Tag Archives: Geonim

Origins & Development of Niddah Restrictions

This week’s parasha, Metzora, introduces us to the laws of menstrual purity, or niddah. Over the centuries, these laws expanded considerably and became so complex that they required a whole tractate in the Mishnah and Talmud, followed by many more halakhic texts. In the Torah, however, the law is quite simple and straightforward:

When a woman has a flow, her flow being blood from her body, she shall remain in her menstrual separation seven days; whoever touches her shall be impure until evening. Anything that she lies on during her menstrual separation shall be impure; and anything that she sits on shall be impure. Anyone who touches her bedding shall wash their clothes, bathe in water, and remain impure until evening… (Leviticus 15:19-21)

Once a woman’s period starts, she becomes ritually impure for a seven-day period. Things she touches become impure as well, and anyone who touches those things will contract the impurity. This was really only relevant during Temple times, and mattered particularly for those who wanted to go to the Temple. Therefore, since the destruction of the Temple, we are not concerned with contracting impurity by touching the bedding or others items that a niddah touched. That said, there is still a halakhic prohibition for a man to touch his wife while she is niddah, not because of the concern of contracting impurity, but because of the concern that it will lead to more intimate contact.

The Torah says that the total period of impurity is seven days. At the conclusion of seven days, the woman needs to immerse, and then she is permitted to her husband. (The Torah does not explicitly say that a woman has to immerse after her period is over, but since it says that anyone that touches her or her bedding needs to immerse, we derive from this that the woman herself needs to immerse as well. Yehudai Gaon, in the late 8th century, wrote it succinctly in his responsa that the tevilah immersion requirement is a kal v’homer, an a fortiori derivation, from one that touches a niddah, קל וחומר ממגעה).

So, according to the Torah, for a regular period the total time of husband-wife separation is seven days, counting from the start of the period. Scientifically, the average length of a woman’s period is 5.2 days, so by day 7 the period is over in the vast majority of cases, and the woman can be purified. What happens if the period runs longer than 7 days? Or what if there is unexpected bleeding at a time when a period is not imminent? The Torah continues:

When a woman has a flow of blood for many days, not at the time of her menstrual separation, or when she has a discharge beyond her period of menstrual separation, she shall be impure, as though at the time of her menstrual separation, as long as her discharge lasts… When she becomes purified of her discharge, she shall count off seven days, and after that she shall be pure. (Leviticus 15:25-28)

In this case, the requirement is to wait until the bleeding stops, and then count seven “clean” days. This is not a regular case of menstrual niddah (also called davah in the Torah), but rather a case of zavah, an irregular flow of blood. At some point in history, a switch was made where every case of a regular period was treated as a zavah, and henceforth a woman has to wait for her period to end, and only then start the count of seven clean days. When, and why, did this happen?

The Mystery of a Halakhic Leap

Mustard seeds

Neither the Torah (the Written Law) nor the Mishnah (the Oral Law) says anything about waiting an additional week for a regular period. So when did this leap occur? The standard answer is that it occurred in the Talmudic era (roughly 200-500 CE). The Talmud (Niddah 66a) famously quotes Rabbi Zeira saying that “Jewish women were stringent with themselves to the extent that even if they see a drop of blood the size of a mustard seed, they sit seven clean days for it.” Presumably this is the justification for waiting seven more clean days after a period. However, this statement is taken entirely out of context!

What’s actually going on is that the Talmud here is discussing various strange cases of irregular bleeding, zavah, not cases of regular periods. We are then told that Rabbi Yehuda haNasi (compiler of the Mishnah) made a decree for those Jews living in rural areas who did not have much Torah wisdom or access to a qualified rabbi. For those Jews “in the fields”, if a woman saw irregular bleeding for one day, she should wait six more “clean” days before being intimate again. If she saw bleeding for two days, she should also wait six more clean days. And if she saw blood for three straight days, then she should essentially be considered a zavah and wait the full seven clean days.

Immediately after this we are told by Rabbi Zeira that Jewish women took upon themselves to wait the full seven clean days even for a mustard seed of a blood. In context, the conversation is clearly referring to irregular and unexpected bleeding, not to regular menstruation. Shortly after on the same page of Talmud, Rav Pappa cites Rabbi Zeira’s dictum, but Rava (who lived c. 280-352 CE) objects and says “I speak to you of a prohibition, and you speak to me of a custom?! Where the Jewish women were stringent, they were stringent; where they were not stringent, they were not stringent!” Rava confirms that this was actually not a universal custom.

Elsewhere (Berakhot 31a), the Talmud states that Rabbi Zeira’s position eventually did become the “conclusive halakhah” everywhere, not to be disputed. Yet, that discussion was clearly about cases of irregular bleeding, not regular menstruation. For any unexpected and irregular bleeding, even if it was just a mustard seed, or just for a day, the halakhah was to wait an extra seven clean days just in case. This is pretty reasonable and makes sense. Presumably, it wouldn’t happen too often anyway. It had nothing to do with regular, expected menstruation.

