2,711 pages of Talmud. A gem a day.

Menachot 6

Today’s gem is just a reminder that we are animals too. In the daf we learn that the status of an animal born by c-section, even if it’s the mother’s first pregnancy, does not have the status of first born.

Rav Ashi responds: What is notable about an animal born by caesarean section? It is notable in that such an animal is not sanctified with firstborn status, whereas a firstborn animal that was born as a tereifa is sanctified. Accordingly, without the verse one might have concluded that a tereifa may be sacrificed.

This applies to humans too! Why does it matter? There is a ceremony for the first born in Judaism called pinyon ha’ben done at 1 month of age for the firstborn. You may wonder why you haven’t seen it (or seen it much). That’s because it has to be the first time a woman’s uterus was opened (so no miscarriages or abortions), neither parents can be a cohen or Levite (as they ARE dedicated to temple service), and as we learn of our daf – no c-sections.

Menachot 5

Menachot 5 invites us to ask a timeless question:

What makes a religious act meaningful—our intention, the action itself, or the result it produces?

We often judge ourselves harshly when our focus slips, when our prayers wander, or when our motivations feel mixed. Rav’s voice echoes in those moments: If I wasn’t fully present, did it count at all?

But Reish Lakish and Rava offer gentler—and perhaps more realistic—alternatives. Sometimes, even imperfect acts move the world forward. Sometimes, meaning unfolds not because we were pure of heart, but because we showed up and did the thing that needed to be done.

The minḥat ha-omer teaches that Judaism is not only a religion of intention, nor only of ritual precision—but also a tradition that cares deeply about whether life is actually made possible, permitted, and renewed.

As we stand between Pesaḥ and Shavuot, counting days that are about growth and becoming, Menachot 5 reminds us:

Even when our intentions are mixed, our actions still matter—and they may open the way for something new to begin.

Menachot 4

Can we still do mitzvot after we die? Can we still make atonement? On today’s daf we learn:

Rabbi Yirmeya elaborates: With regard to those guilt offerings that atone, there are among them offerings that come after death, i.e., they are sacrificed after the death of their owners, whereas with regard to those that render fit, there are none among them that come after death. As we learned in a mishna (Kinnim 2:5): With regard to a woman after childbirth who brought her sin offering for her ritual purification and died, the heirs shall bring her burnt offering,which comes to atone.

So we get this fabulous lesson. After we die the only was we can atone, the only way we can do mitzvahs, if when our heirs do it in our memory.

When we give money, say Kaddish, and do other mitzvahs in honor of our deceased- we elevate their souls.

Menachot 3

Today’s daf has a profound lesson.

The scenario on the daf is a case where a person brought a certain sacrifice and said it was for purpose #1, but those watching see he is doing the actions for purpose #2. What do we assume? That he is doing it for purpose #1 like he said? Or purpose #2 like his actions show?

For example:

The Gemara asks: But if so, then offerings of the most sacred order that one slaughtered in the northern part of the Temple courtyard, which is a requirement that applies only to offerings of the most sacred order, for the sake of offerings of lesser sanctity, should effect acceptance for their owners, as the actions performed on them prove that they are offerings of the most sacred order. Because if they are in fact offerings of lesser sanctity, he would have performed their slaughter in the southern part of the Temple courtyard.

So, what’s the answer? The answer is the biggest lesson: At the end of the day, it’s not what we say that really shows who we are – it’s what we do. Actions speak louder than words.

Menachot 2

Welcome to a new tractate! Before we dive in, it’s probaby a good idea to remind ourselves: What Are Menachot?

Unlike animal sacrifices, menachot are meal offerings — made of flour, oil, and frankincense — brought in the Temple. They are quieter, humbler offerings, often associated with those who could not afford livestock.

Central to most menachot is the kometz: a fistful of flour taken by the kohen and placed on the altar. That small handful represents the offering in its entirety; the rest is eaten by the priests. In a way, the kometz is the distilled essence of the gift.

The opening mishnah of Menachot teaches that if the kometz is taken she-lo lishmah — with improper intention — the offering is still valid, but it does not count for the person who brought it. They must bring another offering in its place.

Rashi understands this quite literally: the kohen verbally articulated an incorrect intention at the moment of taking the kometz. The Rambam, however, raises the stakes — even a misdirected thought, unspoken, is enough to affect the spiritual status of the offering. Action matters, but inner orientation matters too.

One detail on this daf is especially powerful: the discussion of the meal offering brought by a sinner. This is not a voluntary act of piety; it is part of a required atonement. And notably, it is a sliding-scale offering.

