And what a journey it’s been. We started out with the intricacies of which kinds of women obligate a dead man’s brother to perform the mitzvah of yibbum, moved into even more complicated discussions about which brother is obligated to marry the yevama in cases of complex family configurations, discussed how one can marry a yevama (or how she can perform halitzah), and finally what happens when we just aren’t sure if a woman’s husband is dead. Along the way, we discussed issues of consent, women’s autonomy, child marriage, prophets and rabbinic nuances of gender and sex.

For many of us, this tractate was intellectually and emotionally difficult. But what we’ve learned lays the groundwork for the coming discussions of marriage and divorce. After all, yibbum isn’t a practice that most of us experience today, but diving into rabbinic approaches to sex, gender and marriage through the lens of something a little foreign to us is a great way to develop the understanding necessary to next discuss things that hit a little closer to home.

While yibbum may not be relevant to most of us (and probably wasn’t relevant to most people even in the time of the Talmud), today’s daf imagines a world where yibbum is relevant not only to human beings, but even to the demons that the rabbis think share our world. Beit Hillel teaches that a woman is understood to be a widow if someone hears a disembodied voice stating that her husband is dead. The Gemara asks: Really?! 

Perhaps it was a demon. Rav Yehuda said that Rav said: They saw that he had the form of a person. The Gemara asks: They (i.e., demons) also appear similar.

Apparently demons can take the forms of human beings, so even if something looks humanoid, there are no guarantees. The Gemara then tries to figure out how to visually distinguish a demon from a human:

They saw that he had a shadow. But they also have a shadow. They saw that he had a shadow of a shadow. But perhaps they also have a shadow of a shadow? Rabbi Hanina said: Yonatan the demon said to me: They have a shadow, they do not have a shadow of a shadow.

To resolve the issue, the rabbis turn to someone who is clearly an expert on demons — a demon himself! Yonatan the demon teaches that demons have shadows but not shadows of shadows. But as Rosencrantz tells us in Hamlet, a shadow of a shadow is of “so airy and light a quality” that it’s basically nothing. For the rabbis here, there really aren’t that many differences between humans and demons — and both are seemingly invested in identifying when women are widows and are thus obligated to perform yibbum or halitzah.

But while the Talmud seems to think that everyone, human and supernatural, cares deeply about yibbum, many people today probably aren’t so sure. After all, why bother spending four months learning something that isn’t actually relevant to most of us? The tractate ends with an important reminder of the importance of learning Torah for Torah’s sake:

Rabbi Elazar said that Rabbi Hanina said: Torah scholars increase peace in the world, as it is stated: “And all your children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of your children” (Isaiah 54:13).

There’s a clever play on words happening in Rabbi Hanina’s teaching. The Hebrew word for “your children” in the verse from Isaiah is banayikh, from the same Hebrew root as the word for insight or understanding: binah. And the Hebrew word for who has insight or understanding of you (i.e. God) is — wait for it —bonayikh. And the Hebrew and Aramaic of the Talmud don’t have vowels. So Rabbi Hanina is actually reading Isaiah 54:13 as saying that all those who seek insight into God bring peace to the world as a whole. And as the next verse in Isaiah promises: “You shall be established through righteousness. You shall be safe from oppression, And shall have no fear; From ruin, and it shall not come near you.”

Hadran Alakh Massekhet Yevamot. We will return to you, Tractate Yevamot. But for now, onward to Ketubot!

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When a man dies childless, the Torah prescribes that his widow should marry his brother so that the two of them can create a child who will carry on the deceased man’s name. This practice is called yibbum (levirate marriage) and the Torah’s only legal statement on it is found in Deuteronomy 25:5–10:

When brothers dwell together and one of them dies and leaves no offspring, the wife of the deceased shall not become that of another party, outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall unite with her: he shall take her as his wife and perform the levir’s duty. The first child that she bears shall be accounted to the dead brother, that his name may not be blotted out in Israel.

But if that party does not want to wed his brother’s widow, his brother’s widow shall appear before the elders in the gate and declare, “My husband’s brother refuses to establish a name in Israel for his brother; he will not perform the duty of a levir.”

The elders of his town shall then summon him and talk to him. If he insists, saying, “I do not want to take her,” his brother’s widow shall go up to him in the presence of the elders, pull the sandal off his foot, spit in his face, and make this declaration: “Thus shall be done to the man who will not build up his brother’s house!” And he shall go in Israel by the name of “the family of the unsandaled one.”

The Torah also contains two stories in which levirate marriage plays a role, those of Tamar (Genesis 38) and Ruth, though these are rarely referenced in this tractate. The statement in Deuteronomy, however, is subject to extensive rabbinic scrutiny.

Levirate marriage is an unusual mitzvah in several respects. It is the only halakhah that requires two people to marry. Further, ordinarily a man is forbidden to marry his sister-in-law, but levirate marriage renders that relationship not only permitted, but obligatory. Levirate marriage is also unusual insofar as a man can opt not to perform it. The ritual of halitzah, also detailed in the passage from Deuteronomy, releases the brother of the deceased from his obligation to marry the widow. (Some sages view halitzah as an alternative, and even perhaps preferable, mitzvah.) Levirate marriage is full marriage, yet it requires fewer rituals than ordinary marriage and has other stringencies attached. For instance, the sages require the couple to wait three months to ensure that the widow is not in fact pregnant by her dead husband.

Tractate Yevamot, focused on this exceptional form of marriage, may seem an unusual place to begin the discussions of women that will dominate this order of the Talmud. The reason for this is largely that the tractates in each order of Talmud are listed by length and Yevamot, which precisely because of its peculiarity raises scads of legal questions, is the longest. Readers will discover, however, that Yevamot raises many more broadly relevant subjects in rabbinic thought, including forbidden sexual relationships and conversion. It also introduces concerns that are relevant in any talmudic discussion of marriage, including the validity of the marriage, inheritance and laws of terumah (food tithes permitted only to priests and their families).

Yevamot contains 16 chapters and begins not with an explanation of the basics of levirate marriage, but with exceptional circumstances (in the case of chapter 1, women to whom levirate marriage does not apply). Because of the arcane nature of this tractate’s material (today, levirate marriage is vanishingly rare) and because a large amount of ink is devoted to exploring complex boundary cases, Yevamot is widely regarded as one of the most difficult tractates in the Talmud. Here is a brief survey of the contents of each chapter.

Chapter 1: Women to whom levirate marriage does not apply, including widows who are forbidden to their brothers-in-law because of the nature of their relationship and cases in which the deceased has multiple wives (only one of whom will enter into levirate marriage).

Chapter 2: Variants on a case in which a man is born after his older brother has died childless, such that the two brothers were never “in the world at the same time.”

Chapter 3: The legal ramifications of the levirate bond, by which the Talmud means the relationship between the deceased’s widow and his brother that is instantly created on his death but which is not a full halakhic marriage until the two have consummated their relationship.

Chapter 4: The four choices that face a yavam (man who is bound to his brother’s widow): halitzah (to dissolve the bond), levirate betrothal (ma’amar, a statement of intent to marry), intercourse (which effects the marriage) and divorce (delivering a get in order to dissolve the bond). Halitzah is the preferred way to dissolve the levirate bond, whereas intercourse is the proper way to fully cement it. Levirate betrothal affects a partial acquisition of the wife.

Chapter 5: Continued discussion of the ramifications of performing ma’amar or delivering a get, with the conclusion that neither is completely efficacious (nor completely ineffective), the first at cementing the levirate marriage and the second at completely dissolving the bond between the two parties.

