The topic comes up during a conversation about the ideal curriculum of Torah study, in the course of which we encounter a sage who learned Torah from his grandfather. The Gemara then brings a challenge. 

Is one’s grandfather obligated? Isn’t it taught: “And you shall teach them to your sons” (Deuteronomy 11:19).

But not your sons’ sons? And how do I understand: “But make them known to your sons and to your sons’ sons” (Deuteronomy 4:9)?

To say to you that whoever teaches his son Torah, the verse ascribes him (credit) as though he taught him, and his son, and his son’s son, until the end of all generations.

The first prooftext is one many of us will recognize from the second paragraph of the Shema, which mandates that one teach Torah to their children. The verse does not mention grandchildren, and could even be read as specifically excluding them by not mentioning them. So a second prooftext is brought, which reads in full: “But take utmost care and watch yourselves scrupulously, so that you do not forget the things that you saw with your own eyes and so that they do not fade from your mind as long as you live. And make them known to your children and to your children’s children.”

In other words, the commandment to teach one’s children extends to grandchildren. 

This notion is reflected in the Hadran, the extended version of the Kaddish that is recited upon completing a tractate of Talmud study, which includes this line: “May the merit of the all of the Tannaim, Amoraim and Torah scholars stand by me and my children, that the Torah shall not depart from my mouth and from the mouth of my children and my children’s children forever.”

We all hope that when we teach our children, they will retain some of what we teach them and in turn instruct their own children, who will pass the learning down through the generations. But being able to teach your grandchildren yourself is particularly special. The rabbis of the Talmud felt this significance as well. Further down the daf we find this story: 

Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba encountered Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, who had placed a covering over his head and brought his grandchild to the synagogue. Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said to him: Why this fuss (that you are in such a hurry that you do not have time to dress yourself properly)? 

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said to him: Is it insignificant, that which is written: “But make them known to your sons,” and juxtaposed to it: “The day when you stood before the Lord your God in Horeb”? 

From then onward, Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba would not taste meat before he had read to his grandchild and added (to the child’s studies from the day before). 

The stories we tell our children will likely be retold to our grandchildren. But today’s daf reiterates that in addition to family lore, we are obligated to share words of Torah, too. 

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From the rabbinic perspective, a husband is legally required to sustain his wife, providing clothes for her as well as conjugal relations. His financial obligations to her continue even in the event of the dissolution of the marriage, through death or divorce. The primary purpose of the ketubah is to state the agreed amount of money that she is to receive should the marriage come to an end. In return, a woman is obligated to be sexually faithful to her husband and some of her means, either property or earnings, are assigned to him.

The rabbinic view was that marriage was sacred. A woman was consecrated to her husband just as the Jewish people are consecrated to their God. Love, when present, was a beautiful component of marriage, though that is little discussed in the Talmud, which is more invested in the legal side of one of the most complex contracts a person can enter into. Here is a quick overview of the contents of the 13 chapters of this tractate:

Chapter 1

This tractate opens with a discussion of which days are preferred for marriage because they allow the bride and groom time to prepare the feast and also allow for the possibility that the groom can sue the bride on the morning after the marriage should he suspect, upon sleeping with her, that she is not a virgin. This leads to a discussion of the definition of virginity and the means of determining if a woman is in fact a virgin. In certain cases when a man sues his bride for not being a virgin, she can produce proof in court that she is. A discussion of credibility with regard to lineage follows.

Chapter 2

This chapter concerns which testimony can be trusted in cases where the ideal testimony — two independent adult male and impartial witnesses — is not available. This chapter is also concerned with the ratification of documents that one party claims to be forgeries and the laws that govern a woman who has been captured by gentiles and is assumed to have been sexually abused by them (and therefore cannot marry a priest). Certain imperfect testimony can prove that she was not raped while in captivity — though not simply her own testimony. The Gemara also considers other cases in which imperfect testimony is permissible.

Chapter 3

This chapter deals with cases in which a man either seduces or rapes a woman who is forbidden to him. He may not marry her, but he does owe either her father or her money, which might differ depending on whether he forced himself on her and also on whether she is a virgin or not. He may also pay for her pain and humiliation, and whether that payment goes to her or her father is also discussed. This leads to a more general discussion of cases in which a person violates two laws at once and whether that can or should incur two punishments.

Chapter 4

This chapter deals with matters a father might decide for his minor daughter, including betrothing her to a husband and accepting a bill of divorce for her. He may also nullify her vows, pocket any money she earns, or that is given to her upon betrothal, or that she is given in settlement of a lawsuit. Once she is grown up, she controls more of these monies, though her father still retains some control until she marries. If the marriage is annulled, she is considered like an orphan even if her father is still alive. This chapter also considers the rights of a husband which are similar to those of a father except that a husband is entitled to usufruct, revenue generated from property the wife owns.

This chapter also concerns cases in which a husband accuses his wife of having been unfaithful to him while they were betrothed (and therefore not a virgin when they were married).

This chapter further details the obligations a man has toward his wife, including providing food, clothing and conjugal relations. He also must redeem her from captivity and pay for her medical and burial expenses. After death, his widow may continue to live in their shared home and derive sustenance from his estate. Her daughters are also supported until they reach adulthood, and her sons inherit her ketubah payment should she die.

The chapter ends with a discussion of a father’s obligation to feed his children, which only technically extends to age six. After that, it’s clear he was socially expected to continue their support even though it’s not legally required. 

Chapter 5

In this chapter, we learn that while 100 and 200 dinars are the minimum ketubah payments (for a non-virgin and virgin, respectively), there is no maximum. A man is only obligated to pay the larger sum if the marriage progresses past betrothal to become a complete union (the precise moment this happens — be it under the huppah or under the sheets — is a subject of discussion). A man may not, however, go below the minimum.

In this chapter we also learn that a man cannot indefinitely delay a marriage as a strategy to avoid supported his betrothed — support begins after the agreed date for the marriage, whether or not a marriage has taken place.

The woman’s duties for the household include domestic labor, though a wealthy woman who was not raised to do these jobs is not required to cook and clean, as her husband must keep her in the style to which she has been accustomed. However, the rabbis believe it is not good for a woman (or anyone, for that matter) to be completely idle. A wife is also expected to do some amount of paid labor, the earnings of which are turned over to her husband. However, if she wishes to keep those earnings, she may strike a deal with him and forfeit her right to sustenance.

This chapter concludes with a man’s sexual obligations toward his wife. He owes her intercourse at regular intervals, though those intervals differ depending on his line of work.

Chapter 6

Not only are a woman’s earnings generally earmarked for her husband (unless she strikes a special deal with him, as described in the previous chapter), but so are items that she finds. Wealth that she inherits, however, belongs to her, though he may benefit from profit it accrues (for instance, if she inherits an orchard, he may claim the fruit).

Much of this chapter concerns the laws of dowries, which were not required but customarily given at the rate of 1/10th of the father’s estate (meaning the land that he owned, not movable property). Should a father die before his daughter was married, she could legally demand this amount from his inheritors. Large dowries could command a higher ketubah price.

Chapter 7

This chapter describes situations in which a court can require a couple to divorce. These include: (1) vows undertaken by either party, before or during the marriage, that interfere with the marriage or the parties’ fulfillment of marital obligations; (2) inappropriate conduct, such as immodest behavior or abrogation of certain social customs (in which case, the ketubah is immediately paid if the husband is guilty, and not paid if the wife is the guilty party); and (3) physical blemishes in either party, especially those discovered only after the marriage was contracted.

Chapter 8

This chapter delves more deeply into the husband’s right to usufruct — that is, benefiting from his wife’s property that remains her her possession. The ins and outs of this discussion include boundary cases such as a betrothed woman who inherits property or a levirate widow who inherits property while waiting for her yavam to marry her. There is also a concern about property that the wife owns which does not yield produce, which, in some cases, may be sold to purchase property that does. At the time of divorce, already harvested produce belongs to the husband, while produce still growing on the plants belongs to the wife. And so forth.

