After discussing the laws of appearing in Jerusalem and making sacrifices on festivals, there is a famous interlude regarding forbidden esoteric teachings. These two subjects — cosmological speculation about the origins of the universe (ma’aseh bereishit) and theorizing about what God looks like (ma’aseh merkavah) — are considered dangerous. The rabbis recount several stories of what happened to people who entered this forbidden territory, most famously the story of the four rabbis who entered the pardes (literally: orchard, probably a metaphor for looking at God), only one of whom survived the experience intact.

Returning to the subject of pilgrimage festivals: To enter the Temple and offer a sacrifice, a person (and the persons’ sacrifice, of course) had to be in a state of ritual purity. Although ritual purity is dealt with at length in an entire order of the Talmud, this tractate concludes with a limited discussion of it. There are just three chapters in Tractate Chagigah.

Chapter 1

This chapter opens with a discussion of who is obligated to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for each of the three annual festivals, concluding that able-bodied adult men are required, though all are welcome. The obligation to rejoice, however, applies to men and women. Men rejoice by consuming the festival peace offering. This offering should be made on the first day of the festival, which is of greater sanctity than the intermediate days. However, should a person be prevented from offering it on the first day, they may bring it later during the week of the festival. This week-long grace period even applies to Shavuot, which is celebrated for only one day in Israel (and two everywhere else). 

Chapter 2

This chapter opens with a mishnah that states three things should not be taught in large public settings: the laws of forbidden sexual relations, what came before creation and speculation about the divine chariot (meaning, in all likelihood, the appearance of God). All are considered dangerous. The chapter includes stories of teachers and students who transgressed these boundaries and suffered dire consequences, including the famous story of the four who entered the pardes, from which only Rabbi Akiva emerged whole. One of the other four, Elisha ben Abuya, became a heretic and is referred to in rabbinic literature primarily as aher — “the other.” There are several other stories about him in this chapter as well.

This chapter contains additional laws regarding festival offerings. Beit Hillel wins a debate, thereby allowing people to place their hands on festival offerings (despite the fact that placing of hands is considered a form of forbidden labor). Purity concerns are also discussed and we are introduced to the idea of levels — that when an object or person transfers impurity to another object or person the recipient has a different level of impurity. For the sake of making people’s lives manageable, the sages rule that in order to consume non-sacred food and terumah (priestly portions), one may wash one’s hands. But in order to consume sacrificial offerings, full immersion is required to achieve the necessary purity.

Chapter 3

In this chapter, the discussion of purity continues. The sages discuss the haver, a Jews who is scrupulous with regard to purity and attempts to maintain a state of ritual purity at all times. The haver’s opposite number is the am ha’aretz, someone who is unscrupulous with regard to matters of purity. While the am ha’aretz was normally not trusted with regard to purity, they were trusted when it came to the Temple and its sacrifices — it was assumed that in this case they were reliably careful. It was also assumed that people living in Jerusalem close to the Temple were more reliable with regard to matters of purity, since they came into regular contact with the Temple. It is made clear that some of these leniencies were declared to ensure peace and harmony among the people during their three seasons of rejoicing.

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The incombustible salamander trope is ancient. Aristotle claimed salamanders were not only fireproof, they were born Phoenix-like from fire and capable of putting it out just by scampering through it. Pliny the Elder actually ran the experiment (unfortunately, for the salamanders he captured). These ideas are found in bestiaries well past antiquity, up through the Middle Ages and into the early modern period. They were also known to the rabbis. However, as we learn today, the rabbis had a much more effective method of fireproofing:

Rabbi Abbahu said that Rabbi Elazar said: The fire of Gehenna has no power over Torah scholars. This can be derived by inference from the salamander: If a salamander, which is merely a product of fire, and nevertheless when one anoints his body with its blood, fire has no power over him, all the more so should fire not have any power over Torah scholars, whose entire bodies are fire, as it is written: “Surely My words are as fire, says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 23:29)

Salamander blood, the rabbis know (as apparently many did), has a remarkable property: It can be applied to the body as a fire shield. You wouldn’t likely find a rabbinic Jew trying this trick, however. A dead salamander would probably have been classified as a sheretz, an inherently impure kind of creeping creature. Painting oneself with its blood would impart impurity.

Luckily, there’s a much more effective, and less messy, way to acquire fire immunity. Jeremiah famously prophesied that God’s words are fire. Not forged in fire, like salamanders, but made of actual fire (we saw this on Shekalim 16 as well). Because Torah scholars embody words of Torah, they are essentially holy, walking infernos capable of passing through the flames of Gehenna (surely, more intense than ordinary earth flames) unscathed. One is reminded of the biblical image of Shadrach, Mishach and Abednego walking through a superheated furnace completely unharmed. (Daniel 3:25)

That’s all very well for Torah scholars, but what about the rest of us? Luckily, Reish Lakish has us covered too, and he also gets the last word in this tractate:

Reish Lakish said: The fire of Gehenna has no power over the sinners of Israel. This is inferred from the golden altar (in the Temple). If the golden altar, which has on it (a coating of gold) that is no more than the thickness of a dinar (coin), and which has incense burning on it for many years and yet fire has no power over it, all the more so should immunity from fire be granted to the sinners of Israel, who are filled with mitzvot as a pomegranate is full of seeds, as it is written: “Your temples (rakatekh) are like a pomegranate split open” (Song of Songs 4:3), which is to be expounded as follows: Do not read this word as rakatekh, rather read it as reikanin shebakh (meaning the empty, worthless people among you).

By way of a midrashic pun, Reish Lakish, himself a former brigand, notes that even Jews who are “empty,” who are full of sins, are also full of mitzvot, like a pomegranate bursting with seeds. These acts fill them, define them, change their physical nature and shield them from the fires of Gehenna. He draws an analogy to the gold coating on the Temple altar — discussed at length earlier on this page when the rabbis were trying to determine if the altar could contract impurity — which miraculously remains in perfect condition despite all the incense constantly burned on it.

This tractate, as its name implies, began with the laws of bringing sacrifices to the Temple on pilgrimage festivals. In the opening pages, we saw a midrash that on the festivals the people not only are seen by God, they also get to see God. While this midrash is likely meant to be understood metaphorically, as the tractate progressed we saw that several mystics actually sought to see God with their own eyes. This proved extremely dangerous — and frequently resulted in death, not uncommonly by fire.

As we close this tractate, we are reminded that God’s word is also made of fire. We can swallow it up and it protects us — even from the fires of hell.

Read all of Chagigah 27 on Sefaria.

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On yesterday’s daf, we learned that potters in the environs of Jerusalem are trusted about the purity of their pots, but those who live at a distance are not. This is because sacrificial foods are associated with the Temple in Jerusalem, so it makes sense that potters in the area would take care to maintain the purity of their wares so they could be used for Temple purposes. Failure to do so would be bad for business. A Jerusalem craftsperson with a shady record on ritual purity would lose a lot of business during the busy pilgrimage festival season, and perhaps year round.

While some may question the credibility of shopkeepers when a potential sale is at hand, a mishnah on today’s daf speaks to the credibility of a shadier group of people:

Thieves who returned the vessels they had stolen are deemed credible when they say: We did not touch the rest of the objects in the house, and those items remain pure.

According to this mishnah, if a thief, while returning a stolen item, claims not to have touched other objects as the theft was in progress, they are trusted. On their word alone, the purity of items remaining in the house is determined. 

But why should we trust thieves? Doesn’t the fact that they are criminals make them untrustworthy? The Gemara cites a mishnah (Tahorot 7:6) which suggests that they are.

Concerning the thieves who entered a house, only the place where the feet of the thieves had trodden is impure. 