In fact, we are also told that Rabbi Ishmael had asked Rabbi Yehuda haNasi (the same one who made the “decree in the fields”) to take upon himself three additional stringencies (Pesachim 112b). One of them was to wait an extra night after his wife goes to the mikveh before being intimate. And Rav confirms here that this is referring to niddah d’oraita, to the total seven days from the start of a period, as the Torah commands. Meaning, in the times of Rabbi Yehuda haNasi women undoubtedly still kept one week total from the start of the period, and there was no extra seven clean days for regular menstruation. Rabbi Yehuda haNasi took upon himself an added stringency of waiting an extra day, ie. eight days total. So when did waiting seven clean days for a regular period really emerge?

By the time of the Rishonim (c. 1000-1500 CE), everyone seems to understand that Rabbi Zeira’s position includes regular periods, too. Rashi says it (on Berakhot 31a, for instance) and Rambam, too (multiple times, including Hilkhot Issurei Biah 11:4). It’s not clear how that leap occurred. At some point between the Talmud and the Rishonim, the understanding of Rabbi Zeira’s dictum changed. But was it really universal for the “daughters of Israel” to keep seven clean days for periods? That was certainly not the case in Talmudic times (as we saw above), and the historical record suggests that it wasn’t even the case in the times of the Rishonim. In fact, we can prove it from the Rambam himself, based on a surprising edict he decreed in 1176 CE.

The Rambam Decree

In the 12th century, Egypt was home to probably the largest Jewish population in the world. A strong and relatively tolerant government made it a generally good place to live for Jews. The Rambam (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1138-1204) himself found refuge there, after first fleeing Cordoba in Spain, then fleeing Fez in Morocco, and failing to settle in Israel. Did the Jewish women of Egypt at the time keep seven clean days? Not at all. And we know this because the Rambam actually gathered nine other big rabbis in Egypt and composed a decree that they all signed. We have the full text of the decree available to us today. Amazingly, one original copy was even found in the Cairo Genizah.

The decree chastises Jewish women for not keeping the seven clean days, and for also not immersing properly in a mikveh. Instead, most women at the time waited seven days from the start of the period (like the Torah says) and then did a washing called sakb, where they sat in a bath and water was poured over them by a woman who was pure. In an attempt to eliminate this practice, and compel women to keep seven extra clean days after their period, the Rambam ruled that any woman who does not follow the rabbinic stringencies forfeits her ketubah.

… Every Jewish woman who does not immerse in mikveh water after counting seven clean days according to the laws of the daughters of Israel, or who performs the aforementioned sakb—this woman may be divorced without a dower [ketubah] and retains no (right) either to a dower or to any marriage contract [ketubah] stipulations…

The Rambam and his colleagues didn’t stop there. They had to force the men to comply, too, so they decreed:

Likewise, we resolved that any man proven to have had intercourse with his wife while [violating] one of these three sins, and knew that (this was the case) and remained silent, and did not state this in court until the time of divorce—the court should excommunicate this man, humiliate him, expel him from the congregation, and fine him, according to the court’s capacity to deal with this man, and as the judge sees fit and as the times permit.

What do we learn from this? That even as late as the 12th century, in the largest Jewish community in the world, the vast majority of women did not wait seven clean days after their periods. The stringency had to be enforced by rabbinic decree, with strict and harsh penalties for anyone who resisted. In the Talmudic era, no such stringency existed—the Talmud was clearly referring to waiting seven clean days for irregular bleeding in potential cases of zavah, not for regular periods. By the time of the Rishonim, the switch was made to include all cases of bleeding, and henceforth was imposed by the rabbis. The Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270) confirms this, writing “that stringency that the daughters of Israel initiated was approved by the Sages so they made it the halakhah in all places, and therefore it is forbidden for a person to ever be lenient with it.” (Hilkhot Niddah 1:19)

Looking for Answers

Is there any way to explain the great halakhic niddah leap? One suggestion, as proposed by Shai Secunda in his The Iranian Talmud and The Talmud’s Red Fence, is that it came out of “religious competition” with neighbouring Zoroastrians in the Persian Empire. Recall that the Talmud was composed in the Persian Empire, and the Savoraim and early Geonim who compiled, finalized, and published the Talmud all lived under Persian-Zoroastrian authority. The Zoroastrians were also very strict with niddah laws, so it could well be that their stringencies rubbed off on Jewish communities and on Jewish practice. In fact, we are even told in the Talmud (Niddah 20b) that the Zoroastrian queen Ifra Hormiz tested Rava for his knowledge and expertise on menstrual blood. (For lots more on this, see the third installment of the Judaism vs. Zoroastrianism class, that focused on the development of niddah laws in the Zoroastrian context.) Moreover, the Zoroastrian Old Persian word for niddah, dastana or dashtana, appears multiple times in the Talmud (such as in Avodah Zarah 18a). It’s quite possible that Jews and Zoroastrians took on ever-stricter niddah stringencies in a case of religious oneupmanship, to outdo one another in holiness.

