Daf Ditty Moed Katan 4: Ravina and Rabba Tosfa’ah

And the editing of the talmud bavli

Carl Schleicher, ‘Eine Streitfrage aus dem Talmud,’ 19th century

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The Gemara relates that Ravina and Rabba Tosefa’a were once walking along the road when
they saw a certain man that was drawing water with a bucket on the intermediate days of a
Festival. Rabba Tosefa’a said to Ravina: Let the Master come and excommunicate him for
transgressing the words of the Sages.

Ravina said to him: But isn’t it taught in a baraita: One may draw for vegetables in order to
eat them, and so he has not committed a transgression.

Rabba Tosefa’a said to him: Do you maintain that what is meant by one may draw [madlin] is
that one may draw water in order to irrigate the vegetables? This is not so. Rather, what is meant
by

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one may draw is that one may pull out some of the vegetables that are growing densely together.
The baraita comes to teach that one is permitted to thin out a garden bed on the intermediate days
of a Festival in order to eat on the Festival those that he removes, but he is prohibited to do so in
order to enhance the appearance of those that remain. As we learned in a mishna (Pe’a 7:5):

One who is thinning out vines, just as he may thin out in that which belongs to him, so too he
may thin out in that which belongs to the poor, the words of Rabbi Judah. Rabbi Meir says: in
that which belongs to him, he is permitted, but he is not permitted in that which belongs to the
poor.

Since he is doing it for the sake of the vines, he may also thin out what he leaves for the poor; this
is the statement of Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Meir disagrees and says: His own vines he is
permitted to thin out, but he is not permitted to thin out the vines set aside for the poor. This
mishna indicates that the term meidel can be used to mean thinning out and does not refer only to
drawing water.

(This mishnah deals with whether when one thins out the grapes from a grapevine so that the
other grapes will have more room to grow one can also thin away the defective clusters that are
supposed to go to the poor.1

One who is thinning out vines, just as he may thin out in that which belongs to him, so too he
may thin out in that which belongs to the poor, the words of Rabbi Judah. Rabbi Meir says: in
that which belongs to him, he is permitted, but he is not permitted in that which belongs to the
poor.

To make room for the grapes to grow, a grape farmer might thin out the vines and get rid of the
some of the clusters. The problem is that this might cause a loss to the poor, especially if he gets

1
https://www.sefaria.org/Moed_Katan.4b.1?lang=bi&p2=Mishnah_Peah.7.5&lang2=bi&w2=English%20Explanation%20of%20
Mishnah&lang3=en

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rid of many of the defective clusters. Rabbi Judah says that nevertheless when thinning out vines
one may thin out the defective clusters that belong to the poor. Rabbi Meir says that he may not,
because the defective clusters don’t belong to him, rather they belong to the poor.)

Ravina said to Rabba Tosefa’a: But wasn’t it explicitly taught in a baraita: One may draw
water to irrigate vegetables in order to eat them? Rabba Tosefa’a said to him: If it is
taught explicitly in a baraita, the halakha is as it is taught, and I retract my statement.

§ It was taught in the mishna: And one may not construct circular ditches [ugiyyot] around the
bases of grapevines on the intermediate days of a Festival. The Gemara asks: What are ugiyyot?
Rav Yehuda said: They are what are called in Aramaic binkei, circular ditches around vines. The
Gemara notes that this is also taught in a baraita: These are ugiyyot: Bedidin, circular ditches
around the bases of olive trees and around the bases of grapevines.

RASHI

Jastrow

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The Gemara asks: Is that so? Is it prohibited to dig circular ditches on the intermediate days of
the Festival? Didn’t Rav Yehuda permit the family of bar Tzitai to construct circular ditches
for their vineyards on the intermediate days of a Festival? The Gemara answers: This is not
difficult. This source, i.e., the mishna that renders the practice prohibited, is referring to digging
new ditches. That other source, i.e., Rav Yehuda’s ruling that permits the digging of such ditches,
is referring to old ones, which merely need to be cleared.

Summary

To Irrigate, to Hoe and yet to Impress the Stein Family Next Door

As part of clarifying what we should be doing during Sabbatical years, the Gemara explains the
exegetical principal known as gezeira shava, or verbal analogy.2

When a word/phrase is mentioned in two different places in the Torah and a halacha applies to one
of those, that halacha is said to apply to the other word/phrase as well. Thus the concept is not
considered to be as important as the words themselves. Sometimes the words of a gezeira shava
are permitted to be used interpretively when they are not identical but their meanings are similar.

In order to understand a difference of interpretation of a gezeira shava, we are told that the rabbis
are able to come to an agreement. In one circumstance the rabbis are speaking about when the
Temple was standing. In the other, the rabbis are referring to times since the destruction of the
Temple.

We look at irrigation, collecting rainwater, tools used in irrigation, flowing water versus collected
water, pools of water, and on and on. The rabbis want to understand whether or not we are
permitted to irrigate our fields on Intermediate Festival Days. Are we using excessive effort? How
do we define 'excessive'? Are the tools being used appropriate given the holiday? Are the fields
going to suffer because of the lack of water if we do not irrigate?

2
http://dafyomibeginner.blogspot.com/2014/08/

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Again, we note that the rabbis are concerned that their interpretation might hurt the agricultural
work of the Jewish people. They work to create halacha that recognizes this potential
hardship. Why, then do the rabbis create halacha without similar consideration when they are
discussing the lives of women? Or the lives of others who lack power in the larger community?

As part of this consideration the rabbis turn their minds to maintenance of the fields in other ways:
pruning, picking, hoeing, digging channels around plants, etc. They discuss the importance of
these tasks to ensure a healthy crop. At the same time, they mention the importance of 'image':
one should not be seen hoeing, for others might not know that the person hoeing is doing so within
halachic restrictions. This concern with "an appearance of halachic compliance" continues to be
a strong motivator in our modern Jewish societies. I do not walk into a store wearing my kippah
on Shabbat because I do not want to look as though I am properly representing halacha.

Looking at blocked rivers and other works of public importance, the rabbis are clear about our
practice: we should be doing any maintenance that fills a public need on the Intermediate Festival
Days. It is wonderful to read that the rabbis understood the importance of public needs and the
requirements of rejoicing as well as they did citizens' private needs and legal concerns.

Rav Avrohom Adler writes:3

The Gemora concludes that the halachah of extending the restrictions of Shemittah prior to the
seventh year was transmitted to Moshe at Sinai only according to Rabbi Yishmael. Rabbi Akiva
derived this halachah from the Scriptural verses.

Rabbi Yochanan said: Rabban Gamliel and his Beis Din nullified all the halachos restricting labor
prior to Shemittah, even those halachos that were derived from Scripture. He was empowered to
do this because he had his own Scriptural source proving otherwise. Rabban Gamliel’s source was
through a gezeira shavah of the words “Shabbos, Shabbos,” from the Shabbos of Creation. Just as
there, it is forbidden to perform labor on the day of Shabbos, but prior to that day and afterwards
it would be permitted; so too regarding Shemittah, only the seventh year would be subject to the
Shemittah restrictions and not the sixth or the eight years.

Rav Ashi objected to this explanation: How can a gezeira shavah come and uproot a halachah
transmitted to Moshe at Sinai or uproot a halachah derived from a Scriptural verse? Rav Ashi
explains: Rabban Gamliel and his Beis Din maintained that the halachah restricting labor thirty
days prior to Shemittah was a halachah transmitted to Moshe at Sinai, but Rabban Gamliel
maintained that this halachah applied only in the times that the Beis Hamikdosh was in existence,
similar to the halachah of the water libations on Sukkos, which was applicable only in the times
that the Beis Hamikdosh was in existence. Therefore, one would be allowed to plow any type of
field up until Rosh Hashanah.

3
http://dafnotes.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Moed_Katan_4.pdf

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The Mishna had stated: One may not water his field during Chol Hamoed from a pool of rainwater
or from a well. The Gemora asks: We understand that watering from a well should be prohibited
because it involves excessive exertion, but what is the reason to prohibit watering from a pool of
rainwater? Rabbi Ila’ah said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: The Rabbis issued a decree against
watering from rainwater to safeguard the prohibition against watering from a well. (They assumed
that if people will water from a pool of rainwater, this will lead to watering from a well as well.)

Rav Ashi answers: They were concerned that the pool of rainwater will lose water and eventually
become like a well, which will also involve excessive exertion (one would be required to use a pail
to water his field from there).

It was taught in a braisa: One is not permitted to water his field on Chol Hamoed from water basins
or trenches that were filled with water prior to the festival (the water level might drop and he will
be compelled to use a pail, which will involve excessive exertion), however, if there is a water
channel passing between them, it will be permitted (since even if the water from the trenches dries
up, the water from the channel can be used). Rav Papa maintains that this is only true if the channel
contains enough water to irrigate a majority of the fields at one time. Rav Ashi disagrees and holds
that it would be permitted even if the channel does not contain enough water to irrigate a majority
of the fields at one time because the person will say: if it cannot be irrigated in one day, it will be
so in two or three days, and he will not bother himself to bring water from elsewhere.

It was taught in a braisa: We may draw water for vegetables in order to eat them, but it is forbidden
if it is to improve them. The Gemora records a related incident. Ravina and Rabbah Tosfa’ah went
for a walk on Chol Hamoed. They observed a man drawing buckets of water with a pail and
watering his vegetable field with it. Rabbah suggested to Ravina that this person warrants
excommunication for violating the Rabbinic decree of watering a rain-watered field. Ravina
disagreed and he quoted the braisa mentioned above that one may draw water for vegetables in
order to eat them. Rabbah replied: The braisa does not mean that one can draw water for the
vegetables; rather it means that one may pull out from an overgrowth of vegetables, provided that
he will eat them on the festival. Ravina said back to Rabbah: There is an explicit braisa which
allows one to draw water for vegetables in order to eat them. Rabbah said: If it was taught in a
braisa like that, I retract my opinion.

