In the previous chapter, we discussed various regulations concerning holidays. But even your average ordinary day is governed by myriad rabbinic rules. To offer two examples: (a) while there is rabbinic debate about whether to put your right shoe on first and then the left one, or vice versa, no one questions that normative rabbinic law (Hebrew halakhah) should encompass these mundane details (b. Shabbat 61a); and (b) two different Rabbis explain their sneaking into the privy to observe their mentors defecate by saying: “It is Torah and I must learn it!” (b. Berakhot 62a; see Schofer 2010, 64–67).
In this chapter, we turn our attention to rabbinic conversation about prayer and ritual on non-holidays. From blessing drinks to praying after drinking, and from asking for someone’s hand in marriage in exchange for a glass of wine to drinking at funerals, once again beverages have much to teach us about rabbinic literature.
Punctuating the day, alongside these rules for mundane practices, is a series of blessings. In fact, the very first tractate of both the Mishnah and the Talmud is named “Blessings” (Hebrew Berakhot). According to one tradition, these blessings throughout the day add up:
Rabbi Meir used to say: A person is obligated to recite one hundred blessings every day. (b. Menahot 43b)
One particular daily domain in which blessings appear is the dining room. The act of raising a glass, and the words spoken while doing so, serve as powerful external and internal indicators that the drinker is participating in, or rejecting, a particular theology. Therefore, by examining rabbinic conversation about these blessings, especially in regard to wine, we learn how the simple act of drinking reinforces a larger system of rabbinic belief (see Kraemer 2009, 73–86).
Our exploration of rabbinic blessings begins with a summary of blessings recited over various foods:
How does one recite a blessing over fruit?
For fruit of the tree, one says: “. . . Creator of the fruit of the tree”; except for wine, for upon wine, one says: “. . . Creator of the fruit of the vine.”
And for fruit of the earth, one says: “. . . Creator of fruit of the earth”; except for bread, for upon bread, one says: “. . . Who brings forth bread from the earth.”
And for vegetables, one says: “. . . Creator of fruit of the earth.” (m. Berakhot 6:1)
While the rest of m. Berakhot 6 clarifies and expands these blessings, there is plenty here to digest. First, this mishnah presumes basic knowledge of rabbinic liturgy and hence only quotes the second part of each blessing. Readers are expected to know the standard introductory formula to each of these blessings: “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe . . . .” As we have seen throughout this book, readers often enter a rabbinic conversation at the midway point and not at the beginning. Second, we learn that different foods have different blessings. Though the general blessing “. . . by Whose word everything came into being” (m. Berakhot 6:2) can cover all generic food, different foods merit different blessings. Third, certain foods are singled out as special within their category. For example, a grape receives one blessing (“. . . Creator of the fruit of the tree”) while wine—a fermented grape—receives another (“. . . Creator of the fruit of the vine”).
Why does all of this matter? Because:
A person should not taste anything until reciting a blessing, as it is said: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof” [Psalm 24:1].
One who derives benefit from this world without [first reciting] a blessing has stolen sacred property, until all of the commandments [relevant to blessings have been performed, which then] permit it to him. (t. Berakhot 4:1)
The earth and all of its contents belong to God. Taking anything from it—such as a grape—is stealing. However, the act of reciting a blessing desacralizes the food; in essence, it transfers ownership, allowing humans to partake thereof (see Kraemer 2009, 75–77). Therefore, if one does not recite a blessing, then one has stolen from God. Bad idea. But also, if one recites the wrong blessing, then the food has not transferred ownership, so this too is theft of divine property. In order to fulfill one’s ritual obligation—and not steal from God—one must not only recite a blessing, but must recite the correct blessing.
Every act of eating or drinking thus requires rabbinic Jews to pause and consider how that food fits into their larger concepts and categories. First, as food, it belongs to God until a blessing is recited. Second, the item must be sorted according to its rabbinic classification in order to determine what blessing is the correct blessing. Third, in the process of this sorting, hierarchies emerge. For example, as noted above, a grape requires a generic fruit-tree blessing, but grape wine necessitates the more specific wine blessing. When consuming all “fruit of the tree,” the whole product and the pressed juice or liquid receive the exact same blessing (e.g., apple/apple juice, olive/olive oil); that is, unless the pressed juice is wine, which requires a special blessing (an observation noted in y. Berakhot 6:1, 10a).
The fact that wine and bread, in particular, merit their own blessings points to the importance of bread and wine in the ancient diet. Note that even though meat is highly prized, it does not earn its own blessing. (Over meat, one recites the generic blessing: “. . . by Whose word everything came into being.”) The so-called Mediterranean Triad of wine, bread, and olive oil—regarded as an accessory to bread, much like ketchup on the modern french fry—were dietary staples for Jew and non-Jew alike in the ancient Mediterranean (see Kraemer 2009, 78–79; Rosenblum 2010, 24–30). Given the prominence of these foods in their diet, the fact that they each receive their own blessing is not surprising.
