Tag Archives: Rabbinic Interpretation

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.”

The Little-Known Purpose of Deuteronomy

‘Moses Speaks to Israel’ by Philippoteaux (19th century)

This week we begin reading the fifth and final book of the Torah, Devarim, literally “Words”. This book is distinct from the others, for it is written from the perspective of Moses. It records Moses’ final words to the nation over his last 37 days of leadership. Devarim serves, in many ways, as a summary of the Torah, and is therefore traditionally referred to as Mishneh Torah, a “repetition” of the Torah. In fact, when our ancient Sages first translated the Torah into Greek (at the behest of King Ptolemy), they called the book Deuteronomion, “repeated law”, ie. the Greek translation for Mishneh Torah. Having said that, Deuteronomy introduces a number of new mitzvot previously unmentioned in the Torah, and contains some of the Torah’s most significant passages, including the Shema and Ha’azinu.

The reader will quickly notice that Deuteronomy has a totally different tone from the rest of the Torah. Its language is far more similar, not to the books of Torah that precede it, but to the books of Tanakh that follow it: Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings. (Secular scholars actually combine these books and label them the “Deuteronomistic history”.) Thus, the fifth book of the Torah plays a critical function: it concludes the Five Books of Moses while simultaneously introducing and segueing into the rest of the Tanakh. One who reads the conclusion of Deuteronomy and immediately starts Joshua will hardly notice that they’ve changed books. For instance, the former ends with Moses telling Joshua to be chazak v’ematz, “strong and brave” (Deuteronomy 31:7, 23), while the latter picks up with the same exact phrase multiple times (Joshua 1:6, 7, 9, 18).

This signifies the fluid, continuous chain of transmission, starting with Moses, passing on directly to Joshua, then the Elders, down through the rest of the Prophets, to the Men of the Great Assembly, and to the Sages that followed (Avot 1:1), up to the rabbis of the present day. Herein lies the true purpose of Deuteronomy: it holds together all of Judaism, including both the “Written” and “Oral” Torah. We may think of Deuteronomy as “Written”, but a careful reading shows that it is quite clearly more “Oral” in nature. One of the most puzzling things about it is that with all of the key narratives that it repeats, it appears to change the details!

For example, in the Ten Commandments recorded in Exodus, Shabbat is to commemorate the world’s Creation in six days, and God’s resting on the seventh (Exodus 20:11). In the Ten Commandments of Deuteronomy, however, Shabbat is to commemorate that God took us out of Egypt and we are no longer slaves who must work around the clock (Deuteronomy 5:15). Which is it? Another example is the Sin of the Spies: in Numbers 13 we read that God commanded to send spies to scout the Holy Land; in Deuteronomy 1:22, it is the people themselves that request it of Moses. What was it? Even more problematic, in Deuteronomy 10:6, Aaron dies in a different place and at a different time than that presented in Numbers 33:38! How do we make sense of these discrepancies?

The classic answer is that Deuteronomy is Moses’ own recollection of past events. After all, the book begins by saying Eleh hadevarim asher diber Moshe—these were specifically the words of Moses himself. The Zohar (III, 261a) says that unlike the rest of the Torah which was dictated to Moses by God, “Mishneh Torah was spoken from Moses’ own mouth” (משנה תורה משה מפי עצמו אמרן). As such, included within it were Moses’ own interpretations of the Torah and the law. And this, therefore, serves as the foundation for the entire Oral Tradition. Moreover, this is why we always refer to Moses as Moshe Rabbeinu, “Moses our rabbi”. He is the first rabbi, the first to analyze and interpret the Torah, extracting its deeper meanings and uncovering the hidden wisdom of God buried in the plain text—in the words of the Zohar, the chokhmah ila’ah (חכמה עלאה) buried inside.