The Mishna had stated that one should not make ugiyos for the grapevines. The Gemora asks:
What are ugiyos? Rav Yehudah answers: They are ditches, which one digs around the roots of a
grapevine in order to collect water. The Gemora qualifies this ruling and prohibits the creating of
new ditches (which involves strenuous labor), but cleaning an old ditch would be permitted. (4b)
The Mishna had stated: Rabbi Elozar ben Azarya says: One may not create a new irrigation canal
during Chol Hamoed or Shemittah. The Gemora asks: We understand why this should be
prohibited on Chol Hamoed because it involves excessive exertion, but what is the reason to
prohibit creating a canal during Shemittah?

The Gemora offers two reasons: One Amora says that it resembles hoeing to benefit the crops.
Another Amora says: It is preparing the banks of the canal for planting. The Gemora states: A
difference between the two reasons would be in an instance where water fills up the canal as he is
digging. It would still be preparing the banks for planting, but he obviously is not intending on

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hoeing there. The Gemora rejects this explanation because both reasons are valid and they both
should be applicable.

The Gemora states: A difference between the two reasons would be in an instance where he throws
the dirt a considerable distance away from the canal. He is not preparing the banks for planting but
it can be forbidden on the account that it resembles hoeing. The Gemora rejects this explanation
as well because both reasons are valid and they both should be applicable. The Gemora answers:
In fact, digging a canal does not resemble hoeing because the purpose of hoeing is to soften the
ground and that is why one who hoes, places the earth back in its place; however, one who digs a
canal, moves the earth away and therefore it is not similar to hoeing.

The Mishna had stated: One may make repairs to the irrigation canal in the public domain, and
clean them (from the mud and small stones that accumulate in them). The Gemora asks: To what
extent is the damage to the irrigation canal? Rabbi Abba answers: If the canal is presently one
tefach deep, it may be restored to its original depth of six tefachim. The Gemora inquires: If the
canal is presently two tefachim deep and he wishes to restore it to its original depth of seven
tefachim; is that permitted? Do we say that since he is only digging five tefachim, it should be
permitted just like from one to six or do we say that it should be prohibited on the account that he
is digging an additional unnecessary tefach (since a canal runs efficiently when it is six tefachim
deep). The Gemora lets the question remain unresolved.

Abaye allowed the inhabitants of Bar Hamdoch to clear away the branches of the trees growing in
the river on Chol Hamoed. Rabbi Yirmiyah permitted the inhabitants of Sechavta to clean a
clogged river. Rav Ashi allowed the inhabitants of Masa Mechasya to clear away a sandbank from
the river Burntiz. He said: Since many people drink from its water, it is considered a public
necessity, and our Mishna states that all work for the public is permitted.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

1. The Gemora concludes that the halachah of extending the restrictions of Shemittah prior to the
seventh year was transmitted to Moshe at Sinai only according to Rabbi Yishmael. Rabbi Akiva
derived this halachah from the Scriptural verses. It emerges that there is a dispute if there was an
Oral Law transmitted to Moshe at Sinai regarding the pre-Shemittah restrictions. Doesn't the
Rambam state that there cannot be disputes regarding any halachah l'Moshe misinai?

2. Rabban Gamliel’s source (that there are no preShemittah limitations) was through a gezeirah
shavah of the words “Shabbos, Shabbos,” from the Shabbos of Creation. Just as there, it is
forbidden to perform labor on the day of Shabbos, but prior to that day and afterwards it would be
permitted; so too regarding Shemittah, only the seventh year would be subject to the Shemittah
restrictions and not the sixth or the eight years. Isn't there a halachah that one is required to add
time to the beginning of Shabbos and afterwards as well (tosfos Shabbos)?

3. The Mishna had stated that one should not make ugiyos for the grapevines. The Gemora asks:
What are ugiyos? Rav Yehudah answers: They are ditches. Rashi states that the word "ugiyos"
means agul, round, similar to the words "ag ugah," he drew a circle around himself.

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The Torah says [Shmos 12:39]: And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough which they brought
forth out of Egypt. The term used for the unleavened cakes, i.e. matzos is "ugos" matzos. This
would be a source that matzos should be round and not square.

LEARNING A SINGLE LAW FROM BOTH A VERSE AND A

HALACHAH L'MOSHE MI'SINAI

Rav Mordechai Kornfeld writes:4

Rebbi Akiva derives from the verse, "b'Charish uva'Katzir Tishbos" -- "You shall cease from all
plowing and reaping" (Shemos 34:21), the law of Tosefes Shevi'is, the obligation to refrain from
working the land for some time before the seventh year begins and after it ends. The Gemara
questions why Rebbi Akiva needs a verse to teach the law of Tosefes Shevi'is when this law is
taught by a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. The Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai of "Eser Neti'os" states
that one is permitted to plow beneath young plantlings under certain circumstances until Rosh
Hashanah of the seventh year. This law implies that plowing beneath fully-grown trees is
prohibited even before Rosh Hashanah arrives because of Tosefes Shevi'is. Why, then, does Rebbi
Akiva need a verse to teach the law of Tosefes Shevi'is?

The Gemara's question is difficult to understand. While it is true that the obligation of Tosefes
Shevi'is is derived from the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai, if the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai would
be the only source, the law of Tosefes Shevi'is would not have the status of a law written explicitly
in the Torah but rather the status of a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai (which differs from a law written
explicitly in the Torah). The RAMBAM (Perush ha'Mishnayos to Mikva'os 6:7) writes that
although a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai is mid'Oraisa, it is considered "Divrei Sofrim" and one may
be lenient in the case of a doubt. The Torah explicitly writes a certain Halachah even though it is
also taught as a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai in order to give it the status of a law written explicitly
in the Torah. Accordingly, it is obvious why the verse teaches the law of Tosefes Shevi'is even
though it is a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. What is the Gemara's question?

The Gemara itself expresses this reasoning (in Temurah 18a). The Gemara says that although there
is a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai which teaches that the Temurah of a Korban Asham may not be
offered as a Korban, a verse is needed to teach that one transgresses a Mitzvas Aseh if he actually
offers it. (MATZEVES MOSHE)

The MATZEVES MOSHE answers that the intention of the Gemara's question is as follows. The
Gemara in numerous places states that when there are two ways to interpret a verse and one of
those ways would establish a second prohibition (Lo Ta'aseh) for an act which is already prohibited
by a Lo Ta'aseh, it is preferable not to interpret the verse as teaching a second Lo Ta'aseh (see
Pesachim 24b, Bechoros 6b). It is more logical that the verse's intention is to teach a new Halachah
rather than to strengthen the existing prohibition by adding another Lo Ta'aseh.

4
https://www.dafyomi.co.il/mkatan/insites/mo-dt-004.htm

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The Gemara's question on the statement of Rebbi Akiva is based on this principle. The verse, "You
shall cease from all plowing and reaping," may be understood in one of two ways: it refers either
to the laws of Shevi'is or to the laws of Shabbos (as Rebbi Yishmael understands it). Rebbi Akiva
understands that the verse teaches the law of Tosefes Shevi'is, which is a prohibition which is
already known from the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. Since Rebbi Akiva could have interpreted the
verse in another way -- that it permits Ketzirah on Shabbos for the sake of the Mitzvah of the Omer
offering on Shabbos, as Rebbi Yishmael interprets the verse -- why does he explain that it teaches
a law which is already known and that it merely adds severity to the prohibition of Tosefes
Shevi'is? It is more logical that the verse's intention is to teach a new Halachah! This is the
Gemara's question.5

THE SOURCE FOR "TOSEFES SHEVI'IS"

The Gemara concludes that it is Rebbi Yishmael who maintains that the source for the law of
Tosefes Shevi'is is a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. Rebbi Akiva, however, derives the law of Tosefes
Shevi'is from a verse and not from a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. According to Rebbi Akiva, there
is no such Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai.

Although Rebbi Akiva maintains that the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai is not necessary to teach the
law of Tosefes Shevi'is, he should agree that the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai is necessary to teach
the leniency of "Eser Neti'os" -- the requirement to refrain from working the land before the arrival
of the Shevi'is year does not apply to a field of young plantlings, which may be plowed until Rosh
Hashanah of Shevi'is. Does Rebbi Akiva maintain that there is no such law of Eser Neti'os? That
is unlikely, for the Mishnah in Shevi'is (1:6) records this law and mentions no one who argues with
it. Moreover, the Mishnah later in Shevi'is (1:8) records the opinion of Rebbi Akiva in a discussion
about how to differentiate between a "Neti'ah," a young plantling, and an "Ilan," a mature tree. If
Rebbi Akiva maintains that there is no leniency for Neti'os and that they are no different from
mature trees with regard to Shevi'is, then why does he discuss the definition of a Neti'ah? (TUREI
EVEN to Rosh Hashanah 9a)

(a) The RASHASH in Shevi'is (1:6) answers that Rebbi Akiva indeed argues with the Halachah
l'Moshe mi'Sinai of Eser Neti'os. According to Rebbi Akiva, there is no allowance to plow a field
of young trees up until Rosh Hashanah of Shevi'is. Why, then, does Rebbi Akiva in the Mishnah
there (1:8) discuss the difference between a Neti'ah and an Ilan, if the same Halachah applies to
both?

The Rashash points out that the RAMBAM in Shevi'is (Perush ha'Mishnayos) explains that Rebbi
Akiva's description of the difference between a "Neti'ah" and an "Ilan" is relevant to a different
Halachah. The Mishnah in the beginning of Shevi'is (1:1) states that a "Sedeh Ilan," a field of
mature trees, may be plowed during the year before Shevi'is only up until Shavuos (according to
Beis Hillel). The Mishnah (1:2) then defines a Sedeh Ilan as a field which contains "three trees per
Beis Se'ah." If the field has less than three trees per Beis Se'ah, it is not a Sedeh Ilan and may be
plowed only until Pesach and not until Shavuos. The Rambam explains that if the trees in the field

5
See also the NACHALAS DAVID cited in the following Insight for another approach.

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are not mature trees but young plantlings (Neti'os), the field is not considered a Sedeh Ilan and it
may be plowed only until Pesach and not Shavuos. Only a field which contains ten Neti'os is
considered a Sedeh Ilan which may be plowed until Shavuos. This Halachah necessitates a
description of the difference between a Neti'ah and an Ilan.