Chapter 9

Concluding the discussion of usufruct, a husband can waive his rights to usufruct, but not to inheriting his wife’s property upon her death.

This chapter also explores some of the laws of oaths within a marriage. In rabbinic understanding, an oath is a kind of judiciary proof — when a person swears to something in court, this is considered reliable (though less reliable than the testimony of witnesses). Here, the rabbis discuss cases in which a wife might be required to swear an oath that she has not already received her ketubah payment, in full or part, before collecting what is owed to her.

This chapter also describes how a woman might collect money from her husband’s estate should he die, especially in cases where there is not enough money to cover her ketubah or, in the case of multiple wives, their ketubot.

This chapter also discusses how a woman might collect payment if her ketubah is misplaced or if she has more than one (supposing the husband wrote a supplemental document for her).

Chapter 10

This chapter opens with a discussion of cases in which a husband dies, leaving multiple widows and an estate that cannot pay all their ketubot. How are the limited funds apportioned? In general, wives married earlier take precedence and wives who are still living take precedence over the heirs of deceased ones. One particularly interesting case is that in which the wives all take equal precedence but have ketubah contracts of differing sums. Other laws of inheritance are discussed as well.

Chapter 11

This chapter describes how a widow may sustain herself by selling off her husband’s deceased property in pieces at six-month intervals, and how the courts can help ensure that a woman sells the property for what it is actually worth (thereby shortchanging neither herself nor her husband’s heirs).

This chapter also considers cases in which a problem in the marriage is discovered after the marriage has taken place — perhaps that the woman is an aylonit who does not develop secondary sexual characteristics and is infertile, or perhaps it is discovered that the husband and wife are related to one another and their relationship makes their marriage forbidden according to rabbinic law. Such marriages are dissolved and the women are not entitled to their ketubot. Likewise, a girl who is promised in her youth to a husband by a mother or brother (assuming her father is dead) and, upon coming of age, rejects the marriage — she too does not receive her ketubah.

Chapter 12

A husband who promises in the marriage contract to feed his wife’s daughter from a previous relationship continues to do so even if the marriage ends, and even if the daughter finds another means of sustenance (such as her own husband) because such a contractual obligation is not contingent on the marriage itself.

This chapter also discusses the widow’s right to consider residing in her home after her husband dies. If she prefers to return to her father’s household, the heirs pay her what it would have cost to keep her housed within their family.

A woman has up to 25 years to claim her ketubah. After that, she is considered to have forfeited it.

This chapter also contains a famous series of stories about the death of Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, who was suffering terribly at the end while his students prayed to keep him alive. His maidservant dropped a jug from the roof of his home, interrupting his prayers and allowing his soul to depart. This story often figures into Jewish ethical discussions about euthenasia.

Chapter 13

This chapter details the laws concerning a woman whose husband is overseas for a long time. She can, with the help of the court, sustain herself from his estate. But if a third party steps up to sustain her, he cannot sue the husband to recover his costs.

A husband cannot compel his wife to move a great distance from home, but he can compel her to move to the land of Israel. Likewise, she can compel him to move to Israel, and neither party can compel the other to move away. What is compelling? If a husband or wife refuses to move to the land of Israel, the other can dissolve the marriage and claim the ketubah money (i.e. he keeps it from her, or she gets it, depending on which party wanted to move to the holy land).

Speaking of moving, a husband may choose to pay a ketubah contract either from the currency of the place where the couple got married or the place where the couple currently lives.

This chapter circles back to questions of oath-taking and inheritance before moving on to the strict prohibition against judges accepting bribes. This includes a series of stories that illustrate the dangers of taking a bribe, however small. The tractate concludes with praises of the land of Israel.

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The bulk of the rabbis’ accolades for Israel emphasize the fecundity: wheat so plump it yields untold surpluses of flour; vines with grape clusters so large and numerous they are mistaken for cows; peaches the size of soup pots; figs so rich in “honey” that people must wade through ankle-deep streams of it; goats whose milk leaks from their udders unbidden, mixing with the aforementioned date honey, thereby fulfilling the verse that describes Israel as “a land flowing with milk and honey.” Israel is so abundant, the sages assert, that even the rocky territory of Hebron, home to the Cave of Machpelah which Abraham purchased as a family burial plot, is seven times more fertile than the most fertile region of Egypt, an acknowledged breadbasket of antiquity.

As this daf draws to a close, the rabbis do not overtly return to their discussion of marriage. Yet there is something that feels right about ending on this note of fervid love. Ideally, a marriage is also a great love, and partners see one another the way the rabbis describe Israel — dripping with immense riches. Also ideally, such love can help guard against some of the uglier litigious sides of marriage we have been considering for the last 111 pages. And even though the land of Israel was, in this telling, miraculously fertile and therefore not difficult to love, the rabbis knew they could not live in a state of perpetual honeymoon. Therefore, they record what measures their colleagues took to safeguard that love:

Rabbi Abba would kiss the rocks of Akko.

Rabbi Hanina would repair its stumbling blocks.

Rabbi Ammi and Rabbi Asi would stand and pass from a sunny spot to a shady one, and from a shady spot to a sunny one.

Rabbi Hiyya bar Gamda would roll in the dust of the land, as it is stated: For Your servants take pleasure in her stones, and love her dust. (Psalms 102:15)

Israel, for the rabbis, was a prize beyond measure. But that didn’t mean they didn’t need to work on their love for her. Rabbi Abba kissed the craggy rocks of Akko, positioned at the very boundary of the land, actively performing his love even at the periphery. Rabbi Hanina saw the places she was broken and repaired them. Rabbi Ami and Rabbi Asi didn’t complain when the weather was too hot or cold, they simply sought out more comfortable locations. And Rabbi Hiyya bar Gamda, perhaps the most inventive of them all, forced himself to revel even in the land’s unremarkable dust. Taken together, it’s a recipe for maintaining love for a land that, even if it really is the most fecund the world has ever known, is not without flaws.

Just like a spouse. How many of the wrenching scenarios we just studied could have been avoided if spouses were able to kiss one another’s craggy spots, repair each other’s broken bits, move without resentment out of difficult moments, and appreciate one another’s mundanities?

Our tractate ends by crescendoing to a messianic note. Peaches the size of soup pots and date palms that rain down torrents of fruit notwithstanding, in the future the land will be even more fertile:

Rav Hiyya bar Ashi said that Rav said: In the future all barren trees in the land of Israel will bear fruit, as it is stated: For the tree bears its fruit, the fig tree and the vine yield their strength. (Joel 2:22)

In the end times, there will be no tree in the land of Israel that doesn’t produce fruit. The land will thus come to resemble the original paradise, the Garden of Eden. And just maybe, marriages too will become like Adam and Eve’s in the garden was meant to be — uncomplicated and eternally loving.

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After debating whether a person must live in Israel or be buried there in order to be resurrected (thankfully for those of us who live in the Diaspora, the answer is seemingly no), the Gemara next turns to the question of whether a person’s level of Torah scholarship has bearing on whether they will merit to be revived after they have died.

Rabbi Elazar said: The common, uneducated people will not come alive, as it is stated: “The dead live not” (Isaiah 26:14). 

Rabbi Elazar relies on a prooftext from Isaiah to demonstrate that those who do not study Torah will not be resurrected, attempting to prove that the word “dead” really means “unlearned.” If this view seems harsh to you, you’re not alone. 

Rabbi Yohanan said: Their master (God) is not pleased that you say this. That verse is written about one who weakens himself (and succumbs) to idol worship. 

Ouch. Nothing like being told that God is displeased with what you are teaching, especially when the accuser is Rabbi Yohanan, a huge force in Torah learning in Israel. 

