For several pages now, the rabbis have been outlining their view of yeridat hadorot — the decline of generations. We learned that the ritual of sotah was nullified even before the destruction of the Temple made the whole matter moot because of the proliferation of adulterers in the world. With so many people fearlessly and flagrantly flouting the sanctity of marriage, the rabbis reasoned, there were few cases of doubtful guilt. On an even darker note, we also learned that the ritual of eglah arufah — breaking the neck of a heifer to atone for the death of a murdered person whose killer was unknown — was nullified in later generations because of the proliferation of brazen murderers. Dark times.

Today, in our final mishnah, we learn that it wasn’t just that criminals became more numerous and less ashamed of their crimes. It was also the case that new generations of sages were unable to match the piety and brilliance of their predecessors:

When Rabbi Meir died, those who relate parables ceased. 

When ben Azzai died, the diligent ceased.

When ben Zoma died, the exegetists ceased.

When Rabbi Akiva died, the honor of the Torah ceased.

When Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa died, the men of wondrous action ceased.

When Rabbi Yosei the Small died, the pious were no more. And why was he called the Small? Because he was the smallest of the pious.

When Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai died, the glory of wisdom ceased.

When Rabban Gamliel the Elder died, the honor of the Torah ceased, and purity and asceticism died.

When Rabbi Yishmael ben Pavi died, the glory of the priesthood ceased.

When Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi died, humility and fear of sin ceased.

When each of these individual rabbis died, the light of their special spiritual and intellectual talents went out and was never replaced. We now find summary statements that try to make sense of the dolorous litany, including this:

Rabbi Eliezer the Great says: From the day the Second Temple was destroyed, the generations have deteriorated: Scholars have begun to become like scribes, scribes have become like beadles, beadles have become like ignoramuses, and ignoramuses are increasingly diminished. None ask and none seek. 

Sanctity, piety and intellectual rigor are lacking in later generations. Why? All because people do not seek or ask. Curiosity, striving toward heaven, thoughtfulness — these are the keys.

And yet, according to Rabbi Eliezer the Great, this sordid state of the world may be a cause for hope, because things have to get really bad before they can permanently turn around:

In the approach of the messiah, impudence will increase and high costs will pile up. The vine shall bring forth its fruit, but wine will nevertheless be expensive. And the monarchy shall turn to heresy, and there will be no one to give reproof. The meeting place of the sages will become a place of promiscuity, and the Galilee shall be destroyed, and the Gavlan will be desolate, and the men of the border shall go round from city to city (to seek charity), but they will find no mercy.

And the wisdom of scribes will putrefy, and people who fear sin will be held in disgust, and the truth will be absent. The youth will shame the face of elders, elders will stand before minors. A son will disgrace a father; a daughter will rise up against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. A man’s enemies will be the members of his household. The face of the generation will be like the face of a dog; a son will no longer be ashamed before his father. And upon what is there for us to rely? Only upon our Father in heaven.

This dystopian description may resonate for us in many ways: Elders are no longer respected, sin is no longer feared, a person cannot trust their own family, the economy makes no sense, the government is corrupt and no one holds it accountable. But as generations of Jews did before him, Rabbi Eliezer the Great turns that terror into hope by declaring that the darkest of times are necessary to herald the messiah. Perhaps, he suggests, what his generation is witnessing are the birth pangs.

We know now that they were not; we still wait for redemption. And as we wait, we turn to the final lines of the Gemara in this tractate, which recount yet more sages who left the world and took with them irreplaceable talent, finally circling back to Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, the sage who compiled the Mishnah:

When Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi died, humility and fear of sin ceased.

Rav Yosef said to the tanna (who read this mishnah aloud): Do not teach that humility ceased, for there is still me.

Rav Nahman said to the tanna: Do not teach that fear of sin ceased, for there is still me.

Rav Yosef and Rav Nahman challenge the tanna, the person whose job it was to be a living book, to memorize and recite, on command, any portion of the Mishnah. Don’t teach that humility has left the world, they tell him. Don’t teach that fear of sin is gone. We embody those qualities. There is still us.

Yeridat hadorot, the decline of generations, is not a foregone conclusion. Each new generation holds the possibility of bringing greater knowledge, wisdom, piety and sanctity into the world. Like Rav Yosef and Rav Nahman, we can decide to be that generation. And the roadmap is there on today’s page: All it takes is for us to ask, to seek, and to rely on our Parent in Heaven. And then declare: “There is still me.”

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Tractate Sotah is near its close. Yesterday, we were reminded in a mishnah that by the time of the Talmud, the sotah ritual was no longer practiced:

From the time when adulterers proliferated, the performance of the ritual of the bitter waters was nullified.

This mishnah doesn’t view the nullification of the sotah ritual as a positive development. Rather, it is a consequence of societal decline. Today’s daf recounts many other ways that the world changed for the worse, correlating those changes to the destruction of the first and second Temples: 

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says that Rabbi Yehoshua testified: From the day the Temple was destroyed there is no day that does not include a curse. And the dew has not descended for blessing, and the taste has been removed from fruit.

Even worse than dry morning grass and tasteless tomatoes, since the Temple was destroyed, our means of communicating with God have waned. The rabbis also note that the urim and tummim, sacred tools used by the high priest for divining God’s will, disappeared with the First Temple. Moreover, the Jewish people lost the prophets as conveyors of the divine word:

From the time when Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi died, the ruach ha’kodesh (Holy Spirit) departed from the Jewish people, though they would nevertheless still make use of a bat kol (divine voice).

The Holy Spirit is a term with deep Jewish roots. Starting in Genesis, when the spirit of God hovers over the deep, the Hebrew Bible is filled with stories of God’s spirit and there are hundreds of references in rabbinic texts. That divine spirit eventually came to stand on its own as a way to dramatize and personify God’s communication. 

The bat kol (divine voice) is another vehicle of divine communication often found in rabbinic lore. Understood as a lesser means of communication, its pronouncements are usually more clipped and limited than those of the Holy Spirit, almost like divine PSA’s. But unlike the Holy Spirit, it remained with Israel long after the destruction of the Temples. Here are two examples from today’s daf:

On one occasion, the sages were reclining in the upper story of the house of Gurya in Jericho. A bat kol was issued to them, and it said: “There is one person among you for whom it is fitting that the Shechinah (divine presence) should rest upon him, but his generation is not fit for it.”

The sages directed their gaze to Hillel the Elder. And when he died, they eulogized him in the following manner: “Alas pious one, alas humble one, student of Ezra.”

On another occasion, the sages were reclining in an upper story of a house in Yavne, and a bat kol was issued to them, and said: “There is one person among you for whom it is fitting that the Shechinah should rest upon him, but his generation is not fit for it.”

The sages directed their gaze to Shmuel HaKatan. And when he died, they eulogized him in the following manner: “Alas humble one, alas pious one, student of Hillel.”

The message in both cases was that those generations — who lived in the wake of so much decline — didn’t deserve their best rabbinic leaders.

Admittedly, this is somewhat paradoxical. The biblical prophets, after all, were usually not sent to reward the people for good behavior, but to admonish sinful generations. Yet the passage fits in well with the lamenting tone at the end of this tractate, nostalgic for the “good old days” when the Temple stood and for the direct line to God through prophecy that’s since been lost.

