehuda’s sensitivity. 

Throughout this tractate, we have learned that to provide sustenance for oneself and one’s family, a person can in fact bend the rules. But being seen as a person who needs to do so can be demeaning. Rabbi Yehuda’s teaching shows us that it’s just as important to protect a person’s dignity as it is to observe the law. And it only takes a little maneuvering to get there.

Read all of Moed Katan 19 on Sefaria.

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In the Gemara, Shmuel gives a reason for this allowance: 

It is permitted to betroth on the intermediate days of a festival, lest another betroth her first.

According to the Gemara, Shmuel allows betrothals on hol hamoed out of fear that someone else will sweep away the intended from the original suitor. The only problem is that teaching seems to be contradicted by another of Shmuel’s teachings. 

And did Shmuel say that perhaps another will come first? But didn’t Rav Yehuda say that Shmuel said: Every day a divine voice issues forth and says: The daughter of so-and-so (is destined to be the wife of) so-and-so? 

In other words, marriages are preordained by God. This idea is found elsewhere throughout rabbinic text. In Tractate Sotah (2a), which we’ll read in the Daf Yomi cycle a little over a year from now, we find this astonishing statement: 

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: Forty days before an embryo is formed a divine voice issues forth and says: The daughter of so-and-so is (destined to marry) so-and-so.

In the Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 68:4), we find the story of a Roman matron who asks Rabbi Yosei, “In how many days did God create the world?” 

“In six,” he answered. 

“And since then,” she asked, “what has God been doing?” 

“Matching couples for marriage,” responded Rabbi Yosei. 

The story continues humorously, with the Roman matron declaring that she can do so easily by pairing up her servants, but then finds success elusive: “Her estate resembled a battlefield. One slave had his head bashed in, another had lost an eye, while a third hobbled because of a broken leg. No one seemed to want his or her assigned mate. Quickly, she summoned Rabbi Yosei and acknowledged: ‘Your God is unique, and your Torah is true, pleasing and praiseworthy. You spoke wisely.’”

As charming as these stories are, the idea that God predetermines who will marry whom raises an important theological question: Namely, what about free will? Don’t people have the ability to choose their partner? And if so, wouldn’t Shmuel’s first statement — that it’s possible if a person delays, their intended might get tired of waiting and choose a different mate — be more accurate? 

The Gemara resolves the contradiction in a creative way.

Rather, Shmuel’s statement should be understood as follows: Perhaps another will betroth her first by means of praying for divine mercy. 

In other words, Shmuel is worried that the rival may petition God to cancel the heavenly decree, and therefore the first suitor needs to hurry and conclude the betrothal before the rival has a chance to pray for their own success. The Gemara continues with a number of biblical prooftexts illustrating that God is the one who makes matches, even if the couple and others are unaware that God’s hand is pulling the strings. 

The colloquial name for soulmate in the Jewish lexicon is bashert, a Yiddish word meaning “destiny.” Is it destiny if we choose our own mate, or if — in the words of Fiddler on the Roof — the matchmaker finds the perfect match? Is God still working behind the scenes to put couples together even if we don’t have the benefit of hearing the divine voice ourselves? Can our prayers upend God’s plan when we have our heart set on a person whom we believe to be our soulmate? 

We may never know the answer to these questions, but at least we know that if the opportunity arises, we can get engaged on hol hamoed.

Read all of Moed Katan 18 on Sefaria.

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In truth, these questions are perennial, and the rabbis struggled with the same dilemma. For them, the question was: Can we separate Torah from the rabbi who shares it? Take, for example, this story:

There was a certain Torah scholar who gained a bad reputation. Rav Yehuda said: What should be done? To excommunicate him is not an option — the sages need him. Not to excommunicate him is also not an option, as the name of Heaven would be desecrated.

The rabbis, it would seem, are in a bind. They would like to excommunicate this Torah scholar who has purportedly behaved badly, both to distance themselves from him and to protect God’s reputation. On the other hand, his Torah — his contribution to the discourse and tradition of halakhah — is recognized to be of vital importance. If they lose him, they lose that as well. Rabbi bar bar Hana offers a teaching from Rabbi Yohanan to help Rav Yehuda decide:

What is the meaning of that which is written: “For the priest’s lips should keep knowledge, and they should seek Torah at his mouth; for he is a messenger (malakh) of the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 2:7)? This verse teaches: If the teacher is similar to an angel (malakh) of the Lord, then seek Torah from his mouth, but if he is not, then do not seek Torah from his mouth.

