The rabbinic laws of divorce largely derive from the first verses of Deuteronomy 24, which begin like this: “If a man takes a wife and marries her and she fails to find favor in his eyes because he found something indecent in her, then he writes her a bill of divorce and puts it in her hand…”

Based on this verse, much of this tractate has focused on the mechanics of how a divorce, and in particular the divorce document, is accomplished: Who can write the get? What should it say? Who can witness it? Who can deliver it? What constitutes receipt? All of this we have explored at length.

But the first part of this verse from Deuteronomy, the part that deals with the reasons a man might choose to divorce his wife, has remained largely undiscussed — until today. And while a solid understanding of the mechanics of divorce is obviously important to ensure everyone’s marital status is unequivocal and to prevent accidental adultery, the question of why someone might seek a divorce tells us a great deal more about what marriage itself means.

In a mishnah that opens today’s daf, Hillel and Shammai are found agreeing that the first part of this verse from Deuteronomy dictates the circumstances under which a man is permitted to divorce his wife, but they have wildly different interpretations of what those circumstances are:

Beit Shammai say: A man may not divorce his wife unless he finds out that she engaged in forbidden sexual intercourse, as it is stated: “Because he has found something indecent (ervat davar) in her.” (Deuteronomy 24:1)

Beit Hillel say: He may divorce her even if she burned his food, as it is stated: “Because he has found something indecent in her.”

The debate turns on the meaning of the Hebrew phrase ervat davar. Though the word ervah usually means “nakedness,” in construct with davar (which just means “thing”) the phrase might mean something far less literal than nudity or sexual transgression — it might simply mean something unpleasant. For instance, in Deuteronomy 23:15, the only other place the phrase appears in the Hebrew Bible, the Israelites are chided: “Since the Lord your God moves about in your camp to protect you and to deliver your enemies to you, let your camp be holy; let Him not find anything unseemly (ervat davar) among you and turn away from you.” What exactly is an ervat davar in the camp that might cause God’s presence to depart? Rashi suggests it is literal nakedness, whereas Ibn Ezra thinks it means something unseemly in deed or speech.

Similarly, Beit Shammai argues that a man is only allowed to divorce his wife if she has committed a sexual transgression. But Beit Hillel interprets the same phrase to mean a man can divorce his wife if she does anything that makes him unhappy — even if she simply burns his soup.

Beit Hillel’s view makes marriage relatively easy to dissolve. Beit Shammai, in contrast, sets the bar for divorce incredibly high. While the Gemara’s debate about their positions turns on which has the better reading of the Torah verse, there is obviously more at stake than textual interpretation. The basic underlying question is about the very nature of marriage. Do we understand marriage to be so sacred and serious that it is dissolved only when absolutely necessary? (Yes, adultery, for the rabbis, necessitates a divorce.) Or is marriage a partnership that should last only as long as it is happy?

It is not uncommon, in our day, to hear people lament the high rate of divorce, seemingly presuming that divorce is both a new phenomenon and an undesirable one. But if we take Beit Hillel seriously — and we should, because as usual his position is ultimately codified into Jewish law — that might lead us to question both of these assumptions. Divorce existed in the ancient Jewish world, though we don’t really know at what rate. There may have been times when it was high. We also don’t know that divorce was necessarily viewed as a calamity. If Hillel thought burned food was grounds for seeking divorce, it would suggest he didn’t think so. 

None of this is meant to detract from marriage. Tomorrow, we begin Tractate Kiddushin, which is about betrothal and forging a marriage. The word kiddushin is derived from a Hebrew root that means sacred. In Judaism, “sanctity of marriage” is not some florid or hyperbolic phrase — it’s exactly how marriage is viewed, as consecration. But that doesn’t mean it’s always forever. Indeed, one scenario among many we’ve discussed in this tractate is the notion of a preemptive loving divorce — one given by a man who doesn’t wish to leave his wife but wants to protect her in case something terrible happens to him. This is somewhat foreign to our own worldview, and it’s not common today, but this ancient phenomenon can open our eyes to the idea that marriage is sacred and still divorce, in and of itself, is not necessarily a tragedy — and can even be an act of love.

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But if we read today’s daf carefully, peering through the lattice of halakhic debate to the world behind it, we just may be able to see one possible version of Jewish women’s homosociality in late antiquity. The context is an early rabbinic tradition discussing what kinds of married women’s behavior the rabbis define as licentious, and specifically the kind of licentiousness that require her to be divorced. 

If she ate in the marketplace, walked with her neck stretched forward in the marketplace, or nursed in the marketplace — with regard to all of these Rabbi Meir says she must leave (her marriage).

Rabbi Akiva says only once the mozarot by the moonlight converse about her.

Let’s leave aside the question of what makes these behaviors licentious, and whether the category of licentiousness is in fact even a fruitful lens through which to think about marriage, and focus on Rabbi Akiva’s statement. For Rabbi Akiva, a woman’s behavior only reaches the point of licentiousness which affects her marriage when the mozarottalk about her. Who are the mozarot?

According to Jastrow’s dictionary, the verb mazar means to twist yarn. The feminine plural noun refers to the women who sit and twist yarn by the moonlight. What is striking about this description is that spinning is traditionally depicted as a solitary activity, one done by women as part of their household chores. Indeed, the rabbis often insist that spinning with others (at least in public) is its own licentious act.

And yet, the Talmud today describes a group of mozarot spinning together by moonlight and sharing the news of the day. Further down in today’s daf we get another image of these women, but this time they are spinning by candlelight. The rabbis describe these spinners as the arbiters of whether a rumor is a fact or whether a fact is just a rumor. In both cases, women’s spinning groups have a legal effect on whether a woman can stay married to her husband.

What are we to make of these descriptions? We might suppose that these rabbis, perhaps unfamiliar with the world of women — and perhaps also with spinning — just imagine groups of women doing it together by the light of the moon. After all, the story goes that Rabbi Akiva didn’t even live with his wife for 24 years. How would he know what kinds of crafts she did at night? And yet, it is also possible to see these descriptions as evidence that women did gather together to craft, even when those crafts could (and perhaps, for the rabbis, should) be done alone.  

The rabbis were largely interested in the workings of their own homosocial community, and by extension, of their larger households. But sometimes, if we squint, we can see evidence of other kinds of community. Spinning is a craft that can be done largely through touch, so perhaps it was the perfect thing to do late at night. Imagine it: The work of the day is done and the kids are asleep. And the women gather to spin thread, stories and a community of their own.

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A bill of divorce that the husband was compelled by the court to write: If he was compelled by a Jewish court, it is valid. But if he was compelled by a gentile court, it is not valid.

Only Jewish courts can compel divorces, asserts the mishnah. Immediately, the Gemara brings a teaching from Shmuel that complicates this simple dichotomy. He argues that some divorces ordered by a Jewish court are not valid, while some divorces ordered by non-Jewish courts might carry weight:

Rav Nahman says that Shmuel says: With regard to a bill of divorce that the husband was compelled by a Jewish court to give his wife: If they did so lawfully, it is valid. If they did so unlawfully, the bill of divorce is invalid, but it disqualifies (her from marrying a priest after her husband’s death).

