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

Zevachim 115

Many lose faith in God because so many horrible things happen in life. And yet, Aaron lost two of his sons in one moment as they were serving God, and he did not lose faith.

where is the allusion to the fact that God would be sanctified through Nadav and Avihu? The Gemara replies: As it is written: “And there I will meet with the children of Israel; and it shall be sanctified by My glory” (Exodus 29:43). Do not read it as “by My glory [bikhvodi]”; rather, read it as: By My honored ones [bimekhubadai]. God will be sanctified by those considered honored by God when He reveals Himself in the Tabernacle. The Holy One, Blessed be He, said this statement to Moses, but Moses did not know its meaning until the sons of Aaron died. Once the sons of Aaron died, Moses said to him: Aaron, my brother, your sons died only to sanctify the name of the Holy One, Blessed be He. When Aaron knew that his sons were beloved by the Omnipresent, he was silent and received a reward, as it is stated: “And Aaron held his peace [vayidom].” And likewise in a verse written by David it states: “Resign yourself [dom] to the Lord, and wait patiently [vehitḥolel] for Him” (Psalms 37:7). Although He strikes down many corpses [ḥalalim] around you, you be silent and do not complain. And likewise in a verse written by Solomon it states: “A time to keep silence, and a time to speak” (Ecclesiastes 3:7). There are times that one is silent and receives reward for the silence, and at times one speaks and receives reward for the speech.

Sometimes there is no explanation that will suffice, nothing we can say that will make the loss somehow palatable. Silence is all we can give. And, we may even have faith in these moments. Sometimes the deepest sanctification of God—and of our own values—comes not from explaining or protesting our pain, but from knowing when to hold silence with dignity and trust.

Zevachim 114

There was a 440-480 year gap between the Mishkan in the desert and the building of Temple in Jerusalem. The daf has been discussing what sacrifice looked like during those years. It’s discussed private altars, the altar in Jerusalem, and what can be offered in what place. But there was one altar between the two that served as a full communal altar just like the Mishkan did in the desert, and just like the Temple: Shiloh.

Moses said the following to the Jewish people: When you enter Eretz Yisrael, upright offerings, i.e., offerings that one believes are proper to bring due to one’s own generosity, such as vow offerings and gift offerings, you may sacrifice, but obligatory offerings you may not sacrifice, even in the Tabernacle in Gilgal, until you arrive at “the rest,” i.e., Shiloh, at which point you may sacrifice them.

So, what’s Shiloh?

Shiloh was the first permanent spiritual center of the Israelite people in the Land of Israel, long before Jerusalem assumed that role. After the initial settlement, “the whole congregation of the Israelites assembled at Shiloh and set up the Tent of Meeting there” (Joshua 18:1). For centuries, the Mishkan and the Ark of the Covenant stood in Shiloh, marking the transition from wilderness wandering to rooted national life.

Shiloh was more than a ritual site. It was where the land was apportioned to the tribes (Joshua 18–19), where Hannah prayed for a child (1 Samuel 1), and where the prophet Samuel first heard God’s call (1 Samuel 3). It represented a moment of spiritual promise, when God’s presence dwelled among the people in the land.

At the same time, the Bible remembers Shiloh as a warning. Corruption among the priesthood, especially the sons of Eli (1 Samuel 2), led to its downfall. When the Ark was captured by the Philistines, Shiloh lost its status and was never restored (1 Samuel 4:11). Later, the prophet Jeremiah invoked Shiloh as proof that sacred places are not immune to moral failure (Jeremiah 7:12).

In Jewish memory, Shiloh stands as both a beginning and a caution: a holy place chosen by God, and a reminder that holiness endures only when it is matched by integrity.

Zevachim 113

Today’s daf is so interesting! I am pasting the entire passage I want to focus on, but here is an easier to understand summary:

The Gemara debates whether the Flood in Noah’s time happened in the Land of Israel.

Rabbi Yoḥanan says it did not, so there’s no reason to worry about hidden graves there.
Reish Lakish says it did, so bodies may still be buried underground, causing ritual impurity.

They argue based on the same verse in Ezekiel—Rabbi Yoḥanan reads it as a rhetorical question, Reish Lakish as a statement.

