Menachot 96

The Irish had a term called a surcee, it’s a gift given just because. No reason. just a memento to say, thinking of you, love you.

Apparently, God does a little miracle with the shewbread/showbread for ten same kind of reason – just to show Gods love for us.

Rather, the verse teaches that the priests would lift the Table with its shewbread to display the shewbread to the pilgrims standing in the Temple courtyard, and a priest would say to them: See how beloved you are before, i.e., in the eyes of, the Omnipresent, Who constantly performs a miracle with regard to the shewbread. This is in accordance with the statement of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, as Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: A great miracle was performed with the shewbread: Its condition at the time of its removal from the Table, after having been left there for a week, was like its condition at the time of its arrangement on the Table; as it is stated: “To place hot bread on the day when it was taken away” (I Samuel 21:7), indicating that it was as hot on the day of its removal as it was on the day when it was placed on the Table.

A miracle just to show love. We might see many things this way – like the beauty of clouds, the sunset, the song of birds. There are so many miracles we see every day that just fill the world with beauty.

Menchot 95

The daf today is trying to solve a very practical problem. The lechem ha-panim, the showbread, has to be ready for Shabbat. But there’s a catch: And their preparation does not override Shabbat.

So you can’t bake it on Shabbat.

But baking it before Shabbat doesn’t seem simple either. There’s a concern about leaving consecrated food overnight (that’s a no no). If the bread becomes holy too early, you might run into a problem just by letting it sit.

So what do you do?

The Gemara reaches back to a story about King David, fleeing for his life and asking the priest Ahimelech for bread: “When David fled from King Saul he came to Nov, where he requested bread from Ahimelech the priest. Ahimelech replied: “There is no non-sacred bread under my hand, but there is sacred bread” (I Samuel 21:5), i.e., the shewbread.”

From here, the rabbis draw a crucial conclusion: the bread was baked in advance—and still warm when it was placed on the table.

Rabbi Shimon holds that David found the priests baking the shewbread on Shabbat. David said to them: Aren’t you required to prepare it in a non-sacred manner, i.e., on a weekday? Does the oven consecrate the shewbread? No, it is the Table that consecrates it when the shewbread is placed there. The loaves are therefore not disqualified by being left overnight – and can be baked on Friday during the day.

That’s the shift. The bread isn’t holy when it’s baked. It becomes holy when it’s placed in the right space, at the right time.

In our lives too—it’s not just what we prepare, or how much effort we put in. When we bring something into a space of meaning that’s when it transforms.

Menachot 94

A new perek begins on todya’s daf, and with it, one of the most visually striking rituals in the Temple: the lechem ha-panim, the twelve loaves placed on the table each week.

But the Torah is surprisingly vague about what they actually looked like. So the Gemara fills in the gap with a debate:

Rabbi Ḥanina says: It was rectangular, with a wide base and two parallel walls with an open space between them, like a box that is open on two sides. Rabbi Yoḥanan says that the shewbread was like a rocking boat, i.e., a triangular-shaped boat with a narrow base from which two walls rise at angles. Since the boat does not have a wide base it rocks from side to side.

Same ingredients. Same holiness. Completely different shapes.

And the Gemara never resolves it which means—both are valid! Even in the Temple, even in something as structured as an offering, there was room for different forms. The what was fixed—but the how it looked had flexibility.

And then there’s another detail in the background of this whole discussion: the lechem ha-panim was prepared fresh each week, baked on Friday, and placed on the table on Shabbat.

Which starts to sound very familiar. . .

That rhythm—baking bread on Friday in preparation for Shabbat—didn’t start in our kitchens. It started in the Temple. Our challah is, in some quiet way, an echo of that ancient practice. But just like the lechem ha-panim, challah doesn’t have to look only one way.

There’s a rabbi, Vanessa Harper, who bakes her challah each week in the shape of the Torah portion. It’s intricate, creative, and deeply rooted in the text of the week. Same ingredients. Same mitzvah. Totally different form.

And it feels exactly in the spirit of this daf.

Because maybe the point isn’t uniformity. Maybe the point is that holiness can take shape in different ways—as long as we keep showing up, week after week, bringing what we have, and making it meaningful.

From the Temple table… to our Shabbat tables.

Menachot 93

Today’s daf has both human drama and a good lesson!

The daf today gets into the technical details of semikha—even down to how many hands you need. (Answer: two.) But what really caught my attention wasn’t the law—it was the moment between the rabbis.

Rabbi Elazar teaches a beautiful derivation about why semikha requires two hands… but he doesn’t quote his teacher, Reish Lakish. And Reish Lakish is not having it. He hears about it, gets upset, and starts firing off challenge after challenge—twenty-four verses to prove that the logic, as presented, doesn’t hold (Even though we, the readers, know it’s his argument!). Rabbi Elazar has no response. Total silence.

Only later, once things calm down, does Reish Lakish tell Rabbi Elazar how he should have defended his argument.

It’s such a human moment: the frustration, the intellectual sparring, the silence when someone gets called out.

But it’s also a really important lesson: Say things in the name of the person who taught them, B’shem Omro.