And when a gentile court compels the divorce: If they did so lawfully, it’s invalid, but it also disqualifies the wife (from marrying a priest, should her husband die). If they did so unlawfully, it (is invalid and) does not have even the trace of a bill of divorce.

A man might be forced by a court to divorce his wife for a whole host of reasons, but the primary one is that the marriage violates Jewish law. Suppose, for instance, that a couple discovers post-huppah that they are closely related. Or that the woman, who thought she was divorced from her previous husband, was not actually legally divorced.

These are what the Gemara calls lawfully compelled divorces. Cases where the court compels a divorce but nothing in Jewish law otherwise requires it are unlawfully compelled divorces.

Shmuel says that when Jews compel a lawful divorce it is definitely valid and when gentiles compel an unlawful divorce it is definitely invalid. But there are two other possibilities here: A Jewish court compels an unlawful divorce or a gentile court compels a lawful divorce. In those cases, Shmuel gives an intermediary ruling: The divorce is invalid and the couple stays married, but should the husband pass away the wife is considered like a divorcee in that she cannot marry a priest (who can marry a widow but not a divorcee).

Immediately, the Gemara takes issue with Shmuel’s ruling. A couple is either divorced or not divorced, the sages argue, there is no middle position. If they’re not divorced, and if he dies, then the widow should be free to marry a priest. 

The Gemara brings a second teaching that complicates things even further:

Rav Mesharshiyya says: By Torah law a bill of divorce compelled by gentiles is valid. And why do the sages say it is invalid? So that a woman will not go to a gentile to release herself from her husband.

Rav Mesharshiyya casts our mishnah in an entirely different light. He claims that by Torah law we should recognize divorces compelled by gentile courts. Yet the sages declared them invalid because they did not want wives to use the non-Jewish courts to release themselves from their husbands. If the mishnah denies authority over divorce to non-Jews, here we see an anxiety about giving that power to Jewish women.

But Rav Mesharshiyya’s teaching is also called into question — ironically, because it seems to disagree with Shmuel’s opinion, which the Gemara has already identified as problematic. In fact, the Gemara asserts, that statement quoted in the name of Rav Mesharshiyya is an out and out mistake. The teaching is thrown out, and we can continue to assume the Torah agrees with the rabbis that gentile courts cannot compel Jewish divorces.

That still leaves us with the problem of Shmuel’s assertion that a woman can be, essentially, half-divorced. How can we explain this? The final answer in the Gemara is that Shmuel’s position is a kind of hedge. One might, the rabbis opine, be confused and think that divorce lawfully ordered by a gentile court was in fact ordered by a Jewish court (which, after all, is better positioned to know when Jewish law requires a divorce). And that, in turn, might cause people to think that Jewish courts have no authority to compel divorces.

The Talmud is obviously a rabbinic work, made by and for rabbis, and in which the rabbis are seen as both masters and stewards of divine law. In so many talmudic arguments, they are to be found confidently and comfortably arguing the finer points of law, secure in their individual and collective authority and the sanctity of their mission. But today’s discussion shows something different — an anxiety that rabbinic authority can be eroded by other actors, from the non-Jewish authorities surrounding them to the women who live alongside them. In such cases, rulings are made to bolster that authority, to protect the rabbis and, by extension, the divine law they guard.

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In light of this multilingual world inhabited by the rabbis, today we consider whether a get signed in two different languages is valid. Here’s the mishnah:

With regard to two bills of divorce that a scribe wrote on the same paper, one next to the other, and the signatures of two Hebrew witnesses extend from underneath this bill of divorce on the right to underneath that bill of divorce on the left, and the signatures of two Greek witnesses extend from underneath that bill of divorce on the left to underneath this bill of divorce on the right — the one with which the names of the first two witnesses are read is valid. 

In this scenario, the mishnah invites us to picture two gets that are written side-by-side on one piece of paper with space for the witnesses to sign underneath each one. The get on the right is signed by two witnesses in Hebrew, writing from right to left. Their signatures are so long that they encroach on the space left for the Greek witnesses to sign the get on the left side of the page. Therefore, that get is signed further down, so the Greek signatures (which are written left to right and also extend past the midpoint of the paper) have enough room to run. In this case, the get on the right is valid, because the witnesses’ signatures are not separated from the text of the get and clearly belong to that document. The get on the left is invalid because the signatures are further down — leaving it unclear which witnesses signed that particular get. 

The mishnah continues:

If one witness signed in Hebrew and one witness signed beneath him in Greek, and underneath that signature one witness signed in Hebrew, and beneath him one witness signed in Greek, with the signatures extending from underneath this bill of divorce to underneath that bill of divorce, both bills of divorce are invalid.

This scenario describes the same page with two bills of divorce in two different columns. In this case, however, the witnesses sign in alternating languages: Hebrew, Greek, Hebrew, Greek. Because all the signatures encroach upon the space for the opposite side’s bill of divorce, and neither bill of divorce is followed immediately by its respective signatures, both documents are nullified.

Interestingly, whether the get is valid or not does not depend on the language of signing; rather, it depends on whether we can tell which witnesses signed which get. Underscoring this point, further down our daf, we read the following: 

With regard to a bill of divorce that was written in Hebrew and its witnesses signed in Greek, or that was written in Greek and its witnesses signed in Hebrew, or in which one witness signed in Hebrew and one witness signed in Greek, or if a bill of divorce has the writing of a scribe, and the scribe identifies his handwriting, and one witness verifies his signature, it is valid.

Not only can the signatures be written in any language, the document itself can be written in another tongue as well — as long as the certificate and its signatures are clearly matched. 

Why might a get be written or signed in Greek? Two possibilities come to mind. One logical explanation could be that the signatory is not Jewish (Gittin 10 confirms that a non-Jew can sign a get). Or, perhaps the signatory is Jewish, but doesn’t know Hebrew well — something that surely resonates with many of us living in the Diaspora today.

These days, most gets are written in Aramaic and signed in Hebrew. But that’s not a requirement; then as now, one could write and sign a get in any language.

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Rabbi Yohanan said to the sons of Rabbi Halafta of Huna: Your father said the following two statements: That she is never required to leave him and that a kartzit in the sheaf does not disqualify water of purification.

Rabbi Halafta’s father was not only known for his position that a woman in possession of a get with the aforementioned flaws is nonetheless free to remain with her second husband, but also for his teaching about a kartzit, an animal that we’ll leave undefined for the moment. 

So what is this second teaching about? The Torah, in Numbers 19, outlines the procedure through which people who become impure through contact with a dead body can become pure from a mixture of water and the ashes of a red heifer. Rabbi Halafta reportedly taught, as Rashi explains, that if a kartzit, which is normally found in the sheafs, drinks from the waters of purification, the waters are not disqualified from use.

Based on a mishnah found elsewhere in the Talmud (Parah 9:3), Rav Daniel bar Rav Ketina objects:

If a domesticated beast or a wild animal drank from it (the waters of purification), it becomes invalid. All birds cause invalidity, except the dove since it only sucks up the water. All creeping things do not cause invalidity, except the weasel since it laps up the water. 

Animals are known to be messy drinkers, and generally slosh some water back out of their mouths. (If you have a dog, you’re probably quite familiar with this phenomenon.) It is this, according to the mishnah, that renders the purification mixture no longer fit for use in the ritual. The dove and the weasel are exceptional because the way in which they drink prevents any backwash — and they do not disqualify the mixture.