Undeterred, Rabbi Elazar tries again:

I teach a different verse, as it is written: “For Your dew is as the dew of light, and the earth shall bring to life the shades” (Isaiah 26:19). Anyone who uses the light of Torah, the light of Torah will revive him; and anyone who does not use the light of Torah, the light of Torah will not revive him.

Here, Rabbi Elazar equates the life-giving “dew of light” mentioned in a different verse in Isaiah with the light of Torah. This second argument seems equally ineffectual, as Rabbi Yohanan does not even comment on it. Finally, the Talmud relates: 

Since (Rabbi Elazar) saw that (Rabbi Yohanan) was grieved, he said to him: My teacher, I have found for them a remedy from the Torah: “But you who cleave to the Lord your God, are alive every one of you this day” (Deuteronomy 4:4).

But is it possible to cleave to the Divine Presence? Isn’t it written: “For the Lord your God is a devouring fire” (Deuteronomy 4:24)?

Rather, anyone who marries his daughter to a Torah scholar, and one who conducts business on behalf of Torah scholars, and one who (utilizes his wealth) to benefit Torah scholars with his property, the verse ascribes him (credit) as though he is cleaving to the Divine Presence.

Is the third time the charm for Rabbi Elazar? Here, he changes his approach, saying that cleaving to God is the ticket to resurrection. And how do we cleave to God? By supporting Torah scholars. 

It’s worth noting that the Talmud was created by and for rabbis, so there’s more than a bit of self-preservation to Rabbi Elazar’s final argument. Rabbis and their families, especially those who did not have other ways to sustain themselves financially, relied on members of the community to support their Torah study. That enterprise continues today — just visit a synagogue or Jewish day school and note the names engraved on plaques or on the side of the building. Jewish education has always relied on support from those who aren’t actually doing the teaching. 

Rabbi Elazar’s final argument mitigates his initial statement, but it doesn’t achieve total inclusivity, as it still guarantees resurrection only to Torah scholars and those with the money to support them. What about those that Rabbi Yohanan was concerned with — ordinary Jews? 

A solution might be found in the very prooftext from Deuteronomy that Rabbi Elazar cites. Those words are familiar to many of us as the passage chanted at the beginning of the Torah service, just before the first person comes up to say the aliyah blessing. By choosing a verse proclaiming that all who cleave to God “are alive, every one of you this day” to recite just prior to the public reading of the Torah, Jewish tradition seemingly answers Rabbi Yohanan’s concern about including even unlearned Jews in the resurrection. If “every one” of the Jewish people can cleave to God, then everyone is included. 

This idea is further strengthened by Maimonides’ Thirteen Articles of Faith, popularized in the Yigdal prayer chanted in many congregations on Friday night. As the service closes, we sing: “God will revive the dead in God’s full kindness, may God’s name be blessed and praised forever.” Maimonides doesn’t qualify which of these dead will be revived, but his unqualified statement that “God will revive the dead” suggests that God gives the gift of resurrection to everyone.  

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For example, a mishnah on today’s daf divides the land of Israel into three geographic regions — the Galilee (in the north), Judea (in the south), and Transjordan (east of the Jordan river) — and stipulates that:

If a man marries a woman in one of these regions he may not remove her from one town to another town, or from one city to another city, in another of these regions. However, in the same region one may remove her from one town to another town or from one city to another city.

By preventing her husband from moving her to a different region, the rabbis offered a wife some security that she won’t be forced to move far from where she and her husband lived right after marrying. If she married in proximity to her father’s household, this ensures that she will have access to her childhood home and the ability to visit her family.

In addition, the mishnah requires a husband to maintain his family’s “style of living” should he relocate them within their region. If they are city folk, he can relocate them to a city; if they are country folk he cannot — and vice versa. This protects a woman and her children from the discomfort that can accompany moving to a strange place.

These rules are similar to others we have seen in Tractate Ketubot. They establish the husband as prime decider and place limits on him in order to provide protection and security for his wife.

A second mishnah on our daf continues the discussion of relocation, but presents a case in which the power dynamic shifts in a dramatic way:

All may force their family to ascend to the land of Israel, but none can remove others. Likewise, all may force their family to ascend to Jerusalem, and none can remove them. This applies to both men and women.

In perhaps some of the most egalitarian legislation we have seen to date, this mishnah gives both the husband and the wife the power to decide that their household is moving to Israel or, if they already live in Israel, to Jerusalem. This is because such a move is a spiritual ascent, as the verb used then (as now) — aliyah — implies. A corollary is that no one has the power to compel their family to move in the other direction.

This mishnah suggests that living in Israel was, for the rabbis, a value that outweighed even marriage. A beraita that follows demonstrates how serious the rabbis were about this:

If the husband says that he wishes to immigrate to the land of Israel, and his wife says that she does not wish to ascend, one forces her to ascend. And if she will not do so, as she resists all attempts to force her to make the move, she is divorced without receiving her ketubah.

If she says that she wishes to ascend to the land of Israel and he says that he does not wish to ascend, one forces him to ascend. And if he does not wish to immigrate, he must divorce her and give her the marriage contract.

If a husband wishes to move to Israel and his wife refuses, not only can he divorce her, but he is exempt from paying her the value of her ketubah. And, if she wishes to make aliyah and he refuses, he is compelled to divorce her and pay her the full value of her ketubah. The second half of this beraita applies the same pressures on a family in reverse: If a husband wants to leave Israel and his wife does not, he is forced to divorce her and pay the ketubah, whereas if she wants to leave she can do so, but as a divorcee who has no right to her ketubah payment.

Throughout Tractate Ketubot we have seen, in law and narrative, how the rabbis held marriage agreements as sacred and inviolate. They governed the social structure and the financial relationship between husband and wife. Today we learn that although marriage is important to the rabbis, it is not as important as the obligation to live in Israel — so much so that women are granted the power to overrule their husbands and move their families to Israel. The rabbis are so committed to this that they use the economic leverage of the ketubah to support their right to do so.

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Today’s daf offers a legal case that contains a warning about investing in a property like this. A situation arises as described in the mishnah:

With regard to one who went overseas and in the meantime the path leading to his field was lost.

Admon says: Let him go to his field by the shortest possible route.

The rabbis say: Let him buy himself a path, even if it is 100 dinars, or let him fly through the air.

A man owns property with no public access and goes away for some time. Upon his return, the agreed footpath through his neighbor’s field has become overgrown and there is now no clear way for the man to access his own parcel. In this mishnah, the judge Admon says he simply walks the most efficient route across his neighbor’s field — presumably the path that is least disruptive.The rabbis, however, believe he should buy access to his land even if it is expensive or, as they comedically suggest, he’ll have to fly through the air.

The Gemara takes a deeper look at this apparent difference of opinion, imagining that part of the difficulty is that his property locked in by multiple properties, the owners of which are all refusing him access: 

Rav Yehuda said that Rav said: The mishnah is dealing with a case where the field was surrounded on four sides by (the property of) four different people.

Rav thinks the problem is that he cannot prove which of the four had originally offered him access, which is why he now has no choice but to buy himself a new path.

But there is no hint of this in the mishnah. It seems that Admon was talking about a different situation in which there was only one owner whose land blocked access. Nonetheless, the rabbis overrule Admon because:

The rabbis hold that (the landowner can say to the man): If you will stay silent, then stay silent (and we will work something out); and if not, I will return the document of each field to its previous owner and you will not be able to negotiate with them. 

The person with the peripheral property has enormous power here, and the rabbis worry he might wield it by selling off parts of his own land to make life difficult for the person who has no public access to his property. 

Especially in the absence of public access roads, it’s vital to understand who owns the property around you, and even more important to build trust with them. Perhaps this is yet another reason why the rabbis were so insistent that everyone be a good neighbor. For myself, I ended up purchasing a different property — one on a public road.