Chapter 6: A discussion of intercourse as the primary means to effect levirate marriage gives way to a general discussion about forbidden sexual relations (punishable only when performed with intention). This chapter also discusses special rules pertaining to women who marry into the priesthood and the commandment to “be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1:28)

Chapter 7: When a yevama (levirate bride) is entitled to terumah (tithes given to priests and their families). 

Chapter 8: More halakhot of priests and when their families may partake of terumah. This chapter also discusses those who are forbidden to marry Israelites (first generation Ammonite and Moabite converts, mamzerim, etc.) and physical disabilities that can affect marital arrangements as well as less common genitalia (such as the case of the androgynos and tumtum).

Chapter 9: Women who are, for various reasons, forbidden to their yavam or husband and therefore halitzah or divorce is required. More on the laws of terumah in the case of the death of a woman’s husband.

Chapter 10: What happens in the case of a man whose reported death turns out to be false and his wife has already remarried. Cases in which the yavam is a minor.

Chapter 11: Marriage to women who were raped or seduced by relatives. How conversion affects forbidden sexual relationships. Exploration of doubtful familial relations (such as babies whose father or mother is unknown), including how this affects the commandment to honor one’s parents.

Chapter 12: The procedure of halitzah: Who are the elders? What sandals are effective? What words must be spoken? 

Chapter 13: Rules surrounding the engagement or marriage of a minor girl who, upon coming of age, refuses her fiance. This kind of marriage can be dissolved by the woman without a get. Likewise, girls who became yevamot before they reached the age of majority.

Chapter 14: Marriage to people with disabilities.

Chapter 15: More on what happens when a woman remarries based on false testimony that her husband has died. Rules surrounding the testimony that a husband has died.

Chapter 16: More on the testimony required to prove the death of a husband.

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One might imagine this headline running in The Talmudic Times in the wake of an incident described on today’s daf, in which witnesses reported that a man was seen falling into a lake in Samkei but no one saw him come out. Based on their testimony, Rav Sheila declares the man legally dead and allows his wife to remarry. But that decision prompts scathing criticism from Rav Sheila’s colleagues — and a screaming headline in our mythical talmudic newspaper. 

The reason for the controversy is this beraita (early rabbinic teaching), also relayed on today’s daf:

(If a man) fell into the water, whether it has an end or does not have an end, his wife is prohibited (from marrying); this is the statement of Rabbi Meir. And the rabbis say: with an end, his wife is permitted, but with no end, his wife is prohibited. 

According to Rabbi Meir, witness testimony about a man who fell into a body of water and did not surface is not sufficient to allow his wife to remarry. The logic here is that just because witnesses saw him fall in, that does not prove that he died as he may have emerged elsewhere unseen. The majority opinion differentiates between a body of water that has a visible end, which Abaye defines as a body of water where one can stand in one place and see the shore on all sides, and one that does not. If a man fell into the former and is not seen climbing out, we can assume he died and his wife can remarry. If he fell into the latter, the rabbis agree with Rabbi Meir that he may have emerged from the water alive (but unseen), and she cannot remarry.

The lake in Samkei has no visible end, and Rav Sheila’s colleagues are outraged that his ruling goes against the majority opinion. Rav calls for his excommunication, but Shmuel, taking a more cautious approach, declares: “Let us first send him a message and clarify whether he had a sufficient reason to issue this ruling.”

So they do. First they inquire if Rav Sheila understands the rule about whether a wife is allowed to remarry if her husband disappears into a body of water with no visible end. Rav Sheila responds that he does know the rule — the wife is forbidden. Then they inquire if the lake in Samkei has a visible end or not, to which Rav Sheila replies that it does not. Given all that, they then ask why Rav Sheila permitted the woman to remarry, to which he responds:

I erred in my reasoning. I thought: Since the waters are gathered and stagnant, they are considered as a body of water with an end. But that is not so. Since there are waves, say that the waves carried him. 

Rav Sheila’s initial ruling was based upon his assumption that the waters of Samkei were still and incapable of transporting the missing man to unseen parts of the lake. Therefore, the lake could be treated like one with a visible end. Having learned that the water was in motion, he acknowledges his mistake. 

Upon hearing the results of the inquiry, Shmuel quotes Proverbs 12:21: “No mischief shall befall the righteous,” praising Rav for delaying the excommunication until after the results of inquiry were made public and saving Rav Sheila from undue trouble. In response, Rav recites Proverbs 11:14: “But salvation lies in much counsel,” giving credit to Shmuel who advised him to do so.

While Rav and Shmuel are busy exchanging words of flattery, the woman waits at home, unsure of the fate of her husband and her status as wife or widow. The Gemara does not explore her situation and what may be done to help her move forward, but it might make for a great story in the Talmudic Times.

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DNA evidence was first used in identification in 1986, but human beings have needed to identify bodies for far longer than that. Today’s daf offers a snapshot of the kinds of evidence that the rabbis had to consider when trying to figure out who exactly a dead person was.

The mishnah on today’s daf opens with an opinion about what counts when identifying a deceased person:

One may testify (that a man died) only about the countenance of the face with the nose, although there are distinguishing marks on his body and his personal belongings. One may not testify until his soul departs. And even if one saw him cut open, or crucified, or with a wild animal eating parts of him. One may testify only up to three days.

According to this opinion, a dead person can only be identified from the moment they actually die (and not before!), only for the three days after they die (before decomposition sets in and distorts their features), and only if their face and nose are both visible.

Like any good forensic scientist, Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava then disagrees with the idea of creating this kind of general rule, because “not every person, nor every place, nor every hour is identical.” After all, decomposition happens differently in different kinds of environments.

The mishnah’s conversation is a serious one, reckoning with the realities of what it means to be a human being with a body made of flesh, vulnerable to violence, death and decomposition. The Gemara is going to continue this conversation, asking about particular kinds of clothing, facial features and moles as markers of who we are. But before it does, perhaps to break the tension of this difficult subject, the Gemara offers an amusing anecdote:

Abba bar Marta, who is Abba bar Minyumi, had been loaned money by the exilarch’s house. He brought wax, stuck it to worn-out fabric, and stuck that to his forehead. He passed before them and they did not recognize him.

The exilarch was the political leader of the Jews in Babylonia. He was known to be fabulously wealthy and had a house full of servants who did his bidding. At times, these minions were known to enact violence on the exilarch’s enemies. 

Given the exilarch’s wealth, it makes sense that when Abba bar Marta needed money, he turned to this important leader. But he was unable or unwilling to pay the money back (the story doesn’t specify which). How can you avoid getting caught by the exilarch’s minions and beaten until you pay what you owe? Apparently, a clever disguise of wax and fabric distorting the shape of the forehead is all it takes.

Within the logic of this particular discussion, the story teaches us that the shape of the forehead is crucial in identifying someone. But within the broader flow of the Talmud, the story is also a reminder that when things get really heavy, and issues get painful, sometimes what you really need is a bit of a laugh to break the tension.

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A woman whose husband and co-wife traveled to a country overseas and witnesses came and told her, “Your husband died,” she shall not marry. And she also shall not enter into levirate marriage until she knows whether she, her rival wife, is pregnant. 

In this case, a woman’s husband has gone overseas with one of his other wives. Witnesses then report that he has died. The mishnah teaches that she should not marry another man because, if the husband was childless, she must marry her late husband’s brother. But she can’t do that just yet because if the co-wife turns out to be pregnant, the obligation of yibbum goes away. So the woman is in a bit of a bind until she can determine if her co-wife is pregnant or not.