The special status of wine that this indicates also leads to conversations about blessing wine being used as a vehicle to discuss other rabbinic concerns. For example, in an exposition of m. Berakhot 6:1, a tradition similar to the one from t. Berakhot 4:1 that we just learned above appears, with an interesting twist:
Our Rabbis taught in a baraita’: It is forbidden for a person to derive benefit from this world without [first reciting] a blessing, and anyone who derives benefit from this world without [first reciting] a blessing has stolen sacred property. What is his remedy? He should go to a sage.
He should go to a sage?! What can [a sage] do for him? Heck, he has [already] committed the forbidden action!
Rather, Rava said: He should go to a sage beforehand, and [the sage] will teach him [the halakhah] of blessings, in order that he should not come to commit theft of sacred property. (b. Berakhot 35a)
This passage begins by citing a baraita’ (Aramaic plural baraitot), a rabbinic tradition reputed to be of tannaitic origin that is cited in an amoraic text. In some instances, baraitot seem to be invented in order to backdate a later tradition, akin to how a student could invent a fact, edit a Wikipedia entry to include that invented fact, and then cite Wikipedia as a source for said invented fact. However, in this case, we have evidence from a tannaitic source, quoted above, that contains a very similar tradition. The only element missing—the quotation from Psalm 24:1—appears immediately after this passage, where it is cited in two different traditions (see b. Berakhot 35a–b).
At first, the substance of this tradition is familiar to us. Before tasting anything, a person must make a blessing. Otherwise, they commit theft of sacred property (Hebrew me‘ilah), since only a priest (or God) may make use of consecrated stuff (in general, see Leviticus 5:15–26; and the tractate Me‘ilah). But then, the passage (Aramaic sugya’) takes an unexpected twist. If a person eats food without blessing and then realizes their mistake, how do they remedy the situation? Unsurprisingly, the rabbinic answer is: consult a Rabbi.
After citing this tradition, the anonymous voice of the Talmud repeats the final line of the baraita’ for emphasis: “He should go to a sage?!” Although there is no punctuation in the standard text of the Talmud, the ?! marks best reflect how this line should be read: that is, with a mixture of shock, curiosity, and incredulity. This is followed by an editorial remark: “What can [a sage] do for him? Heck, he has [already] committed the forbidden action!” Obviously, I have taken some liberties with my translation. The exclamation that I translate as “Heck” (Aramaic ha’) is often rendered as something more innocuous, such as “Behold!”; “Lo!”; “Why!”; or “Indeed!” (for example, see the next text below, in which I note where ha’ appears). I chose “Heck” because I wished to idiomatically convey the shock. After all, the question being asked is an incredulous one: what can a sage do, since the horse has left the barn?! A Rabbi cannot go back in time and undo the theft that has already occurred.
Rather than view this remark as referring to an ex post facto undoing, Rava offers a new interpretation. It is not a retroactive remedy; instead, it is a preventive measure. If students attend their rabbinics classes, then they will learn proper practice, including the halakhah of blessings. Therefore, they will know that eating without blessing is tantamount to stealing sacred property. Notice that this elevates the role of the sage: without regular consultation of a Rabbi, one is liable to violate any number of prohibitions. Rabbinic knowledge functions as “transformative knowledge” (Jaffee 2006, 230–40). It changes the way one thinks, acts, and speaks. Remember from above that there are rabbinic ways to put on one’s shoes and to relieve oneself in the privy, among many other mundane practices. Halakhah regulates every action and interaction, resulting in embodied changes in those who follow this path.
In addition to the ontological, psychological, and theological transformations of rabbinic knowledge, the role of proper blessings now serves to highlight—and indeed, to further authorize—the authority of the rabbinic sage. As a good friend of Rava’s states in another text: “Abaye said: It is a commandment (Hebrew mitzvah) to heed the words of the sages” (b. Hullin 106a; see Rosenblum 2018, 86–87). (Fun fact: Rava and Abaye so loved to argue with one another that b. Sukkah 28a refers to one sage studying “the argumentative discussions of Abaye and Rava.”) Sages save you from mistakes big and small. Thus, a tradition that was initially about the importance of blessing morphs into a tradition about the importance of learning—and heeding—the words of a sage about the importance of blessing.
The authority of the sages continues to be relevant to conversation about wine blessings when, on the other side of this same Talmud page, our friend Rava makes another appearance:
But does wine satiate? Indeed (Aramaic ha’), Rava would drink wine all [throughout the day] on the eve of Passover, so that he would whet his appetite in order to eat more matzah [in the evening].
A large amount [of wine] whets the appetite, a small amount satiates.
But does [wine] satiate at all? Is it not written: “and wine gladdens the heart of man . . . and bread satiates the heart of man, etc.” [Psalm 104:15]—[thus implying that] it is bread that satiates, [whereas] wine does not satiate? [No, this is not what the verse implies.] Rather, [this verse teaches that] wine does both: it satiates and gladdens; bread, [on the other hand,] certainly satiates, but it does not actually gladden.