Using a play on words — malakh means both angel and messenger — this teaching comes to explain the central dilemma of this discussion. Torah is not just about the words that are spoken by its teachers, but also about the way those messengers behave in their everyday lives.

Recall, also, that this scholar’s bad behavior was only rumored, and not proven. Despite the lack of proof, Rav Yehuda is ready to excommunicate him, presumably for the sake of preserving the reputation of Torah and its scholars. That can make us profoundly uncomfortable — the idea that a person is exiled from the community without proof of guilt.

But likely for Rav Yehuda the calculation is that the greater good — in this case Torah — is more important. He excommunicates the scholar. 

Some time later, as Rav Yehuda is dying, a number of his fellow rabbis, including the one he excommunicated, come to visit him. In that moment, reflecting on his life, Rabbi Yehuda expresses no regret about his decision. In fact, he laughs. The excommunicated scholar responds:

Was it not enough that you excommunicated me, but now you even laugh at me?

Rav Yehuda said to him: I was not laughing at you; rather, I am happy as I go to that other world that I did not flatter even a great man like you.

It’s a startling image — that on his own death bed, Rav Yehuda laughs in the face of the man whose life he upended, perhaps even ruined. Given that he was initially unsure of what to do, Rabbi Yehuda’s laughter seems, in this moment, to be his confirmation, to himself, that he made the right decision.

This laughter, then, becomes the lesson: We cannot separate the scholar from their Torah. Rather, we should only learn Torah from those who live Torah, only seek to learn values and morals and communal behaviors from those who practice what they preach. The rabbis do not take excommunication lightly, and we know that any loss of Torah is, for them, a grave loss. Rav Yehuda, by example, reminds us that we must take seriously not only the teachings and words that are spoken, but the teacher as well; for the rabbis, we must do as we say.

Read all of Moed Katan 17 on Sefaria.

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Ostracism (niddui), as the rabbis describe it, is a kind of social isolation that is levied as punishment for a myriad of misdeeds from contempt of scholars and their courts to inhibiting others from performing mitzvot to selling land to a gentile who then harasses Jews. But most often it was used for scholars who did not accept majority opinions. Ostracism is less severe, and less permanent, than excommunication (herem) which was the ultimate form of dismembership from the community.

As the Shulchan Aruch (Yoreh Deah 334) explains, the rules are as follows: an outcast must keep a distance of four cubits from everyone except his immediate family; people do not eat with him, and he is not included in a minyan. In keeping with his social shaming, he also takes on certain practices that are similar to that of a mourner: He doesn’t cut his hair or fasten his sandal (which is why he might need that haircut in the middle of Sukkot). But unlike someone who is excommunicated, the outcast may still teach words of Torah and learn them from others, and he is still permitted to hire laborers or be hired as one. If he dies during his period of ostracism, he is brought back into the community for burial, but he is not eulogized and a stone is placed on his coffin. 

Ostracism is meant to be temporary with the hope of bringing the outcast back into the community. Thirty days is a standard term, though the period of ostracism can be cut short in the case of repentance, and doubled in the case of non-repentance. An individual may declare another person ostracized to them specifically, but the case of interest on today’s page is a declaration of niddui made by a rabbinic court. When a court decided to declare someone ostracized, they followed a set procedure:

Rava said: From where do we derive that a court agent is sent to summon the defendant to appear before the court (before he is ostracized)? As it is written: “And Moses sent to call Dathan and Abiram, the sons of Eliab.” (Numbers 16:12)

And from where do we derive that we summon the defendant, that he himself must appear before the court? As it is written: “And Moses said to Korah: Be you and all your congregation before the Lord, you and they, and Aaron, tomorrow.” (Numbers 16:16)

Ostracism is not done willy-nilly, and the person who is ostracized should not hear of it through the proverbial grapevine. Instead, a formal agent of the court must be sent to summon the defendant, and the defendant should hear the sentence in court. Procedures matter, as we read further:

From where is it derived that the defendant must be told that he is being summoned to appear before a great man? As it is written: “And Moses said to Korah: Be you and all your congregation before the Lord.” (Numbers 16:16)

From where is it derived that the summons must mention the names of both parties: You and so-and-so, the plaintiff? As it is written: “You, and they, and Aaron.” (Numbers 16:16)

From where is it derived that we set a date for the court proceedings? As it is written: “Tomorrow” (Numbers 16:16).