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First, some context. Numbers 27:8–11 lays out a chain of inheritance when a man dies. In a discussion of inheriting land, God tells Moses that “If a man dies and leaves no son, give his inheritance to his daughter.” Sons apparently have priority when it comes to inheriting land. The rabbis are concerned that such a move will leave (unmarried) daughters without financial support, so the mishnah on today’s daf teaches:

One who died and left sons and daughters, when the estate is large the sons inherit the property and the daughters are provided with sustenance.

The inheritors are required to support their sisters until their marriages with money from the estate. 

That’s fine when the estate is large enough to support everyone, but what if it isn’t? The mishnah continues:

And with regard to a small estate, the daughters are provided with sustenance and the sons go round at the doors.

The anonymous voice of the Mishnah states that if there are limited resources, the inheritors must support their sisters from the estate, and go out begging to support themselves. But wait! 

Admon says: Because I am a male, must I lose out? 

We met Admon recently (Ketubot 105a), where we learned that he was one of three judges in Jerusalem who decided cases involving gezel (robbery). He’s not just some complainer, he’s an expert in financial law. Here, he points out that there is something fundamentally unfair about sons (who, the Gemara is going to point out, have biblical priority!) having to give their entire inheritance to their sisters and go begging, just because they are male. Though his version of justice would leave sisters unsupported, it’s an important shift to the first person — an abstract law is challenged by someone’s personal concerns and experiences. 

And this isn’t just a lone statement that no one paid attention to. The mishnah concludes with a statement by Rabban Gamaliel (arguably the preeminent rabbi of his generation!) who is recorded as having said, “I acknowledge the statement of Admon.”

We’re going to discuss inheritance law in more depth when we get to tractate Bava Batra. But to jump ahead for a moment, it’s worth noting that both the Sefer Mitzvot Gedolot, the 13th century codification of the 613 commandments by Rabbi Moses ben Jacob of Coucy, and the Shulchan Aruch, the 16th century law code by Rabbi Joseph Karo, rule according to the anonymous first opinion — in the case of limited inheritance, the sons are required to use their inheritance to support their sisters, even to the point of begging for their own sustenance if they need to.

But the mishnah retains Admon’s countervoice, a voice pointing out that something is profoundly unfair. He reminds us that abstract laws and first-person experiences are not always in line with each other. And that tension requires thoughtful care and empathy to make sure that law and justice are both enacted.

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What if a man went on a trip that took longer than expected, and his wife at home ran out of money? The mishnah explains what might happen:

In the case of a husband who went overseas, and someone arose and sustained his wife (in his absence), Hanan says: He has lost his money. 

Can someone who steps in to sustain the husband’s wife demand repayment when her husband returns? Hanan says no. Presumably, since the husband didn’t agree to this debt, he is not obligated to pay. In a world with cell phones and email, this can be sorted properly in the moment. But in the ancient world, the sustainer had to make a decision to support the wife without any input form her husband.

The mishnah now presents the other side:

The sons of high priests disagreed and said: The man swears to how much he spent, and he takes (that sum from the husband). Rabbi Dosa ben Harkinas said that the halakhah is in accordance with their statement. 

It stands to reason that since the sustainer laid out money for this other man’s wife, he should be repaid for his monetary loss. After all, sustaining the woman was her husband’s responsibility.

This is the second mishnah in a row that has given us this pattern of actors. Back on Ketubot 104, Hanan asserted something in the mishnah, the sons of the high priests took exception, and Rabbi Dosa ben Harkinas came to their defense. In the end, Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai came to support Hanan. That mishnah was actually discussed in the context of this series when it showed up on Ketubot 88, where it was quoted in full. There we discovered that the Gemara, surprisingly, sided with the sons of the high priests.

In today’s mishnah, once again Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai sides with Hanan and not the sons of the high priests: 

Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai said: Hanan spoke well, as this man is like one who placed his money on the horn of a deer. 

I love the image that the sustainer’s money might as well have been placed on the horn of a deer who likely did what deer do and immediately bolted. A sustainer who heroically rises to support the wife of an absentee husband should not do so in the expectation that he will be repaid.

Is that a sound defeat for the sons of the high priests? Will the Gemara come to their aid once again? That’s to be discovered on the top of tomorrow’s daf. But it’s not looking good for the sons of the high priest — or the man who volunteers to sustain a lonely wife and then expects her husband to pay back every cent.

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A certain man brought Rav Anan a basket of small fish. He said to him: “What are you doing?” The man said to him: “I have a case.” Rav Anan did not accept the basket from him, and he said to him: “I am disqualified from presiding over your case.”

Rav Anan has done all the right things: He has both refused the gift and refused to judge the case. And yet, this story has a twist because the man has another trick up his sleeve:

The man said to him: “I do not need the master’s judgment. Let the master (you) accept my gift, so that the master does not prevent me from presenting first fruits.”

The ritual of bringing first fruits — which is detailed in Mishnah Bikkurim — involved bringing produce to the altar at the Temple. So how can this man claim his gift for Rav Anan qualifies as first fruits? The Gemara explains that a midrashic reading of a story in 2 Kings teaches that anyone who brings a gift to a scholar is like one who has presented first fruits.

Rav Anan feels compelled to accept the fish, so as not to deprive the man of the opportunity to perform a mitzvah. He still refuses to judge the case, however. We can sympathize with his position. But unfortunately for Rav Anan, even this tiny level of impropriety will have disastrous consequences:

Rav Anan sent the man to Rav Nahman, and he also sent him a letter: “Let the master (you) judge this man’s case because I, Anan, am disqualified from judging his cases.”

Rav Nahman said to himself: “From the fact that he sent me this letter, I can conclude that he is his relative.”

A person may not judge their own relative in a court of law, so it is natural for Rav Nahman to assume this is the reason Rav Anan has recused himself. Rav Nahman promptly sets aside his other case (involving orphans, no less) to render judgment for the man with the fish. Alas, the other litigant senses a preference on the part of Rav Nahman and becomes so nervous he can not properly argue his claim. He loses. In the end, Rav Anan’s acceptance of the fish, even done reluctantly under duress, perverted justice.

Unfortunately, there is even more damage: 

Elijah was accustomed to come to Rav Anan, as the prophet was teaching him Seder d’Eliyahu. Once Rav Anan did this, Elijah departed.

Elijah was a prophet who lived nine centuries before the Common Era and, according to the Hebrew Bible, traveled across the Jordan River to lift up the message of his name: Eli-jah — My God is Adonai. Because the Bible records that he did not die, but was carried up to heaven in a chariot, there is a large rabbinic lore about him. He is considered a herald of the messiah and also fond of wandering around, secretly observing people and rewarding the righteous.

In this case, we learn, he was sharing with Rav Anan a series of teachings that he would ultimately record in a book called Seder d’Eliyahu. (Scholars debate whether this is in fact the collection of midrashim, Seder Eliyahu, also called Tanna Debei Eliyahu Rabba, that has come down to us.) As punishment for Rav Anan’s mistake, Elijah stopped teaching him. Rav Anan attempts to mitigate Elijah’s anger:

Rav Anan sat in observance of a fast and prayed for mercy, and Elijah came back. However, when Elijah came after that, he would scare him.

It is also possible to translate the Aramaic as “trouble him.” It would indeed be troubling, perhaps even terrifying, to know that you once had a great relationship with the archetype for justice, and then were abandoned for what felt like a small misstep. The story serves as a warning about the dangers of bribery, and how even the smallest and most innocent seeming errors in this area can cause a stunning amount of unforeseen damage.

Rav Anan wasn’t the first to have lost the company of Elijah. Back in Ketubot 61, we met two sages who treated their waitstaff differently, and Elijah only spoke with the one who allowed his servers to eat from every dish that was served at the table. As we read further, we can look forward to more stories as well about Elijah hidden in plain sight, showing favor to those who are kind and generous and make the world a more just place, including my favorite on Bava Batra 7b, where we learn about a pious man who was accustomed to being visited by and speaking with Elijah. But then, when this man built a gatehouse, Elijah did not speak with him again. Rashi remarks that Elijah was concerned that the man walled himself away from hearing the cries of the poor, and suggests that this kind of action was an act of injustice. 