At this point in our exploration of Tractate Yevamot, we are fully aware of the Gemara’s ability to introduce additional levels of complexity to what it finds in the Mishnah. We’ve had more than our share of “and what if this happens” scenarios that have stretched our imaginations and challenged us to use every ounce of logic our brains could muster. But on today’s daf, the Gemara goes no further. On the contrary, it puts on the brakes. 

Here’s how:

A careful read of the mishnah reveals an extra word in the final sentence: “she.” The text could have conveyed the same thing without that word, stating simply “until she knows whether her rival wife is pregnant.” But instead it includes an extra word, and by now we know what this means: The extra word must be here to teach us something. And what might that be? 

The Gemara states:

It teaches us this: We are concerned (about a possible pregnancy of) this rival wife, but we are not concerned about another rival wife.

In other words, should you be thinking that we ought to be concerned not only with the possible pregnancy of the rival wife mentioned in the mishnah, but also the possibility that the husband met, married and impregnated a different woman while traveling overseas, you don’t have to worry. The additional word in the mishnah makes clear that our concern is only with the potential pregnancy of the co-wife who joined her now-deceased husband in travel.

While it has been a while, this isn’t the first time that we’ve seen the Talmud curtail a discussion to keep itself from going over the talmudic deep end. We learned back on Yoma 2 that while we designate a backup High Priest for the Yom Kippur ceremony in the Temple in case the original becomes impure, we do not have to designate a backup wife for the High Priest in case his wife dies suddenly (the High Priest has to be married to perform the ritual). And we learned on Pesachim 9 that once we’ve cleaned our house for Passover, we don’t worry that an animal dragged some hametz from a neighbor’s home into our own.

In both of these cases, the Talmud tells us that if we headed down those paths, there would be no end to the matter. Maybe the backup wife needs a backup too in case she dies. Maybe an animal carried hametz from another town. If we entertained all these possibilities, we’d never be able to move on. 

At various points in our study of Yevamot, it seemed like the rabbis could have taken a similar tack and said we’ve gone far enough with this — and didn’t. Lucky for us, there was an extra word in the mishnah that triggered that response today. 

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Rava raised a dilemma before Rav Nahman: In the case of a man who confers possession of a bill of divorce to his wife, when she has a (potential) yavam, what is the halakhah? 

The terseness and word order of this teaching, which we’ve preserved in the translation, make it a little tricky to parse. Essentially, a man sends his wife a get (divorce document) by messenger and then dies. It’s unclear if he died before she received the get, so now we do not know if she’s a yevama or just a childless divorcee. Is she bonded to her brother-in-law or forbidden to him? 

The best way to determine the answer to this question is to ask the woman to testify in court as to when she received the divorce document. But the rabbis are concerned that she might have motivation to fudge the answer:

If she hates her (potential) yavam, divorce is for her a benefit, and it is a principle that one may act in a person’s interest in his absence. 

Or perhaps she loves her (potential) yavam, and this bill of divorce is to her disadvantage, and one may not act against a person’s interest in his absence.

On the one hand, if she hates her brother-in-law, she might say that the divorce document arrived before her husband died. This way, she is not bound to him. The rabbis seem OK with this, as it will presumably be to the yavam’s advantage since there is a general assumption that taking on one’s brother’s widow in levirate marriage is a burden. In this case, the woman acts both to her advantage and to his (in absentia), so we’re not concerned.

On the other hand, if she loves her yavam, she might say that the divorce document arrived late, after her husband had already passed away. This binds the yavam to her. But if he’s not interested in taking her on, then she has acted to his disadvantage and this is a problem. 

So what should we do? Now that Rava has laid out the problem in full, his teacher replies with the answer:

Rav Nahman said to Rava: We have learned that we are concerned about her statement, and she must perform halitzah and she does not enter into levirate marriage.

Rav Nahman states that the court has reason to be suspicious about her statement either way, whether she gives testimony that would classify her as a divorcee and exempt her from levirate marriage and if her testimony would make her a yevama and bond her brother-in-law to her. To be on the safe side, the rabbis choose halitzah. This leaves the yavam with no obligation and leaves her unambiguously free to marry someone else.

As long as we’re on the subject of divorce papers delivered via messenger and speculating about people’s best interests, the rabbis now ask: In a quarreling couple, can the husband, in the absence of his wife, write a valid bill of divorce? Again, the rabbis utilize the principle that a person cannot act against another’s interest in their absence. Would this be to the wife’s advantage? Can we assume she would want the marriage to end?

The rabbis begin to think about all the things they know about married women and, in a litany of aphorisms on the subject, they come to the conclusion that women prefer to be married.

Reish Lakish says it’s about companionship: 

It is better to sit as two than to sit lonely as a widow.

For Abaye it’s about status:

One whose husband is small as an ant, she places her seat among the noblewomen.

Rav Pappa concurs about status:

One whose husband is a wool comber (a lowly occupation) she calls him to sit with her at the entrance to the house (so they are seen publicly together).

But the most striking assertion comes from an anonymous sage:

And all of these commit adultery and attribute the children to their husbands.

Even a woman who quarrels with her husband, the rabbis speculate, prefers to stay married so that when she cheats and becomes pregnant by her lover she can pass the child off as his, so that it does not take on the status of mamzer. 

In this short succession of maxims, the sages convince themselves that women prefer to be married — even if the relationship is stormy. The sages can thereby comfortably assure themselves that divorce is not considered in this woman’s interest. Therefore, if the man wishes to divorce the wife with whom he quarrels, he needs to do it in person. 

I can’t say I agree with all of the sages’ assumptions about women, but the legal conclusion at least seems sound: People should break up face-to-face, especially in the heat of an argument. 

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On yesterday’s daf, we see the rabbis try to ascertain a woman’s motives based on her public display of grief. Rabbi Yehuda suggested that we can rely on a woman’s outward expression of sadness. But the rabbis demur, saying that grief (and deception) can look many ways. 

On today’s daf, the rabbis continue to try to ascertain if a woman’s testimony is credible. But this time, instead of focusing on her outward expression, they are examining her relative placement in the constellation of a family system. They look for motivations a woman might have to lie and say that a man has died. 

And where do they start? Naturally, it’s in-laws and steps. A mishnah states:

All are deemed credible when they come to give testimony with regard to the death of a woman’s husband, apart from her mother-in-law, the daughter of her mother-in-law, her rival wife, the wife of her yavam, and her husband’s daughter (i.e. her stepdaughter).

The rabbis predict that women in these close and complicated relationships may have ulterior motives for testifying that a woman’s husband has died, since their testimony would essentially serve to cut the woman off from the family.

The Gemara sees an interesting omission: Why is the testimony of the daughter of the woman’s mother-in-law omitted but not the testimony of the daughter of her father-in-law? 

The reason that the daughter of her mother-in-law is suspected of lying is because she has a mother who hates her daughter-in-law, and therefore the daughter also hates her. 

If Cinderella’s stepmother (or, in this scenario, mother-in-law) hates her, it’s likely that Drizella and Anastasia do as well. So the rabbis will not accept testimony from either one. But a daughter of a father-in-law might also have a difficult relationship with her.

So, then why is the father-in-law’s daughter not a credible witness?

If there is no mother-in-law to direct hatred at the woman, the rabbis reason, then the daughter of a father-in-law should not be suspected of also hating the woman. They seem to have viewed these familial hatreds as passing through women.