The accused has a right to know who the accuser is and to be informed of the date at which the proceedings will take place — they cannot do it behind his back. And he also has a duty to respect the agent of the court, who will report bad behavior:

And from where do we derive that if the summoned person behaves disrespectfully toward the agent of the court, and the agent comes back and reports his conduct, that this is not considered slander? As it is written: “Will you put out the eyes of these men?” (Numbers 16:14)

If you were paying careful attention to all these prooftexts, you might have noticed they all come from the 16th chapter of the Book of Numbers which tells of the story of Korah, who led a rebellion against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. In that tragic account, Korah and his supporters questioned Moses’ authority, declaring: “You [Moses] have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the LORD is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16:3)

But beyond questioning Moses’ authority, they also refused to answer the summons to appear in court before Moses to address this rebellion. Through their actions, they declared themselves outside of the rule of law and disrespected the system. What happened to them? In a supernatural event, they were swallowed up by the earth. The repeated allusion to this story, constantly in the background of this discussion, underscores the seriousness with which the rabbis approached due process. The accused should have their day in court — and they should also show up. This is the only way that justice can be served.

Read all of Moed Katan 16 on Sefaria.

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One who has been excommunicated, may not teach Torah to others and others may not teach him. He may not be hired by others, and others may not be hired by him. However, he may study by himself, so that he will not interrupt his study entirely and forget everything he knows. And he may build a small store for his livelihood.

So if you’re excommunicated, you are mostly, but not entirely cut off from the Jewish people. You can’t study Torah with others, presumably because your teachings are considered subversive, but you can study on your own. You can’t contract to do business with others, but you can open a small shop.

As the Gemara further elaborates, being an excommunicated shopkeeper is no picnic. Rav explains that a person who is excommunicated and becomes a shopkeeper is like someone who is selling water in the valley of Aravot.

To understand what Rav is saying, it helps to know a bit of what he might have known about the valley of Aravot. Elsewhere in the Talmud, we learn that the valley of Aravot is parched (Berakhot 54a). In fact, it is so dry that the rabbis allow Jewish residents to forgo washing their hands before eating if they have taken care to protect themselves from impurity as they have gone about their business (Chullin 107a). All of this makes the valley of Aravot a dangerously isolated place. If you go there, you should do what you can to avoid the bandits who might separate you from your head (Nazir 43b).

So what might it be like to be a water seller there? In a place with no water, a water merchant may be poised to make a killing. Yet, while demand might drive prices up, the cost of transportation would reduce margins and, as Rabbi Adin Steinzaltz suggests, a water seller could eke out only a small income, enough to sustain themselves as an excommunicado. 

The translators of the Soncino edition of the Talmud have a different take. They note that one who is excommunicated would have trouble setting up shop in the civilized world, and so the “Wild West” (in this case, the wild south of Babylonia) might be the best place for an excommunicated person to find a clientele — the outlaws in the region would have no problem doing business with an outcast.

While both of these interpretations are probable, there is another option. What if Rav is challenging, rather than interpreting the beraita? Yes, a person who has been excommunicated can open up a small shop — but what good would that do? Would anybody frequent their shop? You might as well send them to the valley of Aravot to sell water which, given the supply and security issues, is no way to earn a living at all. We can do better than this!

The Gemara focuses its discussion on the permissibility of Torah study for the excommunicated, which the beraita cited above permits. It’s not as interested in thinking about how such a person could sustain themselves in exile. And it’s possible that Rav wasn’t either. Yet it’s worth considering the possibility that he is seeking to remind us that we have a responsibility to care for all of our neighbors — even those who have been sent to live outside of the community.

Read all of Moed Katan 15 on Sefaria.

