Bava Kamma, opens with the four “primary categories of damage”: the ox, the pit, the maveh (which the Talmud concludes refers to human beings) and the fire. These archetypes of damage have to do with whether the accidental damage was done actively or passively, whether it was predictable or not, and a range of other factors. Each of these primary categories is then divided into subcategories, with nuances galore. Here we meet two different kinds of oxen — the innocent ox, and the goring ox — and learn how animal owners are assessed for the damage caused by their animals based in part on how much they are expected to anticipate that their animal will cause harm. Each of these four categories causes damage, but that damage is unintentional (at least by the human owner of the animal or pit, or the starter of the fire). 

Bava Kamma then shifts to thinking about the kinds of financial loss caused by intentional harm: theft, robbery, physical violence. Beyond simple compensation, the people who perpetrate these acts have to pay additional penalties for the harm that they’ve caused. For example, we learned on Bava Kamma 83b that:

One who injures another is liable for that due to five types of indemnity: for damage, for pain, for medical costs, for loss of livelihood, and for humiliation.

Bava Kamma reminds us that we are responsible for the damage we cause intentionally, but we are also responsible for any unintentional damage that we caused, even damage we set in motion years earlier (like digging a pit and then forgetting about it). For the rabbis, to be a human in the world is to be considered always “forewarned” (Bava Kamma 26a), meaning to be aware that our actions can cause harm and that we must take extra caution in everything we do. 

Bava Metzia opens with a discussion of how to determine ownership of lost objects. Since the previous tractate ended on the topic of the laws of taking ownership, the Talmud continues by exploring the legal mechanisms by which things are bought and sold. At what exact moment of an exchange of money for goods, for example, does the buyer take ownership of whatever they are buying? And if it turns out that the buyer is unhappy with the product, when is the seller required to take it back and give back the buyer’s money? 

The tractate then shifts again to thinking about four different kinds of people who take legal possession of other people’s things: paid and unpaid guardians, renters, and borrowers. Each kind of person has a different degree of responsibility if the thing they are watching or using is damaged or stolen. 

Both Bava Kamma and Bava Metzia are explicitly rooted in biblical civil law. The rabbis conclude that Exodus 21 and 22 are the source texts for the laws of damages, theft, robbery, guardianship, renting and borrowing. But the final tractate in the Bavas, Bava Batra, shifts the discussion away from interpreting biblical laws and toward the rabbinic construction of property law. 

Bava Batra opens by considering what property owners owe their neighbors (spoiler alert: don’t be a loud, smelly peeping tom, and don’t infringe on your neighbor’s presumptive rights). Here we also learned how property can be individually or jointly owned, purchased, given as an inheritance or gifted. Finally, since good contracts make good neighbors, the entire corpus ends with a discusison of how to write clear, legally-valid contracts that meet the expectations of all parties involved, and how to interpret and validate contracts in court.

Taken together, the Bavas are traditionally understood to be the foundation of Jewish civil law. They lay out how rabbinic society deals with the kinds of damage that leads to financial loss, and the various principles that the rabbis use to think about individual property rights, buying and selling, inheritance and how to be a good neighbor. Like all talmudic tractates, they also contain fascinating diversions to other topics that are less legal nature, including: the ten conditions that Joshua stipulated when the Israelites settled the land (Bava Kamma 81a) and the ten ordinances that Ezra instituted when the Jews returned from the Babylonian Exile (Bava Kamma 82), the story of the legendary relationship between Rabbi Yohanan and Reish Lakish (Bava Metzia 84a), how Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s callousness toward a calf being led to slaughter led to him being punished for 13 years and how his kindness toward baby weasels led God to finally take compassion on him (Bava Metzia 85), an exploration of the biblical Job (Bava Batra15b), and wonderful stories of Rabbah bar bar Hana’s adventures at sea (Bava Batra 73a).

The final pages of Bava Batra remind us that the foundation of Jewish wisdom may well lie in these three tractates: 

Rabbi Yishmael said: One who wants to become wise should engage in the study of civil law, as there is no greater discipline in the Torah, and it is like a flowing spring. 

The project of diving into civil law enables us to think in nuanced ways about parts of our life experience that we often don’t question — owning things, buying and selling, signing contracts. Throughout, the rabbis continually remind us that all these laws are rooted in a belief that to be part of the Jewish community is to owe each other respect for our individual rights and property.

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These two Samaritans who entered into a joint venture with each other. One of them went and divided the money without the knowledge of the other. They came before Rav Pappa. He said to him: What is the difference? This is what Rav Nahman said: Money is as though divided.

Apparently, two men had invested their money together, but one of the partners divided the dividends on his own. The other then takes him to court, where Rav Pappa rules that the first partner had done nothing wrong because the division of money does not require both partners to be present. Money is considered already divided and so the first partner was not actually dividing the money, only apportioning it out. But the story continues: 

The next year they purchased wine together, and the other one arose and divided without the knowledge of the other. They came before Rav Pappa, who said (to the defendant): Who divided it for you?

He said to him: I see that the master pursues me!

Another year, another shared business venture, but this time the investment is in wine. Perhaps because of the previous year’s ruling, the other partner now divides the wine on his own. But Rav Pappa’s response is quite different this time: Who said that you could divide the barrels of wine on your own? Reasonably, the partner who divided the wine barrels on his own takes this ruling personally and accuses Rav Pappa of mistreating him.

In order to uphold the justice of the rabbinic legal system, Rav Pappa explains what makes the two cases different: 

Rav Pappa said: In a case like this it is certainly necessary to inform. Money, did he take the good and leave the deficient ones? He said to him: No. He said to him: Wine, everyone knows that there is wine that is sweet and there is wine that is not sweet.

While money is considered already divided — after all, a dime is a dime — items that have variable quality require both partners to be involved in the division to ensure that each gets a share equal to their investment. But between counterfeiting and coin clipping, not every dinar is actually worth a dinar. So the Gemara offers us a degree of nuance:

This matter applies between good and good, or heavy and heavy. But not good and heavy. 

It’s worth remembering that for most of history, coins were made entirely of precious metals, and the value of a coin was the value of the gold or silver it was made of. One way to cheat customers would have been to carefully shave off a tiny amount of the gold from each coin, or to adulterate the metal with something heavier and cheaper and keep the gold for yourself. So the Talmud only permits coins to be considered already divided when they are all of the same quality. 

This story is fascinating for many reasons, including Rav Pappa’s recognition that his two different rulings have the appearance of injustice and require explanation and the fact that these two men keep going into business together even though every instance ends in a lawsuit. 

But what is most striking to me is that the two business partners are Samaritans, or kutim in Aramaic. The Samaritans were (and still are) an ethnic and religious group who trace their origins to Samaria (see Kiddushin 75), the region between the biblical kingdom of Judah and the Galilee, which is nowhere near Babylonia where Rav Pappa lived and judged. In our journey through the daf, we’ve been constantly reminded that the rabbis of the Talmud lived in a religiously and ethnically diverse world. And today we learn that that world included other peoples who trace their origins to the land of Israel.