If, argues Rav Daniel, the karztit were also an exception to the rule, then the mishnah would have taught, “all birds disqualify the water except for the pigeon and the kartzit.” But since the mishnah does not specifically mention the kartzit as an exception, it too must invalidate the water. This is a challenge to the father of Rabbi Halafta. And it also gives us some important information about this mystery animal; it suggests that the kartzit is some sort of bird.

But ultimately, that’s not how the Talmud defines it:

What is a kartzit? Abaye said that it is a species of fly that is found between the sheaves.

Modern commentators agree with Abaye that a kartzit is some kind of insect, but offer a range of potential interpretations. The Jastrow dictionary says it’s a big fly or locust, and Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz suggests that it may be a grain-eating species of beetle.

So what exactly is a kartzit? This is the only daf in the Talmud that mentions it and without other passages for comparison we do not have a lot to go on. So it is difficult to know for sure. And not only in this instance. Many individual plants, animals and even everyday items mentioned in the Talmud are difficult to identify from the texts we have. 

If only the Talmud had pictures.

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But what if the conditions are superfluous? The mishnah on today’s daf imagines a scenario in which a divorcing husband appends this condition to a get: 

You are hereby permitted to any man, except to my father or to your father, to my brother or to your brother, to a slave or to a gentile, or to anyone she cannot be betrothed, (the divorce is) valid. 

Some of these potential relationships are biblically forbidden (her immediate family and his) such that the marriage could not take effect. Others (enslaved people and non-Jews) are prohibited because their status means that rabbinic legal processes around marriage and divorce simply don’t work for them. So if a man tries to prohibit his soon-to-be-ex-wife to marry someone who she already cannot marry, the divorce is nevertheless valid.

I don’t know why a man would want to tack this kind of condition onto his document of divorce. If he’s being serious, he really doesn’t understand rabbinic marriage laws. And if he thinks he’s being funny, he isn’t — especially in a world where a woman is dependent on her husband to end the marriage. That’s no joking matter. But regardless of his reasoning, if he does make avoiding these relationships a condition of the divorce, it has no legal effect on the document and the woman is divorced. 

Weirdly enough, for the rabbis there are some relationships that, while religiously forbidden, are still legally possible. As a result, conditions regarding this kind of relationship are treated differently. The mishnah continues:

You are hereby permitted to any man, except for (when doing so violates the following): a widow to a High Priest; a divorcee or a yevama who performed halitzah to a common priest; a mamzeret or a Gibeonite woman to an Israelite man; an Israelite woman to a mamzer or to a Gibeonite; or to anyone she can betrothed, even if a transgression, it is invalid. 

In these cases, a woman could in fact marry one of these forbidden men and the marriage would work, though there would be consequences. If a priest marries a divorcee, for example, their children are not considered priests themselves but Israelites. The special status is lost when the priest marries someone biblically prohibited to him, but the marriage still works. So if a husband tried to make his divorce conditional on his wife not marrying one of these men, it would in fact limit her marital options and therefore invalidate the get. 

The Talmud adds to our discussion of shady conditions one more possibility. What if the husband makes the divorce conditional on his wife not marrying someone who is ineligible for marriage, but might not be in the future? For example, someone not yet born, a minor boy who will grow up, or a non-Jew who might convert. In these cases, is the condition considered impossible and so the divorce is valid? Or does the possibility that it might be fulfilled at some point in the future invalidate the giving of the get now. 

Frustratingly, the Gemara’s answer to all of these questions is teiku, it is unresolved. By leaving these cases unresolved, the Gemara essentially leaves these marriages unresolved, with a woman trapped in a marriage that is clearly not healthy. Ultimately, the Gemara leaves it to the courts to ensure that men don’t attach frivolous or future-oriented conditions on their divorces. May the courts be worthy of that responsibility. 

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The sages taught (Tosefta 7:8) that if a man says to his wife: “This is your bill of divorce on the condition that you ascend to the sky, or on the condition that you descend to the depths of the sea, or on the condition that you swallow a four-cubit reed, or on the condition that you bring me a 100-cubit reed, or on the condition that you cross the Great Sea (Mediterranean) by foot …” or on any other condition that it is impossible to fulfill, it is not a valid bill of divorce.

These conditions are absurd, and intentionally so. No one is going to cross the Mediterranean on foot or fly. It’s like the equivalent of saying to one’s wife: You can have your divorce when pigs fly. One might think it’s a no-brainer to deem this an invalid divorce document, but the rabbis are not unanimous:

Rabbi Yehuda ben Teima says: A bill of divorce like this is a valid bill of divorce, as the condition is void.

Rabbi Yehuda ben Teima said the following principle: With regard to any condition that cannot be fulfilled in the end, yet even so the husband stipulated it initially, he is only hyperbolizing. It is assumed that he did not really intend to attach a condition to the divorce, but rather, to cause her distress, and therefore the divorce is valid without her fulfilling the condition.

According to Rabbi Yehuda ben Teima, the husband is being a jerk, so we ignore him and treat the bill of divorce as valid. This fits with the general principle on Bava Metzia 94a that contractual conditions that cannot be fulfilled are void, and the Gemara tells us that the halakhah follows Rabbi Yehuda ben Teima’s position, not the majority (as is standard).

We’re then presented with three more possible conditions of a different nature: (1) that she eat pig meat; (2) that she have sexual intercourse with a specific person and (3) that she have sexual intercourse with either her own father or her husband’s father. All three are physically possible but a violation of the Torah — either through transgressing the laws of kashrut or committing adultery. Yet, the rabbis find the first two conditions legitimate, but the last not. Why?

Granted, with regard to pig meat, it is possible for her to eat it and be flogged. Similarly, if the condition is that she engage in sexual intercourse with so-and-so, it is also possible for her to bribe him with money to engage in sexual intercourse with her.

But with regard to the case of my father or your father, is it in her power to engage in sexual intercourse with them? Though she can potentially perform a forbidden act in order to fulfill her desire to get married, would my father or your father perform a forbidden act?

These actions are a violation of Torah but, in the case of the first two, something she could possibly complete. The woman could eat pork, and accept the punishment (flogging). She could bribe a non-relative to sleep with her. In contrast, presumably the fathers in question would be unwilling to sleep with her. As a result, this particular condition is consider as the ones we saw before — like flying, impossible to fulfill — and therefore the condition is meaningless and the bill of divorce stands without any action on her part.

You might think all conditions that violate halakhah, like eating pork, would be invalid, but that’s not what the Gemara concludes:

Rather, Ravina said: When we say that if one stipulates counter to that which is written in the Torah, that his condition is void, the reference is to a case such as that of a man who stipulates that he will not be obligated to provide his wife with her food, her clothing and her conjugal rights, as by attaching this condition he is definitely uprooting a matter of Torah law. But here, is he saying to her that it is not possible for her not to eat? She may not eat and not get divorced.

This, ultimately, is what gets codified in the Shulchan Aruch: The husband may not set conditions that allow him to escape his obligations under halakhah, but the wife has a choice (at least in some way) to abstain from pig meat and remain married or eat pork and get divorced. These are grotesque options, but the question is not whether this is decent on the part of the husband. The question is whether it is legally valid, and the Gemara finds in the affirmative.