According to the Rambam's explanation, Neti'os effect a stringency in the laws of Shevi'is (they
may be plowed only until Pesach of the year before Shevi'is) and not a leniency. REBBI AKIVA
EIGER (in Shevi'is) asks how the Rambam knows that there is a stringency associated with
Neti'os, when the Mishnah there mentions only a leniency of Neti'os (the allowance to plow a field
of Eser Neti'os until Rosh Hashanah). Moreover, even if there is such a stringency related to
Neti'os, why does the Rambam not mention the main difference between a Neti'ah and an Ilan --
that one may be lenient with Neti'os and plow them until Rosh Hashanah?

The Rashash answers that the Rambam's source that there must be another Halachah associated
with the status of Neti'os is from the fact that Rebbi Akiva in the Mishnah there discusses the
definition of a Neti'ah. Why would Rebbi Akiva -- who maintains that there is no Halachah l'Moshe
mi'Sinai of Eser Neti'os -- discuss what a Neti'ah is if it has no relevance to any Halachah? It must
be that there is some other Halachah for which the definition of a Neti'ah is relevant. The Halachah
that a Sedeh Ilan may be plowed until Shavuos of the year before Shevi'is is mid'Rabanan; the
Rabanan determined how much work is needed for which type and number of trees or plants. The
Rabanan determined that a field with three mature trees needs to be worked until Shavuos, while
a field with less than three mature trees needs to be worked only until Pesach. Rebbi Akiva
certainly does not argue with this Halachah of the Rabanan, as it is entirely unrelated to the
Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. For this reason, the Rambam explains that when Rebbi Akiva
discusses what a Neti'ah is, he refers to the stringency associated with Neti'os. (The CHAZON
ISH in Shevi'is 17:12 offers a similar answer for the Turei Even's question.)

(b) The CHAZON ISH (Shevi'is 17:12), however, considers this approach untenable because
there still is no Tana who explicitly argues with the Mishnah which states unequivocally that a
field of Eser Neti'os may be plowed until Rosh Hashanah of Shevi'is.

The Chazon Ish suggests instead that perhaps Rebbi Akiva agrees that there is a law of Eser Neti'os,
but that its source is not a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai. Rebbi Akiva derives the obligation of
Tosefes Shevi'is from the verse, "be'Charish uva'Katzir Tishbos" -- "You shall cease from all
plowing and reaping" (Shemos 34:21). However, that verse does not specify how much time before
Shevi'is one must refrain from working the land. It must be that the Torah empowered the
Chachamim with the authority to determine how much time before Shevi'is one must refrain from
working the land, and to determine what types of field are included in the law of Tosefes Shevi'is.
The Chachamim determined that the Torah excludes a field of Eser Neti'os from the law of Tosefes
Shevi'is, and it permits one to plow such a field up until Rosh Hashanah of Shevi'is.

(c) The NACHALAS DAVID suggests that Rebbi Akiva indeed accepts the Halachah l'Moshe
mi'Sinai. When the Gemara says that Rebbi Yishmael derives the obligation of Tosefes Shevi'is
from the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai and Rebbi Akiva derives it from a verse, it does not mean that
Rebbi Akiva derives it solely from the verse. Rather, it means that Rebbi Akiva maintains that
it would have been derived from a verse if not for the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai.

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According to this explanation, why is a verse necessary to teach Tosefes Shevi'is if the law is
taught by a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai (as the Gemara itself asks)? The Nachalas David says that
this is not a question because the Gemara in Rosh Hashanah (9a) says that even Rebbi Yishmael,
who explicitly states that the law is derived from the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai, also requires a
verse to teach the prohibition of Tosefes Shevi'is! TOSFOS there (DH v'Rebbi Yishmael) explains
why Rebbi Yishmael needs a verse if he learns the law from a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai: If there
would have been no verse but only a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai, we would not have learned the
obligation of Tosefes Shabbos and Tosefes Yom Tov from the obligation of Tosefes Shevi'is,
because "we do not derive other laws from a law taught by a Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai."

Similarly, Rebbi Akiva needs a verse in addition to the Halachah l'Moshe mi'Sinai in order to teach
that the law of Tosefes applies to Shabbos and Yom Tov, just as it applies to Shevi'is. (Tosfos
explains why the Gemara here does not use this logic to answer its question on Rebbi Akiva, but
the Nachalas David does not accept Tosfos' argument and asserts that the Gemara here indeed uses
this logic to explain the opinion of Rebbi Akiva.)

THE PROHIBITION AGAINST WATERING A FIELD WITH

RAINWATER ON CHOL HA'MO'ED

The Mishnah (2a) states that one may not water a field with rainwater (collected in a pit) during
Chol ha'Mo'ed. The Gemara records an argument about the reason for this prohibition. Rebbi Ila'a
in the name of Rebbi Yochanan says that the prohibition is because of a Gezeirah: if one would be
permitted to use rainwater to water his field, he might assume that he is also permitted to use water
from a cistern (Mei Kilon) because both are sources of collected water. Only spring water (which
is not collected water but water which flows from a natural source) may be used. Water from a
cistern may not be used because drawing it with a bucket on a pole (Kilon) involves excessive
exertion (Tircha).

Rav Ashi argues and says that the reason why rainwater may not be used to water a field on Chol
ha'Mo'ed is because the pit of rainwater becomes like a cistern itself. When the rainwater is drawn
from the pit, the water level drops. Eventually, excessive exertion (a bucket attached to a pole) will
be necessary to lift the water from the pit, effectively placing the pit into the category of a cistern.
The Gemara comments that the argument between Rebbi Yochanan and Rav Ashi depends on the
ruling of Rebbi Zeira. Rebbi Zeira ruled that one is permitted to water a field from rivers which
receive their water from swamps.

In what way is the ruling of Rebbi Zeira related to the argument between Rebbi Yochanan and Rav
Ashi?

(RASHI (Kesav Yad), the RITVA, and others explain that when Rebbi Yochanan says that
watering a field with rainwater on Chol ha'Mo'ed is prohibited because of a Gezeirah lest one use
water of a cistern, he expresses a more stringent view than Rav Ashi. Rebbi Yochanan maintains
that even rainwater from a pit which will remain perpetually full (because it has a constant supply
of rain) may not be used for watering a field on Chol ha'Mo'ed because of the Gezeirah. This view

12
is not in agreement with the ruling of Rebbi Zeira, because the Gemara concludes that the reason
why Rebbi Zeira permits the water of rivers which originate from swamps to be used to irrigate
fields on Chol ha'Mo'ed is because the swamp has a constant supply of water and will not dry up.
Since it will not dry up, it will never become like a cistern. According to Rebbi Yochanan,
however, the fact that the swamp has a perpetual supply of water does not matter; he maintains
that since the water is collected rainwater and does not come from an underground spring, watering
with it is prohibited because of a Gezeirah lest one assume that he may use water of a cistern.

The NACHALAS DAVID points out that this is the intention of RASHI (DH Rebbi Ila'a) here as
well. However, the words of Rashi are confusing; two comments of Rashi are printed out of order,
earlier than they are supposed to appear. The comments of Rashi in DH Naharos and in DH Mutar
belong after DH Rebbi Ila'a. Those two comments address Rebbi Yirmeyah's question to Rebbi
Zeira in the next stage of the Sugya.

RABEINU CHANANEL explains that at this point in the Sugya the Gemara assumes that Rebbi
Zeira's statement about rivers that come from swamps refers to swamps that might run out of water,
and yet he still permits watering fields from such rivers. This is counter to the opinion of Rav Ashi,
who prohibits watering a field from a rainwater-pit lest it run out of water and become a cistern.
Accordingly, Rav Ashi would also prohibit watering a field from a river whose source of water
might dry up.

Rebbi Yochanan's opinion, however, conforms with Rebbi Zeira's ruling. Although Rebbi
Yochanan maintains that the Rabanan enacted a Gezeirah to prohibit watering a field with
rainwater, that Gezeirah does not apply to rivers which draw their water from swamps. The reason
why Rebbi Yochanan does not apply the Gezeirah to such rivers is because he maintains that the
Gezeirah is applicable only where one must take out the water with a bucket (such as from a pit of
collected rainwater). Where one does not need to take out water with a bucket (such as from a river
which brings the water directly to the field), the Gezeirah does not apply.

However, in the next stage of the Gemara (when Rebbi Zeira responds to Rebbi Yirmeyah's
question), the Gemara concludes that Rebbi Zeira permits the water from swamps only if they
do not dry up. According to this conclusion, even Rav Ashi agrees with Rebbi Zeira, since there is
no fear that the swamp will dry up and become like a cistern (and thereby create a situation where
excessive Tircha is necessary in order to get the water).

Watering on Hol HaMoed – II

Steinzaltz (OBM) writes:6

Although there are many restrictions on agricultural work on Hol HaMoed, work that is done for
the needs of the holiday is permitted. For example, a person is allowed to water his field so that
vegetables will grow and be ready to be eaten on the holiday, but if they are ready for harvest and

6
https://steinsaltz.org/daf/moed4/

13
are being watered to make them better, they cannot be watered. Rashi explains the latter case to be
that they are being watered so that they will grow more and fetch a better price at the market after
the holiday. Others forbid even watering them so that they will look nicer, which is not essential
for eating them on Yom Tov.

To illustrate this story, the Gemara tells of Ravina and Rabba Tosefa’a who were walking together
on Hol HaMoed and saw someone who was watering his vegetable garden. Rabba Tosefa’a called
on Ravina to place the person under a ban for performing a forbidden activity on Hol
HaMoed. Ravina responded that the person was undoubtedly watering them so that they will be
eaten on the holiday, which the baraita teaches is permitted. Although Rabba Tosefa’a wanted to
interpret the baraita differently, Ravina insisted that this was the correct interpretation of
the baraita, and his colleague conceded that it is permitted.