Although the rabbis claimed that both prophecy and the Holy Spirit had departed from Israel, it’s clear that the tantalizing potential to reclaim the Holy Spirit could not be squelched. Even centuries down the road, they hoped it would return, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel described in Prophetic Inspiration After the Prophets—Maimonides and Other Medieval Authorities. At the end of Mishnah Sotah, a popular rabbinic tradition was later appended (it is not included in the Talmud that describes a virtuous but arduous means of attaining the Holy Spirit in the post-prophetic world:

Rabbi Pinhas ben Ya’ir says: Torah leads to care. Care leads to diligence. Diligence leads to cleanliness. Cleanliness leads to abstention. Abstention leads to purity. Purity leads to piety. Piety leads to humility. Humility leads to fear of sin. Fear of sin leads to holiness. Holiness leads to the Holy Spirit. 

This popular tradition implies that perhaps the Holy Spirit is still within reach. Times may have changed and the good old days may have ended, but the hope for greater spiritual realization has never actually departed.

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One might imagine that the heifer is now considered consecrated property, since it had been set aside for a specific religious purpose. This would mean it could not be used for anything else. But it turns out that is not the case, according to today’s mishnah:

If the killer is found before the heifer’s neck was broken, the heifer shall go out and graze among the herd.

Saved by the discovery of the murderer, the heifer may rejoin the other animals, and is considered no different than the rest.

But what if the murderer is discovered after the heifer’s neck is broken but before the ritual is completed (the last components being the elders washing hands and reciting a formulaic declaration absolving the town of responsibility)? What do we do with the dead heifer?

If the killer is found from the time when the heifer’s neck was broken, it should be buried in its place (and not used for another purpose). This is because the heifer initially came for uncertainty, it atoned for its uncertainty and left.

Even if the murderer is discovered after the heifer’s neck is broken, the murderer was unknown at the time of slaughter, and therefore it did fulfill its intended purpose. Therefore, it cannot now be eaten, but must be buried. 

The mishnah considers one more possibility: What if the ritual is completed and then the murderer is identified? Might the ritual atone for him? Could this be bad luck for the heifer but fortuitous timing for the murderer? Not quite.

If the heifer’s neck was broken and afterward the killer was found, he is killed. 

The breaking of the heifer’s neck atones for the town, but it can provide no material benefit to the murderer who must still pay for the crime. 

We can surmise that the purpose of the ritual of the eglah arufah is meant to provide a measure of comfort and closure to the community. It allows them to confront the trauma of a murder in a ritualized manner and offers closure in a case of radical uncertainty. But it does not grant absolution to the murderer or foreclose the possibility of justice. It is a ritual that acknowledges an imperfect world but does not permit us to lapse into nihilism. 

The eglah arufah ritual, though described in the Torah, was not eternal. The mishnah continues:

From the time when murderers proliferated, the ritual of the heifer whose neck is broken was nullified.

The ritual was performed only when the identity of the murderer was completely unknown. The Gemara suggests that not only were there more murderers, but they were comfortable revealing themselves. As a result, in most cases the probable identity of the murderer was known and the eglah arufah ritual was no longer needed.

Following this mishnah, we finally have another that we have alluded to throughout this tractate — the one that affirms the sotah ritual too has been discontinued. In that mishnah, we are told it is because of the proliferation of adulterers.

The cessation of both of these rituals — eglah arufah and sotah — is part and parcel of a dark world view that sees an increase in criminal activity in subsequent generations. But it also encourages us to concentrate our efforts on building a better world — one defined by fairness and justice, not arbitrated by defunct rituals.

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But isn’t it obvious that the townspeople did not witness or commit the murder? Today’s daf explains this prescribed language:

Rather, he did not come to us and take his leave without food, and we did not see him and leave him without accompaniment.

Though they may not have done it with their own hands, the rabbis think that these elders would have nonetheless been liable for the murder had they encountered the victim on his journey and not offered him the proper support: food and someone to accompany him on his way. 

We know that biblical culture takes hospitality very seriously: Think of Abraham unwittingly hosting three angels in his tent. But what is clear here is that the rabbis extend that idea of hospitality to include caring for your visitor even after they leave your domain. This leads to a discussion of the importance of accompanying someone when they set off on a journey. Here are some highlights:

It is taught: Rabbi Meir would say: There is coercion with regard to accompaniment as the reward for accompaniment is without measure. 

Accompanying someone on a journey is so important that, according to Rabbi Meir, you can even be forced into doing it!

And Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi says: Due to four steps that pharaoh accompanied Abraham, as it is stated: “And pharaoh gave men charge concerning him, and they brought him on the way, and his wife, and all that he had” (Genesis 12:20), he enslaved Abraham’s descendants for 400 years, as it is stated: “And shall serve them, and they shall afflict them 400 years” (Genesis 15:13). 

For taking a mere four steps with Abraham when he and his household left Egypt, pharaoh garnered the merit for his kingdom to later exercise 400 years of power over Israel. Now that’s some merit. But of course, that’s also pharaoh, supreme ruler of Egypt, deigning to accompany a random shepherd (albeit one who is a man of God) on his merry way. How far should ordinary people accompany each other? 

The sages taught: A teacher accompanies a student until the outskirts of the city; a friend accompanies a friend until the Shabbat boundary (2,000 cubits outside the city limits), a student accompanies his teacher without limit. 

Those with more merit are granted longer escort. But even so, everyone is obligated to accompany their fellow, at least a little bit. Why? Today’s daf offers two possibilities. 

First, we read a lengthy story in which Rav Kahana accompanied Rav Shimi bar Ashi on a journey to a palm grove. Seeing the palm grove leads Rav Kahanah to ask Rav Shimi bar Ashi a question, and to thus learn some new Torah. This is an inspirational possibility — we must accompany people as they set out on a journey in order to be open to new things and to continue to learn from them. 

The Gemara then returns to what we learned from the townspeople’s speech about the anonymous murder victim: 

Rabbi Yohanan says in the name of Rabbi Meir: Whoever does not accompany or will not be accompanied is like a spiller of blood.

Travel is dangerous and stressful, but there is safety in numbers. Accompanying someone, even for a little bit, just might save a life. Now isn’t that deserving of merit without measure?

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From where on the body would they measure the distance? Rabbi Eliezer says: From his navel. Rabbi Akiva says: From his nose. Rabbi Eliezer ben Ya’akov says: From the place where he became a slain person, which is from the neck.

If it’s a matter of just a few feet or inches, it may make a difference where on the body itself one chooses to measure from. But why choose the navel or nose as representing the precise location of the body?

One sage, Rabbi Akiva, holds: A person’s life is sustained mainly in his nose.

And one sage, Rabbi Eliezer, holds: His life is mainly in the area of his navel.

Rabbis Akiva and Eliezer choose the navel and nose because they see those regions — the gateway to the respiratory system and the center of the belly — as most critical for sustaining life. In this case, the law follows Rabbi Akiva, setting the nose as a standard for measurement and clarifying how we determine which town is the closest.