The Zohar concludes that Deuteronomy is the Oral Torah! It is from Deuteronomy that we learn about the need to interpret the Torah and extract the wisdom within it. The Zohar adds that this is why the Ten Commandments in Deuteronomy have a seemingly superfluous vav before them (וְלֹ֣֖א תִּֿנְאָ֑͏ף׃ וְלֹ֣֖א תִּֿגְנֹֽ֔ב׃ וְלֹֽא־תַעֲנֶ֥ה) whereas the Ten Commandments in Exodus do not (לֹ֣֖א תִּֿנְאָ֑͏ף׃ לֹ֣֖א תִּֿגְנֹֽ֔ב׃ לֹֽא־תַעֲנֶ֥ה). The extra vav, which means “and”, serves to teach that this is the command and, hidden inside, all the other additional laws one can extract from it! The Zohar gives an example: In Exodus we are told only not to covet a fellow’s wife (לֹֽא־תַחְמֹ֞ד אֵ֣שֶׁת רֵעֶ֗ךָ), but in Deuteronomy we are told not to covet and not to crave (וְלֹ֥א תַחְמֹ֖ד אֵ֣שֶׁת רֵעֶ֑ךָ וְלֹ֨א תִתְאַוֶּ֜ה). Rabbi Yose explains that based on Exodus alone one might think the law is only not to actually abduct a woman, or conspire to do so, but from Deuteronomy we further learn that one is forbidden from even craving another, whether in thought or desire, even without acting on it. The Zohar gives other examples, showing how the purpose of Deuteronomy is actually to extract the true meaning of the previous four books of the Torah.

In that case, Moses the rabbi was the first to reinterpret the Torah and extract new layers of meaning from it. It is in Deuteronomy that he lays out the rabbinic system, and in Deuteronomy that the 613 mitzvot of the Torah are completed. Beautifully, the numerical value of Moshe Rabbeinu (משה רבינו) is 613. It has further been pointed out that the system Moses laid out in Deuteronomy, relayed specifically over his last 37 days, correspond to the 37 tractates of Talmud, solidifying the link. So, we see that Deuteronomy accomplishes two things: first, weaving smoothly into the rest of the Tanakh, and second, bridging to the Oral Torah. It is no coincidence that the first official written work of Oral Torah is called the Mishnah, a direct link to Moses’ Mishneh Torah.

With this in mind, there is truly little room to distinguish between “Written” and “Oral” Torah at all. The two are inseparable and intertwined, like the branches of the Tree of Life (to paraphrase the poetic words of the Zohar). The Oral Torah begins in Deuteronomy, and flows through the rest of the Tanakh, before being fleshed out in fuller form in the Mishnah, then the Talmud. There is a continuous historical, chronological, legal, linguistic chain of development. (If considering the ‘Nakh as “Oral Torah” seems strange and counterintuitive, keep in mind how the Samaritans—who deny an Oral Torah—only hold Moshe’s Torah as holy, and have no ‘Nakh at all! They reject the Prophets basically the same way they reject the Talmud!)

It is worth adding one more point here: the first person to actually codify the entire Torah, both “Written” and “Oral”, was the Rambam, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon (1138-1204), “Maimonides”. As the famous saying goes, “from Moshe to Moshe there arose no one like Moshe”, ie. since Moshe Rabbeinu there was none as great as Moshe ben Maimon. In some ways, he completed the Torah process that began at Sinai—at least its legal portion. He summarized and codified all of Jewish law, clearly and succinctly, in a 14-volume masterpiece that he called, not coincidentally, the Mishneh Torah. It remains the only complete code of Jewish law, that covers all aspects of Torah and Judaism. In his introduction, the Rambam boldly states that no other code is required and, quite incredibly, that a person who wants to understand all of Judaism need only read the Torah, and his Mishneh Torah!  

For this (among other things), the Rambam was heavily criticized. He sought to set in stone Jewish law, but Jewish law is not meant to be set in stone. Even the Ten Commandments that were literally set in stone in Exodus were already interpreted differently by Moshe Rabbeinu in Deuteronomy! Jewish law must remain alive and breathing, changing, growing, adapting with the times.

One might ask: if that’s the case, why did Moses say not to add or remove anything from his Torah? (Deuteronomy 4:2) At the same time, he said to listen to the future rulings of the Torah leaders that arise in each generation, and not to veer “right or left” from their decrees (Deuteronomy 17:11). Throughout history, many solutions have been presented to this problem. One way to understand it is to remember that, in Deuteronomy, Moses is speaking to the soul of each individual Jew. The other four books of the Torah were God’s Word to the nation as a whole. Deuteronomy is Moses’ word to his people, to each person. Thus, in the same way that he says each person should listen to the consensus of the Torah authorities (17:11), so too should each person not add or remove anything from the Torah of their own accord (4:2). Only a recognized majority body of scholars could ever make critical emendations when necessary. This was indeed the case throughout the era of Prophets and the Talmud, when a Sanhedrin existed (it formally ended in the 5th century, see ‘An Eye-Opening History of the Sanhedrin’).