Another possibility is that it emerged simply out of confusion and lack of education. The time period between the Talmud and the Rishonim (roughly 500-1000 CE) is referred to by historians as the “Dark Ages”. In comparison to the eras before and after, there was relatively little science and progress going on at the time, with widespread illiteracy and ignorance. War, poverty, disease, and catastrophes of every kind were rampant. Shockingly, the year 536 CE saw the eruption of a massive volcano (some say several volcanoes) that blacked out much of the sky across the Northern Hemisphere, causing “volcanic winters”, plunging temperatures, low sunlight, and massive crop failures. We have abundant evidence of terrible famines from Western Europe all the way to Eastern China. Some historians have described 536 as the “worst year in human history”. The effects reverberated for many decades. One of the negative effects was that scholarship and education was at a bare minimum. Of course, the Jewish world was just as affected as the rest of the world. Indeed, we find during this time practically no major Jewish scholarship, and few great works emerging.

Timeline of rabbinic eras from 200 BCE to the present.

Think about it: we know a great deal about Jews and rabbis in the Talmudic period (and have thousands of pages and volumes of Talmud and Midrash from this era), and we know a tremendous amount about Jews and rabbis in the era of Rishonim, with so many great sefarim, halakhic codes, mystical texts, and other brilliant works. But what about the period 500-1000 CE? We know hardly anything about it, and have few texts from this era, save for some Geonic responsa and a handful of others. Today, the typical religious Jew has definitely studied Mishnah, Talmud, and Midrash (from the pre-500 CE era) and can list dozens of rabbi names from this time period; and the typical religious Jew has definitely studied Rashi, Tosfot, and Rambam (from the post-1000 CE era) and can name dozens more rabbis from this time period. But how many have studied something from between 500-1000 CE? How many can describe the life of a great rabbi from this time period? (Maybe one, like Saadia Gaon.) How many can even name a famous sefer from this period? How many can name a single one of the Savoraim? If the Talmud was completed around 500 CE, why did it take over five centuries for someone (Rashi) to write a complete commentary on it? Why did it take nearly seven centuries for someone (Rambam) to codify it?

Rabbinic Jewish history clearly had a “Dark Age” as well. There is a gap of several centuries of great scholarship, and the recovery appears to only start in the 800s. (Interestingly, the Rambam credits Saadia Gaon, who lived in the 9th century, with saving Judaism at a time when it hit a particularly low nadir.) It’s probably also in this Dark Age when authentic semikhah ordination was lost, when tekhelet dye stopped being used on tzitzit, and likely many other things forgotten. I believe it’s possible that one of the things that was forgotten or confused were niddah laws, particularly the understanding to distinguish between zavah and a regular niddah.* Perhaps it was during this time that rabbis started to “play it safe” or just make it simpler by demanding seven clean days for any case of blood, regular or irregular, expected or unexpected.** (The widespread malnutrition and famine in the 6th century might have played a role, too, since we know that malnutrition and irregular periods are strongly linked.) The rabbis of that time could justify the expanded prohibition retroactively based on Rabbi Zeira’s old dictum. By the time of the Rishonim, that became the accepted halakhah. Unfortunately, this raises major issues and difficulties.

A Host of Issues

One of the infamous problems that emerges from an extra seven days is “halakhic infertility”. For most women, ovulation begins one week after menstruation ends. For some women, however, ovulation comes early. By the time “mikveh night” comes around it is too late, and the woman is unable to get pregnant. Some women end up going months struggling with infertility and thinking there is something wrong with them, when it is really just a biological quirk of time. If they figure it out (hopefully), they then need to seek a heter from a rabbi to give them permission to immerse earlier. (It’s hard to miss the painful irony of a woman needing a man’s permission to go around a stringency that women allegedly took upon themselves!) Most rabbis are sympathetic, some are not. Things can get particularly complicated in the Ultra-Orthodox world, and women have shared terrible stories of being told nothing can be done, or to try IVF, or to go on pills or hormones to change their cycle.

Note how estrogen (and testosterone) levels peak right before ovulation. Progesterone levels rise after ovulation to prevent another egg from being released. This is why synthetic progesterone is used for birth control or to delay or stop the cycle.

Meanwhile, women who have already fulfilled the mitzvah of reproduction might choose to go on pills or get hormonal IUDs to eliminate their menstrual cycle entirely. There are many women out there who simply don’t want to deal with niddah laws and restrictions at all (understandably), and resort to modern technology to absolve themselves. This leads to a whole new host of issues, including side-effects from the hormones (lower libido, bodily changes and imbalances, weight gain, headaches, to name a few), possible increased risks of illnesses (blood clots and cardiovascular disease, cancer, chas v’shalom), and the spiritual loss of not fulfilling the Torah’s mitzvahs. In an attempt to avoid rabbinic stringencies, women choose to forgo the Torah itself.