If so, we should recite three blessings over [wine, as is required for bread]?!
People do not make [wine] the basis of their meal.
Rav Nahman bar Yitzhak said to Rava: What if one did make [wine] the basis of his meal?
[Rava] said to him: When Elijah comes, he will tell us whether [wine] can serve as the basis [of a meal]. Currently, at any rate, this opinion is universally rejected. (b. Berakhot 35b)
We enter this text in the middle of a discussion (which is why it begins “But . . .”). The conversation revolves around why wine merits its own blessing in m. Berakhot 6:1, but olive oil does not. We have just learned that this is because “wine satiates, but olive oil does not satiate” (b. Berakhot 35b), which prompts the inquiry into whether wine does, indeed, satiate. To answer this question, a tradition about Rava is cited: throughout the day leading up to Passover, Rava would drink wine in order to whet his appetite for matzah (cf. b. Pesahim 107b–108a, discussed in chapter 6, which includes this same tradition attributed to Rava). Rava’s penchant for pre-Passover wine-drinking indicates that drinking wine whets one’s appetite. But it does not prove that wine “satiates.” Thus, the anonymous voice of the Talmud asserts that drinking a lot of wine, as Rava does every year, whets the appetite; whereas drinking a small amount of wine, satiates.
But the question remains: does wine really satiate? After all, Rava’s tradition of “pre-gaming” (to use a contemporary undergraduate parlance) before Passover is only proof that drinking wine makes you really hungry. It does not prove that wine satiates. To get to the bottom of this, the Rabbis turn to a biblical verse that we have encountered before, Psalm 104:15, the first half of which (“and wine gladdens the heart of man . . .”) was discussed in chapter 6. This sugya’ investigates whether the latter part of this verse (“. . . and bread satiates the heart of man”) provides new and relevant information. Does the fact that only bread is mentioned as satiating in Psalm 104:15 mean that wine gladdens, but is excluded from satiating?
This assertion is implicitly rejected. To make this rejection more explicit and to clarify the transition here, I have added to my translation: “[No, this is not what the verse implies.]” Instead, what does this sugya’ argue that Psalm 104:15 teaches? Wine is versatile—it both gladdens and satiates. Bread, on the other hand, is a one-trick pony—it only satiates. How precisely this is to be inferred from the verse, and why this is the preferred interpretation of Psalm 104:15, is left tacit.
Having argued that Psalm 104:15 “proves” that wine satiates, the text raises a related issue. The terse wording “If so” is used to inquire that, if it is indeed the case that wine satiates, then why does wine not require the longer version of Grace after Meals after its consumption? I leave aside the various differences between postconsumption blessings, since the reader simply needs to know that wine requires a shorter version of Grace after Meals, and not the longer version that bread necessitates. Yet again, the text presumes detailed knowledge that it does not provide. However, so long as we understand that bread requires a longer version of Grace after Meals than wine, we can follow the argument: if wine really satiated, why then does it not require the longer version of Grace after Meals mandated for bread—the gold standard of satiation? In short, it is because people establish a meal on the basis of bread, but “People do not make [wine] the basis of their meal.”
As the centerpiece of the meal, bread not only satiates, but also deserves a special, extended postconsumption liturgy. Wine gladdens and likely even satiates, but wine does not make a meal. Of course, there is always the “what if” question, so loved by the Rabbis: but “What if one did make [wine] the basis of his meal?” Having been asked this very question, Rava replies: “When Elijah comes, he will tell us whether [wine] can serve as the basis [of a meal]. Currently, at any rate, this opinion is universally rejected.” Elijah is a biblical prophet who, according to the Rabbis, will be a harbinger of the coming of the Messiah. Therefore, certain unresolved earthly problems must await Elijah’s arrival to be sorted out (for other examples, see m. Bava Metzi’a 1:8; b. Menahot 45a). But until then, popular rabbinic opinion is determinative: everyone agrees that wine does not make a meal. Hence, wine may satiate, but it requires only the shorter version of Grace after Meals postconsumption.
We continue exploring rabbinic blessings by turning to a text in which two themes prominent throughout this chapter appear: first, the human tendency to forget; and second, how to resolve such unintended ritual errors. Thus, we learn:
Rav Huna said: Consider the case of one who put [food] in his mouth, and forgot and did not bless: if it was liquid, he spits it out; if it was solid food, he tucks it in to the sides [of his mouth].
Rabbi Yitzhaq bar Mari, in the presence of Rabbi Yosi the son of Rabbi Abun, [said] in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: Even [in regard to] solid food, he spits it out; for it is written: “My mouth shall be filled with Your praise, [and with] Your glory, all the day” [Psalm 71:8]. (y. Berakhot 6:1, 10b)
According to Rav Huna, liquids should be spat out, but solid food can be pushed to the side of the mouth so that the appropriate blessing can be recited. In an alternate rabbinic tradition both liquids and solid food must be spat out, for how can I praise God with food in my mouth if it “shall be filled with Your praise” (Psalm 71:8)? Modern parental advice not to talk with one’s mouth full is also ancient liturgical advice: do not bless with your mouth full.