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In a dispute between an individual and a group of rabbis, the law follows the plurality. So we follow the rabbis on this one. But it is Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion that grabs the attention of the Gemara. On today’s daf, we learn that after Rabbi Eliezer’s death, four prominent sages — Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, Rabbi Tarfon Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya and Rabbi Akiva — offer refutations of his position. But Rabbi Yehoshua offers a word of rebuke. 

One does not refute a lion after his death.

Perhaps, suggests the Gemara, Rabbi Yehoshua comes to his colleague’s defense because he agrees with him. But this line of reasoning does not pan out, as textual evidence is brought that Rabbi Yehoshua also disagrees with Rabbi Eliezer’s position. This suggests that what Rabbi Yehoshua really means is:

I also have a refutation, but both mine and yours (should not be raised), as one does not refute a lion after his death.

Just like the lion is known for being king of the jungle, Rabbi Eliezer was recognized for being first among his peers. Even his own teacher, Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, suggested that Rabbi Eliezer’s wisdom was equal to all the sages of Israel. But Rabbi Yehoshua’s critique was not that his colleagues dared to voice their disagreement with one of the all-time greats, but that they did so after Rabbi Eliezer died. As Rashi explains, if he were still alive, he would have had the opportunity to defend his position. But since he is no longer able to do so, the most appropriate response would have been to stay silent.

So why did Rabbi Eliezer’s colleagues wait until he died to register their refutations? Our daf is silent on the matter. But elsewhere in the Talmud (Bava Metzia 59b), we learn a famous story which culminates in Rabbi Eliezer being excommunicated by his peers. As a result, his colleagues may have been unable to comment on his teachings while he was alive because they were no longer in dialogue with him. The four rabbis may therefore have been holding their tongues for quite some time — and if it were up to Rabbi Yehoshua, they would have continued to do so.

Interestingly, after their objections are presented, the Gemara quotes Rava, who says:

All of these have refutations, except for Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya, which does not have a refutation.

As Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, Rabbi Tarfon, and Rabbi Akiva were no longer living in Rava’s day, you might think someone would rebuke Rava for challenging their arguments when they could no longer defend themselves. But no one comes forward to do that. 

More surprising, however, is Rabbi Yehoshua’s statement itself. The Talmud is full of intergenerational conversations and does not lack examples in which a sage questions a teaching that comes from an earlier generation. Could he really be telling the others that such a conversation was off limits?

Maybe Rabbi Yehoshua’s intent was not to restrict refutations in general, just in this particular case — a defense of Rabbi Eliezer when he could no longer defend himself. Or maybe he was reacting to the tone of his colleagues, hearing in them a disrespect that was out of place. Or perhaps, he felt that Rabbi Eliezer had suffered enough by being excommunicated and that any further tarnishing was like pouring salt into the wound. Or maybe it came from a place of guilt, as Rabbi Yehoshua himself had played a role in the incident that led to Rabbi Eliezer’s excommunication. 

Whatever his motivation, Rabbi Yehoshua’s rebuke had limited effect. The Gemara still records a lengthy conversation about the challenges that were brought against Rabbi Eliezer’s position.

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You are hereby permitted to any man except for so-and-so, Rabbi Eliezer permits it. And the rabbis prohibit it.

Rabbi Eliezer seems to think that a man can effectively divorce his wife and limit who she can subsequently marry, but the rabbis reject this idea. After divorce, a man has no claim on his ex-wife’s life or marriage prospects. By imposing such a claim, the man is not actually divorcing his wife, and the couple remain married. 

We have already seen the Talmud discuss the kinds of claims that a man can make on an ex-wife, specifically those relating to breastfeeding and childcare for the children they share. But the rabbis here insist that a man cannot impose a claim on his ex-wife’s future relationship prospects, even if there’s some guy out there that he really doesn’t like — and perhaps even if he has good reason to dislike him. 

Assuming the law follows the majority, the mishnah next asks how the couple can be effectively divorced in such a case. 

What should he do? He should take it from her and hand it to her again, and say to her: “You are hereby permitted to any man.” If he wrote it inside (the bill of divorce), even if he then erased it, it is invalid.

The mishnah’s answer depends on whether the condition was just said verbally while the man was handing his ex the get, or was actually written into the text of the bill of divorce. If it was only a verbal statement, then the rabbis require a do-over of the handover. But if the condition was written into the bill of divorce, the document is invalid. 

It is clear the mishnah assumes that Rabbi Eliezer loses the debate. And in fact, in later rabbinic discussions, the statement that the mishnah requires the man to make in a do-over — ”You are hereby permitted to any man.” — actually becomes the central statement of the rabbinic divorce document. 

The Talmud next does two interesting things with the assumption of Rabbi Eliezer’s defeat. First, it tries to find a way to harmonize the two opinions or to limit the dispute to only a very narrow case. This is a classic talmudic move. But the second thing that the Talmud does is far less common — it makes a series of posthumous refutations of Rabbi Eliezer. But for those, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow’s daf. 

Ultimately, the rabbis both try to understand and really take exception to Rabbi Eliezer’s position. They insist in all kinds of ways that a man’s act of divorce cannot impose limits on his ex-wife’s marital prospects. There cannot be an asterisk — verbal or written — when a man says: “You are hereby permitted to any man.” And the fact that Rabbi Eliezer thinks that there could be is worthy of rebuttal — in his lifetime and after his death.

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But if that’s the case, why should gossip be considered a factor in rendering a halakhic decision? Amazingly, that’s just what we find on today’s daf. The discussion begins in the mishnah:

If one wrote a bill of divorce to divorce his wife and reconsidered (and did not give it to her), Beit Shammai say: He has disqualified her from marrying into the priesthood. And Beit Hillel say: Even if he gave the bill of divorce to her conditionally and the condition was not fulfilled (and therefore the bill of divorce did not take effect), he did not disqualify her from marrying into the priesthood. 

The debate here is whether a woman whose husband merely wrote a get but did not deliver it would be barred in the future from marrying a priest, who is forbidden from marrying a divorcee but is permitted to marry a widow. Hillel, unsurprisingly, takes the more lenient position, ruling that as long as the woman is not actually divorced, she can still marry a priest. Shammai takes the more restrictive view and rules that she can’t.

In the Gemara, the conversation then takes an interesting turn.

Rav Yosef, son of Rav Menashe from D’vil, sent a query to Shmuel: Our teacher, instruct us. If a rumor circulated that so-and-so the priest wrote a bill of divorce to his wife, but she is still residing under his roof and attending to him, what is the halakhah? 

Rav Yosef asks this question of his teacher Shmuel: If there’s a rumor that a priest divorced his wife but she’s still living in his house and “attending to him” (wink, wink), should we believe it? And if so, should the marriage be broken up because a priest cannot marry a divorcee — even a woman he was married to previously? Here’s Shmuel’s response:

She must leave, but the matter requires investigation (before he is forced to divorce her). 

