Although this count of mitzvot is known from antiquity and mentioned elsewhere, its longest treatment in the Talmud began in the last lines of yesterday’s daf:

Rabbi Simlai taught: There were 613 mitzvot stated to Moses in the Torah, consisting of 365 prohibitions corresponding to the number of days in the solar year and 248 positive mitzvot corresponding to the number of a person’s organs. 

Rav Hamnuna said: What is the verse that alludes to this? It is written: “Moses commanded us the Torah …” (Deuteronomy 33:4) The word Torah, in terms of its numerical value, is 611. In addition, there are two mitzvot: “I am the Lord your God,” and, “You shall have no other gods,” (Exodus 20:2, 3) that we heard from the mouth of the Almighty.

According to the reckoning of Rabbi Simlai, the number of mitzvot has resonant symbolic significance, corresponding to every day of the year and every part of the human body, suggesting that all of our beings should be engaged in mitzvot on all of our days. If that’s not adequately compelling, Rabbi Hamnuna finds a cryptic allusion to the number in Deuteronomy 33:4, where Moses commands “Torah” (whose gematria value is 611). This is supplemented by two additional commandments that come straight from the mouth of God, for a total of 613. An alternative rabbinic derivation found outside the Talmud, and also based in gematria, notes that the word for ritual fringes, tzitzit, has the value of 600. Combine this with the eight threads and five sets of knots, we arrive again at the number 613.

The commandments in the Torah aren’t conveniently numbered, so where can we find a list of all 613 mitzvot? The Talmud, devoted as it is to advanced legal discussions and problems, never enumerates them. Turns out, it’s no simple task to count them up: Consider that even the first words of the Ten Commandments quoted above — “I am the Lord, you shall have no other gods before me” — don’t obviously constitute two commandments or even two separate statements, yet they are interpreted as such by Rav Hamnuna. Many post-talmudic Jewish scholars, from Nahmanides to the Vilna Gaon, question Rabbi Simlai’s math, mostly asserting that 613 is an undercount. As Ibn Ezra poetically puts it: “I have seen wise scribes count up the 613 commandments in many ways … in truth, there is no end to the number of commandments, as the psalmist (119:96) said: I have seen that all things have their limit, but Your commandment is broad beyond measure.”

The task of listing all 613 commandments was taken up by later interpreters starting with Moses Maimonides, who prefaced the Mishneh Torah with an enumeration. Several other medieval books by esteemed Jewish scholars subsequently did this as well. But the Talmud on today’s daf goes in a different direction: Rather than try to list all the commandments, it distills their essence. Let’s hear more from Rabbi Simlai:

King David came and established the 613 mitzvot upon 11 mitzvot, as it is written: “A Psalm of David. Lord, who shall sojourn in Your Tabernacle? Who shall dwell upon Your sacred mountain? He who walks wholeheartedly, and works righteousness, and speaks truth in his heart. Who has no slander upon his tongue, nor does evil to his neighbor, nor takes up reproach against his relative. In whose eyes a vile person is despised, and he honors those who fear the Lord; he takes an oath to his own detriment, and changes not. He neither gives his money with interest, nor takes a bribe against the innocent. He who performs these shall never be moved.” (Psalm 15)

This, says Rabbi Simlai, is an encapsulation of all of God’s mitzvot: to act in accordance with the eleven righteous behaviors of Psalm 15, including speaking truth, honoring the righteous, keeping one’s word and eschewing bribes.

But the commandments can be further distilled, argue Rabbi Simlai’s colleagues. If you wish to find the true basis of the mitzvot, look no further than the prophets:

Micah came and established the 613 mitzvot upon three, as it is written: “It has been told to you, O man, what is good, and what the Lord does require of you; only to do justly, and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)

This is a formulation that can be easily memorized, but the Gemara continues, citing the prophet Isaiah’s phrase — “observe justice and perform righteousness” (56:1) — as a candidate for the two primary mitzvot from which all others derive. And in the interests of even further distillation, the discussion concludes with two candidates for the single mitzvah that is the basis of all others:

Amos came and established the 613 mitzvot upon one, as it is stated: “So says the Lord to the house of Israel: Seek Me and live.” (Amos 5:4) 

Rav Nahman bar Yitzhak objects to this: Amos is saying: Seek Me throughout the entire Torah. Rather, say: Habakkuk came and established the 613 mitzvot upon one, as it is stated: “But the righteous person shall live by his faith.” (2:4)

It is fitting that this particular sugya ends with a disagreement about the single commandment that underpins all the rest. Is it, as Amos says, to seek God? Or is it found in the words of Habakkuk, who adjures us to live by faith? Either way, the intellectual progression is clear: The many, many concrete (and abstract) commandments of the Torah are, at base, a set of moral instructions about living a good life — which is accomplished through and because of God. That is perhaps one of the pithiest expressions of what Judaism is all about. The rest, as Hillel famously said, is commentary.

Read all of Makkot 24 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on May 2, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 24 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

All those liable to receive karet (excision) who were flogged are exempted from karet, as it is stated: “And your brother shall be debased before your eyes” (Deuteronomy 25:3), indicating: Once he is flogged he is as your brother, as his sin has been atoned and he is no longer excised from the Jewish people — this is the statement of Rabbi Hananya ben Gamliel.

The mishnah’s ruling is radical because it overrides divine punishment (karet) with punishment and exemption decreed by a human court (flogging). It asserts human judicial supremacy over God’s judgment. 

Rabbi Hananya ben Gamliel then makes a second theological assertion using the classic rabbinic logic of kal va’homer, arguing from a minor case to a major case.

And Rabbi Hananya ben Gamliel says: Now if it’s the case that a person who commits a single transgression has his life taken from him (by God) on that account, how much more so is it the case that a person who performs a single commandment has his life handed over to him (by God) on that account! 

At first glance, this is not a terribly original assertion. It’s founded upon the rabbinic belief that the reward for performing mitzvot is greater than the punishment for committing transgressions. However what Rabbi Shimon does with it is also quite radical:

Rabbi Shimon says: It is derived from its own place in the Torah, as it is stated (at the conclusion of the passage discussing intercourse with forbidden relatives): “And the souls that perform them shall be excised,” (Leviticus 18:29) and it states toward the beginning of that chapter: “That a person shall perform and live by them.” (Leviticus 18:5) It is inferred that with regard to one who sits and did not perform a transgression, God gives him a reward like that received by one who performs a mitzvah.

Rabbi Shimon reminds us that Rabbi Hananya ben Gamliel’s teaching comes in the context of discussing karet-level sins and, by implication, must refer to refraining from such sins. The commandment that incurs reward isn’t just any commandment, but specifically the commandment to refrain from violating any of these severe prohibitions. (The rabbis’ language for this in Hebrew is sheiv v’al ta’aseh, literally, “sit and do nothing.”) At least in this context, refraining from sinning is transformed from a passive state of non-action to an active state of mitzvah performance. This is not how positive mitzvot, those of action rather than refraining, are usually understood.

Rabbi Shimon provides us with textual support for this idea from his close reading of the beginning and ending of Leviticus 18. He then explicitly confirms this unique understanding of refraining from all sin (not just karet-level sins, but even sins like theft, as we’ll see below) as a kind of positive commandment:

… Regarding one who sits and does not perform a transgression, God gives him a reward like that received by one who performs a mitzvah.

This teaching significantly modifies the concept of reward (for commandments) and punishment (for sin). Not only is the reward for doing a mitzvah (being given life by God) greater than the punishment for committing a sin (having your life taken from you by God); merely refraining from sinning is itself a mitzvah which brings a person the greatest reward of life from God.