But we also learn that some members of the Samaritan community, who until today see themselves as both related to and separate from Jews, went to Rav Pappa for two different rulings a year apart — and that Rav Pappa judged their case and even explained his reasoning to them! Today’s daf is a reminder that the rabbinic world was not only more diverse than we imagine, but also more porous. The boundaries between “us” and “them,” even then, were fuzzier than we might think.

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For this reason, today’s daf doesn’t crescendo to a philosophical or poetic conclusion as some others do. Instead, it reads much like any other page, wending its way through a close analysis of the last mishnah. Thus, the final, unremarkable words of the tractate are:

Rav Yehuda says: Dodder (a plant belonging to the morning glory family) and green grain (or perhaps lichen) are not subject to robbery. But in a place where people are particular, they are subject to robbery. Ravina said: The city of Mehasya is a city where they are particular.

Two plants that grow like weeds are so common that taking them is not considered stealing — except in cities like Mehasya where they are intentionally cultivated.

We only have to back up a number of lines, however, to encounter a more sweeping discussion of robbery that feels much more like the kind of philosophical conclusion we are accustomed to at the end of a long tractate. Back on the first side of the daf, we find this meditation on a verse from the Book of Job:

“For what is the hope of the godless, though he profits, when God takes away his soul?” (Job 27:8). This is the subject of a dispute between Rav Huna and Rav Hisda. One says the soul of the robbed, and one says the soul of the robber.

Rav Huna and Rav Hisda interpret the word godless as thief and then ask who loses their soul in the wake of theft: the person whose property was stolen or the thief himself? I’ve been a victim of petty theft, and it was more upsetting than I would have anticipated. I was less disturbed by the loss of the decades-old bike from my garage, or the cheap watch lifted from my dorm room, or the even cheaper headphones snatched from my bag than I was by the feeling of violation. Every time I’ve been robbed, the world has felt like a less kind and safe place. It hurt my soul. On the other hand, one could argue that at least my integrity was not compromised by the theft. The same cannot be said for the thief, whose honor has been sullied. 

Both positions are discussed in the Gemara but Rabbi Yohanan is given the last word:

Rabbi Yohanan says: Anyone who robs another of an item worth one peruta it is as though he takes his soul from him, as it is stated: “So are the ways of every one that is greedy for profit; it takes away the life of the owner thereof.” (Proverbs 1:19)

In our journey through the Talmud, we’ve spent considerable time on solemn and ponderous subjects such as prayer, holiday observances, marriage and vows. In this tractate, we’ve been more focused on financial disputes between neighbors. We might suppose this is a less weighty discussion. How important is it, really, to decide whether a launderer may keep threads that come off a garment in the wash? (A real question on today’s daf.) Rabbi Yohanan’s teaching reminds us that these too are important discussions. In the end, more than money is at stake — it’s people’s very souls.

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One who robs another or borrows (money) from them, or one with whom another had deposited (an item) — in a settled area, one may not return (the item) in an unsettled area.

This mishnah’s rule makes a lot of sense. If you take your neighbor’s ladder without their permission, or if they knock on your door and ask you to take care of something for them, you can’t return the item to them while they’re on a camping trip. Unless, of course, you stipulated in advance that you were going to do so. The mishnah continues:

On the condition (that the recipient) may go out and return it to the owner in an unsettled area, one may return it to them in an unsettled area.

This would all be well and good, but the Gemara reports that there’s a beraita that teaches something different.

A loan may be repaid in any location, while a lost item and a deposit are returned only in their location. 

As we well know, the Talmud is multi-vocal. And while the rabbis were well aware of this, they weren’t always happy with it. One common approach to dealing with this is to find a way to read a contradictory teaching in a way that makes the contradiction go away, which is what we find on today’s daf. 

Abaye said: This is saying: A loan may be claimed in any location. A lost item and a deposit may be claimed only in their location.

Abaye notices that the mishnah is focused on the person returning the item, forbidding them from doing so in an unsettled area if the original transaction was in a settled one. The beraita, however, is speaking to the owner, giving them the ability to collect a loan in any location, but restricting them from doing so for a lost item or a deposited item.

Why institute an exception for a creditor? It’s possible that a debtor has money on hand to pay back the lender because people do often carry a purse even when they’re traveling in outlying areas, so it wouldn’t be a burden on either party. In fact, it might be more convenient for them instead of having to track the other person down later. This is not the case for lost or deposited items, which may be difficult for either to carry into unsettled areas.

A practical position that also harmonizes the sources. Not a bad day’s work — thanks Abaye!

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Accept upon yourself that you will not raise any difficulties to the statements of Rabbi Yohanan for seven years.

We don’t initially know why Rav told Rav Kahana not to challenge the great teacher of the land of Israel, though the reason becomes clearer as the story progresses. Rabbi Yohanan turns out to be extremely sensitive — and dangerous.

When Rav Kahana arrives in the land of Israel, he first seeks out Reish Lakish, who immediately recognizes the former’s enormous intellect and reports it to his close friend and colleague, Rabbi Yohanan:

A lion has ascended from Babylonia.

Neither Reish Lakish nor Rabbi Yohanan are aware that Rav Kahana promised to refrain from challenging Rabbi Yohanan’s teachings for seven years, so they do not know why he offers nothing of substance the next day during Rabbi Yohanan’s lectures. His silence leads Rabbi Yohanan to mistakenly believe that Rav Kahana is not much of a scholar, and he demotes him from the first row of students to the eighth row in the back of the classroom, derisively remarking to Resh Lakish:

The lion you mentioned has become a fox. 

An exile now relegated to the back of a foreign classroom, Rav Kahana prays to God to allow his “seven row demotion” to replace his seven-year promise to hold his tongue. The next day, the “lion” shows his true abilities — posing learned challenges to Rabbi Yohanan’s teachings the latter cannot refute. As Rav Kahana’s challenges land in rapid succession, Rabbi Yohanan sequentially removes the seven cushions upon which he sits, physically lowering himself to acknowledge Rav Kahana’s scholarly supremacy. 

In this encounter, Rabbi Yohanan was gracious. However, his darker side now emerges:

Rabbi Yohanan was an old man and his eyebrows drooped over his eyes. He said to his students: “Uncover my eyes and I will see Rav Kahana” … and he saw that Rav Kahana’s lips were split and thought that Rav Kahana was smirking at him. He was offended, and Rav Kahana died.

Rabbi Yohanan, who is a well-known healer in the Talmud, is also known to use his powers to destroy others when he is offended or angered. But in this case, the offense was completely misplaced — Rav Kahana wasn’t smirking at all, parted lips were just part of his usual appearance. Rabbi Yohanan learns this truth from his students the next day. Chastened, and presumably horrified, Rabbi Yohanan hurries to Rav Kahana’s burial cave. When he arrives, he finds that a snake has wrapped itself around the mouth of the cave, placing its own tail in its mouth to make a tight loop, and refuses to let him enter until he humbly acknowledges Rav Kahana as his teacher. Only then does the serpent move aside by — fittingly — opening its mouth (as Rav Kahana had done).

