The mishnah then pivots to undesirable trades more generally:

Abba Guryan of Tzadyan says in the name of Abba Gurya: A person may not teach his son to be a donkey driver, a camel driver, a pot maker, a sailor, a shepherd or a storekeeper, as their trades are the trades of robbers.

In my childhood, it was used car salesmen and lawyers who were accused of proverbial highway robbery. For Abba Guryan, it’s donkey drivers and sailors, though Rabbi Yehuda sees it a little differently:

Most donkey drivers are wicked, but most camel drivers are decent. Most sailors are pious, but the best of doctors is for Gehenna, and even the fittest of butchers is a partner of Amalek.

That’s a lot of professions the rabbis advise against. It seems that Jewish parents have had high professional expectations for their kids for thousands of years. I’d be remiss in not noting, however, that the Gemara does approve of some professions. Embroidery, for example, is named as a decent option for young men.

As the list of undesirable professions lengthens, the rabbis are compelled to contemplate a larger, more philosophical problem: All these professions — donkey driver, sailor, shepherd, storekeeper, doctor, butcher, weaver, launderer and all the rest — may be undesirable, but we also cannot function as a society without them. Realistically, as long as people want to eat meat, someone will need to slaughter it. As Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi observes:

There is no trade that disappears from the world, but fortunate is he who sees his parents in an elevated trade; woe is he who sees his parents in a lowly trade.

In the end, we cannot expect or even wish for these professions to disappear. Not everyone will have a desirable job. Not everyone will be wealthy. Not everyone will be equal. That’s just the way of the world. 

The rabbis are not ready to throw in the towel, though. Why should some have to settle for lesser professions? After all, Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar points out: 

I never saw a deer work as one who dries figs, nor a lion work as a porter, nor a fox work as a storekeeper. And yet they earn their livelihood without anguish. All these were created only to serve me, and I was created to serve the One Who formed me. If these, who were created only to serve me, earn their livelihood without anguish, then is it not right that I, who was created to serve the One Who formed me, should earn my livelihood without anguish? 

Animals don’t have to toil for their living as people do. They are blithely untroubled by inequality of status or pay. How ironic, says Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar, that creatures who occupy a lower rung on the ladder of creation are precisely the creatures who are wholly unplagued by inequality. This glaring problem demands an answer, and you might have already guessed how Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar will explain it:

I (i.e., humanity) have committed evil actions and have lost my livelihood, as it is stated: “Your iniquities have turned away these things, and your sins have held back good from you.” (Jeremiah 5:25)

Human sinfulness, says Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar, is at the root of the painful inequality described on today’s daf. God’s ideal for us was to live in the Garden of Eden with no professions and no social hierarchy. But human sin made that impossible.

It may be hard for some to read this and not wish the rabbis had further extended this line of thought to consider other kinds of inequality. At least on this daf, they didn’t. But the rabbis also did not think of the Talmud as offering a final answer to most questions, but rather as a series of legal conversations that would both illuminate God’s desires for us and also give us tools to keep discerning divine will. That’s why each generation needs to learn Torah — so they can continue this sacred work. Indeed, you’ll not be surprised to learn, this is the ideal profession for a child:

Rabbi Nehorai says: I set aside all the trades in the world and I teach my son only Torah.

May we too continue to pass on that torch.

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If you know Rav Amram from elsewhere in the Talmud, this moniker might be a bit surprising. He isn’t a major player, appearing only a handful times across 63 tractates, and he isn’t universally loved, perhaps because his constraining, even oppressive, legal conclusions stand in contrast to those of his colleagues. For example, although Rav permits hops to be sown in a vineyard, Rav Amram administers lashes for such an action. Members of the exilarch’s household mistreat Rav Amram to the point that he becomes ill (according to Rashi, they were exacting retribution for his strict halakhic decisions and the limitations they imposed on others), but Yalta, Rav Nahman’s wife, nurses him back to health. 

Despite his conduct elsewhere, the story on today’s daf perhaps helps explain how he came to be known as Rav Amram the Pious:

Those captive women who were brought to Neharde’a, where they were redeemed, were brought up to the house of Rav Amram the Pious. They removed the ladder from before them to prevent men from climbing up after them to the attic where they were to sleep.

When one of [the women] passed by the entrance to the upper chamber, it was as though a light shone in the aperture due to her great beauty. Out of his desire for her, Rav Amram grabbed a ladder that ten men together could not lift, lifted it on his own and began climbing.

To keep the captive women safe from assault, they are brought to the attic of Rav Amram’s house (which speaks well of him) where the community takes an additional precaution by removing the ladder to prevent anyone from ascending to harass them. Unfortunately, one is so stunning that her beauty literally radiated down from the attic and even Rav Amram was unable to restrain himself. Overcome by passion and adrenaline, he lifts an impossibly heavy ladder and begins ascending. But he doesn’t make it to the top:

When he was halfway up the ladder, he strengthened his legs against the sides of the ladder to stop himself from climbing further, raised his voice, and cried out: “There is a fire in the house of Amram.” Upon hearing this, the sages came and found him in that position. They said to him: “You have embarrassed us, since everyone sees what you had intended to do.” Rav Amram said to them: “It is better that you be shamed in Amram’s house in this world, and not be ashamed of him in the World to Come.”

Rav Amram prevents his own further misconduct by pulling the not-so-proverbial fire alarm to get his colleagues’ attention. They come rushing and are immediately dismayed because it is clear what he was planning to do and he thinks it will reflect badly on all of them. But we have to admire Rav Amram here: He publicly calls himself out for his own behavior, ensuring that he’ll be held accountable for it. He acknowledges how this compromises his colleagues as well, taking full responsibility and explaining that experiencing shame in this world is better than in the World to Come — which presumably would have been the outcome for him and, by extension them, if he’d made it all the way up the ladder.

In the culmination of this dramatic story, Rav Amram confronts his own demons — literally — and tells them who’s boss:

He took an oath that his evil inclination should come out from him, and an apparition similar to a pillar of fire emerged. He said to his evil inclination: “See, as you are fire and I am mere flesh, and yet, I am still superior to you, as I was able to overcome you.”

Perhaps that’s what makes Rav Amram pious: Not his strict interpretations of halakhah, but his ability to master himself, restraining destructive urges. That and his willingness to take the heat for his actions.

While the sages may have understood Rav Amram’s alert to be a false alarm, perhaps he was spot on: There was, indeed, a fire in Rav Amram’s house, the pillar of fire that was his evil inclination, pushing him to assault a woman given sanctuary in his attic. Moreover, in the context of our talmudic argument, if someone of Rav Amram’s stature has such a difficult time holding himself back, it substantiates the rabbis’ conclusion that men in general couldn’t be readily trusted. But that’s no excuse for bad behavior. They place the burden on men to subdue their evil inclination, even if doing so will have other real world consequences.

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If a child is found alongside ritually pure started dough with risen dough in their hand, Rabbi Meir deems the started dough pure, and the rabbis deem it impure, because it is the manner of a child to handle items.

A pile of dough is (or was) ritually pure and a nearby child has some dough in their hands. The rabbis declare the pile of dough impure on the assumption that the child rendered it so while grabbing a handful (the hands of young children are considered to be ritually impure because they are naturally grabby and not developmentally able to maintain the purity of their hands). But this is not certain. (After all, a parent might have given the child some dough to play with, precisely to keep them from messing with the pure dough.) Rabbi Meir disagrees with his colleagues, declaring the suspicious dough ritually pure, but does not provide a reason, so the Gemara continues:  

What is the reasoning of Rabbi Meir? He holds that a majority of children handle items and a minority do not handle items, and the dough itself retains a presumptive status of purity. And if one appends the minority of children who do not handle items within reach to the presumptive status of purity of the dough, the force of the majority of children who handle items within reach is weakened. 