That brings us back to the Rambam. In his Mishneh Torah introduction, he lamented the fact that, due to our exile, individual rabbis have had to make local rulings that were subsequently adopted by others and, over the centuries, Judaism started to fracture because of it, and there was growing confusion regarding the law. The Rambam therefore sought to clarify and codify the actual, universal Jewish law, based strictly on the Torah and Talmud, the only documents that carried the authority of a Sanhedrin or other recognized majority body of scholars. He explains this all in the latter half of his introduction.

While the Mishneh Torah did not end up being the last word on Jewish law, it did launch a trend where the law needed more widespread consensus and recognition. It led to more in-depth codes of law, with more explanation, and more debate regarding the finer points of law. It led to a “virtual” Sanhedrin of sorts, where legal texts attain primacy over time through majority recognition of rabbis separated by thousands of miles. And so, Jewish law continues to evolve, adapt, and grow, as always intended by the first Moses—and the first rabbi—Moshe Rabbeinu.

Click here to read ‘The Untold Story of Napoleon and the Jews’, an excerpt from Garments of Light on Tisha b’Av.

Things You Didn’t Know About the Talmud

Judaism is famously built upon an “oral tradition”, or Oral Torah, that goes along with the Written Torah. The primary body of the Oral Torah is the Talmud. At the end of this week’s parasha, Mishpatim, the Torah states:

And Hashem said to Moses: “Ascend to Me on the mountain and be there, and I will give you the Tablets of Stone, and the Torah, and the mitzvah that I have written, that you may teach them…

The Talmud (Berakhot 5a) comments on this that the “Tablets” refers to the Ten Commandments, the “Torah” refers to the Five Books of Moses, the “mitzvah” is the Mishnah, “that I have written” are the books of the Prophets and Holy Writings, and “that you may teach them” is the Talmud. The Mishnah is the major corpus of ancient Jewish oral law, and the Talmud, or Gemara, is essentially a commentary on the Mishnah, with a deeper exposition and derivation of its laws. Today, the Mishnah is printed together with the corresponding Gemara, along with multiple super-commentaries laid out all around the page, and this whole is typically referred to as “Talmud”.

Anatomy of a page of Talmud: (A) Mishnah, (B) Gemara, (C) Commentary of Rashi, Rabbi Shlomo Itzchaki, 1040-1105, (D) Tosfot, a series of commentators following Rashi, (E) various additional commentaries around the edge of the page.

In the past, we’ve written how many have rejected the Talmud, starting with the ancient Sadducees, later the Karaites (whom some consider to be the spiritual descendants of the Sadducees), as well as the Samaritans, and many modern-day Jews whether secular or Reform. Such groups claim that either there was never such a thing as an “oral tradition” or “oral law”, or that the tradition is entirely man-made with no divine basis. Meanwhile, even in the Orthodox Jewish world there are those who are not quite sure what the Talmud truly is, and how its teachings should be regarded. It is therefore essential to explore the origins, development, importance, and necessity of the Talmud.

An Oral Torah

There are many ways to prove that there must be an oral tradition or Oral Torah. From the very beginning, we read in the Written Torah how God forged a covenant with Abraham, which passed down to Isaac, then Jacob, and so on. There is no mention of the patriarchs having any written text. These were oral teachings being passed down from one generation to the next.

Later, the Written Torah was given through the hand of Moses, yet many of its precepts are unclear. Numerous others do not seem to be relevant for all generations, and others still appear quite distasteful if taken literally. We have already written in the past that God did not intend for us to simply observe Torah law blindly and unquestioningly. (See ‘Do Jews Really Follow the Torah?’ in Garments of Light.) Rather, we are meant to toil in its words and extract its true meanings, evolve with it, and bring the Torah itself to life. The Torah is not a reference manual that sits on a shelf. It is likened to a living, breathing entity; a “tree of life for those who grasp it” (Proverbs 3:18).