But what if we measure from that precise point and it turns out that the towns are exactly equidistant? Here, Rabbi Eliezer provides instruction:

If the slain person is found precisely between two cities, the inhabitants of both each bring a heifer. What is the reasoning of Rabbi Eliezer? First, he holds that it is possible to measure precisely (and know for sure the distances are equal). And second, he holds that the term “That is nearest” (Deuteronomy 21:3) can even be understood as “That are nearest,” so that the law can apply to more than one city.

Rabbi Eliezer provides for that highly improbably scenario in which the body really and truly is equidistant between two towns. In that case, it’s best to cover all bases and have each town bring an eglah arufa.

We have often seen the Talmud regularly present instructions for highly improbable events — like this one, in which the body is exactly the same number of inches from each town. Questions like this may be practical, but might also be designed to stretch our imagination and force us to think about what happens when the world does not conform to our predetermined categories and expectations. But this is more common of the later rabbis of the Talmud, the amoraim, than it is of the early rabbis of the Mishnah, the tannaim.

In this case, however, it is a tanna who dives into this kind of territory. Is Rabbi Eliezer’s ruling an antecedent for the imaginative, creative, and academic questions that are preserved in the Talmud? Or is it a practical ruling that was meant to prepare the elders to manage an unlikely but not impossible situation in which a murdered corpse is found exactly equidistant between two towns?

The Talmud does not reflect upon these questions and it’s hard to read into the intended tone of of Rabbi Eliezer’s statement. And that leaves it for the reader to ponder.

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One might expect that people first marry, then build a home and (maybe) only after plant a vineyard. As such, the order these three are presented in the Torah is insignificant. But a beraita cited on today’s daf suggests just the opposite. 

The Torah taught the desired mode of behavior: A person should build a house, plant a vineyard and afterward marry a woman. 

According to the beraita, a person ought to purchase a home and establish a livelihood before getting married and starting a family. The Gemara then cites proof that this is the preferred order from the writing of King Solomon: 

Even Solomon said in his wisdom: “Prepare your work outside, and make it fit for yourself in the field; and afterward build your house” (Proverbs 24:27).

The sages explained: “Prepare your work outside”; this is a house. “And make it fit for yourself in the field”; this is a vineyard. “And afterward you shall build your house”; this is a wife. 

On first glance, this seems like yet another example of the rabbis citing a biblical prooftext to support a claim. But typically, they do this to support a rabbinic claim that needs biblical support. Here, we already know from Deuteronomy 20:5-7 that this is the preferred order, so why cite a further verse to support this conclusion? 

The answer is that while Proverbs 24:27 is applied by the Gemara to the question of building a house, earning a living and getting married, its language is far more poetic and far broader than the passage in Deuteronomy 20:5-7. Accordingly, the passage in Proverbs comes to teach us not about these three specific actions, but a general rule about the importance of doing things in the proper order. 

With this in mind, the beraita proceeds to present a range of opinions about the best order in which to study Bible, Mishnah and Talmud. Here’s the first one:

“Prepare your work outside”; this is Bible. “And make it fit for yourself in the field”; this is Mishnah. “Afterward you shall build your house”; this is Gemara. 

This option suggests that one study in order of increasing level of sophistication. Since Bible is easier than Mishnah, which is easier than Gemara, this is the proper order in which to study them. The second option has a different take:

Alternatively: “Prepare your work outside”; this is Bible and Mishnah. “And make it fit for yourself in the field”; this is Gemara. “Afterward you shall build your house”; these are good deeds. 

This option presumes that Bible and Mishnah can be studied concurrently. More significantly, it emphasizes that the ultimate spiritual home one builds should not merely be filled with Torah, but with good deeds. 

Finally, here’s the third option:

Rabbi Eliezer, son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, says: “Prepare your work outside”; this is Bible, Mishnah and Gemara. “And make it fit for yourself in the field”; these are good deeds. “Afterward you shall build your house”; expound and receive reward.

This option presumes that Bible, Mishnah and Gemara can be studied concurrently. And while it too suggests that good deeds should be a key aspect of one’s spiritual home, the ultimate goal should be the development of new Torah ideas. 

These three options suggest that different people have different models and goals for their spiritual home. Some simply aspire to study Torah. Others aspire to study Torah and do good deeds. While others aspire to study Torah, do good deeds and be a spiritual innovator. Yet, whichever model most speaks to you, the overarching lesson of Proverbs 24:27 is that to do things right, we need to do them in the right order. 

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An unusually long mishnah on today’s daf offers a more detailed portrait of this soldier who is sent home, which we will examine in two excerpted parts (read the page for the full mishnah). The first part expands on what is meant by “house,” “vineyard,” or “wife”:

He is sent home even if he is one who builds a storehouse for straw, a barn for cattle, a shed for wood, or a warehouse … who plants a whole vineyard, or plants as few as five fruit trees, and even if these are from the five species … one who betroths a virgin, or one who betroths a widow…

Included in the definition of house are a storehouse, barn, or even a shed. A vineyard, meanwhile, is defined as being as few as five trees. But there are limits. The second part of the mishnah lists soldiers who do not return home from the front:

And these are the men who do not return to their homes: One who builds a gateway, or an enclosed veranda, or a balcony; or one who plants no more than four fruit trees or even five or more non-fruit bearing trees; or one who remarries his divorced wife …

A balcony does not count as a new home. And if he remarries a woman he divorced, she does not count as a new wife.

This mishnah is followed by midreshei halakhah (legal interpretations) that derive the sources of these rules from the Torah’s verses, especially the mishnah’s list of expanded exemptions from service. For instance:

From the term “a house” (Deuteronomy 20:5) I have derived only a house in which people live. From where is it derived that the exemption is understood to also include one who builds a storehouse for straw, a barn for cattle, a shed for wood, or a warehouse? The verse states: “That has built,” which includes whatever one built.

The mishnah takes great care to simultaneously expand and contract the Torah’s sparse list of those who return home from the front upon hearing the officials’ announcement. The mishnah’s apparent aim is striking: to give men anxious about the lives they might not be able to live in the future the opportunity to do so, while also preventing other men from shirking their military obligations for spurious reasons. 

War and death are ugly, but at times necessary for survival. Without a disciplined, courageous fighting force, wars can’t be won. Yet a society so dedicated to war that it provides no respite for actual living is a society on its way to certain death. Our mishnah seeks a balance between both exigencies, beyond the Torah’s explicit concern about fearful soldiers infecting their comrades with fear before battle and the need for a capable fighting force. 

Of even greater interest to me is how the mishnah achieves this balance while also avoiding the possible stigma that might attach to one legitimately leaving the front. Returning to the end of the first part of our mishnah, we learn:

Each of these men, although they are exempt, still hear the address of the priest and the regulations of war at the local camp, and thereafter they return home. However, they provide water and food (for the soldiers) and repair the roads.

The Torah never provides for what modern Israelis refer to as sherut leumi, but the mishnah does. A soldier returning from the front to conduct the business of his life still needs to contribute to the good of his society when it’s at war, even as he contributes to his own welfare and that of his household. No one is exempt, yet not everyone needs to fight to be a contributing citizen.