According to this text, all vessels that are found in the part of the house that the thieves entered are automatically impure — regardless of what the thief says. This implies that the thief is not a credible source regarding which items in a robbed home are impure and which are not.

So are thieves to be trusted about matters of purity or not? Which mishnah do we follow? Well, as it turns out, it depends.

According to a teaching from Rav Pinhas in the name of Rav, the mishnah on our daf is dealing with a case where the thieves repented, which is why they are deemed credible. The mishnah in Tahorot is referring to a case in which the thieves did not repent and are therefore not deemed credible.

So thieves, in general, are not to be trusted about matters of ritual purity. But when they are repentant and make restitution for their acts of thievery, we can trust them to help us determine the purity status of items they left behind.

Read all of Chagigah 26 on Sefaria.

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Let’s introduce the characters. First, there are priests, who were given gifts of grain, wine and oil (known as terumah) that had to be eaten in a state of ritual purity. Then comes the haver (literally “friend”), a term the Talmud uses to describe a class of people who are very careful with their observance of purity laws. And finally, the am ha’aretz (literally “people of the land”), which probably includes most everyone else. In some texts, am ha’aretz is used disparagingly to refer to someone ignorant or even antagonistic toward the rabbis. But as we’ll see, that’s not quite the case here. 

These categories come into play as the Gemara continues its discussion of the laws of ritual purity. On today’s daf, we learn that some of these laws pertain differently to members of these various groups. 

Here’s the mishnah: 

In Judea, all people are trusted with regard to the purity of consecrated wine and oil all the days of the year. And during the period of the winepress and olive press, even with regard to the purity of terumah. 

According to the mishnah, all people — not only the stringent haver, but even the less scrupulous amha’aretz — are trusted to protect the sanctity of oil and wine designated for use in the Temple. But for terumah, which is protected by a higher standard of purity, the amha’aretz is trusted only during the pressing season when the batches are fresh. At this time of the year, farmers purify their vessels for the new wine and oil so they can parcel out gifts for the priests. But over time, it’s likely that the average farmer will let down their guard and allow their produce to become impure. 

Unlike the stereotype of the antagonistic am ha’aretz, the farmer described on today’s daf is mindful of purity laws. First, they maintain a high level of seriousness all year long for food destined for the Temple — so much so, the mishnah tells us later, that if the farmer claims to have mixed Temple gifts and priestly gifts, then the whole vat is considered pure, even for terumah. Second, in the cases described, the am ha’aretz willingly chooses to give these gifts to their neighbor the priest. These are signs that at least some farmers were quite engaged in Jewish life and had an awareness of purity laws, if not to the same scrupulous level of observance as the haver. 

One more glimpse into this world comes from a case involving two brothers, one a haver and the other an am ha’aretz. This case speaks to a reality, familiar to many of us, in which family members are drawn into different camps. The question raised in the Gemara is this: Can the two siblings split their inheritance in such a way that the haver receives produce that is ritually pure, while his am ha’aretz brother receives that which is impure?

Rashi understands this case to be one in which the inherited produce has not yet been tithed. In order for the haver to give the priestly gifts according to the law, he might prefer to receive the pure produce, while the am ha’aretz brother might not care as much. But it’s also possible that the situation is one in which the haver prefers to eat pure foods himself. This reading supports a theory that the haver class were scrupulous about purity laws not only for tithes, but also for food they eat themselves, which they prefer to consume in a state of purity, mimicking the priests. 

So can they split the produce according to its purity status? A mishnah quoted on our daf says they may do so only if the produce is the same — i.e. they may split their father’s wheat if part of it is pure and part impure — but they may not mix and match different types of produce, such as barley that is pure and wheat that is impure. In short, the haver may not benefit from a trade in impure produce nor from his brother’s different standard of behavior, even if the less stringent brother is willing. 

The cases related on today’s daf all serve to show how interconnected these two communities were and the subtle dance required for them to coexist in mutually beneficial ways.

Read all of Chagigah 25 on Sefaria.

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The chain of impurity doesn’t stretch indefinitely — at least not in most cases. Most ordinary people and objects are not subject to impurity at more than two levels removed from the original source of the impurity (called an av hatumah). Sacred objects, however, are more “sensitive” and can contract impurity at greater remove — taking on even third- and sometimes even fourth-degree impurity. This is the subject of our discussion today. The mishnah on Chagigah 20b stated that:

Kodesh (sacrificial food) that is impure with fourth-degree impurity is disqualified.

Terumah (food tithed to priests) is disqualified when it is impure in the third degree.

Terumah is less susceptible than kodesh to a snowballing of impurity, which means that it can’t become impure by contact with something else that has third-degree impurity. Kodesh, however, can achieve impurity in the fourth degree when it touches an object with third degree impurity. Why is sacrificial food more susceptible than terumah? Today’s daf walks us through the rabbis’ reasoning. 

The Gemara first quotes an earlier tradition where Rabbi Yosei explains that we learn that sacrificial food is disqualified in the fourth degree by using basic rabbinic logic:

If one who is lacking atonement (meaning they have not brought the offering that will end their period of impurity), who is permitted to eat terumah, is nevertheless disqualified with regard to the consumption of sacrificial food, then something impure in the third degree, which is disqualified if it is terumah, is it not right that it should engender a fourth degree of ritual impurity when it touches sacrificial food?

We have learned that there is a third degree of impurity imparted to sacrificial food from the Torah and fourth degree from kal va’homer (a fortiori reasoning).

Rabbi Yosei points out that, according to the Torah, someone who has not yet completed their process of purification, for which atonement is a critical step, is permitted to eat terumah but not sacrificial food. So clearly sacrificial food has a higher susceptibility to impurity than terumah and can become impure even in the fourth degree. 

Rabbi Yosei has told us that the information that sacrificial food can contract third-degree impurity is found directly in the Torah. But where did he read that? The Gemara explains:

As it is written: “And the meat that touches any impure thing shall not be eaten.” (Leviticus 7:20) Are we not dealing with the case in which it is touched by something that is of the second degree impurity? And the Merciful One states: “It shall not be eaten.”

In the context of this chapter of Leviticus, which is all about sacrifices, the meat in question is sacrificial food. Leviticus 7:20 states that sacrificial food is inedible if it has touched “an impure thing.” What is an impure thing? The rabbis understand that phrase to refer to something impure up to the second degree. So their reading of the verse insists that sacrificial food is disqualified according to the Torah if it is touched by something that is second-degree impure, making it third-degree impure. This proves, from the Torah, that kodashim can achieve third-degree impurity. 

How then do we then learn that sacrificial food can also be made impure in the fourth degree? The Gemara agrees with Rabbi Yosei’s reasoning — it is inferred through akal v’homer inference from the analogy to terumah. Since terumah can achieve third-degree impurity, and yet is less sacred than kodesh, we must conclude that kodesh can achieve fourth-degree impurity.

The Talmud’s discussion of the laws of purity and impurity can feel alien to modern readers. After all, most people don’t spend all day focused on what they’ve touched, walked over or sat on, and its spiritual and ritual implications for everything else they come into contact with. These laws are largely irrelevant to Jewish life in a world without a Temple (though not entirely — stay tuned for Niddah when we get there, please God, in five years!). But for the rabbis, these were live issues that shaped their daily activity. 

In the modern world, we have no kodesh (or terumah, for that matter) to eat, and we don’t need to ask ourselves if it is rendered impure by contact with an object that is itself third-degree impure (indeed, since we have lost the ability to reverse corpse impurity, everyone today is considered constantly in a state of impurity).

But the discussion on today’s daf reminds us that to understand their world, the rabbis look to three sources: the words of the Torah, the wisdom of their intellectual ancestors and their own logic and reasoning. All of these are important to discerning the way that God wants us to live. Their process of relying on these very different methods of understanding — and constantly putting them in conversation with one another — offers a helpful and relevant model for us today, trying to discern our own ways of understanding the world.

