Rabbis and e-mail strategy (Bava Batra 162)

There's a great piece of advice on today's daf (Bava Batra 162a). The Rabbis notice that most documents end with a restatement of the essential elements in the last line.

Rav Amram answers:

אין למדין משיטה אחרונה

We don't learn anything from the last line of a document

Rashbam explain that the Rabbis made this law because when people would tamper with a document, they would often add lines to the end of it. That way there were no erasure marks. By telling people not to read to the bottom (and making the last line invalid) they could ensure that no one would be swayed by the crooks.

But what if the Rabbis meant something different? Amram's statement can be read as a command "Don't learn anything from the last line of a document!" or it as an observation "we don't learn..." Rashbam read it as a command, I read it as an observation.

And if 2000 years ago we didn't read to the bottom of documents, then kal v'choer (how much the more so) we don't read to the end of e-mails and messages. Maybe we should take Rav Amram's advice: when you write an e-mail put a summary on the bottom. That way, those who read to the end will be reminded of your message and those who read close to the end but naturally stop will not miss anything. 

Returning again and again (157b)

One of my favorite prayers is the Hadran prayer. It's the prayer I say when I finish a book of Talmud. On Valentines Day I'll be reciting it for Bava Batra, the longest tractate of Talmud (176 pages).

The reason I love this prayer is because it acknowledges that we don't always understand the text of the Talmud fully the first time around. The word "hadran" means "we will return." In essence, we finish a book of Talmud by acknowledging that there so much more to learn from the book. In my case, the blistering pace of Daf Yomi forces me to accept that I won't remember everything or that there are arguments that I don't understand but that I need to put to rest for the meantime. But even if I have the Talmud memorized, I still am not "done" studying it. Although the text doesn't change, I am always changing and therefore my perspective on the text must always be changing as well.

This is not a new idea. In fact even the Rabbis in the Talmud knew this. If I stay on pace (one page every day), it will take me 7.5 years to finish the whole Talmud. For Rav Ashi and many other Rabbis living between 200-500 it took much longer.  Tradition teaches that it took 30 years to teach all the material that would eventually become our Talmud (Rav Hai Gaon speaks about this in one of his responsa).

Rav Ashi was privileged with a long career; he was able to teach 2 full cycles (60 years). In today's daf we learn that over the course of his career, Rav Ashi came to view the text differently. On his second cycle he saw something new in the issue of contracts and leans. Perhaps he was different. Perhaps his milieu had changed. No matter the reason, when Rav Ashi returned to the text he had a different perspective and therefore made a different ruling.

Rav Ashi is an inspiration to all of us who love text. His story teaches us that we are never done learning and that we can and should always be revisiting the lessons of our youth to place them in the context of our present and prepare for our lives in the future.

Hadran Aleich Rav Ashi.
We will return to you Rav Ashi

For a more detailed look at the Hadran prayer and some of the law associated with it click here.

A New Look At Joseph's Tunic (Bava Batra 154b)

What I'm about to say is a stretch. Of course, it's not that different than what the Rabbis do.

We all know of the story of Joseph's technicolored dream coat (or at least we've heard the song ). But what we may not realize is that no one really knows what this coat looked like.

In Genesis 37:3 we read that Jacob gave Joseph a ketonet pasim.

We know it as the "coat of many colors" (this is the JPS translation) but not everyone agrees:

• Rashi says it means a fine woolen garment
• There is a Midrash that it the term passim is an acronym for the troubles started by Potifar, the merchants (Socharim), the Ishmaelites and the Midianites. (see the stories of Joseph for each of these characters)
• Everett Fox sees the word as meaning ornamented
• Buber and Rosenzweig translate it as ankle length

One Friday's Daf (Bava Batra 154b) we get another possible interpretation. In a wider discussion about the validity of documents the Talmud brings up the idea of a passim document. We read:

If someone challenges a document and says "it's a passim document" or "its a document written on trust" [meaning] that I sold you the field but you did not give me the money for it the law is as follows: If there are witnesses who corroborate these claims, follow the testimony of the witnesses, but if not, follow whatever the document says.