For the many women that the above does not apply to, other issues emerge. One is a lack of desire. Biologically, it is after menstruation that estrogen and testosterone levels rise in a woman’s body, peaking at ovulation and then rapidly declining. This can result in more desire during the seven clean days when intimacy is forbidden, and much less when intimacy is permitted. For men, too, there could be a big challenge, having to go nearly two weeks without contact. (While it might sound excessive, the Talmud does state in Ketubot 61b that for a regular free man, daily cohabitation is normal, and for a hard labourer, twice a week is normal. Torah scholars, meanwhile, should limit to once a week, preferably on Shabbat.) It’s not uncommon for men to succumb to temptations during the period of niddah separation, and then commit much worse sins. Again, trying to keep rabbinic stringencies could well lead to violation of actual Torah laws that Hashem commanded. Besides intercourse, the prohibition of any contact at all for an extra week—including a comforting hug after a bad day, or a playful peck on the cheek, or even just passing an object directly to one another; not to mention sleeping in separate beds or separate rooms—makes things all the more difficult, and can put major strain on a marriage.

When we go back to the Torah, Hashem only commanded seven days of separation total for a regular period, which makes perfect sense biologically. He created us and knows what’s best for us. Rabbi Meir adds (Niddah 31b) that the one week of separation is the ideal amount of time for rekindling the passion between husband and wife (אָמְרָה תּוֹרָה: ״תְּהֵא טְמֵאָה שִׁבְעָה יָמִים״, כְּדֵי שֶׁתְּהֵא חֲבִיבָה עַל בַּעְלָהּ כִּשְׁעַת כְּנִיסָתָהּ לַחוּפָּה). What we have before us is not a case of just adding a “fence”, what we have is totally changing how a God-given Torah mitzvah is practiced and fulfilled. And it’s not even based on anything concrete in the Mishnah or Talmud! The consequences of this are troubling and unfortunate. These are all extremely important matters to think about and discuss. The topic is sensitive, yes, and for that reason many avoid it entirely. But that should be all the more reason to have these important conversations, both with spouses and rabbis.

It is worth concluding with Midrash Tehilim on Psalm 146:7, which says that Hashem is matir asurim, “freeing the bound” or “imprisoned” but also, literally, “permitting the forbidden”. The Midrash explains that “There is no greater prohibition than the niddah, when a woman sees blood and God forbids her to her husband. And in the future, He will permit it.” (ומהו מתיר אסורים אין איסור גדול מן הנדה שהאשה רואה דם ואסרה הקב”ה לבעלה. ולעתיד לבוא הוא מתירה.) The Midrash goes on to say that surely not all laws of niddah will be suspended, and that actual cohabitation with a woman on her period will still be forbidden, as the eternal Torah says. Rather, then, in the soon forthcoming time of Mashiach, all of the niddah stringencies and extras will be lifted, and we will go back to a purer observance of the mitzvah, as Hashem commanded in the Torah.

For further discussion of the development of niddah laws (including the connection to the Garden of Eden, and to the case of Sarah and Abraham), see the following class: 

*A regular niddah is called a davah in the Torah (as at the start of parashat Tazria, Leviticus 12:2). The irregular case is called a zavah. I wonder if some of the confusion was linguistic. After all, Aramaic words typically replace the letter zayin in Hebrew words for a dalet. For example, the Hebrew mizbeach (מזבח) is Aramaic midbacha (מדבחא), while Hebrew zakhar (זכר) is Aramaic dakhar (דכר). Following the same rule, the Hebrew zavah (זבה) would be the Aramaic davah (דבה)! Does this have something to do with the confusion of a regular niddah, ie. a davah, with the irregular zavah?

**Another confusion that solidified by the time of the Rishonim is the length of a niddah cycle. Rashi (on Berakhot 31a), Rambam (Issurei Biah, Ch. 6), and others describe that there are “11 days between one niddah and another”. That would imply a menstrual cycle of no more than 18 days, which is impossible, and at no point in human history was this the case biologically. Rabbis and scholars have puzzled over this for centuries, and tried to make sense of it. It is based on the Talmudic dictum that the 11 days following menstruation are days when bleeding would make a woman zavah. This statement is repeated countless times throughout tractate Niddah, but what it originally meant is not exactly clear. It probably only meant that unexpected bleeding during the eleven-day window following menstruation makes a woman zavah, but bleeding after this eleven-day period would not. Bleeding that followed the zavah window, but came before the next period, would be a different case altogether. It seems that by the time of the Rishonim, the gap was shortened and it was assumed that a cycle is 18 days, with the Rambam, for instance, saying that a woman is always vacillating between seven and eleven, seven and eleven, and that “such is a woman’s life: seven days of niddah and eleven days of zivah, etc.”

Mysteries of Shemini Atzeret & Simchat Torah

Tonight we usher in Shemini Atzeret, the final “eighth” day following Sukkot, which is technically a distinct holiday of its own. In the diaspora—where we keep two days of yom tov—the second day of Shemini Atzeret is Simchat Torah, when we start a new Torah reading cycle with a big celebration. In Israel—where one yom tov is observed—Simchat Torah and Shemini Atzeret are on the same day. The Torah does not actually say what the purpose of Shemini Atzeret is, and why it is distinct from Sukkot. Simchat Torah is not mentioned in the Torah at all! What is the real meaning behind these mysterious festivals?