Reish Lakish points to strict precautions taken for the red heifer ritual as proof that hidden impurity is a concern. Rabbi Yoḥanan replies that those precautions were an extra stringency, not proof of real danger.

Rabbi Yoḥanan brings a story where the Sages refused to declare Jerusalem impure, implying there were no flood graves there. Reish Lakish answers that even if people died, their bodies could have been removed, at least in Jerusalem—though not necessarily in the rest of the land.

So the debate remains: whether hidden impurity from the Flood exists in Eretz Yisrael depends on whether the Flood happened there at all.

so, here’s the gem: How we read the past shapes how we live in the present.
If we assume unseen problems are everywhere, we act with fear and extra safeguards. If we assume people and places are basically okay, we act with trust and confidence.

The Talmud, of course, recognizes them both.

The Gemara returns to the disagreement cited earlier: The Master says that Rabbi Yoḥanan said to Reish Lakish: But is not all of Eretz Yisrael inspected for impurity? Since Reish Lakish’s response to this question is not mentioned, the Gemara clarifies: With regard to what do they disagree? One Sage, Reish Lakish, holds that the flood in the time of Noah descended upon Eretz Yisrael, and its residents perished. It is therefore necessary to inspect the place where the red heifer is burned to ascertain whether it is a gravesite. And one Sage, Rabbi Yoḥanan, holds that the flood did not descend upon Eretz Yisrael, and there is no reason to suspect there are lost graves there. Rav Naḥman bar Yitzḥak says: And both of them, Rabbi Yoḥanan and Reish Lakish, interpreted the same verse, stated by Ezekiel with regard to Eretz Yisrael, to derive their opinions. The verse states: “Son of man, say to her: You are a land that is not cleansed, nor rained upon in the day of indignation” (Ezekiel 22:24). Rabbi Yoḥanan holds that the verse is asking a rhetorical question: Eretz Yisrael, are you not cleansed from the impurity imparted by corpses? Did the rains of the flood fall upon you on the day of indignation? And Reish Lakish holds that this verse should be read in accordance with its straightforward meaning, i.e., as a statement, not a question: You are a land that is not cleansed. Didn’t rains fall upon you on the day of indignation? Therefore, the bodies of all of those who perished in the flood are somewhere in the ground. Reish Lakish raised an objection to Rabbi Yoḥanan from a mishna (Para 3:2): Courtyards were built in Jerusalem on stone, and beneath these courtyards there was a hollow space due to the concern that there was a lost grave in the depths. The space served as a barrier preventing the impurity from reaching the courtyards above. And they would bring pregnant women, and those women would give birth in those courtyards. And those women would raise their children there, thereby ensuring that the children never became impure. This would enable the children to assist in the rite of the red heifer.And once the children reached the appropriate age, the priests would bring oxen there. And on the backs of these oxen, they would place doors, and the children would sit upon the doors, so that the doors would serve as a barrier between them and any impurity in the depths, and they would hold cups of stone, which are not susceptible to ritual impurity, in their hands, and they would ride upon the oxen to the Siloam pool. And they filled the cups with water and would sit back in their places upon the oxen and be taken to the Temple Mount. The water in the cups would be used for the rite of the red heifer. Apparently, there is concern that hidden sources of impurity exist in Eretz Yisrael. Rav Huna, son of Rav Yehoshua, said that Rabbi Yoḥanan would reply: The Sages established a higher standard for purity in the case of the red heifer, but generally speaking there is no concern for hidden sources of impurity in Eretz Yisrael caused by those who perished in the flood. Rabbi Yoḥanan raised an objection to Reish Lakish from a baraita (see Tosefta, Eduyyot 3:3): Once, human bones were found in the Chamber of the Woodshed, and the Sages sought to decree impurity upon Jerusalem, i.e., to proclaim all who go there to be impure, as if a corpse can be found in a chamber of the Temple there is reason to be concerned that there are lost graves in other places as well. Rabbi Yehoshua stood upon his feet and said: Is it not a shame and disgrace for us to decree impurity upon the city of our fathers because of this concern? Show me: Where are the dead of the flood, and where are all of the dead killed by Nebuchadnezzar? Rabbi Yoḥanan infers: From the fact that Rabbi Yehoshua said this, is this not to say that there were no lost graves in Jerusalem from the flood, because the flood did not take place there? Reish Lakish responds: And according to your reasoning, so too were there not those killed by Nebuchadnezzar, in and around Jerusalem, who were mentioned by Rabbi Yehoshua? Certainly there were, as Nebuchadnezzar killed many people in Jerusalem. Rather, there were, and others removed the bodies. Here too, with regard to the dead of the flood, there were, and others removed the bodies. And it is possible to ask: If they were removed, why is it necessary to be concerned that there may be impurity in the place of the red heifer, as they were already removed. One can respond: This baraita deals exclusively with Jerusalem. Granted that the bones of those who perished in the flood and at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar were removed from Jerusalem, but they were not removed from all of Eretz Yisrael.