Later in the Talmud, on Bava Metzia 84a, we will read a similar story in which Rabbi Yohanan’s dark emotional reaction to a perceived slight causes the death of a colleague — this time his close friend and havruta, Reish Lakish. Rabbi Yohanan never recovers from that horrific tragedy.

On today’s daf, there’s a happier ending. Once Rabbi Yohanan gains entry to Rav Kahana’s burial chamber, he prays for divine mercy and brings Rav Kahana back from the dead. The two have a chat and become reconciled. Together, they return to the house of study.

Our story is tightly organized by groups of seven and ironic reversals. This contrasts with its wildly chaotic themes of killing, hypersensitivity, and rapid fluctuation between gracious humility and arrogant petulance. Rabbi Yohanan’s irascible hypersensitivity is on full display here as elsewhere in the Talmud where, more than once, his temper, combined with his enormous power, causes him to wound or even kill others.

The theologian Henri Nouwen describes spiritual leaders as wounded healers who help others achieve wholeness by accompanying them through life’s struggles. Recognizing their own brokenness, they can empathize with and help others who are broken. Rabbi Yohanan, sadly, is a healer who is both wounded and, all too often, wounding. Sometimes, his own brokenness causes him to break others. His story reminds us that those in possession of enormous powers of healing must be very careful how they wield it.

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In discussing this possibility, the Talmud today quotes a beraita, an earlier tradition, that describes a potentially relevant case: 

Where one was fleeing from prison and there was a ferryman before him and he said to him: “Take this dinar and take me across,” the ferryman may take only his wage. 

The Gemara explains:

Apparently, he may (later) say to him: “I was fooling with you.”

From context, it is clear that taking a ferry normally costs substantially less than a dinar, but the desperate escapee offers an abnormally large sum. Should the ferryman take this offer seriously? The beraita insists that because the sum is so unbelievable, the escapee who makes the offer has room to later rescind it with the ancient equivalent of, “I was just kidding.” The ferryman should therefore only expect a standard wage.

But the beraita continues by offering some some additional nuance: 

And if he said to him: “Take this dinar as your wage and take me across,” he gives him his wage in the full amount.

In this case, where the escapee adds the specific language of “as your wage,” he is required to pay the ferryman the entire dinar. But why? That’s the exact question the Talmud next asks.

Rami bar Hama said: It refers to the case of a trapper who scoops fish from the sea and he can say to him: “You have caused me a loss of fish worth a dinar.”

According to this later rabbi, the second clause of the beraita describes an encounter not with a ferryman, but with a fisherman. In this case, if the escapee states that he will pay the man his wage (which is apparently much higher than that of a ferryman), then he is obligated to actually do so. 

Ultimately, then, Rami bar Hama draws a distinction not between the language used to make the deal but between two different kinds of workers: One whose job is to ferry people across the river, for whom this payment would be payment for him doing his job; and one who has a different job, fishing, for whom the payment would be payment for him to stop doing his job and help the escapee out. And that’s a helpful distinction to draw given that the beraita treats each case differently. 

But while Rami bar Hama’s focus is on the worker who is being promised payment, let’s devote some of our attention to the one promising payment. According to the Talmud, the promiser is an escapee from prison. His urgency is likely a factor in offering the ferryman an enormous sum of money to cross the river. If I’ve learned anything from watching The Shawshank Redemption numerous times, it’s that hunting dogs can’t track scent over moving bodies of water. Crossing a river may be not just a part of the escapee’s journey but a crucial way to avoid detection. 

Notice that the rabbis describe him as an escapee from prison as the apparently value-neutral background to a discussion of promissory language. But for the rabbis, what matters is the language he uses and the person he asks to ferry him across the river — not the nature of his crime, whether he was justly convicted, or whether the authorities are going to come after him, putting the person with the boat in their crosshairs. 

In a world where the empire’s prison system was seen as fundamentally unjust, perhaps the rabbis did not stigmatize being incarcerated. Instead, what mattered was behaving correctly with those around you, paying them what you actually owe them, and taking the time to contract clearly with them, even during your urgent escape. 

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The rabbis conclude that the mishnah is talking about a situation in which the thief is unknown. If the thief is identified, there is a dispute as to how the matter is settled:

Rav says in the name of Rabbi Hiyya: The claim can be pursued only with the first (i.e the thief).

Rabbi Yohanan says in the name of Rabbi Yannai: The claim can also be pursued with the second (i.e. the purchaser).

Here’s one reading of the dispute: Seeking compensation from the thief, as Rav prescribes, makes sense, since the thief is the one who transgressed. Rabbi Yohanan agrees, but also allows the owner to reimburse the purchaser and reclaim their property, just as they are able to do if we do not know who the thief is. This also makes sense: Why should the identification of the thief prevent the owner from getting their item back if they are willing to pay for it?

But this is not the only way to read this dispute. Rav Pappa suggests an alternative:

Rav says in the name of Rabbi Hiyya that the purchaser’s claim can be pursued only with the first one (i.e., the thief) meaning that the law with regard to the purchaser is that (after returning the item to its owner) he can collect money only from the thief.

And Rabbi Yohanan says in the name of Rabbi Yannai that the claim of the purchaser can be pursued with the second one (i.e. the owner), meaning that the law with regard to the purchaser is that he can also collect the money from the owner (when he returns the item to him).

Our original read suggests the dispute is about which person the owner can approach to reclaim their property. But Rav Pappa’s read is that Rav and Rabbi Yohanan assume the owner has taken their property back from the purchaser (at no cost) and now the purchaser is trying to recoup that loss. Rav says the purchaser can go to the thief; Rabbi Yohanan says the original owner.

If this is indeed what the dispute is about, then, says the Gemara, it is really a question about whether or not the rabbis implemented “the takanah of the marketplace.” Rabbi Yohanan says they did, Rav claims they did not.

A takanah is a type of rabbinic decree that is issued for some corrective purpose. The takanah of the marketplace requires the original owner to reimburse the purchaser for what they spent on the stolen goods. By issuing this decree, the rabbis sought to alleviate consumer fears about unknowingly purchasing stolen goods and being forced to return them without compensation. The takanah of the marketplace offers protection to purchasers — if they have unwittingly purchased stolen goods and are forced to give them back, the takanah guarantees that they will get their money back. As a result, they will not hesitate to shop and the market can thrive. The takanah is good for business. 

Rabbi Yohanan’s position is based upon the assumption that the takanah is in place — that is why he says that the purchaser turns to the owner for compensation. Rav is under the assumption that this takanah is not in place, so the purchaser’s only recourse is to turn to the thief who is ultimately responsible for their loss. This is the only reference to the takanah of the marketplace in the Talmud, so we can’t be sure if it was put into place or not. What we can be sure of is that just as the rabbis were concerned with ethics (compensating people for theft), they were also concerned with economics (keeping the market humming along). Pragmatically, they wrote laws to accommodate both needs.

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If tax collectors took one’s donkey and gave another in its place, or if bandits stole one’s clothes and gave others in their place, one may keep these, because the owners have despaired of retrieving them….