On our daf, the Talmud focuses on the lowest end of that scale — the offering brought by the poorest of the poor, who cannot afford animals and brings only flour. And yet, the Torah treats this offering as fully legitimate. Spiritually, it stands on equal footing with the sin offerings of the wealthy.

God does not measure repentance by market value.

A handful of flour, offered honestly, can carry the same weight as a costly animal. Menachot begins by reminding us that holiness is not about how much we give, but whether we show up with sincerity, humility, and intention — whatever our means.

Zevachim 120

We did it! We made it to the end of this bloody tractate (see what I did there?)!

We end the tractate with a summation of what was the same and what was different between offering sacrifices on a communal altar verses a private personal altar. And, maybe a lesson for us.

What are the matters that are different between a great public altar and a small private altar? The corner of the altar, the ramp, the base of the altar, and the square shape are required in a great public altar, but the corner, the base, the ramp, and the square shape are not required in a small private altar. The Basin and its base are required in a great public altar, but the Basin and its base are not required in a small private altar. The breast and thigh of a peace offering, which are given to a priest, are waved at a great public altar, but the breast and thigh are not waved at a small private altar. And there are other matters in which a great public altar is identical to a small private altar: Slaughter is required at both a great public altar and a small private altar. Flaying a burnt offering and cutting it into pieces is required at both a great public altar and a small private altar. Sprinkling the blood permits the meat to be eaten, and if at that time the priest thought of eating or sacrificing this offering outside its appropriate time, this renders the offering piggul both at a great public altar and at a small private altar. Likewise, the halakha that blemishes disqualify an offering and the halakha that there is a limited time for eating offerings are in effect at both a great public altar and a small private altar.

The gem: There are moments when holiness can be cultivated privately, in intimate and simplified ways — and moments when only the fullness, structure, and shared presence of community will do. Knowing when to build a small altar, and when to show up at the great one, may itself be a form of sacred wisdom.

Tomorrow we are onto Menchot!

Zevachim 119

When the Ark Was Missing — and What We Learned About Holiness

One of the quietly astonishing ideas in Zevachim 119 is that there was a real period in Jewish history when the Mishkan stood — sacrifices were offered, ritual life continued — and yet the Ark was not there.

The Talmud reads the verse “For you have not yet come to the rest and the inheritance” (Deuteronomy 12:9) as pointing to shifting stages of sacred geography. Is “rest” Shiloh or Jerusalem? Is “inheritance” temporary or eternal? The debate itself is telling: holiness, in the rabbinic imagination, unfolds in stages, not all at once.

According to one strand of the sugya, Jerusalem is called menuchah — “rest” — because of the Ark:

“What rest was there in the Temple in Jerusalem?
The rest of the Ark, as it is written: And when the Ark rested.”

That line lands with particular force once we remember the historical backdrop. After the destruction of Shiloh, the Mishkan stood in Nov and then in Givon. Sacrifices continued. But the Ark — the symbolic heart of the covenant — was elsewhere, sitting in Kiryat Ye’arim for decades.

This absence mattered. As Rabbi Yoḥanan teaches (and as Adin Steinsaltz explains), without the Ark in its place, certain expressions of holiness could not fully function. Ma’aser sheni, which is meant to be eaten “before God,” becomes halakhically unstable (as discussed on our daf). The rabbis debate what happens next: Is the obligation suspended? Redeemed? Eaten anywhere? All of these views point to the same feeling — something essential is missing.

Holiness without wholeness is compromised.

That’s why the moment when the Ark finally returns is so emotionally charged. When King David brings the Ark to Jerusalem, he doesn’t act like a distant monarch overseeing a ritual. He dances — wildly, publicly, without self-protection:

“David danced before the Lord with all his might” (II Samuel 6:14).

This is not worship. This is the joy of something fractured becoming whole again. The Ark does not just complete the architecture of sacred space; it completes the people. David understands instinctively what the rabbis later articulate halakhically: the Mishkan can stand, offerings can be brought, but rest only comes when all the pieces are together.

The gem: Judaism does not deny the reality of partial holiness. We pray even when we are broken. We show up even when something central is missing. The Mishkan still functioned. Life went on. But the tradition refuses to confuse functioning with fulfillment.

Holiness longs for wholeness.

In a world where so much of our spiritual life can feel fragmented — community without consensus, ritual without center, values without coherence — Zevachim reminds us not to settle too quickly. There are times when we are doing the best we can with what we have. And there are moments, rare and ecstatic, when what was missing finally returns — and the only appropriate response is to dance.