Zevachim 112

As we learned on yesterday’s daf, the prohibition against bringing sacrifices in places other than the Tabernacle in the desert or the Temple in Jerusalem was relaxed during times when neither the Tabernacle nor the Temple were standing. The Mishna on today’s daf discusses this idea in greater depth.

Until the Tabernacle was established, private altars were permitted and the sacrificial service was performed by the firstborn. And from the time that the Tabernacle was established, private altars were prohibited and the sacrificial service was performed by the priests.

We get an entire history of when the private altars were permitted, when they weren’t, and where the most holy sacrifices were given: Offerings of the most sacred order were then eaten within the curtains surrounding the courtyard of the Tabernacle in the wilderness and offerings of lesser sanctity were eaten throughout the camp of Israel. When the Jewish people arrived at Gilgal private altars were permitted, offerings of the most sacred order were then eaten within the curtains, and offerings of lesser sanctity were eaten anywhere. When they arrived at Shiloh, private altars were prohibited. And there was no roof of wood or stone there, i.e., in the Tabernacle in Shiloh; rather there was only a building of stone below and the curtains of the roof of the Tabernacle were spread above it. And the period that the Tabernacle was in Shiloh was characterized in the Torah as “rest” in the verse: “For you have not as yet come to the rest and to the inheritance, which the Lord your God has given you” (Deuteronomy 12:9). Offerings of the most sacred order were then eaten within the curtains in the courtyard of the Tent of Meeting, and offerings of lesser sanctity and second tithe were eaten in any place that overlooks Shiloh. When Shiloh was destroyed (see I Samuel 4:18), the Jewish people arrived with the Tabernacle at Nov, and later at Gibeon, and private altars were permitted. Offerings of the most sacred order were then eaten within the curtains in the courtyard of the Tent of Meeting, and offerings of lesser sanctity were eaten in all the cities of Eretz Yisrael. When the Jewish people arrived at Jerusalem and built the Temple during the reign of Solomon, private altars were prohibited, and private altars did not have a subsequent period when they were permitted.

When we look at this history, we might wonder why, after the Temple was destroyed, we did not return to having private altars… or did we?

The Rabbis taught that our table now serves as our altar—a place where ethical eating, gratitude, hospitality, and care for others replace sacrifice. Instead of sacrificial altars, Judaism sanctified daily life, teaching that the sacred is sustained not by offerings we bring to God, but by how we treat one another at home.

Zevachim 111

A perfect gem for the new year and following through on resolutions (and which might need to wait).

On our daf, the Rabbis explore the laws of nesakhim—wine libations that accompany certain sacrifices. At first glance, the discussion is technical, focused on sacrificial geography and ritual detail. But beneath the surface, the debate opens into a timeless human dilemma: Do we wait until life is stable to live by our values, or do our values apply even when everything is still unsettled?

The Torah introduces wine libations with the phrase:

“כִּי תָבֹאוּ אֶל אֶרֶץ מוֹשְׁבֹתֵיכֶם”

“When you come into the land of your habitations” (Bamidbar 15:2)

Zevachim 111 asks: what does “your habitations” really mean?