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Before the Israelites head into battle, the Torah prescribes that “the priest” should stand up to assure those gathered of divine protection and support. But he’s not the only one to give a speech:

Then the officials shall address the troops, as follows: “Is there anyone who has built a new house but has not dedicated it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another dedicate it. Is there anyone who has planted a vineyard but has never harvested it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another harvest it. Is there anyone who has paid the bride-price for a wife, but who has not yet married her? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another marry her … Is there anyone afraid and disheartened? Let him go back to his home, lest the courage of his comrades flag like his.” (Deuteronomy 20:4–8)

After the priest promises divine backing to the soldiers, the officials give them an opportunity to go home — either because they have uncompleted business or because they are simply too afraid of battle. Once these speeches conclude, the military commanders take charge of the army. 

Today’s daf wonders: Who is “the priest” that promises God will lead the troops in battle?

One might have thought that any priest who would want to address the people may assume this role. To counter this idea, the verse states: “And the officers shall speak” (Deuteronomy 20:5). Just as the officers described are those who have been appointed to discharge their responsibilities, so too, the priest described is one who has been appointed for this role. 

But if so, why not say that the high priest should deliver this address, as he is also appointed? Rather, the appointed priest must be similar to an appointed officer. Just as an officer is one who has someone else with greater authority appointed above him, so too, the priest described must be one who has someone else (i.e., the high priest) appointed above him.

The Gemara, at least initially, rejects the possibility that it is the high priest who speaks to the troops. Because they infer from analogy to the officials that it must be someone appointed to the job, and so the top priest, who has no one above him to appoint him, can’t fill this role.

But no, says the Gemara, that’s not exactly correct:

The high priest also meets this qualification, as there is the king above him, and therefore, the high priest should deliver the address. 

The high priest serves under the king, which means there is someone above him after all. But then again:

That there is a king is irrelevant to the station of the high priest, who ranks highest in the priesthood. 

Because the king doesn’t have a role in the structure of the priesthood, he isn’t really “above” the high priest in the org chart. Therefore, the Gemara concludes, the high priest is officially disqualified from making the speech. 

Now the rabbis wonder if the high priest’s deputy could be the orator:

The deputy is not an appointed office, as this position has no particular function other than being a ready substitute for the high priest. As it is taught: Rabbi Hanina, the deputy high priest, says: To what end is the deputy appointed? It is merely for the possibility that if some disqualification befalls the high priest, the deputy steps in and serves in his stead. However, the deputy has no specific role of his own.

In the United States, the vice president was once seen as largely an official-in-waiting — significant only if something happens to the president. As the first vice president, John Adams, put it: “In this I am nothing, but I may be everything.” And, more archly, Daniel Webster famously turned down the role of vice president, saying: “I do not propose to be buried until I am dead.” 

Apparently, according to today’s daf, this was also true for the deputy high priest, whose primary role was to stand by in case the high priest was unable to perform his role. So, the Gemara concludes, the deputy also isn’t “the priest” who addresses the troops.

This discussion, unsatisfyingly, concludes with no decision about who this priestly orator is. Centuries later, the Mishneh Torah provides some additional details, like the fact that it isn’t an inherited position, while Sefer HaChinukh talks about the qualifications of this priest’s wife. Still, there isn’t a comprehensive picture of who serves in this role.

Perhaps that’s actually part of the point. It’s hard to know who will be the Pericles in each generation. We’d definitely want someone charismatic and convincing in this position, and giving the nation’s leaders the most candidates possible means they have the leeway to select the man who’d do the job best. Maybe, then, the ambiguity is part of the magic, clearing the way to choose Denzel Washington instead of getting stuck with Mr. D.

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King Agrippa arose, and received (the Torah scroll) and read standing, and the sages praised him. And when he arrived at: “You may not appoint a foreigner over you” (Deuteronomy 17:15), tears flowed from his eyes. They said: Fear not, Agrippa. You are our brother, you are our brother.

The mishnah offers no further comment about this episode, but the Gemara records this teaching: 

It was taught in the name of Rabbi Natan: At that moment the enemies of the Jewish people (a euphemism for the Jewish people) were sentenced to destruction for flattering Agrippa. 

Rabbi Shimon ben Halafta says: From the day that the power of flattery prevailed, the judgment has become corrupted, and people’s deeds have become corrupted, and a person cannot say to another: My deeds are greater than your deeds.

A number of questions need to be answered in order to understand this episode, and the apparent difference in these two versions of it. Why was King Agrippa crying? Why did the people respond as they did? And was their response warranted? 

King Agrippa in the Talmud is most likely King Agrippa II, a descendant on his father’s side of Herod the Great, the Roman king of Judea, and the Hasmoneans, the Jewish kingly dynasty. As a descendent of Herod, Agrippa may have wept at reading the passage about a foreigner ruling over the Jewish people because he believed that his Herodian lineage should have disqualified him from being king in the first place. A close reading of Deuteronomy 17:15 reveals that the king is supposed to be taken mikerev achecha, “from amidst your brothers,” which Tosafot explains means Jewish on all sides. According to Rashi, the people reassure him that he is in fact their brother — that is, Jewish — on account of his mother being of Hasmonean descent. But while his maternal lineage may have made him Jewish, it’s not enough to warrant his ascension to the throne. 

This explains why Agrippa cried and why the people sought to reassure him. But why would this warrant their destruction? Why is flattering the king so terrible?

First, there’s the problem of illegitimate usurpation. The throne of Israel is supposed to be held only by a descendent of King David, which Agrippa was decidedly not. Then there’s the issue of pandering. While it might be acceptable to flatter a king — after all, he is the king — in this case, they may have been flattering a usurper who has just read a verse indicating that it’s forbidden for him to ascend the throne. 

Finally, there’s the issue of flattery in general. The Gemara takes the people to task for heaping false praise — so much so that it is seen as wholly destructive to the nation. If, as Rabbi Shimon bar Halafta says in our passage, judgment itself becomes corrupt (seemingly because the people are flattering judges into ruling unjustly), what is there to stop anyone from doing what they want, the law and the consequences be damned? 

Often, it’s human nature to flatter those deemed to be our superiors, whether they deserve it or not. The Gemara comes to caution us to be more careful, lest that flattery get us nowhere.

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The discussion picks up after relating which verses the people should say when the priests offered the priestly blessing at the end of various services. The Gemara now asks:

While the prayer leader is reciting the blessing of: “We give thanks,” what do the people say?

Every Jewish prayer service is marked by the special standing prayer, known as the Amidah. After a series of requests, the prayer closes with expressions of gratitude. (Our current Amidah actually closes with one more request — for peace — but this may have been a later development.) This blessing of gratitude, Modim, is known by its opening: “We give thanks.”

When the Amidah is recited by the leader, the worshipers are meant to listen and answer amen to the blessings. But Modim demands more of the worshipers; they are meant to say their own prayer. What should they say? Here we see a debate:

Said Rav: “We are thankful to you, Adonai our God, that we are thankful to you.”

Shmuel said: “We are thankful to you, God of all flesh, that we are thankful to you.”

Rabbi Simai said: “We are thankful to you, our Molder, Molder of creation, that we are thankful to you.”

Rav, Shmuel and Rabbi Simai are debating the name of God to be used in this short prayer. In fact, that seems to be the only disagreement between them, as the rest of the prayer remains constant for each of them, focusing on the meta issue of thanking God that we can thank God.