Zevachim 118

Who’s house? God’s house.

When Rav Dimi came from Eretz Yisrael to Babylonia, he said that Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi said: The Divine Presence rested upon the Jewish people in three places: In Shiloh, and Nov and Gibeon, and the Eternal House

Okay, what? First, it says the Divine Presence rested in 3 places, and then lists 4, but we also know that the Mishkan did not only stand in these locations. The Tabernacle existed earlier—in the wilderness, and in other temporary stops along the way. Yet the Gemara suggests that it was only once the Mishkan was established in Shiloh, a semi-permanent place, that the Shekhinah could truly be described as “resting” among the people. The prophet Jeremiah later reflects this understanding when he speaks of Shiloh as “the place where I caused My name to dwell at first” (Jeremiah 7:12).

The implication is subtle but powerful. God’s presence does not merely visit a people in moments of movement and transition; it rests where there is a sense of stability, commitment, and shared structure. Nov and Givon continue that trajectory, and Jerusalem completes it—but Shiloh marks the turning point from wandering holiness to settled presence.

The gem is that holiness deepens when it has a place to land. Inspiration may strike anywhere, but the Shekhinah comes to rest when a community creates spaces—physical or spiritual—that are stable enough to hold it.

Zevachim 117

Our daf today teaches us that no one is outside the system and everyone has their camp (even accidental murderers). Even those furthest from the inner camp are still part of the sacred map. Everyone is oriented toward the center, even if they do not stand in the same place.

That makes this sugya quietly radical: Belonging does not require sameness.

Our daf gives us a proof text to show there are three camps at Shiloh, the Israelites, the Levites, and the Camp of the Divine.

The baraita adds: And when the Tabernacle was in Shiloh there were only two camps. The Gemara asks: Which of the three camps that were present in the wilderness was not present in Shiloh? Rabba said: It stands to reason that the Levite camp was present, but the Israelite camp was not. As, if it enters your mind to say that the Levite camp was not present in Shiloh, it would consequently be found that both zavim and those who are ritually impure from impurity imparted by a corpse are sent out of one camp, i.e., the camp of the Divine Presence, and both are permitted in the Israelite camp. But the Torah said with regard to sending the ritually impure out of the camp: “Outside the camp you shall put them; that they will not defile their camps” (Numbers 5:3). The use of the plural “camps” indicates: Give a specific camp to this group, i.e., those who are ritually impure from impurity imparted by a corpse, who may enter the Levite camp but are forbidden to enter the camp of the Divine Presence, and give a specific camp to this group, i.e., those who are zavim, who may enter the Israelite camp but are forbidden to enter the camp of the Divine presence or the Levite camp. If there were no Levite camp in Shiloh, it would follow that both a zav and one who is ritually impure from the impurity imparted by a corpse are sent out of only one camp, and there is no distinction between them. Rava said to him: Rather, what would you say instead? Would you say that the Israelite camp was not present in Shiloh? If so, it would be found that zavim and lepers are both sent to one place, i.e., outside the Levite camp. But the Torah said with regard to the leper: “He shall dwell alone; outside the camp shall his dwelling be” (Leviticus 13:46). The word “alone” teaches that another ritually impure person should not dwell with him.Rather, it must be that actually, all three camps were present in Shiloh.

Each camp matters. Each has access, and each has limits.

Holiness is not one-size-fits-all. Not everyone belongs in the same place—and that’s not a flaw in the system, it’s the system working as intended. The sanctity of the whole depends on people knowing where they stand and honoring the spaces of others.

Our daf is about community. It imagines a society where closeness to holiness takes different forms, where distinction does not mean exclusion, and where everyone’s presence is necessary—even if everyone’s role is different.

The Torah’s vision is not that we all occupy the same camp, but that we all belong somewhere within the larger whole. Holiness emerges not from sameness, but from a shared structure that makes room for difference.

Zevachim 116

I love the daf. Only the Talmud would provide a passage as proof of an argument that starts with a conversion and ends with 50 year old a prostitute.

The Rabbis often point to Yitro/Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, as a convert to Judaism. The daf asks what it was that made Jethro convert, we see 3 options: 1) the war with Amalek, 2) The Torah being given at Sinai (and how it was heard by all the world), or 3) the splitting of the Red Sea.