The mishnah relies on an important rabbinic principle of lost and found objects: If an owner despairs of ever finding their item, s/he gives up his/her claim on that object, rendering it ownerless. Thus, whoever finds or acquires the object may legally claim and keep it. 

Tax collectors, in the time of the rabbis, were assumed to be dishonest, because the position was easy to abuse. Collecting money for the government gave tax collectors nearly unilateral authority to seize others’ assets, and they often therefore helped themselves to whatever they liked. Because the tax collectors had so much power, people despaired of reclaiming their stolen property. Similarly, we assume that something a bandit owns is likely stolen. Therefore, the mishnah assumes, anything that a tax collector or bandit gives to you is likely stolen property, and it is almost certain the owner has despaired of it — so you can keep it. 

Immediately after this, the Gemara introduces a beraita, another tannaitic text, that seems to dispute the mishnah:

If one took something (from a tax collector or bandit), one returns it to the original owners.

The Gemara proceeds to argue about the reasoning of the anonymous tanna who authored this beraita: Does the tanna hold that despair of the original owner is not enough to cancel their ownership, and therefore the person who receives it from the tax collectors is obligated to try to return it? Or does the tanna hold that despair does release the object into the public domain, and the tanna then reasons that one is not required to return the donkey, but one may in fact return it. 

According to the first explanation, the beraita disagrees with the mishnah, but according to the second explanation, the beraita is not in direct contradiction with the mishnah. Instead, it adds that returning the stolen property received from a tax collector is recommended, even if not required.

The debate is played out amongst early talmudic commentators. Rashi understands the beraita to contradict the mishnah, requiring the person who receives the stolen item to return it. Ra’avad, on the other hand, thinks the two need not contradict: In the mishnah, he suggests, the owner has not come to claim one’s goods, but in the beraita, they have. Alternatively, the Ra’avad suggests, the person may keep the object but must still reimburse the original owners. In this case, the beraita reads as an explanation of the mishnah: The object belongs to the person who received it, but one needs to compensate the original owners. The Meiri also reconciles the beraita with the mishnah by saying returning the item is recommended but not required: “… one doesn’t need to return it even to fulfill one’s heavenly obligations. In any event, if one is conscientious, one will be stringent upon oneself and say, ‘I can’t take money which isn’t mine — I will take it (from the tax collector) anyway and return it to the original owners.’”

What is interesting about the debate in the rishonim, the early talmudic commentators, is that the question is not whether the beraita disagrees with the mishnah, because the Gemara has already offered a solution to the contradiction. The debate focuses on the first interpretation of the beraita, and whether this reading of the beraita contradicts the mishnah or not. It becomes an important debate, as later on in the daf the Gemara seems to assume this understanding: that despair alone is not enough to acquire an object. However, whether debating the meaning of the beraita itself or the Gemara’s interpretation of the beraita, we are left with the same question from the commentaries: How do we interpret seemingly contradictory texts? Do we allow them to argue with each other, or do we try to reconcile them?

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Rava said: Know that this principle is true from the fact that the municipal authorities cut down palm trees without the consent of their owners and construct bridges from them, and yet we cross over them.

Halakhah prohibits benefitting from stolen property, so if Jews are permitted to use the bridge, we can conclude that the wood used to build it was taken and used legitimately. This, Rava says, demonstrates the rabbinic principle that upholds the authority of the law of the kingdom, even when it seizes an individual’s trees for governmental and communal purposes.

Abaye proposes an alternative explanation for why use of the bridges is permitted:

Abaye said to Rava: Perhaps the reason the bridges may be used is because their owners despaired of retrieving them and not because the law of the kingdom is the law. 

Rava said to Abaye: If not for the fact that the law of the kingdom is the law, how would the despair of the owners of the trees allow us to use the bridges? 

We’ve previously explored this concept of ye’ush — often translated as despair — under which someone gives up on retrieving their lost property, allowing ownership to pass legitimately to a person who finds it. Abaye makes a decent point: The wood’s original owners have surely given up on getting it back, so it’s acceptable to use and benefit from it. But why, Rava rejoins, have they given up on getting it back? It’s because it was properly taken by the government under the principle of dina d’malchuta dina. 

Today’s daf also introduces a potentially confounding twist:

But the municipal authorities do not act as the king said. The king said: “Go and cut down a bit of wood from all the valleys in the area so that each individual loses only a small amount of wood.” They, however, disobey the king and go and cut down all the wood needed for the bridge from one valley. 

In this scenario, the local satraps haven’t just improvised, they’ve actually gone against the king’s express instructions. Is it still OK to walk on the bridges built from the seized wood? The Gemara replies:

An agent of a king is like the king himself, and he is not expected to trouble himself to collect wood proportionally from each valley. They, the owners of the land where the wood is cut, cause themselves a loss, as they should collect compensation from all the other residents of the valleys and take money from them for this purpose. 

This teaching extends the principle of dina d’malchuta dina: A king’s agent, argues the Gemara, stands in the king’s stead and therefore carries his authority. Therefore, even under these circumstances, in which the agent violated the king’s directives, the wood is not considered stolen. The Gemara also notes that there are ways for the local people to share the losses and steer back toward the king’s original intention of spreading the costs evenly. It’s unclear from the Gemara alone if this should be undertaken at the agent’s orders or if the community does this themselves, but regardless, the agent’s actions are deemed legal.

Often, the situations invoking dina d’malchuta dina are ones where the real-world outcome is inescapable. It’s hard to imagine the rabbis barring Jews from using a public bridge and even less likely to encourage disobedience of a kingdom’s laws. Jewish law held very little persuasive authority outside of Jewish communities, and Jews’ vulnerability would have left them unable to defend themselves if they chose to ignore the king’s diktats. But the rabbis are able to wield this principle in a way that gives the decisions halakhic legitimacy and keeps Jewish law aligned with local power and real-world constraints.

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A beraita on today’s page offers an alternative:

In a case where a thief left stolen items as an inheritance, if the heirs are adults they are obligated to pay, and if they are minors they are exempt from paying. If the adult heirs said: “We do not know what accounting our father made with you,” they are exempt.

The beraita requires the heirs to make restitution for stolen goods they inherit, with two exceptions. The first is for minors, a decision that prioritizes our obligation to support orphans over our obligation to return stolen objects. The second is for adults who testify that they are aware that the goods were stolen but do not know the details of the repayment plan or if it had been executed. Because it is possible that payment has already been made, the heirs are exempt from making it themselves.

The Gemara expresses surprise about the second exemption. If the heirs have stolen property in their possession, it does not seem that their uncertainty about what arrangements their deceased parent made is enough to override the obligation to return it. Rava responds to this objection by reformulating the beraita:

In the case of adult heirs who said to the claimant: “We know the accounting our father made with you and there is nothing of yours left with him, as he paid his debt to you,” they are exempt.

When the heirs are sure that the debt was paid, says Rava, they are exempt from paying it. Otherwise, they are obligated to make compensation for the crimes of their parent.