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The following people may cut their hair on hol hamoed: someone recently arrived from overseas, or just freed from captivity or prison, one who had been ostracized by rabbinic decree and then released, someone who had taken a vow not to shave and the vow had been annulled, a Nazirite (who may not cut their hair) whose term had ended, and the leper who had come out of quarantine. Washing clothes was also forbidden except for those who had just come out of prison or captivity.

These are all people who, for one reason or another, are not able to cut their hair or shave just before the holiday. For them, we make an exception and permit a haircut on hol hamoed. But for people not in these extraordinary circumstances, the rules are different, as the Gemara explains:

Here, too (ordinary people are forbidden to cut their hair on hol hamoed) in order that they not enter the festival untidy.

The prohibition on a haircut during the festival encourages people to enter the sacred week looking and feeling their best.

Back to those who are not able to freshen up ahead of the festival: Some of these categories are no longer relevant, such as the leper and the person ostracized by rabbinic decree. The Hebrew term for ostracism, niddui, refers to a form of communal punishment applied during the talmudic era mainly to rabbis who refused to accept a majority decision on matters of Jewish law. Perhaps the most famous example of this is the ostracism of Rabbi Eliezer in the iconic story of the Oven of Akhnai, which we will encounter in just over two years’ time on Bava Metzia 59b. 

Scholars who were ostracized were sent out of the community, usually for 30 days, until such times as they relented. If they died in exile, they were buried with a stone to symbolize divine punishment.

A related but much more severe mechanism, which remains in force even today is called herem, the ban. This is a total and permanent shunning, much more severe than niddui. The original biblical usage of heremwas the ban on using holy things for mundane purposes or forbidding specific property to be used as in the case of Achan (Joshua 7:13). It was also sometimes applied to enemies who were to be extinguished, and so in the biblical context can also mean “destroy.” (e.g. Deuteronomy 13:16)

By talmudic times, herem was used as a means of imposing communal standards in places where Jewish communities were limited in other punitive measures and where local authorities would undermine the standards of the community. It continued to be a favorite form of communal punishment throughout the medieval and the early modern period. 

The most famous post-talmudic ban was that of the 17th century philosopher Baruch Spinoza, born in Amsterdam. Because he refused to accept the authority of the community and challenged traditional beliefs in a providential divine being and the divine origin of the commandments, they excommunicated him in 1656. Though he is long dead, the memory of the ban is still very much alive.

There are a few famous examples of excommunication in the modern period. In 1918, the Rabbinical Council of Odessa excommunicated Leon Trotsky for his anti-religious socialist ideas. In 1945, the Orthodox rabbinate in the United States excommunicated Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionism, because he published a prayer book that altered traditional liturgy. And in Israel, a herem, more symbolic than effective, was imposed by the Chief Rabbinate on the Neturei Karta — the small, extreme, ultra-orthodox and anti-Zionist movement which is committed to anti-Israel activism — after its leaders participated in a 2006 Holocaust denial conference in Iran.

But returning to the subject of hol hamoed, the Jewish community is still divided on the nuances of observing intermediate festival days. For example, there is a contemporary debate about whether one lays tefillin on the intermediate days of the festival, which generally distinguishes Hasidim (who largely do) and most Sephardim (who do not), and Lithuanian or Yeshivish Jews (who do). And even these groups are divided between those who make a blessing and those who do not. Such are nuances of Jewish religious life.

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One may not purchase houses, slaves and cattle (on the intermediate days of a festival) except for the needs of the festival, or for the needs of the seller who does not have anything to eat.

The mishnah outlaws big purchases on the intermediate days of the holidays but provides two rather significant exemptions. One deals with the buyer: You can only buy if you need the object for use on the holiday itself. The other deals with the seller: You can only conduct business on hol hamoed if you need income to put food on the table. These exemptions join the growing list of principles regulating work on hol hamoed we’ve already seen in this tractate, such as preventing great loss, avoiding onerous work and attending to the needs of the community. 

Later on the daf, we again see that the needs of the festival are central to permitting the buying and selling of small objects as well. Here’s the next mishnah:

Those who sell produce, clothing, and utensils may sell them in private, for the needs of the festival. Fishermen and groats makers and (bean) pounders may ply (their trades) in private for the needs of the festival. Rabbi Yosei says: They were stringent with themselves (to refrain from this work even with respect to what was needed for the festival.)