But the daughter of the father-in-law is not off the hook. The Gemara now reasons that this woman might be jealous because:

She eats the food of my father’s house.

Essentially, the daughter of the mother in-law and/or the daughter of the father in-law might resent this woman’s claim to the food and other resources of the household. And that is enough of a conflict of interest to render their testimony unacceptable. 

In each of these cases, the rabbis detail rules that try to eliminate bias in testimony. We’ll see much more of this in the next order of the Talmud (Nezikin, literally: damages), which is primarily concerned with court procedure. The best witnesses are those who have no skin in the game. When ulterior motives are present, witnesses may not be as scrupulous with facts, and may even intentionally fib or outright lie in order to shift the family dynamic to get an unwanted woman booted from the family.

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Rabbi Yehuda says: She is never deemed credible unless she came crying and her clothing was torn. They said to him: Both this woman (who cries) and this woman (who does not cry) may marry on the basis of their own testimony.

Today’s page continues exploring this dispute. Do the rabbis believe her only if she is wailing and rending her garments or not? 

First, the Gemara offers a beraita (early rabbinic teaching): 

(The sages) said to Rabbi Yehuda: According to your statement, a crafty woman will be permitted for her to marry. A foolish woman will not be permitted to marry. Rather, both this woman and that woman may marry.

The sages dispute Rabbi Yehuda’s position on the basis of performative grief, arguing that a savvy woman will certainly come wailing and tearing since she knows that’s what’s expected, while a less bright woman won’t know that she needs to demonstrate that she’s truly grieving. Instead, they assert that both the woman who cries and the woman who does not should be allowed to remarry.  

Next, the Gemara shares a story:

There was a certain woman who came to the court of Rabbi Yehuda. They said to her: Lament your husband, tear your clothing, unbind your hair. The Gemara asks, did they instruct her to lie? They thought in accordance with the opinion of the sages.

Picture the scene: A grieving widow shows up to the court of Rabbi Yehuda, who we already know expects that a true widow will demonstrate her grief by crying and tearing her clothes. His colleagues, who have ruled that this isn’t necessary to accept her testimony, nevertheless understand that since they are sitting in Yehuda’s court, she will be judged based on how she acts. So these rabbis advise the woman to cry so she’ll be believed and be permitted to remarry. Rather than encouraging her to lie, says the Gemara, they’re giving her sage advice that improves her chances of a favorable outcome. 

Rabbi Yehuda’s view is no doubt recognizable to those of us who watch the news — or reality TV. When there is a story about a tragedy, we expect those who are most affected by the situation to express their grief visibly, audibly, demonstrably. If they don’t, we sometimes wonder if they’re really affected by grief at all.

The sages, on the other hand, understand that grief is expressed in all sorts of ways. In Leviticus 10:3, the Torah notes that Aaron, after witnessing the sudden deaths of his own sons, was completely silent. The Hebrew word used in that verse, vayidom, has the nuance of being stopped up. Sometimes, there are just no words. And sometimes, there are no tears, either.

The ruling of the rabbis that the presence (or absence) of outward expressions of grief should not be the basis upon which to decide the truth is noteworthy — and just.  

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On the one hand, suggests the Gemara, we should believe a single witness during wartime for the same reasons as when a witness returns from overseas — either because there is disincentive to lie under oath if the false testimony could be revealed if the husband winds up returning home, or because we assume the woman will do all she can to confirm the death of her husband given the harsh consequences of remarrying while her husband is still alive. 

But in wartime, when the level of uncertainty about events is clouded by the fog of war, we fear that a woman might not investigate as carefully as she should. Therefore, a single witness should not suffice. 

In an attempt to settle the matter, Rami bar Hama cites the following teaching:

Rabbi Akiva said: When I descended to Neharde’a to intercalate the year, I found Nehemya of Beit D’li, and he said to me: I heard that the sages do not allow a woman to marry in the land of Israel based on the testimony of one witness, apart from Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava. And I said to him: This is so.

He said to me: Say to them in my name: Do you know that this country is riddled with troops? This is the tradition that I received from Rabban Gamliel the Elder, that the sages do allow a woman to marry based on one witness.

At first glance, this seems to be a helpful source in settling the debate. As Nehemya reports, even though the country is full of troops, they allow a woman to remarry based upon the testimony of a single witness. Wartime, in other words, is treated like overseas travel. Case closed.

Not so fast, says Rava. Nehemya does not appear to be saying what you think he is:

If this is (how you interpret the matter), in what way is this country different? 

Rava’s claim is that if Nehemya wanted to indicate that the presence of troops allowed for the acceptance of the testimony of a single witness, he should have taught: “Any place where there are troops, the sages allow a woman to marry based on one witness.” But he didn’t. He referred to a specific place, saying “this place is full of troops.”

And so, says Rava, this is what Nehemya meant:

You know that this country is riddled with troops, and I cannot leave the members of my household and come before the sages. 

In other words, neither Rabban Gamliel nor the sages were concerned with the presence of troops — they were teaching about a more generic situation. Rather, it was Nehemya who was concerned about the troops because they made it too dangerous for him to leave his family to transmit the teaching that he had received. So he asked Rabbi Akiva to deliver the message on his behalf. And so, says Rava, the tradition cited by Rami bar Hama has no bearing on this matter.

This sugya follows a typical talmudic pattern: A dilemma is raised. A source that resolves the matter is quoted. An alternate understanding of the source is presented and we are left back where we started. For some students of the Talmud, this is the cause of endless frustration. How can it be that after all of this deliberation things are no clearer than they were at the outset?

While determining the meaning of a biblical verse, a passage from the Mishnah or the statement of a rabbi may appear to be what the Talmud sets out to do, time and time again we find this is an impossible task. There are always multiple ways to understand a particular text. But rather than throwing in the towel and walking away from the futile quest for clarity, the rabbis are inspired by the process. Lacking a single clear understanding, they embrace the interpretive process that empowers them to find their own path to meaning. For some students of the Talmud, this is why we return to it every day. 

Read all of Yevamot 115 on Sefaria.

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The difference between a dead plague victim and one who is only possibly so plays a big role on today’s daf. The context is a discussion of when we believe a wife’s testimony that her husband has died. According to the mishnah, a court accepts the testimony of a woman that her husband died while the couple was on a trip overseas if both their relationship and the state of the world were peaceful on their departure. But if there was a war raging when they left, more evidence of his demise is required.

Rava then offers an explanation for why war renders her testimony inadequate: During wartime, she might mistakenly conclude that the violence led to his death without actually seeing him die. The Gemara further notes that sometimes those wounded in battle can recuperate from an injury that initially seemed fatal, further complicating the question of death during wartime. 

The daf then considers a number of circumstances that may or may not be like war, starting with famine. 

Rava thought to say that famine is not like war, as she will not say what she imagines to be the case. Rava then retracted and said: Famine is like war, because a certain woman came before Rava and said to him: My husband died in a famine.

Rava said to her: Did you do well to save yourself? Did it enter your mind that with that small amount of sifted flour that you left him he could have survived?

She said to him: The Master also knows that in a case like this he could not survive. 

Rava initially says that famine is not comparable to war since a woman in that situation will not report simply what she imagines to be her husband’s fate. A woman then comes and reports that her husband died in a famine, but on cross-examination it emerges that she in fact didn’t see her husband die — only that he was weak with hunger. This causes Rava to change his mind and say famine is just like war, where circumstantial evidence may point to death but it’s not conclusive. But Rava isn’t done. 