Indeed, this is what Joshua commanded the nation: “This Torah shall not leave your mouth, and you shall meditate upon it day and night, so that you may observe to do like all that is written within it” (Joshua 1:8). Joshua did not say that we must literally observe all that is written in it (et kol hakatuv bo), but rather k’khol hakatuv bo, “like all that is written”, or similar to what is written there. We are not meant to simply memorize its laws and live by them, but rather to continuously discuss and debate the Torah, and meditate upon it day and night to derive fresh lessons from it.

Similarly, Exodus 34:27 states that “God said to Moses: ‘Write for yourself these words, for according to these words I have made a covenant with you and with Israel.’” Firstly, God told Moses to write the Torah for yourself, and would later remind that lo b’shamayim hi, the Torah “is not in Heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:12). It was given to us, for us to dwell upon and develop. Secondly, while the words above are translated as “according to these words”, the Hebrew is al pi hadevarim, literally “on the mouth”, which the Talmud says is a clear allusion to the Torah sh’be’al peh, the Oral Torah, literally “the Torah that is on the mouth”.

The Mishnah

2000-year old tefillin discovered in Qumran

It is evident that by the start of the Common Era, Jews living in the Holy Land observed a wide array of customs and laws which were not explicitly mentioned in the Torah, or at least not explained in the Torah. For example, tefillin was quite common, and they have been found in the Qumran caves alongside the Dead Sea Scrolls (produced by a fringe Jewish group, likely the Essenes) and are even mentioned in the New Testament. Yet, while the Torah mentions binding something upon one’s arm and between one’s eyes four times, it does not say what these things are or what they look like. Naturally, the Sadducees (like the Karaites) did not wear tefillin, and understood the verses metaphorically. At the same time, though, the Sadducees (and the Karaites and Samaritans) did have mezuzot. Paradoxically, they took one verse in the passage literally (Deuteronomy 6:9), but the adjoining verse in the same passage (Deuteronomy 6:8) metaphorically!

This is just one example of many. The reality is that an oral tradition outside of the Written Law is absolutely vital to Judaism. Indeed, most of those anti-oral law groups still do have oral traditions and customs of their own, just not to the same extent and authority of the Talmud.

Regardless, after the massive devastation wrought by the Romans upon Israel during the 1st and 2nd centuries CE, many rabbis felt that the Oral Torah must be written down or else it might be lost. After the Bar Kochva Revolt (132-136 CE), the Talmud suggests there were less than a dozen genuine rabbis left in Israel. Judaism had to be rebuilt from the ashes. Shortly after, as soon as an opportunity presented itself, Rabbi Yehuda haNasi (who was very wealthy and well-connected) was able to put the Oral Torah into writing, likely with the assistance of fellow rabbis. The result is what is known as the Mishnah, and it was completed by about 200 CE.

The Mishnah is organized into six orders, which are further divided up into tractates. Zera’im (“Seeds”) is the first order, with 11 tractates mainly concerned with agricultural laws; followed by Mo’ed (holidays) with 12 tractates discussing Shabbat and festivals; Nashim (“Women”) with 7 tractates focusing on marriage; Nezikin (“Damages”) with 10 tractates of judicial and tort laws; Kodashim (holy things) with 11 tractates on ritual laws and offerings; and Tehorot (purities) with 12 tractates on cleanliness and ritual purity.

The root of the word “Mishnah” means to repeat, as it had been learned by recitation and repetition to commit the law to memory. Some have pointed out that Rabbi Yehuda haNasi may have used earlier Mishnahs compiled by Rabbi Akiva and one of his five remaining students, Rabbi Meir, who lived in the most difficult times of Roman persecution. Considering the circumstances of its composition, the Mishnah was written in short, terse language, with little to no explanation. It essentially presents only a set of laws, usually with multiple opinions on how each law should be fulfilled. To explain how the laws were derived from the Written Torah, and which opinions should be given precedence, another layer of text was necessary.