Rashbam explains that a passim document derives from the word pi'us (פיוס) meaning persuasion or placation. Artscroll explains that this means the document is a "sham." Think of it like this: Daniel needs to impress a landlord so he pays Julia to write him a document that says that she owes him a lot of money and leaves it on his kitchen table. When the landlord comes by he sees that Daniel has a lot of money coming to him. Assuming he is more wealthy than he is, he treats Daniel with more respect. Later Daniel takes this signed document and tried to sue Julia saying that it is real and that she really owes him money.

With this in mind, we can now understand the above statement. When someone points to a document and says that its a sham or that it is a placeholder for a trust we try hard to discard the document and look for witnesses to corroborate the claim. But when we can't find witnesses we understand that a contract is a contract and the challenger should have been careful not to sign his name to a document. So we follow the document and hope he is lying.

Now that we have explored the legal meaning of passim, I want to return to the Joseph story. As I said, the following is a Midrash and not based in philological research. Nevertheless it's a new take on the story. If a passim document means a sham document, perhaps at ketonet passim is a sham coat.  What then is the purpose of Jacob giving this gift to his son? Maybe its not because he loved Joseph that he gave him the coat, but as a power play.

We read in the previous verse that Joseph liked to tattle on his brothers to his father Jacob, telling tales about the evil that his brothers were doing. In the next verse we read that Jacob loved Joseph and gave the coat to him. Perhaps part of this love came from the fact that Jacob knew that Joseph would always tell him the misdeeds of his brothers. And perhaps the coat was less a reward for this telling than a sign to the brothers "if you tell me the truth, if you are on my side, if you avoid evil and communicate with me, you too will receive a reward."

I like this interpretation because of what happens to the coat at the end of the chapter. The ketonet passim is a sham coat that will later become covered in sham blood as the brothers tell their father that a beast devoured Joseph (37:31). Is there anything more ironic?

From Distress to Praise: Haftarah Beshallah

It is fitting that I start this attempt at a weekly Haftarah reflection with the Song of Deborah. In January of 1994, I chanted the entirety of this Haftarah at my Bar Mitzvah. The following year, no one was game enough to chant all fifty-something verses, so I had to do it again (though I opted to embrace my mother’s Sepharadic heritage and chant only the song). So here I am, some 16 years later, encountering this text again.

16 years ago, I wrote a bar mitzvah speech that involved raising up the female warrior (thanks to my sister’s editing hand). Today, as I read these words, that idea is not far from my mind, but it is not what draws me to the text. As was the case 15 years ago, I’m going to stick to my Sepharadic roots and focus on the song.

The story of Deborah fits into the narrative cycle of the Book of Judges where the Israelites move from years of peace and calm to times of war and worshipping other gods. After a victory led by Deborah and Barak, the Israelites sing (in verse 5:2):

בִּפְרֹעַ פְּרָעוֹת בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל, בְּהִתְנַדֵּב עָם, בָּרְכוּ יי

First, let's recognize that there are three distinct phrases in this verse.

1) בִּפְרֹעַ פְּרָעוֹת בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל
2) בְּהִתְנַדֵּב עָם
3) בָּרְכוּ יי

This verse is a tricky one, in part because of the meaning of the second word, which seems to appear only once in the Bible, in this verse.[1] What does it mean? It means a lot of things…well, there are two ideas of what it means.

Plaut and Fishbane translate the first phrase as some derivation of when hair goes uncut. Both tell us that the first part of the verse is meant to be an expression of devotion in the Nazarite mode and an allusion to Bamidbar chapter 6 and the description of the Nazirite. This seems to be putting the first and second parts of the verse on the same level. Devotion to God and giving willingly, presumably in devotion to God, are ways of praising God. A point for the school of parallel imagery.