Rava then retracted again and said: Famine is worse than war. As in wartime, it is only if she said: My husband died in the war, that she is not deemed credible. (If in a time of war she says): He died upon his bed, she is deemed credible, whereas with regard to a famine she is deemed credible only if she says: He died and I buried him. 

In other words, the wife’s testimony during wartime is only deemed unreliable if she testifies generally that he died in the war. But if she attests that the husband died under circumstances unrelated to war (“on his bed”), she is believed. In the case of famine, she’s only believed if she both witnessed him die and buried him, which is why Rava says famine is “worse” than war.

The Gemara then goes on to consider four other situations: rockslides, snakes, scorpions and plague. For the first three, the Gemara rules that they are like war: The situation is confusing, and we do not rely on the woman to have thoroughly examined the facts to see if her husband might have survived. But for plagues, there’s less consensus. Some say that it’s like war, but others rely on what was apparently a common expression in talmudic times: “For seven years there was pestilence and not a person left (i.e. died) before his time.” That is to say, in situations of plague, many people survive, so if a woman testified about her husband’s death she must have actually witnessed it. 

Indeed, even at the time of the Shulchan Arukh a millennium later, Rabbi Joseph Caro holds: “If there was plague in the world and she said, ‘My husband died,’ she is believed.” But Rabbi Moshe Isserles comments, “And there are those that say that she is not believed.” So there we are.

Under each of these unfortunate circumstances, the rabbis consider whether an assertion of death is credible. In doing so, their focus is primarily on one thing: the woman’s certainty of her husband’s death. If they believe her in that regard, they’re inclined to accept her testimony that her husband is — completely — dead.

Read all of Yevamot 114 on Sefaria.

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Thus according to today’s daf:

A Deaf woman does not have a marriage contract.

That is, a (hearing) man who marries a Deaf woman is not required to write a formal contract which obligates him in certain things during their marriage, and enacts financial obligations if the marriage ends. Why not? The Gemara explains that if a (hearing) man were required to take on marital obligations for a Deaf woman upon marriage:

He would refrain from marrying her.

The Gemara assumes that men would not want to marry this woman without legal and financial incentives. We’ll come back to this teaching, but let me just say that I think this assumption is disrespectful to people with disabilities, and to those — disabled and abled — who love them and want to marry them. 

Beyond the laws of personal status, today’s daf limits the legal abilities of the cheresh and the shoteh in other spheres as well. It quotes a mishnah in Terumot that describes who is permitted to separate the agricultural tithes. Knowing the rules of tithing is important, because the rabbis believe it is forbidden to eat any of one’s agricultural harvest until the correct tithes have been taken. The laws are also difficult and complicated. So the quoted mishnah specifies: 

Five categories of people may not separate terumah, and if they separated terumah, their terumah is not considered terumah. They are: A cheresh, a shoteh, and a minor, and one who separates terumah from produce that is not his, and a gentile who separated terumah of a Jew even with the Jew’s permission.

The rabbis don’t trust a child or a non-Jew to correctly separate terumah because they consider Jewish adults the only people qualified to know the laws and perform the procedure correctly. Beyond that, not every Jewish adult, the rabbis assume, may be physically and intellectually able and thus legally competent to understand issues of consent, ritual status and the minutiae of rabbinic thinking. 

This rabbinic move may well have mirrored the mores of their day, but I’d like to think we have moved (or, at least, are working to move) beyond it. Excluding whole categories of people from obligations and rights inherent in parts of the halakhic system overlooks what each member of the Jewish community brings to the table. Recognizing this truth, across the Jewish denominations, there are groups working to integrate disabled people more fully into Jewish practice and tradition. And indeed, some in our MJL community journeying through Daf Yomi together are themselves disabled. Each member of our community brings their own unique life experiences and enriches the learning for all of us.

I want to end with a rabbinic countervoice from Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of our Forefathers. The second-century Rabbi Shimon ben Azzai taught: “Do not despise any person, and do not discriminate against anything, for there is no person that has not their hour, and there is no thing that has not its place.” (Pirkei Avot 4:3)

In our day, I hope, we are more inclined to take our cues from this kind of teaching, to recognize that all of us are worthy of dignity and respect, and that the more fully each of us can participate in our community and the world, the better for us all.

Read all of Yevamot 113 on Sefaria.

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In this case, the woman is stating that she is not sexually available to Jews. And that’s a problem for the rabbis, because the woman is married – to a Jew! When the possibility of sex is foreclosed, the rabbis propose to force the husband to divorce his wife but to still require him to pay her marriage price.

Why would a woman make such a vow in the first place? After all, if she is Jewish, and is married to a Jewish man, then doesn’t she know that such a vow would essentially destine her to be alone for the rest of her life? The medieval commentator Rashi thinks that this is exactly the woman’s aim. He writes, “from the fact that she forbade herself from everyone, we learn that sexual intercourse is difficult for her, and it is forced upon her, therefore she takes her marriage price.” 

According to one study, perhaps as many as 75% of women experience pain during sex at some point during their lives, because of any number of gynecological conditions or sometimes for reasons unknown. In a world where effective gynecological treatments did not exist for these conditions, we can assume that marriage — with the rabbis’ assumption that it came with consent to sex — would be profoundly painful and even traumatic for those experiencing this kind of pain. This pain might even lead someone to prefer a life of being alone, despite the additional physical and financial precarity that this would have meant for some women. And Rashi knows that. 

But before we applaud the rabbis’ profound empathy for women’s intimate experiences, we need to read the rest of the discussion. The mishnah goes on to state that the rabbis got worried that women might use this tactic and force a divorce in order to marry someone else, while still receiving the money she was promised in their marriage contracts. It therefore continues by offering an alternative solution:

“I am withdrawn from the Jews,” — her husband must nullify his part, and she may have relations with him. But she is withdrawn from all other Jews.

According to the mishnah, the woman’s initial statement that she withdraws from the Jews (sexually) has the force of a vow. And as Numbers 30:14 states about a married woman’s vows, “Every vow and every sworn obligation of self-denial may be upheld by her husband or annulled by her husband.”

So here, the mishnah tells the husband to annul the part of the vow that relates to him, and not to divorce her at all. Once he does this, her vow applies to all Jewish men except him. The result of this rule, which is meant to avoid the situation where a woman uses this vow to force a paid divorce and move onto the next man, is that a woman who is attempting to avoid painful physical intimacy through a legal vow can be required to remain married to her husband, with all that this marriage entails, “forced upon her” (at least according to Rashi). Only if he dies or wants to divorce her can this woman be free from the pressures of remarriage. 

And what of Rashi, who was so sensitive to this woman’s experience in his explanation of the statement? He is silent on this part of the discussion.

Read all of Yevamot 112 on Sefaria.

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The mishnah teaches that if, during the first 30 days of their marriage, a woman approaches the court and claims that she and her husband did not engage in sexual relations (but he claims that they did), the court believes her and forces him to perform halitzah. After 30 days, the court merely asks him to perform halitzah, because his claim is taken more seriously once a month of marriage has passed. Why is it that we only believe the woman for the first 30 days?

The Gemara looks for a legal position that establishes that the maximum amount of time that a couple would wait before having sexual relations is 30 days. If it can, it can clarify the mishnah. We believe a woman’s claim that she and her husband have not had sex if it is made during the first 30 days of marriage, but after 30 days his counter claim that they have is probable. In the former case we can require halitzah; in the latter we can only request.