In many ways, this advice is in line with that offered in the previous section: to avoid blessing mistakes, consult a sage, who will teach you both how to avoid and how to correct a ritual error. A further example of this is encountered in the Babylonian Talmud’s parallel version of this tradition (see b. Berakhot 50b–51a). After citing a variant text (with different Rabbis cited and different wording), another relevant tradition appears:
They inquired of Rav Hisda: One who ate and drank, and did not recite a blessing, should he return and recite a blessing?
He said to them: Should one who ate garlic and his breath smells, return and eat garlic again, so that his breath should continue smelling?! (b. Berakhot 51a)
Again, a ritual error has occurred: one has eaten and forgotten to recite the appropriate blessing but realized the mistake. Should one go back and recite the blessing retroactively? How long one has to remedy this situation is discussed in m. Berakhot 8:7 and y. Berakhot 8:8, 12c. Rav Hisda’s reply about garlic eating is a rabbinic twist on the cliché that “two wrongs do not make a right.”
Taking a drink without first offering a blessing is—as we have learned above—considered theft of sacred property, but offering a blessing transfers ownership of it from God to the consumer. As noted above, one must not only recite a blessing, but the correct blessing.
The Rabbis take this issue seriously and ask an interesting question: what if I start to bless one drink, and, midway through my recitation, I realize that the liquid in my cup is actually another beverage, so I switch and complete the blessing for the actual drink in my hand—have I completed my obligation and transferred ownership of said beverage from God to myself?
“Where they said: to lengthen [(the blessing), one is not permitted to shorten (it); to shorten, one is not permitted to lengthen (it); to seal (the blessing with a concluding formula), one must seal (it); to not seal it, one is not permitted to seal (it)” (m. Berakhot 1:4)].
It is obvious [that in a case] where one is holding a cup of wine in his hand and he thinks that it is beer, and he begins reciting a blessing with the intention of [reciting the blessing over] beer, but [then, realizing that he is holding wine,] he concludes with [the blessing over] wine, he has fulfilled his obligation. Even if he had said “. . . by Whose word everything came into being,” [which, as the blessing over beer, was his original intention] he would have fulfilled his obligation, for it is taught [in m. Berakhot 6:2]: “For all [foods], if one says ‘. . . by Whose word everything came into being,’ he fulfills his obligation.”
But [in a case] where one is holding a cup of beer in his hand and he thinks that it is wine, and he begins reciting a blessing with the intention of [reciting the blessing over] wine, but [then, realizing that he is holding beer,] he concludes with [the blessing over] beer, what [is the halakhah]? Do we follow the main part of the blessing or do we follow the seal? . . .
The general rule of the matter: Everything follows the seal. (b. Berakhot 12a)
So what if one begins reciting the blessing for one beverage and then realizes that the cup contains a different one and switches in mid-recitation? In this mishnah, we learn that one must recite a blessing the way that the Rabbis ordained; one cannot deviate and lengthen or shorten it. As is often the case, the text omits an important part of the mishnah, it being presumed that readers will remember it and connect the dots. I supply the relevant information: namely, that one must include or omit the seal of the blessing—that is, the concluding formula—as directed by the sages (e.g., the seal of the blessing over wine is “. . . Creator of the fruit of the vine”).
Rabbinic literature often asks such curious questions. For example, elsewhere there is an investigation into what happens if a Jew starts to slaughter an animal and then allows a non-Jew to finish the act of slaughter, or vice versa (see t. Hullin 1:2; Freidenreich 2011, 50–51; Rosenblum 2010, 80–81). Such questions raise more complex variables. They usually require complex “it depends” kinds of answers, rather than simple, binary “yes/no” solutions.
In the first scenario here, the text claims that “It is obvious” (Aramaic peshita’) that switching mid-blessing would not be a problem. Why? Because, despite at first intending to bless wine, one would have concluded with the seal of a wine blessing (“. . . Creator of the fruit of the vine”). And, even if one had used the blessing over beer and blessed wine, this would not be a problem. Why? Because the seal of the blessing over beer is the general blessing (“. . . by Whose word everything came into being”) and m. Berakhot 6:2, quoted in our text, declares: “For all [foods], if one says ‘. . . by Whose word everything came into being,’ he fulfills his obligation.” Further, since the opening formula is the same for all foodstuffs, and the seal works for both beverages, the person would have actually recited a correct blessing from start to finish! Therefore, this one-size-fits-all blessing would have fulfilled any obligation to bless, even wine.
But does the incorrect intentionality of the first half of a blessing invalidate the correct recitation of the second half of a blessing? This is what the second scenario asks. If I begin to bless what I believe to be a cup of wine and then realize it is beer and switch to the beer blessing, which matters more: (1) that I incorrectly intended to bless wine in “the main part of the blessing” (i.e., in the “Blessed are You, Lord, our Lord, King of the universe . . . .” formula); or (2) that I concluded the blessing with the proper seal for blessing beer? If the former matters more, then I have not fulfilled my obligation to bless the beverage; but if the latter matters more, then I have fulfilled my obligation. So which is it?