Rabba Tosefa’a was one of the last of the amora’im, and he participated in the editing of the
Talmud. Although we find a number of his rulings in the Gemara, since he was one of the last of
the amora’im, few of his teachings remain. As we see evident in the above story, he was a student
of Ravina; after the passing of Mar bar Rav Ashi, he headed the academy in Sura for a period of
six years. Some suggest that his nickname “Tosefa’a” stems from his encyclopedic knowledge of
the Tosefta, while others think that it is the name of the city that was his home.

Another likely possibility connects it with his word in adding material and editing the final version
of the Gemara. Rav Sherira Ga’on records that he passed away in the year 474 CE.

7
The Beraisa cited earlier on the daf had discussed an activity known as

The ruling was that it may be done on Chol Hamoed if the purpose is in order to eat the vegetables.
However, if the purpose is in order to increase the growth of these plants, it is prohibited.

When ‫ רבינא‬and ‫ תוספאה רבה‬went for a walk on Chol Hamoed, they saw a man drawing buckets of
water to enhance the growth of his field. Raba suggested to Ravina that the person should be placed
in cherem for violating the sanctity of Chol Hamoed.

As Rashi explains, the Mishnah only allowed watering a which is in danger of

suffering damage if it is not watered on Chol Hamoed.

Ravina suggested to Raba that the man was justified, as the Beraisa allows the act of if
done to improve the food. Raba, however, cited a Beraisa which describes which
is plucking out from an overgrowth of vegetables which is too crowded. It is this uprooting which
is allowed if it is for the sake of eating the vegetables. But, if the purpose is to promote the growth

7
https://www.dafdigest.org/masechtos/MoedKatan%20004.pdf

14
of the growth left in the ground, it is prohibited. Watering, however, is prohibition under all
circumstances.

Finally, a Beraisa is brought which explicitly defines as watering. Raba accepted this
explanation (and the man observed watering his garden was subject to being placed in cherem).

Sefer notes that this means that the distinction between plucking vegetables
for eating or for enhancing the growth of the remaining plants is not necessarily accurate. In fact,
the Rishonim dispute how to deal with ‫ שלופי‬according to the conclusion of the Gemara. Meiri
learns that the original assertion of the Gemara remains intact, and that pulling vegetables from
among a crowded patch is prohibited, but for eating, it is permitted. Similarly, watering a vegetable
patch is prohibited, as stated in the Beraisa as the sugya conlcudes.

only mentions that Ravina accepted the Beraisa cited by Raba, that watering a
vegetable patch is prohibited. This suggests that picking vegetables from a crowded patch
is prohibited on Chol Hamoed, even for food purposes. Sfas Emes also understands this
to be the conclusion of the Gemara.

[R’ Gamliel and his Bais Din hold that the restriction against plowing thirty days before
Shemittah originated as Halacha l’Moshe M’Sinai] but it applies only while the Bais
Hamikdash is extant, similar to the law of the water libation etc.

Rabbeinu Gershom Me’or HaGoleh (1) was once asked whether the members of a community
should fast when a series of Monday-Thursday-Monday fasts was decreed, but one of the days
coincided with Tu B’Shevat.

The essence of the question was whether Tu B’Shevat is considered a Rosh Hashanah and fasting
is prohibited, or whether it is not considered a Rosh Hashanah and the scheduled fast should be
observed.

Rabbeinu Gershom responded that the fast should be pushed off until the following week. Even
though Tu B’Shevat is not invested with the same sanctity as the other Roshei Hashanah,
nevertheless, since all the different Roshei Hashanah are listed in the Mishnah (2) together, they
must share the same halacha.

Another example of this method of halachic derivation, notes Rabbeinu Gershom, is in our
Gemara. The Gemara states that the restriction against plowing during the thirty days before Rosh
Hashanah comes from Halacha L’Moshe M’Sinai, but since it was taught in juxtaposition with the
mitzvah of water libations, which obviously only applies while the Bais Hamikdash exists, so too
the restriction against plowing applies only while the Bais Hamikdash exists.

15
A practical application of this halacha is that a couple getting married on Tu B’Shevat would not
fast since the observance of this fast is customary rather than obligatory. Rav Avrohom Avli
Gombiner (3), the Magen Avrohom, writes that although a couple getting married in Nisan will
fast on the day of the wedding since not fasting during Nisan is only customary, on the day
following a Yom Tov, Tu B’Av and Tu B’Shevat fasting is prohibited since their sanctity is
mentioned in the Gemara.

This is also the ruling of Mishnah Berurah (4).

A certain man hired workers to dig a channel around his field, 50 amos square and 1-1/3 amah
deep. On the western side, the workers only dug down an amah rather than the requested 1 1/3.
The owner paid the original workers only for what they had done, deducting for the incomplete
work. He then searched for other workers to complete the job so that the whole field’s crops would
be uniformly irrigated.

After some searching, the owner hired two odd-jobbers. The first went to the field and dug half of
the remaining third (1/6) on the western side. The second worker was left to dig the lower half of
the third amah (1/6) for the entire length of that side. When he discovered that he had been left
with the deeper part of the channel to excavate, however, he was incensed.

The two workers brought their dispute before the Ben Ish Chai, zt”l. The plaintiff claimed that the
labor had been improperly divided. “He left the entire lower length for me to dig, which meant
that I would have to lift all the earth a longer distance to clear it from the channel! He should have
just done the full depth by only half of the length—then it would have been fair!”

The other man defended himself, “We don’t often work together, so why should I wait for you to
do your share? As for your having to exert yourself more to remove the dirt—that is a minor matter.
In any event, what’s done is done and I can’t take it back now. Why not just let bygones be
bygones?”

After hearing them out, the Ben Ish Chai rendered his opinion. “The proper approach to the
problem is found in a Gemara in Moed Katan 4b, where the question of digging an extra tefach on
Chol Hamoed is discussed.

Although the Gemara leaves the question open, it is only with respect to whether it is permitted to
perform the extra labor on Chol Hamoed—but there isn’t any doubt that it’s exertion! In a
monetary dispute we must certainly take this into account.

16
An expert should evaluate the difference in effort expended, and the worker who must do the lower
part of the whole field should receive the difference!”

Rabbi Elliot Goldberg writes:8

The opening pages of Moed Katan discuss labor on the intermediate days of Passover and Sukkot.
These days, known as hol hamoed, are still part of the holiday and are thus considered sacred
occasions. But they are not yom tov, as the first and last days of the holidays are known and which
are more akin to Shabbat in the extent of their restrictions on work. As a result, the rabbis allow
some work to be performed on hol hamoed — but not too much.

On today’s daf, the Gemara inquires into the particulars of a rule we encountered in the opening
mishnah of the tractate that permits the repair of a damaged water channel on hol hamoed.

Rabbi Abba said that if it was now a handbreadth deep, he sets it at six handbreadths.

Rabbi Abba sets the standard for what is allowed. If sediment has restricted the flow of a water
channel and reduced its depth to one handbreadth, it is permissible to dredge the channel to restore
its flow to its original depth of six handbreadths.

The Gemara next wants to know if the 1:6 ratio between the restricted flow depth of the channel
and the restored depth allows one to dredge to a depth of three handbreadths if the sediment
restricts the flow to half a handbreadth? Alternatively, might it be possible to dredge to a depth of
12 handbreadths if sediment restricts the flow to 2 handbreadths?

In both cases, the Gemara says no. Dredging a water channel from a depth of half a handbreadth
to three handbreadths does not provide enough benefit in terms of increased flow to justify labor
on hol hamoed. And dredging to a depth of 12 handbreadths would be too much labor to be
allowed.

Clearly, Rabbi Abba was not establishing 1:6 as a sacred ratio, but as a benchmark both for how
much work is too much to be performed on hol hamoed and how much benefit must be gained to
make the work worth performing. So if it’s not the ratio of 1:6 that must be maintained, might it
be possible to clear a channel from two handbreadths to a depth of seven handbreadths?

On the one hand, responds the Gemara, if you can dredge a channel from one handbreadth to six,
you should also be able to dredge from two handbreadths to seven, since both actions require an
equivalent amount of labor. On the other hand, since dredging a channel to a depth of six
handbreadths allowed for sufficient water flow, there’s no need to permit dredging to a depth of
seven.

8
www.myjewishlearning.com

17
The Gemara declares teyku, which means it will leave the dilemma unresolved. This word, which
appears throughout the Talmud to denote debates we cannot settle, could also be read to suggest
that Rabbi Abba’s answer is lacking because it does not provide a clear answer to the question of
how much work can be performed on hol hamoed.

So how else might we decide what is permitted? The Gemara turns to precedent, citing examples
of rabbinical authorities permitting the removal of obstructions to the water supply during the
intermediate days. Regarding one such allowance, Rav Ashi’s granting of permission to the people
of Mata Mehasya (a town in Babylonia) to clean out the Burnitz River, the Gemara explains his
rationale:

Since the public drinks from it, it is considered like a public need, and we learned in the mishnah
that one may tend to all other public needs on the intermediate days of a festival.

Rabbi Abba’s position was theoretical, built upon a desire to balance need with the desire to restrict
labor on a holiday. Implementing it requires calculations, and even then it does not always produce
clear direction.

Rav Ashi’s approach is straightforward: Prioritize public need. If it’s broken and the public
requires it, you can fix it on hol hamoed. No calculations required.

Rabbi Johnny Solomon writes:9

We were previously taught in the Mishna (Moed Katan 1:2) that ‫ ומתקנין את המקולקלת במועד‬- ‘we
may repair a damaged irrigation canal during Chol HaMoed’, and this leads the Gemara (Moed
Katan 4b) to ask ‫‘ – מאי מקולקלת‬what is [considered] damaged?’.

To this, Rabbi Abba answers that if the irrigation canal was previously six tefachim (approx. 50cm)
deep - which thereby enabled the right amount of water to flow to the crops, and it subsequently
became filled with dirt whereby the irrigation canal was now just one tefach (approx. 8cm) deep -
which only allowed a trickle of water to flow to the crops, the farmer may remove the dirt from
the canal on Chol HaMoed in order to restore it to its original depth of six tefachim and therefore
increase its depth and flow.