Rav uses God’s intimate and personal name, which Jews say aloud as Adonai but which is actually four consonants without vowels (YHVH), the true pronunciation of which has been lost. It is a name that connected to God’s unique relationship Jewish people (see Sifre Devarim 31). Shmuel uses the broader term God of all flesh (not just the Jewish people). Rabbi Simai takes this one step further and calls God the creator of all (not limiting to the flesh). These are three very different aspects of God, and three distinct areas of focus for our gratitude.

So whose name of God wins out in the end? Rav Pappa, coming a few generations later, is not willing to make a choice, but instead counsels to combine all the options:

Rav Papa said: “Therefore, let’s say them all.”

Indeed, that is how we refer to God in this prayer today:

We are thankful to You, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors, God of all flesh, our Molder, Molder of creation.

God is called all three of these expanding terms, and this blessing becomes an opportunity to call God by the most intimate and the most broad of names. This is a daring statement that while sometimes we are tempted to think of God only as particular to the Jewish people — or only as universal — this prayer holds the tension of both of these roles in one sentence.

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Rava bar Rav Huna says: Once a Torah scroll has been opened, it is prohibited to converse, even about a matter of halakhah. As it is stated: “And Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people, for he was above all the people, and when he opened it, all the people stood up” (Nehemiah 8:5), and standing is nothing other than silence, as it is stated: “And shall I wait, because they do not speak, because they stand still, and answer no more?” (Job 32:16)

Rava bar Rav Huna proves that we are forbidden to speak while the Torah scroll is open by connecting a verse from Nehemiah that shows the people standing when the Torah is recited with a verse from Job, in which standing is paired with silence. So is the point just to be respectfully silent?

Rabbi Zeira said that Rav Hisda said: We learn it from here: “And the ears of all the people were attentive to the book of the law” (Nehemiah 8:3).

This second opinion insists that, in fact, silence isn’t enough. You also have to pay attention to the Torah reading. Attention, as we will see, is a key theme on today’s daf.

From here, the Talmud shifts to describing the ritual choreography of the priestly blessing in communal prayer. First recited in the Temple, today the priestly blessing is recited by those descended from the priestly class toward the end of the Amidah, between Modim, the blessing of thanksgiving, and Sim Shalom, the blessing for peace. In the diaspora, the priestly blessing is recited only on major holidays. In Israel, it is usually recited weekly on Shabbat. And in Jerusalem, to this day, it is recited daily. 

Again, Rabbi Zeira says in the name of Rav Hisda:

The one who calls (the priests forward) is not permitted to call out for the priests until amen (to the blessing of thanksgiving) concludes from the mouths of the congregation. And the priests are not permitted to begin the benediction until the statement of the caller concludes from his mouth. And the congregation is not permitted to answer amen until the blessing concludes from the mouths of the priests. And the priests are not permitted to begin another blessing until amen concludes from the mouths of the congregation.

Each part of the prayer must be completely concluded before the next part is started. I called these rules ritual choreography, because they are just like a dance. Each party has to be aware of the other, and responsive to where they are in prayer. Each move deserves the full time it takes to do it correctly. And to truly know where you are in the dance, you have to pay attention. And what attention you have to pay! The priests need to make sure that the congregation — as a whole — has responded amen to their first blessing before they can continue! 

Many people think of prayer as “talking to God.” But the teachings on today’s daf remind us that, for the rabbis, the ideal form of prayer was actually communal talking to God. And while it was important to pay attention to the meaning of the words and one’s intentions in saying them, it was also important to pay attention to the community within which one prayed. To speak isn’t enough, one also has to truly listen.

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I recall being with my grandfather in synagogue as a young boy, wrapped with him under his tallit, listening to the words of the blessing emerging from the priests gathered on the bimah. I remember trying to keep up with the mumbling congregants who recited a verse after each word of the benediction and joining in the singing of the wordless melody led by the hazzan between the three lines of the blessing.

The mishnah’s version of the ritual is simpler than what I witnessed in my grandfather’s synagogue. The priests recite the benediction verse by verse and, after each verse, the congregation responds amen.

Today, the Gemara poses a wonderfully talmudic question: What happens if the entire community is made up of priests? Do they all offer the blessing? And who, then, receives it?

Adda said that Rabbi Samlai says: In a synagogue that is made up entirely of priests, everyone ascends the platform to recite the priestly benediction. 

But if the entire congregation is composed of priests, for whom do they utter the blessing? 

Rabbi Zeira says: They say the blessing for their fellows who are in the fields.

The benediction benefits those who could not make it to synagogue. A great answer, but one that yields a few objections:

Is that so? But didn’t Abba, son of Rav Minyamin bar Hiyya, teach that the people who are standing behind the backs of the priests are not included in the priestly benediction? 

Abba’s teaching contradicts the Gemara’s answer. If those in the field are not standing before the priests to receive the blessing, how can they receive the blessing? 

That is not difficult. The former is a case where the people are compelled to be in the fields because of their work; Abba’s statement is referring to people who are not compelled to be away but still do not stand face-to-face with the priests. 

The resolution is this: If you are able to be present for the blessing, but choose not to, you are not included. But if you have an excused absence, you get the benefit. 

But what about this?

Didn’t Rav Shimi of Birte deShihorei teach that in a synagogue that is made up entirely of priests, some of them ascend to recite the benediction and some of them answer amen?

Rav Shimi’s teaching also makes sense: We don’t necessarily need all the priests to make the blessing, and there should be someone around to acknowledge it by saying amen.

Again, the Gemra responds:

That is not difficult.

Rav Shimi is dealing with a case where, if some of the priests recite the benediction, a quorum of ten priests still remains to receive the benediction and answer amen. Therefore, only some of the priests ascend to recite the benediction. The original case, however, is one where a quorum of ten does not remain to answer amen, so it is better for all of the priests to ascend and bless the people working in the fields.

As before, the Gemara responds to the objection by explaining how the two cases are different. However, while the first explanation left our understanding of the original case intact, this one changes it. 

We first thought he was saying that, in a congregation entirely made up of priests, they all should go up to recite the benediction. Based upon the resolution to the second objection, however, we are now to understand that he meant that all go up only if there are at least 10 but less than 19 of them (in which case, when a quorum of 10 go up to make the blessing, less than 10 remain in the congregation).

And while this solution appears to upend Rav Simlai’s original intent, it sits well with me. Thinking back to those moments in my grandfather’s synagogue, what made this ritual powerful was the liturgical interaction between the priests and congregation, an embodiment of the link between God and the Israelites alluded to in Numbers 6:27. For this to happen, someone must be present to receive it — even when everyone in the room is a priest.

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A beraita (early rabbinic teaching) that begins on the bottom of yesterday’s page gives a different account of the parting of the waters: 

What was the incident where Judah sanctified God’s name in public? As it is taught that Rabbi Meir would say: When the Jewish people stood at the Red Sea, the tribes were arguing with one another. This one was saying: “I am going into the sea first,” and that one was saying: “I am going into the sea first.” Then, in jumped the tribe of Benjamin and descended into the sea first, as it is stated: “There is Benjamin, the youngest, ruling them” (Psalms 68:28).