The answer turns out to be rather straightforward. After offering a similar scenario in regard to confusing blessings in another liturgical context (of which I omit discussion for the sake of brevity and because it does not add anything new), a general rule is supplied. In sum: “Everything follows the seal.” Therefore, so long as you catch your error in time to recite the proper seal, then you have fulfilled your obligation. If not, then you need to redo the blessing. This is why the reference to the seal in m. Berakhot 1:4, which began this entire passage, was so important to include: in the end, it is all about the end—that is, the seal of the blessing.
Left unanswered is why the person confused the beverages in the first place. Was it an honest error? Or, given the fact that the cup contained either beer or wine, was the drinker perhaps intoxicated? This raises an issue that we explore in the next three sections of this chapter: the halakhah of praying under the influence.
As we have seen in several other chapters, intention is important to the Rabbis. For example, did I intend to swim or did my drunk friend accidentally push me in the water? (See m. Makhshirin 5:1; discussed in chapter 8.) And we have also seen that the Rabbis prefer one to be self-controlled and sober. So we should not be surprised that they question the status of a prayer offered by a drunk person.
Rabbah bar Rav Huna said: One who drank [alcohol] should not pray; but if he did pray, his prayer is [valid] prayer. One who is drunk should not pray; and if he did pray, his prayer is an abomination. (b. Eruvin 64a)
Whether a person has had one glass of wine or the whole bottle, Rabbah bar Rav Huna claims that they should not drink and pray. However, the prayer of the former is still a valid prayer, while that of the latter is an abomination. To pun on a common adage about the proper sequencing of alcohol consumption: prayer before beer, you’re in the clear; beer before prayer, and God will glare.
It would seem that any alcohol affects intentionality, so it should be avoided prior to prayer. (Elsewhere, there is a report that one Rabbi would not even pray in a house where beer was present; see b. Eruvin 65a.) But if one is still relatively sober, their prayer is valid prayer. In contrast, drunk people are not in control, and hence their prayer is an abominable act. (On various other legal ramifications of, and culpabilities for, actions committed by a drunk person, see b. Eruvin 65a.) Yet, as in any legal system, definitions are important. So what is the level of alcohol consumption that renders one guilty of PUI—of Praying under the Influence?
What is the definition of “one who drank [alcohol]” and what is the definition of “one who is drunk”?
“One who drank [alcohol]” is anyone who is able to speak before the king.
“One who is drunk” is anyone who is not able to speak before the king. (b. Eruvin 64a)
I have omitted several interesting, but irrelevant, sections of this sugya’, since the definition of PUI is contained in a tradition that cites extraneous information. I note this fact, however, because it informs us about another feature of rabbinic literature: earlier sources are often cited for one piece of information, but the entire source material is included, even if it is irrelevant to the topic at hand. Rabbinic traditions were often memorized together for various reasons (e.g., to aid in memorization; due to historical associations; because they are attributed to the same authority), and so they are often quoted in full, even when only part is necessary for the matter at hand.
What this tradition teaches us is that there is a practical test to see whether one performs valid prayer: if they are too drunk to speak to the king (a reference to God), then their prayer is abominable; but if they could manage to carry on an appropriate conversation with the king, then they are sober enough to offer a valid prayer. “The king” here likely stands for any important person, so this same litmus test could be applied to others, such as a professor or a boss. Note that neither a drinker nor a drunk should pray (or attend class!) in such a state. But if they do, this test establishes the result.
There is much more to this sugya’, to which we shall return in chapter 9. But now we turn to a related question: what about praying in a mental state akin to that achieved through drinking?
We have established that “a drunk person is forbidden to pray” (y. Berakhot 4:1, 7a; b. Berakhot 31a), as doing so renders the prayer “an abomination” (b. Eruvin 64a). According to another tradition, “a drunk person who prays is like one who worships idols” (b. Berakhot 31b). So, clearly, praying under the influence is prohibited. But what about praying while punch-drunk?
This questions serves as an excellent example of the rabbinic enterprise. We know that x is forbidden, but is y—which is very similar to x, but not exactly x—also forbidden? To wit: We know that praying while drunk is forbidden, but what about praying while punch-drunk? Punch-drunk is a term that refers to the disorientation that comes from either a physical punch (like that experienced by a boxer, hence the name) or an emotional punch (like that experienced by a teenager rejected by the person with whom they wanted to go to the prom). Both result in a state of being dazed and confused with a literal and/or metaphorical concussion. This experience is equated with being drunk, though no alcohol is involved.
So are drunk and punch-drunk equivalent? As it turns out, indeed they are:
“One should only stand to pray [in a serious state of mind” (m. Berakhot 5:1)].