The Torah states with regard to Yitro, before he came to Mount Sinai: “Now Yitro, the priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard of all that God had done for Moses, and for Israel His people, how the Lord had brought Israel out of Egypt” (Exodus 18:1). What tiding did he hear that he came and converted? Rabbi Yehoshua says: He heard about the war with Amalek, as it is written adjacent to the verses that state that Yitro came: “And Joshua weakened Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword” (Exodus 17:13). Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i says: He heard about the giving of the Torah and came. As when the Torah was given to the Jewish people, the voice of the Holy One, Blessed be He, went from one end of the world to the other end, and all of the kings of the nations of the world were overcome with trembling in their palaces and recited a song of praise, as it is stated: “The voice of the Lord makes the hinds to calve…and in his palace all say: Glory” (Psalms 29:9), i.e., each king in his own palace recited songs of praise to God. At that time, all of the kings gathered around Balaam the wicked, who was the greatest gentile prophet, and said to him: What is the tumultuous sound, i.e., the loud noise, that we have heard? Perhaps a flood is coming to destroy the world, as it is stated: “The Lord sat enthroned at the flood” (Psalms 29:10)? Balaam said to them: “The Lord sits as King forever” (Psalms 29:10), which means that the Holy One, Blessed be He, already took an oath after the flood never to bring a flood to the world, as it is stated: “And the waters shall no more become a flood” (Genesis 9:15). The kings said to him: He will not bring a flood of water, as he vowed, but perhaps He will bring a flood of fire, as in the future the Lord will punish the nations with fire, as it is stated: “For by fire will the Lord contend, and by His sword with all flesh; and the slain of the Lord shall be many” (Isaiah 66:16). Balaam said to them: He already took an oath that He will not destroy all flesh in any manner, as it is stated: “To destroy all flesh” (Genesis 9:15). Therefore, there will not be a flood of fire. They asked: And if so, what is this tumultuous sound that we have heard? Balaam said to them: He has a good and precious item in His treasury, that was hidden away with Him for 974 generations before the world was created, and He seeks to give it to his children, as it is stated: “The Lord will give strength to His people” (Psalms 29:11). “Strength” is a reference to the Torah, which is the strength of the Jewish people. Immediately, they all began to say: “The Lord will bless His people with peace” (Psalms 29:11). The Gemara offers another explanation of what Yitro heard: Rabbi Eliezer says: He heard about the splitting of the Red Sea and came, as it is stated in a similar context with regard to the splitting of the Jordan in the days of Joshua: “And it came to pass, when all the kings of the Amorites, that were beyond the Jordan westward, and all the kings of the Canaanites, that were by the sea, heard how that the Lord had dried up the waters of the Jordan from before the children of Israel, until they were passed over, that their heart melted, neither was there spirit in them anymore, because of the children of Israel” (Joshua 5:1).

Now Rahab, comes and gives a proof text. Who is Rahab? Rahab is a Canaanite woman in the Book of Joshua (chapter 2) who lives in Jericho and saves Israelite spies by hiding them. She uses a red thread – which scholars view as the “red light special” a.k.a. she is a prostitute. She later becomes a model of moral courage, repentance, and inclusion—so much so that rabbinic tradition portrays her as converting and joining the Jewish people, even becoming an ancestor of prophets and priests.

And even Rahab the prostitute said to Joshua’s messengers: “For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea before you” (Joshua 2:10). The Gemara asks: What is different there, i.e., with regard to the splitting of the Jordan, where the verse states: “Neither was there spirit in them anymore,” and what is different here, i.e., in the statement of Rahab, where the verse states: “Neither did there remain [kama] any more spirit in any man” (Joshua 2:11)?

The Gemara replies that Rahab used this phrase euphemistically, to say that their fear was so great that their male organs were not even able to become erect, as “kama” also means rise. The Gemara asks: And how did Rahab know this? The Gemara replies: As the Master said: You do not have any prince or ruler at that time who did not engage in intercourse with Rahab the prostitute. The Gemara adds that the Sages said with regard to Rahab: She was ten years old when the Jewish people left Egypt, and she engaged in prostitution all forty years that the Jewish people were in the wilderness. After that, when she was fifty years old, she converted when the two spies visited her. She said: May all of my sins of prostitution be forgiven me as a reward for having endangered myself with the rope, window, and flax, by means of which I saved Joshua’s two spies. Rahab first concealed the spies in stalks of flax, and later assisted them in exiting her home by lowering them from the window with a rope (see Joshua 2:6 and 2:15).

The take away? Judaism insists that what ultimately defines a person is not what they have been, or even what they have witnessed, but how they choose to respond when truth finally reaches them—sometimes the most unlikely lives become the clearest vessels for courage, repentance, and transformation.

And the rabbis, while great men, were still men. Oy.