True, says Rabbi Meir, young children like to touch things — but not all young children. Since we do not have proof that the dough in the child’s hands was taken from the pure pile on the table, we can’t be certain that the child caused the dough to be impure. Lacking certainty, the pile on the table, which was presumed to be pure, maintains its presumed status.

And the rabbis contend that the minority is considered like it does not exist. 

Yes, say the rabbis, we are not certain that this particular child touched the pile of dough, but we can’t ignore the fact that most children are likely to have done so. And so, they argue, the presumed status of the dough is overridden. The likelihood that the child touched it is enough to render the dough impure. 

Note that the rabbis and Rabbi Meir do not disagree about how young children behave; both assume that the majority of young children will act on their curiosity and grab some dough from a pile on the table. They also agree that a few children will refrain from handling the available dough. Where they disagree is about how these assumptions affect the law, and in this case, the status of the dough on the table.

Rabbi Meir maintains that the presumptive status holds until we are certain that the dough had become impure. Why assume the worst? Since it’s possible that the dough is pure, let’s assume that is it, until we have evidence to the contrary. The rabbis, on the other hand, set aside the possible and rule based on the probable. Since it is more likely that the dough on the table has been contaminated, we should treat it as if it was. When in doubt, follow the odds.

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With regard to one who went overseas with his wife, and returned with his wife and children, and said: “This is the woman who went overseas with me and these are her children,” — he is not required to bring proof with regard to the lineage of the woman, nor with regard to the lineage of the children. If he said: “My wife died and these are her children,” — he must bring proof that the children were born to his wife, but he does not need to bring proof with regard to the lineage of the woman. 

If he says: “I married a woman overseas, and this is she, and these are her children,” — he must bring proof with regard to the lineage of the woman, but he is not required to bring proof with regard to the lineage of the children. If he said: “I married a woman overseas and she died, and these are her children,” — he is required to bring proof with regard to both the lineage of the woman and the children.

Because this mishnah focuses on lineage, Rashi and all the major halakhic codes assume it is talking specifically about a priest who needs to demonstrate that his children can inherit the priesthood. According to the mishnah, if he and his wife went overseas for a time and returned together with their children, it’s assumed that her fitness to marry a priest was proven prior to their marriage and therefore her children are fit to inherit the priesthood. If, however, the man returns with children but no wife, or a new wife and children, or children by a new wife who has since died, then he needs to prove the new wife’s lineage and/or the children’s maternity. 

Regarding maternity, the Gemara adds an additional element — it depends on the age of the children: 

The sages taught that if a man says: “I married a woman overseas,” — he must bring proof with regard to the lineage of the woman, but he is not required to bring proof with regard to the lineage of the children. And he must bring proof with regard to the lineage of the adult children, but he is not required to bring proof with regard to the lineage of the minor children.

Small children are likely clinging to their mother (as those of us who have ever traveled internationally with little children can surely attest) and if her lineage has been vetted, theirs can be assumed. With adult children, particularly if their mother has died, their lineage must be proven. 

We have seen throughout this chapter that the rabbis are concerned about ensuring that lineage — particularly of priests and their families — stays pure. There are a few reasons for this. Priests were (and still are, in many Jewish communities) called upon to perform a variety of ritual functions, from blessing the congregation with a special priestly benediction, to being called up to the Torah for the first aliyah, to accepting a ritual payment to redeem firstborn baby boys — so it’s important to know who these folks are. The rabbis are also planning for the future rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem; they want to ensure there are priests ready for service. For all these reasons, it’s important to know who the fit priests are.

In the late 20th and early 21st centuries, another way to interrogate priestly lineage has emerged. A number of scientific studies in the US and Israel have discovered a Y-chromosome priestly haplotype, seeming to demonstrate that there really may be an identifiable bloodline unique to Jewish priests. While the science is fascinating, it remains to be seen if such research will influence ritual outcomes. For now, we need to do what our ancestors did — take the father’s word for it, or do a little digging.

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However, Ezekiel 44:22 says: “They [priests] shall not marry widows or divorced women of the stock of the House of Israel, but only virgins; or they may marry widows who are widows of priests.”

The prohibition of marrying a widow or divorcee is limited to the high priest in Leviticus, while Ezekiel apparently expands the prohibition to all priests. On today’s daf, the rabbis are troubled by this contradiction and seek a resolution.

One solution, cited by Radak and Abarbanel, is that Ezekiel is talking about an ideal future time when priests will all practice a greater level of holiness, closer to that of the high priest. The idea here is that in the future all Israel will ascend a level of holiness. For the time being, priests, who enjoy a more direct connection to God, are meant to serve as exemplars for Israelites. Israelites, in turn, have rituals that actively imitate priests. For instance, tzitzit, ritual fringes worn by all Israel, incorporate expensive dye that emulates the clothes of the high priest. Tzitzit also mix wool and linen, a prohibition (shatnez) only set aside for the priestly garments. And just as Israelites aspire to priestly status, to a closer connection with God, the priests, in the future (argue the rabbis), will aspire to emulate the high priest, who has the most intimate human-divine relationship.

Another solution, cited on our daf, is to reinterpret the verse in Ezekiel. Rava does this in a way that surprises Rav Nahman: 

Rav Nahman said to Rava: Does this verse [from Ezekiel] refer to the high priest in the beginning and a regular priest at the end?!

Rava said to him: Yes.

Rav Nahman: But can a verse be written this way?

Rava: Yes, as it is written: “And the lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel laid down to sleep in the Temple of the Lord” (1 Samuel 3:3). But only the kings of the House of David are allowed to sit in the courtyard of the Tabernacle! Instead, the verse should be interpreted as follows: “And the lamp of God had not yet gone out” — in the Temple of the Lord; “and Samuel laid down” — in his place.

Rava’s solution to the contradictory verses from Leviticus and Ezekiel is to essentially split the verse from Ezekiel in two so that the first part (prohibiting marriage to widows or divorcees) refers to the high priest and the second to regular priests. Rav Nahman finds this interpretation unconvincing, since generally people (and biblical verses) don’t switch subjects mid-sentence without making that clear. Ezekiel gives no indication of such a switch. Rava responds that when a verse contradicts something we know to be true, this is a reasonable way to interpret it. He provides another example, using a verse in Samuel where it seems that when the young prophet was an apprentice in the Tabernacle, he slept inside. However, we know from elsewhere that only a king from the line of David is allowed to recline in the Tabernacle courtyard, as a sign of respect for the king — all others are expected to stand. So, the rabbis split the verse and say that “in the Temple of the Lord” refers to the lamp of God, which was inside, and “Samuel laid down” outside, in the quarters where the Levites slept. 

Samuel, who was neither a priest nor a Levite, was apprenticed to Eli, the high priest at the time. Rava’s chosen verse, in a certain way, actually supports the first solution discussed above. Samuel is not a priest, but an Israelite emulating the priests, and he is allowed to serve in God’s abode.

While Rava’s method of splitting a verse may not help us find the peshat (i.e. the simple, literal meaning of the verse) it is not a disingenuous method of reinterpretation. If two verses seem to give two different rules, one must be interpreted in light of the other. 

In the end, each of the solutions to the Leviticus/Ezekiel conundrum on today’s daf embeds a message for the rabbis. The first teaches that priests in the future will ascend in holiness. The second inspires reflection on the limits of exemplars, and on the ways in which we struggle to ascend in holiness at the present time.

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The mishnah on today’s daf asks: How many generations does the halal status last? This question has practical implications for who such a person can marry, but also points to the rabbis’ interest in what kinds of statuses are patrilineal and which are matrilineal.

The daughter of a male halal is unfit for the priesthood forever: An Israelite who married a halalah, his daughter is fit for the priesthood and a halal who married a Jewish woman, his daughter is unfit for the priesthood. 