The Gemara

Rav Ashi teaching at the Sura Academy – a depiction from the Diaspora Museum in Tel Aviv

Gemara, from the Aramaic gamar, “to study” (like the Hebrew talmud), is that text which makes sense of the Mishnah. It was composed over the next three centuries, in two locations. Rabbis in the Holy Land produced the Talmud Yerushalmi, also known as the Jerusalem or Palestinian Talmud, while the Sages residing in Persia (centred in the former Babylonian territories) produced the Talmud Bavli, or the Babylonian Talmud. The Yerushalmi was unable to be completed as the persecutions in Israel reached their peak and the scholars could no longer continue their work. The Bavli was completed around 500, and its final composition is attributed to Ravina (Rav Avina bar Rav Huna), who concluded the process started by Rav Ashi (c. 352-427 CE) two generations earlier.

While incomplete, the Yerushalmi also has much more information on the agricultural laws, which were pertinent to those still living in Israel. In Persia, and for the majority of Jews living in the Diaspora, those agricultural laws were no longer relevant, so the Bavli does not have Gemaras on these Mishnaic tractates. Because the Yerushalmi was incomplete, and because it also discussed laws no longer necessary for most Jews, and because the Yerushalmi community was disbanded, it was ultimately the Talmud Bavli that became the dominant Gemara for the Jewish world. To this day, the Yerushalmi is generally only studied by those who already have a wide grasp of the Bavli.

The Talmud is far more than just an exposition on the Mishnah. It has both halachic (legal) and aggadic (literary or allegorical) aspects; contains discussions on ethics, history, mythology, prophecy, and mysticism; and speaks of other nations and religions, science, philosophy, economics, and just about everything else. It is a massive repository of wisdom, with a total of 2,711 double-sided pages (which is why the tractates are cited with a page number and side, for example Berakhot 2a or Shabbat 32b). This typically translates to about 6,200 normal pages in standard print format.

Placing the Talmud

With so much information, it is easy to see why the Talmud went on to take such priority in Judaism. The Written Torah (the Tanakh as a whole) is quite short in comparison, and can be learned more quickly. It is important to remember that the Talmud did not replace the Tanakh, as many wrongly claim. The following graphic beautifully illustrates all of the Talmud’s citations to the Tanakh, and how the two are inseparable:

(Credit: Sefaria.org) It is said of the Vilna Gaon (Rabbi Eliyahu Kramer, 1720-1797) that past a certain age he only studied Tanakh, as he knew how to derive all of Judaism, including all of the Talmud, from it.

Indeed, it is difficult to properly grasp the entire Tanakh (which has its own host of apparent contradictions and perplexing passages) without the commentary of the Talmud. Once again, it is the Talmud that brings the Tanakh to life.

Partly because of this, Jews have been falsely accused in the past of abandoning Scripture in favour of the Talmud. This was a popular accusation among Christians in Europe. It is not without a grain of truth, for Ashkenazi Jews did tend to focus on Talmudic studies and less on other aspects of Judaism, Tanakh included. Meanwhile, the Sephardic Jewish world was known to be a bit better-rounded, incorporating more Scriptural, halachic, and philosophical study. Sephardic communities also tended to be more interested in mysticism, producing the bulk of early Kabbalistic literature. Ashkenazi communities eventually followed suit.

Ironically, so did many Christian groups, which eagerly embraced Jewish mysticism. Christian Knorr von Rosenroth (1636-1689) translated portions of the Zohar and Arizal into Latin, publishing the best-selling Kabbalah Denudata. Long before him, the Renaissance philosopher Pico della Mirandola (1463-1494), one of Michelangelo’s teachers, styled himself a “Christian Kabbalist”, as did the renowned scholar Johann Reuchlin (1455-1522). Meanwhile, Isaac Newton’s copy of the Zohar can be still found at Cambridge University. It is all the more ironic because Kabbalah itself is based on Talmudic principles, as derived from the Tanakh. For example, the central Kabbalistic concept of the Ten Sefirot is first mentioned in the Talmudic tractate of Chagigah (see page 12a), which also outlines the structure of the Heavenly realms. The Talmud is first to speak of the mystical study of Ma’aseh Beresheet (“Mysteries of Creation”) and Ma’aseh Merkavah (“Mysteries of the Divine Chariot”), of Sefer Yetzirah, of spiritual ascent, of how angels operate, and the mechanics of souls.

Having said all that, the Talmud is far from easy to navigate. While it contains vast riches of profound wisdom and divine information, it also has much that appears superfluous and sometimes outright boring. In fact, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 24a) itself admits that it is not called Talmud Bavli because it was composed in Babylon (since it really wasn’t) but because it is so mebulbal, “confused”, the root of Bavli, or Babel.