Read all of Chagigah 24 on Sefaria.

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According to the mishnah on Chagigah 21, a person carrying an object stepped on by a zav (a male who becomes impure due to an abnormal seminal discharge) — which has first degree impurity — may simultaneously carry terumah, but not sacrificial food, lest there be inadvertent cross contamination. On today’s daf, we learn that this rule originated from an actual incident:

Rav Yehuda said that Shmuel said: There was once an incident involving someone who was transferring a barrel of sacrificial wine from one place to another, ⁦and the strap of his sandal (which had been rendered ritually impure by being trodden by a zav) broke off, and he picked up the strap and placed it on top of the mouth of the barrel, and it fell into the airspace of the barrel, thereby rendering the entire barrel impure. 

To prevent this from occurring again, the rabbis issued a decree that when carrying an object that is impure by having been stepped on by a zav, one may not simultaneously carry sacrificial food. The Gemara raises an obvious objection: Why only apply this decree to sacrificial foods? Shouldn’t we be as concerned about maintaining the purity of terumah as well? 

In response, the Gemara quotes Rabbi Hananya ben Akavya: 

They prohibited it only in the Jordan River, and only in a boat, in a situation similar to the incident that occurred.

Hold on a minute. Didn’t Shmuel say that the ruling about carrying sacrificial food involved a broken sandal and a barrel of wine? Who said anything about a boat or the Jordan River? 

Well, Rabbi Hananya ben Akavya did. But it turns out that he was talking about a different case. So why does the Gemara quote him here? 

Let’s take a look at the other case, again reported by Rav Yehuda, to try and figure that out:

Rav Yehuda said that Rav said: There was once an incident involving a person who was transferring water of purification and ashes of purification in the Jordan river, and he was on a boat, and an olive-bulk from a corpse was discovered stuck in the floor of the boat. At that time the sages said: A person may not carry water of purification and ashes of purification and transport them across the Jordan on a boat.

In this rather strange scenario, a tiny bit of a human body was discovered in a boat, rendering the water and ashes in the boat impure. As a result, the rabbis banned the transport of water of purification and ashes of purification across the Jordan. 

Initially, the sages sought to apply the restrictions not only to the Jordan river, but to all rivers. But Rabbi Hananya ben Akavya isn’t having it: 

The sages prohibited these acts only in the Jordan River, and only if he transports them in a boat, and in circumstances exactly like those of the incident that occurred.

It’s not the details that are important here, but the larger point: Rabbi Hananya ben Akavya wants us to know that when a decree is made on the basis of a particular incident, it applies only to the specific circumstances that gave rise to it. So if the rabbis responded to the boat case by banning transport of sacrificial items across the Jordan in a boat, the ruling applies only to the Jordan — not to other rivers. 

Likewise, in our case, since the decree forbidding simultaneously carrying food and an object rendered impure because it was stepped on by a zav emerged from a case in which sacrificial food was being carried, the decree applies only to sacrificial food — even if logic dictates that we be similarly concerned about cross-contamination of terumah. 

Rabbi Hananya ben Akavya’s statement about boats and the Jordan river comes from a specific context, but the Gemara quotes it because it outlines a broader principle. This can be a bit confusing until the Gemara clarifies things by sharing information about the other case.

Both cases are examples of real-life occurrences — a broken sandal and the discovery of a small bit of flesh from a dead body — that rendered impure something that is supposed to remain pure. But it’s not actually forbidden to carry an impure sandal strap and sacrificial food at the same time, nor is it forbidden to bring waters of purification on a boat on the Jordan River. The rabbis prohibited these actions only because of mishaps that actually occurred. Rabbi Hananya seeks to protect against rabbinic overreach by preventing his colleagues from expanding the number of scenarios in which stricter rules apply.

Read all of Chagigah 23 on Sefaria.

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Today’s daf reminds us that this diversity is not just a challenge of the modern world. The rabbis of the Talmud were themselves one community of Jews alongside other Jews in the late antique world. According to the Talmud, these non-rabbinic Jews, who the rabbis refer to as amei ha’aretz, people of the land (singular: am ha’aretz), had a different set of Jewish practices and priorities and so were less stringent than the rabbis about issues of purity and impurity.

In a world where purity is both materially significant and contagious, how do we live in community with people who have such different practices and priorities? 

The Gemara states:

We do not accept terumah(tithes set aside for the priests) from amei ha’aretz.

Amei ha’aretz do not accept rabbinic laws about ritual purity as it relates to terumah, so members of the rabbinic community cannot eat their terumah. So far so good. But then the Gemara discusses a different type of ritual food:

If so, we should also not accept from them kodesh (sacrificial food)?!

So apparently, members of the rabbinic community can accept sacrificial food from an am ha’aretz (meaning the sacrifices they make at the Temple which are subsequently eaten). So what is the difference? Why can we not accept terumah from an am ha’aretz, but we can accept kodesh?

They will have antagonism.

Turns out, it comes down to maintaining peaceful relations. The rabbis are concerned that rejecting the sacrificial food of amei ha’aretz will lead them to be antagonistic toward the rabbis and their teachings. 

The Gemara next explains why the rabbis distinguish between taking terumah from an am ha’aretz and taking sacrificial food from them. In the case of terumah:

He does not care, as he can go and give it to an am ha’aretz priest who is his friend.

Terumah can be given to any priest, not just one who follows rabbinic laws. So rabbis can be stringent about who they accept terumah from because their stringency won’t affect whether or not non-rabbinic Jews can participate in the mitzvah of terumah. (That’s right, it’s possible for a priest to be an am ha’aretz! Those who are used to thinking of the am ha’aretz as synonymous with “ignorant Jew” might find this surprising. But in fact, the priests were famously opposed to the rabbis and so it’s actually not surprising that the rabbis would characterize a good number of them as amei ha’aretz, which really just means not invested in the stringencies of rabbinic law.)

But sacrificial food is different — after all, there is only one Temple. Rejecting someone’s sacrificial food cuts off their access to Temple ritual. And as Rabbi Yosei explained in an earlier tradition quoted on the page, the rabbis must accept the Temple offerings of amei ha’aretz:

So that each and every individual should not go off and build an altar for himself and burn a red heifer for himself.

In his dissertation, Jonathan Pomeranz has shown that the early rabbis of the Babylonian Talmud “were apathetic toward the ammei ha’aretz. Near the end of the rabbinic period some Babylonian sages adopted a welcoming and conciliatory attitude toward the ammei-ha’aretz.” As their community developed and grew, the rabbis became more welcoming, not less. 

Jewish unity requires compromise. Sometimes we think that compromise means holding everyone to the highest standard, because everyone can choose to meet that standard and participate. But today’s daf reminds us that compromise sometimes means recognizing that not everyone wants to meet those higher standards, and requiring them to do so may lead to alienation, division and the creation of multiple Temples. (Yes, that actually happened in antiquity. For instance, we have archaeological and textual evidence for a Jewish temple in Leontopolis, Egypt.) 

Living with diversity means recognizing that people aren’t necessarily going to become more similar, but that we can build a community together anyway.

Read all of Chagigah 22 on Sefaria.

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The Gemara is discussing the laws of purifying vessels for use with terumah and kodesh foods. Terumah is produce that is donated by Israelites for exclusive consumption by priests. Kodesh refers to sacrificial foods, the parts of offerings made at the Temple that people are allowed to eat. Both food types can only be eaten in a state of purity. 