The mishnah insists that halal and non-halal statuses are transmitted through the patrilineal line. So the daughter of a halal would have the status of a halalah and, as a result, be forbidden to marry a priest. 

The mishnah now shifts to draw a parallel between the daughter of a halal and the daughter of a convert, offering three progressively more permissive opinions:

Rabbi Yehuda says: The daughter of a male convert is like the daughter of a male halal.

According to Rabbi Yehuda, the daughter of a male convert and a Jewish-born mother would inherit the convert status of her father and thus not be allowed to marry a priest.  

Rabbi Eliezer ben Ya’akov says: An Israelite who married a convert, his daughter is fit for the priesthood, and a convert who married a Jewish woman, his daughter is fit for the priesthood. But a convert who married a convert, his daughter is unfit to the priesthood. Both converts and emancipated slaves, even up to ten generations, until his mother is Jewish. 

Rabbi Eliezer insists that as long as one of the parents is born Jewish, their child does not have the status of a convert and therefore may marry a priest. But if both of the parents are converts or emancipated slaves, their children share that status and transmit it down the line until someone marries someone who is fit to marry a priest. 

Finally, Rabbi Yosei offers the most permissive and ultimately simplest ruling:

Even a convert who married a convert, his daughter is fit for the priesthood. 

The last opinion is that converts do not transmit their status, in any configuration. 

Curiously, while the mishnah moves in a permissive direction as it relates to the offspring of converts, the mishnah’s conversation never returns to the case of a halal. The rabbis’ ultimate focus appears to be on removing convert status within one generation, but there is no similar interest in doing the same for those born unfit for the priesthood. Is this a case of keeping the priesthood as “pure” as possible so that only those most fit for duty will eventually serve in the rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem? Or is this, by contrast, a sign that, for the rabbis of the mishnah, the priesthood was a less pressing issue in a world without a Temple.

Regardless of the intention of the rabbis of the mishnah, however, the rabbis of the Talmud are going to dive right into the status of the halal and the halalah over the next two pages. More on this soon.

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Given the Mishnah’s concern with lineage, especially for the marriages of priests, it’s not surprising that today we learn:

A priest who marries a daughter of a priest must investigate with regard to her four mothers, which are eight. How so? Her mother, and the mother of her mother (maternal grandmother), and the mother of her mother’s father, and her mother. Also the mother of her father, and her mother, and the mother of her father’s father, and her mother.

This mishnah says that the priest must dig back through four generations of mothers, and then qualifies by stating that he need not investigate the ancestry of anyone in the tree who actually served at the altar — presumably, the Temple would have conducted those investigations before employing them. 

But the Gemara sheds doubt on whether this mishnah actually defines normative practice:

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: This mishnah presents the statement of Rabbi Meir, but the rabbis say: All families retain a presumptive status of fitness. 

According to Rav, the opinion codified in the mishnah is a minority one, that of Rabbi Meir. The plurality of rabbis rule that families are presumed to be fit. 

When there is a disagreement between one rabbi and the rest, the law follows the majority — even when the majority option didn’t make it into the mishnah. As a result, no investigation is required when a priest is to be wed to the daughter of another priest because we assume that priestly families are fit.

Almost. There is another tradition about what Rav said:

Rav Hama bar Gurya say that Rav says: Our mishnah is referring to a case when an objection was registered.

According to Rav Hama bar Gurya’s report of what Rav said, the mishnah rules that an investigation is necessary only when an objection about the fitness of the woman’s family is raised, but if there is no objection, we presume their fitness. 

Unfortunately for the Gemara, these two traditions about what Rav said do not square with each other. Does Rav think that we are not allowed to investigate even though the mishnah says we should? Or, does Rav think that the mishnah only allows us to investigate when someone raises an objection?

There is no resolution, but the sugya doesn’t end here because the Gemara cites an alternative version of the entire discussion that weaves the sources together in a different way:

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: This mishnah presents the statement of Rabbi Meir, but the rabbis say: All families retain presumptive status of fitness.

Rav Hama bar Gurya says that Rav says: When an objection is registered about a family concerning its lineage, everyone agrees that he must investigate it.

Rav Yehuda tells us what he told us before, that Rav teaches that the mishnah is according to the opinion of Rabbi Meir, but the plurality of rabbis disagree. Rav Hama bar Gurya’s statement is similar, but not exactly the same. The change clarifies where things stand: In the new version of Rav Hama’s statement, Rav is not recontextualizing the mishnah to talk about a case when an objection is raised. Rather, he is noting that while Rabbi Meir (who is quoted in the mishnah) and the rabbis (who are not) disagree about whether or not we investigate when no objection is raised, they agree that when there is an objection, an investigation is called for.

As with a bride whose lineage raises a suspicion, when Rav Yehuda and Rav Hama bar Gurya present seemingly contradictory statements of Rav, an investigation is called for. Today, it turned up an alternate version of the sources. In cases like this, talmudic scholars sometimes suggest that the alternate version might really be a refurbished one. In other words, while the Talmud may appear to suggest that two variants of this discussion were floating around the beit midrash, it is possible, even likely, that the two contradictory statements of Rav came first, and the second version of the sugya was created to smooth out the tension between them. We can only hope the investigation into prospective bride’s four mothers, who are actually eight, ends as happily.

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It is taught in a beraita(Tosefta 5:2): And similarly Rabbi Elazar says: A Samaritan man may not marry a Samaritan woman.

Almost all of the cases of forbidden marriage the rabbis have discussed so far involve two people of different statuses — free and enslaved, legitimate and mamzer, Ammonite and Egyptian. Yet here, where the two are both Samaritan, Rabbi Elazar forbids their marriage anyway. Unsurprisingly, then, the rest of the daf is taken up by an extended rabbinic discussion of why. Here’s just a piece of it: 

Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba says that Rabbi Yohanan says, and some say that it was Rabbi Abba bar Zavda who says Rabbi Hanina says and some say it was Rabbi Ya’akov bar Idi who says that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi says: There are three positions with regard to the matter.

A word of context to understand the three opinions. The Samaritans were, and still are, a community of people who live in the region of Samaria (between Judah and the Galilee). Their origins are debated. The Bible explains that when the Assyrians deported the Jews of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, they brought in “people from Babylon, Kuthah, Avva, Hamath and Sepharvaim and settled them in the towns of Samaria to replace the Israelites.” (2 Kings 17, 24) These people continued to worship their own gods, so God sent lions to attack them. In response, an Israelite priest was sent to teach this community of foreigners what the God of Israel requires of those who live on this land.

The Samaritan community — which has a Pentateuch nearly identical to the Jewish Torah but does not regard the rest of Jewish scripture, including 2 Kings, as authoritative — has a different understanding of its history, in which the Samaritans are the original inhabitants of the land who hold fast to the original modes of worship of the God of Israel, modes which are then rejected by those who come back from the Babylonian exile with new ideas.

The rabbis of the Talmud follow the biblical account. And this matters because,

Rabbi Yishmael holds that Samaritans are lion converts, and the priests who assimilated among them were unfit priests, as it is stated: “And made unto them from among themselves priests of the high places.” (II Kings 17:32)

If the Samaritans were converted to Judaism by force (of lions), by unfit priests, then their community’s Jewish status is in question, in particular given that some are the descendants of priests who are described as “thorns.” If one of the Samaritans is actually the descendent of a Jew with a flawed lineage, then they cannot marry another Samaritan who is descended from Jews without flawed lineage. And there’s no way to know which is which. 

Here’s the second opinion about why Samaritans should not (in rabbinic imagination) marry one another:

And Rabbi Akiva holds: Samaritans are true converts, and the priests who assimilated among them were fit priests, as it is stated: “And made unto them from among themselves priests of the high places.” (II Kings 17:32)

And for what reason did the sages prohibit them? As they would perform levirate marriage with betrothed women. 