Rabbi Yishmael understands this phrase to mean settlement. According to him, wine libations were not required in the wilderness at all. Only once the people entered the land and established a stable center of worship—when the Mishkan stood in Shiloh and later the Temple in Jerusalem —did nesakhim become obligatory. In his view, full ritual responsibility begins only once a community is rooted and secure. There is compassion here for transition, for instability, for a people still finding their footing. (Dude, let us unpack first!)

Rabbi Akiva reads the verse differently. He argues that wine libations were already offered in the desert. If so, the Torah’s emphasis on entering the land must be teaching something else: that even sacrifices brought on private altars—during the chaotic interim period when such altars were permitted—required wine libations. For Rabbi Akiva, holiness does not wait for ideal conditions. Values apply immediately, even when structures are temporary and life feels unfinished.

This debate mirrors a question many of us ask ourselves today. Do we say, “Once things settle down—once I’m less busy, less overwhelmed, more secure—then I’ll show up fully for what matters”? Or do we hear Rabbi Akiva whispering that this moment, precisely because it is unstable, is when our commitments count most?

The daf does not give an easy answer. It preserves both voices. It honors the reality that people in transition need flexibility. And it insists that meaning cannot always be postponed until life feels complete.

Zevachim 111 teaches us that sacred responsibility exists in tension—between patience and urgency, between compassion and commitment. The challenge is not resolving that tension once and for all, but learning to live inside it honestly.

Our gem:

We don’t have to wait until life is settled to live by our values—but we also don’t ignore how hard transition can be. Holiness, like life, often begins before everything is in place.

Zevachim 110

In Mishnah Sukkot 4:9 The Rabbis explain that the water libation was offered as a supplication to God to provide rain in the upcoming year. Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 1:2 teaches that on Rosh Hashanah all the inhabitants of the world come before God for judgment, and on Sukkot, God determines how much rain will fall in the coming year. The water libation therefore functioned as an embodied prayer for life itself—rain for crops, for sustenance, for survival—offered just as the rainy season was about to begin.

We can imagine the scene: a huge crowd gathered in Jerusalem during the joy of the festival, celebrating and yet deeply anxious, waiting for this fragile moment when their fate for the year would be sealed. And then, to their horror, the priest desecrates the ritual by pouring the water on his feet instead of on the altar. The Mishnah describes how the enraged crowd responded by hurling their etrogim at the High Priest. The Tosefta adds that the assault was so fierce that it damaged the horn of the altar itself.

Even if we doubt the precise historicity of the episode—Josephus, writing in the first century, describes different circumstances surrounding the etrog attack—the story reveals how charged and contested this ritual was. The Rabbis themselves acknowledge that the water libation lacked explicit biblical grounding. As the Talmud states bluntly in Zevachim 110a:

“נִסּוּךְ הַמַּיִם הֲלָכָה לְמֹשֶׁה מִסִּינַי”

“The water libation is a law given to Moses at Sinai.”

That line tells us everything. The Rabbis knew people questioned the practice. They knew it was vulnerable to skepticism, even ridicule. And yet they insisted on its authority—not because it was written plainly in the Torah, but because it expressed something essential: the human need to turn uncertainty into prayer, fear into ritual, and dependence into sacred action.

This story reflects a deep rabbinic awareness that Judaism is sometimes sustained not by what is obvious or explicit, but by practices that hold communities together precisely when the future feels most precarious.

Zevachim 109

Today’s daf largely discusses the burning of incense and what amount outside the sanctuary is a violation and what amount burned inside the sanctuary by someone who is inappropriate to offer this sacrifice burns it. You will see part of the discussion below. My gem comes after, and it’s the recipe for incense.

GEMARA: The Sages taught in a baraita: Each morning and afternoon, a peras, i.e., half a maneh, of incense must be burned in the Sanctuary. Nevertheless, one who burns only an olive-bulk of incense outside the courtyard is liable. If one burns half a peras inside the Temple, he is exempt. The Gemara addresses the latter clause of the baraita: It enters our mind to explain: What is meant by: He is exempt? It means that a non-priest, for whom it is prohibited to perform the sacrificial rites in the Temple, is exempt if he burns incense inside the Temple. The Gemara rejects this: Why should he be exempt; this is an act of sacrificial burning? Even though he burned less than a peras, it is apparent from the first clause of the baraita that burning even an olive-bulk is considered an act of sacrificial burning. Rabbi Zeira said that Rav Ḥisda said that Rav Yirmeya, son of Abba, said that Rav said: What is meant by: He is exempt? It means that if a priest burns half a peras inside the Temple, the community is thereby exempt from its obligation to burn incense despite the fact that less than the required amount was burned.