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Among the constraints on judges is the commandment in Exodus 23:8, “And you shall take no bribe,” which has spawned pages and pages of commentary in traditional Jewish texts. According to the Gemara, bribery with money is so obviously unacceptable that it’s not even worth mentioning — though, of course, the Gemara does mention it, reviewing various examples of how money can tilt the scales of justice. Perhaps less expectedly, on today’s daf the rabbis declare that verbal bribery is also prohibited and provide some examples:

What are the circumstances of bribing with words? By that (episode) involving Shmuel, who was crossing on a ferry. A certain man came and gave him a hand. Shmuel said to him: What are you doing (in this place)? The man said to him: I have a case (to present before you for judgment). Shmuel said to him: I am disqualified from your case.

In this story, a man who was bringing a case before Shmuel for judgment helps him to disembark from a ferry boat. The man’s action seems small: All he did was help Shmuel off the boat. But even a small act like that can be construed as a kind of bribe and precludes Shmuel from sitting in judgment over his case.

The next two examples relate similar understandings:

Ameimar was sitting and judging a case when a feather floated on his head. A certain man came and removed it. Ameimar said to him: “What are you doing (here)?” He said to him: “I have a case.” Ameimar said to him: “I am disqualified from your case.”

There was spittle lying before Mar Ukva. A certain man came and covered it. He said to him: “What are you doing (here)?” He said to him: “I have a case.” Mar Ukva said to him: “I am disqualified from your case.”

As in the first example, here both Ameimar and Mar Ukva disqualify themselves from presiding over a case because the litigants did them favors, in one case removing a feather from the judge’s head and in the other covering up spittle. 

Finally, the Gemara offers up an example showing that even if a judge is perfectly entitled to what a litigant is offering, the offer itself — let alone an acceptance — can be disqualifying:

A certain man brought Rabbi Yishmael bar Elisha the first shearing.

Rabbi Yishmael said to him: “From where are you?”

The man said to him: “From such and such a place.”

Rabbi Yishmael said to him: “And from there to here was there no (other) priest to give (the shearing to)?”

He said to him: “I have a case, and I said (to myself) along my way I will bring to the master (the first shearing).”

Rabbi Yishmael said to him: “I am disqualified from your case and did not accept from him.”

In this case, a man with a case pending before Rabbi Yishmael decides to kill two birds with one stone. He’s on his way to the court anyway, so he decides to also bring Rabbi Yishmael the first cut of his wool, which he was obliged to offer to a priest. Because Rabbi Yishmael was a priest, he had a right to the first shearing and, under normal circumstances, it would have been perfectly fine to accept it. But since the man in question had a case pending, taking this offering would have violated the rule against verbal bribery. Indeed, Rabbi Yishmael is so cautious that he both rejects the first shearing and disqualifies himself from sitting in judgment over the case at hand.

We typically think about bribery as money changing hands to warp justice. Today’s daf highlights how bribery can be undertaken by other means and how broad the possible definitions of bribery can be.

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On the day that Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi died, the sages decreed a fast, and begged for mercy. And they said: Anyone who says that Rabbi has died will be stabbed with a sword.

Distraught by the impending death of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the sages do what many of us do when faced with the loss of a loved one: They pray as a means to stay the hand of God and keep their teacher alive. They even go so far as threatening anyone who dares to say that Rabbi Yehuda has passed on. 

Initially, the rabbi’s maidservant joins the rabbis in trying to keep him alive. Here’s how the Gemara describes her prayer: 

The upper (realms) are requesting Rabbi, and the lower (realms) are requesting Rabbi. May it be the will of God that the lower should impose upon the upper. 

Intimately aware that her master’s end is near, the maidservant too is not ready to let go and pleads to God that the request of the lower realms prevail over the upper ones — i.e. that Rabbi Yehuda be allowed to continue living on earth. But then something happens to change her perspective. 

When she saw how many times he would enter the bathroom and remove his tefillin, and put them back on, and how he was suffering, she said: May it be the will of God that the upper should impose upon the lower.

Once she notices how often Rabbi Yehuda had to visit the bathroom — he evidently suffered from intestinal disease — and the suffering he was enduring, she reverses her prayer. Now she asks that the will of the upper realms prevail over the lower ones. The only problem was the prayers of the rabbis were efficacious and, as long as they continued, Rabbi Yehuda could not die. So in an attempt to end his suffering, she is moved to act.

She took a jug and threw it from the roof to the ground. 

The noise of the jug falling from the roof distracts the sages from their prayers, which are keeping him alive, thus enabling Rabbi Yehuda to die. 

When our leaders and loved ones near the end of their lives, we often turn to prayer, as the rabbis did, in the hope that their lives will be extended. But when their discomfort morphs into terminal suffering, sometimes we follow the example of maidservant and seek a merciful death that will relieve their pain. Finding oneself in a space in which the desire to hold on comes face to face with the reality that it is time to let go is a painful feature of the human experience. In this text, it is the maidservant who recognized that this moment has arrived and that Rabbi Yehuda’s need to be relieved of his suffering outweighed the desire of his colleagues to extend their time together. 

Contemporary scholars have looked to this text to shed light on contemporary ethical dilemmas, like whether it’s permissible to remove impediments to death for terminally ill patients who are clearly suffering. But the Talmud does not, setting aside for the moment its inclination to measure and quantify, argue and debate. It remains silent — leaving the maidservant’s actions to stand unchallenged. 

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Rav said: Conclude from this that Rabbi Afes died and Rabbi Hanina sat at the head (of the yeshiva), and Levi did not have anyone to sit with, and he came to Babylonia.

How did Rav arrive at such a conclusion? And what does any of this have to do with a teaching about wearing jewelry in public on Shabbat? 

Well, it’s elementary. But to understand Rav’s Holmesian conclusion, we need to back up a bit. 

The story begins earlier on today’s daf with Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s instructions about how to settle his affairs after his death. Among them, his sons should honor their step-mother after his passing and the sages should recommence their learning after 30 days of mourning. Finally, he names Hanina bar Hama as the next head of the rabbinic yeshiva. But this final request was not immediately implemented:

Rabbi Hanina did not accept because Rabbi Afes was older than him by two and a half years. Consequently, Rabbi Afes sat at the head and Rabbi Hanina sat outside, and Levi came and sat with him.

Deferring to his senior colleague, Rabbi Hanina does not accept the position of the head of the yeshiva. But this decision leaves him in an awkward situation, since his knowledge is greater than that of his colleague and it would not be appropriate for him to be a student in an academy led by Rabbi Afes. So he chooses to sit outside of the yeshiva instead. 

Levi, perhaps as a show of loyalty to Rabbi Hanina, or to the last request of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, or because he does not want Rabbi Hanina to have to sit alone, stays outside with him and together they learn. Time passes.

Rabbi Afes died, and Rabbi Hanina sat at the head.

With the passing of Rabbi Afes, Rabbi Hanina assumes the leadership of the yeshiva as Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi had intended. This is all well and good, but not for Levi:

Levi did not have anyone to sit with, and he came (to Babylonia).

Levi had already learned all that he could from Rabbi Hanina during their time outside the yeshiva. So instead, he comes to Babylonia. Which brings us back to Rav. 

Rav was also a student of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and had previously transplanted himself to Babylonia. Having learned in the yeshiva of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, he recognizes those who studied there and knows of the institution’s politics. When it was reported that a sage with a limp had arrived, Rav immediately recognized that it was Levi. 

And what could have brought Levi to Neharde’a? Nothing less than the death of Rabbi Afes, which triggered the ascension of Rabbi Hanina to head of the yeshiva and the end of Levi’s private tutorial with his teacher.