The problem does not stem from the time of their conversion, but Samaritan practice that introduces flaws. Their levirate marriages were not rabbinically correct, and so introduced elements of doubt and uncertainty into their lineage. 

In this vein, on tomorrow’s daf, the rabbis offer a third explanation: that Samaritans are not experts in the mitzvot of betrothal and divorce, which again, introduces uncertainty. If one of two Samaritans wanting to marry was legitimate, and the other was the product of an illegitimate marriage, then they would be forbidden to marry each other. And again, we have no way to know which is which.

While there is a kind of logic in these rulings, the overall consequence is troubling: Rabbis ruling, for another group, that they cannot marry one another. And they didn’t have to rule this way. After all, in the case of a couple where both have doubtful lineage, you would think and expect that they would be able to marry each other — since they have the same (doubtful) status. That suggests this ruling was a deliberate choice.

In many cases, we’ve seen the rabbis rule with an idea that the “right” halakhic answer is not just one that is logical, but one that creates more good in the world. What “good” might they think will come of this ruling? Here’s a guess: Given what we know from both the contemporary world and the ancient world, perhaps for the rabbis the case of the Samaritans was different. Unlike converts to Judaism who have fully embraced a Jewish life as articulated by the rabbis, the Samaritans retain different practices that they see as authentically Israelite. Perhaps in trying to ensure that Samaritans would have to marry outside their own community, the rabbis were trying to accelerate Samaritan assimilation into a normative Judaism. 

Of course, that didn’t happen. It’s safe to say that ancient Samaritans — who at this time had already had centuries of animosity with Jews — ignored the rabbis’ rulings. Their community survives to this day, a powerful reminder that Samaritans, like rabbinic Jews, are resilient, and committed to their own traditions in the face of adversity.

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Rav Nahman says: Three are deemed credible with regard to stating that a child is a firstborn, and they are: A midwife, his father and his mother. A midwife is deemed credible only immediately; his mother is deemed credible all of the first seven days after his birth; his father is deemed credible forever. As it is taught in a beraita: “But he shall acknowledge the firstborn” (Deuteronomy 21:17), the sages said the father shall acknowledge him to others. 

According to the Torah, a man’s firstborn son (bechor) is entitled to inherit a double portion of his father’s estate. The relevant passage, Deuteronomy 21:15–17, rules that if a man marries two women, one loved and one unloved, and the unloved one gives birth to a son first, that son nonetheless inherits the birthright. Here on our daf, though, the situation is different: rather than two mothers giving birth to two boys over a period of time, this mother has just given birth to twins, the elder of whom must be identified. At that moment, there are only two people who really know which baby is the elder and which one is the younger: the mother who has just given birth, and the midwife who delivered the babies. 

The Torah itself relates a story in which a midwife was instrumental in determining which of two twins was firstborn. Genesis 38:27–30 describes a midwife delivering Tamar’s twins and tying a string around the hand that appears outside the birth canal first in order to properly identify the bechor. This proves particularly important since that baby, Peretz, retracts his hand and emerges fully only after his brother, Zerach.

After the midwife goes home, the mother’s testimony about which twin is firstborn is accepted for the first seven days, and the father’s thereafter. According to Rashi, the assumption is that a newborn baby in its first week of life is together with its mother 24/7 and therefore she can easily identify each twin (maybe with the help of a string). Rashi further imagines that the father might not pay attention to which newborn is which until it’s his responsibility at the baby’s brit milah, circumcision. On that day, the baby and his mother are separated for the first time, and the father takes over as the primary guardian of his son’s birthright.

The commentators are not unanimous on this timeline. Maimonides states that the father’s testimony about which son is older is believed even immediately, on the day of the birth (Hilchot Nachalot 2:14). (Maybe the fact that Maimonides is a doctor colors his view about whether fathers can recognize individual babies as well as mothers.) The Taz (Turei Zahav, a 17th century commentator on the Shulchan Aruch) agrees and says that the father is believed immediately if he states that he is sure which one is the elder (Even HaEzer 4:20). As to the mother’s credibility, the Taz says that she’s believed because we have no reason not to believe her — after all, along with the midwife, she’s the only one who was there. After the first week, though, the commentators revert back to the biblical standard: The father is the one whose testimony counts. 

There’s another practical reason to consider the testimony of the women — the midwife and the mother — more authoritative on the day of the birth. It’s almost certain that the rabbinic-era father would not have been in the room at the moment of birth, because coming into contact with the ritual impurities surrounding the birthing mother would have been forbidden under the laws of family purity. In fact, this is one of only a handful of situations in which a woman’s testimony is considered authoritative, and according to the commentators it’s because we have to take their word for it in the absence of men in the birthing room.

Today, identifying which twin is older is easier given the presumptive documentation that comes with births that take place largely in hospitals and birthing centers with midwives, nurses, doctors and their computers in attendance. And, like the midwife that delivered Tamar, it’s common to tag babies with a bracelet — though these days it’s more likely to be made of plastic. But as we are all too aware, mistakes might happen in the hospital or, far worse, tragedy may still strike, separating infants from their parents and obliterating elements of their identities, in our time as in the time of the rabbis living and writing in a dangerous world 2,000 years ago. In such cases, Jewish law has a mechanism for identifying them when they are (God willing) reunited with their people.

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Rabbi Zeira taught in Mehoza: It is permitted for a convert to marry a mamzer. Everyone stoned him with their etrogs. 

Rava said: Is there a person who teaches such a matter in a place where there are commonly converts? 

Rabbi Zeira teaches, in accordance with the mishnah, that converts are allowed to marry mamzers, Jews who are the product of prohibited sexual unions. His audience is not happy with his teaching and so they pelt him with etrogs, perhaps the ancient equivalent of rotten tomatoes. Why such a strongly negative response from the crowd? As Rava notes, Mehoza, the city in which this story takes place, is full of converts. And while, generally speaking, Jewish law demands that converts be treated as full members of the Jewish people, this teaching is an exception. That converts are allowed to marry mamzers while those born Jewish are not suggests that converts are less-than. (We’ll not dwell on what this says about mamzers.) Clearly this is a message that those in attendance — especially, we have to assume, those who had converted to Judaism — did not appreciate.

So how might Rava have delivered this uncomfortable ruling?

Rava himself taught this in Mehoza: It is permitted for a convert to marry the daughter of a priest. They carried him on silk. 

Instead of leading with the bad news, Rava delivers the good news first: that converts can marry the daughters of priests. But Rava is not only telling the people what they want to hear. Some time after his celebratory parade, he too shares that a convert can marry a mamzer, and this is what happens:

They said to him: You have forfeited the honor of your first teaching. 

Rava responded: I have done for you what is good for you. If a convert wishes, he may marry from here (i.e., from those of pure lineage), and if he wishes, he may marry from here (i.e., a mamzer).

Diplomatically, Rava frames the ruling about converts as positive because it allows them to marry a wider number of people than most other Jews. The people are not happy with the ruling, but Rava is spared the etrog pelting. It’s not always what you have to say, it’s often how you choose to say it. 

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When Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi was dying, he said: There is a place called Homanya in Babylonia, and all its people are the sons of Ammon. There is a place called Masgariya in Babylonia, and all its people are mamzerim. There is a place called Bireka in Babylonia, and there are two brothers there who exchange wives with each other (and their children are therefore mamzerim). There is a place called Birta DeSatya in Babylonia and today they turned away from the Omnipresent. A ditch with fish overflowed, and they went and trapped the fish on Shabbat. Rabbi Ahai, son of Rabbi Yoshiya, excommunicated them, and they all became apostates.

Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi describes several ways in which Jewish lineages have been tainted, including intermarriage with non-Jews, sexual immorality and laxity of Jewish practice. The city called Birta DeStya, literally “the capital of going astray,” is the most full and interesting account: When a fish pond overflowed, bringing the fish to the surface or maybe throwing them over onto the land, the people apparently thought it was acceptable to collect the fish on Shabbat.