Admittedly, most of us may not be farmers and we do not have to contend with clogged irrigation
canals on Chol HaMoed. However, what is true is that many of us – either deliberately or
accidentally - clog our time and our minds with ‘stuff’ which impedes the flow of the things that
truly matter into our life and which oftentimes diminishes our focus from deep-thinking to shallow-
thinking.

Understood this way, what we learn from today’s daf is that to restore flow and depth is not only
a good thing but is, in fact, an act of repairing the damaged channels that we rely upon for our
nourishment and growth. As such, just as permission is granted to repair a damaged irrigation canal

9
www.rabbijohnnysolomon.com

18
during Chol HaMoed (i.e. at a time when you may have thought such an activity is forbidden)
given the importance of such an activity, so too, we should make sure to make the time to clean
our schedule and clear our minds so that we are able to function at our optimum flow and depth.

RABBAH TOSFA'AH10 (middle of the fifth century), Babylonian amora. He was a pupil
of *Ravina (i) (Suk. 32a; bk 119a), and a colleague of the latter's nephew, *Ravina (ii) (Yev. 75b;
mk 4a).

He succeeded Mar Bar Rav Ashi as head of the Sura Academy, a position he held for six years
until his death in 474 (Ibn Daud, Book of Tradition, 36). Although among the last of the amoraim,
he still gave original rulings.

He declared a child legitimate although born to a woman whose husband had gone overseas 12
months before the birth, assuming that a pregnancy may extend as long as that period (Yev. 80b;
for another example see Ber. 50a).

10
https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/rabbah-tosfaah

19
Some claim that his name, Tosfa'ah ("the amplifier"), reflects the activity of making additions of
brief, explanatory remarks, through which he clarified talmudic themes and decided between the
conflicting opinions of earlier amoraim (Halevy, Dorot, 3 (1923), 19; but see Ḥ. Albeck, in: Sinai,
Sefer Yovel (1958), 72).

He is in fact mentioned by name in the Talmud only in nine places.

bibliography:

Hyman, Toledot, 1086f.; Ḥ. Albeck, Mavola-Talmudim (1969), 448.

RABBAH TUSFA'AH (TOSEFA'AH)

Wilhelm Bacher, and Jacob Zallel Lauterbach write:11

Babylonian amora of the seventh generation. He was a pupil of Rabina I. (Suk. 32a; comp. Halevy,
"Dorot ha-Rishonim," iii. 96) and a contemporary of Rabina II., with whom, sometimes, he is
mentioned in the Talmud (Shab. 95a; M. Ḳ. 4a). A few independent decisions of Rabbah have
been preserved (Ber. 50a; Yeb. 80b). One of them (Yeb. 80b) assumes that the pregnancy of a
woman may extend from nine to twelve months.
The chief work of Rabbah was to complete, by additions and amplifications, the compilation of
the Talmud begun by R. Ashi. These additions consisted for the most part of short, explanatory

11
https://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/12489-rabbah-tusfa-ah-tosefa-ah

20
remarks, indispensable for an understanding of Talmudic themes or for deciding between the
conflicting opinions of older authorities (Halevy, l.c. p. 20).
From these additions and amplifications (tosafot) to the Talmud he is said to have derived his name
of Tosefa'ah (= "the completer"; Halevy, l.c. iii. 19; Brüll's "Jahrb." ii. 19). It is more probable,
however, that he was so named after his birthplace—Tusfah = Thospia (Brüll, l.c.). Rabbah
Tosefa'ah is seldom mentioned by name in the Talmud—only in nine places. However, all sayings
in the Babylonian Talmud introduced by "Yesh omerim" (some say) are ascribed to him (Heilprin,
"Seder ha-Dorot," iii. 337; Brüll, l.c. ii. 13). Rabbah Tosefa'ah succeeded Mar b. R. Ashi
(Tabyomi) as head of the Academy of Sura, which position he held for six years. He died in 494
(Sherira, in Neubauer, "M. J. C." i. 34; Abraham ibn Daud, "Sefer ha-Ḳabbalah," ib. i. 59).

Bibliography:
• Heilprin, Seder ha-Dorot, ii. 337;
• Weiss, Dor, iii. 314-315;
• Brüll, Jahrb. ii. 12-13, Frankfort-on-the-Main, 1876;
• Grätz, Gesch. iv. 374;
• Halevy, Dorot ha-Rishonim, iii. 95-98.

Samuel Hirszenberg, “Juden beim Talmudstudium, Paris”

21
 Abbaye and Rava
How two Babylonian sages started the great collective conversation that became
the Talmud

Ari Bergmann writes:12

I still remember the first time I noticed the massive volumes of the Babylonian Talmud that
covered the bookshelves of my childhood synagogue. I was overwhelmed. The Talmud stretches
to 63 tractates, for a total of about 2,000 folio pages. To a child, it seemed impenetrable, its length
and format incomparable to any other work I knew. Despite the Talmud’s daunting size, once I
started attending classes in Gemara (as religious Jews often call the Talmud), I was hooked. I
discovered that it is not simply enormous; it is a fascinating and unique work. Perhaps most
remarkable is the sheer excitement I felt. Although the Talmud’s discussions took place more than
a thousand years ago, they somehow felt like a live debate—almost as if an imaginary academy of
rabbis were pulling me into an ongoing, spirited argument.

I had to wonder: How did this incredibly original work get its start? What person (or persons)
helped shape its formation?

The answers to these questions may surprise you, as they surprised me. But even more startling is
the fact that no complete and authoritative account of the Talmud’s early history is widely available
to the layperson. Although it is central to both Jewish history and contemporary Jewish life—many
Jews study it daily, and many more observe its laws—the Talmud still lacks a complete and
accessible description of its early development. Scholarly work, like that of David Weiss Halivni,
is an excellent resource for academics, but it remains rather opaque to someone without a
background in source criticism or other approaches to academic Talmud.

What is the reason for this state of affairs? Mostly that it is very difficult to describe the Talmud’s
formation unambiguously. The Babylonian Talmud itself never explicitly discusses either its
process of formation or the key participants in that process. Moreover, for the majority of its
existence, the Jewish community has had little interest in writing the history of the Talmud, as
noted by the eminent historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi. That trend first began to change in
Europe in the late 19th century, when Jewish scholars of various backgrounds and denominations
decided that the time had come to tackle the problem of the Talmud’s history. The motivations
behind this flowering of interest were diverse, and deeply embroiled in the politics of Judaism at
the time. Here, I would like to focus on the theories of one of the most remarkable participants in
that historicizing trend: Yitzchak Isaac Halevy (1847-1914). For despite having no university

12
https://www.tabletmag.com/contributors/ari-bergmann

22
education, this little-known Lithuanian scholar wrote the first definitive history of the Talmud from
the Orthodox perspective.

Halevy’s pioneering work, Dorot ha-Rishonim (The First Generations), combines his outstanding
Talmudic erudition with academic, critical scholarship to describe the formation of the Talmud
from its early pre-history through a detailed developmental process that Halevy deduces through
his empirical study of the Gemara and its traditional commentaries by medieval Talmudists
(Rishonim). Unfortunately, for over a century, Dorot ha-Rishonim has been largely dismissed as
an apologetic work—another salvo in the fight between Orthodox Judaism and the reforming spirit
of the Jewish Enlightenment and Wissenschaft des Judentums. A closer look, however, reveals the
serious value of Halevy’s work. Using modern digital technologies, as well as recent scholarly
work that explores Babylonia and Palestine during late antiquity, we can see that Halevy actually
uncovered crucial historical insights, which remain important for any contemporary history of the
Talmud.

Halevy’s greatest scholarly contribution was the unique role he uncovered for the early fourth-
century Amoraic sages, Abbaye and Rava. Indeed, even a novice student of the Talmud will
recognize the names Abbaye and Rava. The student in Bialik’s famous poem "ha-
Matmid” intones: “Oi, Oi, amar Rava, amar Abbaye; Thus, Rava said, and thus Abbaye taught
…” In the Talmudic imagination, these two Babylonian rabbis of the fourth century (Abbaye died
ca. 339, Rava ca. 351) have long captured the essence of religious learning throughout the ages.
Ostensibly, this is because of their frequent invocation within the Talmudic text. As the renowned
Talmudic scholar Rabbi Meir Zvi Bergman once quipped, no four consecutive folios of the
Babylonian Talmud can pass without the name of one or the other cropping up.

That claim may be a slight exaggeration, as Bergman himself admitted. Nevertheless, the picture
is clear: These rabbis are ubiquitous in the Talmud. However, the reason for their frequent
contributions was not fully understood for a long time. Why was this pair of rabbis so active in
contributing to the Talmud, far more than anyone before or after them? The issue becomes even
more puzzling when we realize that, despite their regular appearance as interlocutors in the text,
the real Abbaye and Rava rarely met or debated face-to-face. Abbaye was the head of the academy
in Pumbedita, located on the bank of the Euphrates River, while Rava had his learning circle in
Mahoza, a town on the Tigris.

Indeed, in many ways, the two could not have been more different. According to the Babylonian
Talmud, Abbaye was orphaned at an early age, so his uncle, Rabbah bar Nachmani, along with a
foster mother, raised him. Rava, by contrast, grew up ensconced in a family of rabbis renowned
for their wisdom and wealth. As the Babylonian Talmud reports in Mo’ed Katan 28a, Rava
requested “the wisdom of Rav Huna and the wealth of Rav Hisda” and received both. Abbaye, on
the other hand, was at times excruciatingly poor, so that he wryly invoked the proverb: “a poor
[man] is hungry but doesn’t know it.”

How, then, did these two, strikingly different but equally great men, come to connect with one
another, with unparalleled frequency? The Gemara often alludes to students bringing their opinions
back and forth between them. And, indeed, messengers appear to have regularly traveled between
Abbaye in Pumbedita and Rava in Mahoza, according to the Talmud in Makkot 6a. But the full

23
extent of their interaction, and the significance of these frequent missives, remained unclear, until
Rabbi Yitzchak Isaac Halevy came along.