According to this mishnah, there is no prohibition on selling food, clothing and kitchen utensils for use on the holiday as long as it’s done discreetly so as not to create a busy atmosphere or the hubbub of a regular business day in the market. The items listed in this mishnah are things that tend to be used in the short term and are therefore likely to be purchased for the sake of celebrating the holiday.

In contrast, the houses, slaves and cattle referred to in the first mishnah probably aren’t. While the commentators try to explain how someone might need to buy a house or a slave for the festival, these large investments will naturally serve the buyer long after the holiday is over and should generally be purchased in advance. 

Why do the millers and the fisherman merit specific mention? After all, these occupations also provide food that could be enjoyed on the holiday. But their trades also entail cumbersome labor, which is to be avoided on hol hamoed, so a special dispensation was deemed necessary. Indeed, despite the permission granted to these professions, the Gemara reports that the hunters, fowlers, and fishermen of Akko, along with the millers of Tzipori, were stringent and declined to work on hol hamoed.

Recurring in this tractate is the suggestion that even if you have a dispensation to work, you still ought to do so discreetly so as not to ruin the celebratory atmosphere. Towards the end of the daf, the Gemara describes what it means to sell in private: 

If a store opens into a row of pillars (the storekeeper) may open and close it in his usual manner. However, if it is open to the public domain, he may open only one (door) and must close the other. And on the eve of the last day of the festival, he may take out (his wares) and adorn the markets of the city with fruit in honor of the last day of the festival.

If a store faces a colonnade, then it may open as usual because it is not very visible. But if a store is located on a wide open piazza or main street, then the store must remain partially shuttered. Interestingly, this set of rules is accompanied by yet another exception: On the final day of hol hamoed, sellers are not only allowed to sell, but encouraged to go out into the street and create a colorful market of fruit. Here the problematic activity of commerce is encouraged as it creates an anticipatory atmosphere for the final day of celebration.

All these laws come with exceptions. On every daf, we get a picture of the pliable and liminal nature of hol hamoed: You can’t work unless you must, you can’t buy things unless you need them, and commerce takes away from the spirit of the holiday, except when it adds to it! The parameters of hol hamoed provide us an interesting lens through which to view our own daily consumption. When are we fully present in buying things we actually need, and how often are we swept up in the frenzy of amassing material things in the never-ceasing business of buying?

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As a general rule, one may not contract a non-Jew to do work specifically on hol hamoed. But ambiguity arises in the case of a contracted employee who is paid upon the completion of a job. Unlike an hourly worker, a contracted employee can set their own hours and do the work when they want to, so long as it is completed within the time frame agreed upon. If the contracted worker can set their own hours, can they choose to work on hol hamoed to complete the task that the Jewish employer has given to them? 

The Gemara offers three progressively more stringent rabbinic opinions:

First, according to Shmuel, contractors:

… are prohibited within the limit. Outside the limit, it is permitted.

Shmuel makes a geographic distinction: A non-Jewish contracted employee cannot work for a Jew on hol hamoed within the city limits. But farther out, where it is not visible to others, it is permitted.

The second opinion, Rav Papa’s, further geographically restricts this permission: 

And even outside the limit, we said it only when there is no other city in close proximity to there, but if there is another city in close proximity to there, it is prohibited.

If the road is well-traveled and at the outskirts of a wider urban region, then even if it is outside the city limits, Rav Papa forbids non-Jewish contract workers from doing work for Jews.

The third and most restrictive opinion comes from Rav Mesharshiyya who states:

And even when there is no other city in close proximity, we said only on Shabbat and festivals, when people do not routinely go there. However, on the intermediate days of a festival, when people routinely come and go from there, it is prohibited.

According to Rav Mesharshiyya, a Jew can only pay a non-Jew to do contract labor for them on a holiday when it is far enough away that people can’t see it and when it is Shabbat or the beginning or end of a holiday and Jews are prohibited from traveling — making it virtually impossible that a Jew will stumble upon the laborers.

Rav Mesharshiyya makes explicit what is only implied in the other two opinions: The concern is that Jews will see the non-Jewish contractors working for a Jew on hol hamoed and mistakenly think that Jews are permitted to direct non-Jewish workers on the holiday. 