‘The Feast of the Rejoicing of the Law at the Synagogue in Livorno’ by Solomon Hart (1850)

The Torah itself only tells us that we should have one extra holiday after Sukkot, a yom tov in which we should not do any work and in which we should bring offerings to Hashem (Leviticus 23:36, 39). Commenting on this, Rashi famously cites our Sages and quotes God saying “‘I keep you back with Me [atzarti] one more day’—like a king who invited his children to a banquet for a certain number of days. When the time arrived for them to leave, he said, ‘Children, I beg you, please stay one more day with me; it is so hard for me to part from you!’” The Zohar adds to this a beautiful explanation:

As discussed in the recent class here, Sukkot is a holiday envisioning the future, not commemorating the past. The prophet Zechariah tells us (in chapter 14) that in the forthcoming Messianic age, all the nations of the world will come to Jerusalem to celebrate Sukkot with us. Sukkot will become an international festival! And so, the Zohar says, once all the nations of the world leave following seven days of Sukkot in Jerusalem, only the Jewish people will remain for one more day of celebration just for us—Shemini Atzeret. That’s why the Torah says atzeret tihyeh lakhem, “it shall be an atzeret for you” (Numbers 29:35), meaning specifically for the people of Israel and not the other nations of the world who will come to celebrate Sukkot! (See Zohar I, 64a)

But why is this particular date special? What happened in history on Shemini Atzeret to make it a holiday to begin with?

Secrets from Jubilees

The ancient (apocryphal) Book of Jubilees provides an incredible origin to Shemini Atzeret. Recall that Jubilees was excluded from the Tanakh by most Jewish communities (although it was included in the Ethiopian Tanakh and in the ancient Essene Tanakh, and many copies have been found among the Dead Sea Scrolls). Nonetheless, it was always studied and referenced throughout history, and many parallel passages are found in our Midrashim (for more on this, see here).

The setup for Shemini Atzeret begins in Chapter 31 of Jubilees, where we read how Jacob destroyed all the idols in his household (paralleling Genesis 35:2). Jubilees says that it was here that Rachel told her husband about the teraphim she took from Lavan, and handed them over to Jacob to be destroyed. Jacob then finally goes to visit his parents after decades away from them. Instead of taking his entire big family on the journey, he decides to bring only his sons Levi and Judah. Isaac and Rebecca give these two grandsons special blessings, and Isaac gives Levi a blessing to be priestly and Judah to be royal. This is Jubilees’ explanation for why later in history the tribe of Levi would become priests and the tribe of Judah would give rise to the line of kings. It also explains why these are the two tribes that survived throughout history, to this day, while the other tribal lineages have been lost.

In Chapter 32, Jacob fulfils his promise to tithe everything he has to Hashem—and that includes his children! So he lines them all up and counts from the youngest up, the tenth being Levi. Thus, Levi is chosen to be the “tithe”, and to dedicate his life to Hashem. Levi has a dream where God confirms that he will be the family priest. He then builds an altar and begins his work of sacrificial offerings. The family has a seven-day celebration, going out into the fields and dwelling in booths. According to Jubilees, this is the original Sukkot!

On the eighth day, after the seven-day Sukkot is over, Hashem appears to Jacob again. This is where He affirms that “You shall be called Jacob no more, but Israel shall be your name” (Genesis 35:10). The following verses in the Torah tell us that God blesses Jacob to be fruitful, and promises to Jacob the Holy Land, and tells him that nations and kings will emerge from him. This special day is Shemini Atzeret! Fittingly, Jubilees adds that God then reveals to Jacob all the things that will happen in the End of Days, engraved upon seven tablets. Again, we see the link between Sukkot-Shemini Atzeret and the End of Days, the holiday being more about envisioning the future then commemorating the past.

In this way, Jubilees shows how Jacob celebrated Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret long before Sinai, confirming our Sages statement that the Patriarchs observed the whole Torah and marked all the holidays—even though their lives pre-dated Sinai and they did not have a physical Torah in their hands.

What about Simchat Torah? There is no explicit mention of it in Tanakh, and not in Mishnah or Talmud (and not in Jubilees either). This is a much more recent holiday. Where did it come from, and why?

Celebrating the Torah

In olden times, the Torah was typically read over the course of not one year, but three years. (Earlier still, in Biblical times, it was read publicly over the course of seven years—more on that below.) It was in the Persian Empire that the Babylonian sages sped up the cycle to read the whole Torah once a year (see Megillah 29b). Even as late as the Rambam (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1138-1204), he writes in the Mishneh Torah that there were still some minority communities who followed a three-year cycle, although it had become nearly universal to follow a one-year cycle (Hilkhot Tefillah 13:1). The Rambam codifies that the Torah begins anew with parashat Beresheet on the Shabbat following Sukkot. He then states that it was Ezra the Scribe who instituted the yearly cycle. There is no contradiction here, because Ezra came to Israel from Babylon.

Why start with Beresheet in the fall? Why not in Nisan, which is the first month of the Jewish calendar? This goes back to the debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua on when Creation took place (Rosh Hashanah 10b-11a). The former said that Creation took place in Tishrei, while the latter argued it took place in Nisan. Rabbi Eliezer brings multiple proofs for his position, including the fact that the Torah states there had not yet been precipitation and then God “raised a mist” and made it rain before creating Adam (Genesis 2:5-6). So, the creation of Adam is clearly tied to the start of the rainy season, meaning Creation must have been in Tishrei!