Seemingly, the answer is yes: We do give credence to the rumor, at least enough that we force the couple to live apart while looking into whether the priest did in fact divorce his wife while continuing to have relations with her. But is that actually what is being investigated? The Gemara continues:

If we say that (the investigation is) whether we can abolish the rumor or we cannot abolish it (that cannot be the question). But isn’t Neharde’a the place where Shmuel is the halakhic authority, and in Neharde’a they do not abolish a rumor? Rather, it’s whether people in that place refer to giving a bill of divorce as writing. 

The Gemara rejects the possibility that the investigation is into the credence of the rumor itself, noting that Shmuel is the authority in a community where rumors are not abolished (i.e. disproven) and therefore can be taken into account when rendering a halakhic decision. Rather, the investigation is into whether giving is the same as writing. We’re told in the above case only that the priest wrote the get, but does it follow that he actually gave it to her?

The Gemara answers: Yes, as if it is discovered that they refer to giving as writing, then perhaps they are saying in the rumor that he gave her the bill of divorce (and so there is concern that she is actually divorced).

If we’re talking about a place where people use the term “write” in reference to a get to mean “give,” then the rumormongers may well be saying that the husband not only wrote the get but also gave the get. And so there’s grounds for thinking the wife was divorced but is still cohabitating with her priestly ex-husband, which isn’t permitted. 

So what now? Does the couple have to split up based on this rumor that they are living and/or sleeping together while possibly divorced?  

The Gemara asks: She must leave? But doesn’t Rav Ashi say: We are not concerned for any rumor that circulates after marriage? 

Rav Ashi reminds us that we do not pay attention to rumors about couples after they are married. Once a couple is married and living together, rumors about the validity of their union are no longer taken seriously. So while word on the street might tantalizingly lead to questioning the sanctity of marriage (especially in priestly families), the Gemara rules that, at least in the case of marriage, halakhic decisions shouldn’t be made on the basis of what one happens to hear. 

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If he wrote the date on the bill of divorce using a calendrical system that counts years in the name of a kingdom that is not legitimate, or in the name of the kingdom of Medea, or in the name of the Greek Empire, to the building of the Temple, or to the destruction of the Temple — the bill of divorce is not valid.

As we discussed, the general rule is that one must date the getusing the dating system of the current government, and not a previous ruling power. And what’s particularly interesting is that even an internal Jewish dating system, for example “x number of years from the destruction of the Temple,” is not permissible for the get.

From these examples it becomes clear that the dating of the get is not simply a marker of time, meant to set a clear record of when the divorce took place. If this was the sole purpose, any widely known calendar would suffice. And certainly the destruction of the Temple — which was seared into the Jewish people’s communal memory — would logically serve as a communally recognized chronological marker in that community. But the rabbis required a date pegged to the ruling power because that makes the document potentially legally valid in a non-Jewish court as well. The system of dating helps lend a more universally recognized official status to the document.

The Gemara asks why an (often) oppressive gentile government should have so much sway over the composition of Jewish contracts, which were often handled internally to the community. The answer:

Ulla said: For what reason did the sages institute that the date should be written according to the years of the local kingdom in bills of divorce? Due to the need to maintain peaceful relations with the kingdom.

Ulla’s answer to this uncomfortable capitulation to the authorities, who were often feared or despised, is that it is a necessary concession to maintain peaceful relations. 

But still: Why be so stringent about it? There are significant consequences to invalidating a get, and one would not want to do so lightly. Suppose, for instance, a man gives his wife a get with the wrong dating system and then she remarries and has a child. Should the child of her new marriage be declared illegitimate (mamzer) simply because the date on her get was written according to the wrong calendar, invalidating the divorce? Even if it’s a calendar enough people know and understand? The Talmud answers unequivocally:

As Rav Hamnuna says in the name of Ulla: Rabbi Meir would say that anyone deviating from the formula coined by the sages for bills of divorce, the offspring is a mamzer.

If this seems harsh, it behooves us to ask why. Perhaps there is more at stake than making sure the document would hold up in a non-Jewish courtroom, or making peace with the powerful. In taking a strong stance on dating gets, the rabbis declare that it is they, and not some gentile empire, who decide the procedures for and legitimacy of a divorce document. It is the rabbis themselves who are in power over Jewish legal matters — even if they decide to date contracts according to the non-Jewish ruling government’s calendar largely in order to gain their recognition and keep the peace.

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If a man wrote the date on the bill of divorce using a calendrical system that counts years in the name of a kingdom that is not legitimate, or he wrote the date in the name of the kingdom of Medea, or in the name of the Greek Empire, the bill of divorce is not valid. 

As Talmud scholar Dr. Josh Kulp explains, it was standard practice to date documents according to the ruling empire. During the Roman period, for instance, when the Mishnah was written and compiled, it would be invalid to date a get according to the empires of the Greeks or Medes, because they were no longer ascendant. The mishnah seems to forbid the use of calendars from what it describes as “illegitimate” (likely meaning defunct) kingdoms and then provides two examples.

The Gemara, however, reads the mishnah a bit differently:

What is a kingdom that is not legitimate? The Roman Empire. And why is it called a kingdom that is not legitimate? Because they have neither their own script, nor their own language.

While it is unlikely that the authors of the Mishnah would be so bold as to insult the Roman Empire, in which they lived, by declaring it illegitimate because it had no alphabet of its own, the rabbis in Babylonia, protected by time and distance, reread the mishnah to included them on the illegitimate list — even though the Roman Empire had not yet fallen in their day. And they probably got some pleasure from delivering this jab at an empire that had caused their people so much misery.

But the Talmud does not seem to think that the mishnah is banning the use of all non-Jewish calendars. In fact, the opposite, as Ulla teaches:

For what reason did the sages institute that the date should be written according to the years of the local kingdom in bills of divorce? Due to the need to maintain peaceful relations with the kingdom.

In other words, when dating a get, the rabbis want people to use a non-Jewish calendrical system, and specifically the one that was used by the local ruling authority. Why? Following the customs of the powers that be was a way to keep the peace — perhaps because the rabbis feared that using the Jewish calendar instead might be interpreted as a rejection of local rule or even a step toward rebellion.

Several centuries later, the Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Divorce 1:27) suggests a more nuanced approach. Namely, when needed to gain favor from the local authority, bills of divorce should be dated according to their calendrical system. However, if the local custom is to date a bill of divorce according to a non-local authority, it is acceptable to do so:

It has already become the universal Jewish custom to date gittin from the time of creation (i.e., using the traditional Jewish calendar), or from the crowning of Alexander the Great, which is the accepted means of dating for legal documents. If one dates according to the years of a contemporary kingdom, it is acceptable only in the country over which that kingdom rules.
Today, gets are dated according to the Jewish calendar. However, because of the principle of dina d’malchuta dina (the law of the local authority is the law), Jews are obligated to get a civil divorce before getting divorced Jewishly. In this way, we follow the laws (and calendars) of the communities in which we live, demonstrating our good citizenship, before turning to our own particular customs, rituals and calendar.

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If he said to her, “Take this promissory note,” or she found it behind him, and if she reads it and it is her bill of divorce — it is not a valid bill of divorce until he says, “This is your bill of divorce.”

If he gave it to her while she was sleeping, and he woke her, and she read it and it is her bill of divorce — it is not a valid bill of divorce until he says, “This is your bill of divorce.”