Rabbi Yirmiyah [said] in the name of Rabbi Abba: One who returns from a journey is forbidden to pray. And what is the reason [for this ruling]? “Therefore, listen to this, afflicted one, and drunk, but not from wine” [Isaiah 51:21].
Rabbi Zeriqan [said that] Rabbi Yohanan [said] in the name of Rabbi Elazar the son of Rabbi Yosi the Galilean: One who is distressed is forbidden to pray. It is only reasonable [to derive this ruling] from exegetical interpretation of this verse: “Therefore, listen to this, afflicted one, and drunk, but not from wine” [Isaiah 51:21]. (y. Berakhot 5:1, 8d)
This sugya’ begins by citing m. Berakhot 5:1, the mishnah upon which it comments, which examines issues related to concentration during prayer. For example, what if a king greets you while you are praying? Or a snake winds around your heel? Should you interrupt your prayer? (The answer, by the way, is no.) The mishnah has in mind one prayer in particular: the ‘Amidah, a central component of the daily rabbinic prayer service, which the Rabbis refer to as “The Prayer” (in general, see Hoffman 1998). This important prayer (and others as well) should only be recited while “in a serious state of mind” (Hebrew koved ro’sh; literally, “heaviness of head”).
This assertion leads to the ruling that “One who returns from a journey is forbidden to pray.” Coming home from a long road trip, one is exhausted and in neither the physical nor mental condition to pray with complete concentration. They are not in the “serious state of mind” that rabbinic prayer demands. This ruling is said to be derived from a verse in Isaiah, in which an “afflicted one” (Hebrew ‘aniyah; which can also be translated as “weary/tired/weak one”) is also described as punch-drunk: that is, “drunk, but not from wine.” The rabbinic logic is clear: one who is drunk is forbidden to pray; one who returns from a journey is like one who is drunk; therefore, one who returns from a journey is forbidden to pray. As some commentators point out, this association might further reflect an interpretation of Psalm 102:24, which states: “He weakened my strength on the way.” The Hebrew verb for “weakened” (‘inah) shares the same root as “afflicted one” (‘aniyah); and “on the way” (ba-derekh) is the same word that I render as “journey” (ha-derekh) above. If this suggestion is correct, then the connection between “weakened” and “on the way” helped link the initial ruling with the verse from Isaiah 51:21.
Continuing the association between punch-drunk and drunk via Isaiah 51:21, another ruling is stated: “One who is distressed is forbidden to pray.” Anyone who has ever been distressed knows that, at that moment, they are not “in a serious state of mind.” Rather, their thoughts are a million miles away, worrying about their problems. Here, it seems that the “afflicted one” is weary from stress. Therefore, it is reasonable to offer Isaiah 51:21 as scriptural support for this ruling. (Note that the word play present in the previous ruling allowed for a connection with Psalm 102:24, which is not the case here.)
Whether drunk from wine or drunk, but not from wine—that is, drunk or punch-drunk—prayer is forbidden. Having resolved those concerns, we turn to a somewhat related question: what do you do when you miss prayers due to drinking?
Missing prayers due to drinking might seem like a topic buried deep in rabbinic literature, if indeed it is treated at all. But, as we have seen so many times throughout this book, the Rabbis are interested in abnormal scenarios more than the average, everyday mundane experience. In fact, this very topic arises in the first thirty words of the first chapter of the first book in the first Order of the Mishnah:
Once upon a time, [Rabban Gamaliel’s] sons came [home late] from a drinking party. They said to him: We have not recited the evening Shema‘. He said to them: If the dawn has not yet come, you are [still] obligated to recite [the evening Shema‘]. (m. Berakhot 1:1)
This anecdote begins with a common Hebrew word used for introducing rabbinic stories: ma‘aseh, referring to something in the past that has “halakhic implications” (Simon-Shoshan 2012, 45–49, at 49) and often translated as “It once happened . . .” or “It once occurred that . . .” or even simply “Once . . .” To highlight the blend of fact and fiction in these stories, I prefer “Once upon a time.” The veracity of these events is less relevant than the legal lesson imparted, much as it does not matter whether there actually was a historical boy who cried “wolf.” What matters is what that story teaches us.
The tale of Rabban Gamaliel’s sons appears in the middle of a conversation about when one may recite the evening Shema‘. The text does not define this liturgy, presuming that everyone already knows that it is a central rabbinic prayer composed of three scriptural passages (Deuteronomy 6:4–9 and 11:13–21; Numbers 15:37–41). Based on the biblical phrase “When you lie down and rise up” (Deuteronomy 6:7; 11:19), the Rabbis hold that this prayer should be recited twice daily: once in the morning and once in the evening. But until what time is the evening Shema‘ recited? That is the subject of a debate. And it is after Rabban Gamaliel offers his own opinion of until when the evening Shema‘ may be recited (unsurprisingly, the text states: “Rabban Gamaliel says: Until the dawn comes”) that this story appears.