It’s not just about giving credit (though that matters). It’s also about context. About knowing where an idea comes from and how far it actually goes (like fact checking AI and google sources).

We live in a world where ideas travel fast, get repeated, reshaped, and often lose their origin entirely. The daf is reminding us that Torah—and really, wisdom more broadly—is not just about what is said, but who said it, and how it was meant.

Or, in Reish Lakish’s terms: If you’re going to teach it—teach it right.

Here’s the original exchange:

The mishna adds that the placing of hands is performed with two hands. The Gemara asks: From where are these matters derived? Reish Lakish said: As the verse states with regard to the Yom Kippur service: “And Aaron shall place both his hands [yadav] upon the head of the live goat” (Leviticus 16:21). The word yadav, meaning: His hands, is written without a second yod, and so if read without vowels it reads as: His hand. But it is also written “both,” which makes clear that the intention is that he must use both of his hands. This established a paradigm that in any place where it is stated in the Torah: His hand, there are here two hands, unless the verse explicitly specifies that there is only one. The Gemara relates: Rabbi Elazar went and stated this halakha in the study hall, but he did not say it in the name of Reish Lakish. Reish Lakish heard about this and became angry. He said to Rabbi Elazar: If it enters your mind that wherever it is written: His hand, the meaning is that there are actually two hands, then why do I ever need the Torah to write: His hands, his hands, i.e., yadav in the plural, which it does on numerous occasions? Reish Lakish raised objections against him from twenty-four occasions where the Torah writes: His hands, for example: “His own hands [yadav] shall bring the offerings of the Lord” (Leviticus 7:30); “his hands [yadav] shall contend for him, and You shall be a help against his adversaries” (Deuteronomy 33:7); “Guiding his hands [yadav] wittingly, for Manasseh was the firstborn” (Genesis 48:14). Rabbi Elazar was silent, as he had no response. After Reish Lakish had calmed down, he said to Rabbi Elazar: What is the reason that you did not say to me the following: When I established that paradigm, I was speaking only about the term: His hands [yadav], with regard to placing hands. But with regard to other halakhot, when the Torah says “his hand” the reference is to just one hand, and so when referring to two hands it must say “his hands.” The Gemara asks: But also with regard to placing hands it is written, concerning Moses’ ordination of Joshua: “And he placed his hands [yadav] upon him and gave him a charge” (Numbers 27:23), using the plural “his hands” [yadav] instead of: His hand [yado]. The Gemara clarifies that Reish Lakish meant that one could say: When I established that paradigm, I was speaking only about the term: His hands [yadav], with regard to placing hands on an animal offering. But in all other cases, if the intention is that there were two hands, the plural must be used

Menachot 92

Again, the daf takes us into the details of sacrifices but underneath it, there’s something we can all relate to and learn from.

Today we learn about semikha—the act of placing one’s hands on the head of the animal, accompanied by confession. It’s physical. It’s specific. You don’t just think about what you did wrong—you say it out loud, and you lean into it, literally.

And I keep thinking about how powerful that is.

We carry things. Guilt, regret, the knowledge of where we missed the mark. And so often, we try to deal with it internally, or even unconsciously.

The Talmud seems to understand something about human nature: 1) You can’t release what you won’t name. Confession isn’t just about accountability—it’s about externalizing what’s been stuck inside. Taking something heavy and giving it form, words, presence. 2) You don’t just name the wrongdoing. You symbolically remove it and place it somewhere else. On the offering. On the scapegoat. You watch it be carried away.

It’s a ritual that says: You are not meant to carry guilt forever.

There’s something deeply compassionate here. Judaism doesn’t just demand that we face our mistakes, Judaism wants us to learn from them and then let them go. (Forget the pain, keep the lesson.)

It starts with honesty. With saying it. With putting your hands on it and admitting: this is mine.

Only then can it begin to move.

Menachot 91

The daf spends a surprising amount of time on one tiny word: “or.” Again and again, the Gemara insists that when the Torah says “or,” it’s not just adding options—it’s making a point.

You might think that if you bring multiple offerings, one set of libations should be enough. They’re similar, they’re together, it’s all part of the same moment. You might have thought: If I bring two offerings, maybe one set of libations is enough. If they’re similar, maybe they can “share.” If they come together, maybe they count as one.

But the Gemara keeps insisting:
No. Each one stands on its own. Each one needs its own libations. Even if their the same kind of offering brought the same time, each offering matters individually. Each offering needs its own libations. Each one counts on its own.

That’s the deeper idea: every person, act, and moment is unique, is new, is an opportunity.

Every act stands alone. Every offering matters. Every moment of showing up counts.

Menachot 90

Today’s daf is deep in the weeds of measurements and overflow… literally what happens to the extra that spills over the sides of Temple vessels. Are those leftovers holy? Do they count? Do they matter?

And the answer is… complicated.

Sometimes yes: because they were once inside something sacred.
Sometimes no: because no one intended them to be holy.
And sometimes the Rabbis say: we’re going to treat them as holy anyway, just to make sure people don’t start taking shortcuts with sacred things.

The part I love: Even the leftovers don’t get thrown away.