The mishnah on yesterday’s daf told us that there are some cases in which we are stricter with kodesh vessels than with terumah vessels, one of which is the purification of vessels from which they are eaten. The vessels used for terumah may be immersed in purifying water in a stack, but for kodesh vessels there’s an extra stringency: The vessels must be immersed individually. Why? On today’s daf, the Gemara presents two opinions: 

Rabbi Ila said: Because the weight of the inner vessel causes an interposition between the water and the vessels.

Rava says:

It is a rabbinic decree to ensure that one does not immerse small vessels, such as needles and hooks, inside a vessel whose mouth is less than the width of the tube of a wineskin.

Rabbi Ila is concerned that if stacked, one vessel may press down on another, creating an area between the two vessels that doesn’t touch the purifying water. Rava is concerned that if small vessels are placed inside another vessel with a small mouth, the water inside will not come into contact with the water of the ritual bath and the small vessels will not be purified. While their reasoning is different, both rabbis support the ruling of the mishnah that when purifying vessels for use with kodesh, they have to be immersed individually and not in stacks.

It’s reasonable to wonder if the concerns Rava and Rabbi Ila raise might also be applied to immersion of vessels for use with terumah. Wouldn’t stacked vessels be problematic in this case too? On this matter, the Gemara is silent for now (it will address this question on tomorrow’s daf), accepting for the moment the mishnah’s assertion that this stringency applies in one case and not the other.

The laws of ritual purity are largely moot today. But Talmud study is not only about deriving laws applicable to our lives today. The ways the rabbis derived their rulings, the methods they use to weigh evidence and compare similar cases, and the ways they balance competing concerns provide us a model of respectful debate and critical thinking that is deeply relevant today — even if the particular laws they establish might not be. 

Read all of Chagigah 21 on Sefaria.

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Today’s daf describes a series of cases where something becomes impure not because it actually comes into contact with something impure, but because of a lack of continuous attention on the part of its owner. Let’s look at two examples: 

Rabbi Yonatan ben Amram says: If one’s Shabbat clothes were switched for his weekday clothes and he wore them, they are impure. 

Why? The Gemara later explains that:

Since he is more protective of Shabbat clothes, he will divert his mind from them.

Another example:

Rabbi Elazar bar Tzadok said: There was an incident involving two women who were wives of haverim (friends) who are meticulous in observance of halakhah especially with regard to matters of impurity whose clothes were switched in the bathhouse; and the incident came before Rabbi Akiva and he declared the clothes impure.

Why? The Gemara later explains that:

Each of them says to herself: My friend is the wife of an am ha’aretz (literally: person of the land, this phrase refers to a non-rabbinic Jew), and she diverts her mind from them.

Neither of these cases involves any contact with something impure at all. According to the named rabbis who describe the cases, the impurity was caused by a lack of attention — accidentally wearing the wrong clothes, or switching one pure outfit for another in the bathhouse. The Gemara nuances these cases by explaining that what makes the clothing impure is not the accidental swap, but the fact that the swap will lead the wearer to pay less attention to questions of purity and impurity. Here, purity is entirely about the practice of attention to the world in which we live and how we interact with it. 

But a lack of attention leads to real consequences. Rabba bar Avuh tells another story on today’s daf:

An incident involving a certain woman who came before Rabbi Yishmael and said to him: “Rabbi, I wove this garment in a ritually pure state, but my mind was not on it to guard its state of purity.” And during the interrogations that Rabbi Yishmael conducted with her, she said to him: “Rabbi, a menstruating woman pulled the rope with me.” 

Rabbi Yishmael said: How great are the words of the sages when they said: If one’s mind is focused on guarding it, it is pure; if one’s mind is not focused on guarding it, it is impure. 

Rabba bar Avuh’s story insists that the reason we need to be paying attention is because someone impure might transmit their impurity to the objects around them if we are not paying attention. It’s not just about attention, but also about what can happen when we don’t pay attention. 

To be clear, the menstruating woman, the two women who went to the bathhouse and the man getting dressed in his own house are all clean. Indeed, the two women have literally just been to the bathhouse! But purity is an entirely different thing, involving not just our bodies and their functions but also care, intention and attention. After all, if we aren’t paying attention to the world around us, anything can happen. 

Read all of Chagigah 20 on Sefaria.

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Such a question may feel especially relevant to any hassled parent trying to get their children to wash up for lunch. Left unsupervised in shul for ninety seconds, Reuven and Shimon have toddled out to the lobby, where they have been amusing themselves by filling paper cups with hand sanitizer and shmearing it all over themselves and every article of furniture within reach. When told to clean up the mess and wash hands for lunch, the three-year-old lawyers protest that with all that sanitizer, they are as clean as any EMT. But are they ritually cleared for eating?

OK, they’re just kids, and not yet fully obligated in mitzvot. But what about adults? The mishnah on yesterday’s page clearly states that handwashing and toiveling (immersing in a kosher mikveh) are acts of intention. Cleanliness is one state; ritual purity goes beyond mere germicide. Accidentally or mindlessly pouring water over your hands doesn’t count, as the Gemara clarified yesterday with a beraita (citation of an older teaching): 

One who washes his hands, if he intended to purify them, his hands are pure; if he did not intend to do so, his hands are impure.

However, today’s daf raises a challenge to the idea that purification of the hands requires intent:

But isn’t it taught (in another beraita) that his hands are pure whether he did or did not intend to purify them?

Rav Nahman said: This is not difficult, as there, they are referring to non-sacred; whereas here, they are referring to tithes.

Rav Nahman sorts out the apparent contradiction between these two beraitas, suggesting that the challenge beraita refers only to washing for the purposes of eating non-sacred food (chullin), for which one is only required to wash, but not to hold the intention of achieving spiritual purity. However, he says, the earlier beraita refers to the case where one is planning to eat sacred food (tithes) and therefore intention to purify must be part of the washing ritual.

How might one wash up without intending to do so? Tamar Fox’s children’s book, No Baths At Camp, lovingly paints a picture of a rough-and-tumble week at Jewish sleepaway camp, where Shabbat achieves a special beauty unduplicated anywhere else in the world because, as Max explains to his mother as she hustles him toward the tub, “There are no baths at camp!” Of course, the child reading the picture book will notice how well the water fights, lake swims and other summer activities wash the sticky, paint-spattered campers clean. 

And now, as you may have noticed, we’ve entered a discussion more about mikveh than hand washing. Especially in the premodern world, where sea bathing and swimming were practically synonymous, the question becomes: Does a swimmer who has just emerged from a shining lake of pure water still need to dip ritually (that is, with intention) to be purified?

Yes, says the Talmud, they do. Swimming for fun in the ocean is not sufficient. But not necessarily because of intention, rather because we cannot guarantee full immersion. The beach baby in question might be surfing on the water rather than immersing in it.

And from where do you say that one may not immerse in the arcs? As it is taught: One may immerse in the edges of waves, but one may not immerse in their arcs, because one may not immerse in air.

This talmudic argument strongly reminds me of the famous Japanese print “Under The Wave Off Kanagawa” as the Gemara patiently tries to explain that a surfer doing a tube ride right under the arc of a wave is not technically underwater, either for purposes of purity or for purposes of breathing.

This seems a little harsh for those of us stodgy landsmen who are unlikely to execute a perfect tube ride. I would volunteer to be the text’s example of someone who will never be found surfing under the arc of anything. Cannot the inexperienced swimmer, bather or three-year-old lawyer-in-training save themselves a lot of needless washing?

Actually, they can, the Gemara assures us.

As long as one of his feet is still in the water, if he had originally intended to strengthen his status of ritual purity for a minor matter, he may change intent to strengthen his status for a major matter. But if he has fully ascended from the bath, he may no longer make a chizuk (strengthened status) for any other matter.