Another proof is that the Torah says God created every species in its mature, adult form, including trees already containing fruits on their branches. When do find that trees are full of fruit and ready for harvest? In Tishrei! (Sukkot marks the final fruit harvest of the year.) Thus, it is fitting to read Beresheet in the fall, since the Torah begins with a description of a divine spirit “hovering over the waters”, the separation of upper and lower waters and establishment of the water cycle, the first rains, and trees full of fruit. And by the Rambam’s time, the yearly Torah-reading cycle had become essentially universal. However, the Rambam does not mention Simchat Torah.

Some four hundred years later, the Shulchan Arukh (in Orach Chaim 669) does mention Simchat Torah, but very briefly. The way Rav Yosef Karo (c. 1488-1575) phrases it makes it seem like it’s only outside of Israel—where people have to keep two yom tovs—that the second yom tov is called Simchat Torah. The Ashkenazi gloss of the Rama (Rabbi Moshe Isserles, 1530-1572) adds the details that we are familiar with: to remove all the Torah scrolls from the ark and have a big celebration, with hakafot, song and dance, and aliyot for all. The Rama’s language suggests this was the practice specifically in European lands. He cites the Arba’ah Turim of Rabbi Yakov ben Asher (“Ba’al haTurim”, c. 1269-1343) who explicitly says it was “the custom in Ashkenaz” to hold a big celebration and feast in honour of the completion of the Torah reading cycle and the start of a new one. The Ba’al haTurim was born in Ashkenaz but moved with his family to Spain around the year 1300, and became a rabbi among Sephardim. It could well be that his family of Ashkenazi rabbis introduced Simchat Torah to the Sephardic world. By the time of the great Abarbanel (1437-1508)—who was advisor to the Spanish crown and was given an exemption from the Spanish Expulsion, but famously chose to leave with his people—we see that Simchat Torah was observed in Spain, too, and Abarbanel explains (in his commentary on Deuteronomy 31:9):

It is written that each and every year, the high priest or the prophet or judge or gadol hador would read on Sukkot a portion of Torah, and would conclude reading the books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers over the course of six years, and then in the seventh year (the Sabbatical), the king would read on Sukkot the book of Deuteronomy, and would complete the Torah. Thus, the custom has remained until our days, that on the eighth day festival, Shemini Atzeret, on the last day we have Simchat Torah, on which we complete the Torah…

Rav Yosef Karo himself was born in Spain, and ultimately settled in Tzfat where he was the chief rabbi. His contemporary was the great Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Luria, 1534-1572), who lived out his final years in Tzfat and revolutionized Judaism with his mystical teachings. The Arizal had an Ashkenazi father and a Mizrachi mother, and was raised in Egypt by his uncle, studying under great rabbis like the Radbaz (Rabbi David ben Solomon ibn Zimra, 1479-1573, also born in Spain). The Arizal played a big role in fusing together Sephardic, Mizrachi, and Ashkenazi practices. He revealed various mystical meditations on Simchat Torah, and particularly on the hakafot. And so, from Tzfat, Simchat Torah spread to the Mizrachi world as well, and it soon become universal to hold a big Simchat Torah celebration—with the additional details and practices mentioned by the Ba’al haTurim and Rama that first originated in Ashkenaz.

Celebrating the Tree of Life

We can now clearly piece together the evolution of Simchat Torah. It officially began in Central Europe. The first explicit mention of the term “Simchat Torah” appears to be in the 11th century Machzor Vitry, written by Rav Simcha of Vitry, France, a student of Rashi. Simchat Torah might trace back to an earlier custom among the Geonim to have a big celebration upon completion of the Torah-reading cycle. The Rambam, who came from a long line of Sephardic rabbis, does not mention Simchat Torah in the 12th century, but the Sephardi gadol Abarbanel does speak of it in the 15th century, meaning it was adopted among Sephardim at some point in those intervening three centuries. It may have been due to the Ba’al haTurim’s family who immigrated from Ashkenaz to Sepharad around the end of the 13th century.

At the same time, in 1290 CE, came the first publication of the Zohar, in Spain. The Zohar (III, 97a) does mention Simchat Torah, calling it by its Aramaic name Hedvata d’Oraita (which is likely what it would have originally been called among the Babylonian Geonim). The Zohar gives a beautiful explanation as to why we celebrate with the Torah specifically on Shemini Atzeret. As noted above, Shemini Atzeret is the festival that is only for Israel, once all the nations of the world leave after Sukkot, and once the seventy bulls offered on behalf of the seventy nations was complete. Now, only Israel remains, delighting with Hashem once last time before going off to start a new year. And what makes our relationship with Hashem special? What makes us unique compared to the other nations? The Torah! It is our covenant with Hashem, with Torah as contract, and our devotion to its laws and its study. So, Shemini Atzeret is the ideal time to celebrate the Torah, to dance with the Torah, renew our commitment to Torah, and start a new Torah-reading cycle.