The “extra” oil, wine, flour— the stuff that wasn’t part of the original plan— gets gathered up and used for new offerings. Nothing is wasted. It all gets folded back into something meaningful.

That’s the gem: don’t waste anything. Judaism takes seriously not just what we intend, but what overflows from our lives: the extra, the unintended, the spillover.

We can choose to see the extra as holy, to use the extra in holy ways.

Menachot 89

Today’s gem: in a place of wealth there is no poverty.

Wow!!!! This amazing line comes from a discussion about how the commandment to keep the menorah lit is the only commandment one does from sundown to sunrise. They are debating how the priests calculated the amount of oil that would take – did they give a little and then add more and more night after night until they saw they had enough? Or, did they give abundantly to ensure it was lit and decrease night after night to find the right amount? If we start low and build up, it’s to save money. That’s where we get our gem, that we might start high and then decrease because: in a place of wealth there is no poverty.

This is a true abundance mindset. An abundance mindset is the belief that there is enough for everyone – Dayeinu! – and that more opportunities, resources, and success are not scarce, but are abundant. It’s believing that happiness is not a pie wherein, if you are happy, there is less joy for me, but that the things that really matter in life are not scarce, they are endless: like love, kindness, friendship, joy, faith, passion, fun. . . An abundance mindset “is characterized by gratitude, generosity, and resilience, viewing challenges as opportunities rather than threats. This perspective reduces fear and fosters a growth-oriented, proactive life approach (Ingrid Fetell Lee).”

So, count your blessings. Recognize that what really matters is abundant. And if we appreciate our blessings we may be able to live the gem: in a place of wealth there is no poverty.

Menachot 88

In praise of praise.

On today’s daf, the rabbis discuss the 7 measuring cups that were consecrated for Temple use and what they were used for.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi was brilliant, consolidated the office of Nasi, and most importantly was the compiler of the Mishna! It doesn’t get any higher then him in terms of rabinic clout.

On our daf today, this revered rabbi asks about two different measuring tools, asking what they are used for. The first is the quarter log:

Rabbi Ḥiyya said to Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi: The consecration of the quarter-log measuring vessel was necessary, as with it one would measure oil for the High Priest’s griddle-cake offering, as a quarter–log of oil is used for each and every loaf. In praise for resolving his difficulty, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi read the verse about Rabbi Ḥiyya, who had traveled from Babylonia to join Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi in Eretz Yisrael: “The man of my counsel from a far country” (Isaiah 46:11).

The second is the the half-log:

Rabbi Shimon, son of Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, said to his father: The consecration of the half-log measuring vessel was necessary, as with it one would distribute a half-log of oil to each and every lamp of the Candelabrum. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi said to his son in praise: Lamp of Israel! Indeed, that was its use.

Here, we see how generous Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi is with praise. He praises the Babylonian rabbi with praise from the prophets, and his son as a “Lamp of Israel.” Praise makes us all feel good. We love to hear when we’ve done something well, something right, we like to know we are appreciated. It also feels good to the praise giver! Too often people in high places do not take the time to praise others.

So, today’s gem is in praise of praise! May you give it, receive it, and feel the sacred bond it can create.

Menachot 87

Angels, in Judaism, have one purpose. For many, their purpose is to praise God. Today, we learn that there are angels that watch over Jerusalem. And they say the same thing day after day:

The chapter concludes by quoting an additional prophecy of Isaiah concerning the rebuilding of Eretz Yisrael: It is written: “I have set watchmen upon your walls, Jerusalem; they shall never be silent day nor night; those who remind the Lord, take no rest” (Isaiah 62:6). This is referring to the angels appointed by God to bring the redemption. The Gemara asks: What do these watchmen say to remind the Lord? This is what Rava bar Rav Sheila said: They recite the verse: “You will arise and have compassion upon Zion; for it is time to be gracious to her, for the appointed time has come” (Psalms 102:14). Rav Naḥman bar Yitzḥak says: They recite the verse: “The Lord builds up Jerusalem, He gathers together the dispersed of Israel” (Psalms 147:2). The Gemara asks: And initially, when the Temple still stood and the Jewish people were gathered together in Eretz Yisrael, what would the watchmen say? Rava bar Rav Sheila says: They would say: “For the Lord has chosen Zion; He has desired it for His habitation. This is My resting place forever; here will I dwell for I have desired it” (Psalms 132:13–14).

I love the image of angels stationed on the walls of Jerusalem, constantly “reminding” God to bring redemption by reciting verses, prayers, words of hope. Asking God to bring the Jewish people back into our homeland, the Temple.

And then it asks: what did they say when things were already good? When the Temple stood, when the people were gathered? (Remember, the rabbis of the Talmud didn’t see the Temple standing.) When the Temple stood, the angels said a different kind of prayer: not longing, but of presence. Not “please rebuild,” but “God has chosen this place.”

Our prayers change depending on where we are—but the act of showing up and speaking them never stops. There are times we cry out for what’s broken, and times we name what’s whole. The watchmen/angels teach us that both are holy—and both are necessary.

Like us, the angels pray in the good times and the bad.

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