How could Rabbi Shimon arrive at this seemingly radical interpretation? The last part of the mishnah helps us to better understand his reasoning: 

The verse states: “But make sure that you do not partake of the blood; for the blood is the life, and you must not consume the life with the flesh … You must not partake of it, in order that it may go well with you and with your descendants to come…” (Deuteronomy 12:23, 26) Now if regarding blood, which a person’s soul loathes, one who abstains from eating it receives a reward for that action, how much more so is it the case that one who abstains from robbery and forbidden sexual union, which a person’s soul desires and covets, will receive a reward: he, his descendants and his descendants’ descendants until the end of all generations!

Once again, the mishnah uses the logic of kal va’homer to make an important point. Human sinful impulses can be so powerful that it takes all our energy and moral integrity to resist them, to just sit and do nothing. This passive resistance to sin demands of us huge internal action, and it thus becomes, as it were, a unique kind of positive commandment. This entire teaching gently moves divine commands and consequences to the margins of the human moral drama. God tells us what is demanded of us, yet we decide how to deal with the violations of those demands. We also decide how to transform moral self-restraint into spiritual and halakhic activism.

Read all of Makkot 23 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on May 1, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 23 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

And it shall be, if the wicked person is worthy to be flogged, the judge will have the person lie down, and they shall be beaten in the presence of the judge by a certain number. Forty lashes they may give the person, but not more: lest being flogged further, to excess, your kinsperson be degraded before your eyes. (Deuteronomy 25:2–3)

Deuteronomy seems relatively straightforward — flog a person with a number of lashes appropriate to the crime, up to a maximum of 40 lashes. But that is not most rabbis’ interpretation, as today’s mishnah states:

With how many lashes does one flog a person sentenced to receive lashes? Forty lashes less one. 

Rabbi Yehuda says: A person is flogged with a full 40 lashes.

According to the tanna kamma (the anonymous first opinion) the maximum lash number is 39, one less than the maximum prescribed in the Torah. Interestingly, there is evidence outside rabbinic texts this was the standard among Jews in antiquity. In the New Testament, Paul asserts that he has been beaten with 39 lashes by the Jews on five different occasions (2 Corinthians 11:24). But why did 39 become the standard number of lashes for Jews to administer? The Gemara suggests a midrashic explanation: 

What is the reason that the tanna kama says that the person receives 40 lashes less one? If it had been written, “40, by a certain number,” I would say that it means 40 as a precise sum; now that it is written, “by a certain number, 40,” the Torah indicates that it means a sum that approaches 40, i.e. 39. 

The text of the Torah is unpunctuated and its division into verses was not as formalized in the rabbinic era as it is today. Reading the two verses as one, the Gemara explains that had the word order been reversed, we would conclude that 40 lashes were allowed, but given the actual word order, the Torah is indicating a number that is close but not equal to 40 — i.e., 39.

This reading may feel a bit stretched. Perhaps for that reason Rava declares:

Rava said: How foolish are the rest of the people who stand before a Torah scroll and do not stand before a great man. Forty is written in a Torah scroll, but the sages came and subtracted one.

Rava acknowledges that the average reader will interpret the requirement in Deuteronomy as 40 lashes and states that would be an error. He praises the rabbis for their creative reading that reduces the penalty by one lash. In doing so, he reminds us that those who interpret a text — in this case the rabbis — ultimately have the power to determine what it means.

We still might wonder why the rabbis read Deuteronomy this way. It is Maimonides who gives us a more scrutable explanation: Forty, he says, is indeed the maximum permissible number; however, we limit ourselves to 39 as a precaution lest the person administering the flogging exceeds the prescribed limit by inadvertently adding an extra lash. In providing logical support for the reduction in lashes, Maimonides may be suggesting that the midrashic reading of the biblical verses is not the source of the tanna kama’s position, but rather an asmakhtah (a hint of biblical support).

Read all of Makkot 22 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 30, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 22 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

One who imprints a tattoo is liable to receive lashes. If one imprinted on the skin with a dye but did not carve the skin, or if one carved the skin but did not imprint the tattoo by adding a dye, he is not liable. He is not liable until he imprints and carves the skin, with ink, or with kohl, or with any substance that marks.

Rabbi Shimon ben Yehuda says in the name of Rabbi Shimon: He is liable only if he writes the name there, as it is stated: “And a tattoo inscription you shall not place upon you, I am the Lord.” (Leviticus 19:28)

The anonymous first tanna in this mishnah states that a person violates the prohibition on tattooing if they cut their skin and add dye or ink of some kind into the wound. This seems to be a blanket prohibition on tattooing. But Rabbi Shimon has a less strict view of the prohibition: He seems to believe most tattoos are perfectly acceptable, the only exceptions are those that contain “the name.”

Rabbi Shimon’s comment is cryptic. What name is prohibited? God’s name? Someone else’s? The Gemara is also unsure:

Rav Aha, son of Rava, said to Rav Ashi: Is Rabbi Shimon saying that one is liable only if he actually inscribes the words “I am the Lord” in his skin?

Rav Ashi said to him: No, he is saying as bar Kappara teaches: One is liable only if he inscribes a name of an object of idol worship, as it is stated: “And a tattoo inscription you shall not place upon you, I am the Lord,” which means: Do not place an idolatrous name on your skin, as I am the Lord, and no one else.

Leviticus 19:28, which states the prohibition on tattooing and then declares “I am the Lord.” (“Lord” is often how God’s proper name, Adonai, is rendered in English translation.) Rabbi Shimon uses this phrase as proof that it is unacceptable to tattoo a name, but the rabbis of the Gemara are unclear if what is unacceptable is tattooing God’s proper name, or the name of another god. 

This remains unsolved by the Gemara, but it doesn’t entirely matter for those interested in practical halakhah because Rabbi Shimon’s view is not accepted. The phrase “I am the Lord” is used throughout the Torah as a reminder of God’s authority: Follow this rule just stated because I alone am Adonai. Most rabbis hold that this is its function in Leviticus 19:28 as well. The anonymous view in the mishnah, that all tattoos are forbidden, becomes standard.

To prevent even the appearance of a violation of the tattoo prohibition, the Gemara considers whether other less permanent marks are a problem. For example:

Rav Malkiyya says that Rav Adda bar Ahava says: It is prohibited for a person to place burnt ashes on his wound to promote healing, because it looks like a tattoo.

Traditional (and some modern) healing practices include packing a wound with ashes, which are sterile, slightly acidic (therefore inhibiting some bacterial growth) and contain antiseptic and anti-inflammatory minerals. But this would turn the wound black and give the appearance of a tattoo, which concerns Rav Adda bar Ahava. On the other hand:

Rav Ashi says: Any place where there is a wound, his wound proves itself.
Rav Ashi points out that most wounds do not look like intentional tattoos. As a result, we needn’t be concerned that others will see this as a transgression. Later halakhic authorities agree with Rav Ashi. The only prohibition here is on true tattoos.

Read all of Makkot 21 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 29, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 21 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Hairstyle says a lot about a person’s culture, who they want to be in the world, and how they want others to see them. And while some folks might try to dismiss the importance of hair as silly, or as a “woman’s issue,” in Judaism there is just as much emphasis — if not more — on men’s hair.

Many people know that Leviticus 19:27 contains the following prohibition: “You shall not round off the corners on your head, or destroy the corners of your beard.” This is the reason that many Jewish men have sidelocks and beards — so they do not violate this prohibition. But there are two lesser-known prohibitions on men’s hair.

Regarding priests, Leviticus 21:5 states: “They shall not shave smooth any part of their heads, or cut the side-growth of their beards, or make gashes in their flesh.” The Torah has no concern about a naturally balding priest, but one who intentionally removes a portion of the hair on his head is in violation of divine law. Similarly, speaking specifically to mourners, Deuteronomy 14:1 states: “You shall not gash yourselves or shave the front of your heads because of the dead.” Reading further in Deuteronomy, it seems the immediate concern is imitating the practices of idolatrous neighbors.