Brettler and Berlin, however, point to the Rashi as preferable. Rashi understands the first statement of the verse בִּפְרֹעַ פְּרָעוֹת to mean disturbance or disaster in Israel. He comments that this refers to a time when the people had forsaken God. Score one for parallel structure but inverse imagery.

The second part of the verse refers to a time when people give of themselves willingly. The modern Hebrew for volunteer can be seen in the word בְּהִתְנַדֵּב. If we go with Rashi, (and why wouldn’t we?) the poet seems to be telling us that both in the times of trouble and in the times of plenty, we praise Adonai. This tactic, of creating a ‘from this to that’ phrase with opposites is meant to evoke the concept of always. We [should] always praise God, the verse is telling us in this understanding. Though we rejoice in the good times, we also remember God in the bad times.

This week, when I reread this verse, it said this to me: In the times of wild distress, we praise Adonai. By giving of ourselves we praise Adonai. These are two distinct ideas for me this week. And yet they remain linked.

I am struck by certain images coming out of Haiti. People who lost the little that they had continued to praise God. They sang songs of praise to God amidst the rubble of their homes, their families and their country. Through it all, they praised God with hymns and songs of Joy. What better thing to do, perhaps. Though I understand the concept of lament, I envy those who can forego it and focus on praise amid the tragedy.

I am struck also by other images coming out of Haiti, and Hollywood. People are volunteering and giving of themselves to help those who have lost everything. The amount of money raised in the first few days and that continues to come in thanks to the telethon on Friday night inspires me and is, for me, an example of where God is present in our actions. When we give of ourselves, even by making a donation, we are expressing the best part of ourselves and the Godly potential that I feel is within each of us. This is true praise.

What I found to be the most compelling aspect of the fundraising efforts, however, was their anonymity. A text message, a phone call, an internet donation – all of these come from the individual with no expectation that anyone else know about it nor any expectation that the supplies that the donation bought will have the donor’s name on them. Rambam teaches that this is the second highest level of Tzedakah, when the donor and the recipient don’t know each other and don’t look for recognition. At this time, this is the best we can do, and it’s more than just good, it’s great. (That highest level is awfully tricky in situations like this.)

There is yet another way to understand our verse. When we are challenged by the images of destruction and devastation, in the times of wild distress, we can and must give of ourselves freely. That is a way to praise Adonai. If this verse teaches us anything it should be the impetus to fix the distress we see in the world. It also teaches us the divine nature of that impetus.

[1] Who doesn’t love a hapax legomenon?

Navigating Conflict (Bava Batra 153a)

I've always liked the quote by Thomas Mann: "Everything is politics." The more I understand what it means to be a Rabbi (or a human) the more I understand that politics pervades every aspect of life. Thursday's Daf shows just how important the Rabbis considered the political game.

The Talmud present two stories that give us models for political decision making. These images are found back to back, however, one of them is smart and careful (and in a way courageous) while the other is cruel and cowardly.

In the first account we learn that a certain person has a question about his will. The man had been sick and was ready to give away him money. However, his prayers were answered and he got better. Normally, if one is fatally ill and he gets better, he is allowed to take back his deathbed words ("When I thought I was going to die I said you could have my Radio but now that I'm better I don't want to live without my z100.") For more on this see a previous blog post.

Unfortunately for the man he used an ambiguous phrase in his will (I'll give you my money in "life and in death"). Trying to make sense of these words the Rabbis ask the question: does this phrase show that the man really thought he was going to die? If the answer is yes, he can take his possessions back. If no, then he out of luck.  Rav Nachman felt that the man deserved the money. He believed that the phrase showed that it was a legitimate gift from a man who though he was legitimately going to die.  However, Rav Nachman lived in the town of a famous Rabbi (Shmuel) who felt that the phrase meant that the man deserved nothing. So what did Rav Nachman do?