These progressively more stringent opinions have a real cost — a cost to the employer who is going to have to wait longer for their finished product, but more substantially, the cost to the contract worker, who only gets paid when the job is completed. If their Jewish employer does not allow them to work on it for the eight days of a holiday, then that is eight days more until they can get paid. If the limitations on when work can happen are not made clear before the job is offered and a plan put in place for just compensation, that could lead to real financial hardship for the contract worker.

There’s an expression in rabbinic circles that “every chumra leads to a kula” — every stringency leads to leniency in some other area of rabbinic law. Today’s daf challenges us to think about how the stringencies around hol hamoed could unintentionally lead to leniency around fair labor practices, and to put in the time and effort to make our expectations and limitations clear to those with whom we work.

Read all of Moed Katan 12 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on January 24th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The second chapter of Moed Katan opens with a mishnah that lists unforeseen circumstances that would prevent a person from being able to complete a particular task before the onset of a festival, when many labors are prohibited. 

One who had already turned over his olives as part of the process of preparing them for pressing, and mourning for a close relative befell him, or an unavoidable accident occurred, or his workers misled him, so that he could not press his olives before the festival, he may place the olives in the press and load the beam with weights for the initial pressing of the olives during the intermediate days of the festival and leave it this way until after the festival — this is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Yosei says: He may press the olives and complete the process and then plug each barrel of oil in its usual manner.

We learn from the mishnah that when unforeseen misfortunes interrupt our work in the days before a festival, it is sometimes permissible to complete the work during hol hamoed, the intermediate days of a festival. Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yosei disagree, however, about how much of the remaining labor can be completed during hol hamoed. Rabbi Yehuda allows the owner to load the olives into the press — to do what is necessary to prevent a loss; Rabbi Yosei allows one to complete the entire process.

Just as work is limited during hol hamoed, so too is work limited during the week that follows a close relative’s funeral. The former restriction allows laborers to be free to celebrate the festival, the latter permits those who have experienced a loss to focus on their grief. Because the case of the mourner is first on the mishnah’s list of circumstances, the Gemara inquires about what a mourner should do if their olives are turned over but not yet pressed when the mourning period begins.

The rules of festivals affect everyone, but the restrictions that fall on mourners only affect a few. So Rav Sheisha, son of Rav Idi, teaches that people should help:

If a mourner’s olives have already been turned over, others may load them for him into the olive press.

But what if no one is available to take care of a mourner’s olives?

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: If his olives have already been turned over and there is no skilled worker available who knows how to press them properly but him, he may do so in private.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel permits mourners to complete work in progress during their mourning period to prevent a financial loss. But he requires that they complete the work privately, so that they will not be seen working during their time of mourning. Doing so prevents others from seeing them work and from giving the impression that they are not taking the mourning period seriously.

In this case Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel makes an exception, allowing mourners to work to protect them from loss. He also makes an exception if the mourners are needed to perform a communal function:

If this mourner was a craftsman who serves the public, providing a necessary service, or a barber or a bath attendant for the public, and the time of the festival arrived, i.e., it was the eve of a festival, and there is no other skilled worker available but him, then he may perform the labor even in public.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s first exception is helpful to mourners. Not only does it protect them from financial loss — it also puts their mind at ease. Allowing them to take care of their olives sets their concerns aside and frees them to focus on their grief.

The second exception pulls in the other direction. It frees the mourner from personal, religious obligations so that the community can benefit from their services. There is a certain logic to this — a community needs its front line workers, especially before a holiday. Yet, this one gives me pause. Certainly, there are necessary services that the community can’t live without. And, if the text had made reference to those who prepare food for the communal soup kitchen or those who teach children, it might have sat better with me. 

But, the text points to barbers and bath attendants. True, it’s nice to bathe and get a trim before the holiday; yet, couldn’t the community do without these services to allow a worker to mourn their dead, even leading up to a holiday?  I am left wondering if this exception is more about Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s desire to preserve his creature comforts (recall in Yoma 34 that Rabban Gamliel, a relative of Rabban Shimon, declared himself to be “delicate” as a way to support exceptions to the rules that he made for himself) than to comfort those who are in mourning.

Read all of Moed Katan 11 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on January 23rd, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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