Of course, the Written Torah, too, at times appears superfluous, boring, or confused. The Midrash (another component of the Oral Torah) explains why: had the Torah been given in the correct order, with clear language, then anyone who read it would be “able to raise the dead and work miracles” (see Midrash Tehillim 3). The Torah—both Written and Oral—is put together in such a way that mastering it requires a lifetime of study, contemplation, and meditation. One must, as the sage Ben Bag Bag said (Avot 5:21), “turn it and turn it, for everything is in it; see through it, grow old with it, do not budge from it, for there is nothing better than it.”

Defending the Talmud

There is one more accusation commonly directed at the Talmud. This is that the Talmud contains racist or xenophobic language, or perhaps immoral directives, or that it has many flaws and inaccuracies, or that it contains demonology and sorcery. Putting aside deliberate mistranslations and lies (which the internet is full of), the truth is that, taken out of context, certain rare passages in the vastness of the Talmud may be read that way. Again, the same is true for the Written Torah itself, where Scripture also speaks of demons and sorcery, has occasional xenophobic overtones, apparent contradictions, or directives that we today recognize as immoral.

First of all, it is important that things are kept in their historical and textual context. Secondly, it is just as important to remember that the Talmud is not the code of Jewish law. (That would be the Shulchan Arukh, and others.) The Talmud presents many opinions, including non-Jewish sayings of various Roman figures, Greek philosophers, and Persian magi. Just because there is a certain strange statement in the Talmud does not mean that its origin is Jewish, and certainly does not mean that Jews necessarily subscribe to it. Even on matters of Jewish law and custom, multiple opinions are presented, most of which are ultimately rejected. The Talmud’s debates are like a transcript of a search for truth. False ideas will be encountered along the way. The Talmud presents them to us so that we can be aware of them, and learn from them.

And yes, there are certain things in the Talmud—which are not based on the Torah itself—that may have become outdated and disproven. This is particularly the case with the Talmud’s scientific and medical knowledge. While much of this has incredibly stood the test of time and has been confirmed correct by modern science, there are others which we know today are inaccurate. This isn’t a new revelation. Long ago, Rav Sherira Gaon (c. 906-1006) stated that the Talmudic sages were not doctors, nor were they deriving medical remedies from the Torah. They were simply giving advice that was current at the time. The Rambam held the same (including Talmudic astronomy and mathematics under this category, see Moreh Nevuchim III, 14), as well as the Magen Avraham (Rabbi Avraham Gombiner, c. 1635-1682, on Orach Chaim 173:1) and Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. One of the major medieval commentaries on the Talmud, Tosfot, admits that nature changes over time, which is why the Talmud’s science and medicine may not be accurate anymore. Nonetheless, there are those who maintain that we simply do not understand the Talmud properly—and this is probably true as well.

Whatever the case, the Talmud is an inseparable part of the Torah, and an integral aspect of Judaism. Possibly the greatest proof of its significance and divine nature is that it has kept the Jewish people alive and flourishing throughout the difficult centuries, while those who rejected the Oral Torah have mostly faded away. The Talmud remains among the most enigmatic texts of all time, and perhaps it is this mystique that brings some people to fear it. Thankfully, knowledge of the Talmud is growing around the world, and more people than ever before are taking an interest in, and benefitting from, its ancient wisdom.

A bestselling Korean book about the Talmud. Fascination with the Talmud is particularly strong in the Far East. A Japanese book subtitled “Secrets of the Talmud Scriptures” (written by Rabbi Marvin Tokayer in 1971) sold over half a million copies in that country, and was soon exported to China and South Korea. More recently, a Korean reverend founded the “Shema Education Institute” and published a six-volume set of “Korean Talmud”, with plans to translate it into Chinese and Hindi. A simplified “Talmud” digest book became a bestseller, leading Korea’s ambassador to Israel to declare in 2011 that every Korean home has one. With the Winter Olympics coming up in Korea, it is appropriate to mention that Korean star speed skater Lee Kyou-Hyuk said several years ago: “I read the Talmud every time I am going through a hard time. It helps to calm my mind.”