He played the political game. He knew that living in the great Shmuel's town he couldn't rule against him. So instead, he did what any good rabbi / doctor / lawyer would do--he referred the case. He told the man to visit a judge in a nearby city who would let the man take back the money. In essence he played the political game, knowing where his boundaries were and sticking to them. In essence, Rav Nachman figured out a way for everyone to win. He retained his integrity, the man got the money, and Shmuel was not undermined.

The second account differs greatly. Here a women approaches Rava with the same concern. She was also sick. She also gave away her money via a will. Her will also has this strange phrase and she wants to know whether she can ask for the money back now that she is healthy. Rava however rules with Shmuel. He doesn't think she can get the money back. After badgering him for some time, Rava can't take it anymore. He commissions a scribe to write her a document that says that she can get the money back but asks him to include a cryptic phrase at the end to signal to any judge who might read it that the document is invalid. In essence, it's the Talmudic equivalent including the words "Psych!" at the end of the document.

After the women tries to claim her money and realizes Rava's trick she curses him saying, "let Rava's ship sink" (Ironically, Rava's triggers a catastrophic flooding of the Tigris River). Here Rava does not play the political game well. I love Rava but here he is a coward. He does not stand up to the women, nor does he adequately explain why he cannot help her. He comes off as a scheming "yes man," too proud to help her, but to afraid to teach her his legal reasoning.

As we are faced with political conundrums we can choose who to be. We can try to emulate Rav Nachman, who stands up for what he believes, working within the political system with an eye toward doing what he believes is right or Rava who is too afraid of conflict to stand his ground.

Did I really say that?

In an expansion of yesterday's Daf (Bava Batra 151) we read today (Bava Batra 152) that when someone is on their deathbed and they can give away whatever property they desire without a formal act of acquisition (kinyan). Check out yesterday's posting for an explanation of the term kinyan.  

However, if the person changes their mind they can retract their statement without a penalty.For example if David has cancer he can give all his property to his Lyle without question. Then if he reconsiders, he can give it to Jennifer and Lyle will get nothing. Today's daf questions what happens if we throw a contract or a formal kinyan into the mix. Rav says Lyle gets the money and Shmuel says it goes to Jennifer. As it turns out the we read in the Shulkan Aruch (Choshen Mishpat 250:13) that Jennifer gets the money.

Nevertheless, the ethic here doesn't lie in who wins the battle (although I was personally rooting for Lyle) but that David has the ability to change his mind. Yesterday we learned that we are commanded to believe and follow an ill person's wishes at all costs. Today we are reminded that often death is a confusing time. Medications, stress, fear, and doubts all cloud the mind and complicate our thoughts.

If our Daf teaches us anything, it is to remember that we should take seriously the wishes of those who are ill until they ask us not to. Then we should do what we can to give them a clean slate, not to chide them for sleepy comments, fearful derisions, and panicked pleas. The best gift we can give someone who is ill is unconditional acceptance, both of their words and of their right to retract them.

Believing a Sick Person's Wishes

On today's Daf (Bava Batra 151) we read that Rav Amram Chasida's mother was terminally ill and looking to give a bundle of documents away. Laying on her bed she declared that the bundle should go to Rav Amram. When his brothers heard this they got upset. This bundle was filled with loan documents (IOUs) and if collected, these documents would yield a great sum for Amram.

Normally, any time a person wants to sell or give an item to another person the recipient must formally accept this item. There are about a half dozen ways to do this (called kinyanim). In the case of a tennis ball one can acquire it by picking it up, pulling it near, bouncing it, taking it from the other person (with their permission), or writing a contract that says that he owns the ball.

However, in the case of a sick person on their death bed, they don't need to do any of those things. The Talmud explains:

דברי שכיב מרע ככתובין ובמסורין דמי

The words of a seriously ill person is just as good as any act of acquisition (in this case writing a contact or handing the item over).

Therefore, the brothers did not have a leg to stand on. Amram got to keep the documents because his mother's words stood. She was terminal and we were to act on her words no matter what.

This is a powerful idea. The Rabbis took away all the red tape of "proper" modes of acquisition (kinyanim) because they knew it would cause distress to the sick person if they had to wait until contracts were written or acts were performed before giving away property. For them, easing the last moments of a person's life was paramount.