However, this was a violation of halakhah, one which led Rabbi Ahai the son of Rabbi Yoshiya to excommunicate them. And the excommunication of the people, in turn, seems to have driven them away from God to become full fledged apostates. This story places responsibility on the rabbis to stem the tide of assimilation, not by strictly enforcing halakhah but rather by being careful not to alienate the Jews in their orbit. 

But not all of today’s daf blames the rabbis for the degradation of Jewish lineages. In some cases, the Talmud points to the conquerors of Israel from centuries past, from Assyria to Babylonia to Persia to Rome. 

Alongside noting the disruptions to Jewish continuity, the Gemara also seeks to explain how Babylonian lineage retained its integrity with the following story of Nebuchadnezzer, who destroyed the first Temple, and a clever Jewish minister:

The governor of the province of Meishan was the son-in-law of Nebuchadnezzar. He sent a message to his father-in-law: From all those captives you have brought for yourself you have not sent us anyone to stand before us. 

Nebuchadnezzar wanted to send him captives from the Jews. Pelatiah, son of Benaiah, said to Nebuchadnezzar: We, who are important, shall stand and serve before you here, and our slaves will go there. 

If Nebuchandezzer had sent the Jewish captives to the periphery, even the elite of Judah might have disappeared into Babylonian society. But Pelatiah (a name which means refugee of God), a Jewish minister at the time of the destruction of Jerusalem, flattered Nebuchadnezzer and convinced him to keep the Jewish captives in the capital city. According to the rabbis, it was this twist of history that ultimately enabled the rabbinic community to remain cohesive, observant and of pure lineage.

On today’s daf, there is no single reason Jewish lineage is disrupted. Foreign conquerors threaten Jewish lineage, but so do the behaviors of Jews themselves. What fascinates me about these stories is that the Talmud draws a through-line from the Babylonian exile in the wake of the destruction of the first Temple (6th century BCE) to current communities (nearly a millennium later). Both the despair of being uprooted from the land and the resilience of the exiles makes the Jewish people who they are. And while I find it painful to see the rabbis dismissing certain communities for their sullied lineage or lack of detailed observance, one can understand their obsession with lineage through this lens; lineage becomes a way to preserve the link with the past and a symbol of the survival of the Jewish people despite countless persecutions and exiles. 

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Why does this matter? Legally, if a community can establish an overall presumption of purity then there would be no need to investigate the background of a given family before marriage. But it is clear that this is also a debate about the pride and standing of the two major rabbinic Jewish communities. It turned out to be so controversial that disagreements became dangerous: 

In the days of Rabbi Pinhas, they sought to establish the lineage of Babylonia as muddled relative to that of the land of Israel. He said to his servants: “When I have said two statements in the house of study, pick me up on a stretcher and run.” 

When he entered the house of study he said: “Kosher slaughter of a bird is not required by Torah law.” And while they were sitting and scrutinizing this, he said to them: “The lineage of residents of all lands is muddled compared to that of the land of Israel, and the lineage of residents of the land of Israel is muddled compared to that of Babylonia.” His servants picked him up on a stretcher and ran. Those that were in the house of study pursued him but could not catch him. 

They sat and examined (the lineage of various families) until they came to danger, and they withdrew from their inspections.

Rabbi Pinhas held the unpopular opinion (in the land of Israel, anyway) that Jews from Babylonia had purer lineages. Worried about the reaction he would face, he carefully choreographed his pronouncement, burying the lede under another controversial opinion, that chicken doesn’t require kosher slaughter, according to the Torah. While this preoccupied the assembled scholars, he announced the controversial opinion, that the land of Israel was muddled like dough compared to Babylonia — then he split in the ancient equivalent of a getaway car.

Hoping to prove Rabbi Pinhas wrong, the rabbis from the land of Israel continued their investigation, but the (Babylonian) Gemara tells us they stopped when they reached “danger.” One possibility is that they realized they were likely to overturn the very presumption of purity that they had set out to prove. Rashi suggests they discovered blemishes in the families of powerful people who might even kill to keep their reputation intact — meaning the danger was literal. 

Here and throughout the chapter, we see the rabbis’ ambivalence about the goal of preserving and publicizing lineage. On the one hand, it was a great mark of distinction that was given weight both socially and legally, but on the other hand it was quite hard to establish and quite problematic to overturn people’s longstanding reputation. Rabbi Yohanan laments: 

By the Sanctuary! It is in our power (to reveal the identity of a family that has a flawed lineage), but what can I do, as the greatest of the generation are assimilated into it?

Sometimes it is best to leave buried history under the carpet.

Later in the Gemara, it says that in the messianic era it will be Elijah’s job to reveal the truth about families who were misrepresented as pure or impure. But for now, in our imperfect world, it’s best not to dig too much.

A fitting closure for this obsession with pure lineage is found at the end of the daf, which transports us from the land of Israel to Babylonia where we find that Rav Yehuda is paralyzed by worries about safeguarding his pure Babylonian lineage — so much so that he has prevented his adult son from marrying, lest his bride be found to have flawed lineage. (Another story that warns, in its own way, about the dangers of obsessing over bloodline.) Perhaps for the sake of the latter’s son, Ulla reasons with Rav Yehuda:

Is that to say we know where we come from? Perhaps we come from those about whom it is written: “They have ravished the women of Zion, the maidens in the city of Judah.” (Lamentations 5:11)

Even the greatest rabbis of Babylonia, Ulla notes, don’t know all the details of their past, especially after violent episodes that led to the brutalization of its women by foreign conquerors. Rather than verifying a pure heritage, says Ulla, find a quiet, agreeable family for your son to marry into. That in itself is a sign of good lineage — or just good values.

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Anyone who disqualifies (others by stating that their lineage is flawed, that is a sign that he himself) is of flawed lineage.

For example: A Jew cannot contract kiddushin with a slave. So calling someone a slave can seriously damage their marriage prospects. Of course, people knew this and, it seems, occasionally exploited this knowledge. Here’s the beginning of a long story on today’s daf:

A person from Neharde’a went into a butcher shop in Pumbedita. He said, “Give me meat.” They said to him, “Wait until the servant of Rav Yehudah bar Yehezkel has taken and then we will give to you.” He said, “Who is this Yehudah bar Sheviske’el that he should precede me, that he should take before me?” They went and told Rav Yehudah. He excommunicated the man. They said, “He regularly calls people slaves.” He decreed that the man himself is a slave …

This is one of many talmudic stories in which an unfortunate behavior sets off a cascade of events that spirals into a larger mess. In this case, status has everything to do with it.

In the background, it’s helpful to know that there was a rivalry of sorts between people from Neharde’a and people from Pumbedita, each a center of learning in Babylonia with its own leaders. When an unnamed resident of Neharde’a steps into the Pumbeditan shop, the butcher tells him he must wait and let the servant of Pumbedita’s great rabbi collect the choice cut first. The resident of Neharde’a is offended and makes an insulting play on the rabbi’s name, turning Yehezkel into Sheviske’el, a derogatory term implying the rabbi is a glutton for meat.

Unfortunately, the insulting pun is reported back to Rabbi Yehudah bar Yehezkel, who excommunicates the Nehardean. We might have felt sorry for the punster who was made to wait for his meat and then banished for his angry quip, but then it is reported that he himself regularly derides others as slaves. This, as we now know, is not just offensive but materially damaging — it ruins their marriage prospects. In accordance with the principle quoted earlier on the daf that he who calls another’s lineage flawed is suspected of having flawed lineage himself, Rav Yehudah bar Yehezkhel now also decrees that the excommunicated man is a slave.