Do not read it as: “Ruling them [rodem]”; rather, read it as: “Descending into the sea [red yam].” And the princes of the tribe of Judah were stoning them [rogmim otam] for plunging in first and not in the proper order, as it is stated in the continuation of the verse: “The princes of Judah, their council [rigmatam]” (Psalms 68:28). 

According to this tradition of Rabbi Meir, the people weren’t nervous to enter the sea — they were excited. And while they argued about who would go first, Benjamin dove in. The tribe of Judah, though, wasn’t having any of it and actually stoned the tribe of Benjamin for jumping the queue. In a move familiar to us by now, Rabbi Meir supports this reading by punning on the Hebrew in Exodus and Psalm 68, which mentions both tribes. 

Have we been getting the story wrong all this time? Was it actually the tribe of Benjamin that led the way? And was it an ignoble act? Not according to Rabbi Yehuda, whose opinion the Gemara records next.

Rabbi Yehuda said to Rabbi Meir: That is not how the incident took place. Rather, this tribe said: “I am not going into the sea first,” and that tribe said: “I am not going into the sea first.”

Then, in jumped Nahshon ben Aminadav and descended into the sea first, as it is stated: “Ephraim surrounds Me with lies and the house of Israel with deceit, and Judah is yet wayward toward God [rad im El]” (Hosea 12:1)

The tradition explicates Nahshon’s prayer at that moment: “Save me, God; for the waters are come in even unto the soul. I am sunk in deep mire, where there is no standing … let not the water flood overwhelm me, neither let the deep swallow me up” (Psalms 69:2–3, 16). 

According to Rabbi Yehuda, in contrast to Rabbi Meir, the tribes weren’t fighting because they all wanted to go first, but rather because none of them did! In this context, Nachshon, representing the tribe of Judah, takes the (literal) plunge. Rabbi Yehuda also finds verses, from Hosea and Psalms, to show that not only was Nachshon, representing Judah, first into the waves, but that he had God on his side, and that his prayer was effective: He went into the water, and rather than swallowing him up, it parted (as soon as Moses raised his staff, that is). 

So who was right: Benjamin or Judah? Possibly both. A lovely midrash (Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael 14:22:1) makes the analogy that Benjamin (the younger) and Judah (the elder) represent a king’s two sons. The king says to the younger one, “wake me up at sunrise.” To the older one, he says, “wake me up at the third hour” (i.e., later in the morning). The younger one shows up at sunrise to fulfill his father’s wish but is prevented from doing so by the older brother, whose orders are to wake the king up later. In a scene familiar to anyone who has ever had young children, the altercation between the two wakes the king, who says: “My sons, both of you acted for my honor — I will not withhold your reward for this.”

Ultimately, the tribes of Judah and Benjamin occupied adjacent territories in the promised land, with Jerusalem right at the border. The Talmud relates that the tribe of Benjamin earned the right to have the Temple built in its territory, and that the tribe of Judah, which gave us the great kings of Israel, merited to govern the people. 

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There are 70 nations in the world. (Genesis 11 and Pesikta D’Rav Kahana 28:1)

There are 70 faces of Torah. (Numbers Rabbah 13:16)

We also know that the rabbinic high court, the Sanhedrin, had 70 members. And, on today’s daf, we learn that, according to the rabbis, there are 70 languages in the world. 

The Gemara has been exploring the Israelites’ miraculous experiences and their many activities on the day that they crossed the Jordan River and entered Canaan, after which they erected a monument designed to make the entire Torah publicly available to all:

They brought the stones and built the altar on Mount Ebal, and plastered it over with plaster, and wrote on the stones all of the words of the Torah in 70 languages, as it is stated: “And you shall write on the stones all of the words of this law clearly elucidated (i.e., for all humanity) …” (Deuteronomy 27:8)

Now the daf continues through its exposition of what happened after the Israelites entered the promised land, including the land apportionments and honors assigned to each tribe, especially the tribe of Joseph.

Recall that Joseph was the eldest son of the patriarch Jacob’s beloved wife Rachel and therefore Jacob’s favorite child. His brothers, intensely jealous of his special status, sold him into slavery in Egypt. Initially, his situation in Egypt went from bad to worse when he was sexually accosted by his master Potiphar’s wife. When he refused her advances, she retaliated by accusing him of assault and he was thrown in jail. Ultimately, though, Joseph leveraged his talent for dream interpretation to secure a position as Pharaoh’s advisor. From that post, he was able to orchestrate a national grain rationing program that ultimately saved Egypt and even his own brothers in the land of Israel from a devastating famine. 

Though Judah ultimately became the ascendant tribe, the Josephites are famous in rabbinic literature for imperviousness to the deleterious effects of the evil eye. Today’s daf gives several explanations for their special immunity, including Joseph’s sexual propriety.

“And it came to pass on a certain day, when he went into the house to do his work” (Genesis 39:11). Rabbi Yohanan says: This teaches that both (Joseph and Potiphar’s wife) intended to sin. “When he went into the house to do his work,” — Rav and Shmuel disagree. One says: To do his work, literally. And one says: He entered in order to fulfill his (sexual) needs.

The debate among the rabbis as to whether Joseph initially intended to engage in sex with his master’s wife turns on how much innuendo one reads into the biblical verse “went into the house to do his work.” But whatever his initial intentions, we know Joseph didn’t consummate the relationship:

“And she caught him by his garment, saying: Lie with me” (Genesis 39:12). At that moment his father’s image came and appeared to him in the window, saying to him: Joseph, the names of your brothers are destined to be written on the stones of the ephod (special garment worn by the high priest), and you are among them.

Do you desire your name to be erased from among them, and to be called an associate of promiscuous women? As it is written: “But he who keeps company with harlots wastes his riches.” (Proverbs 29:3)

Joseph’s near consummation of an adulterous relationship is thwarted by the psychologically intriguing appearance of his father, Jacob. Daddy’s apparition in the liaison bed “kills” Joseph’s mood, and he remains chaste, though clearly this was difficult for him.

The Gemara, which has at this point wound through this and many other interesting teachings (for example, about hornets accompanying the Israelites into the promised land), returns to the theme of 70 languages. The rabbis explain that once Pharaoh elevated Joseph, some of the other royal advisors got jealous of the upstart and questioned Joseph’s qualifications. And so:

The angel Gabriel then came and taught Joseph the 70 languages, but he could not learn all of them. Gabriel then added one letter (heh) to Joseph’s name from the name of the Holy One, Blessed be God, and then he was able to learn the languages, as it is stated: “He appointed it in Joseph (YeHosef, rather than Yosef) for a testimony; when he went forth against the land of Egypt, the speech of one that I did not know I heard” (Psalms 81:6). And the next day, when Joseph appeared before Pharaoh, in every language that Pharaoh spoke with him, he answered him.

We first encountered Joseph as a classic role model of pious sexual continence. In this last passage on our daf, he is presented as a role model of worldliness and global engagement.  We might even think of him as a foundational model for the ideal of the Israelites’ worldliness and global engagement which are symbolized by their translation of the Torah into the world’s seventy languages. 