Someone who has fully immersed and still has even one foot in the pure waters of the mikveh (or a body of water that qualifies as a mikveh) can change their intention and purify themselves to as high a degree as they desire. If, however, you’ve already climbed out and are toweling off, then resign yourself to eating chullin (non sacred food) or back into the water you must go!

Read all of Chagigah 19 on Sefaria.

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Well before modern science proved its efficacy, Jewish tradition mandated ritual hand washing (and in some cases, immersing in a mikveh, or Jewish ritual bath) in a number of circumstances. The mishnah at the top of today’s daf enumerates a number of categories of food that require hand washing before they can be eaten.

One must wash his hands before eating chullin (non-sacred food), and for tithes and for terumah; but for eating sacrificial food one must immerse one’s hands in purification waters.

According to the mishnah, normal food, plus food that was donated to the priests, required washing before it could be eaten. Food that comes from sacrifices carries an even more significant obligation, immersion in a mikveh, before it could be eaten. 

Later on our daf, the Gemara records a possible conflict between this mishnah with another teaching, from a mishnah in Tractate Bikkurim, which suggests that hand washing is not required for tithing and non-sacred foods. In trying to sort out the different cases the two mishnahs are referring to, the Gemara states: 

Here the mishnah is dealing with eating bread, which requires washing one’s hands whereas there, in Bikkurim, the mishnah is referring to eating non-sacred fruit, for which one need not wash his hands, for Rav Nahman said: Anyone who washes his hands for fruit is of the haughty of spirit.

Rav Nahman disparages hand washing for non-sacred fruit as being extra because it’s not required by the rabbis. But elsewhere the Gemara suggests that washing before bread is of crucial importance. In Tractate Sotah, we learn this:

Concerning anyone who eats bread without washing his hands, it is as if he engaged in sexual intercourse with a prostitute.

We’re left with an important question: Why is hand washing seen as so consequential as to be equated to fornication? Isn’t that itself a little extra?

This shocking comparison clues us into the fact that in the time of the Talmud, hand washing wasn’t just about cleanliness. It was also about godliness — namely, the removal of ritual impurities prior to eating food. As we have learned in many places during the past two years of our Daf Yomi cycle, ritual impurity can be transferred by a person to various objects, including food. And that ritual impurity can then be transferred to other people and objects, which in the time of the Temple would have prevented them from engaging in a number of ritual (and personal) practices. 

Even today, when we have no Temple and everyone and everything are presumed to be in a general state of ritual impurity, and all of our food is non-sacred, we still practice ritual hand-washing before eating bread. The practice, known as Netilat Yadayim (literally, “raising hands”), is performed with a blessing before eating any food that requires the Hamotzi blessing. 

Although the sages of the Talmud were unfamiliar with germ theory, they were cognizant of the invisible forces that resulted in ritual impurity. And at least one scholar has suggested that the ancients’ understanding of illness and ritual impurity may have similar roots. 

Whatever the origin of impurity, sources across the generations agree with your mother: Wash your hands.

Read all of Chagigah 18 on Sefaria.

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But as we saw a few days ago, sometimes you can’t make it on time. Instead of saying you are fresh out of luck, the rabbis taught that if you were unable to present your sacrifice on the first day, you could still offer it on subsequent days of the holiday. This works out fine for Passover and Sukkot, which are weeklong holidays. But on Shavuot, which is celebrated for only one day in Israel, are there any options?

In fact, there are two:

Rabbi Elazar said that Rabbi Oshaya said: From where is it derived that the Shavuot offerings can be sacrificed for seven days? As it is stated: “Three times a year all your males shall appear … on the festival of Passover, and on the festival of Shavuot, and on the festival of Sukkot.” (Deuteronomy 16:16) The verse compares the festival of Shavuot to the festival of Passover by analogy: Just as one can redress the failure to bring the offering on the festival of Passover on all seven days of the festival, so too, on the festival of Shavuot, one can redress the failure to bring the offering for all seven days.

According to Rabbi Elazar, if one can bring a Passover sacrifice for seven days, one can also bring a Shavuot sacrifice for seven days — the holiday itself and the six days that follow. 

But this is not the only option. The Gemara goes on to suggest that Sukkot is also a fair comparison to Shavuot. 

Just as the festival day of Sukkot can be redressed for all eight days, so too can the festival of Shavuot be redressed for all eight days.

If one fails to bring a festival offering on the first day of Sukkot, it’s permitted to bring it for an additional seven days — the six remaining days of the holiday plus the additional day of Shemini Atzeret. But wait, the Gemara objects, isn’t Shemini Atzeret a holiday of its own? If so, one should be able to bring a forgotten Sukkot offering for only an additional six days, just like on Passover. 

It’s true that sometimes we consider Shemini Atzeret to be its own holiday, says the Gemara, answering its own question. However, for the purpose of determining how much extra time to give for the holiday sacrifice, it’s considered to be part of Sukkot. 

So if we compare Shavuot to Sukkot, we get eight days for sacrifices. If we use Passover, we only get seven. How do we choose? 

The Gemara tells us: 

If you grasped many, you did not grasp anything; if you grasped few, you grasped something.

This principle says that if you have to choose between a larger number and a smaller one, if the rationale for each is comparable, choose the smaller one. What’s the logic here? Well, if you choose the more expansive option and you are wrong, you’ll lead people astray. In our case, you would be permitting people to bring sacrifices after the time to bring them has expired. But if you choose the narrower option and are wrong, you’ve shortened the permissible period for bringing sacrifices unnecessarily, but you haven’t caused anybody to err as a result of your decision.

In the Talmud, this principle is used consistently in the way that it is on our daf. But in modern Hebrew, it’s more akin to the English aphorism, “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” So if someone says the phrase tafasta m’ruba, lo tafasta to you,know that you are being cautioned to take on a less ambitious task rather than a larger one that may be too much for you to handle. 

Read all of Chagigah 17 on Sefaria.

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While rainbows these days have a variety of meanings, today’s daf offers a surprising warning about them: 

It is taught in the mishnah: Whoever has no concern for the honor of his Maker deserves to have never come to the world. The Gemara asks: What is “lack of concern for the honor of one’s Maker”? Rabbi Abba said: This is one who looks at a rainbow.

That’s unexpected. According to Rabbi Abba, one who looks at a rainbow is disrespecting God. But what does looking at a rainbow have to do with honoring God? The Gemara continues:

As it is written: “As the appearance of the bow that is in the cloud in the day of rain so was the appearance of the brightness round about. This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.” (Ezekiel 1:28) 

According to Rabbi Abba, rainbows are the equivalent of God’s likeness, and staring at God’s likeness is dishonorable. Rabbi Yehuda echoes Rabbi Abba’s position and adds a specific consequence:

Rabbi Yehuda, son of Rabbi Nahmani, the disseminator of Reish Lakish, interpreted a verse homiletically: Whoever looks at the following three things, his eyes will grow dim: One who looks at a rainbow, at a Nasi, and at the priests.

While a rainbow isn’t so bright as to be literally blinding, we can infer that the text is speaking metaphorically about the overwhelming splendor of God’s symbol in the sky. But the teaching is nevertheless confusing: There’s a blessing traditionally said upon viewing a rainbow. If we don’t look at rainbows, how can we say the blessing? If you follow Ashkenazi practices, it can’t be because someone else notifies you that there’s a rainbow in the sky. The Mishnah Berurah specifically says that you shouldn’t tell other people about rainbows, equating doing so with gossip. (Sephardim say it’s OK to spread the word about rainbows.)

The Shulchan Aruch, the medieval law code, presents a compromise: “One who sees the rainbow says, ‘Blessed are you, God our Lord, king of the world, who remembers the covenant, who is faithful to his covenant, and who fulfills his word.’ And it is forbidden to look upon it further.” In other words, look at the rainbow enough to serve as a basis for the blessing, but that’s it.