But could it have not been that Rabbi Afes was alive and well and it was Rabbi Hanina who died? And then, having lost his teacher, Levi chose to relocate to Babylonia? How did Rav know for sure?

Alas, although Rabbi Hanina was too advanced in his learning to sit before Rabbi Afes, Levi was not. Had Rabbi Haninah been the one to die, Levi would have become Rabbi Afes’s student and stayed in Israel. Since he had come to Babylonia, it must be that Rabbi Afes had died. 

And besides, it’s a better story if Rabbi Hanina takes his pace at the head of the yeshiva. It fulfills Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s dying request and honors Rabbi Hanina, who showed honor to Rabbi Afes by allowing him to become head of the yeshiva.

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One who marries a woman, and she stipulated with him that he would sustain her daughter for five years, is obligated to sustain her daughter for five years. If the woman married another man, and she stipulated with him that he would sustain her daughter for five years, he (the first husband) is still obligated to sustain her for five years; he may not say: “When she comes to me, I will sustain her.” Rather, he brings her sustenance to her, to the place where her mother lives … If the daughter was married, her husband provides her with sustenance, and they (the two men married in sequence to her mother) provide her with the monetary value of the sustenance. If they (the two husbands) died, their daughters are sustained from unsold property, and she (their wife’s daughter) is sustained even from liened property that was sold. This is due to the fact that her legal status is like that of a creditor.

A woman marries a man on the condition that he will feed her daughter (let’s call her Sarah) for five years. That agreement, the mishnah amply demonstrates, is now a contractual obligation completely independent of the marriage or anything else. If the mother divorces him, he’s still obligated to feed Sarah for five years — even if the mother makes the same agreement with a new husband (and now Sarah is being sustained twice over). If Sarah marries and is sustained by her own husband, her mother’s husband is still obligated to make payments. Even if the husband dies, Sarah is still owed money from his estate and can collect even from liened property (something his own daughters can’t do).

Knowing the strength of this contractual obligation, the mishnah records, some men wised up and had limits written into the contract so that they only had to sustain Sarah as long as they were married to her mother.

This mishnah sets the stage for a wide-ranging discussion in the Gemara about contractual law, much of it imported from a later tractate we’ve yet to study, so consider this a taste of things to come. Here is one problem from today’s daf: Suppose two parties make an agreement that is signed and witnessed. Later, a guarantor for the creditor signs below all the other signatures — suggesting (Rashi explains) that his promise to back up the creditor is not witnessed. Is he on the hook if the creditor defaults?

Ben Nannas says no: The guarantor who signs below all the other signatures after the contract has already been written owes nothing and shouldn’t have to pay a dime. Or a shekel. He illustrates his point with a striking scenario: 

If someone was strangling another in the marketplace (in an effort to recover a debt), and a friend of the victim found him and said to the strangler: Leave him alone and I will give you (payment), he is exempt. This is because the creditor did not lend the money based on his trust.

A man in the marketplace, says Ben Nannas, who owes money to a thug who is strangling him in an effort to extract the debt is saved by a friend who comes by and promises to pay on his behalf. Ben Nannas says that the friend is not actually obligated to cough up the money — not because strangling is an inappropriate way to collect a debt, but because the mafioso did not consider the friend as a guarantor when the contract was signed. Likewise, the guarantor who signed below everyone else is not on the hook for payment if the creditor defaults.

Ben Nannas’ scenario is compelling as far as it goes. Promise money to a murderous debtor to keep your friend alive? Don’t worry; the rabbis have your back. But is it a good analogy for contracts? Whether the rabbis agree on that is less clear. But they do admire the way his mind works. This same story is told on Bava Batra 175b where Rabbi Yishmael, who is locked in disagreement with Ben Nannas, wraps up the discussion with the following homage to his colleague:

And Rabbi Yishmael thereupon said: One who wants to become wise should engage in the study of monetary law, as there is no greater discipline in the Torah, and it is like a flowing spring. And, one who wants to engage in the study of monetary law should attend to Shimon ben Nannas.

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In the Gemara, Rav says that an orphan who has grown up and refused her match must be divorced with a get, but Shmuel disagrees because he believes any woman who receives a get is entitled to the payment of her ketubah. So why, according to Shmuel, isn’t this child bride, now grown, entitled to her ketubah? He explains:

One who refuses is not disqualified from the brothers (of her husband). And she is not disqualified from marrying a member of the priesthood.

When this young woman grows up and refuses her marriage, she still has the option, says Shmuel, of marrying one of his brothers. Ordinarily, the marriage to the brother of a former husband is forbidden. Likewise, a divorced woman cannot marry a priest. What Shmuel is saying is that once she refuses this match, she doesn’t have the status of a divorced woman. Rather, it’s as if the marriage never happened. This is why she doesn’t receive a ketubah payment. 

All of this, today’s page hastens to point out, is a familiar discussion — we learned about it back on Yevamot 108. Now the Gemara mentions that this Amoraic (late rabbinic) debate is parallel to one found among Tannaitic (early rabbinic) rabbis, Eliezer and Yehoshua.

Rabbi Eliezer says: The act of marriage by a minor girl is nothing, and her husband is not entitled to any lost article that she finds, and not to her earnings, and he is not able to annul her vows, and he does not inherit from her, nor does he become impure for her if he is a priest. 

According to Rabbi Eliezer, a girl with no father who has been married off by her mother or brother has not, in fact, been married at all. But Rabbi Yehoshua disagrees: 

The principle is that her legal status is that of his wife in every sense, except for the fact that she leaves this union through refusal.

For Rabbi Yehoshua, it is a real marriage, even if she can dissolve it herself by refusing her husband when she comes of age. 

It’s tempting to group these rabbis into two camps: the “it was a real marriage” camp and the “it wasn’t a real marriage” camp. But the Gemara rejects this logic, stating explicitly that everyone agrees it wasn’t a full legal marriage. Where they disagree is about what legal obligations remain between the two partners. All, however, are in agreement that he does not owe her any money, and she gets to move on as if she had never been married. I can imagine that for a woman in this situation, that sounded like a good deal.

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Our chapter has been focused on the rights of a widow to sell her deceased husband’s land in order to cover her ongoing food expenses. Since the price of land is not always standardized, the widow could dip into her husband’s inheritors’ estate if she makes a mistake (or a “mistake”). 

We have already established, earlier in this chapter, that the widow does not need to go through an official court process to sell the land but may more expediently sell off property out of court (so she does not go hungry). Yet, our mishnah (starting at the bottom of 99b) returns to the case of a sale entrusted to the court and the benefits of going the official route. Here it is again:

Regarding the assessment of the judges: Where they decreased the price by 1/6th (of its market value) or added 1/6th, their sale is void. 

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: Their sale is valid. If the sale is not valid, what good is the court’s power?

However, if they made a document of inspection (i.e., an announcement that people should come bid on the property) then even if they sold property worth 100 dinars for 200 dinars, or sold property worth 200 dinars for 100 dinars, their sale is valid.

The anonymous voice of the mishnah teaches that, as in the case in which the widow sells the land on her own, if the court processes a land sale on behalf of an individual and makes a gross mistake in evaluating the price of the land, the sale will be void. However, the court has a margin of error: Within 1/6th of the market price, the sale is valid.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel suggests that the court has even more flexibility in fixing the price. As he reasons: If the sale is not valid, what good is the court’s power? Why bother selling through court if not to ensure that the sale is well and truly final? There is a caveat (perhaps part of Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s original words or added by a later editor — this was yesterday’s debate): In order for the court to be trusted, they need to publicize the sale through a letter of inspection, which invites the public to evaluate for themselves the properties to be sold by the court. In such cases, we trust the value even if it turns out to be quite different from what was expected.

We saw earlier that though the widow may contract the sale herself, if she makes even a small mistake the sale can be voided. Given this, she might choose to use the court as her agent, specifically to avoid scrutiny and bring the process to a swift and final conclusion, with the court taking responsibility for the details.