Pursuing this line of thinking, Gemara cites the following beraita (early teaching):

A man may come to court to make a claim concerning virginity (i.e., that the woman he married was not a virgin) for 30 days after the marriage ceremony — this is the statement of Rabbi Meir.

Rabbi Meir assumes that a newlywed couple might not have sex for the first time until the 30th day of marriage, which is why a new husband has that long to bring a virginity suit. In the Gemara, Rabbi Yochanan suggests that just as a groom is allowed to make a virginity claim for the first 30 days of marriage, so too does a yevama have 30 days to claim that she and her husband have yet to have sex.

Rabbi Meir’s opinion, however, is not the only one in the beraita, which continues:

Rabbi Yosei says: If she was secluded with him after the wedding in a place suitable for sexual intercourse, a claim concerning virginity is only credible immediately. But if she was not secluded with him, they presumably did not engage in intercourse, and such a claim is credible even several years later.

While Rabbi Meir assumes sex is inevitable by the end of the first month, Rabbi Yosei bases the likelihood of sex on opportunity. If a couple has been alone, we assume that they must have had sex; if not, we don’t — regardless of how long they have been married. 

Applying this second half of the beraita to our case, one could assume that Rabbi Yosei would not apply a rigid 30-day window during which we believe the yevama’s claim that her yavam has not consummated the relationship with her; rather, he would accept the woman’s claim only if she and her husband have not yet been together alone. This opinion of Rabbi Yosei has now complicated the support this beraita offers the mishnah’s ruling. Rather than exploring the merits of these two positions, however, the Gemara raises an objection, which brings such new clarity to the mishnah that you might wonder why it did not ask it first:

Before he is forced to perform halitzah, let us force him to consummate the levirate marriage. 

If the goal is for the couple to produce a child, suggests the Gemara, then the court should compel him to have sex rather than to perform halitzah! So why doesn’t it do so? Rav explains:

The mishnah is referring to a case where her bill of divorce is already to be found in her hand.

Rav explains that the court doesn’t compel them to have sex because it is discussing a case where they are no longer married. In this very specific case, although the divorce ends the couple’s marriage, it only severs the levirate connection between the couple if they have had sex. If they did not, halitzah is still required and the woman is not free to marry until the ritual is performed. This explains why she would petition the court in the first place.

If they were married for 30 days or less, the court believes her and forces her husband to perform halitzah. After 30 days, whether we follow Rabbi Meir or Rabbi Yosei, we have grounds to believe her ex-husband’s claim that they had sex, so the court can only ask her ex-husband to perform halitzah, in the hopes that if he is lying, he will agree to perform the ritual and release her from the levirate bond. 

Read all of Yevamot 111 on Sefaria.

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Let’s remember that the rabbis thought it was perfectly halakhically acceptable for a girl’s family (really her father) to betroth her to a man or boy before she reached the age of maturity. And we can imagine that in a world where many people died relatively young, families would want to ensure that their daughters (who would not inherit as much as their sons) would be financially and physically protected in the case of the death of the father. But a betrothal with a minor girl was not a fait accompli. At the age of maturity, the girl was then required to either affirm or reject the betrothal of her own volition. 

Yesterday’s daf quoted an earlier tradition which stated: One who betroths a minor girl, her betrothal is in suspension.

Basically, this tradition states that a betrothal with a minor girl is in stasis, snapping into effect only when she reaches her maturity. But if the girl is then automatically betrothed at that time, what about her right to reject the betrothal? Ravin offers the following caveat:

If he has sexual intercourse with her (after she reaches maturity), yes. If he does not engage in intercourse, no. For she says to herself: He has an advantage over me, and I have an advantage over him.

According to Ravin, when the girl reaches her maturity, the betrothal (and subsequent marriage) snaps into place only if she has agreed to physical intimacy with her ostensible betrothed. Her advantage over him, as he puts it, is that she can reject the betrothal when when she comes of age. His advantage over her is that he can divorce her at any time, including calling off the betrothal (which is something like a divorce). 

Very often reading these texts, we encounter a world where it appears that women do not have a lot of agency. But here Ravin insists that the girl’s consent is what makes her actually betrothed. Assuming that she lives in a society where she can freely consent to or reject her betrothal (and that’s an assumption which certainly doesn’t hold true in all times and places), here Ravin imagines that both parties have power over each other, to mutually decide (through divorce and rejection) to end the betrothal. 

Today’s daf offers a challenge to this principle: 

Wasn’t there an incident in the city of Neresh where a woman was betrothed when she was a minor, and she reached maturity, and the husband seated her in a bridal chair, and another man came and seized her from him?!

And Rav Bruna and Rav Hananel, the students of Rav, were there and they did not require her to receive a bill of divorce from the latter.

In this case, the girl had grown up, and was literally at her wedding when she was kidnapped and forcibly married to someone else. The woman did not want to be married to her kidnapper, and good news: the students of Rav said that she wasn’t actually married to him at all.

But why? After all, as we just learned on yesterday’s daf, it requires physical intimacy on the part of the betrothed couple to enact the betrothal after a minor girl reaches her maturity. So if she isn’t actually married to her fiance, why is the kidnapper’s marriage ineffective? The Gemara offers two possibilities: 

Rav Papa suggests that in Neresh, the custom was for a betrothed couple to be physically intimate before the official wedding celebration. So in this case, the girl was already married to her betrothed when she was kidnapped, rendering the kidnapper’s actions legally meaningless: You can’t marry a woman who is already married.

This is a regionally specific explanation, but it’s not one that takes into account the woman’s ability to accept or refuse a marriage. And so Rav Ashi then offers another explanation for why this woman in Neresh did not need a divorce from her kidnapper: 

This bride snatcher acted improperly. Consequently, they treated him improperly, and the sages abrogated his betrothal.

Even if this bride snatcher followed all the steps required to enact a halakhic marriage (and stay tuned for Tractate Kiddushin, where we’ll soon learn what all those are), those steps don’t erase the fact that he literally kidnapped a woman and married her against her will. And for the rabbis on today’s daf, no amount of halakhic ritual can override the importance of a woman’s consent to her marriage once she reaches her maturity.

Read all of Yevamot 110 on Sefaria.

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And Torah study is k’neged them all.

What does this word k’neged mean? It might be familiar to you from the book of Genesis, when Eve is created to be a helpmate k’neged Adam — a companion standing opposite him. Generally, k’neged is translated as “against” or “in opposition to,” which doesn’t really seem to make sense, either in the story of Adam and Eve or in the context of Mishnah Peah. So most translations of this mishnah, including in most prayerbooks, render it “Torah study is equal to them all,” which would mean the mishnah is teaching us that study of Torah is equal to all other mitzvot.

But that’s also a puzzling conception of Torah study. If studying Torah is equal to all other commandments, why do we have so many other commandments?! Let’s just study Torah and fulfill all our religious obligations!

A passage on today’s daf helps elucidate this.

Rabbi Yosei says: Anyone who says he has no Torah, has no Torah.

Isn’t this obvious? Rather: Anyone who says he has nothing other than Torah, has nothing other than Torah. 

Isn’t this also obvious? One does not receive more reward than he deserves. Rather: It means that he does not even have Torah.

What is the reason? Rav Pappa said: The verse states: “That you may learn them (the commandments) and perform them.” (Deuteronomy 5:1) This verse teaches that anyone who is engaged in performing mitzvot is considered to be engaged in Torah study, while anyone not engaged in performing mitzvot is not engaged in Torah study.