So yes, Dolly Parton’s wisdom rings true and can buoy us through challenging times. But if we’re hewing closely to the instructions in today’s daf, we should be careful about how we look at the rainbow that comes after the storm. 

Read all of Chagigah 16 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 25th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Ben Abuya is the Talmud’s best known heretic. He is also the vehicle through which the other rabbis can push boundaries and ask scary questions about belief and its borders. On today’s daf, we see Rabbi Meir, his student, ask a poignant question about compassion and teshuvah (repentance): Is there a point of no return?

Aher said to him (Rabbi Meir): Rabbi Akiva, your teacher, did not say so, but taught as follows: Just as golden and glass vessels have a remedy even when they have broken, so too a Torah scholar, although he has transgressed, has a remedy. 

Rabbi Meir said to him: If so, you too. Return from your ways.

He said to him: I have already heard the following declaration behind the dividing curtain: “Return, rebellious children,” (Jeremiah 3:22) — apart from Aher.

The ancient Japanese practice of kintsugi, using lacquer and/or gold pigment to piece together shattered vessels, is more than a means of repair — it is an art from. In recent years, it has been adapted into the language of self-help and wellness as a metaphor for embracing flaws and imperfections. It is fascinating to see echoes of the idea here in Rabbi Meir’s teaching from Rabbi Akiva: Golden and glass vessels have a remedy, even when they are broken.

Each year, leading up to and on the High Holy Days, we are taught the lesson that Rabbi Meir is imparting his former teacher: We are all sinners, we have all transgressed, and there is a way back — there is a remedy, a repair, a return. But Ben Abuya’s response is searingly painful. Yes, he says, I too have heard the lesson — I too can quote Jeremiah. But I am too far gone. Even God, he says, has rejected me.

The daf continues through a number of painful stories with the same message — Rabbi Meir preaches the lessons of teshuvah, and Ben Abuya continues to insist that he is barred from the process: Return, rebellious children — he quotes Jeremiah. And each time, he adds: Apart from Aher. 

After Ben Abuya’s death, and after that of his disciple, Rabbi Yohanan asks the question at the heart of this daf, and it is a scary one:

Can it be that there was one sage among us who left the path and we cannot save him? If we hold him by the hand, who will remove him from our protection; who?

Is there, Yohanan seems to ask, truly a point of no return? Are there people whose doubt, or even whose heresy, place them fully outside the pale, undeserving of divine love and acceptance? And what happens when those people are teachers of powerful Torah? What, if anything, can we learn from the transgressors and their transgressions, and how, if at all, can we guide them toward repair? Like the pots made even more beautiful after they are shattered and then repaired, isn’t there always enough gold in the world to make their stories beautiful again?

Read all of Chagigah 15 on Sefaria.

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But what happens when it is not a hapless student but the greatest rabbis who contemplate the merkavah? Can they do it safely? This is the question addressed in several stories on today’s daf, and it includes one of the most famous in the Talmud. 

The sages know that mystical speculation is playing with fire — literally. For instance, when Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, credited elsewhere in the Gemara with saving rabbinic Judaism from extinction, and his student Rabbi Elazar ben Arakh (also no slouch) are riding together, the latter gains his teacher’s permission to recite just a single piece of the merkavah tradition. This is what happens:

Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai alighted from the donkey, and wrapped himself, and sat on a stone under an olive tree. 

Rabbi Elazar said to him: My teacher, for what reason did you alight from the donkey? 

He said: Is it possible that while you are expounding the merkavah, and the Divine Presence is with us, and the ministering angels are accompanying us, that I should ride on a donkey?

Immediately, Rabbi Elazar ben Arakh began to expound the merkavah, and fire descended from heaven and encircled all the trees in the field, and all the trees began singing.

We always knew the rabbis thought learning had enormous power. But when it comes to the study of the merkavah, its power is otherworldly. Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai instinctively knows what will happen when his student begins to recite: God will descend among them. Ben Zakkai dismounts his donkey out of respect and wraps himself in his cloak, presumably to hide his face so he cannot look directly at God. 

In a similar story, this time about Rabbi Yosei the priest and Rabbi Yehoshua, God’s presence looks very different: a clear sky is suddenly thronged with clouds that crack apart to admit a beautiful rainbow. Ministering angels rush to the scene, rejoicing as if it were a wedding.

In both of these stories, God’s presence, called down simply by the act of studying the divine chariot, brings grave danger (a ring of fire, an ominous cloudbank) but also ecstatic joy (singing trees, celebrating angels).

It is in this context that we encounter one of the most famous stories in the Talmud. Now, instead of one hapless student stumbling on the secret, or a cautious rabbi expounding a fraction of it to another (in keeping with the Mishnah’s admonishment that the merkavah is only taught in one-on-one settings), we have four rabbis who together embark on a journey of mystical discovery:

Four entered the pardes and they are as follows: Ben Azzai; and ben Zoma; Aher, and Rabbi Akiva. 

Rabbi Akiva said to them: When you reach pure marble stones, do not say: Water, water, because it is stated: “He who speaks falsehood shall not be established before my eyes.” (Psalms 101:7)

Ben Azzai glimpsed and died. And with regard to him the verse states: “Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his pious ones.” (Psalms 116:15)

Ben Zoma glimpsed and was harmed. And with regard to him the verse states: “Have you found honey? Eat as much as is sufficient for you, lest you become full from it and vomit it.” (Proverbs 25:16)

Aher cut down the shoots.

Rabbi Akiva emerged safely.

Versions of this story, told in just a few lines, are found scattered throughout rabbinic literature. It is also the inspiration for at least two modern novels: Milton Steinberg’s As a Driven Leaf and Myla Goldberg’s Bee Season. The story was clearly as resonant for the ancient rabbis as it is for us today. 

These four rabbis don’t just study the merkavah; they go in search of it. The word pardes literally means orchard and is etymologically linked to the word paradise, both reasons interpreters have supposed that it alludes to the Garden of Eden, the original paradise, with its forbidden Tree of Knowledge at the center.

Another interpretation holds that this four letter Hebrew word is an acronym for the four traditional methods of biblical interpretation: p’shat (plain), remez (hint), sod (secret) and drash (inquiry) — suggesting the journey these four undertook had to do with attaining the most esoteric levels of scriptural understanding. However we understand where the rabbis went — Rashi suggests they literally ascended to heaven by speaking one of the divine names — they were clearly in search of some deep mystical understanding.

We don’t know why these four rabbis went on such an obviously dangerous mission. Perhaps the thought of meeting God was impossibly compelling. Three would never be the same again. Ben Azzai immediately loses his life, Ben Zoma is harmed (usually understood to mean that he loses his mind; the verse attached to him suggests his system is overwhelmed by God’s glory), Aher — a rabbi who is simply referred to here as “other” because he became a heretic, commonly presumed to be Elisha ben Abuya — “cut down the shoots,” meaning perhaps that he annihilated future generations. Only Rabbi Akiva emerges from God’s presence unscathed, putting him on par with Moses who was able to see God panim el panim, face to face.

Why Rabbi Akiva? Certainly, he was a significant rabbi. In fact, if you were asked to pick the most significant rabbi of all time, Akiva would be a defensible choice. More than any other, he was responsible for designing the entire rabbinic enterprise. His philosophy of midrashic interpretation, his halakhic thought, his organization of the Oral Torah, even his decisions about what to include in scripture — all of it shaped the rabbinic project (see, for instance, Sanhedrin 86a). He was so significant that there are many legends like this one about his life, from his humble beginnings to his iconic marriage and heart-breaking martyrdom. The Talmud relates that Moses himself was privileged to sit in Akiva’s classroom — and understood nothing, acknowledging Akiva as the greater scholar. (Menachot 29b)

Perhaps the real key to Akiva’s genius is what we see on display in this story, his Einstein-like ability to creatively imagine that which is difficult to expect and nearly impossible to conceive. As he and his colleagues prepare to ascend to God’s presence, he warns them: “When you reach pure marble stones, do not say: Water, water.”