Interestingly, both prohibitions on shaving a bald spot, stated for priests and mourners, also forbid violent self-harm. This suggests that, from the Torah’s perspective, the former was as disfiguring as the latter. Medieval commentators are not entirely sure what to make of these twinned prohibitions. Rashi seems to think that the concern in Deuteronomy is presenting a dignified appearance, while Abravanel sees the Torah as concerned about extreme mourning behaviors, of which these apparently qualify. 

We’ve seen cases where the Talmud limits the application of a prohibition that may no longer feel relevant or even morally defensible — such as in the notorious cases of the sotah (the woman suspected of adultery) and the ben sorer u’moreh (the stubborn and rebellious child). But on today’s daf, we see no indication that the rabbis are uncomfortable with this law forbidding a priest or mourner from shaving part of the hair on their head. As with other Torah prohibitions discussed in this tractate, the rabbis hold that the punishment for intentional violation is makkot, lashes. Moreover:

One might have thought that even if he created four or five bald spots, he will be liable to only one set of lashes. Therefore, the verse states: “Bald spot,” to make him liable for each and every bald spot.

The verse that prohibits priests from making a bald spot is phrased in the singular, which the rabbis read as making one liable for lashes for every single intentionally-created bald patch.

Today, no Jews actively serve as priests in the Temple, but the concern about what we communicate with our public presentation still influences the Jewish mourning practice of not shaving while in mourning. 

From a religious and cultural perspective, then, hair really is more than something that grows on our bodies. What we do with our hair speaks to how we present ourselves and our people in the world, how we mourn our dead and the traditions we honor.

Read all of Makkot 20 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 28, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 20 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

In the Jewish system of agricultural tithes, the second tithe (ma’aser sheni) applies to produce harvested in the first, second, fourth and fifth years of every sabbatical cycle. Second tithed produce is either brought to Jerusalem and eaten there in a state of ritual purity or redeemed, meaning it is sold and the money used to purchase food in Jerusalem — which is subsequently consumed in a state of ritual purity within the city limits. Consuming ma’aser sheni outside of Jerusalem is punishable by flogging, which explains why we find discussions about it in Tractate Makkot, including the following:

Rav Hanina and Rav Hoshaya sat, and a dilemma was raised before them: If the second tithe produce is at the entrance of Jerusalem, what is the law?

Before arriving in Jerusalem, ma’aser sheni produce can be redeemed but not eaten. Once the tithed produce enters the city, it must be eaten and can no longer be redeemed. But what about the boundary situation when the produce is at the gate? 

Perhaps an image of the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, or one of its gates, just popped into your mind. The current walls are thick and studded with the gates, like the Damascus Gate or the Jaffa Gate, that are actual buildings. But these walls post-date the rabbinic period by more than a millennium. In the Babylonian study hall where Rav Hanina and Rav Hoshaya sat, we find a discussion that suggests the walls and gates in their era were far less hefty:

It is obvious in a case where one is outside Jerusalem and his burden of second tithe produce is inside Jerusalem that the tithe is admitted by the walls of Jerusalem. But in a case where one is inside Jerusalem and his burden of second tithe produce is outside Jerusalem, what is the law?

Instead of something like a building, the Gemara describes a much less magnificent portal that is thin enough to allow for a person to still be outside the city even after the burden of produce that they carry before them arrives inside. The Gemara clarifies that while there is no doubt that once the produce is inside the city it cannot be redeemed, if the person enters the city and the produce remains behind them still on the outside, its status is ambiguous. 

An elder cites a midrashic reading, credited to the school of Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai, of Deuteronomy 14:24:

It is written: “As if the journey (to Jerusalem) is too far from you (mimmekha)…” and should be read as “from your fullness (mimmilluakha),” indicating that if any part of the person is inside the city, it is as though the load they carry is also inside the city.

Instead of understanding the verse to be talking about the distance between your home and Jerusalem, which is the literal meaning, it is understood to be referring to the distance between you and your baggage. As such, the conclusion is reached that once a part of you has physically entered Jerusalem, that which you are carrying is considered to be there as well even if it hasn’t quite cleared the threshold yet.

This doesn’t entirely settle the question. Rav Pappa asks: What if one is holding the second-tithe produce on a reed which is suspended behind him? Does it make a difference if the produce is not in direct contact with one’s body? Teyku, says the Gemara, we do not know the answer to this question.

Did this discussion have practical implications? We can imagine that, having reached the city gate, a tithe-carrying traveler might be tempted to stop in its shade and satisfy their hunger after the long trek through the hills that surround Jerusalem. Knowing they need not necessarily nudge all that produce over the threshold before taking a nosh can give them peace of mind that they are fulfilling a commandment rather than setting themselves up for a flogging.

Read all of Makkot 19 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 27, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 19 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The ritual of offering the bikkurim is described in the Torah, Deuteronomy 26:1–10. As you read it, pay attention to the various steps of the ritual:

When you enter the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish the divine name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, “I acknowledge this day before the Lord your God that I have entered the land that the Lord swore to our fathers to assign us.” The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God. You shall then recite as follows before the Lord your God: “My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents, bringing us to this place and giving us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, Lord, have given me.” You shall leave it before the Lord your God and bow low before the Lord your God.

Bikkurim is a unique tradition. While sacrifices emphasize physical actions, this one centers verbal recitation of a specific declaration. It is a moment of storytelling.

The Talmud raises an apparent contradiction in traditions of how Rabbi Elazar in the name of Rabbi Hoshaya understood the significance of the bikkurim declaration:

Rabbi Elazar says that Rabbi Hoshaya says: With regard to first fruits, failing to place them alongside the altar invalidates them, but failing to recite the accompanying Torah verses does not invalidate them.

And did Rabbi Elazar say that? But doesn’t Rabbi Elazar say that Rabbi Hoshaya says: If one set aside first fruits before the festival and the festival elapsed over them (they remained in his possession), they shall be left to decay (as they cannot be rendered fit for consumption). What, is it not that they cannot be rendered fit due to the fact that he can no longer recite the Torah verses over them? And if it enters your mind to say that the lack of recitation does not invalidate them, why must they be left to decay?

One tradition holds that Rabbi Elazar taught in the name of Rabbi Hoshaya that while not placing the first fruits in front of the altar invalidates the offering, not reciting the declaration has no effect on the offering’s validity. The words are, on this view, non-essential. A second tradition, however, implies that Rabbi Elazar taught in the name of Rabbi Hoshaya that without reciting the declaration within the appropriate time interval of the festival, the bikkurim cannot be brought. The Gemara resolves the apparent contradiction:

Rabbi Elazar holds in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Zeira, as Rabbi Zeira says: For any measure of flour that is suitable for mixing with oil in a meal offering, the lack of mixing does not invalidate the meal offering. And for any measure of flour that is not suitable for mixing with oil in a meal offering, the lack of mixing invalidates the meal offering. 

Even though there is a requirement to mix the oil and the flour in a meal offering, says Rabbi Zeira, the meal offering is fit for sacrifice even when the oil and the flour are not mixed — provided that the flour was suitable for mixing to begin with. This logic is extended to bikkurim: Although failure to recite the Torah verses does not invalidate the first fruits for consumption by the priest, that applies only when reciting the formula is possible. After the season has passed, and offering bikkurim is no longer possible, failure to recite the Torah verses invalidates the first fruits.

What is particularly interesting to me to consider is this: Jewish tradition is full of detailed, highly-prescribed rituals, but entire modern Jewish movements have been based on questions regarding the extent to which ritual itself matters. Perhaps surprisingly, the Talmud asks a similar question about bikkurim: Does it matter what, if anything, is said in completing this ritual? And, further down the daf, does it matter what actions are or are not performed? These questions extend far beyond the bikkurim, and we continue to grapple with them today.