The sages weren’t always sanguine about dealing with the non-Jewish world, particularly the Roman and Persian-Sassanian empires under which the Jews often suffered terribly. Nonetheless, here they present us with a refreshing image of Joseph — their model of stubborn Jewish piety among the non-Jews — as our contemporary model of positive Jewish engagement with the languages and the peoples of the planet. Joseph is secure enough with being Jewish that he can comfortably embrace the world at large. This embrace is not a mere practicality of his statecraft, but a desideratum made possible by God’s own name. At its best, this is the ideal towards which all of us are asked to strive.

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Only two of the spies, Caleb son of Jephunneh and Joshua son of Nun, return with a positive report. The result of the bad report is devastating: The newly freed Israelites rebel against God and beg to return to Egypt. In response, God becomes enraged and threatens to destroy the people. Thanks to Moses’ calming intervention, God settles for making the people wander 40 years in the wilderness instead, until an entire generation had died out. (Caleb and Joshua were allowed to enter the land, however.)

It’s not surprising, therefore, that the rabbinic tradition does not view the ten spies positively. On today’s daf we read a series of midrashim that paint them as slanderers who doubt God’s ability to aid the Israelites in their future efforts to conquer the land. Embedded within the stream of interpretive material, however, are two texts that cast them in a different light:

Rava taught: The Holy One Blessed be He, said: I intended for good, but they considered bad. I intended it for their good by causing many people to die there so that anywhere that the spies arrived, the most important of them died, so that the Canaanites would be preoccupied with mourning and would not inquire about them … however, the spies considered this proof that the land was bad and said: It is a land that consumes its inhabitants.

Having witnessed death and destruction of the land’s inhabitants, the spies concluded that the land itself was hazardous. But, says the midrash, it was actually God who caused this wave of deaths — so that the Canaanites would be occupied by grief and mourning, allowing the spies to pass unnoticed.

Another midrash explains why the spies felt small, like tiny grasshoppers: 

When the Canaanites were having the mourners’ meal, they had the meal beneath cedar trees, and when the spies saw them they climbed up the trees and sat in them. And they heard the Canaanites saying: We see people who look like grasshoppers in the trees.

When the mourners looked up from their post-funeral meal and noticed the spies watching them from the tree tops, it must have been an odd sight. And since cedar trees are known for being tall, the spies naturally looked small way up there — hence the comment that they looked like grasshoppers. 

Taken together, these midrashim suggest that the spies’ report arose from a misunderstanding, or misinterpretation, of what they saw and heard. Yes, the people had called them grasshoppers, but not out of a sense of strength or superiority. Yes, they had witnessed many funerals, but not because the land was inhospitable. More importantly, their error was not the result of an evil intention, nor fear, nor lack of faith — but rather by a miscalculation on God’s part. God had intended for good and the spies did not see it as God intended.

Perhaps, the Talmud suggests, we should not be so quick to judge the spies. And if a divine intervention that sought to help ended up hindering, perhaps we might also not be so quick to judge others when their actions yield negative consequences. If God can miscalculate, certainly so can we.

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We find an example of this on today’s daf, which analyzes the two biblical accounts of the story of the 12 spies who were sent by Moses to scout out the land of Israel. Spoiler alert: Ten of the 12 returned with a negative report, thereby disappointing God and delaying the entrance of the Israelites into the land of Israel for a further 40 years. 

However, our daf is more interested in the beginning of this story than the end. Specifically, this story begins with God telling Moses: “Send you men to scout the land of Canaan” (Numbers 13:2). Based on the fact that the word “you” (lekha in Hebrew) is in the singular, the Talmud records this teaching:

Reish Lakish says: “Send you” means at your own discretion.

Reish Lakish understands that Moses sent the spies at his own discretion, not as a divine command, and thus the onus of the mission falls entirely on Moses. 

Fast forward 40 years and, in the weeks leading up to his death, Moses retells this story to the Israelites, saying the sending of the spies “was good in my eyes” (Deuteronomy 1:23). In this case, it is Moses who uses the singular tense about himself. Here’s how Reish Lakish understands this phrase: 

Reish Lakish says: It seemed good “in my eyes,” but not in the eyes of the Omnipresent.

According to this reading, Moses accepts that he made an error of judgment by sending the spies in the manner that he did. Of course, hindsight is always 20-20. Still, why did Moses proceed with sending the spies when, at least according to Reish Lakish, the language initially used by God implied that God was not only not commanding Moses to proceed with the mission, but not endorsing it either?

Nachmanides explains that when God (apparently) commanded Moses to send the spies, it was really a response to Moses’ prior conversations with the Israelites, who had pressured him to agree to scout the land of Israel before they entered. The problem was that Moses agreed to do so without first seeking God’s advice. This disappointed God, especially since Moses had already been told by God that the land was a “good land” (see Exodus 3:8). So God’s seeming command to Moses to send men is in reality God acquiescing to a plan that had already been sealed between Moses and the people without any divine command or recommendation. 

With all this in mind, we can now return to Moses’ remark in Deuteronomy 1:23 that the plan to send the spies seemed good “in my eyes.” Here, Moses isn’t really talking about the spies, but about himself and his error of not consulting God before he agreed to send them. Why does he review a decision that he made 40 years previously? Surely, what’s done is done.

I believe that the answer is that Moses is not really talking to the people, nor is he talking to God. He is offering guidance to his disciple Joshua, who is about to lead the people into the land of Israel. Moses wants to warn Joshua that he shouldn’t make rash decisions without first checking with God. 

And so it was. Joshua subsequently sends spies once more (see Joshua Chapter 1). But unlike Moses’ 12 spies, Joshua’s two spies go not only with his blessings — but with God’s blessings too!

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On today’s daf, we find a teaching that suggests angels are even more linguistically limited than they are in Lamb’s novel. Rav Yehuda states:

A person should never request in the Aramaic language that his needs (be met), as Rabbi Yohanan said: Anyone who requests in the Aramaic language that his needs (be met), the ministering angels do not attend to him, as the ministering angels are not familiar with the Aramaic language.

Rav Yehuda believes that the angels speak only Hebrew. It is a sign of their profound holiness that they speak only the language with which God created the world. But it is also a real limitation — the angels are unable to help, or even know about it, when a non-Hebrew speaking person wants their support in their prayer request. Theirs is a life of holy isolation. 

Also, is it even true? The Gemara suggests it might not be.

Isn’t it taught in a beraita (Tosefta 13:5): Yohanan the high priest heard a divine voice from the house of the holy of holies that was saying: The youth who went to wage war in Antokhya have been victorious. And another incident involving Shimon Hatzaddik, who heard a divine voice emerging from the house of the holy of holies that was saying: The decree that the enemy intended to bring against the Temple is annulled, and Gaskalgas (Caligula) has been killed and his decrees have been voided. And they wrote that time, and it matched (his time of death). And it was speaking in the Aramaic language.

Twice, high priests heard a divine voice make a proclamation about something that had happened far away. Both times, the proclamations were proven true, so they were authentic. And both times, apparently, the voice was speaking Aramaic. So how could it be that angels don’t speak Aramaic?

The Gemara offers two possible resolutions to this challenge: 

If you wish, say a divine voice is different, as its purpose is to communicate. 

And if you wish, say it was Gabriel, as the master said (with regard to Joseph): Gabriel came and taught him 70 languages.