As noted in other chapters, a common Hebrew phrase for a rabbinic wedding feast is beyt ha-mishteh, which literally means “the house of drinking” (elsewhere, they use the Hebrew term mishteh, which simply means “drinking [party],” which also appears in at least one ancient synagogue inscription; see Satlow 2001, 179). Rendering this simply as “wedding feast” misses the fact that weddings are understood to be times of celebration and, as the very words themselves attest, drinking. It would seem that weddings often featured an open bar in antiquity, as they do today. This is also important because it gives us some context for the scene that unfolds in Rabban Gamaliel’s house when his sons return home late at night reeking of alcohol.
Though fictionalized, the summary of this text by Simon-Shoshan reveals how many read this text:
I have loved this tale ever since I first read it as a child. I pictured R. Gamliel’s sons stumbling through the backdoor of their house in the wee hours of the morning, hoping not to disturb their sleeping family. To their surprise, they find their father at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, deep in study. The sight of their father reminds them that the festivities have distracted them from their obligation to accept the yoke of heaven through the recitation of the Shema. Their father looks up from his book with a mixture of concern and rebuke. He informs them that it is still possible to rectify their lax behavior, provided the night has not yet ended. (Simon-Shoshan 2012, 1)
I must confess to a less pious reading of this passage. I always imagine the sons sneaking back into the house and being caught by their father. In order to avoid a lecture (and being grounded), they wisely ask their father a legal question: “Oops! We forgot to pray! Is it still permissible for us to recite the evening Shema‘?” Knowing that their father is a scholar who cannot resist the urge to expound on matters of halakhah, they ask him for a legal ruling, which he offers. In doing so, he forgets that his sons have arrived home after curfew and drunk. (He also does not alert them to the fact that, as we have just learned, they should not pray after drinking!)
But is this accent on alcohol a modern reading into the text? In addition to internal evidence in the text itself, there is evidence from the Babylonian Talmud that suggests that even ancient interpreters took the drinking context of this passage seriously. In its commentary in m. Berakhot 1:1, the following story appears:
For there was a certain pair of Rabbis who got drunk at the wedding feast for the son of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. They came before Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. He said [to them]: Rabbi Shimon is worthy enough to be relied upon in an emergency. (b. Berakhot 9a)
This section of the Talmud is discussing Rabban Gamaliel’s opinion that the evening Shema‘ can be recited “Until the dawn comes” (m. Berakhot 1:1). Earlier in this sugya’, an opinion is offered by Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai that:
sometimes a person may recite the Shema‘ twice in the day: once before the dawn comes and once after the dawn comes, and fulfills through these his obligation both for day and for evening [recitations of the Shema‘]. (b. Berakhot 8b)
In examining this proposition, the story of two intoxicated Rabbis is told. In this case, the context is clear: while the event is referred to by a more neutral name (“wedding feast”; Aramaic hilula’), the Rabbis are explicitly described as drunk. So drunk, in fact, that they either forgot or were unable to recite the evening Shema‘; or, in line with what we learned in the previous section, did not do so, since praying while drunk is an abomination. In the morning, they have both physical and spiritual hangovers, and so they inquire of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, a respected authority and, as father of the groom, the host of the party at which they overindulged. In response, he says: Rabbi Shimon is worthy enough of an authority to follow his opinion here, so you can recite the Shema‘ twice (once right before dawn and once after dawn) and fulfill your obligation.
In these instances, stories about drinking and missing prayers are integral components of larger discussions about proper prayer times and what to do when—whether for reasons in or out of our own control—prayer does not occur within those given times.
We looked into attending the wedding of an idolater’s son in chapter 3, and chapter 4 discusses the marriage contract (Hebrew ketubbah). Here, we turn our attention to the role that wine plays in conversation about betrothal.
Rabbinic marriage consists of two distinct rituals: betrothal (Hebrew qiddushin; literally: “sanctification”) and the marriage ceremony itself (often referred to in Hebrew as ḥuppah, meaning “wedding canopy”; see, e.g., t. Ketubbot 1:4). Modern rabbinic tradition combines both and performs them on the same day, but in antiquity these were distinct rituals separated by an often lengthy period of time (see Kanarek 2014, 67–105; and, in general, Satlow 2001). Because betrothal represents the beginning of a legal relationship, the Rabbis devote an entire tractate (aptly titled Qiddushin) to determining what constitute valid acts of betrothal. As we should expect by now, many of these conversations consider the extraordinary rather than the ordinary. High school sweethearts fall in love and both consent to engagement? Boring. Not the Rabbis’ cup of tea. More representative of rabbinic examination of betrothal is the following:
A certain man was drinking wine in a tavern; a certain woman came [and] said to him: “Give me one cup.”
He replied to her: “If I give you [a cup of wine], will you become betrothed to me?”
She said to him: “Pour me a drink!”
Said Rav Hama: Every [response such as] “Pour me a drink!” means nothing. (b. Qiddushin 9a)
To summarize: a woman walks into a tavern and asks a man for a glass of wine. He inquires, “If I give you a glass of wine, will you marry me?” To which the woman replies: “Just give me my wine!” Are they engaged? Rav Hama says no.