Is that the end of it? Not remotely. The man from Neharde’a summons Rav Yehudah to Rav Nahman’s court in an attempt to reverse the damage. Rav Yehudah, who is not under Rav Nahman’s jurisdiction, considers that he might not show up in court at all, but Rav Huna convinces him to go:

You are not required to go, as you are a great man, but for the honor of the nasi’s house, you should go.

Ultimately, despite his status, he does go, in order not to offend other important officials. When Rav Yehudah shows up for the hearing, he starts by chatting with the judge:

Rav Yehudah arrived and found Rav Nahman building a parapet. Rav Yehudah said, “Does the master not hold in accordance with what Rav Huna bar Iddi said in the name of Shmuel: When a person is appointed a leader of the community, that person is forbidden from doing labor in front of three people?” Rav Nahman said, “It is a little fence I am constructing.”

Here, we see the relationship between two Torah scholars, each leaders in their respective communities. But they are also not entirely equal, because Rav Yehudah is about to appear in Rav Nahman’s courtroom, which makes what he says all the more perplexing: He criticizes Rav Nahman’s behavior as that of a common person. A leader, says Rav Yehudah, should not be laboring like a commoner (a ruling that gets codified in halakhah). Rashi interprets this edict as guarding the community’s honor, being an embarrassment if the community doesn’t have others to perform such labor. Rambam, on the other hand, sees this edict as guarding the honor of the leader, arguing that the people under that person’s leadership will look down upon that person if seen doing such labor. 

If you want to know what happened next, go check out the story on the daf for yourself — it runs most of the length of it. As you read, try to track the way status figures in all kinds of interesting ways into each interaction. For now, we’ll pause on a few thoughts raised by what we’ve examined so far: We’ve seen that status can greatly complicate nearly any interaction. Partly for this reason, leaders have important choices to make about how they present themselves. Two models of leadership are found in tension on today’s daf. Rav Yehudah sees a leader’s role as separate, as one who must command and demand respect. Rav Nahman, on the other hand, is happy to be like and among the people he leads. Today’s daf asks us to consider: When should leaders respond to an insult in order to defend their honor, and when should they ignore such affronts as beneath them? Similarly, when should leaders engage in common labor, and when might we expect them to be above it? When should they be folksy? And when should they be placed on a pedestal?

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To give some context, the Babylonians destroyed the First Temple and exiled the Jews from the land of Israel around 586 B.C.E. The Persians authorized their return a couple of decades later under the leadership of Ezra the Scribe. Ezra gathers a group of Jews to reestablish Jewish life in Israel, and given how central the Levites were to the Temple service, we would hope some of them were included. 

On today’s daf, we find a mishnah suggesting that they were. The mishnah lays out ten categories of Jews who were part of Ezra’s troupe, three of which are likely familiar to you: the aforementioned Levites, the kohanim (priests) and Israelites. The other seven are less discussed. They are: priests disqualified from the priesthood because an ancestor married a woman forbidden to priests; converts; emancipated slaves; mamzerim; descendants of the Gibeonites who converted in the time of Joshua; children of unknown paternity; and abandoned children. These seven latter groups are later referred to in the Gemara as having “flawed” lineage, a rather derogatory term that many translations weave through this section.

The mishnah specifies that these ten categories were represented among those who “ascended from Babylonia” with Ezra to reestablish a Jewish presence in Israel. But in the Gemara, we find this statement that’s a little confusing:

Rabbi Elazar says: Ezra did not ascend from Babylonia until he made it like fine flour, and only then he ascended.

What does this mean exactly? According to Rashi, Ezra was concerned that if he didn’t leave behind some members of the big three — the priests, Levites and Israelites — the remaining categories of Jews, left to their own devices, might engage in prohibited marriages and relationships, making it difficult to keep track of who fell into which category. Rabbi Elazar is saying that Ezra first clarified who was of which lineage so that the reconstituted Jewish community in Israel would have a definite sense of who was who. 

Why was this so important? Well, if you’re going to have a Temple, you’re going to need priests and Levites. And if you can’t figure out who qualifies for which role, it’s going to be hard to put the band back together. But there’s a problem: 

“And I gathered them together to the river that runs to Ahava, and we camped there for three days; and I viewed the people and the priests, and found there none of the sons of Levi” (Ezra 8:15).

Frankly, this presents multiple challenges — both practically for Ezra and because of the way it contradicts other texts. Our mishnah says the Levites went up with Ezra, and Rabbi Elazar says that Ezra did his sorting in Babylonia before ascending. Both those claims are inconsistent with a verse that says Ezra only discovered later that the Levites were missing. So what’s going on at the river? 

The question of whether Ezra separated people by lineage in Babylon or by the river is a source of contention between Rava and Abaye, but it’s not resolved in the Gemara so we’re going to let it be here. The absence of Levites presents a more gruesome story. According to Rashi and Tosafot, when the Babylonians exiled the Levites and mockingly asked them to sing songs of Zion (as related in Psalm 137), at least some of them cut off their own thumbs to render themselves unable to play their instruments. This disqualified them from the priesthood, rendering them functionally absent. (Incidentally, this gives a more literal interpretation of the question posed in the psalm: “How can we sing a song of God on alien soil?” Answer: We can’t because we have no thumbs.)

Ezra is able to recover from this setback by calling for Levitical reinforcements, but what can we learn from this? In returning to Israel and restoring the Temple service to something approaching its former glory, it was important to (a) know who had which lineage and (b) make sure there were enough Levites for the Temple to run. So is the mystery solved? Indeed. We’ve resolved the tension between the mishnah and the verse in Ezra and we’ve found our missing Levites, enabling Ezra to install appropriate individuals in ritual positions, have a critical mass of officiants and bring back what had been lost in the Babylonian destruction.

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Today’s daf shifts our discussion to explore the limits of kiddushin, and asks: If kiddushin refers to rabbinic betrothal, who can’t get rabbinically betrothed — ever?  

To be clear about the terminology here, the rabbis are not discussing whether these kinds of relationships are morally right or wrong (though they certainly do that elsewhere), but only whether certain people can affect it at all.

The Talmud identifies certain unions which can never be legally recognized through kiddushin — unions between a Jewish person and a non-Jewish person, or between a free Jewish person and an enslaved person. Kiddushin within such a relationship simply doesn’t work, and no rabbinically recognized marriage takes effect. Someone whose kiddushin did not take effect is considered still single and can, in theory, go on and be halakhically betrothed to someone with whom they can perform kiddushin, even while in a (non-halakhic) marriage to someone else. 

But it’s not enough for the rabbis to simply define the parameters of kiddushin, the project on today’s daf is to root those parameters within the Torah itself: 

From where do we derive that betrothal with a gentile woman is ineffective? The verse states: “Neither shall you make marriages with them.” (Deuteronomy 7:3)

The rabbis read this verse not as prescriptive (you should not do this) but as descriptive (you legally can’t do this). But the verse in Deuteronomy 7 comes in the specific context of Moses’ speech to Israel about the seven Canaanite nations (and, as we mentioned yesterday, there were no Canaanites in the rabbinic period). So how then do the rabbis expand this idea to all non-Jews? 

From where do we derive that betrothal does not take effect with the other nations? The verse states: “For he will turn away your son from following Me,” to include all those who might turn a child away. 

The Talmud suggests that we extrapolate from the verse in Deuteronomy that kiddushin is ineffective with anyone who might turn their child away from Judaism and the Jewish worship of God. 

This works out well according to Rabbi Shimon, who expounds the reason for the verse. But according to the opinion of the rabbis, what is the reason? 

The rabbis, apart from Rabbi Shimon, apparently don’t connect the first and second halves of Deuteronomy 7:3 in this way. And yet, the Talmud assumes that the rabbis, too, would see kiddushin between a Jewish person and any non-Jewish person as ineffective. But why? The Talmud turns to the biblical discussion of the beautiful captive woman — a woman who is not from the seven Canaanite nations but is also not Jewish for evidence: 

The verse states: “And after that you may go in to her and be her husband, and she shall be your wife.” (Deuteronomy 21:13) By inference that at the outset betrothal would not take effect with her.