This beraita is one of several sources quoted by the Gemara that seeks to limit the scope of the mishnah and require heirs to return stolen objects that they inherit. Each in its own way argues for restorative justice. If an item has been stolen it should be returned, even into the next generation. 

As a contemporary reader of these texts, their argument resonates. If we can correct the wrongs committed by our ancestors, shouldn’t we? In bringing a number of rabbinic statements that attempt to limit the scope of the mishnah, it seems that this argument resonates for the Gemara as well. But, despite its efforts, this argument does not win out.

Why? Biblical precedent does not stand on its side. Leviticus 5:23 states that, “the one who has sinned … shall restore the item that they robbed,” clearly attaching the requirement to return stolen goods to the thief and not the objects themselves. In other words, the objects themselves do not take on the status of stolen goods that need to be returned, and so, once the thief dies, the obligation to return them expires. 

While the Torah, and ultimately the rabbis, do not require the heirs to return the stolen property, they also do not forbid it. If the heirs are so moved, either by their sense of ethics or their affinity for the alternate opinions preserved in the Talmud, they can go beyond the requirements of the law and gift the items back to their original owner. 

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One who steals food and feeds it to his children, or who left a stolen item to them and then died, the children are exempt from paying (the victim of the theft). But if the stolen item was something that serves as a legal guarantee of a loan, the heirs are obligated to pay.

According to this mishnah, the children of a thief who benefit from what their father stole, either because he fed it to them or left it to them in his will, are in most cases not obligated to repay the original owner. There are exceptions because not all stolen objects are treated the same way by law. In the case of this mishnah, something like land that can serve as a legal guarantee (and can’t be consumed) must be returned. Nonetheless, it seems that most stolen items, by the time they reach the hands, or bellies, of the thief’s children, are theirs to keep. On the one hand, this makes sense — the children did not commit the theft. On the other hand, it feels unfair to the original owner. Why should the children get to keep what their father stole? Indeed, the Gemara’s discussion will further limit the cases in which the children are exempt from repaying what their father stole and passed on to them. Let’s look at just one example: 

Rav Hisda could have said to you: That mishnah is addressing a case in which the owners had already despaired.

This limits the application of the mishnah. Now, the children are only exempt from righting the wrong their father committed when the original owner has despaired of having their item returned. As we have seen previously, this is when the original owner gives up their legal claim to the item.

This is no small qualification, and there are more to come on today’s daf, but one of them stands out as noticeably personal:

But didn’t Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi teach Rabbi Shimon, his son, that this mishnah is not referring only to something that may actually serve as a legal guarantee? Rather, it is referring even to a cow that he plows with, or a donkey that he drives by directing it from behind, which the heirs are obligated to return because of the honor of their father.

Imagine the thief’s children regularly out in the sunshine, plowing with an ox that their father stole from his neighbor. This would be a constant public reminder of their father’s crime. So, says Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, even though there is a good legal case that the animal now belongs to the children, they should return it to the neighbor for the sake of their father’s honor. 

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, of course, wrote the entire Mishnah. So why didn’t he just write this opinion into the original? Why did he teach it later specifically to his son? 

I can only speculate: Perhaps teaching this mishnah about fathers and sons to his own son made Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi see it in a new light. Perhaps when he cast himself as the father/thief and his own son as the beneficiary of that theft, he was dismayed and realized that he wouldn’t want his son to benefit — he would want his honor to be restored, even beyond the grave.

We often see Talmud as a project of generations adding to and enriching Jewish law. On today’s daf, we see that a single sage — and davka the one who knew the halakhah well enough to write it all down and create the foundational text of Jewish law — himself found the need for later amendment as a new life stage and new perspective added to his thinking.

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Today’s daf explores many possible questions that arise from this scenario. For example, what if the thief dies before giving the money to the priests — do his children inherit it? (Yes.) And what if the thief is himself a priest — can he keep what he stole? (No.) Must the priests split the windfall evenly? (Yes, it’s equitably shared among all priests on duty.) Lastly:

Rava raises a dilemma: What is the status of priests with regard to the restitution for robbery of a convert? Are they considered heirs of the convert or are they recipients of gifts?

What, asks Rava, is the legal status of the money that the thief hands over: Is it a gift or is it an inheritance? (The latter possibility is ironic in light of the fact that the thief is only giving money to the priests because the convert has no heirs.)

You might be wondering why this even matters. The rabbis ultimately decide that the primary nafka mina — practical difference — between declaring the payment has the status of a gift or the status of an inheritance is that gifts do not require the recipient to separate a tithe. 

Like the other questions on today’s daf, this one too has a clear answer: It’s a gift. The rabbis easily derive this from a beraita (an early teaching) that says such payments are one of 24 different kinds of gifts that priests receive.

In all, this is a satisfyingly decisive daf insofar as the questions raised are answered, and in fairly short order. It’s less satisfying, perhaps, since the scenarios are so dizzyingly specific that the given answers are exceedingly unlikely to ever require application. In the end, it’s the beraita which lists the 24 gifts given to the priests, also found in Tosefta Challah 2:7–10, that grabs my attention. 

The gifts are arranged according to the places the priests are allowed to eat them. Ten are so sacred they are consumed only in the Temple, four in the holy city of Jerusalem, and the final ten anywhere in the promised land. The beraita provides details for all 24 gifts, from various kinds of animal and grain offerings to firstfruits to the showbread of the Temple to firstborn animals. The last item on this list is, of course, payment for robbery of a convert who died without heirs. 

The sheer abundance of gifts is also a reminder of just how busy the Temple was in ancient times, with myriad sacrifices that served individual and communal needs. It was, in its day, what religiously sustained the entire Jewish community and its relationship to God. This list, in miniature, supports a larger claim we find at the beginning of the beraita:

Anyone who fulfills the mitzvah of giving the gifts of the priesthood is considered as if he fulfills the entire Torah … and anyone who violates the mitzvah of giving the gifts of the priesthood is considered as if he violates the entire Torah.

Famously, elsewhere in rabbinic literature we encounter enthusiastic claims that Torah study or prayer or gemilut chasadim (good deeds) can replace the bygone Temple sacrifices. Here we see an opposite claim: The Temple sacrifices can substitute for the entire body of mitzvot. Turns out, there are many paths to divine service.

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One who robs his father and takes an oath (that he did not rob him) and then the father dies: This one pays the principal and the additional one-fifth payment to his father’s sons or brothers, and brings a guilt-offering.

An unfortunate father goes to his grave without hearing the truth from his thieving son or recovering the stolen goods. Now we have an interesting legal problem: The items the son stole would have been part of his inheritance, albeit shared with other heirs. Since he stole them, however, he must make restitution to the other heirs by repaying not only the principal but a one-fifth penalty, with a guilt-offering thrown in for good measure. Presumably, he forfeits his share.

The Gemara contemplates an even more complicated twist: What if there are no other heirs? If the thief is the only heir to his father’s estate, who can or even should he repay? Can he keep what he would have inherited anyway? The Gemara suggests this might be a possibility:

Let him forgive the debt to himself. Didn’t we learn in a mishnah (103a): If the owner forgave him concerning the principal, but did not forgive him concerning the additional one-fifth payment, he need not pursue him to repay the remaining debt.