Halevy theorized that Talmudic learning was decentralized during the first two generations of
Amoraim (the Talmudic rabbis of Babylonia from ca. 220 CE). This meant that each small school
followed its own particular traditions, based on the teachings of a single rabbi and his disciples.
Scholars have called these schools “disciple circles,” meaning that the students debated and
preserved the traditions of one particular Amora. Halevy also claimed that the earliest amoraic
debates dealt only with a single Amora’s particular traditions. We should note, however, that early
Amoraim did occasionally try to resolve various issues and reconcile traditions, in forums almost
like (as we might say today) very early academic conferences.

Abbaye and Rava’s revolutionary idea, however, was to advance one step beyond these impromptu
fora. According to Halevy, they decided to collect teachings and traditions from across all the
amoraic disciple circles, in the service of creating a common corpus of teachings and texts. This
meant that the disciple circles (and, soon, the early Talmudic academies) began to study, discuss,
and debate a shared set of traditions, texts, and problems. This ingathering of teachings also
included traditions from many Palestinian sages who were in Babylonia at the time.

In short, according to Halevy’s theory, during the first half of the fourth century CE, Abbaye and
Rava revolutionized Talmud study by gathering the traditions of individual rabbis and
transforming them into a collective body of knowledge. It was, in other words, largely due to the
efforts of these two sages that students of the Talmud began to study a single curriculum and a
unified body of traditions, rather than the particular teachings of specific rabbinic sages. That
collective body of knowledge, discussed and debated for hundreds of years, is what ultimately was
preserved as our written Talmud. With their innovation, the great collective conversation that
became the Talmud began.

Halevy was a traditional, Orthodox Jewish scholar (talmid chakham) and a former student at the
prestigious Yeshivah of Volozhin. He also, however, had a keen interest in the history of the
Talmud’s formation, as well as a concern for the future of Jewish Orthodoxy in the face of
modernity. At that time, Orthodox scholars, particularly in Germany, were debating how they
could adapt some of the scholarly methods of Wissenschaft des Judentums to support the cause of
tradition in the face of many Jews’ serious religious doubts. The result was a religious academic
movement called Hokhmat Israel, sometimes called “Orthodox Wissenschaft.” Not surprisingly,
Halevy became one of its greatest promoters. He personified Hokhmat Israel’s ideal: the fusion of
a traditional talmid chakham with a historian and critical scholar. With his keen sense of history,
Halevy decided that the best way to meet his own historical moment was by investigating the
history of the Talmud’s past, which would vindicate the Orthodox tradition once and for all.

To this end, Halevy developed his massive Dorot ha-Rishonim, which detailed the reasons for
investing Abbaye and Rava with profound historical significance. For Halevy, it seemed that there
must also have been an institutional framework that supported Abbaye and Rava’s enormous
project of gathering disciple-circle traditions and creating a common Talmudic corpus. Therefore,
and somewhat problematically, Halevy argued that the medieval Talmudic academies
(or yeshivot) of the Geonim were already present in the cities of Pumbedita and Sura (near

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Mahoza) starting from the third century CE. In Halevy’s institutional history, it was the growing
importance of the yeshivot, around the beginning of the fourth century, that sparked Abbaye and
Rava’s curricular project. Consequently, Halevy dated Abbaye and Rava’s innovative work to the
time of the third and fourth generations of Amoraim (ca. 309-352), when the center of power in
Jewish Babylonia shifted from the academy (or yeshiva) in Sura to the one in Pumbedita, where
Abbaye eventually came to be appointed headmaster (rosh yeshiva). This temporary consolidation
of Jewish academic life around a single yeshiva provided the support necessary for Abbaye and
Rava to create a common curriculum that would appeal to students of various disciple circles.

Contrary to Halevy’s institutional history, we should note that the new curriculum that was studied
in the nascent Babylonian academies seems to have developed slightly before the academies
themselves. This is likely no coincidence: Abbaye and Rava’s coordination of the various amoraic
traditions may have been part of what allowed for the academies’ eventual institutionalization.
These early yeshivot later developed into the full-fledged academies that dominated the Jewish
world at the time of the Geonim, during the eighth to 11th centuries.

While Halevy’s institutional history of the Babylonian academy is speculative and flawed, his
account of Abbaye and Rava’s activities, and the interrelation of these activities with the
development of the geonic yeshivot, is highly suggestive. The coordinated efforts of gathering and
consolidation, led by Abbaye in Pumbedita and Rava in Mahoza, formed, in Halevy’s account, the
key element of the Talmud, or what we might call a “proto-Talmud,” dating from the mid-fourth
century. Halevy argued that this early skeleton of preserved amoraic rulings (meimrot) and debates
eventually developed into the Talmud. This occurred when the traditions that Abbaye and Rava
had gathered were later compared, contrasted, and debated as part of a conversation across multiple
disciple circles. The consolidation of many particular traditions into a more generalized body of
knowledge effectively created a single, standardized curriculum of rabbinic traditions, which was
preserved and transmitted to future generations.

Thus, per Halevy, Abbaye and Rava’s work represented a crucial first step toward the Talmud as
we know it, by creating the format of a fixed proto-Talmud, which compiles and cross-references
all the early amoraic traditions. Indeed, it is obvious today that the Talmud’s sui generis quality is,
in fact, its virtual forum of collective conversation and debate. Amazingly, the Talmud stages
debates among rabbis who were not even alive at the same time and who, even if they were, may
never have met. This deliberate, literary stylization reflects the genius of the Talmud: The fact that
its traditions are maintained in a shared curriculum, which places contrasting opinions in
conversation with each other across generations and geographic boundaries.

Halevy also dated the first steps in a new Talmudic learning style to this time. He claimed that,
after Abbaye and Rava, the focus of rabbinic learning shifted from the intimate, master-disciple
relationship to the shared setting of what would become the early academies. In other words, the
amoraic traditions were henceforth preserved and passed down to future students only as the
collective wisdom of the Jewish tradition, with the locus of authority consequently shifting from
the individual masters to the totality of Jewish tradition. Why did this happen? We can see the
reason for the change in Halevy’s identification of a massive pedagogical and epistemological shift
in the conception of Jewish tradition in the work of Abbaye and Rava, which he felt constituted
the most important stage in the Babylonian Talmud’s formation. We can describe this shift as the

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recognition that knowledge and traditions do not belong to any particular individual, or the “heirs”
of his school. Rather, they must be produced and legitimated through collective discourse and
collaborative efforts.

Knowledge and traditions do not belong to any particular individual, or the ‘heirs’ of his school.
Rather, they must be produced and legitimated through collective discourse and collaborative
efforts.

Halevy provided only indirect and circumstantial evidence for his theory. But, with our current
digital technologies, particularly a searchable digitized Talmud, we can observe an abrupt shift in
Talmudic language that seems to vindicate Halevy’s ideas about how, and by whom, traditions
were transmitted, before and after Abbaye and Rava. As has been discussed, prior to the mid-
fourth century (the era of Abbaye and Rava), disciples preserved the teachings and traditions of
their masters and passed them on to future generations. This type of transmission is reflected in
the Talmud’s frequent use of what I call “direct double attributions,” in which the key word
is amar (said). An example of this is amar Rav Yehudah amar Rav, or “Rav Yehudah said [that]
Rav said,” where Rav Yehudah is the disciple and Rav the master. We can generalize the direct
double attribution as: “Rabbi X [disciple] said [that] Rabbi Y [his master] said.” Linguistically,
the effect of this common locution is that of a ghostly echo, as if the master and student’s voices
are interchangeable, or intermingled. It represents the metaphorical fusion of master and student,
a relationship also reflected in the Talmudic norm prohibiting a student from expressing a view
contrary to his master’s, unless he simultaneously reports his master’s as well.

This type of double attribution appears more than 1,500 times in the Talmud according to the
various search engines I used for this project, such as DBS. By contrast, there are around 760
instances of what I call “indirect double attribution,” the other type of attribution prevalent in the
first two generations of Amoraim. This attribution adds an additional term—usually mishmei, or
“in the name of”—between the student’s name and the master’s, so that a generalized indirect
double attribution would be “Rabbi X [student] said in the name of [mishmei d’] Rabbi Y [his
master].” The effect of the additional term is to disrupt the linguistic equation of master and
student. The classical commentators explain that these attributions reflect instances when disciples
are not deemed precise transmitters of their masters’ teachings and so are not being cited as
authoritative transmitters of the given teaching.

How could this imprecision come about? Several hypotheses suggest themselves. Perhaps the
students were not present when the master gave a particular ruling, as the medieval commentator
Rashi suggested, or else they were not confident that they accurately recalled it. Alternatively,
Rashbam, Rashi’s grandson and another of the classical commentators, suggests that the indirect
attribution is used whenever the speaker is not chiefly a student of the master. A careful analysis
of the Talmudic text, however, reveals a striking phenomenon: Although direct double attribution
is by far the most frequent form for statements attributed to the first two generations of Amoraim
(at least twice as common as the indirect form), it completely disappears after Abbaye and Rava’s
time. Although the Talmud records over 200 indirect double attributions of later sages, it has not
even one direct double attribution of any of those sages. (The few exceptions are clearly printing
errors, as comparison with manuscripts in these cases shows.) In those later times, even central

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students of a well-known master, such as Rav Papa (ca. 300-375), conveyed their teachings
using only indirect attributions.

Halevy’s argument about Abbaye and Rava’s pedagogical revolution explains this otherwise
mysterious phenomenon. Beginning in Abbaye and Rava’s time (and intersecting the fourth-
century Amoraim), rabbinic teachings were conserved and conveyed to later generations as part of
a unified collection of traditions. Later, this was reflected in one of the institutional practices of
the yeshivot: If an individual tradition needed to be preserved for transmission, it was conveyed
by the student exclusively to the Tannaim, the official reciters of the beit midrash, to be
memorized, which completely eliminated the responsibility (and, thus, the status) of the student as
a preserver of his master’s traditions. In other words, particular disciples no longer were key
transmitters of traditions because the traditions of all the Amoraim were maintained as part of a
collective corpus. (Confusingly, the official reciters of the early academy were given the same title
as the rabbis of the Mishna, although the former are, of course, of a much later date.)