Read all of Makkot 18 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 15, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 18 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Today’s mishnah addresses the question of how the transgressor of this mitzvah is punished: 

Rabbi Yehuda says: He is flogged, and does not send (the bird away).

And the rabbis say: He sends (the bird away) and is not flogged.

This is the principle: Any prohibition that entails a command to arise and perform, he is not liable to lashes for its violation.

Based on the parallel discussion in Hullin 141a, Rashi explains that Rabbi Yehuda reads the biblical verses as requiring a specific order of activities in order to fulfill the mitzvah: First send away the mother bird, then take the fledglings. Since that order has been irrevocably violated, the sinner is punished with lashes. However, as Rashi explains, the rabbis don’t read the verse as requiring a specific order of actions. As long as he can still send the mother bird away and does so, he is spared from lashes. 

The mishnah concludes with a general principle, that the performance of any prohibition that can be solved by doing something should be solved. It is more important to fix what went wrong than to punish the original transgressor. It’s worth noting that the Talmud does not address this general principle in its discussion of the laws of flogging. For that, we’ll have to wait for the discussion of animal slaughter in Tractate Hullin. But there is a rich Jewish tradition of thinking about this law of sending away the mother bird. 

There are four biblical laws that address the idea of animal families: the law of shiluach ha-kan, the prohibition against cooking a goat in its mother’s milk (Exodus 23:19 and others), the command to let a newborn animal stay with its mother for a week after birth (Exodus 22:29) and the prohibition against slaughtering an animal and its mother on the same day (Leviticus 22:28). As Beth Berkowitz has noted, already 2,000 years ago, Jewish interpreters like Philo saw these laws as God’s way of teaching human beings compassion for those animals who we use as food.   

But as Berkowitz has argued, these laws of animal families do even more than that: “Even if rhetorical parallels are just that — rhetorical, in language only, and not reflective of anything like real equity — they still point to pathways of thinking similarly about human and animal families that go back to the Bible.” 

What might it mean to recognize that animals have their own complicated, species-specific forms of family? That these family relationships are emotionally significant and need to be recognized as such (even or perhaps especially for the meat eaters among us)? And in light of the mishnah on today’s daf, what does it mean to prioritize making those relationships right? 

Read all of Makkot 17 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 25, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 17 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Read all of Makkot 16 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 16, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 16 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Rabba bar bar Hana says that Rabbi Yohanan says: With regard to any prohibition that has a positive mitzvah that preceded it, everyone agrees that one is flogged for its violation.

Today’s analysis is technical, so please bear with it. Recall that a positive mitzvah is something a person is commanded to do, while a negative mitzvah is something they are commanded not to do. Sometimes, positive and negative mitzvahs come in pairs. For example: Numbers 5:2–3, which we explored yesterday, presents a positive mitzvah to remove those who are impure from the Israelite camp followed by a prohibition against rendering the camp impure. While flogging is the standard punishment for violating a negative mitzvah, such as rendering the camp impure, the rabbis typically assume it can be allayed by following the positive mitzvah — removing the impure people from the camp. However, says Rabbi Yohanan, that is not so: When the positive commandment precedes the negative one in the biblical text, even if the positive mitzvah (in this case, the removal from the camp) is completed, if the negative mitzvah (contamination of the camp) is violated, the punishment (flogging) is administered.

Here’s where things take an interesting turn. Rabbi Yohanan’s ruling is surprising enough that his colleagues question him about it:

They said to Rabbi Yohanan: Did you say this halakhah?

Rabbi Yohanan said to them: No.

Rabba bar bar Hana said: By God, he said it, and this halakhah is written in the Torah and we learn it in the mishnah.

When asked directly if he is the source of this statement, Rabbi Yohanan denies having taught it. But Rabba bar bar Hana is adamant and even swears an oath that Rabbi Yohanan is his source.

Interestingly, the Gemara does not choose between the two but takes both rabbis at their word and assumes that Rabba bar bar Hana did indeed learn this principle from Rabbi Yohanan who subsequently changed his mind and stopped teaching it. The Gemara brings us the case that it believes led to Rabbi Yohanan’s change of heart:

Deuteronomy 22:28–29 says that, “If a man comes upon a virgin who is not engaged and he seizes her and lies with her, and they are discovered, the party who lay with her shall pay the girl’s father 50 shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife. Because he has violated her, he may not send her away all his days.”

The Torah requires someone who sexually assaults a woman to then marry her, thereby taking responsibility for the financial harm they have done to her in reducing her bride price. In the modern era, in which we expect not just financial justice but also emotional and sexual safety between partners, this is of course deeply troubling. Setting that discussion aside, let’s see how application of this Torah law proves Rabbi Yohanan changed his mind about positive and negative mitzvot and their attendant punishments: 

A sexual assaulter who divorced the woman he assaulted, if he is a non-priest, he remarries her, and he is not flogged for violating the prohibition. 

If he is a priest, he is flogged for violating the prohibition, and he does not remarry her because it is prohibited for him to marry a divorcee. 

The fate of an attacker who violates a negative prohibition by divorcing his wife is dependent upon his status. If the attacker was a priest, he is unable to remarry her — because priests are forbidden from marrying divorcees — so in that case he is flogged for violating the negative commandment. If, however, he is a non-priest and remarries the woman, this beraita exempts him from flogging — even though the verses that prohibit him from divorcing her are preceded by the positive commandment to marry her. The general principle taught by Rabbi Yohanan would not afford him the same relief from punishment. In the face of this beraita that contradicts him, Rabbi Yohanan discontinued the teaching of his principlel.

The discussion continues, with Rava suggesting that Rabbi Yohanan may not have needed to stop teaching his principle. Since the verse says, “he may not send her away all his days,” Rabbi Yohanan could have argued the man was allowed to send her away for some of his days. In other words, as long as he remarried her while he still had days yet to live, he could fulfill his requirement and would not be subject to a punishment. In the meantime, although he is temporarily in violation of the verse, it would be premature to flog him until we are certain that he will not remarry her before he dies. By this logic, Rabbi Yohanan’s statement does not contradict the beraita.

The Talmud can become more challenging as it becomes ever more theoretical. There are a stunning number of levels to today’s discussion. On one level, the Gemara explores specific cases — such as the case of someone who renders their encampment impure, or who divorces the woman he was obligated to marry. On another level, there is a more abstract question about twinned positive and negative commandments, and whether fulfilling the positive remedy can cancel the flogging prescribed for violating the negative prohibition. Above that, there is a question about whether Rabbi Yohanan holds a unique view about these twinned mitzvot based upon the order that they appear in the Torah — and whether he ever changed his mind. And even above that, the Gemara asks whether he perhaps should have reasoned differently about changing his mind. Often, the discussion is happening at all these different layers at once, and that is part of what makes Gemara both challenging and rewarding.

Read all of Makkot 15 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 23, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 15 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Regarding an impure person who enters the Temple, there is a punishment, as it is written: “He has rendered impure the Tabernacle of the Lord, and that soul shall be excised.” (Numbers 19:13) And there is a prohibition, as it is written: “And they shall not render their camp impure.” (Numbers 5:3)

But with regard to a ritually impure person who ate sacrificial food, granted, a punishment is written: “And the soul that eats from the flesh of a peace-offering that pertains to the Lord and his impurity is upon him, and that soul shall be excised.” (Leviticus 7:20). But from where is a prohibition derived?

In the case of the first act, entering the Temple in a state of impurity, the Torah states both that it is prohibited (Numbers 5:3) and that it incurs the punishment of karet (Numbers 19:13). But in the case of the second act, eating sacrificial meat in a state of impurity, the Torah prescribes a punishment but does not explicitly prohibit the action. Logically, we might be willing to infer that the prescription of a punishment implies the action is prohibited, but the rabbis want a more solid basis for making that judgment. So the Gemara asks how we can biblically derive the prohibition and Rabbi Yohanan, citing an authority named Bardela, supplies the answer:

Rabbi Yohanan says that a sage named Bardela teaches: The matter is derived from “his impurity” and “his impurity.”