A previous mishnah taught us that an owner can forgive a thief who stole property and swore falsely about it. If that owner can forgive, then surely this thief can forgive himself?

But no, says Rabbi Yohanan. That mishnah on Bava Kamma 103 is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Yosei HaGalili, while today’s mishnah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Akiva, who does not think debt can be forgiven under these circumstances. To illustrate Rabbi Akiva’s position, the Gemara cites an even more far-fetched case in which someone steals from a convert and makes a false oath that he did not steal. Then the convert reportedly dies. Since the item can’t be given back to a dead man, the thief (now repentant) takes the retribution money and a guilt offering to Jerusalem, only to discover on the way that rumors of the convert’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. In a final turn of the screw, instead of demanding his money back, the convert essentially forgives the thief and then dies. 

In this situation, Rabbi Yosei HaGelili says the robber can keep everything he has because the theft was converted to a loan and, because under Jewish law a convert who has not married and produced children has no heirs, the loan is automatically forgiven. Rabbi Akiva takes a more stringent view, holding that the convert really had no power to forgive the theft in the first place. Likewise, says Rabbi Yohanan, Rabbi Akiva would not allow a thief who was the sole heir to his father’s estate to keep what he had stolen even after his father passed.

If you’re like me, you are probably a bit hung up on the ever-growing absurdity of these scenarios, the last of which requires someone to be misidentified as dead and for that same person to readily forgive the person who stole from them and lied to their face. But let’s refocus on something else: In the talmudic understanding, someone who converts to Judaism joins the family of the children of Israel and thereby forfeits their legal connection to their biological family. If they do not marry and produce Jewish offspring, they have no legal heirs.  

I don’t want to sugarcoat this painful idea, that the ties that bind a convert to their family of origin are accorded no status in the halakhic system. The Talmud says many things about converts and conversion, some of it warm and embracing, and some of it, like this teaching, considerably cooler — and, in my view, offensive. But as we wrestle with the idea that the Talmud views a convert as having lost legal ties to their biological family, let’s not lose sight of the fact that they gain a new family: the Jewish people. After all, converts are called to the Torah as the children of Abraham and Sarah, which puts them directly into the Jewish family tree. 

So here’s another take on today’s teaching: for this period in the life of an unmarried and childless convert, we might argue that they are uniquely positioned as equally akin to all Jews. For this interval, converts can lay claim to every Jew as family without preference, and every Jew should feel obligated toward them as, in a sense, their closest kin. After all, they have none closer. Perhaps that is something to celebrate too.

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If an animal given as a deposit was stolen in circumstances beyond the control of the guardian, and the thief returned the animal to the place from where he had stolen it, and it is now in the house of the guardian, and it then died through negligence, what is the halakhah? 

The Gemara suggests two possible outcomes. One option is to say that once the animal is stolen, the guardian’s responsibility for the animal ends and does not restart when the thief returns the animal. In such a case, the guardian is exempt. Alternatively, if the return of the animal reactivates the guardianship, they would then be held accountable for its negligent death.

The Gemara leaves the matter unresolved. Rabbinic tradition teaches that, sometime in the mythic future, when Elijah the Prophet comes to announce the arrival of the messiah, he will resolve this and all of the other unfinished cases in the Talmud. May it come speedily in our day!

In the meantime, while we wait for the answer, it would be nice to know how to act. While most of the legal codes do not address this case at all, Maimonides, in the Mishneh Torah, provides some guidance. He rules that since the matter is unresolved in the Talmud, the guardian is not required to make payment. Why? Not because they are not legally responsible for the death of the animal, but rather because we do not have legal standing to force them to pay. In other words, our uncertainty about the law protects the guardian, whether they are responsible or not.

But our uncertainty works both ways, as Maimonides points out: “If the owner seizes the animal’s worth, it is not expropriated from his possession.” In other words, if the angered owner of the dead animal takes matters into their own hands and seizes an equivalent amount of money or property from the guardian, the courts also do not have the legal standing to force them to pay it back. While we might not approve of the way in which the owner forcibly took payment, it may very well be that they were only taking what was theirs — so we let matters lie. 

Maimonides’ ruling gives some practical advice for an authority about how to handle this difficult situation. Given what we read in the Gemara, it makes a certain sense. But it does little to advise civil authorities as to how to calm challenging feelings that might arise if and when the parties choose to settle the matter with their own hands (and the fisticuff that might follow). At least we can be comforted knowing that it is very unlikely this circumstance will come about too often while we wait for Elijah to present us with a clearer solution.

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On today’s daf, Rabbah explains that there is actually a profound difference between the borrower and the guardian, with important legal implications. The context for his explanation is a discussion of what kinds of admissions require an oath. Guardians are required to take an oath every time someone else claims that they have accepted some kind of deposit (that the alleged guardian denies), entirely or in part. By contrast, borrowers are only required to take an oath if they admit that they borrowed some of the alleged amount but not all (a partial admission). Why the difference? Rabbah explains: 

There is a presumption that a person does not exhibit insolence in the presence of his creditor. 

Someone who lent you money is doing you a favor. The power dynamic between the borrower and the lender is pretty clear. We borrow money because we need money, whether for basic necessities, start-up capital, to buy a house, or something else. Someone lends us money (especially in a world where the rabbis do not expect people to charge interest) because they see that need and want to help out, at least in the short term. Given these dynamics, Rabbah insists that a borrower would never be so rude and shameless as to deny the loan entirely. 

So then why deny even a part of the loan? The anonymous voice of the Talmud speculates about how Rabbah would explain it:

And he wants to admit to all of it, and the fact that he denies him in part is because he reasons: If I admit to him with regard to all of it, he will lodge a claim against me with regard to all of it. I will evade him at least for now until I have money, and I will pay.

Therefore, the Merciful One imposes an oath on him, in order to ensure that he will admit to him with regard to all of it.

Even if a borrower might want to admit to the entire loan, they may fear that such an admission in court would cause the lender to demand full repayment immediately. While they would never have the gall to deny the loan entirely, that fear may lead them to admit only to the loan amount that they can currently repay — a partial admission. 

As the Talmud goes on to note, the power dynamics at play in a situation between a borrower and a lender are very different from those of an owner and a guardian. As the Talmud concludes its discussion of Rabbah’s opinion: 

And it is with regard to a loan that this can be said; but with regard to a deposit, he will exhibit insolence again and again. 

In the case of an owner and a guardian, the guardian doesn’t need anything from the owner. In fact, in the case of one who guards for free, the guardian might think of themselves as doing a favor for the money’s owner! 

Different power dynamics can lead to very different outcomes — which is why a guardian who disputes the owner’s claims must always take a formal oath, regardless of what they are claiming. 

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Today’s daf describes a situation in which two people disagree about whether one of them is holding the other’s money. As we have already learned, in such a situation, the one who denies holding his friend’s money must make an oath to that effect. Here Rav Huna shares Rav’s opinion about what happens if it turns out that the person who took the oath was lying: 

Later, witnesses came (and testified that it was a false oath), but he is exempt (from paying back the money), as it is stated: “And the owner thereof shall accept it, and he shall not make restitution” (Exodus 22:10); once the owner received an oath, he no longer pays monetary restitution.