We see how, between the Zohar and the Arba’ah Turim, Simchat Torah spread throughout Sepharad; and after the Spanish Expulsion, to North Africa and the Middle East and Mizrachi communities as well. Today it has become a beautiful, universal practice in all Jewish communities, a public display of faith and commitment to Hashem and His Torah. And this ties right back into what the Zohar says about Simchat Torah:

Intriguingly, the Zohar gives it another name, calling it Hedvata d’Ilana, a celebration of the Tree of Life. The simple meaning is that King Solomon called the Torah a “Tree of Life for those who grasp it” (Proverbs 3:18). On Simchat Torah we grasp the Torah quite literally! On a deeper level, connecting Simchat Torah to the Tree of Life is yet another allusion to Creation, and to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. At the start of the year, we have a new opportunity to “choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19), to live a godly life of divine service, a life of blessing, righteousness, kindness, and goodness. It is the opportune time to set resolutions for the new year, so that it should be a fruitful, productive, happy, and blessed year for all.

Chag sameach!

Mourning and Music in the Omer

As we count each day during Sefirat haOmer in the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot, we are conscious of the 24,000 slain students of Rabbi Akiva and observe a period of mourning. It is fitting to think of those victims as we ourselves focus on personal development and self-improvement during this time, in preparation for the Sinai Revelation on Shavuot—which didn’t just take place once some three millennia ago, but happens anew each year. Having said that, it is interesting that we seemingly have so many days of mourning to commemorate the tragedy, yet we don’t have such prolonged mourning for other terrible catastrophes in Jewish history (some of which are arguably much worse). Where did this extended mourning period come from?

If we look in our legal texts, we surprisingly find very little. The Talmud says nothing about mourning in these days. It is brought down that some of the Geonim (c. 600-1000 CE) may have mentioned mourning during this period, and that there was a custom not to hold weddings between Pesach and Shavuot (see, for instance, the collection of Geonic responsa published in 1802 under the title Sha’arei Teshuvah, #278). It is strange then that the Rambam (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1138-1204), who carefully codified the Talmud and the entire corpus of Jewish law up to that point (including the works of the Geonim!) makes no mention of mourning during the Omer in his monumental Mishneh Torah. The Rambam was Sephardic so one might argue that he may have omitted a custom that developed in Ashkenaz first. Yet, the Machzor Vitry, composed by Rashi’s disciple Rabbi Simchah of Vitry (in northern France) in the 11th century, fails to mention anything about mourning during the Omer either! Neither is it mentioned by great Rishonim like the Rif (Rabbi Isaac Alfasi, 1013-1103) or the Rosh (Rabbeinu Asher, c. 1250-1327).

Timeline of Rabbinic history and halakhic eras

Its first notable mention appears to be the Arba’ah Turim of Rabbi Yakov ben Asher (the “Ba’al haTurim”, 1270-1340), son of the Rosh, who was Ashkenazi but lived in Spain. In Orach Chaim 493, he says it is customary not to have weddings during the Omer, though engagements are permitted. He then states that in some places it is also customary not to take haircuts. No mention is made of abstaining from music, avoiding reciting shehecheyanu, or any other mourning rituals. Interestingly, other sources from this time period (like Sefer Asufot) argue that the mourning period arose not because of Rabbi Akiva’s students, but because of the devastation of the Crusades on Ashkenazi communities! Later sources would combine both reasons, and explain that the mourning is both for Rabbi Akiva’s students and for the Crusades.

Massacres of Jewish communities around the time of the First Crusade (1096-1102)

It should be noted that there is an alternate, more mystical reason for mourning (or at least, for avoiding festivities) during the Omer: the Mishnah brings an opinion that the wicked in Gehinnom are judged specifically between Pesach and Shavuot (Eduyot 2:10). In truth, this is only a singular opinion of one Sage, contrasting an earlier statement that judgement in Gehinnom lasts a full 12 months. It is possible to reconcile the two opinions by saying that following a person’s passing, their soul is judged for up to 12 months, and then if the verdict is for the person to remain in Gehinnom, they are subsequently rejudged each year between Pesach and Shavuot. Since we know that the deaths of Rabbi Akiva’s students actually ended on Lag b’Omer and did not extend all the way to Shavuot (hence the mourning stops on Lag b’Omer), we might apply that same rule to the judgement in Gehinnom as well. In this case, we have yet another mystical reason for lighting bonfires on Lag b’Omer, as these would be appropriately symbolic of the “flames” of Gehinnom.

The above somewhat contradicts the notion that judgements take place specifically on Rosh Hashanah. We assume that all souls, both Jewish and non-Jewish, living and deceased, are judged on this day. Interestingly, the Arba’ah Turim (in Orach Chaim 581) explains that Jews customarily shave before Rosh Hashanah because, unlike gentiles, we don’t grow out our beards in fear of judgement! We are certain that God will judge us favourably. This notion presents something of a problem for the idea of not shaving because of the judgement in Gehinnom.

Haircuts and Music

Continuing our journey through halakhic history, the next major law code was the Shulchan Arukh (which was really only a summary of the larger Beit Yosef). Rabbi Yosef Karo (1488-1575) produced it by integrating the Mishneh Torah with the Arba’ah Turim, and the Rif, plus updating it with newer established customs, as well as the occasional Kabbalistic practices. It was meant to be a universal code of law, and something like the authoritative “last word”, satisfying the majority of opinions. In our times, Rav Ovadia Yosef famously argued that the Shulchan Arukh should be the supreme code of Jewish law, especially in the land of Israel where it always held primacy since its publication.