Akiva knows that the divine realm will be unlike anything experienced on earth. He seems to have anticipated that the marble of God’s palace is so perfectly polished it will shimmer blindingly, like water under a hot sun. He warns his colleagues: Do not trust your eyes. Do not assume you know what you are seeing. Do not be blinded by radiance, and keep your focus. But in the end, his is the only mind that can adapt to such splendors.

Read all of Chagigah 14 on Sefaria.

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The mishnah that opened this chapter warned against the study of the merkavah, that fiery, whirling, animal-bedecked throne that transports God through the heavens, and sometimes down to earth. But though it is strictly forbidden to teach about the merkavah to more than one person, and that person must have the wisdom to safely handle it (more on this below), the rabbis spill plenty of ink talking about the fact that one should not talk about it. And indeed, they also reveal exactly what “it” is that we may not discuss.

God’s awesome throne is actually described in the first chapter of the Book of Ezekiel: “I looked, and lo, a stormy wind came sweeping out of the north — a huge cloud and flashing fire, surrounded by a radiance; and in the center of it, in the center of the fire, a gleam as of electrum.” (1:4) 

What is electrum (chashmal) you ask? Likely a naturally-occurring brilliant mixed metal alloy of gold and silver, plus small amounts of copper and other metals. Many items made of electrum were found in King Tutenkhamun’s tomb. In modern Hebrew, the word means electricity. Ezekiel goes on to describe the merkavah ensconced (dipped?) in this radiant electrum as a chariot surrounded by four figures, each facing one of the cardinal directions and possessing four faces (human, eagle, lion and ox — or perhaps cherub) and four wings: two outstretched to touch one another, and two more covering their bodies. These figures have human hands and their legs are fused together to give the appearance of only one leg (the reason that it is customary to stand with feet together while reciting the Kedushah, during which we imitate the angels). And there is a fiery torch light dancing around, and some complicated combination wheels that can move in any direction without turning, and … well, actually, it’s very exciting but more than a little confusing.

If the merkavah is described openly in the biblical text, why did the rabbis think it should be a secret? To truly understand the merkavah, the rabbis understood, it is not enough to just read Ezekiel — you must be wise enough to unlock the full meaning of those verses for yourself, or you must have a teacher who can help. But to do so is dangerous, as we’ll see in a moment.

Today’s page offers stories of rabbis who sought to learn these secrets, those who feared learning them, those who taught them anyway (sometimes recklessly), and those who refused to. We even learn that some wished to suppress the Book of Ezekiel entirely because its futuristic descriptions of the third Temple contradict other biblical laws about the Temple. But we’re going to jump to the bottom of the first side of the page because that’s where we learn what happens when the secret finds its way into the wrong hands.

An incident occurred involving a youth who was reading the book of Ezekiel in the house of his teacher, and he was able to comprehend the electrum, and fire came out of the electrum and burned him. And they sought to suppress the book of Ezekiel due to the danger it posed. Hananya ben Hizkiya said to them: If this youth happened to be wise, are all people wise enough to understand this book?

In this story, a young scholar who is apparently studying all on his own (though he is in the home of his teacher) figures out what the first chapter of Ezekiel really means and he is burned — literally. At this point, the sages once again consider suppressing Ezekiel. This time, not because of a concern for its incorrect halakhot, but because it contains dangerous secrets that can be unleashed by anyone who takes the time to figure them out. Hananya ben Hizkiya expresses their greatest anxiety: Are all people wise enough to understand this book?

Read all of Chagigah 13 on Sefaria.

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Beit Shammaisays: The heavens were created first and afterward the earth was created, as it is stated: “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” (Genesis 1:1)

Beit Shammai begins by insisting heaven was created first because it is mentioned before the earth in the very first verse of the Torah. Beit Hillel counters with a verse that reverses the order:

Beit Hillel says: The earth was created first, and heaven after it, as it is stated: “On the day that the Lord God made earth and heaven.” (Genesis 2:4)

To argue more fully for their position, Beit Hillel now explains why Beit Shammai’s reasoning is wrong:

Beit Hillel said to Beit Shammai: According to your words, does a person build a second floor first and build the first floor of the house afterward? As it is stated: “It is God who builds the divine upper chambers in the heaven, and has founded God’s vault upon the earth.” (Amos 9:6)

In the prooftext cited from Amos, Hillel notes that heaven is likened to an upper chamber, and earth to a lower room. It doesn’t make sense, Beit Hillel argues, that one would build a second floor beforeconstructing a first floor. Therefore, earth must have been created first.

Beit Shammai counters with a different metaphor for the relationship between heaven and earth. Drawing in this time Isaiah 66:1 — “So said the Lord: The heavens are My seat, and the earth My footstool” — Beit Shammai compares the earth not to a lower room in a house, but to a footstool that sits below the throne of God, which is the heavens. One wouldn’t construct the footstool before constructing the throne, so clearly heaven was created first.

So, which was it? 

This discussion reminds me of another text by the 11th-century Spanish Rabbi Bachya Ibn Pakuda, Duties of the Heart, which asks another “which came first” question: master or servant? Ibn Pakuda notes that one cannot be a master if one is not being served, and one can only be a servant if one has a master to serve. Each exists only if the other does — therefore they come into being at the same time. 

Back on today’s daf, this is essentially what the rabbis conclude about heaven and earth: 

The rabbis say: Both this and that were created as one, for it is stated: “Indeed, My hand has laid the foundation of the earth, and My right hand has spread out the heavens; when I call to them, they stand up together.” (Isaiah 48:13)

Heaven and earth were created together — yachdav, which comes from the word echad, meaning one. They were created as one and neither could exist without the other.

But why then, the Gemara can’t help but wonder, does Genesis 1:1 mention heaven first, while Genesis 2:4 mentions earth first? Reish Lakish suggests the following explanation: 

Reish Lakish said: When they were created, God first created the heavens and afterward created the earth, but when God spread them out and fixed them in their places, God spread out the earth and afterward God spread out the heavens.

Creation, suggests Reish Lakish, took place in two steps: first heaven and earth were created (heaven first), and then they were affixed in their assigned spaces (earth first). The accounts for the order in which they are mentioned in Genesis 1:1 and 2:4 respectively. 

As a final postscript, a beraita (an early rabbinic teaching) is brought in to support the idea that they were created together:

Shamayim (“heaven”) means esh umayim (“fire and water”) which teaches that the Holy One, Blessed be He, brought them both and combined them together, and made the firmament from them.

That’s just like the rabbis — to answer an “either/or” question with a “both, together.” 

Read all of Chagigah 12 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 21th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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One may not study (dorshin) forbidden sexual relations with three nor the act of creation with two individuals, nor the chariot with one person unless he is wise and understands things on his own.

Dorshin, rendered above as study,can either mean to learn or to teach. If it is to learn, then it means that one should do so with an expert in limited company. If it means to teach, then it must be done in a very small tutorial where students get lots of attention.

Why must the study of these three subjects — forbidden sexual relationships (e.g. parent and child or brother and sister), the divine act of creation, and God’s heavenly chariot (a term, deriving from Ezekiel’s vision of God’s heavenly chariot, that the rabbis use for mystical speculation) — be so tightly controlled? What makes them so dangerous?