The rabbis ultimately agree with Rabbi Shimon that rabbinic betrothal between a Jew and a non-Jew just doesn’t work. But in their different rationales, they open up two different sets of questions for modern readers: 

If the evidence is based on the Torah’s discussion of a limited and troubling case of female captives during wartime, how should we think about relationships between equals in times of peace? 

If the concern is one of raising Jewish children, how should we think about the growing body of evidence for continued Jewish identity in intermarried families? 

Ultimately, the Talmud’s discussion makes clear that whatever the concern, such an act of kiddushin is ineffective. But in its halakhic back and forth, it challenges us to explore more fully both the purposes of kiddushin, and its limits. 

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But today’s daf asks about a different set of heritable features, ones which are not genetically but legally encoded: Jewishness, freedom and fitness for the priesthood or levitical service. We learned in the mishnah yesterday that:

Any case where there is betrothal and no transgression, the offspring follows the male.

The child of a Jewish couple that is properly betrothed inherits their status from their father — so the son of a Levite betrothed to a Jewish woman, for example, is also a Levite. By contrast:

And any case where there is a betrothal and there is a transgression, the offspring follows the flawed.

If a priest were to marry a (non-priestly) Jewish divorcee, the betrothal is legally effective, but still not permitted. Therefore, any offspring of this marriage would not inherit the priestly status. 

It’s helpful here to distinguish between two kinds of identity: religious identity and ritual status. The Talmud is not discussing one’s Jewish identity, only one’s ritual status within the Jewish community. The Talmud is not suggesting that Jewishness is patrilineal, but that one’s status within the Jewish community is.

Now we have a different question: What if both parents are not Jewish? Which identity is conveyed?

As when Ravin came he said that Rabbi Yohanan says: With regard to the nations, follow the male. 

Why would it matter what kind of non-Jew a particular non-Jew is? After all, if their religious identity is “non-Jewish,” then wouldn’t that also be their ritual status within Judaism? The Talmud explains:

As it is taught in a beraita: From where (do we learn) that one of the nations who engaged in intercourse with a Canaanite woman and fathered a son, that you are permitted to purchase the son as a slave? The verse states: “And also of the children of the residents who sojourn with you, of them you may buy.” (Leviticus 25:45)

One might have thought that even a slave who engaged in intercourse with a maidservant from the other nations and fathered a son, that you are permitted to buy the son as a slave. Therefore, the verse states: “Which they have begotten in your land” (Leviticus 25:45), from those begotten in your land, but not from those who reside in your land. 

The Torah prohibits the Israelites from allowing the original nations of Canaan to continue to live there. The rabbis understand this prohibition to include even allowing them to live in the land as enslaved people. But who counts as Canaanite? On today’s daf, we learn that non-Jewish descent is calculated patrilineally — so only the offspring of Canaanite men are prohibited for purchase in the land of Israel. 

This was probably not a practical teaching. I have found no evidence that, in the time of the Talmud, there were actual Canaanites floating about the land of Israel. By that point in time, through conquest, assimilation and cultural development, people living in this land had different identities: Roman, Galilean, Idumean, Samaritan, etc. 

But though this particular teaching was largely irrelevant even in the time of the Talmud, and though the attitude of the Hebrew Bible toward the Canaanites might trouble us to this day, we can still learn something from it: Different kinds of non-Jewish people have different kinds of ritual statuses within rabbinic law. The rabbis’ world was not simply bifurcated into an “us vs. them” — but had nuances based on biblical texts, rabbinic interpretations of them, and the reality in which the rabbis lived. Things have always been more complicated than that. 

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There are a few things you should know about him: First, as his predecessor had done, he claimed not only the title of king but also that of high priest. This was a great way for him to consolidate his political and religious control, but was controversial with religious authorities. Traditionally, these were separate offices and the king came from the line of King David and the high priest came from the line of Moses’ brother Aaron.

Alexander Yannai is remembered also for ruthless expansion of the Jewish state, forcing conversion on those he conquered. In his quest for dominance, he had a penchant for murdering political rivals and anyone else who stood in his way.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly for our purposes, when it came to his subjects, he was favorably disposed toward the Sadducees, a Jewish religious sect whose chief rivals, the Pharisees, are considered to be predecessors of the rabbis. (A major difference between the two was the Sadducees rejected the Oral Torah purveyed by the Pharisees.) You may sense already why the Talmud considers Yannai to have been an evil king.

The tale begins at a feast that King Yannai is holding to celebrate his military victories and territorial expansion to which he invited members of the Pharisees to join him. But they were not alone.

And there was one person present, a scoffer, a man of an evil heart and a scoundrel called Elazar ben Po’ira. 

Elazar suggests to the king that the Pharisees are detractors and must be dealt with. Not sure about his next move, the king turns to Elazar for advice as to how he might test the loyalty of the Pharisees. Elazar advises him to appear at the banquet wearing the headdress of the high priest, ostensibly as a way to check if the community of sages accepted his dual role as political and religious leader of the nation. The story continues:

There was a certain elder present called Yehuda ben Gedidya who said to King Yannai: King Yannai, the crown of the monarchy suffices for you. Leave the crown of the priesthood for the descendants of Aaron. 

Without missing a beat, Yehuda ben Gedidya walks into the trap Elazar had prepared for him, declaring that Yannai might be the king, but legitimate high priest he is not. As the Gemara explains, this was due to a rumor about Yannai’s mother had once been taken captive and was therefore under suspicion of having had sexual relations with her captors. As a result, King Yannai’s lineage is potentially flawed and he is ineligible to be the high priesthood. But:

The matter was investigated and was not discovered (i.e., they sought witnesses for that event but none were found). And the sages of Israel were expelled in the king’s rage, due to this rumor.

(This, by the way, is why the story is found here, as part of a conversation about presumptive status — in this case that of King Yannai and his mother — when we lack evidence or testimony to provide clarity.)

Fanning the flames, Elazar ben Po’ira suggests that being expelled is not a strong enough penalty for the Pharisees and encourages the king to put them to death. Yannai seems to have a moment of doubt.  

Yannai countered: But what will become of the Torah?

Elazar retorted: Behold, it is wrapped and placed in the corner. Anyone who wishes to study can come and study. 

Yannai recognizes the Pharisees, as purveyors of Torah, have value. But Elazar counters that sages are not needed to expound the Torah, which is available to anyone who wishes to read it. His argument carries the day and the Pharisees are executed.

Rav Nahman bar Yitzhak wishes for an alternative ending to the story, one in which Yannai, instead acquiescing to Elazar ben Po’ira, turns to him and says:

This works out well with regard to the Written Torah, but what will become of the Oral Torah? 

Yes the Written Torah is available for all to study, but the key to unlocking it is contained in the Oral Torah. If King Yannai had known this, the sages would have survived. But this was not to be the case. And this was not the end of Oral torah, because:

The world was desolate of Torah until Shimon ben Shatah came and restored the Torah to its former glory. 

While this chapter ends tragically, the Talmud knows that Torah will once again have its day when Shimon ben Shatah (Yannai’s brother-in-law, incidentally) brings it back. But that is a story for another daf.

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But if reality is subjective, how do you determine truth? The answer depends in part on what kind of truth you are searching for. Today’s daf presents the rabbis with that very question: When presented with two different stories, whose should you believe? Their answer tells us something very interesting about their perspective on truth.

The case before the rabbis, as it appears in the mishnah, is about two conflicting accounts of a marriage proposal:

If a man who says to a woman, “I betroth you,” and she says, “You did not betroth me” — he is forbidden to her relatives, and she is permitted to his relatives. 