The mishnah presents two scenarios. In the first, the woman is told falsely, whether in trickery or in jest, that the document she is being given is a promissory note. Only when she reads it herself does she discover that it is a get. In the second scenario, she is asleep and therefore not aware that anything has occurred (or perhaps, again, it is a trick to get her to accept the get). In both cases, the mishnah states that the husband must declare the true nature of the document, aloud. Many commentators on this mishnah ask: If a woman does not need to consent to the divorce, why does the husband need to state it?

The Ra’avad suggests that the man’s initial misstatement about the nature of the document, that it is a promissory note, nullifies the get. The Rambam clarifies that, indeed, a get needs to be given with the intent to divorce, and the man doesn’t seem to have this intent if he calls it a promissory note. While the Ra’avad seems to think that mischaracterizing the document nullifies it altogether, the Rashba suggests that the getitself is not nullified when called a promissory note, but it must be given again with a clearer statement in order to take effect. In each of these interpretations, the bottom line is that the interaction remains unclear, and until it is clear, the divorce is not valid.

Tosafot suggest another way to think about these scenarios: The woman must know the concrete implications of the document she is receiving. While she may eventually read the document and then understand the intent, the mishnah wants to make sure there is no doubt from the moment she receives it. Otherwise, she might be in possession of a get, but not realize that she is divorced.

These competing interpretations are important, because the chosen interpretation has implications for what happens next. According to the Ra’avad, the man would need to write and give a new document; according to the Rashba and Tosafot, the document can still be used but the encounter conferring divorced status must be repeated. What the commentators are debating here, it seems, is how framing a situation can change the situation itself. If an encounter that is meant to end in a divorce is instead framed as a loan exchange, the intent of those involved is no longer clear. Even if the action is the same in both framings — giving the divorce document to the woman — the way it is given can change the action itself. Like many scenarios where the rabbis and commentators feel compelled to clarify the details of a statement in the Talmud (see, for example what I wrote on Ketubot 55), intentions matter, and they can change the outcome of an event even if the concrete actions remain the same.

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One who throws a bill of divorce to his wife, and she is in her house or in her courtyard, she is divorced. If he threw it to her in his house or in his courtyard, even if it is with her in the bed, she is not divorced. If (he threw it) into her lap, or into her basket, she is divorced.

The mishnah takes an expansive view of “in her hand,” understanding it to mean the document must be placed in her possession. A woman’s house and courtyard are viewed as extensions of her person, so if a man throws the get into those spaces, it’s considered as if she has received it into her hand. This is not the case if she is in her husband’s space, unless the get is tossed into her personal space, such as her lap or her basket. (Although we might view legal separation as a modern invention, it seems that the couple described on our daf are living in different houses, even if she ends up in her husband’s bed on occasion.)

The Gemara continues:

From where are these matters derived? The sages taught: The verse states: “And gives it in her hand” (Deuteronomy 24:1), from which I have derived that she is divorced only if he actually places it in her hand. But from where (do I derive that she is divorced even if he places it on) her roof, in her courtyard, or in her enclosure? The verse states: “And gives it,” indicating in any case.

The Gemara says that the mishnah’s more expansive read derives not from a broad understanding of “in her hand,” but from the preceding part of the verse: “and he gives.” A plain reading of the verse in Deuteronomy might indicate that the divorce is valid only if the man places the document directly in his wife’s hand, but the rabbis read the verb “give” to mean that as long as it is transferred into her personal domain it is valid. 

The rabbis find further support for this idea in a beraita (early rabbinic text):

And that is also taught with regard to a thief: “If the theft be found in his hand” (Exodus 22:3). I have derived (that one is liable for theft) only when the stolen item was found in his hand. But from where do I derive on his roof, in his courtyard, or in his enclosure? The verse states: “If the theft be found,” indicating in any case.

Through the methodology of gezerah shavah, comparing the same phrase found in different places in the Torah, the rabbis interpret the verse in Deuteronomy in light of the same phrase in Exodus (“in his hand”) concerning theft. From that verse, which concerns stolen livestock, we come to understand that saying a sheep or an ox is in a thief’s hand also means grazing on his property or hidden amongst the flock. Likewise, the Talmud concludes that if the get is delivered to the wife’s property, it is valid. 

We typically think of Jewish divorce as rather formal: The husband gives the get either directly to his wife or to an agent who delivers it on his behalf. A man throwing a get at his wife, as if to say “catch!” shows a profound lack of respect that might explain why they’re getting divorced in the first place. Tricking the wife into receiving the get in the manner of a process server sneakily delivering a subpoena is not the way it ought to be. And yet, until the ruling of Rabbeinu Gershom in the 10th century that women could not be divorced against their will, this was deemed a valid way to do it. 

Perhaps the Talmud compares these two verses in order to highlight that, like an actual theft, a man who divorces his wife by throwing a get at her is no more honorable than a common thief — even if the rabbis rule that such a divorce is valid. 

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If a husband said to his wife: “This is your bill of divorce if at any time I will depart from your presence for 30 consecutive days,” — then even if he was continually going and coming, going and coming, since he was not secluded with her during these 30 days, this is a valid bill of divorce.

In the larger context of husbands who offer conditional divorces when they travel overseas, this husband offers his wife a much more dramatic version: an automatic divorce if he leaves her presence at all. But what does it mean to leave her presence? Does it mean he must stay in the country? The town? Can he go to the bathroom alone? In the Gemara, Rav Huna explains:

It means sexual intercourse. And why does he call sexual intercourse “your presence”? He employed a euphemistic expression.

If “your presence” is code for marital relations, this makes much more sense of the second part of the mishnah, which states that even if the husband comes home every night, the divorce takes effect if he fails to be alone with her.

On the other hand, this interpretation of “your presence” would mean that this teaching stands apart from the others we’ve seen about traveling husbands. Perhaps it’s not a euphemism?

Rabbi Yohanan said: Actually, literally your presence.

Is the mishnah teaching that she is divorced immediately? No, it is teaching only that this is a valid bill of divorce. (And if he was not secluded with her during those 30 days) this is not considered to be an outdated bill of divorce. And when the 30 days are fulfilled, this will be a valid bill of divorce.

Having or not having sex has nothing to do with the husband’s conditional divorce, says Rabbi Yohanan. His condition is purely spatial — he means it literally when he says that he will not leave her presence. The mishnah mentions sexual relations only because if he did depart from her physically during the month, triggering a divorce, and then subsequently returned and had relations with her, that act of intercourse could create some confusion over whether she now requires a second get. (A discussion of how sex after a get can sow confusion about whether the couple is actually divorced will be addressed in a mishnah found on Gittin 81a.)

The scenario seems far-fetched. It’s hard to imagine that a husband would say anything of this sort to his wife, and so the mishnah may be presenting one of those theoretical cases the Talmud uses to explore the boundaries of the law. But whether we think Rav Huna or Rabbi Yohanan’s reading of “your presence” is correct (and the Gemara doesn’t decide), this mishnah is suggestive about what might constitute the end of a marriage: either failure to live together or failure to engage in sexual relations.

When a husband gives a conditional divorce to his wife before traveling so that she is protected from becoming an agunah, he is protecting her. In cases where men do the inverse — deny their wives a get out of spite — there must be legal recourse. Sadly, there have been real cases of men doing just this.