The power in this teaching, however, comes if we divorce it from its monitory context. In doing so we get a wonderful teaching about our obligations to the sick. Those who are terminally ill need closure. Yes, many need to give away property and settle life insurance. But many more want to thank, apologize, and confess. The concept that we need to make these acts easy for our sick loved ones and that we must take their words at face value, without asking for proof is important. What a gift if we accept a distant father's apology or an aloof mother's love without question and without delay!

Thinking outside the box...Or throwing it out?

There's a funny story in yesterday's Daf (Bava Batra 149a). 

Issur the convert deposits 12,000 zuzim with Rava. This is a huge sum of money (remember that on Passover we sing about buying a kid for 2 zuzim). Now Issur is on his deathbed and he's looking to give his money away to his son Rav Mari. Unfortunately, there's a Rabbinic loophole that will keep Rav Mari out of his inheritance. 

Here's the problem.  When someone converts it's like they are born again. Legally, any family that they once had are no longer their family. When Issur fathered Rav Mari he was in an intermarriage. Because his mother was Jewish Rav Mari was a Jew. However, when his father decided later to convert to Judaism his former family disappeared. Even though he raised Rav Mari, he was not legally his son.

Now I usually love Rava (and so do the commentators; they make all kinds of excuses for why what he is about to do is ok) but he really messed up this one. Rava knew that if someone dies without heirs, whoever has their money in their possession would keep it. Rava had the 12,000 zuzim so he did what he needed to make sure it would stay in his position until Issur died. 

In the meantime, the only way that Rav Mari can acquire his father's money is if Issur can formally hand over the money to his son. 

A sidenote: the Rabbi's love boundaries. When is a person married, divorced, when does Shabbat start? Money is no different. The Rabbis go on for pages about when the ownership of a coin, house, land, slave, or marble is officially transfered the other party. 

So Issur tries everything. He can't give the money over as inheritance because after the conversion Rav Mari is no longer related to him. He can't give it to him as a gift because the Rabbi decided that only those people who could pass their possessions through inheritance could do so through gifts. In other words, if you don't have any living relatives you can't give a deathbed gift.

He can't pass it down through an act called meshichah (pulling it close) because Rava had the money, nor though chalifin (where we exchange a handkerchief as a placeholder for the merchandise) because coins are not effected by this mode of transfer (Bava Metziah 46a). He couldn't give his son land and then add a clause in the contract saying that his son could get the money because he had no land. Finally he couldn't bring all three parties together (himself, his son, and Rava) and orally give Rav Mari the money because Rava would never come. 

So what does he do? He lies and says that the coins were actually his son's all along. Rava gets really angry and this lie becomes the basis for an important law: why its ok for someone to acquire something just because a sick person says its his.

So what's so special about this odd story? 

Because for the liberal Jews there are many problems that seem insurmountable. How do we stay loyal to tradition but embrace the GLBT community, assure that no woman is trapped in her marriage because she can't get a Jewish divorce document called a get (she is called an aggunah) and how to fully embrace the intermarried family. Maybe this story can serve as a precedent. Sometimes all we can do is lie, close our eyes to the reality of the text and Jewish law, and change the course of tradition for the better. 

Thoughts?

A new frontier

For a year now, I've been studying a page of Talmud a day (Daf Yomi). I love the resources that are available on the internet. The Daf Yomi Advancement Forum, the OU, Daf Digest are all wonderful sites. However, as a rabbinical student at Hebrew Union College they don't always speak to me. Of course there are gems buried in the text, but what about the everyday legal arguments? Where does knowing that if I have coins in my mouth when I go into a mikvah (a ritual bath) they will make me impure the minute I leave the water fit into my life? What about knowing how far away from fecal matter one must stand in order to pray?

This blog is an experiment. How can I make Daf Yomi (and intense Talmud study) relevant for the liberal minded Jew?

Let's see...