If she says “You betrothed me,” and he says “I did not betroth you” — he is permitted to her relatives, and she is forbidden to his relatives. 

Under Jewish law, a man may not marry his wife’s relatives while she is still alive, even if they divorce. Although the laws are a bit more complicated for women, for the purposes of this case the same is basically true for her — she cannot marry her husband’s relatives.

Thus, the mishnah’s answer to the question of whose version of the betrothal should be accepted is: both! Each receives the legal outcome of their own truth claim: A man who says he betrothed a woman may not marry her relatives, even though she denies the betrothal. And likewise, even though the man says that he betrothed the woman, if she denies it, she is permitted to marry his relatives. The same is true when the genders are reversed. 

What does the discussion of this case in the Gemara tell us about rabbinic perceptions of reality and truth? First, while the sugya momentarily considers the motivations either this man or this woman might have for lying, rather than focusing on the issue of distinguishing truth from lies, it moves on in a different direction that it seems to find more compelling: The question of whether legal acts (in this case, betrothals) that happen in front of only one witness, rather than the rabbinically required two, are valid.

I think this is because the Talmud is not primarily interested in whether either of these people are lying. The point the rabbis eventually come to is that lying is irrelevant. The question is not what actually happened; the question is how to shape a legal reality around differing accounts of what happened. Maybe the best demonstration of this occurs later on the daf, when Rav Nahman cites this teaching from Shmuel:

One who betroths a woman in the presence of one witness — we are not concerned with his betrothal, even if both admit to it.

This teaching means that if the betrothal did not occur in front of the legally required two witnesses, it does not stand, even if both parties agree that they were betrothed to one another in front of a witness. This teaching extends the principle behind the mishnah’s case, in which a person’s perception of events dictates their reality, to a larger point that the law can create its own reality, even when it is in direct contradiction to three people’s unified eyewitness testimony.

This interest in legal realities underlies the entire daf. In the face of contradictory statements, we might expect a group of legal scholars to put their minds to figuring out ways of determining which person is lying and to finding the truth. But the reality is that the rabbis very often show themselves to be uninterested in getting to what we might think of as the truth. They are interested instead in finding the correct legal solution to a given problem. They are bringing halakhic order to a chaotic world, not deepening their understanding of the events themselves. So we can ask again: What is truth? In this daf, we find it depends entirely on who is asking, and why.

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One who said at the time of his death: “I have children,” — he is believed. But if he said on his deathbed: “I have brothers,” — he is not believed.

What is going on here? And what does it have to do with the topic of our tractate? A lot, it turns out.

For those that have been with us since Tractate Yevamot, you’ll recall that a woman married to a man who dies childless is required to marry her brother-in-law in a levirate marriage for the purpose of becoming pregnant and raising up that child in her dead husband’s name. (If the brother-in-law performs the ceremony of halitzah, both are released from this obligation.) Two things have to be true in order for levirate marriage to occur: The dying husband must have no children, and he must have brothers.

Coming back to the text of the mishnah, if a man says “I have children,” thus permitting his wife to begin a second marriage with a man of her choosing, he is believed. But, if he says “I have brothers,” thus limiting her choice for remarriage, he is not believed. Why not? 

The Gemara explains:

Apparently, a husband is deemed credible to render his wife permitted but he is not deemed credible to render her forbidden. 

Therefore, shall we say that the mishnah is not in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Natan? As it is taught in a beraita: If someone said at the time of his betrothal that he has children, but at the time of his death he said that he does not have children; or if he said at the time of betrothal that he does not have brothers, and at the time of death he said he has brothers — in both cases he is deemed credible to render her permitted (i.e., to release her from the obligation of levirate marriage on the basis of his first statement), but he is not deemed credible to render her forbidden based on his last claim. This is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi. Rabbi Natan says: He is deemed credible even to render her forbidden.

The Gemara seeks to issue a general rule: If what the husband says on his deathbed allows his widow to marry anyone she chooses, he is believed. If what he says forbids her from doing so, he is not believed. Rabbi Natan, however, says that he is believed in either case.

The Gemara goes on to discuss various ways to understand this beraita, including the need to determine whether it was general knowledge, or a “chazakah” (a presumption, or known fact) that the dying person had children or brothers, or neither. If it’s widely known that the man had children, then everyone knows the widow isn’t eligible for levirate marriage, and he is believed. But if it wasn’t general knowledge that he had brothers, and he says he does on his deathbed, he’s not deemed credible. Why not? 

We apply the logic of: “Why would I lie?” For what reason is he saying (that he has children or that he has no brothers), if not to exempt her from levirate marriage? But if so, he can say to her instead: “I exempt you by means of a bill of divorce.”

If the husband has no children, but wants to make sure his widow doesn’t have to follow through with levirate marriage to his brother, he doesn’t need to lie about having children; he just has to give her a conditional divorce — a possibility we have seen previously discussed in Tractate Gittin. Consequently, it can be assumed that he is telling the truth when he says that he has children.

But why would he lie and say he has brothers, which, if he’s childless, would obligate her to levirate marriage (or halitzah) with one of them? And why isn’t he believed? 

In addition to the chazakah — the general knowledge in the community that he doesn’t have brothers — I can think of two more reasons why the husband might make this statement on his deathbed. One is that he wants his widow to raise up a child in his name through levirate marriage because he thinks it’s important to do so. Another less savory possibility is that there’s someone specific that he wants to prohibit her from marrying and this is a way to exert his will from beyond the grave. 

While there’s no ruling on our daf, the original opinion of Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi is the one recorded in both the Mishneh Torah and the Shulchan Aruch: If the deathbed confession is the first anyone ever heard of these brothers, it’s too late to make that claim and the widow is free to marry whomever she chooses.

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One who says to a woman: “You are hereby betrothed to me after I convert,” or: “After you convert,” or: “After I am emancipated,” or: “After you are emancipated,” or: “After your husband dies,” or: “After your sister dies,” or: “After your yavam performs halitzah for you,” — she is not betrothed. 

Rabbi Meir says: She is betrothed. 

Ordinarily we would expect a rabbinic betrothal to take effect only if both parties were free, Jewish and able to marry each other. And indeed, the first opinion in this teaching has exactly this expectation. But Rabbi Meir turns this assumption on its head and insists that you can actually plan your betrothal while not free, not Jewish, and/or still married to someone else! In other words, a conditional betrothal can take place even before you are eligible to become betrothed to each other.

On its face, this statement is quite strange. To be fair, Rabbi Meir is consistent in arguing that “a person can transfer an entity that has not yet come into the world” — the idea that one can acquire something or someone before it exists or is eligible for acquisition. And when that principle is put in conversation with the kind of acquisition which rabbinically affects betrothal, you get this answer. 

But even if it is grounded in solid legal thinking, it’s still strange to contemplate a married woman conditionally betrothed to someone not her husband. Indeed, it seems so strange to the authors of this tradition that we get a second rabbi chiming in to disagree. 

Rabbi Yohanan HaSandlar says: She is not betrothed.

Rabbi Yohanan HaSandlar is basically just agreeing with the first anonymous opinion. But in the repetition, we see a resistance to the possibility that Rabbi Meir will get the last word. And so he really, really doesn’t get the last word, we ultimately get yet another response: 

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi says she is betrothed. And for what reason did they say she is not betrothed? Due to enmity.

Sure, says Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, according to legal logic, we might argue that a conditional betrothal could take effect before both parties were eligible to be betrothed to each other. And maybe, in theory, that’s true. But imagine the kinds of conflict that would engender. Picture a man conditionally betrothed to a married woman whose current husband is still alive. Or imagine a woman is waiting in the wings for her sister to die so she can marry her brother-in-law. This set-up is less ripe for a reality show and more for a fairly-easily-solved murder mystery. Just because something is grounded in legal logic doesn’t mean it is workable in real life.

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