Bardela uses a common rabbinic interpretive technique called a gezerah shavah. This is accomplished when the rabbis use a verbal congruity between two disparate verses — such as the appearance of the same word on both contexts — to establish a conceptual analogy between them. In this specific case, the word “his impurity” (tumahto), which is found in both sources, establishes that just as entering the Temple in a state of impurity is prohibited, so too eating sacred meat in a state of impurity is prohibited — even though the text was not explicit on this second point.

To a modern way of thinking, this may seem rather strange. Isn’t it simpler to just say that the presence of a prescribed punishment is strong evidence the action in question is forbidden? Moreover, a gezerah shavah hangs a great deal of hidden meaning on a not-necessarily-so-surprising repetition of a word or phrase. Given that the Torah, like any text, has countless repeated words and phrases, indiscriminate use of gezerah shavahs could be used to justify just about anything. So how meaningful is the tool, really?

The rabbis were sensitive to this second problem. Their solution was to limit the scope of gezerah shavah to received traditions only. As Rashi notes on Pesachim 66a, “a person cannot judge based upon a gezerah shavah that they created themselves, rather to use a gezerah shavah as the basis of their judgement, they must have learned it from their teacher.” While future rabbis are free to make use of other tools of rabbinic interpretation as they make judgments about Jewish law and how to apply it, creating a new gezerah shavah is off the table, and has been for over a millennium. 

But now let’s address the earlier concern: Wouldn’t it have been simpler to use logic to infer from the presence of a severe punishment like karet that eating sacred meat in a state of impurity is forbidden? To us moderns, perhaps. But for the rabbis, textual proof is better than logical proof every time. That’s the whole point of revelation. Likewise, the authority for a gezerah shavah comes from its source and not from our ability to explain it. 

Read all of Makkot 14 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 22, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 14 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

He returns to the same public office that he occupied prior to his exile — this is the statement of Rabbi Meir.

Rabbi Yehuda says: He does not return to the office that he occupied.

Rabbis Meir and Yehuda take differing positions on the question of whether the returning accidental murderer assumes the same position of authority he held before going into exile. The Mishnah doesn’t resolve this conflict, so the Gemara takes it up by first addressing what happens to a formerly enslaved Hebrew who returns home, as laid out in Leviticus:

“And he returns to his family, and to the estate of his fathers he shall return.” (Leviticus 25:41) He returns to his family, but he does not return to that status of prominence and honor that his ancestors held — this is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Meir says: He even returns to that status of prominence and honor that his ancestors held. From the phrase “to the estate of his fathers he shall return,” it is derived that he returns to be like his fathers.

Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Meir’s arguments about the freed slave returning home parallel their original assertions: Rabbi Meir suggests that formerly enslaved people step back into their former roles and regain their former stature; Rabbi Yehuda disagrees. While the foundation of Rabbi Yehuda’s assertion isn’t clear, Rabbi Meir grounds his stance in close biblical interpretation, understanding “to the estate of his fathers he shall return,” as indicating that the return is not only physical but also social.

The Gemara continues:

And likewise, the same is true with regard to an exile sent to a city of refuge, as when the verse states: “To the estate of his fathers he shall return,” the term “he shall return” is redundant and it serves to include the unintentional murderer.

Although this verse is taken from Leviticus and the laws applying to the freed Hebrew, the Gemara concludes that the apparently superfluous phrase, “he shall return,” is a signal that this applies also to the accidental murderer.

How do we know that the superfluous phrase should be applied to the accidental murderer? Again, it’s a close reading of the biblical text:

What is the meaning of: And likewise, the same is true with regard to an exile? It is as it is taught in a beraita with regard to the verse: “The murderer shall return to his ancestral land” (Numbers 35:28), from which it is derived that he returns to his ancestral land, but he does not return to that status of prominence and honor that his ancestors held — this is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Meir says: He even returns to that status of prominence and honor that his ancestors held. Rabbi Meir derives this by means of a verbal analogy from there, i.e., between the term of “return” written with regard to the unintentional murderer, and the term of “return” written with regard to the Hebrew slave. 

The language in Numbers, which references the exiled murderer, says that he returns “to his ancestral land.” What’s Rabbi Meir’s reasoning? He uses a gezerah shavah, an interpretive technique whereby the same word in two different passages signals a deeper connection between those passages. In this case, he holds that the word “return” in Leviticus and Numbers shows that two returnees should have similar outcomes.

Who wins this debate? Although Rabbi Meir brings the most textual proof, in the Mishneh Torah Maimonides sides with Rabbi Yehuda: “Although the killer has gained atonement, he should never return to a position of authority that he previously held. Instead, he should be diminished in stature for his entire life, because of this great calamity that he caused.” Maimonides seems to feel that one who has taken the life of another, even accidentally, should experience a consequence that lasts the rest of his life. 

Read all of Makkot 13 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 21, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 13 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

In the case of a murderer who was exiled to a city of refuge and the people of the city sought to honor him, he shall say to them: “I am a murderer.” If the residents of the city say to him: “We are aware of your status and nevertheless we wish to honor you,” he may accept the honor from them, as it is stated: “And this is the matter (devar) of the murderer (rotze’ach).” (Deuteronomy 19:4)

It’s clear the rabbis imagine that those exiled to cities of refuge have the potential to thrive. In this case, the people of the city want to afford the accidental killer an honor — presumably a liturgical honor, like being called to the Torah, although this is not stated explicitly. Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz posits that the newcomer is a person of renown whom the residents wish to honor, but we might also imagine they just want to make the newcomer feel welcome in his new home. 

When offered this honor, the mishnah explains, the exiled person is required to state explicitly: “I am a murderer.” Interestingly, the halakhah here requires the individual to self-reference as a rotze’ach, a word that implies the killing was intentional, rather than a horeg, a word for killer that does not imply intention and is usually used for people who must flee to cities of refuge. Why demand this word choice?

The mishnah points to a linguistic clue from Deuteronomy 19:4, which refers to the law of the accidental killer — there unusually designated as a rotze’ach — as a devar, or matter. But devar can also mean word. The mishnah interprets this verse to mean that the accidental killer must utter a devar, a word, and that word is rotze’ach, murderer. 

This explanation gives us scriptural justification, but the rabbis didn’t have to read Deuteronomy 19:4 in this way, and so we might reasonably ask why they did. Perhaps, in order to even entertain the possibility of accepting an honor, they felt the accidental killer must humble himself and accept public, verbal responsibility — and perhaps a measure of humiliation — for having killed another. Elsewhere, we’ve discussed how the city of refuge may be more a place of protection than punishment, but that doesn’t mean the rabbis didn’t think a measure of teshuvah was also necessary.

Once the killer has revealed himself, the residents have two options: Continue pressing the person to accept the honor or withdraw it. If, as is intimated in our mishnah, the invitation stands, the newcomer is now free to accept the honor. According to commentators he not only can, but should. Steinsaltz adds that having stated he’s a murderer once, “that is enough,” meaning he shouldn’t protest more and now accepts the honor. 

Why do the rabbis even take the time to worry about the correct procedure for honoring a killer who has fled to a city of refuge? I want to offer an answer that takes us back almost two years to our study of Gittin 56. There, in the famous story about the destruction of Jerusalem, we learned:

There was a certain man whose friend was named Kamtza and whose enemy was named bar Kamtza. He once made a large feast and said to his servant: Go bring me my friend Kamtza. The servant went and mistakenly brought him his enemy bar Kamtza.