According to Rav, if you’re liable for making a false oath, you can’t also be financially liable for the subject of the oath — apparently that’s the Talmud’s version of double jeopardy.

It’s not difficult to imagine why this teaching was controversial — it leaves a person who is owed money without recourse to collect it, simply because the scoundrel who had the money took a false oath. The Talmud goes on to describe a scene in which Rav Nahman teaches this halakhah and Rav Acha bar Minyumi pushes back. Let’s look at just one piece of this complicated question and answer series: 

Rav Aha bar Minyumi raised an objection to Rav Nahman (from a mishnah on 108b): 

If the owner asks the bailee: “Where is my deposit?” and the bailee said to him: “It is lost,” and the owner said, “I administer an oath to you, (swearing that it’s lost),” and he said: “Amen,” and the witnesses (later) testify about the bailee that he consumed the deposit, then the bailee pays the principal. If he admitted on his own (that he swore a false oath), he pays the principal and the one-fifth payment, and a guilt-offering.

Rav Aha bar Minyumi notes that a mishnah we’ll encounter on Bava Kamma 108 insists that one who makes a false oath about a deposit is required to pay back what they stole — even though they’ve taken a false oath! This mishnah seems to contradict Rav’s teaching — so what’s going on?

Rav Nahman said to him: With what are we dealing here? Where one takes an oath outside of court.

For Rav, according to Rav Nahman, the only kind of oath that would make repayment moot is a formal oath taken within the beit din, or rabbinic court. Informal oaths just wouldn’t have the same legal force. 

As the daf continues, Rav Aha bar Minyumi keeps raising challenges, and Rav Nahman keeps answering him, defending Rav’s teaching by narrowing its scope, insisting that, if we understand both the mishnah and Rav’s opinion correctly, they do not contradict each other. 

But then the rabbinic discussion takes a turn, making explicit what is going on beneath the surface:

Rami bar Hama said to Rav Nahman: After all, you do not hold with Rav; why are you pledging yourself to Rav’s opinion?

Apparently, for all his work explaining Rav’s opinion, Rav Nahman doesn’t actually agree with him! So Rami bar Hama asks the obvious question: Why is Rav Nahman bothering to defend him?

He said to him: To clarify Rav’s opinion, as Rav explains the mishnah in this way.

Rav Nahman could have answered Rav Acha bar Minyumi’s many questions by criticizing his opponent, saying that Rav was ignorant of the mishnah or contradicted the mishnah, or otherwise had not fully considered the wealth of rabbinic teaching. After all, that would certainly make it easier for him to insist that his own opinion is the right one. And, at the very least, he could have said that he too disagrees with Rav. 

But instead, Rav Nahman articulates a value in understanding his opponent’s position — and not only that, but in being intellectually honest about what Rav’s opinion actually is. And in so doing, he offers a powerful lesson for us all.

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As is their way, having set the limit, the rabbis commence to test that boundary: 

Rava says: If one robbed another of three bundles of goods that were worth three perutas in total, and they depreciated in value and their value stood at two perutas, even if he returned two bundles to the robbery victim he is obligated to return the other bundle.

Even though the third stolen bundle, the only one the robber has retained, is now worth less than a peruta, he is still required to return it. This is because at time of theft it was worth a full peruta, meeting the minimum threshold. And if the robber no longer has the object in his possession or if it has undergone a change, the robber must pay the owner a full peruta — in concert with the principle that one must compensate the owner based upon the value of an object at the time of the robbery. So this particular teaching does not challenge the peruta minimum threshold.

Moving on, Rava raises another case:

If one robbed another of two bundles of goods that were worth one peruta in total, and he returned one of them to the robbery victim, what is the halakhah? Do we say that now there is no longer a stolen item in the possession of the robber? Or perhaps we say that since the robber did not return the stolen item in its entirety, he is obligated to return the second bundle? 

This time, the value of the stolen goods is stable — one peruta. The robber returns one of the two bundles and retains the second, worth half a peruta. We could require the robber to return the second bundle because, despite its negligible value, it is part of what was stolen and until it is returned the robber hasn’t returned a full peruta to the victim. Alternatively, we could say that the robber is exempt from further payment since the value of the goods they have retained is insignificant. Rava opts for this second view:

There is no stolen item here, there is no returning of a stolen item here. 

The Gemara expresses surprise at this resolution: If the robber is no longer in possession of stolen property, shouldn’t Rava declare them in fulfillment of their obligation to give back what they stole? But he falls short of doing so, so what’s going on here? The Gemara responds to its own question and clarifies what Rava must have meant: Since the robber is in possession of less than one peruta of stolen goods, they are not obligated to give them back. At the same time, since that which the robber returned was also worth less then a peruta, it does not count at all and the robber hasn’t fulfilled their obligation to return what they stole, even partially. The letter of the law exempts the robber from having to return the small, almost worthless.

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The Talmud relates that Rav Yosef bar Hama, who lives in Mechoza (Babylonia), borrowed money from Rabbi Abba, who lives in Tiberias (in the land of Israel). When the debt came due, Rabbi Abba appointed Rav Safra, who was apparently traveling to Rav Yosef Bar Hama’s neighborhood, as his agent to collect the money. 

When Rav Safra went there, Rav Yosef bar Hama’s son Rava said to him: Did he write a receipt for you, stating, “I have received payment”?

Rav Safra said to him: No.

Rava responded: If so, first go and let him write you: “I have received.” 

Though the Talmud doesn’t tell us how old Rava is when these events take place, the fact that he lives at home with his father implies that he is still young. But already he has the sharp insights that will eventually make him a renowned rabbi. Rava refuses to let his father pay the agent without a written receipt from the debtor that the debt has been discharged. After all, what if the agent was not actually legitimate and Rabbi Abba eventually shows up insisting that he is still owed money? Such a receipt, presumably made out in advance, bolsters the agent’s credibility and also protects the debtor from having to pay the debt twice.

But then Rava realizes that even this premade receipt is not actually enough to protect his father: 

Ultimately, Rava said to him: Even if he writes you: “I have received payment,” it is nothing, since perhaps by the time you arrive back here, Rabbi Abba will have died and the money will fall before his orphans, and a document stating: “I have received payment,” by Rabbi Abba will be nothing. 

If Rabbi Abba dies while the agent is gone to collect his debt which, in the interim, is transferred to Rabbi Abba’s heirs, the original receipt from Rabbi Abba is invalid, and the heirs could come to Rav Yosef bar Hama insisting on being repaid — again. At this point, Rav Safra, the poor agent, sounds frustrated:

Rav Safra said to him: Rather, what is the rectification?

Again, Rava finds a solution:

Rava replied: Go, and Rabbi Abba will transfer (the debt) to you by means of land, and then you come and write for us: “I have received.”