Rav Pappa is making an amazing claim here: Performing mitzvot and studying Torah cannot be separated from one another. If a person thinks that because she is spending all her time learning Torah she is exempt from other mitzvot, not only is she incorrect, but she also negates her learning so that she is not considered to have studied Torah!

The implication of this claim is that a life of study is religiously meaningless if it is not also a life of action, of performing mitzvot that strengthen our relationship with God, and of being involved in mitzvot through which we care for others and the world around us. 

Bringing this passage back to our original question, Rav Pappa’s statement suggests that whether we translate k’neged as “opposite” or as “equal,” the mishnah in Peah should be read as cautionary. If we are wrapped up in learning, we may come to view Torah study as more important than any other mitzvah, as equal to all of them combined. Or, we may see our study as “against” other mitzvot, in conflict with them. Either understanding could lead us to privilege learning over action, to shrink back from our world and into the refuge of our books.

In this reading, the passage from Peah is an appropriate way to start each day: We remind ourselves of the importance of Torah study, but not to the exclusion of engaging in our world through other mitzvot, thereby challenging us to bring both learning and action into our day. 

Read all of Yevamot 109 on Sefaria.

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With these words, the poet-composer of the Book of Lamentations describes the dire conditions in Jerusalem as the city was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE. On today’s daf, the rabbis apply a midrashic reading to recast this verse as a description of an experience of their own, relating that just as necessities are expensive during a time of crises, Torah can also come at a price when things get rough:

During the time of danger, a halakhic ruling was requested: If she (a minor) left her first husband by means of a bill of divorce and her second by refusal, what is the halakhah with regard to her returning to the first?

They hired a person for four hundred dinars to ask Rabbi Akiva, who was in prison, and he ruled that it is forbidden.

During a time of oppression, when the Roman Empire had banned the study of Torah, a legal question arose. A messenger was hired to find out how Rabbi Akiva, jailed for teaching Torah, would rule. Due to the danger involved, the messenger was paid a significant fee.

The rabbis see this story as a fulfillment of the verse in Lamentations. Water is often used by the rabbis as a metaphor for Torah. So too wood (in Hebrew, eitz, which can also mean tree), as in the famous verse from Proverbs 3:18: “It is a tree of life to those who hold fast to it.”

Eitz also shares many letters with the word eitza, which means advice. With these images in mind, the rabbis understand the verse from Lamentations to be saying: “They paid with silver to learn from their own Torah; an exorbitant price to get the advice of their teacher.”

This story about Rabbi Akiva teaching Torah from prison calls to mind that of Rabbi Ephraim Oshry, the rabbi of the Kovno ghetto in Lithuania. During the Holocaust, Oshry was asked about how to live Jewishly under the most difficult of situations: Can you use a cracked shofar on Rosh Hashanah if it is the only one that you have? How can you fulfill the obligation to drink four cups of wine on Pesach in the ghetto? Can you pretend to be a non-Jew to save your own life? Can you save yourself if your actions will lead to the death of a fellow Jew? 

During the war, Oshry recorded his responses to these and other questions and buried them in the hope they would be found one day. Unlike Rabbi Akiva, who according to the Talmud was executed by the Romans, Rabbi Oshry survived. After the war, he went back to the ghetto and found much of what he had written, which he published over time.

The rabbis saw Torah as a necessity, just like water and firewood, a life-sustaining force that saw them through good times and bad. Today’s daf calls forward the memory of how the Jewish people turned to Torah during the darkest of times in history — the destruction of the Temple, Roman persecutions, and the Holocaust.  In our generation too, in the face of its own troubles, the Torah is a tree of life for those who hold fast to it.

Read all of Yevamot 108 on Sefaria.

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Four important questions are debated by Hillel and Shammai regarding mi’un: whether it can take place during her engagement or only once she is married; whether she can reject her yavam or if mi’un only applies to a husband or fiance; whether it must be performed in the presence of the rejected fiance; and where it takes place (before the court or not). 

Finally, a fifth matter is addressed: How many times may this girl may refuse an arranged match?

Beit Hillel said to Beit Shammai: She may refuse as long as she is a minor, even four or five times (if her relatives married her off again to another man after each refusal).

Beit Shammai said to them: The daughters of Israel are not to be treated with disregard (and should not be passed from one man to another). Rather, she refuses once. And then she must wait until she grows up, and refuse, and marry.

As we learned back on Yevamot 57, it was common in the rabbinic period for minor children to be betrothed, and even married, before they reached the age of consent (12 for girls, 13 for boys, and the presence of two pubic hairs for either). Beit Hillel imagines a situation in which this underage girl is married off multiple times and rejects her spouse each time. According to Hillel, she can do this as many times as she wants up until she reaches the halakhic age of maturity: 12 years old. 

Beit Shammai has a different view. He looks at this practice and sees trouble for the girl’s reputation. The Hebrew for the word translated here as “disregard” is hefker — abandoned property. Shammai is concerned that by refusing over and over this girl will be seen as damaged goods even before she reaches the age of 12, and so he limits the practice. She can be married off as a minor once, and if she refuses, she then must wait until she becomes an adult, when she may refuse that original match once more and then marry someone else (hopefully someone of her own choosing) for good. 

The Gemara doesn’t decide between the two, noting at the conclusion of the discussion, “this is difficult.” Indeed. 

Rashi agrees with Shammai that it is promiscuous to allow a girl to enter into a series of marriages and then dissolve each one verbally. Rather, he says, she should wait until she reaches the age of maturity. After a woman reaches adulthood, and mi’unno longer applies, her marriage can only be dissolved by a get (divorce decree). And, as we will soon learn in Tractate Gittin, a get can only be initiated by the husband, not the wife. 

What’s really unique about mi’un is that, unlike for adult women, it gives the minor girl agency to dissolve her own marriage. The mishnah at the bottom of Yevamot 107b reinforces this view when it asks:

Who is a minor girl who needs to perform refusal? Any minor whose mother or brother married her off with her consent. If they married her off without her consent, she need not refuse.

According to this mishnah, a minor girl can refuse a match even after consenting to it. And if she was married without consent, she doesn’t even have to do that — she can just walk away. The Shulchan Aruch, the definitive medieval law code, upholds this law (Even HaEzer 155:1), and Rabbi Moshe Isserles, commenting on this passage, notes: “Ideally the court should make sure not to allow the marriage of an orphan minor when it seems it will end in mi’un.”

As child marriage has thankfully become more limited over the centuries, the issue of mi’un has become obsolete. But we can learn from the wisdom of our sages that it’s important to listen to the wishes of daughters who object to marrying those that their relatives choose for them and allow them to refuse. After all, it’s the law. 

Read all of Yevamot 107 on Sefaria.

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Reish Lakish said: Any case in which they say, “Let her remove your shoe, and in doing so you will take her (in marriage).”

Reish Lakish explains that a mistaken halitzah is a situation in which the court suggests to the yavam that by allowing the woman to remove his shoe she will become his wife. Instead, the action is a valid halitzah, ending the levirate bond between them. 

Rabbi Yohanan objects to this opinion. He holds that halitzah is only effective when both parties enter into the ritual with the intention of severing their bond. Instead, Rabbi Yohanan suggests that a mistaken halitzah is:

A case in which they say to him: Let her perform halitzah on you on the condition that she will give you two hundred dinars.