In that famous sugya, a host tried to kick his enemy bar Kamtza out of his party, and in order to avoid embarrassment, bar Kamtza offered to pay — first for his own food and drink, then for half the feast and finally for the whole party. The host wouldn’t budge and bar Kamtza was physically removed from the feast. The aggrieved bar Kamtza was not just angry at the host but also with the rabbis who witnessed what happened without intervening. According to the Talmud, this episode set in motion the events that ultimately resulted in the destruction of Jerusalem.

There is a stark contrast between that story and what the mishnah on today’s daf prescribes. In Gittin, the rabbis tell us that Jerusalem was destroyed because of needless humiliation and baseless hatred. On today’s daf in Makkot, when a person is offered an honor and says he is not worthy, the people extend the honor anyway, setting instead an example of radical love and acceptance.

Read all of Makkot 12 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 20, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 12 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: Ostracism that was declared conditionally requires nullification (even if the condition has not been filled). From where do we derive this? It is derived from Judah, as it is written: “If I do not bring him to you … I would have sinned before you for all days.” (Genesis 43:9)

Ostracism (nidui) is a temporary state of social isolation and public disgrace that must be formally lifted. In fact, we learned back in Berakhot 19a that if it is not lifted before death, the coffin of the ostracized person is stoned.

On today’s daf, Rav states that even if the original conditions for ostracism are not met, the ostracized person still must be released through nullification in order to return to ordinary life. He draws on a biblical example: When Jacob’s sons begged their father to let them take Benjamin with them to Egypt, Judah promised that he would personally return Benjamin safely to his father. Rav reads this verse as Judah declaring that he agrees to be ostracized if Benjamin isn’t returned safely. And even though Benjamin was ultimately safely reunited with Jacob, Rav says that Judah’s declaration still required formal nullification in order to be neutralized. Since it wasn’t, Judah died in a state of ostracism. How do we know?

And Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahmani says that Rabbi Yonatan says: What is the meaning of that which is written: “Let Reuben live and not die” (Deuteronomy 33:6) “And this for Judah” (Deuteronomy 33:7)? Throughout those 40 years that they were in the wilderness, Judah’s bones were rattling in the coffin, until Moses stood and entreated God to have mercy upon him. 

Rabbi Yonatan explains that when the Israelites took the coffins of Jacob and all his sons out of Egypt with them, even then, in death, Judah was not fully integrated into the community. For this reason, his bones rattled disturbingly in their coffin. Forty years later, when Moses blessed the 12 tribes before his death, he started with Reuben, the eldest, and then jumped straight to Judah, Jacob’s fourth child. He didn’t address Simeon and Levi until later, even though they were born before Judah. Moses did this because he was about to intercede with God on Judah’s behalf — to bring an end to his long ostracism. According to Rabbi Yonatan, after signalling intent with the reordered blessings, Moses then personally asked God to remove the conditional vow by arguing for Judah’s righteousness. 

Moses said before Him: Master of the Universe, who caused Reuben to confess his sin with Bilhah? It was Judah. “And this is for Judah … hear God, the voice of Judah.” (Deuteronomy 33:7)

Confession is a key component of repentance. According to Moses, seeing his brother Judah admit to his sin with his daughter-in-law Tamar (Genesis 38:26) gave Reuben the courage to admit to his own sin with Bilhah, his father’s enslaved concubine (Genesis 35:22). This is why he was worthy of having the ban of ostracism lifted.

At this point, the Talmud switches from telling the story in Hebrew to Aramaic, which suggests that a different — and probably later — storyteller has added to the text, continuing to interpret the words of Moses from Deuteronomy. 

His limbs entered their place. But they would not allow him to enter the heavenly academy. Moses continued: “And bring him to his people.” (Deuteronomy 33:7) He did not know how to engage in the give-and-take of halakhah with the sages. Moses continued: “His hands shall contend for him.” (ibid.) He did not know how to resolve any difficulty. “And You shall be a help against his adversaries.” (ibid.)

This storyteller concludes the first scene by insisting that Judah’s bones were finally quieted. But that was only the first step of a longer process of integration. After all, what is the point of having one’s conditional vow of ostracism annulled, if one can’t learn Torah in the heavenly academy? This later storyteller reads Moses as intervening so that Judah can be welcomed in the yeshiva on high, and his wits sharpened so that he can engage fully in the give and take so characteristic of rabbinic learning. 

While we started out with a discussion of how to annul conditional vows of ostracism, the Talmud has taken us on a fascinating detour, enriching and deepening the Torah’s complex story about Judah and his brothers, and ultimately placing them together at the table in the heavenly house of study.

Read all of Makkot 11 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 15, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 11 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The assembly shall protect the killer from the blood-avenger, and the assembly shall restore him to the city of refuge to which he fled. (Numbers 35:25)

The stated purpose of exile is not to punish but to protect the killer from the blood-avenger, a relative of the deceased who is tempted to take justice into their own hands. Some blame is certainly apportioned to the killer, which is why he has to accept this unfortunate change in lifestyle, and why if he breaks his confinement the blood-avenger is entitled (or perhaps even commanded) to kill him. But the cities of refuge are ultimately designed to protect the killer far more than punish them.

The mishnah elaborates on the procedure for exiling someone in this circumstance:

They would send two Torah scholars, in case the blood-avenger comes to kill him en route; and they speak to him.

The killer does not go into exile alone. Rather, two Torah scholars are appointed to accompany him to his new home. 

They are not just company, but also a form of protection: If the blood-avenger shows up, they talk him down. 

The rabbis also care about what is available to the exiled killer in the city of refuge:

We do not create these cities as small villages or as large cities, but as mid-sized towns.

The city of refuge becomes the entire world of the accidental killer. Therefore, a small village would be too confining. The rabbis want to provide an environment in which he can make a comfortable life for himself. But too large a city is a problem as well. The blood-avenger might well have business that brings him to a large city and then be tempted to take revenge. Therefore, to balance protection and life satisfaction, cities of refuge are mid-size settlements.

And what does the accidental killer do once he arrives in exile?

Rabbi Yitzhak says … make it so that he can have a livelihood.

This instinct to design a pleasant environment for the accidental killer soon becomes even more pronounced. A beraita teaches us:

If a Torah student is exiled, his teacher is exiled with him … If a teacher is exiled, his yeshiva is exiled with him.

This is an extraordinary statement. The rabbis are so committed to the well-being and continued growth of a student who accidentally kills somebody that they are prepared to send one of their own colleagues into exile to continue teaching him Torah. They are prepared to send an entire school of Torah students into exile so that they can continue their studies under a rabbi who has accidentally killed somebody. Maimonides, in his comprehensive code of law, poetically spells out the reason for this dramatic ruling:

Because the life of a knowledgeable person or seeker of knowledge without Torah study is like death.

On the one hand, this might be another manifestation of the rabbis’ deep love for their own profession, but perhaps it reflects a deeper insight about the nature of repentance and rehabilitation. The Talmud is telling us that the ability to study, and in particular the ability to dwell on ethical questions with expert guidance and the wisdom of one’s ancestral tradition, is a golden opportunity to get one’s life back on track after making a terrible mistake.

The concept of the city of refuge is the closest parallel in the rabbinic tradition to the modern carceral system. A few medieval responsa suggest that Jewish communities established prison-like institutions in Europe, but that was much later and there is much less discussion of how these systems worked. This chapter of Tractate Makkot, therefore, is an important site for rabbinic insights on incarceration. The differences between the rabbis’ vision and the system we currently run in most countries is stark.

On our daf alone, we have seen the enormous attention the rabbis pay to the safety of the killer, as well as his continued quality of life. Tragically, many modern carceral systems allow terrible violence and even deaths in prisons. We’ve also seen the lengths to which the rabbis go to make the confinement of the city of refuge as productive as possible, particularly in terms of allowing for work, continued study and spiritual growth. Advocates for incarcerated people consistently argue that libraries and other opportunities for education in prisons, currently woefully lacking, would transform inmates’ well-being and their opportunities after prison. As in so many cases, a mitzvah which has not been fulfilled for thousands of years, if ever, continues to offer wisdom on a pressing modern issue.