Further support for this change in the manner of transmission after Abbaye and Rava is found in
the era’s significantly new approach to Halachic determination. Most early rabbinic authorities
ruled according to the principle of ein halakhah ketalmid bimqom harav, or “the law does not
follow the view of a disciple instead of the master.” In other words, the law always follows the
master. However, the Geonim later qualified this ruling by saying that, from Abbaye and Rava
onward, the law follows the opinion of the later sages, even when masters and disciples disagree,
under a principle called hilkheta kebatra’ei, or “the law follows the later ones.” It seems clear that
this change is a practical reflection of the changes in the disciple-master relationship that naturally
followed Abbaye and Rava’s revolution. Once there was a unified collection of traditions, students
were no longer considered to be uniquely the disciples of an individual Amora. Instead, they were
students of the rabbinic body as a whole, or, more accurately, of the entire amoraic tradition. Since
this tradition grew and developed constantly, later generations were considered more authoritative
than earlier ones.

In recent decades, academic scholars have studied the Talmud in the context of Sasanian
(Persian/Iranian) Mesopotamia, where the Babylonian Talmud was formed. These studies give
additional support for Halevy’s theory that Abbaye and Rava’s primary achievement was the
creation of a unified corpus from the numerous traditions of the Babylonian and Palestinian
Amoraim, which were then examined and debated in order to analyze any apparent contradictions
among them. Scholars who have studied Sasanian Babylonia in the third and fourth centuries have
noted the growth of cultural connections between Palestine and Babylonia, which reached a peak
in the fourth century. The influx of Palestinian culture, and the increasing cultural openness of the
general milieu, may have helped prompt Abbaye and Rava to collect traditions from the different
disciple circles, including those in Palestine, and combine them into a single body of learning.

Furthermore, the gathering of rabbinic traditions in Sasanian Babylonia is paralleled by a similar

activity on the part of local Zoroastrian priests. Upon founding their empire in Babylonia in the
second quarter of the third century, the Sasanian Persians embarked on a project of centralization
and religious renaissance. The first Sasanian king, Ardashir I (ruled ca. 227-242 CE), gathered the
Zoroastrian priests and tasked them with collecting and reviving their religious traditions and laws
in order to revitalize Persian culture and religion. Shapur II, who ruled from 309 to 379, seems to

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have initiated a major Zoroastrian textual collation. As described in the Dēnkard (Acts of
Religion), a compendium of Zoroastrian religion, legends, customs, and literature, a great council
met during Shapur II’s time, at which kišwarīgān (probably Zoroastrian theologians) analyzed and
debated the available Zoroastrian material. It is very likely that such a major council of Zoroastrian
scholars meeting for the purpose of canon-formation would have been noticed by nearby rabbis.

It is intriguing to ponder why Abbaye and Rava were so suited for the unique task of gathering
traditions across the various disciple circles and in spite of geographical and cultural boundaries.
Perhaps the contrasting backgrounds and personalities of these great sages enabled them to
appreciate the value of diversity and debate. In any event, their innovation was so successful that
it became the paradigm of Talmudic leaning in Babylonia for centuries, until the Talmud came to
a close and was eventually committed to writing, toward the end of the eighth century. The impact
of Abbaye and Rava’s learning paradigm was such that, from their time in the mid-fourth century
until the sealing of the Talmudic text, there were almost no books written by individual rabbis.
This paucity of distinct works of literature is not the result of an impoverished Jewish intellectual
life during the geonic period; on the contrary, it shows that the rabbis felt their teachings were part
of a global conversation, in which all contributions could be incorporated orally into a collective
discourse. That transgenerational conversation is precisely the genius of the Talmud, the
intellectual efflorescence behind its rich structure of analysis and debate.

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 Isaac HaLevy (1847–1914)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aH0Q7Q2RdQ8

The Formation of the Talmud

Scholarship and Politics in Yitzhak Isaac Halevy’s Dorot Harishonim

Ari Bergmann writes:13

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file:///Users/julian/iCloud%20Drive%20(Archive)/formation%20of%20the%20tlamud.pdf

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 The Formation of the Babylonian Talmud-

Zvi Septimus writes:14

David Weiss Halivni began work on his Talmud commentary, Sources and Traditions, in 1968
with the publication of a volume on Seder Nashim. In the forty-five years since, Halivni has
published an additional seven volumes, covering Seder Moed and Seder Nezikin. In 2009, Magnes
Press published a separate volume containing a collection of all of the introductions to Sources
and Traditions extant at that time. While most of Halivni’s introductions are 10-15 pages in length,
two factors precipitated the publication of a separate “introductions” compilation volume. First,
Halivni’s nearly 150 page introduction to his commentary on Baba Batra (2007) programmatically
presents an organized and complete, if not final, formulation of Halivni’s ideas about the formation

14
https://thetalmud.blog/2013/12/02/a-review-of-weiss-halivni-the-formation-of-the-babylonian-talmud-guest-post-by-zvi-
septimus/

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of the Babylonian Talmud. Second, the fact that Halivni has slowly refined his position on this
matter over a forty-five year period called for a single volume that demonstrated the evolution of
his theory. Jeffrey Rubenstein’s translation of Halivni’s introduction to Baba Batra, The Formation
of the Babylonian Talmud, is important because it is here that one sees a dramatic shift in Halivni’s
thinking about the process of the construction of the sugyot in the Bavli as well as in his historical
conception of how the Bavli reached its final form. In short, Halivni modifies his earlier theory
and now argues (1) that the Bavli took far longer to form than he had originally thought; (2) what
he originally thought to be the Stammaitic era in fact consisted of multiple phases; and (3) the
Saboraim lived at the end of the eight century.

Though Halivni often reflects on how he came to his current theory about the formation of the
Talmud and why he has altered positions he in the past advocated, Halivni’s readers might be
encouraged to wonder how Halivni would read his own text using the methods he applies to the
Talmud. Much like the Talmud, many of the ideas Halivni presents in this book are either
interdependent, dependent on ideas presented later in the book, or dependent on ideas presented in
previous volumes of Sources and Traditions. Therefore there is a lot of repetition of ideas
formulated in different ways throughout the book and argued for with different proofs in each
instance. In fact, Halivni presents his argument counter-intuitively not according to the historical
chronology of the development of the Talmud but rather according to the chronology of the
evolution of his theory. There are myriad references to individual insights drawn from individual
Talmud passages discussed over a forty-five year period in Sources and Traditions, at times with
whole-scale transpositions of up to several pages. Not only do we have the sources before us but
Halivni also reveals his process.

Halivni’s theory developed with Sherira’s Gaon’s letter on the evolution of Oral Law (c. 1000) as
his starting point. Sherira is the mountain Halivni must overcome, especially Sherira’s
understanding of Baba Metzia 86a, that with Ravina and Rav Ashi the Talmud came to an end (sof
hora’ah). According to Sherira, the Talmud developed in the Amoraic period in layers, one
generation at a time. The anonymous material found in the Talmud represents the unanimous
positions of the academy in each generation. After the close of the Talmud, around the year 500,
Saboraim contributed brief explanatory glosses to the text. According to Sherira, the Saboraim
lived for a short period until the start of the Gaonic era in the year 589.

Halivni rejects Sherira’s description of the development of the Talmud outright for the following
reason, which is the basis for Halivni’s commentary on the Talmud. The Talmud is replete with
forced explanations. These forced explanations can be explained once one understands that
whoever supplied them did not have access to the accurate original sources. These sources can be
reconstructed by appealing to parallel sources. The Stammaim, who supply both the anonymous
content and the dialectic portions of the Talmud for each sugya did not have access to these
parallels, but now we do. From here, Halivni begins to write a commentary that explains a series
of sugyot according to his method. This commentary spans forty-five years and thousands of
pages. Along the way, some conclusions he has drawn from the sugyot he has analyzed force him
to reconsider Sherira’s description of the Saboraim and the time in which they were active.

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Yet Halivni moves slowly and cautiously through this minefield. In Midrash, Mishnah, and
Gemara (1986) he writes, “with respect to the time when the period of the Saboraim began, as well
as what happened during that period, I do not dare diverge from R. Sherira’s chronicle. We are
totally dependent on him—the oldest and most classical historian of the Talmud—for the history
of the Saboraim.” (140) Although by the time he writes The Formation of the Babylonian
Talmud he has rejected both Sherira’s account of the evolution of the Oral Law and his timeframe
for the Saboraim, Halivni still feels compelled to organize his theory around their existence and
Sherira’s description of their function. Yet they constantly get in the way. One is left to wonder
how Halivni’s theory would change if he were to wipe the slate clean of R. Sherira’s letter and re-
develop his theory from scratch, only using the internal evidence of the text, a method he actually
argues for at the outset (11-12). The fact that it took Halivni so many years before incorporating
the work of Transposers and Compilers (see below) into his formation theory demonstrates his
bias for moving outward from Sherira and the sugya rather than inward from the evidence of the
Talmud alone.

The problem with this approach is that it is more likely that Sherira’s understanding of the
development of the Talmud is derived more so from his reading of the Talmud (and earlier texts
such as seder tannaim) and earlier Gaonic sources than from an accurate tradition that goes back
to the talmudic era. Halivni himself comes to this conclusion, albeit slowly. So why not simply
ignore Sherira’s identification of the Saboraim with a particular literary activity? Why not simply
assign the Saboraim the function he assigns the Stammaim and extend their era? It seems that a
scanty few occurrences of minor anomalies, like the handful of times names are found both in
Sherira’s Saboraim list and the Talmud, have forced Halivni to push his dating of the end of the
Amoraic period back fifty years. Additionally, Halivni makes much to do of Sherira’s attribution
of a passage in the Talmud to Huna Gaon (29-34). On the one hand, one is left with a sense that
Halivni cannot completely disentangle himself from Sherira’s letter despite recurring arguments
that one must look only at the evidence of the Talmud for formulating a theory of its formation
(220-221, n.82). On the other hand, a lull at the end of the Amoraic period, where for fifty years
not much happened, does provide the historical space Halivni needs to establish his overall theory.
If the Amoraic era was still alive from 500-550, but in sharp decline, then it is easy to imagine that
the dialectic argumentation of earlier Amoraim was forgotten during this period.