Modern Jewish movements have devised creative solutions to protect women from becoming agunot. The Conservative movement frequently adds a line to the traditional ketubah (called the Lieberman clause) which states that in the event of the functional end of the marriage, the husband and wife will appear before a beit din (rabbinic court) to which they grant the authority to compel him to give her a get. In the Modern Orthodox world, the Rabbinical Council of America requires couples to sign a prenup with two primary stipulations: (1) In the event that either party requires it, the spouses will appear before the Beth Din of America and abide by its decisions, and (2) If the couple stops living together, the husband is obligated to pay his wife $150/day (indexed to inflation) until he tenders a get. The latter is meant to simultaneously provide financial support to the wife and place pressure on the husband to free her from a marriage that is functionally over.

And when is a marriage functionally over? That is best decided by the couple themselves. But some metric is required. And both the RCA and today’s daf chose a similar one: whether or not the couple lives together.

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This frustration is not simply a modern one. The rabbis of the Talmud felt it too. We’ve already seen the rabbis develop a principle for determining who is right when it comes to disputes between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai. And today we get another such principle about Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel. 

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel was a leader of the early rabbis in the land of Israel. He is quoted extensively in the Mishnah offering opinions on a wide range of topics, including in a mishnah on yesterday’s daf about conditional divorces. But is he right? Today’s daf offers us one attempt to figure that out: 

Rabba bar bar Hana says Rabbi Yohanan says: In every place where Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel taught in our Mishnah, the halakhah is in accordance with him, except for a guarantor, Tzaidan, and the final evidence.

Fabulous! A clear principle on which to determine the correct halakhah. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel is always right except for three cases — a guarantor, Tzaidan and the final evidence. But what on earth do these three terms mean? The Talmud just moves on without explaining, as if of course we should know what it is referring to. 

But on the off chance that we don’t, here’s one way to understand these three terms. 

Tzaidan is the easiest. It refers to the mishnah on yesterday’s daf, which described a case in which a man who lived in the city of Tzaidan attempted to divorce his wife on the condition that she return his coat. She didn’t, and Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel ruled that the divorce is invalid. The rabbis insisted that the woman can reimburse her husband for the cost of the coat and be divorced. 

The other two terms come from talmudic discussions we have not yet encountered in our journey through Daf Yomi. The case of the guarantor is found in Tractate Bava Batra 173b, where the Talmud discusses who a lender can collect from if at the moment of lending, they specified that they could collect it from either the borrower or their guarantor.

If the borrower and the guarantor both have the money, can the lender choose who to collect from? Or must they collect from the original borrower? Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says the lender must collect it from the borrower, but the rabbis say that they can collect it from either party. 

As for the final evidence, according to Rashi, this refers to a case found in Tractate Sanhedrin 31a, where the court tells a man to bring any evidence he has to support his claim within 30 days. In this case, the man says that he has no evidence to bring and so the court offers its ruling. But then the man does come to court with evidence. Should the court accept evidence and change its ruling? Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says yes, and the rabbis say no. 

The principle that the Talmud offers testifies to the desire for more clarity about who wins out in various legal debates. And the explanations of Rashi testify to the continued desire for more clarity in the face of the Talmud’s overambitious assumption of holistic knowledge. So if you are reading the daf and think, gosh, I wish things were more clear, know that you are not alone. Jews have been continuously searching for more clarity about these traditions for almost two thousand years.

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A husband who is suffering from illness hands his wife a bill of divorce and says, “This is your get from now if I die from this illness.” As we have learned, by using this language, the husband has initiated a divorce that is conditional. Should he live, the couple remains married. Should he die, their divorce takes effect retroactively from the time of declaration.

The Gemara has been exploring many implications of such a declaration — including a striking hypothetical on today’s daf:

Rabbi Meir says: If she engages in sexual intercourse with another man (while her husband is still alive), the legal status of her sexual intercourse is dependent upon whether or not her husband dies from his illness.

Rabbi Yosei says: Her sexual intercourse has an uncertain status.

If, during her husband’s illness, the woman with a conditional divorce has sexual relations with another man, is she committing adultery? Let’s stipulate that this feels wrong, whatever his fate, but the question is not whether it’s advisable, but what transgression, if any, has taken place.

At first glance, it may look like both Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Yosei are uncertain. But a closer look reveals a difference between their approaches. Rabbi Meir says it depends on the outcome. This means that time, and her husband’s fate, will ultimately clarify whether she was married or divorced and if the sexual act was permitted or adulterous. If her husband dies, she did nothing wrong. If he lives, she and her paramour are guilty of adultery. 

Rabbi Yosei would agree that the husband’s recovery makes the woman’s actions adulterous, but he is not so quick to clear her if the husband dies. Her actions were made at a time when their marital status was uncertain, and therefore uncertainty about her guilt remains.

The Gemara now explores the practical implications of both positions:

Rabbi Yohanan said: The practical difference between them (Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Yosei) is with regard to the bringing of a provisional guilt-offering.

Provisional guilt offerings are brought when a person is uncertain about whether or not they are required to bring a sin-offering. According to Rabbi Meir, one is not required in this instance, as if the husband dies, the condition placed on the divorce has been met. Since no uncertainty remains, no sacrifice is required.

Rabbi Yosei, on the other hand, requires the paramour to bring a provisional guilt-offering. Though ultimately the woman was retroactively divorced, what’s important here is that her status was not clear when the sexual act took place. Since it might have ended up being adulterous, their guilt is still uncertain and the sacrifice is required.

Here’s another way to look at it: Rabbi Meir appreciates that the couple’s actions are either permitted or forbidden, and that the determination is dependent upon the fate of the husband as stipulated in the divorce decree. In other words, he holds them accountable for the outcome — what ultimately happened and not for what might have happened. Rabbi Yosei does not agree. Though the husband ultimately died and she was declared retroactively divorced, we cannot say that at the time of the relationship it was OK, since the woman and her lover didn’t know for certain the husband would die. And this, according to Rabbi Yosei, makes their actions ethically dubious no matter how later events affected their legal status.

“Don’t do it, if you can’t be sure of the outcome,” suggests Rabbi Yosei.

“You decide if it is worth the risk,” replies Rabbi Meir. 

Which stance resonates most with you?

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Under rabbinic law, there are two ways to transfer property outside of a commercial transaction: gifting and inheritance.

In his 2019 book, Jonathan Milgram lays out some key halakhic differences between these two forms of property transfer. For the rabbis, inheritance is unilateral, which means that when the original owner dies, their property is immediately transferred to their heirs. The heirs don’t have to doanything to receive it. But gifting is bilateral, which means that the giver needs to do something (give the gift) andthe recipient needs to accept it. If the recipient doesn’t accept the gift, the giver hasn’t effectively transferred it to them. And that’s a good thing, because we’ve all gotten a gift or two we’d prefer to decline. 

But the rabbis carve out one exception to the rules of bilateral gifting — in a case where the person gifting is on their deathbed. After all, the recipient might not be around and time is limited. In this case, the dying person’s gift is acquired more like inheritance — unilaterally. We’ll explore these laws (which are called mattanat shekhiv me’ra) in more depth when we get to Tractate Bava Batra, but today’s daf draws a parallel between the deathbed transfer of a gift and the deathbed transfer of a get. The question the rabbis ask is this: What happens if the person who issues a get on their deathbed doesn’t die? We learned on yesterday’s daf: 

Rav Huna said: His bill of divorce is as his gift. Just as his gift, if he arose it is retracted, so too, his bill of divorce, if he arose it is retracted.