Rabban Gamliel’s powerful rhetorical argument — If the sale is not valid, what good is the court’s power? — is quoted in other locations in the Talmud (though not elsewhere in the Mishnah). Most interestingly, it appears in the context of a discussion of bills of divorce (Gittin 36a). There we learn of a man who wrote a divorce bill in the presence of a court, but then rescinded his consent for divorce in the presence of the messenger sent to deliver the get. The question is: Can he do that?

The presence of the court during the writing of a divorce bill is meant to stabilize the divorce process and reduce confusion or emotional manipulation (such as the husband writing and rescinding divorce papers). Here too, Rabban Gamliel asks rhetorically: If you allow the husband to rescind divorce, after it was signed in the formal setting of a courtroom, what good is the court’s power?

A rabbinic court serves many roles and, in today’s case of the widow selling off property in order to meet her daily needs, it is clearly more than simply a clearinghouse for sales. The court is meant to serve the best interests of the Jewish community. Therefore, in the case of land sales, they are given the flexibility to sell high or at a loss, all in the service of taking care of their charges.

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The assessment of the judges: Where they decreased one-sixth or added one-sixth, their sale is void.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: Their sale is valid. If so (that the sale is void), then what advantage is there to the power of the court?

However, if they made a document of inspection, then even if they sold (property) worth 100 dinars for 200 dinars, or sold property worth 200 dinars for 100 dinars, their sale is valid.

The mishnah here is dealing with a case where a court is selling property on behalf of an individual. The anonymous first opinion (known as the Tanna Kamma) states that if the court-approved sale price is more or less than one-sixth off from the value of the property, the sale is void. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says such a sale is valid, for otherwise what good is the right of a court to determine the property’s sale price? Finally, the Tanna Kamma returns to state that if a document of inspection is created — a public announcement of a sale that enabled people to assess its value — a much wider discrepancy is allowed, even up to double the sale price. 

Or at least that’s what it seems this mishnah is saying. In his commentary on Ketubot, Rabbi David Weiss Halivni teaches that this mishnah can actually be read in several different ways.

The Babylonian Talmud, says Halivni, reads the mishnah as we just did, seeing Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s opinion as a parenthetical and the first and third paragraphs both as the opinion of the Tanna Kamma. In contrast, the Jerusalem Talmud ascribes the third paragraph to Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel as well. What difference does this make? Well, since the law generally follows the majority opinion (reflected in this case by the ruling of the Tanna Kamma), the version in the Jerusalem Talmud would lead us to conclude that the law is that a sale is invalid if it deviates more than one-sixth from the property value no matter what — even if a public announcement is made. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s position, that a sale is valid even if it exceeds a one-sixth deviation as long as there is a public announcement, is the minority opinion and is not followed. 

Based upon the Tosefta (Ketubot 11:3), Halivni suggests a third possible understanding of the mishnah. Here, the Tanna Kamma and Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel agree that a sale is valid if the price differential is less than one-sixth, while anything greater than that requires an announcement. Where they disagree is only in the case of a sale that has a price variation of exactly one-sixth. In that case, the Tanna Kamma says void, Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says valid. 

So which is it? What does our mishnah mean?

The commentators codify the law according to the first reading outlined above. This is not surprising, as in the centuries following the canonization of the Talmud, the center of Jewish life was in Babylonia and the Babylonian Talmud became the standard for determining Jewish law. (This is also why we study the Babylonian Talmud in Daf Yomi and not the Jerusalem Talmud, which is considered the less authoritative of the two.) But as Halivni’s commentary points out, the fact that this became the most influential reading does not mean it is the only way to understand what the mishnah says.

As we by now well understand, the function of the Gemara is to tease out the various implications of, and resolve apparent contradictions in, the mishnaic text. Yet Halivni’s commentary reminds us that even the plain meaning of the mishnah itself is not always clear. The mishnah on today’s daf has been understood in different ways at different times and in different places, leading to multiple plausible readings. 

So instead of asking what a mishnah means, it is often more helpful to ask how many ways a given mishnah can be understood. Asking in this way reminds us that there are, and we should be open to, multiple interpretations. Which, by the way, might be what the Talmud is trying to teach us in the first place.

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If a woman sold all or part of her marriage contract, or if she mortgaged all or part of her marriage contract, or if she gave all or part of her marriage contract to another, then she sells the remainder only in court.

And the rabbis say: She sells even four or five times.

The anonymous position in the mishnah is that a woman cannot sell off her ketubah piece by piece. Once she has sold or mortgaged one part, the rest can only be sold with the assistance of a judge, who will make sure that she isn’t doing anything dishonest, like claiming more than she is owed. The rabbis disagree, stating that she can divide her ketubah into even four or five pieces and sell them individually, without judicial oversight.

The Gemara then suggests that the anonymous mishnaic opinion is actually that of Rabbi Shimon, who (it is proposed) held that a part of the ketubah is “like the whole” when it comes to financial transactions. Once she’s touched any of it, it’s as though she’s used the whole thing, and so using it again requires oversight. But the Gemara then challenges this suggestion with a beraita (early teaching) which suggests that Rabbi Shimon actually thought the opposite: that the part is not equivalent to the whole. 

The beraita discusses Leviticus 21:13, about the laws specific to the high priest:

“And he shall take a wife in her virginity,” (Leviticus 21:13) to exclude a grown woman whose virginity has diminished — this is the statement of Rabbi Meir. Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Shimon declare as fit even a grown woman. 

The high priest must marry a virgin. But who qualifies as such? The regular activities of life can weaken, diminish or shred one’s “virginity” — meaning that, according to this text, a fully grown woman is not expected to have perfect “virginity”, even if she has never had penetrative intercourse. (Brief aside – You may notice that I’m putting virginity in quotation marks.That’s because Rebecca Kamholz has argued convincingly that, like many ancient thinkers, the rabbis don’t know about the hymen, and have a much more complicated understanding of what virginity means.) Rabbi Meir therefore disqualifies this woman from marriage to the high priest, but Rabbi Shimon insists that a woman with a partial “virginity” (due to normal life activities) is considered a virgin. For Rabbi Shimon, losing part of your “virginity” is not equivalent to losing the whole thing. The part is in fact not equivalent to the whole. And so Rabbi Shimon’s position here seems to directly contradict his position on the ketubah in our mishnah!

Underlying the Talmud’s juxtaposition of these two traditions attributed to Rabbi Shimon is the assumption that part of a ketubah can in fact be compared to a part of a woman’s virginity. In many ways, for the rabbis they are deeply connected: A woman’s status as a virgin has direct bearing on how large a ketubah the rabbis mandate for her, and therefore the amount of value that her husband and his family, and her own family too, put on her as a potential marriage partner. And yet, a sum of money is in fact very different from a woman’s sexual and social status. Someone choosing to sell, mortgage or give away some of that money is very different from someone experiencing the normal physical wear and tear that comes from being a person with a body that moves through the world. 

So is Rabbi Shimon really contradicting himself? Or are these two completely different situations that actually can’t be compared? The Gemara concludes:

They disagree about the verses.

The parallel doesn’t work, not because the two situations are different, but because one is a dispute over legal reasoning and the other is a localized dispute over the meaning of a biblical verse. Context matters. 

The potential contradiction dismissed, the Gemara returns to the original case in which Rabbi Shimon seems to think that if a woman uses part of her ketubah, she has ceded the right to use the rest of it independently, because the part is equivalent to the whole. But lest you worry about the financial future of a woman who lost the right to use the rest of her ketubah as she sees fit, today we learn that, in practice, Rava ruled:

None are concerned about the ruling of Rabbi Shimon.

A woman who uses part of her ketubah retains the sole right to the rest.

Read all of Ketubot 98 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on October 12th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Today’s daf asks: Can a seller ever reverse a sale and recover their property? Or is it too late?