This passage is part of a much larger sugya’ that considers various conditional betrothals (i.e., we are betrothed if x occurs). Surrounding our own passage, for example, are similar cases in which a woman asks a man for beads or dates (see b. Qiddushin 8b–9a). In each instance, the man offers them on condition that they become betrothed, and she requests that he give her the beads/wine/dates. Does her answer—which does not actually reply to his marriage proposal—constitute an act of betrothal? Rav Hama (and, in another instance, Rav Zevid) immediately says no, but there is a brief debate about whether, in fact, they might be betrothed. However, the anonymous voice of the Babylonian Talmud settles the matter, declaring: “And the law is that she is not betrothed” (b. Qiddushin 9a).
Betrothal initiates a complex series of legal relationships, so it matters whether a couple are actually engaged. This example does not map completely the enormous territory that rabbinic conversation on this topic covers, but it exemplifies how rabbinic literature goes about asking whether two people are betrothed. In this case, the woman is understood to ask for wine, not a wedding.
A wedding is a time of rejoicing; a funeral is obviously a time of mourning. Biblical and rabbinic texts describe both the distress felt by the mourner and the ritual regulations that govern the mourning process (see Olyan 2004; Kanarek 2014, 106–38; Valler 2011). And just as there are wedding feasts, so too there are mourning feasts.
At such mourning feasts, friends and colleagues are expected to comfort the mourner. They should treat the occasion with the seriousness that it demands. That does not mean that they cannot drink. But, as we are about to learn, they must not drink too much:
Rabbi Yitzhaq bar Rabbi Hava the Scribe suffered a tragic loss. Rabbi Mana and Rabbi Yudan visited him. There was good wine, and they drank a lot and laughed.
The next day, they wanted to visit him [again]. He said to them: “Rabbis, is that what a person does to his friend? The only thing missing for us yesterday was that we would get up and dance!” (y. Berakhot 3:1, 6a)
One should not to confuse drinking in a rabbinic house of mourning with the beverage-induced levity of a traditional Irish wake. It is unsurprising that the text asks next, how much drinking is too much?
It is taught [in a baraita’]: Ten cups one drinks in the house of a mourner: two [cups] before the meal; five during the meal; and three after the meal.
These are the three after the meal: one for Grace after Meals; one for acts of kindness (Hebrew gemilut ḥasadim); and one for those who console mourners.
And when Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel died, they added three more: one for the sexton of the community (Hebrew ḥazan ha-keneset); one for the head of the community; and one for Rabban Gamaliel.
But when the rabbinic court (Hebrew beyt din) saw that they were regularly becoming intoxicated, they decreed and returned [the halakhah] to its original state. (y. Berakhot 3:1, 6a; cf. b. Ketubbot 8b)
When visiting the house of a mourner, then, guests should drink ten cups of wine. Since Passover ritual only requires four cups (see chapters 2 and 6) and “the sages set four [cups of wine] as a limit for intoxication” (Numbers Rabbah 10:8; discussed in chapter 9), ten cups seems like an awful lot of wine. The order in which these drinks should be consumed is also spelled out: two before the meal, five during, and three after. In a parallel text, the ordering is slightly different:
Three before eating in order to loosen the bowels; three while eating in order to digest the food in the bowels; and four after eating. (b. Ketubbot 8b)
In this version, the first six cups aid in digestion, and, as the text goes on to note, the final four correspond to the first four benedictions of the Grace after Meals (on these, see b. Berakhot 48b).
If ten cups of wine is a lot, following the death of an important rabbinic authority, the number increases still further: two more for communal leaders, plus one more for the sage (in the parallel on b. Berakhot 48b, the number increases to four, with an additional cup for the Temple). But thirteen or fourteen cups regularly leads to intoxication, as we learned from the case of Rabbis Mana and Yudan. So the sages decree that the law should revert to the original ruling: ten cups of wine per mourning meal. Notably, they do not ban drinking; they merely cap the amount drunk—which still is at a level that qualifies as binge drinking!
Mourning is a moment of personal loss that triggers a series of individual and communal rabbinic rituals of consolation. These rituals acknowledge that “many have drunk [from the cup of sorrow], and many will drink” (b. Ketubbot 8b). At this time, drinking is appropriate. But not too much. After all, as the old joke goes, it could lead to dancing!
In the previous chapter, beverages taught us about sacred time. In the present chapter, drinks and drinking have taught us that even the everyday is governed by a series of rules that turn mundane moments of imbibing into ritualized acts. We need to know whether it is grape juice or grape wine in a goblet, whether penitents may be drunk (or punch-drunk) before they pray, and whether ordering a drink is a marriage proposal. In all of these instances, important questions about rabbinic prayer and ritual are explored through the lens of the drinking glass. Whether drinking at an ordinary meal, or drinking with a friend in mourning, once again rabbinic conversation about beverages illuminates key aspects of important rabbinic themes.
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