A deathbed transfer only works if the person dies. If they miraculously survive their illness, then the transfer is deemed ineffective: The gift is returned, the marriage continues. 

But what if the person does die … eventually? If someone experiencing an illness gives a gift or issues a bill of divorce, recovers, and then dies from another illness, is the gift or divorce effective? About a get, today we learn: 

We require assessment where he walked with his staff. But in another case, we do not even require assessment.

If the person heals of their first illness to the extent that they can walk with a mobility aid, then the rabbis require us to investigate whether their death was caused only by the second illness, or whether the first illness was a contributing factor. Only if the first illness was a contributing factor to the ultimate death does the initial transfer of the get effectively kick in. And as for deathbed gifting, our daf concludes: 

Can you conclude from it a person on his deathbed who proceeded from illness to illness, his gift is a valid gift? Yes, as Rabbi Elazar says in the name of Rav: A person on his deathbed who proceeded from illness to illness, his gift is a valid gift.

Just like in the case of a get, a deathbed gift is effectively transferred even if the person dies of a secondary illness.

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If a husband says, “This is hereby your bill of divorce if I do not return between now and 12 months from now,” and he died before the 12 months have passed, then it is not a valid bill of divorce. 

A husband is about to set off on a journey and stipulates that he will divorce his wife in 12 months’ time if he does not return beforehand. If a year passes and he does not appear, the couple is automatically divorced.

However, if the reason that he does not return is that he died sometime during those 12 months, she is a widow and not a divorcee. And if the husband has died childless, his widow becomes subject to a levirate bond and must marry her brother-in-law or complete the halitzah ritual that severs the bond and allows her to remarry a person of her choosing.

But, despite this mishnah, which is eminently clear on the halakhah, the Gemara on today’s daf states:

(In the event that he died childless during those 12 months) our rabbis permitted her to marry. 

Despite what this mishnah says, some rabbis allowed the woman to remarry without halitzah. But which rabbis? Indeed, this is the Gemara’s next question:

Who represents the opinion cited as our rabbis?

Rav Yehuda says that Shmuel says: It is the court that permitted the consumption of oil manufactured by gentiles.

As we’ll learn, the rabbis limited (and sometimes prohibited) the use of items that were owned or made by non-Jews. Sometimes, this was out of concern that the items were used for idolatrous purposes, and other times these rules emerged from a desire to keep the Jewish community separate from their non-Jewish neighbors. A mishnah on Avodah Zarah 35b includes oil manufactured by gentiles on the list of forbidden items.

So whose court overturned these two rulings, one about using gentile-made oil and the one about the woman whose husband gave her a conditional get and then died? The mishnah suggests that it was Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s court, but the Gemara (Avodah Zarah 37a) reports that it was Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s grandson, Rabbi Yehuda Nesia, who had a similar name and title.

But even if we are not exactly sure who made the change, there is little confusion as to the reason why. Avodah Zarah 36a reports:

Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba says that Rabbi Yohanan says: Our sages sat and inspected the matter of gentiles’ oil and determined that its prohibition had not spread among the majority of the Jewish people, and our sages relied upon the statement of Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel and upon the statement of Rabbi Elazar bar Tzadok, who would say: The sages issue a decree upon the community only if most of the community is able to abide by it.

The people didn’t stop buying oil made by their non-Jewish neighbors, and so the rabbis retracted that rule.

In Tractate Gittin, we’ve been introduced to changes the rabbis made to the law to prevent conflict between neighbors (mipnei darchei shalom) and correct for unintended outcomes that create problems for those that the law meant to protect (mipnei tikkun olam). The conversation in Avodah Zarah tells us that the rabbis were also willing to reverse a rabbinic prohibition when the community was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to abide by it.

The Gemara does not tell us what motivated the court to allow a woman to remarry freely when her husband dies childless during the time that he is away but before the date upon which his failure to return triggers a divorce. Did they act because the community would not accept that she was under a levirate bond? Were they motivated to do so because the rule in the mishnah was flawed in their eyes? We are not sure.

What is clear is this was not the only occasion when this particular court made a change that uprooted the legal status quo, and they were willing to do so for reasons of social benefit and practicality. And that is how the Gemara remembers them.

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If people said to the husband: “Shall we write a bill of divorce for your wife?” And he said to them: “Write it,” and those people told the scribe to write it, and he wrote it and instructed the witnesses to sign it, and they signed it — even if they wrote it and signed it and gave it to him and he then gave it to his wife, the bill of divorce is void unless he himself says to the scribe: “Write the document,” and he himself says to the witnesses: “Sign the document.”

According to this mishnah, a get must be ordered by the husband personally. Telling others to order a scribe to write the get, or to tell witnesses to sign it, doesn’t result in a valid get.

But why does this matter? After all, we know that husbands intent on divorce regularly engage other people to write and deliver the documents, and they are valid. Indeed, in the Gemara, we see at least one voice expressing this view:

But if he (the husband) said to them: “Give a bill of divorce to my wife,” (and they told the scribe to write the document and the witnesses to sign it), those people give the document to his wife and it is valid. In accordance with whose opinion is this statement? It is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Meir, who says: “Verbal directives can be delegated to an agent.” 

According to Rabbi Meir, not only can an agent be appointed to deliver a get, they can also be appointed to give instructions about writing and signing the get. But now, another rabbi weighs in:

In the latter clause of the mishnah, we arrive at the opinion of Rabbi Yosei, who said: “Verbal directives cannot be delegated to an agent.”

The Gemara states that the ruling in the mishnah isn’t anonymous after all; it’s the opinion of Rabbi Yosei, who is in conflict with Rabbi Meir over whether or not a verbal directive can be delegated to an agent to fulfill. Rabbi Meir says yes; the mishnah and Rabbi Yosei say no. 

Ultimately, Maimonides rules that the opinion of the mishnah and Rabbi Yosei stand, and that the husband must personally commission the scribe and witnesses in order for the get to be valid. 

The first part of the mishnah is itself curious, though. Why on earth would people ask a husband if he wanted them to write a get for his wife in the first place? And why would he agree?

In his commentary on our daf, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz (relying on Rashi) suggests that the mishnah is discussing a case where a man who is ill or is about to leave on a trip is asked whether he would like a conditional geṭ written for his wife. Such a suggestion could stem not from a nosy assumption that the couple is not functioning well, but from either of two concerns that we have seen addressed elsewhere: First, the concern that if the husband goes missing, his wife might be left as an agunah (trapped in her marriage) if he never returns from his trip. Second, if the couple has no children, a divorce would free her from the possibility of yibbum (having to marry her husband’s brother and raise up a child in his name). 

This mishnah assures that well-meaning (or, perhaps, malicious) community members do not act because of something someone said. The husband himself must issue the request to the scribe to write the get, and to the witnesses to sign it. And more broadly, it sets a precedent: Legal documents can’t be drawn up based on hearsay; the individual who orders the document must do so personally. 

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