Rabbi Yohanan allows the court to entice a man to undergo halitzah with a financial reward. Even though the court does not ultimately require the woman to pay, the ritual is effective since both parties performed it with the intention of severing the levirate bond. 

The Gemara then shares a number of anecdotes in which these deceptions were put into play, including one about the sister of Rav Papa’s wife, who fell to a yavam she felt was not suitable for her. The case came before Abaye, who sought to deceive the man by utilizing Reish Lakish’s solution. Aware of Rabbi Yohanan’s position, Rav Pappa intervenes:

Does the master [Abaye] not accept what Rabbi Yohanan said? 

Abaye, unsure how to respond, asks Rav Pappa what he should do. Rav Pappa suggests that he follow Rabbi Yohanan’s approach. And he does. Abaye, it turns out, is unaware that a deception has been employed and he instructs Rav Pappa’s sister-in-law to give the mantwo hundred dinars. 

Again Rav Pappa intervenes, explaining:

“I was fooling you,” was what she did to him. 

Rav Pappa then cites a beraita (an early teaching) that allows a person fleeing from bondage to use a similar deception to secure quick passage across a river by offering to pay more than the standard fee. In such a case, the rabbis rule that the escapee is only obligated to pay the normal fare, even though they promised to pay more. Rav Pappa suggests that just as it is permitted to use deception in that case, so too is it OK to do so for halitzah. 

The Gemara brings the anecdote to a close in a shocking way:

Abaye said to Rav Pappa: Where is your father? He said to him: He is in the city. Where is your mother? He said: In the city. Abaye set his gaze upon them, and both died.

What was Rav Pappa’s offense and why would Abaye respond by utilizing his powers to strike down Rav Pappa’s parents in response?

The Gemara is silent on the matter. Rashi explains that Abaye is impressed by Rav Pappa’s teaching and his questions seek to confirm that his fine legal work is made possible by his parents, who provide him with food and shelter so he can study. Abaye, on the other hand, has to work to support himself. Adin Steinsaltz reminds us that Abaye was orphaned in his youth, and so he may have felt “a twinge of jealousy” that led him to lash out.

It’s also possible that Abaye was reacting to Rav Pappa’s ruling itself. Remember, Abaye initially sought to follow Reish Lakish but changed his mind at the urging of Rav Pappa. Perhaps he felt fooled, like the yavam, and the accompanying embarrassment caused him to lash out.

Although it makes reference to many historical events, the Talmud is not a work of history. Talmudic stories are predominantly folklore, and scholars urge us not to read them as reports of actual events. Furthermore, as a modern reader of the Talmud, I do not believe that the rabbis possessed the supernatural powers sometimes attributed to them. 

That said, it’s difficult to read a story about a rabbi causing the death of the parents of another out of jealousy or embarrassment. I wish the talmudic narrator had chosen a different path for Abaye or, at least, offered some rebuke for taking things way too far.

Read all of Yevamot 106 on Sefaria.

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But sometimes, a rabbi would go out to teach the broader Jewish community. On today’s daf, we learn about one such rabbi, Levi, who left the study hall to teach and met some very incisive people.

They asked him: What is the halakhah for an armless woman, may she perform halitzah? What if a yevama spat blood (instead of saliva)? “But I will declare to you that which is inscribed in the writing of truth” (Daniel 10:21), if by inference, there is writing in Heaven that is not truth?

As we know, a yevama must remove the shoe of the yavam during halitzah, but can she do so with something other than her hand? Must the substance she spits be saliva? And if God specifies in the Book of Daniel that some writing is the writing of truth, does that mean that other parts of God’s writings are false?

The Gemara tells us that Levi didn’t know the answers to these questions. So he did what any rabbi would do in the days before Google — he went back to the study hall and asked his teachers. He learns that someone without arms can indeed perform halitzah, and that whatever substance comes out of the yevama’s mouth is valid in the performance of halitzah. And the phrase from Daniel about the “writing of truth”?

This is not difficult. Here it is referring to a sentence of judgment accompanied by an oath. There, a sentence of judgment that is not accompanied by an oath. 

In other words, judgements that are not sealed with oaths can be overturned, and so are not considered permanent truth. Of course, the flip side of this interpretation is that judgments that are sealed with oaths are considered permanent and cannot be overturned. The Talmud goes on to limit when this interpretation applies: A sealed judgment cannot be overturned only when it is God’s judgment of an individual, but God’s judgment of the community as a whole can in fact be torn up and overturned. Really? Where do we get this idea?

The Gemara answers by citing this verse from Deuteronomy 4:7:

For what great nation is there, that has God so close unto them, as the Lord our God is whenever we call upon Him?

According to the Gemara, when the Jewish people collectively call upon God in prayer, God can and does overturn God’s own rulings. Prayer is a really powerful thing.

Let’s end by returning to Levi and to the people he meets in the villages. We know that the rabbis are profoundly committed to Torah and living halakhic lives. We we might then assume that people in the villages, far removed from the rabbinic centers, would be less knowledgeable and less invested. But today’s daf tells us that this assumption would be very wrong. 

The people Levi meets are careful readers of Torah, and just as interested in the border cases as the rabbis themselves. And Levi is not the expert, coming to share knowledge with the ignorant — he himself doesn’t know the answer to their questions and must turn to his own teachers for support. It is only when Levi listens to the community’s questions and takes them seriously that his and their knowledge is expanded. We learn as much from our students as we do from our teachers.

Read all of Yevamot 105 on Sefaria.

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The context is our continuing discussion about the particulars of halitzah, the ritual for the nullification of the levirate obligation in which the widow removes the yavam’s shoe and spits. Does it matter if she removes a shoe from the right foot or the left foot? The mishnah on today’s daf tells us that if she removes the left shoe, the halitzah is invalid. Rabbi Elazar dissents.

What’s the issue with the left foot? The Gemara tells us:

Ulla said: We derive from the word “foot” stated here, and the word “foot” stated regarding the leper. Just as there it is the right foot (Leviticus 14:14), so too here it is the right foot.

Ulla’s reasoning is a piece of rabbinical logic we’ve seen many times already: the gezeirah shavah. In Leviticus 14:14, we read that a priest is required to smudge blood on the big toe of a leper’s right foot as part of a purification ritual. Since the same word for foot — regel — is also used with respect to halitzah, the rabbis conclude that the right foot must be used there too. 

But not so fast! The rabbis aren’t entirely convinced that this gezeirah shavah holds up. They note that, in some cases, the words invoked in establishing a gezeirah shavah must be “free” — that is, the word is contextually unnecessary and therefore must be included solely for the purposes of allowing us to link the two texts. Here, the word “foot” is not free. It’s required to describe the ritual of halitzah.

The Gemara continues:

And even if they are not both free, what refutation is there? It can be refuted, as the leper requires cedarwood, hyssop, and scarlet thread. 

The rabbis’ position is that the process of purifying a leper is uniquely specific, requiring the sprinkling of blood and several particular materials: cedar, hyssop and scarlet thread. A comparison to halitzah may therefore be inapt, which allows the Gemara to conclude that removing a shoe from the left foot during halitzah might be acceptable. 

This debate rages on into the Middle Ages (see the Or Zarua for an example of one opinion, including a discussion about a left shoe on the right foot.) But at least for the rabbis in the Talmud, there’s no inherent connection between the foot of a leper and the foot of a yavam, allowing us to conclude that maybe the rabbis’ fear of left-ness wasn’t quite so strong.

Read all of Yevamot 104 on Sefaria.

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