Regarding mourning during the Omer, the Shulchan Arukh again mentions only weddings and haircuts. It explains that, of course, the mourning ends on Lag b’Omer, and doesn’t extend all the way to Shavuot. The Rama (Rabbi Moshe Isserles, c. 1530-1572) adds in his gloss for Ashkenazim that some have the custom to allow haircuts until Rosh Chodesh Iyar, and only start the mourning period after this. That actually makes a great deal of sense, since we consider the entire month of Nisan to be a festive month, and we don’t recite tachanun at all throughout the month. This is stated clearly in Masekhet Sofrim 21:2-3, which also says that fasting in Nisan should be avoided (except for the firstborn before Pesach). For this reason, many religious authorities opposed the Zionists establishing Yom HaShoah—Israel’s Holocaust Memorial Day—in Nisan, because there shouldn’t be a mourning day within the festive month. It is therefore quite ironic that, at the same time, many religious authorities typically encourage mourning practices in the same Nisan days for the Omer!

It must be repeated that our ancient Sages did not actually institute such mourning, and it is a later custom. Rabbi David Bar-Hayim argues that the Sages did not institute mourning during the Omer because they understood we already have enough mourning days on the Jewish calendar, particularly on Tisha b’Av and the three weeks leading up to it. If we add several more weeks of mourning during the Omer, plus all the other fast days and sad days on the Jewish calendar, it can become quite depressing and psychologically unhealthy. Rabbi Bar-Hayim adds that while we may have a minhag to mourn during the Omer, it is certified halakhah to honour Shabbat and appear presentable and regal on the holy day, therefore it is entirely permitted to trim or get a haircut before Shabbat, even during the Omer.

For many today, the biggest question during the Omer is regarding listening to music. None of the ancient sources speak of abstaining from music, all the way up to the Shulchan Arukh, and beyond. So where did it come from? In his commentary on the Shulchan Arukh, the Magen Avraham (Rabbi Avraham Gombiner, c. 1635-1682) adds that dancing at parties during the Omer is forbidden. Based on this, Rabbi Yechiel Michel Epstein (1829–1908) argued in his Arukh haShulchan (first published in 1884) that if dancing is prohibited, then we must extend the prohibition to music as well, since it inevitably leads to dancing. This appears to be the first clear argument anywhere for avoiding music during the Omer. The position has been rejected by others, as there is no direct guaranteed leap from music to dancing. After all, many people listen to music just to relax, or while driving or cleaning, or to motivate themselves to work or exercise, and so on. For these reasons, some only prohibit live music, not recorded music.

Rav Soloveitchik argued that the Omer mourning should have a precedent from other mourning practices, like the shiva, shloshim, or the year-long mourning following the death of a parent. Since the Omer mourning is likened to the latter, the prohibition is only on going to parties or concerts, but not listening to music in private. His contemporaries, Rav Moshe Feinstein and Rav Ovadia Yosef, disagreed on this and prohibited all music during the Omer. (In the case of Rav Ovadia, this is somewhat inconsistent, since he always argued for the primacy of Shulchan Arukh, which makes no mention of abstaining from music! Nonetheless, it seems he was upholding a modern-day stringency, even if it isn’t mentioned in his go-to law code.)

To summarize, there is no doubt that forbidding weddings between Pesach and Lag b’Omer is based on a valid ancient custom that likely goes back as far as the Geonim. (Though some, even today, do permit and hold weddings up through Rosh Chodesh Iyar.) Abstaining from haircuts is a bit more recent, but still has a source going back some 700 years. It should be remembered that many authorities starting from the Rishonim and up to the present allow haircuts and trimming (or even shaving) to stay presentable, especially in honour of Shabbat, or if necessary for work purposes. This is particularly true if a person is accustomed to trimming or shaving daily.

Finally, regarding music, there is no ancient source for the prohibition. While it is true that one should ideally avoid parties and concerts during the Omer, not listening to music in private is a very recent stringency, perhaps just over a century old. For those who simply cannot go so long without music, there is definitely room to permit it. Either way, there is no need to worry about passively hearing background music in the elevator or supermarket, nor any concern for those who make a living working in the music industry. Nor should a person who has a birthday during the Omer feel condemned to never be able to have a festive birthday party in their life! (See also ‘Should Jews Celebrate Birthdays?’) Lastly, we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that, despite the seriousness, the Sefirat haOmer period is simultaneously a time of great joy. The Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270)—who also said nothing about mourning during this time—described the whole period from Pesach to Shavuot as chol hamoed, like the intermediate days of a festival (see his comments on Leviticus 23:36). Sefirat haOmer is indeed a festive, positive, and happy time, especially because we have the opportunity to do a most-precious Torah mitzvah of counting the Omer, while eagerly anticipating a new year of Torah learning ahead starting on Shavuot.

Happy counting! 

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