To answer this question, today’s daf explores case studies, starting with this one: 

Come and hear: A certain man sold land to Rav Pappa because he needed money to buy oxen. In the end, he did not need it and Rav Pappa returned his land to him. 

Can we learn from Rav Pappa’s actions that all such sales can be reversed? The Gemara concludes that, in fact, we cannot, stating that Rav Pappa acted “beyond the letter of the law.” It’s worth remembering that Rav Pappawas both a rabbi committed to ethical ways of living and a financially successful brewer who supported a large household. The Gemara insists that Rav Pappa’s actions reflect his commitment to living ethically above and beyond legal requirements, but can’t be used to determine the legal baseline. 

Perhaps another incident will help us answer the question?  

Come and hear: There was a certain drought in Neharde’a and everyone sold his estate (in order to buy food). In the end, wheat arrived (and prices came down). Rav Nahman said to them: The halakhah is that the estates are returned to their owners. 

Here, we have an entire community that sold their homes as they scrambled to feed their families. In the end, when the famine was averted by other means, Rav Nahman compelled the new owners to reverse the sales. Rav Nahman’s ruling suggests that if a seller regrets a sale because it turns out they don’t need the money, the sale is reversed — even when the buyer is not a wealthy and magnanimous rabbi. 

But is this a good rule? Will people be reluctant to buy if the seller can too easily void the sale down the line? Who is going to want to spend money buying land or oxen or anything else if the seller can just change his mind when circumstances change? Won’t the market grind to a halt? Perhaps sensing this concern, the Gemara offers another possible reason Rav Nahman reversed the sale of homes in a famine. Perhaps the sale was invalid from the start:

The sale was in error, as it became known that the ship (with the wheat) was in the bays of the river.

If it was in fact known that wheat was on its way and the price would soon drop, then the sale of homes made under a false sense of duress would be considered invalid. In this way, Rav Nahman’s ruling doesn’t prove that sellers can reverse a sale, but limits such reversals to a specific circumstance: when property is sold based on incorrect information that was already present at the moment of sale. 

At this point on today’s daf, we might expect the Gemara to continue delimiting circumstances in which one can reverse a sale.And yet, the Gemara foils this expectation. It ends the discussion with a radically more expansive version of the principle:

And the halakhah is that if one sold and did not need the money, the sale is reversed.

And since seller’s remorse has real legal implications, then buyer beware. 

Read all of Ketubot 97 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on October 11th, 2022. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Rabbi Yohanan said in the name of Rabbi Yosei ben Zimra: A widow who waited two or three years and did not demand sustenance has forfeited sustenance.

According to Rabbi Yosei, a widow has only a few years from the time of her husband’s death to claim what she is due. If she waits longer, she loses the right to be sustained by his estate. The Gemara then inquires:

Now (that it was stated) two she forfeited, is it necessary three?

The Gemara picks up here on the vagueness of Rabbi Yosei’s timeline. If the woman loses her rights after two years, why does he also mention three? It’s possible that Rabbi Yosei was using everyday language to indicate that the right to claim sustenance does not last forever. But the Gemara, as is its predilection, suggests two ways to understand him more literally:

Here, to a poor woman. There, to a rich woman.

Or, here to an unabashed woman, there to a modest woman.

In other words, when Rabbi Yosei says two or three years, he means it — some women get two and others three. The first explanation assumes that a poor woman needs financial support and will claim it rather quickly, so we only give her two years to claim it, while a rich woman who can support herself can take longer. The second explanation assumes that a woman who is known to put herself out there will come forward more quickly than one who is modest or shy. So the former gets a smaller time window, the latter a longer one.

While these explanations account for the language of Rabbi Yosei’s statement, neither is particularly helpful to a judge who might have to adjudicate the case of a woman who asks for support after two and a half years. By what standards would we determine if a woman is modest enough to earn the extra year? How poor must she be in order to be limited to two years? 

The Gemara does not address how these interpretations might be put into practice, but it does bring a teaching that explains Rabbi Yosei’s statement in a way that significantly changes what it means:

Rava said: We said only retroactively. However, from (here) onward, she has (the right).

Rava applies Rabbi Yosei’s statement not to the widow’s right to claim sustenance, but to her right to back payments that she did not collect. If she comes forward in the first few years, she has the right to collect payments from the time of her husband’s death. But if she waits too long, she receives support moving forward but forfeits what she did not yet collect.

Rava’s teaching does little to address the Gemara’s initial questions about Rabbi Yosei’s statement. But it goes a long way to ensuring that a widow is protected against losing the financial support guaranteed in her ketubah if she waits to ask for it.

Read all of Ketubot 96 on Sefaria.

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The mishnah on today’s daf describes a case in which a man married to two wives sells his field. Recall that a ketubah gives a wife a vested interest — a lien, in effect — in her husband’s property to ensure that he’s able to compensate her in the event of a divorce or his death. In the mishnah’s case, the first wife renounces any claim over the purchaser’s right to the field, effectively ratifying the transaction, but the second wife doesn’t. This leads to a curious result. If the husband were to die, the second wife could claim the field as part of her rights under her ketubah, since she never renounced those rights. The first wife, whose ketubah was signed earlier and therefore has priority over the second wife, could then claim the field from the second wife, since she renounced her rights only with respect to the purchaser. And finally, the purchaser could claim the field from the first wife, who gave up any claim over him. This delightful game continues until, as the mishnah says, “they agree on a compromise between them.” 

This is where the Gemara picks up, questioning whether the first wife is even able to cede the field (so to speak) to the purchaser:

And if (the first wife) wrote to him, what of it? Isn’t it taught: One who says to another, “I have no legal dealings or involvement with regard to this field,” or “I have no connection to it,” or “I have withdrawn from it,” has said nothing, as such declarations have no legal validity. With what are we dealing here? A case where he acquired it from her possession.

The Gemara begins by citing a beraita stating that one cannot merely renounce one’s rights to a property. Normally, such words would have no binding effect — it is as if nothing has been said. But in this case, the Gemara presumes that the wife took action beyond mere words to validate her renunciation of rights to the field.

The Gemara continues:

And if they acquired it from her, what of it? Let (the woman say): I did it to please my husband. Didn’t we learn: If one purchased from a man, (even if he) went back and purchased from the wife, the transaction is nullified? Apparently, (the wife) can say: I did it only to please my husband but did not mean it, and that claim is accepted.

The Gemara now questions the completeness of a purchase of a field to which a wife has renounced her rights, citing a teaching that picks up on possible power dynamics between the couple and allows the wife to assert she was merely acquiescing to her husband in permitting the sale to go forward, effectively undoing her relinquishment of the field.

The rabbis then get into a bit of a tussle over what circumstances would allow the wife’s cession to be binding. Rabbi Meir says that if a husband sold two fields, and the wife renounces her rights to only one of them, that renunciation is binding, while Rav Pappa says that a renunciation after a husband’s death is binding since there’s no reason to try to satisfy him at that point.

Ultimately, the rabbis wrap up the sugya as follows:

Rav Ashi said: It is all (in accordance with) Rabbi Meir, and Rabbi Meir states there only with regard to two purchasers, as they say to her: If it is (true) that you acted to please, you should have done so with regard to the first. However, where there is only one purchaser, even Rabbi Meir concedes. And the mishnah is where (the husband wrote) a (bill of sale) to another.

Rabbi Meir carries the day in one regard: If the husband sold two fields to two different purchasers, and the wife gave up her claim to just one of them, the renunciation stands and she has no rights over the purchaser. As a result, the rabbis conclude that the mishnah, which found the first wife’s renunciation binding, entailed the first wife giving up her claim to one field but not to another. 

While this situation is unlikely to come to pass today, it shows that the rabbis were highly attuned to how power might function between a husband and wife. This has significant persuasive value in rabbinic discourse, to the point that it could effectively invalidate an otherwise legitimate transaction.

Read all of Ketubot 95 on Sefaria.

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