In a few days we will come to the famous talmudic story of four rabbis who entered the Pardes — by which we understand that they delved head-first into some of these subjects. Only one, Rabbi Akiva, emerged unscathed. The story was made famous to many 20th century Jews through Rabbi Milton Steinberg’s novel-length treatment of it, As a Driven Leaf. Steinberg speculated that the danger of these subjects was the allure of rationalistic, scientific inquiry which could potentially disprove Judaism.

But another interpretation is that these three subjects open the door to the admission of Greek values. For example: What is the problem with studying forbidden sexual relations? Perhaps just talking about the details of sexual unions is dangerous because it might lead students to want to experiment themselves. And given the permissive Greek attitude towards sexuality, the rabbis feared it might lead young people away from religious discipline.

Our mishnah continues with more warnings:

Whoever looks (mistakel) at four matters, it would have been better if that person had not been born: what is above and what is below, what was, and what will be. 

And anyone who has no concern for the honor of his maker, should not have been born.

The term mistakel means to look but it has more intensity than the typical verb used for looking, ro’eh. Mistakel can also mean to consider, to philosophize. And this is a hint about what is meant — these are areas of philosophical and mystical endeavor, questions about what is above in the heavens, and deep below the earth, in the underworld, as well as questions of what came long ago before creation, and questions about seeing into the future.

Perhaps, too, the rabbis were concerned that too much abstract speculation would lead to frustration. Scripture tells us that King Solomon said: “The more you know, the more your frustration.” (Ecclesiastes 1:18) Maybe there’s a limit to what we can know about what has happened before the world was created and what’s going to happen in the future. It’s a question of emphasis and the rabbis wanted us to focus on thinking about and living in the present as a moral person.

The Gemara will go on to talk about the source for this mishnah. The rabbis find a verse from the Torah that proves that the study of these subjects should be tightly controlled. But they are unable, and conclude that it is a matter of logic. It’s just common sense, they decide, that teaching people dangerous subjects should be done in small tutorials with select students, not giant lecture halls that are open to all. And some things are best not studied.

And one final footnote: When the rabbis say that it would have been better if someone had not been born, this is not likely meant to be understood literally. Instead, think of it as a hyperbolic way of saying that such a person is not fulfilling his or her human potential in making the present a priority. These alluring and dangerous subjects can pull us away and make it a struggle to stay rooted in our own time and place.

Read all of Chagigah 11 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 20th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The mishnah at the top of today’s daf addresses this matter. 

The laws of the dissolution of vows fly in the air and have nothing to support them. The laws of Shabbat, festival peace offerings, and misuse of consecrated property are like mountains suspended by a hair, as they have little written about them in the Torah, and yet the details of their halakhot are numerous. 

The Talmud is a core text of what is known as the Oral Torah. The traditional understanding is that the laws and customs contained in the Oral Torah were given at Mount Sinai at the same time as the Written Torah but were transmitted orally from generation to generation until finally being committed to writing after the destruction of the Second Temple. In fact, some might consider our Daily Dose of Talmud as yet another entry in this chain of tradition. 

An important component of keeping that chain intact is demonstrating the source for each law, which explains the keen interest among the rabbis of the Talmud in identifying the source texts for various laws. So what are we to make of the fact that the very rabbis who are perhaps the most critical links in this chain saying, in effect, that these laws hang on practically nothing?

The Gemara jumps in immediately with a beraita (early rabbinic text) quoting Rabbi Eliezer disagreeing with the mishnah: 

Rabbi Eliezer said: The halakhot of the dissolution of vows have something to support them, as it is stated: “When a man shall clearly utter a vow.” (Leviticus 27:2) And: “When either man or woman shall clearly utter a vow.” (Numbers 6:2) One clear utterance is for prohibition and one clear utterance is for dissolution.

As we’ve seen countless times already, the rabbis seek to ground Jewish law in biblical sources. In this case, Rabbi Eliezer notes that the word “utter” appears twice in the Bible with respect to vows. One time, he says, refers to the intention to establish a vow. The other refers to intent to dissolve the vow. Other rabbis then jump in with their own examples of biblical sources that hint at the nullification of vows, further negating the view of the mishnah that such laws hang in the air with nothing to support them.

A similar discussion follows concerning the second category of laws mentioned in the mishnah — the laws of Shabbat, festival peace offerings, and misuse of consecrated property — which are described as “mountains suspended by a hair.” Presumably, these laws stand on flimsy ground, but ground nonetheless. The Gemara proceeds again to explain how the many laws in this category were developed, even if they seem — in today’s vernacular — to hang by a thread.  

The fact that the rabbis derive the law from the text of the Torah and the oral tradition isn’t exactly news; the process of hermeneutics is so ingrained in the study of Jewish text that we recite these principles as part of the daily morning service. If that’s the case, why does the mishnah suggest that this entire enterprise is baseless?  

I think the conversation on today’s daf contains an important message: The text only gets us so far. Even today, there are laws we follow whose connection to biblical sources are far from obvious. Take Shabbat: Our customs — everything from lighting Shabbat candles to covering the challah to the order we conduct the meal — stem almost entirely from extra-biblical sources. With the exception of the text of the kiddush, very little is found in the Torah itself. But that doesn’t make them any less meaningful. 

So do our laws hover in the air or do they have real scriptural support? And does it matter? 

This tension underpins the entire enterprise of Jewish law and tradition. And we are part of that tradition, too.

Read all of Chagigah 10 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 19th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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The mishnah at the top of today’s daf states:

One who did not celebrate by bringing the festival peace offering on the first day of the festival (of Sukkot), he may celebrate the entire remaining days of the pilgrimage festival, and even on the final day of the festival.

According to the mishnah, if you forget to bring the shalmei chagigah at the start of Sukkot, you’re still able to offer it anytime during the holiday, including as late as Shemini Atzeret, the final day of the holiday. But what if you forgot altogether and remembered only when the holiday is over? Unfortunately, in that case, you are out of luck. 

The mishnah continues:

If the pilgrimage festival passed and one did not celebrate by bringing the festival peace offering, he is not obligated to pay restitution for it. About this it is stated: “That which is crooked cannot be made straight; and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.” (Ecclesiastes 1:15)

In other words, once the holiday ends, it’s too late. But what does the curious prooftext from Ecclesiastes mean? 

The talmudic sage Bar Hei Hei says the phrase “cannot be numbered” refers to a person who has an opportunity to join others in doing a mitzvah but declines to do so. Rashi explains that this person also misses out on any reward that might be gained from the performance of a mitzvah. The phrase from Ecclesiastes can be understood to refer to a person who is “crooked” because they deviated from the path that would have led them straight to perform a mitzvah.

But we also know that there are times when you can make up a sacrifice (or prayer) if you miss the opportunity the first time around. Pesach Sheni (literally “second Passover”) was a do-over date for those who failed to sacrifice the paschal lamb due to travel or ritual impurity. And with regard to prayers — the post-Temple replacement for animal sacrifices — medieval law codes such as the Mishneh Torah (Hilchot Tefilah 3:8) and the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Hayyim 108:7) permit a person to add missed prayers to their next prayer opportunity. 

So why does the Gemara single out this particular sacrifice, the shalmei chagigah, as a mitzvah that cannot be made up? In this case, it’s all about intent — or lack thereof.

A person who forgets to bring a sacrifice on the first day of a weeklong festival can be forgiven for losing track of time. But a whole week? In that case, the Gemara assumes the person just doesn’t care and therefore doesn’t get a do-over. In the case of the paschal sacrifice, a person is only excused if they are delayed for an unavoidable reason: they’re away, or they’re ritually impure. But someone who fails to bring the shalmei chagigah for an entire week has simply been neglectful. In that case, the onus is on them, and no mechanism exists for them to make up their assignment.

Read all of Chagigah 9 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 18th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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