In order for Rabbi Yosef bar Hama to give Rav Safra the money, Rava insists that Rav Safra has to be able to write a receipt that the debt has been paid off — immediately. In order to do that, he has to acquire the debt from Rabbi Abba, at least nominally. Then, he can take that money and give it to Rabbi Abba, but regardless of whether Rabbi Abba is still alive, Rabbi Yosef bar Hama would already have a valid legal receipt showing that he’s paid off what he owes.

This story offers a clever solution to the problem of discharging a debt owed to someone in a different city when neither party can travel. It features a young Rava who is not only obviously in possession of a brilliant legal mind, but is committed to protecting his father from predatory lenders and agents. Where we expect parents to work to protect children, here it is the son protecting his father, and establishing legal precedent at the same time. 

I am struck that everyone in this story is a rabbi — lender, borrower and agent. They are all members of the same, relatively small community, united by a shared commitment to particular values and ways of understanding the world. And yet, this elaborate set of transactions is based not on trust but on verification. Receipts are important, even crucial, to the process of lending each other money and paying it back — even when we are all friends.

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One who robs his friend of an item worth at least one peruta and swears falsely to him (that he did not take it, and then later wishes to repent) must bring payment even as far as Medea. The robber may not give the payment to the victim’s son, or to his agent, but he may give it to an agent of the court. And if the victim dies, the robber returns it to his heirs.

The robber in this case has committed two transgressions: he stole and he swore falsely. Both sins are forbidden by the Ten Commandments, the laws that form the very foundation of a just society. Interestingly, the Gemara tells us that a robber who stole but did not swear falsely does not need to go to any length to repay the victim. But in a case of theft and false oath, the robber must not only make restitution, but he must do it face to face, even if the victim has moved far away to Medea, in the Persian Empire. Why would this be necessary?

One suggestion comes from Rashi, who explains: “There is no atonement for (the robber) until he returns it to the actual person from which he stole.” According to Rashi, the reason the robber needs to do this is to achieve atonement for his sin. Those who have studied the laws of repentance know that even if a person prays for forgiveness to God, their sins are not wiped clean until they have sought forgiveness from the person they wronged. 

Maimonides looks at the matter from the perspective of the victim. “The rationale is that once the robber took a false oath, the owner has despaired of the return of his property and will not demand it again.” (Mishneh Torah, Robbery and Lost Property 7:9) Maimonides considers the issue of despair that we encountered earlier in this tractate, positing that if the robber swore falsely that he didn’t steal from the victim, the owner will by now have given up any hope of its recovery. Therefore, the robber not only needs to provide restitution, but admit to — and apologize for — the false testimony. But why does all this need to be done face to face (or if the victim cannot be reached, before the court)? 

In exploring this matter, Rabbi Jay Kelman observes: “Reconciliation requires a face-to-face meeting. This is an especially important message for our generation where texting, Facebook, email, and a host of other social media I have never heard of have replaced face-to-face discussion.” 

True restitution cannot be accomplished without looking the person that has been wronged in the eye and saying, “I stole, I lied about it, and I’m sorry.” Anything short of that leaves both the perpetrator and the victim without something they need to move on: The perpetrator can’t achieve full atonement, and the victim will go on believing that the stolen item is lost forever. 

Read all of Bava Kamma 103 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 13th, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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When the Mishnah records a dispute, and afterward an unattributed opinion, then the halakhah is in accordance with the unattributed opinion.

In short, if the Mishnah records a dispute and then later records an opinion that embraces one position in that dispute without attribution, that opinion carries the day. 

The mishnah that prompts the articulation of this rule is on Bava Kama 100 and it describes a dispute over what happens if someone pays to have wool dyed a particular color but the dyer does a different color. (We saw a discussion of this case back on Bava Kamma 95.) According to Rabbi Meir, the dyer gives the wool owner the value of the wool. Rabbi Yehuda disagrees, saying that the wool owner should reimburse the dyer his expenses if the enhanced value of the wool is greater than those expenses. If not, then the owner must pay the amount of the wool’s increased value. 

So that’s the dispute. But where’s the unattributed opinion that would bring this principle into play? Hint: we’ll be getting to it later this year: 

And the unattributed mishnah is in tractate Bava Metzia (76a), as we learned: Whoever changes (from the terms of an agreement) is at a disadvantage, and whoever reneges (from an agreement) is at a disadvantage. 

In essence, the mishnah says that a person who fails to live up to their obligations under an agreement bears the loss, to the extent there is one. The Gemara understands this principle to align with the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda. It is the wool dyer who failed to fulfill their obligations, and the wool dyer who must therefore be disadvantaged, and in Rabbi Yehuda’s view of the law, that’s just what happens. Since the wool owner pays the lesser of the expenses or the enhancement, not the full price agreed upon at the start, he winds up in a better financial position then he would have otherwise been. 

According to the principle articulated above, the unattributed position, and by inference Rabbi Yehuda’s opinion, is therefore the law. But Bava Metzia is a whole different tractate from Bava Kamma. That’s a pretty big distance. The order may be right — the unattributed opinion certainly comes “afterward,” but pretty far afterward. The rabbis too see this as a challenge to be resolved. Rav Huna specifically attributes the anonymous opinion in Bava Metzia to Rabbi Yehuda, but Rav Yosef questions why it’s necessary to say that. If the principle is applicable here, it shouldn’t be necessary for Rav Huna to say that. It should be obvious that it is Rabbi Yehuda’s opinion. 

It is necessary, as it would enter your mind to say that the Mishnah is not sequential and is an unattributed ruling followed by a dispute. And why does Rav Yosef disagree? Because if that is so, then every case where a dispute is recorded and afterward an unattributed opinion is recorded, let us say: The Mishnah is not sequential, and this is a case of an unattributed ruling followed by a dispute.

Rav Yehuda points out that “afterward” is kind of a strange concept in the context of the Talmud. Topics are addressed all over the place, often with no semblance of order. We don’t typically think of an opinion that comes in a subsequent tractate as truly “later” in a sequential way. It’s just elsewhere. While Rav Huna doesn’t say so explicitly, his take challenges the general principle because, really, what does “afterward” mean in these texts? And Rav Yosef points this out: If we’re going to ignore the massive gap here, we could do that all the time, which would make a hash of the Talmud and undermine the halakhic decision-making process.

Rav Huna returns to clean things up a bit:

And Rav Huna would respond: The situation where we do not say that the Mishnah is not sequential is in one tractate, but in two tractates we say (not sequential). 

And Rav Yosef would respond: All of Nezikin is one tractate.

Rav Huna narrows the original statement — a bit. The principle applies only when the dispute and the unattributed opinion occur in the same tractate. Rav Yosef responds that the entire order of Nezikin is one big tractate, and so the fact that the unattributed opinion occurs in a later tractate is irrelevant. 

As often happens in talmudic discussions, we don’t have a resolution to this question. But we can learn two things. The first is the general principle stated above: When only one unattributed opinion follows a dispute, that opinion wins. Second, sequence and order are strange things in the Mishnah, and the rabbis themselves can’t quite agree on when it matters and when not.

Read all of Bava Kamma 102 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on February 12th, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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