Either a divine voice is not actually an angel, but something else with a specific task that requires being understood by humans. Or it is Gabriel, the one and only angel who tradition says was fluent in 70 languages.

The potential challenge is thus resolved, but I am left feeling grateful not to be an angel. Ignorance might be bliss, but it is also a way to be disengaged, outside the community and unable to care for others. Language may not always be holy, but it’s how we connect with other people.

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Today’s daf contains a similar debate, only this time it’s over which language ought to be used in prayer. According to the mishnah on today’s daf, the Shema and the Amidah can both be recited in any language. Naturally, the Gemara wants to know how we know this. 

From where do we derive Shema? As it is written: “Hear, O Israel” (Deuteronomy 6:4). In any language that you hear. 

From the actual text of the prayer, the Gemara determines that the Shema can be said in any language that someone can hear and understand. That seems entirely logical and in line with the mishnah. But an ancient sprachenkampf awaits in the next paragraph:

The sages taught (Tosefta 7:7): Shema as it is written. This is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi. And the rabbis say: In any language.

According to Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the Shema must be recited in the language in which it was written — i.e. Hebrew. What is his proof?

The verse states: “And these words, which I command you this day, will be upon your heart” (Deuteronomy 6:6). As they are, so shall they be.

Relying on a few verses from elsewhere in the Shema, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi reasons that if the words of the prayer “will be upon your heart,” those words must be exactly as originally written. In contrast, the rabbis rely on the original rationale, that “hear” implies understanding, so any language will do. 

The Gemara then poses an additional question, wondering if this linguistic broad mindedness applies to the Torah as a whole. And if it does, then why do we need the Shema’s specific instruction to hear?

Integrating the prooftexts of the rabbis and Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the Gemara finds a compromise:

“Hear” is necessary, because “and these words, which I command you this day, will be” is written. 

In other words, the Torah in general should be invoked in Hebrew, as per Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi. The Shema, however, can be recited in a manner that enables comprehension.

The Zionist revival of Hebrew over a century ago is just the most recent example of a Jewish fight over language. As the Gemara reminds us, battles like these are part of our tradition. The linguistic requirements for prayer have been the subject of disagreement for far longer than the Technion has existed.

Read all of Sotah 32 on Sefaria.

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Both positions have a basis in the Torah. Deuteronomy 6:5, the first line of the first paragraph of the Shema prayer, states: “You shall love your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” And Leviticus 19:14 says: “You shall fear your God.” These verses, and many others like them, root our commitment to serving God in both these powerful emotions. But is one superior to the other?

Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says: Greater is the one who performs mitzvot out of love than the one who performs mitzvot out of fear, as this endures for 1,000 generations and that endures for 2,000 generations.

Rabbi Shimon suggests serving God from a place of love is preferable to serving God from fear — perhaps twice as preferable, for its impact endures twice as long. Two-thousand generations is a really long time, but so is 1,000 generations. Even if we take these numbers less than literally, we can safely assert that Rabbi Shimon believes that while acting out of love will sustain us longer, both are effective.

Follow a short discussion of Rabbi Shimon’s teaching, the Gemara shares an anecdote that takes another stab at this question:

Two students who were sitting before Rava, and one said to him: It was read to me in my dream: “How abundant is Your goodness, which You have laid up for those who fear You” (Psalms 31:20).

And one said to Rava: It was read to me in my dream: “So shall all those who take refuge in You rejoice; they will forever shout for joy, and You will shelter them; let them also who love Your name exult in You” (Psalms 5:12). 

Two students share with their teacher Rava verses that came to them in dreams. One verse concerns the reward for fearing God, and the other concerns the reward for loving God. In response, Rava says to them:

You are both completely righteous sages. One sage serves out of love, and one sage serves out of fear. 

Love and fear, says Rava, are both righteous paths and the students should not fret about the difference. Both, in the end, are fully righteous.

Modern science has taught us that our motivations are complex and that there are many factors that shape our decisions. Those who choose to live a Jewish life choose from a wider palette than just love and fear. Whose choices are more righteous? We could, like the Gemara, ask this question. Yet it might be wiser to follow in Rava’s footsteps, viewing all who count themselves as part of the Jewish people as completely righteous. Indeed, this may be the path toward ensuring that we endure for the next 2,000 generations — and beyond.

Read all of Sotah 31 on Sefaria.

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When the Israelites reached the Red Sea and were able to walk through it to safety, they stopped and sang a song thanking God for this miracle. The rabbis of the Gemara ask what seems to be a very basic question: How did the Israelites recite the song? 

The Gemara offers three answers, each of which suggests a different type of relationship between Moses and the Israelites. First, Rabbi Akiva explains: 

And how did they recite the song? As an adult man reciting Hallel and they recite after him the chapter headings. Moses said: “I will sing unto the Lord” (Exodus 15:1), and the people said: “I will sing unto the Lord.” Moses said: “For He is highly exalted” (Exodus 15:1), and they said “I will sing unto the Lord.

We know that one who is obligated in a mitzvah can fulfill that obligation for other people. So an adult man who is obligated to recite Hallel, the psalms of praise said on certain Jewish holidays, can recite it on behalf of everyone else, who can fulfill their own obligations merely by chiming in with a repeating refrain. 

Rabbi Akiva imagines that this is how it worked by the sea: Moses recited the song of praise and the Israelites responded by repeating the same two words over and over again (In Hebrew, ashira l’Adonai) to punctuate the song. Moses does most of the work, and this nation just now led out of slavery offers what is basically punctuation to the moment.  

Here’s the second answer:

Rabbi Eliezer, son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, says: Like a minor boy reciting Hallel and they repeat after him all that he says. Moses said: “I will sing unto the Lord” (Exodus 15:1), and they said: “I will sing to the Lord.” Moses said: “For He is highly exalted,” and they said: “For He is highly exalted.”

A Jewish boy below the age of bar mitzvah is not obligated to recite Hallel, so he cannot fulfill the obligation for those who are. But if the community needs or wants such a boy to lead Hallel, he can lead the community in song so long as everyone obligated in the mitzvah says all the words themselves. So Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili imagines Moses leading as such a boy would — saying the words but then pausing so the community could repeat after him. Here Moses is less a performer than a facilitator. 

And the third answer:

Rabbi Nehemya says: Like a scribe who recites the Shema in the synagogue; he begins the first (words) and they repeat after him.

Rabbi Nehemya’s suggestion turns from Hallel, which is traditionally sung, to a more frequently recited (and often less musical) prayer: the Shema. The way this is done, the scribe (meaning the person leading services) kicks off the prayer by saying the first words, but then the entire community joins in and recites it together. Likewise with Moses: He merely started the song, but then everyone else jumped in (and evidently intuited all its words at the same time!).  

The Gemara’s three explanations are organized in order from expecting the least from Israel in terms of participation (just reciting a refrain over and over again) to the most (spontaneously co-creating an homage to the glory and power of God.). And it moves in the opposite direction with respect to Moses’ contribution, from being the song’s composer to merely being the one to signal when to start singing. 

These three answers paint very different pictures of who the Israelites were as they emerged from slavery — and very different versions of what meaningful leadership would have been in that moment. The Gemara doesn’t privilege one of these answers over the others — they all remain possibilities.

Read all of Sotah 30 on Sefaria.

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