The recipe for incense (with the lesson to follow):

The Eleven Spices & Weights (in Maneh)

Stacte (Resin/Balsam): 70 maneh
Onycha (Operculum/Clove): 70 maneh
Galbanum (Storax Resin): 70 maneh
Frankincense (Lobanon): 70 maneh
Myrrh (Mor): 16 maneh
Cassia (Ketzia): 16 maneh
Spikenard (Shibolet Nard): 16 maneh
Saffron (Kharkom): 16 maneh
Costus (Kosht): 12 maneh
Aromatic Bark The Eleven Spices & Weights (in Maneh)
Cinnamon (Kinnamon): 9 maneh

Ten of the ingredients smell great, but Galbanum, is foul-smelling alone. However, it’s a known fixative in perfumery as it helps to preserve and carry other scents.

So it is with the Jewish people. When we are looked at as individuals, we have a lot of gems, and some people who, frankly, stink. But, when we all come together what we create is truly holy.

Zevachim 108

Today’s gem reminds me of the game “would you rather” where you have to pick between two options (often both being terrible). Here the rabbis are explaining that on some ways one way of sinning is worse than another way while in others the opposite is true.

There is a greater stringency with regard to slaughteringoutside the Temple courtyard than with regard to offering upoutside, and there is a greater stringency with regard to offering upoutside than with regard to slaughtering outside.

So, let’s end 2025 with a would you rather:

Would you rather repeat 2025 and get that extra year of life or just keep going forward?

Would you rather try one totally new thing every month or get really good at one new thing all year?

Would you rather let go of one habit that’s holding you back or gain one new habit that pushes you forward?

Would you rather know exactly what the year will bring or be surprised by it?

Would you rather feel more connected to people or more confident in yourself this year?

Zevachim 107

If Zevachim 106 teaches that we can’t perform acts of idol worship even when we don’t believe in idols, Zevachim 107 offers a striking parallel: we can’t perform Temple rituals outside the Temple—even with the purest intentions.

The Talmud insists that offerings belong in a specific place. Sacrificial acts done elsewhere don’t become neutral just because the Temple no longer stands. Sacred actions are defined not only by what we do, but by where we do it. Space matters.

Even after the Temple’s destruction, the sanctity of its location remains. Holiness, once rooted, does not evaporate when structures fall. The rabbis seem to be saying that some places carry memory, meaning, and obligation long after their physical forms are gone.

The lesson is quietly radical. We often assume that if the original context is gone, the rules dissolve with it. Zevachim 107 resists that logic. It teaches that boundaries—of space, practice, and restraint—are themselves expressions of reverence.

Just as not every action is allowed simply because we “don’t mean it that way,” not every space is interchangeable simply because the Temple is absent. Sacredness endures, and so does our responsibility to honor it—even, and especially, when it’s harder to see.

Holiness isn’t only about presence. Sometimes it’s about restraint.

Zevachim 106

When “Nothing” Becomes Something:

In Zevachim 106, the Talmud discusses the worship of Mercury, a form of idolatry that required almost nothing at all—just tossing a stone onto a pile while passing by. No prayer, no intention, no sense of meaning.

And that’s exactly what worried the rabbis.

They understood that actions don’t need intention to acquire power. What we do casually, repeatedly, and without reflection slowly becomes meaningful—to us and to those who watch us. The danger of this kind of worship wasn’t passion for the wrong god, but the ease with which habit can turn emptiness into devotion.

The rabbis remind us that there is no such thing as a neutral act. Even gestures we dismiss as “just nothing” shape our values, form our habits, and model a world for others.

Meaning doesn’t always come first. Sometimes it’s what we create—stone by stone—without even realizing it.