Halivni’s theory can be summarized as follows: Much like in the time of the Tannaim, the
Amoraim formulated apodictic statements in the form of “So-and-So said such-and-such.” These
Amoraic formulations were originally based on dialectical argumentation. The Amoraim,
however, did not transmit their dialectics but rather just their conclusions. Professional Reciters
memorized the apodictic statements and were available for consultation, but there was no official
transmission of dialectical argumentation. The apodictic statements were transmitted
independently of the Mishnah and circulated in non-canonical loose collections. By the time of
Rav Ashi (c. 430), the production of apodictic statements by Amoraim had slowed down and had
come to an almost complete halt by the time of Ravina II (c. 500). In Halivni’s scheme, the
Amoraic period continues for another fifty or so years and we do find the occasional name of
someone who lived during this period in the Talmud (such as Rav Ravai of Rov, who appears both
in a version of the Talmud quoted by R. Hananel and in the letter of Sherira Gaon.) At this point,
in the mid-sixth century, the period of the Stammaim begins and it is the Stammaim who are

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responsible for both the anonymous content of the Talmud and the form of the sugya. Whereas in
earlier iterations of his theory Halivni believed that the Saboraim lived between the period of the
Amoraim and the period of the Stammaim, he now argues that the Saboraim lived at the end of the
Stammaitic period, close to the time of Yehudai Gaon (c. 770), when independent Rabbinic authors
begin to produce works of their own.

Once Halivni has freed himself of the constraints of Sherira’s chronology his theory begins to
flourish. He now has more than two hundred years of historical space in which to posit several
developments. In the first stage, the Stammaim, who felt they were no longer allowed to develop
their own apodictic rulings, focus their efforts on reconstructing the dialectical argumentation that
the Amoraim had originally used in formulating their apodictic statements. It is the Stammaim
who create the basic sugya unit by reimagining the original dialectics that created the apodictic
statements. It is necessary for this period to extend over a long period of time to necessitate a
certain forgetting of sources and argument details. The Stammaim study by topic rather than
tractate (in contrast to the Amoraim) and their artificial reconstructions of Amoraic dialectic are
sometimes accurate (especially in cases where there was a remnant of student memory of a
dialectic tradition) but oftentimes miss the mark due to a misunderstanding of the sources. In these
cases, the Stam’s arguments seem forced. (Another category of activity, Combiners [metsarfim],
operated both during the Amoraic period and the Stammaitic period. The Combiners acted to
couple apodictic statements of two Amoraim and pass them down together. However, which
Amora said what was often forgotten.)

The next period is that of the Compilers. The Compilers organized all of the material of the
Stammaim into their proper place within the Talmud, by tractate and by Mishnah. Early Compilers
felt they were still allowed to incorporate added dialectical argumentation in order to make the
material fit in its new context. In this way they also could be considered part of the Stammaitic
period. Later Compilers, however, simply put material in its place without attempting to make the
text conform to its new context. The final category that Halivni introduces is Transposers.
Transposers move material from one place to another. So, for example, if Rava says an identical
thing in three places in the Talmud, then the reality is that he only said it once but someone
transposed his statement to the other two locations. This category is perhaps the most complex and
difficult to pin down. Halivni details five different types of transpositions and argues that
Transposers operated from the beginning of the period of the Stammaim, through the Saboraim,
and even during the Gaonic era.

Throughout, Halivni provides examples for each step of his argument. At crucial moments in his
argument he provides multiple examples to prove a point. So, for instance, Halivni provides six
examples of how the assumptions behind the argumentation of two Stams located on the same
folio are incompatible (67-85). This is a very powerful argument for both his theory that the
Stammaim and Compilers performed different tasks at different times and his argument that the
Talmud never had a general editor. Though one might on a local basis take issue with each and
every one of the arguments and examples upon which Halivni builds his theory it is quite important
to bear in mind that in order to topple his theory one must contend with the sixty pages of footnotes
pointing to hundreds of examples strewn throughout his commentaries to three orders of the

55
Talmud. Few scholars have actually endeavored to posit a realistic, comprehensive theory for how
the Talmud was formed. Though Halivni’s theory might contain lacunae and minor flaws, (xxvii-
xxix) it is still the most complete and convincing account to date.

In his translator’s introduction, Jeffrey Rubenstein outlines what is missing from Halivni’s account
of the Talmud’s formation. First, Halivni does not deal with the aggadic sections of the Talmud,
though these sections comprise nearly one third of the Talmud “and much of it is unattributed.”
(xxviii) Second, Halivni makes no use of the recent scholarship on Zoroastrian religion and
Sasanian culture in formulating his theory. Third, how did the Arab conquest (c. 630-650) effect
the formation of the Talmud? The conquest, after all, represents a major political and social
upheaval, one that occurs right in the middle of Halivni’s account. Rubenstein also points to the
fact that Halivni, though cognizant of the oral culture of the Talmud, still does not make use of
scholarship on the “mechanisms of textual production and editing in conditions of orality.” (xxix)
I often wonder if Halivni’s reconstruction is really too centrally derived from methods that
originated in the study of the development of written textual traditions.

In addition to what Rubenstein has noted is missing from Halivni’s account I would like to add the
following. No mention is made of the reason for Abaye and Rava’s prominence in the Talmud, or
of the nature of their debates as they relate to the sugya’s (re-)construction. Additionally, Halivni
speaks of the transposition of named statements, sentences, or paragraphs from an original to a
secondary sugya but not of the transposition of individual words. I believe that a major factor in
the Talmud’s formation and resultant semiotic system stems from the transposition of individual
words from one sugya to the next. The Talmud is replete with occurrences of clusters of rare
words, a literary feature of the Talmud that can only be explained through transposition. These
types of transpositions do not stem from any of the factors Halivni addresses. Additionally, the
possibility of bi-directional transpositions from a secondary sugya back to an original one does not
make its way into Halivni’s theory. Finally, since Halivni’s theory is driven by logical concerns,
his work does not elicit the types of conclusions that Jeffrey Rubenstein is able to draw out in his
own work on the Stam of the aggadah. Rubenstein demonstrates that, by reworking sources, the
Stammaim reveal to us important information about their culture. Since, for Halivni, the
Stammaim are merely trying to reconstruct the lost original argumentation of the Amoraim, there
is not much room in his theory for a cultural explanation for the changes that take place between
an understanding of an original source and a later misunderstanding of that source.

With that said, one cannot underestimate the scale of what Halivni has accomplished in detailing
his theory. Rubenstein explains why Halivni’s “debate partners” are scholars of previous
generations (xix). The sheer magnitude of the material that one must master before attempting a
grand theory of the Talmud is mindboggling. What Halivni has produced for us is more than
secondary academic writings on the Talmud. Future scholars will have to contend with Halivni’s
work in the manner he has with Sherira’s letter, as a primary source containing ideas that must be
thoroughly explored before positing something new.

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Postscript on Translation:

This volume was translated not by an anonymous translator, but by one of the most well-respected
American Talmudists, Jeffrey Rubenstein. The translation should thus be seen not only as a
moment to celebrate the contributions of Halivni to the field of Rabbinics but as a time to reflect
on Rubenstein’s as well. Rubenstein has almost single-handedly taken upon himself the task of
making Talmud accessible and enticing to readers ranging from the uninitiated college student to
the non-Hebrew speaking scholar and beyond. Whether it is through his translation of—and brief
commentary on—the Rabbis’ “greatest hits” (Rabbinic Stories), his work on the aggadic Stam
(Talmudic Stories and Stories of the Babylonian Talmud)—again, a marked lacuna in Halivni’s
work – or his compelling reconstruction of The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, Rubenstein is
virtually without peer in clarity of expression and precision of method.

This skill becomes apparent to the reader of Rubenstein’s “translator’s introduction,” where he
formulates Halivni’s highly complex theory in a manner that can be understood even by someone
who has never read a page of Talmud. It is worthwhile for anyone even peripherally interested in
the field of Rabbinics to read this introduction. The rest of the book (the actual translation of
Halivni’s text), however, assumes a good deal of familiarity and facility with the Talmud. As
Halivni’s most prominent student, Rubenstein has watched closely as Halivni’s theory evolved
over the years. He also has had the opportunity to consult with the author about cryptic statements
and ambiguities in the text. However, Rubenstein is not at all heavy handed in his translation;
though at times he will briefly insert parentheses where they do not appear in the original or indulge
in a free translation aimed at clarifying a pronoun, he mostly allows moments of obscurity to
remain when the original calls for it. He also aptly captures Halivni’s voice.

The reader will quickly note the dramatic change in voice when moving from Rubenstein’s
introduction to that of Halivni. Instead of tampering with the text, Rubenstein supplies twenty-five
pages of his own notes. He provides clarification of cryptic passages; notes to the reader about
digressions in the flow of Halivni’s argument; explanations of Talmud passages in cases where
Halivni assumes too much knowledge on the part of his reader; and references to scholarship more
contemporary than the type Halivni is prone to engage. [Halivni’s main interlocutors are Sherira
Gaon, Halevi, Albeck, and Epstein (xix) and some more recent Israeli scholars.] So, for example,
when Halivni claims in a footnote “the great scholars of the Yerushalmi of the previous generation
concluded with certainty that the Bavli did not know of the Yerushalmi,” (218) Rubenstein directs
the reader to a more contemporary challenge to this idea made by Alyssa Grey (286). [The original
pagination of the Hebrew Sources and Traditions to Baba Batra is embedded in Rubenstein’s
translation for easy cross reference.]

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 Aspects of the Formation of the Talmud

David Halivni writes:15

15
file:///Users/julian/iCloud%20Drive%20(Archive)/David_Weiss_Halivni_Aspects_of_the_Forma.pdf

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