Read all of Makkot 10 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 18, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 10 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The enemy of the victim is not exiled.

Rabbi Yosei says: Not only is an enemy not exiled, but he is executed by the court, because his status is like that of one who is forewarned.

Rabbi Shimon says: There is an enemy who is exiled and there is an enemy who is not exiled. This is the principle: In any case where an observer could say he killed knowingly, the enemy is not exiled. If it is clear he killed unknowingly, he is exiled.

When it comes to unintentional killing, the relationship between the parties matters. An “accident” that leads to the death of one’s enemy might justifiably be viewed with skepticism. Rabbi Yosei goes so far as to argue that when it comes to the death of one’s enemy, there are no accidents and the killer should always be sentenced to execution. But Rabbi Shimon leaves room for the possibility of such an accident, even between enemies.

To figure out how this might work in principle, it helps to consider a concrete example. The Gemara cites a beraita which supplies just that:

It is taught: In what circumstances did Rabbi Shimon say that there is an enemy who is exiled and there is an enemy who is not exiled? If a rope snapped and the object attached to the rope fell and killed a person, he is exiled. But if an object was displaced from his hands, he is not exiled.

This is the case of death by proverbial piano. For Rabbi Shimon, if the rope bearing its heavy load snaps, while it’s theoretically possible someone could have intentionally weakened the rope, the likeliest explanation is that this was an accidental death. However, if the rope slipped out of the person’s hand, there is a distinct possibility that they intentionally let it slip, and therefore Rabbi Shimon would conclude this was an intentional killing. In that case, the person holding the rope is not exiled; instead, he is sentenced for murder.

The Gemara points out an apparent contradiction between Rabbi Shimon’s view, as expressed in this beraita, and an opinion attributed to him in a different beraita:

But isn’t it taught in another beraita that Rabbi Shimon says: A person is never exiled unless his trowel was displaced from his hand. The apparent contradiction between a case where the rope snapped, according to the first beraita, and a case where the rope snapped, according to the second beraita, is difficult. And the apparent contradiction between a case where the object was displaced, according to the first beraita, and a case where the object was displaced, according to the second beraita, is difficult.

The first beraita in the name of Rabbi Shimon states that an enemy whose rope snapped would be exiled, while an enemy who let the rope slip would be considered a murder and therefore is not exiled. But the second beraita states that a person who drops a trowel on a bypasser — which is analogous to dropping a rope because it falls directly from the hand — is considered an accidental killer. So which is the true accident? The Gemara proposes a resolution:

The case in the second beraita is referring to a friend of the victim, and that case in the first beraita is referring to an enemy of the victim.

Since the second beraita doesn’t specify that the victim was an enemy, the Gemara solves the problem by assuming the second beraita is talking about a situation in which the victim is a friend. In that case, we do not conclude the person dropped the trowel on purpose and we rule an accidental death. But let’s look again at the language of the beraita: It says the killer is “never” exiled unless the trowel fell from his hand. This means that in other circumstances of the trowel falling, we consider the death intentional. Once again, the relationship between the parties strongly affects the final ruling.

Many early talmudic commentators are troubled by the Gemara’s text as we have it. Because while dropping the trowel from one’s hand is ruled an accident, dropping a rope holding the trowel incurs no exile — and therefore, according to how we’ve read other texts, is deemed murder. How can this act, which when done to an enemy is ruled an accidental death, be deemed intentional when done to a friend? The explanation proposed by the Ramban is this: Usually, when we say someone is not exiled, what we mean is that we assume murderous intent and prosecute for intentional killing. But in the case of the second beraita, when a friend accidentally kills another because their rope snapped, the friend is not even exiled, because we assume this to be a circumstance that was not only unintentional but completely beyond their control. Hopefully, the family of the victim will view it that way as well and there will be no attempt at a vengeance killing — therefore no need for the city of refuge.

Read all of Makkot 9 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 17, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 9 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

On today’s daf, a mishnah identifies another type of killer who is “exiled” to such a city for their own protection:

One who threw a stone into the public domain and killed (a person) is exiled. Rabbi Eliezer ben Ya’akov says: If after the stone left his hand the other person placed his head out and received (a blow from the stone), the killer is exempt from being exiled.

According to the mishnah, if a person throws a stone into the public domain and it hits and kills another person, the death is unintentional and the killer is exiled. Rabbi Eliezer adds that this is true only when the victim was in harm’s way when the stone was thrown. If the victim entered the public domain after the stone was launched, the death is deemed out of the stone thrower’s control (a distinct category from unintentional) and the killer is exempt from exile.

The Gemara raises a question about this mishnah:

They threw a stone into the public domain — they are an intentional murderer.

It is safe to assume there will be people in a public place. So if someone throws a stone there, it is a distinct possibility it will hit someone. Even if the stone thrower was not intentionally trying to kill someone, the Gemara wants to hold them accountable for their actions. Unlike the wood chopper, the stone thrower acted with negligence, so the Gemara reasons they ought to stand trial rather than be exiled.

Rav Shmuel bar Yitzhak tries to make sense of the mishnah by limiting its scope:

Where a person is demolishing their wall. 

If the mishnah is talking about someone who is doing demolition work on their own property, it makes more sense. The killer’s intent was to demolish, not to kill, so the death is unintentional and exile makes sense.

But this adjustment is not considered sufficient. The Gemara points out that the demolisher has a responsibility to protect those on the other side of the wall. So the context is restricted further: Perhaps we are talking about a death that occurred at night when the public space is usually empty and it is unlikely there would be anyone around to get hurt. But this too is not enough, for even at night, the demolisher has a responsibility to protect passers by.

So what if the debris from the demolition is being diverted into an established scrap heap? Wouldn’t that show that the owner of the wall has taken precautions to send debris to an area the public would avoid? Should a random stone strike and kill, surely this would be an unintentional death that merits exile.

Not really, says the Gemara. If this scrap heap is one that people are known to enter to relieve themselves, then it is no different from the previous cases — people go there and precautions should be taken. But if the scrap heap is not used as a bathroom, there is no reason to expect anyone will be there. Should a person enter the heap and be killed by a flying stone, their death is considered accidental, like the case that Rabbi Eliezer raises in the mishnah, and the killer is exempt from exile.

Now Rav Pappa chimes in and limits the case further: The mishnah, he says, is talking about a case of a scrap heap that people use as a toilet at night, but not generally during the day. Unlike the previous case, there are occasions when someone is found there during the day. This seems to hit the sweet spot the Gemara is looking for: The one who demolishes their wall into such a scrap heap and kills someone in the process neither killed intentionally (as the scrap heap is not normally utilized then), nor is the death out of the stone thrower’s control (because sometimes it is utilized). And so, this must be the case of a stone-throwing killer who is liable to be exiled.

Rav Pappa’s teaching is accepted by the Gemara, which moves on to new topics. As readers, however, we might not be quite ready to do so. Rav Pappa’s explanation of the mishnah is a far cry from the simple statement with which the talmudic conversation began. This begs the question: Has Rav Pappa shared with us what the author of the mishnah originally intended, or has he reimagined the text’s meaning in order to satisfy the challenges that the Gemara has raised? A more traditional reading would favor the former — the mishnah means what the Gemara says it means. A contemporary one would be more open to the idea that the conclusion of the Gemara strays from the original intent of the author.

Read all of Makkot 7 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 16, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 8 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

A sanhedrin that executes a transgressor once in seven years is characterized as a destructive court (chovlanit). 

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya says: This categorization applies to a sanhedrin that executes a transgressor once in 70 years. 

Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Akiva say: If we had been members of the sanhedrin, no person would have ever been executed. 

Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel says: In adopting that approach, they too would increase the number of murderers among the Jewish people. 

In his authoritative talmudic dictionary, 19^th-century scholar Marcus Jastrow renders the word “chovlanit,” employed by the mishnah to describe a court that executes a prisoner once in 70 years, as not merely “destructive,” but rather “tyrannical,” noting that such a court “does not spare human lives.” After dozens of pages in the previous and current tractates exploring the conditions for enacting the death penalty, are we really to believe that applying the law would tarnish the reputation of a court so much that it is dismissed as tyrannical? After all, tyranny brings to mind dictators who decree at whim rather than by the rule of law, and determining the law underpins the entire purpose of the Talmud. How are we to understand this statement? 

The opinions expressed by the rabbis quoted in this mishnah parallel the modern debate about the death penalty, enumerating three different opinions about its application. Let’s unpack them.

First, we have the tanna kamma, the first opinion which represents the anonymous editor of the Mishnah, and Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya. Their opinion seems to be that sentencing someone to death should be done only in exceedingly rare cases. The way the mishnah is written, though, it’s unclear whether such a court is called destructive or tyrannical if they execute just one person, or more than one person, within the time frame. The Gemara doesn’t know either:

A dilemma was raised before the sages: Is Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya saying that a sanhedrin that executes once in 70, rather than seven, years is characterized as a destructive tribunal? Or perhaps he is saying that standard conduct is for a sanhedrin to execute once in 70 years, and only if it executes more than one person during that period is it characterized as destructive? The Gemara concludes: The dilemma shall stand unresolved.

The second opinion is that of Rabbis Tarfon and Akiva: The death penalty should never be enacted. These two assert that if they had been on the sanhedrin, it never would have been. How would they have avoided it? The Gemara notes that they would have asked such difficult questions of the witnesses that it would have been impossible to sentence a person to death. 

The third opinion, that of Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel, is that the death penalty is essential in order to deter murderers. If it’s known that the sanhedrin would never actually execute anyone, potential killers would feel empowered to act on their murderous desires; as Rashi states, “If you would have done this you would have increased murder in Israel because people would no longer fear the court.” Rabbi Shimon ben Gamaliel’s view shouldn’t be dismissed as an outlier, however; as chief justice of the sanhedrin, he likely saw more of these types of cases than most. 

Still, other forms of deterrence exist without relying on court-enacted capital punishment. As our previous studies in Tractate Sanhedrin make clear, there are additional ways to ensure that a murderer is held accountable. Remember the tactic of locking up a prisoner and feeding them barley until their stomach bursts and kills them? And of course, there’s the theological understanding that a person who commits murder or another capital crime for which they are not executed will nevertheless get their comeuppance in the hereafter.

It’s important to note that capital punishment could only be enacted when a full sanhedrin was able to meet. By the time of the Talmud, this was no longer the case, and so discussions of the death penalty in rabbinic literature are largely theoretical. In the modern State of Israel, the sentiment of the Mishnah underpins current law: While the death penalty is legal, it has been employed just twice in the country’s more than 70-year history. Most of us know about the trial of Adolf Eichmann, one of the primary architects of the Holocaust, who was executed in 1962 for crimes against humanity and crimes against the Jewish people as a whole. Less well known is the case of Meir Tobiansky, an officer in the Israeli army, who was executed for treason in 1948 – and posthumously exonerated. 

Read all of Makkot 7 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 15, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 7 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The mishnah states:

Rabbi Yosei says: (Transgressors) are never executed unless his two witnesses are the ones forewarning him, as it is stated: “At the mouth of two witnesses … he who is to be put to death shall die.” (Deuteronomy 17:6)

According to Rabbi Yosei, in order to convict someone in a capital case, the witnesses and the warners need to be the same people. 

The mishnah continues with another possibility: 

Alternatively: “At the mouth of two witnesses‚” that the Sanhedrin will not hear from the mouth of an interpreter.

This anonymous rabbi reads the biblical verse as teaching that the court must hear directly from the witnesses, without any intermediary. In what even then was a multilingual world, apparently the court was expected to understand multiple languages to properly hear testimony. 

The Talmud understands this anonymous rabbi to be contradicting Rabbi Yosei. Because this position uses the verse differently, it isn’t available to say anything about whether the witnesses and the warners are the same people, which implies that this person doesn’t think that they have to be the same people at all. 

In fact, the Talmud takes this implied position even further. 

Rava says: The one forewarning about whom the sages spoke — even from his own mouth and even from the mouth of a demon.

Rava drives home the point that the warner doesn’t have to be one of the witnesses to the crime. It could even be the victim of the crime, meaning the warner may not have to be alive during the trial for their warning to be valid. In fact, says Rava, even a demon can serve as a warner. 

Now, we might dismiss Rava’s words as a rhetorical exaggeration, but rhetoric always points to broader cultural discourses. So Rava’s statement offers us a picture of a demon seeing someone about to commit a crime and using their extensive knowledge of rabbinic law to properly warn the criminal of the nature of the crime and its punishment according to rabbinic law. According to Rava, such a warning is halakhically valid and holds up in court. The rabbinic court system was more expansive than many of us realize.

Read all of Makkot 6 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 10, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 6 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The answer, at its most basic, is: from the testimony of another pair of witnesses. The mishnah says that when a second pair of witnesses testifies that the first pair was not in a position (literally) to witness the transgression in question, they are deemed conspirators. The Gemara then fleshes this out with examples:

Rava says: Two witnesses came and said: “So-and-so killed a person to the east of a building,” and two other witnesses came to court and said to the first set: “But were you not with us to the west of the building at that time?” We see: If, when people are standing to the west of the building they see to the east of the building, these witnesses are not conspiring witnesses. But if it is not possible to see from one side of the building to the other, these witnesses are conspiring witnesses.

This seems entirely reasonable. If seeing from one side of the building to the other is physically possible, it’s plausible that the distance was no obstacle to witnessing the defendant’s action; if not, the witnesses are clearly conspiring.

The sheer reasonableness of this stance prompts the Gemara to ask why it’s even worth mentioning:

Isn’t that obvious? The Gemara answers: Lest you say: Let us be concerned about the possibility that these witnesses have particularly good eyesight. Therefore, Rava teaches us that one does not take that possibility into account.

In principle, it’s possible the view across the building is quite far or obstructed, but the two witnesses then claim to have extraordinary eyesight, enabling them to see what happened. While acknowledging the possibility, the Gemara takes Rava’s point to be that we should conclude the witnesses are more likely conspirators than superheroes.

Let’s consider another, analogous scenario:

And Rava says: If two witnesses came and said: “So-and-so killed a person in Sura in the morning on Sunday,” and two other witnesses came to court and said to the first set: “In the evening on Sunday you were with us in Neharde’a,” we see: If one is able to travel from Sura to Neharde’a from morning until evening they are not conspiring witnesses. And if it is not possible to travel that distance in that period of time, they are conspiring witnesses.

Again, we’re presented with a question of what’s possible: If the two witnesses were seen quite far from the scene of the crime only hours later, and traveling from one place to the other within the relevant time period was next to impossible, they’re likely conspirators. But again, why does Rava have to point this out? Isn’t it obvious?

Lest you say: Let us be concerned about the possibility that these witnesses traveled on a flying camel. Therefore, Rava teaches us that one need not take that possibility into account.

We’ve repeatedly seen how imaginative the Talmudic sages can be. Sometimes they describe themselves and their colleagues as having superhuman powers. But in court, the rabbis’ credulity isn’t infinite. The legal setting is not the place to let our minds take flights of fancy — on camels or otherwise. Rather, knowing that someone will suffer either way a case is decided, for the best judicial outcome, we must focus on what is most probable.

Read all of Makkot 5 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on April 10, 2025. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

The post Makkot 5 appeared first on My Jewish Learning.